... and sleep.

At most stations, they're pretty upfront with you about which platform your train will be going from, but at Euston they like to keep it from you until the last moment.

Consequently, the concourse is a mass of long distance travellers, simultaneously distracting the higher portions of their brains with their smartphones whilst the baser components paw the ground and shift their bags into the best position for aggressive half-running. One day, when the adrenaline junkies tire of the streets of Pamplona, they will risk standing in front of the platforms when they announce the location of the 18:30 to Glasgow Central.

Of course, there's an art to finding a table and I am well experienced in this. Last night I was already established - suitcase on the rack, laptop case by my feet, manbag on the table - when I was joined by this fellow. People on trains out of London are usually a bit unnerved when you say good evening but he coped with this pretty well and then conducted a few loud 'phone calls whilst tackling this can of Stella.

He was less than halfway down it by my estimation when he ran out of engine juice and had to have a lie down. I would scoff but, to be honest, I was fast asleep a few minutes later.