Now, to the tune of “Train whistle blowing…”, sing (out loud or silently), “Train window broken…”

I’d been in London for a meeting (of the National Spiritual Assembly of the Baha’is of the UK) all weekend. Getting home by train from London on a Sunday night is - I was going to say “a nightmare”, but I thought that was just too obvious so let’s say “challenging” - challenging at the best of times. It’s worse, much worse, when they, the famous but anonymous “they” who are responsible for all our woes” decide to repair the track between London and ones destination. We (the blameless “we”) are given to understand that it’s all for our own good and that we should welcome steep rises in the train fares for a piss-poor service.

Anyway, I’m on the 17.33 Paddington to Great Malvern train, intending to step down at Didcot. We are doing pretty well until about 17.45, when the train slows to a crawl. It’s dark, so I can’t see where we are, even though I’m sitting next to the window, but we haven’t got as far as Slough. Suddenly there’s an almighty bang on the window next to my head. I jumped (who wouldn’t?), I may even have sworn. I look at the window. A couple of inches above where my my head was there’s a puncture hole in the outer skin of glass (the train is double-glazed), which has now crazed.

The noise and my reaction has roused the other passengers from their slumbers, their books, their iPods. What happened? Did something fall off the train? Did someone throw a brick? Is it safe? Should we call the guard? The police? The lady sitting in the seat facing mine (I’m riding with my back to the direction of travel) feels the window to see if it bends at all. It doesn’t.

My theory? Someone took a pot shot at the train with an air rifle. The train was moving too slowly for anything to have fallen off the train or been thrown up from the track and hit the train with sufficient force to damage the window in this way. The train is on the “down fast” track on a four track section. That means that the train is as far over to the left as it could be on this particular section of the railway. But the window is on the right-hand side of the train (looking in the direction of travel), so it is not next to the railway’s boundary fence. And it as far as it can be from the boundary fence on the other side of the tracks, three tracks away at least. So it is highly unlikely that anyone could have thrown a brick or a stone with sufficient strength to do this kind of damage to the window. What else? There’s no train passing on the neighbouring tracks, so no chance of anything hitting our train from that source. We’re not under a bridge. I think it’s a catapult or an air rifle. Anything more powerful would have possibly gone right through the window and might even have hit me.

I’m Mr Cool, me. I go back to my newspaper (Saturday’s Guardian, if you want to know, even though it’s Sunday). The lady facing me (foreign accent, possibly Eastern European) asks if she can read the bits I’ve finished with. That’s fine by me. I don’t want to call the police or even the railway staff. No delays, please. I just want to get home after a tiring weekend.

The train speeds up and we roar on through the night. Somewhere after Slough I notice a smoky smell. What’s that? Where’s it coming from? A gaggle of girls comes into our carriage from the one in front saying that there’s smoke in their carriage. Other people follow. There’s talk of using the train alarm, and the train slows and quickly comes to a stand. Someone must have given the alarm to the driver.

Shortly a railwayman comes through the carriage from the back of the train. The lady facing me stops him and points out the broken window. He looks surprised, but he’s more important things to deal with right now. The smoke. No smoke without fire? He goes to the forward carriage.

“Excuse me, excuse me!” He comes back through the train. He’s saying nothing. He returns with another railwayman and they go forward. The second guy has a torch. They mean business.

A pause, and then the driver apologizes over the public address system for the delay, explains that there’s smoke coming in through the air conditioning, and tells us that we’ll go on to Reading. He’s waiting for a decision from Control as to whether the train can be fixed by a fitter or he’ll have to get a new train from the depot. We move slowly on.

We get to Reading at about 18.15 (we’re supposed to be in Didcot, 15 minutes away, at 18.22 - and Erica will be there waiting for me. I try to call her, but she’s not answering her mobile. I leave several messages.) Reading passengers step off the train and a few new passengers get on. We sit for while. A train despatch guy comes onto the train and looks at the window. He decides it must have been a brick. I can’t be bothered to tell him that it couldn’t have been a brick.

Then the driver announces he has some bad news. He has to take this train to the depot and he will get another train and bring it back to the station. We’re to get off and wait on the platform for further announcements. I bequeath my copy of Saturday’s Guardian to the lady with the foreign (possibly Eastern European) accent. She’s very grateful.

The platform announcer tells the masses that the train on Platform 2 has been taken out of service because of a broken window. Passengers for Great Malvern are to await further announcements. Always further announcements! And there are several announcements, but none concerning the Malvern train. I’m getting ever more anxious. Erica’s waiting at Didcot, but she’s not answering her mobile.

I hear talk from the Train Despatch man (answering another passenger’s question) that there’s a train to Oxford on Platform 8. I dither. Should I wait for our replacement train or should I get on the Platform 8 train, which will be an all-stations stopper, so much slower than the replacement train? But it may take them ages to get our replacement train out of the depot. After all, the damaged train hasn’t left the platform to go to the depot yet.

I cross the bridge to Platform 8. The Oxford train isn’t there yet. When it comes I crowd on and find a seat. We set out slowly towards Didcot. Before we get to Tilehurst, we stop and a train passes us, heading in the same direction. I’m sure that that’s the replacement Malvern train. No other trains are using the tracks between Reading and Swindon tonight. I give myself a mental kicking. I could have been in Didcot in 15 minutes, but now it’s going to take me around 30 minutes. And Erica still hasn’t called me back. What if she’s in a traffic jam? Or - worse - in an accident? Come on, bloody train, come on!

The mobile rings. It’s Erica’s ring tone. We agree she should go home and then come and fetch me from Radley station. I eventually get home just after 19.30. Two hours for a 60 mile journey, and I’ve been shot at and almost smoked out of the train!

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