Seated next to me was a fat, sweating woman, about forty and hideously ugly, with facial warts and an impressive moustache: a bit of wax and she could twirl it like Poirot. She had the stale smell of a construction worker and, alarmingly, the same bum cleavage; as she sat forward in search of something in the deep recesses of her voluminous bag, her tee shirt rode up, revealing an expanse of grey flesh sadly uncovered by lycra trousers that appeared to be sliding inexorably towards her ankles. I was to become all too familiar with Martha in the course of the journey, as she revealed her entire life story in a stentorian voice. I can still remember the names of each of her twelve kids, named, as they were, in alphabetic order: Arron, the eldest, named (incorrectly) after Elvis Presley, through to Maddona, again named, solecistically, after the singer. Hang on, I hear you ask, M is the thirteenth letter, not the twelfth: indeed it is, but number nine was a girl, and Martha couldn't think of a girl's name beginning with I, so called her, inevitably, I suppose, Janice, after Janis Joplin. It's probably just a surprise it wasn't called Irtha, as in Kitt.

Opposite Martha was a peculiar American woman, about sixty, with straggly, unkempt hair, false teeth and an intact hymen. She, too, had a peculiar smell, this time of cat pee, and I was deeply suspicious of her large bag, which seemed to move independently of any human contact; it looked like a couple of weasles were in mortal combat within it. She smiled beneficently and occasionally muttered gnomic sayings which completely baffled me, but which I took to be words of wisdom culled from Oprah or some such.

And completing our quartet, directly opposite me, was a young woman staring in a surly manner out of the window, studiously avoiding any eye contact with the rest of us. I couldn't tell how old she was, but not that old, I thought. She was quite cute, actually, a lovely fresh face and intelligent, sardonic eyes. Her fingers drummed idly on the table as she stared intently at nothing in particular outside. It was evident that she had done what I had: had eyed up her companions for the journey, found them wanting, and was resolutely intent on ignoring them for the duration. Despite the fact it was precisely what I had done, I bristled at this implicit rejection, deprecated the fact that I had been lumped together with the breeding machine and the virgin granny as an undesirable. Damned cheek, I thought, my cheeks reddening at the implied insult as I pretended to read my report.

The girl was lolling in her seat, stretched out, with her backside barely touching it and her legs invading my space. No matter what I did with my feet they seemed to bang into her, and I became exasperated. I gave her a stern look, hoping she would take the hint. She gave me a cool, insouciant smirk and focussed on the vista beyond our window once more, feigning interest in the Black Fens as we chugged through this most dreary of vistas. Bloody woman, I thought.

Martha, good old Martha, deflected my attention with a gory and unrepeatable story concerning the production of child number twelve and the effect it had on her innards. As she spoke I could not take my eyes off the wart on her left cheek, which seemed to grow more like John Travolta with every passing second. Eventually, the meaning of her words began to escape me and I stared in mesmerised, horrified fascination at this wart as it transmuted into a bloated, puffy version of Vincent from Pulp Fiction.

Eventually, I was aware that she had stopped talking and was looking expectantly (if that word is not too much of a pun for a mother of twelve) at me. Shit, she'd asked me a question. I had no idea what it was.

Then the disinterested girl opposite me piped up.

"No, neither of us have kids," she said, looking at me as she spoke. As she did, her leg banged into mine again, this time deliberately.

"Oh, I see," said the Travolta-wart. "I didn't realise you two were together..."

"No," I said, flummoxed by the whole way the conversation had shifted. First, I had not heard the question put to me; then, this curious woman opposite had, for some reason, chosen to answer it for me, without any idea whether what she had said was right or not; and, finally, she had spoken in this strong, attractive American accent. I had known that our resident virgin next to her was American, but I had no idea that the Greta Garbo opposite me was as well.

"Oh we're slightly acquainted," she said, grinning broadly. "We had unbelievable sex last night. She made me come three times in succession. And THEN she used her tongue... Incredible."

As my jaw dropped somewhere below my breasts I stared at this Yank troublemaker. What was she saying? The Virgin Granny was fumbling embarrassedly with her bag, which appeared now to be making curious miaowing noises, and Martha's moustache was glistening malevolently in the artificial light of the carriage.

She stared at me, this curious American, grinning mischievously, as if to say "it's your move, honey." I was mortified, deeply embarrassed by what she had said, but I was damned if I was going to let her get away with it.

"Three times, my sweet," I said, looking directly at her, "I'm sure I counted four."

"Yeah," she replied, with infuriating nonchalance, "I faked it one time."