Commuter Spy: Carriages at midnight When I catch the late-night train, I am put in mind of the Bard. Once darkness falls in the forest of commuters, faeries, sprites and all manner of horrid creatures, all enchanted by Bacchus, come out to play, prance, sing larky songs, and disgrace themselves. Last week, on the 00:05, the tone was set by the announcements. "At the next stop, if you see anyone asleep, please wake them up," came a jaded female voice. Getting a taxi back this time of night can be pretty expensive. Somewhere in the carriage, somebody brayed like a donkey. A man came staggering down the aisle, shirt untucked, hair standing on end, giggling. Then he fell into a seat, let out a final whoop, and fell asleep. Everywhere, strangers were talking. A woman was drunkenly interrogating a man who worked in the oil industry, asking him where the oil was in the Home Counties. A few seats down, a dude with dreadlocks and, for some inexplicable reason, a sheet of silver foil on his head, was having a lively conversation with an amorous, dishevelled-looking woman. There was a sort of quiet fumbling going on in the seat behind me. I turned to see a couple in the most undignified clinch. Their tongues were so far down each other's throats that I began to fear for their safety. Reader - they were wearing paper crowns. And they were no spring chickens. Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind. At that point, the guard appeared. I recognised her as the owner of the jaded voice. "We're coming into Basingstoke, sir," she was saying to somebody slouched in a seat. Sir? You might want to get up. We're coming into Basingstoke. Basingstoke. Ba-sing-stoke. I wondered how she would react to the star-crossed lovers. But she barely turned a hair. "Goodness me," she said. Leave some for afters.