What is it, do you suppose, that makes some people totally and completely immune to their surroundings? I sit, endlessly fascinated (and not a little annoyed!) by people who can, without any embarrassment whatsoever, share the most intimate details of their life with a carriage full of complete strangers, and not worry about it in the slightest.

I’m talking of course about the growing band of mobile phone users, most of whom it seems are choosing to travel on our train, and worse still, in our carriage. And try as you might, you can’t ignore them. They’re there, intrusive and disruptive, spoiling everyone else’s journey, the selfish bastards, full of their own self importance and oblivious to anyone else around them.

It beggars belief that people will divulge the most sensitive information to all and sundry without having a clue who is listening – names, companies, even down to the percentage of the fee they’ve negotiated. AND IN VERY LOUD VOICES. One woman who travels on our train regularly, (but who it has to be said is totally barking, so she doesn’t really care much) doesn’t actually need a phone, the recipient could probably hear her shouting from Oxford. She makes multi million pound purchasing decisions every day, yet she is one of the most indiscreet people I have ever known. I am certain her clients would be horrified if they knew that their confidential details were being broadcast to the commuters on the 7.29.

The company callers are bad enough, trying to impress everyone about how important they are, but the worst are those sad people who insist on giving you every detail about their pathetic lives, droning on endlessly to their wife/partner – when they’re going to be seeing them as soon as they get off the train. What is that all about? It’s the sort of thing you can understand teenage girls doing, but these are grown-up adult people – and the men are just as bad as the women. Who cares about whether this bloke’s sheep have all escaped or that woman’s builder hasn’t turned up or another one didn’t get to pick up his prescription in time (that’ll be the drugs which might just make him a considerate human being presumably?) Listen, we don’t give a damn, so why should we have to listen to them?

The worst are the parents who simply have to call their ghastly children to ask whether they’ve had a poo/eaten their breakfast/done their homework. They chunter on in ridiculous child talk while everyone in the carriage shifts uncomfortably in their seats, wishing they were somewhere else. If they knew how embarrassing they were being, they wouldn’t do it.

Then there are the people trying to impress everyone with their REALLY busy social lives, calling at least six people between Paddington and Reading and making very loud arrangements to meet up at this bar or that restaurant. Yawn.

But there is a God. There is a blessed stretch of track between Oxford and Charlbury along which it is absolutely impossible to get a signal from any provider, and there, dear reader, we find peace and tranquillity. The disgruntled look on the faces of the yappers is reward in plenty for the crap we’ve all had to endure for the past hour, and we draw into Charlbury in relative calm.

Of course, we could always sit in the designated quiet carriage, but then what would we have to moan about??

More and more often these days we are subjected to the newly refurbished carriages on the line which runs between Hereford and Paddington. These have obviously been designed (and I use the term loosely here, design obviously not being one of Last Late Western's strong points) to maximise the number of passengers they can squeeze into each carriage, without any thought at all about their comfort. We've had to get used to no longer being able to a share a table, and the fact that the seats are as hard as church pews, but the truth is that some elements of the so-called design simply don't work.

This morning, for instance, I watched with some degree of amusement as the person next to me attempted to position her laptop on the ridiculously small pull-down flap which passes for a table. After much trying out of different positions between lap and flap, she opted for the flap, only to spend the entire journey with the edge of the computer almost dissecting her in half at chest level and trying to get far enough away from it to see the screen. I'm sure the brain dead orang utang who sanctioned this particularly useless piece of design has never had to spend any time at all actually using it.

And we also have to get used to "smart new lighting" which in First Class especially lends the carriages all the subtle ambience of an NHS operating theatre. Travelling First Class always used to be a rather pleasant experience, with big squashy seats you could sink into, loads of table space and the feeling that you were in a rather exclusive club. It used to be worth upgrading occasionally just for the experience. Not any more. The hard and uncomfortable leather seats and the glaring overhead lighting makes you feel as though you're in a dentist's waiting room, an experience I don't particularly want to have to pay extra for, thank you.

No sorry, Last Late Western, the newly refurbished trains which you promised were going to be wonderful simply don't do it for me. Bring back the old ones I say.