Martin Harbottle's Appreciation of Time by Dominic Utton

chat right now. (I need to file my copy by three p.m.) The snapper’s on his way. He’ll meet us at my hotel. And you need to not tell a soul until the first editions hit the stand tomorrow morning. And then not talk to any other papers about it. Not ever. Or at least not until we say it’s OK.
    Are we cool with that, Jamie? Are we game?
    Of course we were cool with that! He never stood a chance. I took England’s Jamie Best on, and I totally owned him. It was a stellar performance. Textbook tabloid journalism. A classic. I nearly threw up with relief when he nodded and followed me out of the shop.
    (Goebbels, needless to say, was over the moon. A proper scoop, willingly and lawfully obtained. When I called him, when I breathlessly filled him in on developments in the cab on the way back to my Travelodge, with a frowning, furious, terrified Jamie Best sitting next to me, taking in every word, he sounded so happy he could have cried. I swear if he’d been there he would have kissed me.)
    After that it was easy. Autographs for the boys in security, autographs for me and the photographer and Goebbels and Harry the Dog back in London, contracts hastily drawn up and emailed over and signed, two hours of chat, another half-hour of pictures, hand-shakes all round and Jamie got back to his club in time for training. And I sat at my desk in my Travelodge with my laptop, shaking – literally shaking – as I bashed out the copy.
    So did you see it on Sunday morning? Did you splutter into your cornflakes? My name, right there on the front page of the Globe . And better than that: my photo! A page one picture byline! That’s about as good as it gets, in my filthy trade.
    Did you see it? I’ll tell you who did see it. Because that’s the other reason I’m in such a sunny mood on this beautiful sunny day.
    You remember Train Girl? The only good thing about the 07.31 from Oxford to London Paddington? The girl with the bobbed dark hair and the soft eyes and the winningly short business skirts just now? The girl I always see at the same spot on the platform, who always sits in the same seat opposite me in Coach C every day? The girl I’ve never actually spoken to but have, um, noticed?
    Today, she didn’t sit in her usual seat opposite me. Today she sat down next to me. She sat down next to me in that too-short skirt and bare legs, and she spoke to me.
    She pulled out a copy of Sunday’s Globe . She’d saved it to show me! She smoothed it out, put it on my lap, pointed at my picture byline and said: ‘It is you, isn’t it? I knew it was you!’ And she burst out laughing. In a good way. And then we talked, all the way to London. And she’s funny. Funny and smart and quick. And it was nice to actually have a conversation with a girl that didn’t revolve around how unhappy she is or how difficult everything is or how if only I was around more/listened more/cared more then perhaps her life wouldn’t be so rubbish. It was nice to make a girl laugh again. It was really nice.
    And I hardly looked at her legs at all. Even when she bent over to pick up her ticket from the floor and her skirt hitched right up at the back. I hardly even paid any attention at all to how smooth her skin seems to be. Because I’m married, right? Because – as we’ve already discussed – I’m not that kind of person.
    It was nice to make a friend. Good old Jamie Best and his odd cuddly-toy-centric peccadilloes. Jamie Best and his Iggle Piggle pickle! He’s given me my finest career moment and he’s made me a new friend.
    (Sadly, he hasn’t managed to make the trains run on time. But he is only one man. And, believe it or not, and don’t take this the wrong way and get any funny ideas, for once I welcomed the delay. Eighteen minutes extra chatting to Train Girl this morning? It flew by!)
    Au revoir !
    Dan
    From: [email protected]
    To: [email protected]
    Re: 07.31 Premier Westward Railways train from Oxford to London