Commuter Spy: good snooze week And so the relentless block of hot weather has become that truly British thing: patchy. Everybody is grumping about it. But I suspect that on the greyer days, many Britons have secretly been breathing a sigh of relief. At least we have been allowed a respite from the unfamiliar world of sun cream and sandals, and can revert to our natural summer state. There are advantages to milder weather. Chief of these is the ability to sleep properly. During the hot patches, we become a nation of insomniacs; people discard the duvet in favour of the sheet, forego pyjamas, and end up in a horrible tangle, sweating and writhing all night. And as for the children - don't get me started. Suffice to say that as 10 o'clock approaches, fathers all over the country get perilously close to losing their rags. Cooler spells are definitely welcome on this count. Which brings me to the riddle I have been pondering this past week on my daily commute. Why is it that heat brings on insomnia in the bedroom, whereas on the train the slightest warmth makes people instantly conk out? Last week, I caught a late train back from London. My brother tells me that he once saw a documentary in which it was revealed that train drivers turn up the heat in carriages of rowdy passengers, to make them settle down. Whether this is true or not, I don't know. Suffice to say that it was stuffy, and people were sleeping at awkward angles all over the place. One man was contorted into a Houdini-like position across two seats, a smile of tranquillity across his great slumbering face. My concession to the heat was to remove my jacket, then undo my tie and allow it to hang limply on either side of my collar. This, I thought, was modest in comparison to the state of undress that the summer has heralded all over Britain. Nonetheless, when I spied my local Conservative Member of Parliament slumped exhaustedly in a seat and gave him a friendly wave, an expression of horror came over his face. "But you're undressed, man," he said. "No I'm not," I replied, cheerfully. Just relaxed. "Hmph," he said, irritably. Looks like you're undressed to me. I gave him the benefit of the doubt and returned to my seat. Probably, he'd had a hard day; probably he resented working long hours for such little money. Probably he was a little bit drunk. And who could blame him? For several minutes I sat there, wrestling with my conscience. Then I buckled and retied my tie. When I looked over to see whether he had noticed my concession, I saw that my MP was asleep. He had fallen forward on to the mini-table, and his face was a concertina of cheeks and lips. More alarming still, a gossamer-thin strand of dribble was leaking on to the mini-table. Had the man suffered a heart attack? I half got to my feet, trying to remember the instructions for CPR. But then he let out a violent snore. Poor man, I thought. I mustn't be tempted to take a picture of him and put it on the internet. Instead, I allowed myself to loosen my tie again, and slept like a devil all the way home.