A week savouring the joys of commuting to Waterloo on South West Trains. Oxford Street is packed, the Christmas lights are on, the temporary ice rinks are open and lots of people are enjoying Christmas parties. Inevitably romance, as well as alcohol, is in the air.

I am fairly shy and reserved so I took the opportunity to place a couple of small ads in the wonderful London Paper and am eagerly awaiting a couple of calls and an early Christmas present next week.

‘Monday night. District Line train to Wimbledon. You - beautiful, blonde hair, long coat, stylish scarf. Me - semi-comatose, dishevelled, drinking a can of Special Brew, pretending to read ‘C# for beginners’. Drink ?’

‘Tuesday night. Clapham Junction. 9pm. I was train-spotting on platform 11. You disembarked the 20:47 from Waterloo to Guildford. I informed you this service was delayed by 3 minutes 22 seconds due to a person being taken ill at Vauxhall. I then tried to tell you this locomotive had recently been serviced at Wimbledon Train Care Depot but you hurriedly walked away. Drink ?’

‘Wednesday night. 01:55 Milk train to Portsmouth. Cute brunette who chose to sit next to me but was too nervous to say anything. I was desperately trying to remember what I had told the CEO at the office party. I fell asleep, snored and mistakenly lolled onto your shoulder. You smiled. Nervously. I missed my stop at Surbiton and ended up in Gosport. You laughed. Drink ?’

‘Thursday night. Football club party. Stunning blonde who stood next to me under the Waterloo clock waiting for the 23:59 to Wokingham. I was wearing shorts, white T-shirt with fake breasts and a reindeer hat complete with flashing lights and antlers. I smiled and hicupped. A lot. You frowned and stared out the window while I tried to make eye contact. I asked you: ‘Excuse me, but do you happen to know whether this train is stopping at Chessington South ?’ I was transfixed by your beauty. At Raynes Park, your boyfriend said ‘What do you think you’re looking at, mate ?’ and viciously attacked me. Drink ?’

Friday. Discharged from casualty with seven stitches. Called in sick. Quiet night in with the wife.