Middle Class Problems: Toe-curling macro-moments while travelling on the train

As my morning train slips over the Thames and begins to pull into Charing Cross station, I quietly congratulate myself on an exemplary show of social tiptoeing.

Much of middle-class life is spent dealing with toe-curlingly awkward macro-moments, and on mornings such as these, when coping mechanisms are dangerously impaired – I'm stupidly tired, and the cheap teabags that are a poor imitation of our usual Kenyan Gold haven't kicked in – warning lights flash everywhere. Still, I've avoided the many pitfalls of accidental bodily contact by not squeezing into any of the few empty seats; I've evaded stilted conversation with an acquaintance sitting nearby by hiding behind my book; and I've taken up prime position by the door to avoid any "you-first-no-you-first" cringing on arrival. I feel, actually, pretty composed.

So much so that when a blind man and his dog stand across from me in the train's vestibule, I feel well disposed to deal with it.

"Hi," I say. "Just so you know, the doors are going to open this side." He turns to me and grins. "Oh," he says. "Old Sam's usually right." "Ha! Of course…" I say, straining not to press the point. "But they'll definitely open this side. I take this train every day."

The train eases on to the platform and the man pulls his reluctant dog to my side of the carriage. "Pshh," says the train as it comes to a standstill; and "beep beep" say the doors, as they open on the other side of the carriage for the first time ever. I skip out quickly, like the practical joker I'm not but he now thinks I am.