Returning from Reading the other night on what British Rail think of as the last train of the day but which at the time seemed more like the last train ever, we were sat facing each other in one of the pairs of three seat wide benches that have the only decent amount of legroom in the new Class 165 stock. Sitting next to each of us was a pair of young women, and we reckon that all four of them were travelling together but this being England nobody said anything to anyone. One has to keep up the stereotype, in case a foreigner should be watching.
The girl in the seat by me was asleep before Pangbourne and when we grumbled into Goring and Streatley she had her head on my shoulder. It was quite predictable that the five of us who were awake should exchange embarrassed grins. One of the other girls whispered to me, presumably it was a whisper so as not to wake her, that I should wake her. As if I would. Good grief, it is a good four or five years since a total stranger fell asleep with her head on my shoulder.
The last time it happened was between Carlisle and Preston on the West Coast Main Line: there was a time when I used to squander research travel funds on commuting between Oxford and Glasgow, pretty largely on the offchance that strangers would fall asleep on my shoulder. If you were to ask me, proper understanding of the concept of the International Date Line can only be had travelling in seating accommodation on British Rail Anglo-Scottish overnight services.
Since this was a Sunday night, or Monday morning, we stopped in Didcot Parkway and that woke her up with a start. She was all apology, and I told her it was alright, and she was embarassed, so I told her again that it was alright; and then she put her head back on my shoulder and slept the rest of the very short way back to Oxford.