We got on the train and found we had been allocated table seats. What good luck. The only thing that could be better was if our friends who were also on the train, but didn’t book with us, had reservations in the same carriage. They were seated right behind us. The passengers who might have shared the table with us didn’t turn up so we had the table between the four of us, plus extra seats behind just for our coats and bags. What good luck.

First of three dead rabbits spreadeagled on the South West Coast Path.

Then our neighbours in the opposite table seat in the coach arrived. A man in a black leather jacket with jeans, a backpack and numerous tattoos was joined by a tall bloke and boy of around 14 who had a skateboarder look going on. He swung a carrierbag over to the guy in the leather jacket with the earring. They sat down and as soon as they were settled dipped into the bag, pulled out two cans of Special Brew, two Bacardi Breezers/Smirnoff Ice (I say A, Dr Blog says B), two Costa Coffee paper cups and a plastic Jif Lemon. Then they set about preparing their cocktails which they used to wash down three yellow pills that they passed surreptitiously across the table. The boy cracked open a Fanta.

What good luck. A travelling circus to keep us amused for the duration. ‘They’ve just done three pills,’ I mouthed across the table. The train left the station and we waited for them to get rowdy, but in fact we were the noisy ones with our Guardian Quick Crossword while they flicked through the Metro quietly. Tall Bloke picked up his phone and called his ex: he was down for the weekend and could look after little Lisa. No he didn’t have any cash, only money for food. Somewhere between Exeter and St Awful an accident occured and a Costa Coffee cup full of Breezer Brew/Special Smirnoff pooled over the table.

‘God that stinks,’ muttered one of our companions, Playfair, as we helped mop up the mess with the Mirror.

‘Maybe the lemon juice will get rid of the stink,’ I suggested. Leather Jacket, who I had down as the leader, agreed and they set about sprucing up the table. In no time at all they had remixed another drink and it was as if the spillage had never happened. Leather Jacket left the carriage, returned to his seat and nodded off. Tall Bloke then set about calling a number of dealers loudly: London was dry, they couldn’t wait to get home.

Tall Bloke borrowed a pen to write down a number and dutifully returned it with thanks. Later, perhaps encouraged by our now cordial if arms length relationship, Leather Jacket looked up from the window seat where he was texting.

‘Excuse me, um can any of you guys tell me how to spell – um ball? You know -’, he added, as our faces froze, ‘as in keep your eye on the ball.’

I then failed not to laugh and laughed because the tension of not laughing was too much. No it is not nice to laugh at people who ask you how to spell ball, but it was just as much the look on our Guardian Quick Crossword faces. Playfair covered it up nicely by throwing out a quick quip so we could all titter politely while Patricia duly obliged: ‘yes, that’s b-a-l-l’.

Not long after they started getting ready to disembark. Leather Jacket was not doing well by this stage, his bag got caught in the seat and he was having trouble keeping his balance.

‘Come on mate,’ boomed Tall Bloke, supporting his friend by the elbow as he staggered down the aisle ‘don’t you worry, well soon have some drugs down ya.’

Then they got off leaving us their copy of the Daily Mail and a lengthy debate ensued. Were they junkies or simply disaffected rural dyslexics who liked to get trashed in a downmarket version of the crusty Pills-Magners-Coke-Ketamine kind of way? Were we hypocritical bourgeoisie who looked down on their Special Brew yet silently condoned celebrity Cristal and crack-fests or our own forays into what we deemed respectable recreational oblivion? Playfair, who subscribes to Radical Philosophy and was the proponent of the underprivileged-rural-dyslexic theory said she didn’t think they had those hard junkie faces and even though I found it hard to believe they weren’t junkies – what about all those trips to the loo and the nodding off? – there was something about that concept which rang true. Neither men had that ‘I haven’t evacuated my bowels in a fortnight’ walk.

Many other questions remained unanswered. Would little Lisa go down for the weekend? What drugs would they score and when? Were the trips to the loo really just fag breaks as Playfair maintained? Did they neck Es or was it sleeping pills? Was the fourteen-year-old boy Leather Jacket’s son or step-son? Why were we so interested anyway? (See pic above.) And what else did that text say apart from ball?