Hanging from a strap, pressed up against your neighbour and wishing, for the love of God, the thing would just get moving, I suspect every commuter longs for the perfect train – the service that runs direct, is fast, isn’t too busy, gets you into work with the minimum of fuss. But they’re more easily described than found, in this country at least.

My commute through South London, for instance, normally involves a somewhat complex, hour-and-a-bit-long arrangement. There are always at least two hugely overcrowded trains, both vulnerable to delay, with so many permutations (including the Tube) that I’ve taken to working it all out in an Excel spreadsheet, one for the summer timetable, one for winter.

Until now. A close perusal of the train timetables – yes, I really should get out more – revealed a mysterious service leaving a nearby station (three are within walking distance of Tosh Towers) direct to the station nearest work, albeit at the slightly bracing time of 0645.

It was said to run direct from the nearby depot, and is one of only two services all day – the other’s even earlier – on this route. I suspect they’re intended, really, to get rolling stock in the right place for the rush-hour proper – this one’s headed for the commuter town of St Albans – but, happily, they take passengers.

But not many of them, as my picture shows. A brisk walk through the pre-dawn chill revealed a handful of fellow travellers waiting on the platform. While more normal commuter services rolled by, already with people standing in the aisles, we waited for our mysterious service to emerge, empty, from its depot. Almost on time, it quietly rolled in, and we got almost a carriage each. And off it went. Forty-five minutes later I was at my desk.

Remarkably, here was commuter bliss, right here in the heart of commuter hell, and it had taken only taken 18 months to find. Early mornings, and the unutterable smugness they bring, ahoy.

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