PJ O’Rourke once wrote, “There are many methods of increasing the sexual pleasure experienced by a woman. Chief among these is the Mercedes-Benz SL Convertible.”

So, with a great deal of anticipation I brought my pay slip home and gave it to Darling Wifey. (My pay rise is the largest I have ever had. Great new job…)

And Darling Wifey’s reaction? “That’s nice, dear. Put the kettle on please.“

On the Seventh Day, when God was having a rest, Satan sneaked onto the Earth and made playbarns.

If you don’t know what playbarns are, just imagine a large corrugated steel shed, painted in primary colours, filled with padded scaffolding, rope netting and large plastic cushions, and usually boasting a “restaurant” in the corner.

Any six-year-old Little Madam on earth would gladly swap Daddy and Barbie for an afternoon in such a place. Every Saturday afternoon up to one thousand ankle-biters of assorted shapes, sizes and colours all contribute to the pandemonium - in our case after a week of being “so good, as good as gold!” (Little Nutter has proven that he has more sense than his big sister: he hates the place.)

So whilst Little Madam and all of the Clumsy Fairies from her class at school charged all over the rope swings and drainpipe slides, poor old Daddy was forced to endure an ear-pounding of awesome proportions. (Incidentally, when you read on the menu that only top-quality ketchup is used in the restaurant, you just know that by comparison Colonel Sanders is an Egon Ronay rated five star chef.)

Just to make sure that the playbarn facililites were used to maximum advantage, staff fed the Clumsy Fairy Gang on a special party diet: everything was made almost entirely of sugar. Almost entirely: a cocktail of tartrazine, idigotine, gamma carotene and cochineal ensured an extra ‘kick’ of hyperactivity - all washed down with a sugary infusion of sulphur dioxide and butylated hydroxyanisole. I cannot describe how thrilled I was when I read the labels on the sweets that my allergic-to-everything, eczma suffering Little Madam was gorging herself on. Still, at least the sweets and drinks matched the corporate colour-scheme…

Right now, Little Madam is tearfully de-toxing in the playroom.

My name is Gareth, and the only reason I’m not an alcoholic is that I hate meetings.

There are advantages to having a job in a three century old building. One of those advantages is the lav.

Building a decent lav is a skill lost to modern architects. I’m not impressed that they can now fit them in rooms upstairs; trust me, I am happy to descend the six flights of stairs from my office to the lav when the room is so well appointed.

There are no cramped cubicles in this building, or flimsy partition doors. The lav is in a cube-shaped room, twelve feet by twelve feet - by twelve feet. The door is solid oak, held in place by five beautiful, big brass hinges and it latches shut with a satisfying *clunk* that lets you know that you are now in the proverbial sh.. um… outhouse.

The throne itself is what can only be described as a Grand Victorian Thunderbox. (And yes, I know what Victorian toilets look like. I grew up in the town with the world’s only Toilet Museum.) This enormous edifice stands on a large plinth of decorative tiles, sporting a wooden seat of such splendour and comfort that you don’t want to leave. I have seen moulded toilet seats before, but never one that has been hand carved to the contours of the patron’s bottom, for added comfort.

No less than six feet of heavy chain connects the turned wooden handle to the ornate cistern above - which is decorated with a relief of fish and breaking waves. I myself am flushed with a little pride when I read the words ‘Stoke-on-Trent’ on the front of the cistern.

The sink has been subjected to equal attention to detail. Obviously, nothing less than a large, decorative porcelain fitting would do justice to such a room, and the patron is not disappointed when he begins his ablutions. First, unlike similar fittings in modern conveniences, the sink is at a suitable height (that is, not at thigh-height) and large enough for both hands at the same time. There is a shelf to one side, to keep your newspaper dry as you wash. And finally, as befits such a grand design, the towel-rail is plumbed into the heating, so all the towels are warm and dry at all times.

The only reason this room still exists in its proper state is government budgets. If the Department for Education was funded properly, the lav would have been converted into an office decades ago. It is the first time I have ever been pleased with government penny-pinching.

She’s a stubborn one, that girl, but you have to be in awe of her toughness and determination.

She managed today at work (after her accident yesterday,) and finally agreed to go to casualty this evening. The diagnosis: a fracture, in her knee.

I know I couldn’t manage a day at work on a broken leg. Anyway, pamper factor nine, Mr Sulu. Engage!

There is a sink in my office.

Every morning at 9.50am (just as break is starting) the taps stop working. Then 20 minutes later (just as break is finishing) they start working again.

I’ve had a brilliant week. Just as I was about to leave work on Friday evening, the boss popped into my office for a cup of coffee. The conversation we had made me smile like an escaped lunatic all the way from York to Durham. (I must remember this - it guaranteed me a whole table to myself on the train. Everyone was afraid to sit near me!)

I got home to discover that Darling Wifey had crashed the car. I have to say at this point that I don’t care about the car - we pay for the best insurance there is, and even our no-claims bonus is insured - I do care about how upsetting it is for Darling Wifey to crash the car with the children in it.

Ironically, she crashed into one of my best friends, who spent the time after the crash comforting her. (I don’t know - ever since that Frenchman moved in across the road, she has been flirting with him outrageously!) Anyway, her day was ruined before 7:30 am.

It got worse when she had a phone call from the estate agent at lunchtime.

They had phoned our house, and the “nice” company that cleans for us every Friday had sent a temp in because our usual cleaner wasn’t available. The temp answered the phone (which was strictly forbidden for a start!) and told the estate agent - well, it is unrepeatable. The agency phoned Darling Wifey at work and played back their recording of the conversation over the phone. (A big “up” to the Halifax for their policy of recording all telephone calls!)

So Darling Wifey had to sack them.

Type 1: The Student
Rarely seen on morning trains. Surrounds self with several oversized rucksacks, spends twenty minutes forcing them into gaps between seats, and then settles down to either a buzzing walkman or a vain attempt to chat-up a fellow traveller.

Type 2: I’m a Businessman, me!
Not a regular traveller, but makes a point of wielding a receipt for his ticket so everyone knows he is travelling on an expense account. Has a tendency to sneer at season ticket holders. Always demands a seat with a table so he can stare intently at his laptop screen for the whole journey, letting everyone know how hard he works.

Type 3: Daytrippers
Two types: in the mornings, they are well-organised, enthusiastic and in control of their children. Their bags are full of everything a traveller could possibly need;
in the evenings they look like they need a large drink, and the rest of the train wants to lock up their children in the loo.

Type 4: Season-Ticket Holders
This breed instinctively knows where the best coffee can be bought in every station, which carriage to sit in so that they are closest to the exit at their destination, and always flash their railcards in the most subtle manner possible. They only acknowledge each other with a roll of the eyes when another traveller starts behaving ostentatiously. Only very rarely do they actually work on a train.

Type 5: Foreign Tourists
It takes a special kind of tourist to shun the coach tour and view Britain by rail: a masochistic tourist, but we have to admire them for their spirit of adventure and determination to truly experience life in This Scepter’d Isle. The train is a valuable opportunity for them to review and record previous destinations, or research future ones. The Japanese tourists have now taken to plotting their progress on an OS map using a GPS system.

Type 6: Conference Delegates and Training Course Victims
Most commonly found on Mondays, these travellers assemble in noisy packs at the most exposed coffeeshop on the platform. Personalities vary, although the inclusion of a know-all and an I-don’t-do-mornings is compulsory. They always arrive (by taxi) at least thirty minutes too early for their train, wearing their smartest clothes with carefully made hair, greet each other loudly, and demand hot breakfasts as soon as they board.