Last train

Through the ticket barrier.

Down the stairs, almost knocked to bottom by Paddington stragglers.

Smell of coffee swamped by aroma of Cornish pasties.

Man at cash machine steps back, nearly trips me up. Clear foul. Yellow card, ref!

Up the stairs. Paddington's gone. Own train nowhere to be seen.

Voice on the tannoy - woman who miraculously inhabits every station in Brunel's empire: 'The next train to arrive on platform five is...'

Here it comes, platform suddenly a rugby scrum. Fend off irritating queue-jumpers to squeeze through door.

Try to use luggage rack, pushed aside by headless chicken.

Sit down.

'Can I sit here?' asks tattooed youth. 'Sure.' Has a huge bag, drink spilling out, phone like an object of worship.

Off we go. Filton Abbey Wood, Parkway. Goodbye tattoos, hello computer man. Tap-tap-tap-tap. Yate. Tap-tap... he's gone.

Phew, that's better.

Wonderful deep blue sky, pinpricks of light, dark trees rush by. Then black and loud. The tunnel.

Out again, spot lights landmark - must be close. Motorway traffic hurtles along in distance, comes close, on top of us, out the other side.

Bridge cleared, we're there. Bag one over shoulder, bag two off rack, clip an arm or two walking to door.

Walking stick man already at the ready.

Stop, doors open with a 'chow' of compressed air, stick man races away.

IPhone out, silly and rubbish photos taken.

Rain. Suddenly heavier. Over bridge, into car park, key in ignition. Away.

And that's my last journey on the 6.41pm from Temple Meads.