Farmer in Shining Armour

Ever since I was little, I have suffered from terrible travel sickness. Most people seem to grow out of this, but not me. I’m the kind of fragile person who becomes ill on twisty roads even when I drive.

This tiresome travel sickness is how I managed to convince myself that if I was taking the train to Edinburgh for the Hen Weekend, I would need to go first class.

Having managed to get a good deal on an advance ticket on the National Express, I wheeled my case through the grubby economy class carriages (the train was about to depart), emerging into carriage M and a whole new world, as it turned out.

The atmosphere was hushed, the lighting soft and golden, the ample seats upholstered in calming fawn or smart navy, the tables set with white china mugs, Walkers shortbread and mineral water, and as I settled into my window seat, a steward offered me a complimentary copy of The Times. This was the life, I thought gleefully, relaxing back with my paper.

At 8.15am, I ordered some toast to accompany my tea and was tickled pink by the fact it arrived with a baby pot of Bonne Maman bitter orange marmalade; I even felt compelled to call the farmer to tell him about it. Yet as the purple mountains and pine trees of the Cairngorms gave way to the fiery foliage of Dunkeld, I started to feel a little queasy. By 9.30am, I was in the loo frantically wiping down all surfaces with my anti-bac wipes, before being rather less thrilled to see the return of my toast and Bonne Maman bitter orange marmalade.

The next hour and a half was spent spread across two seats – not, I imagine, best first class behaviour – trying to will my motion sickness and general all round misery away. It was pretty grim. But I made it to Edinburgh, feeling fragile at first, but a lie down followed by a restorative facial at The Balmoral Spa helped speed me to recovery.

The rest of the weekend was a whirlwind of food, friends, fun and far too much money spent at The White Company. And just as I was beginning to dread the return train journey home, my valiant farmer said he was on his way down to pick me up. ‘Don’t be silly,’ I protested, ‘I’ll be fine.’

But he absolutely insisted, charging down George Street in his trusty silver jeep to rescue me from certain bankruptcy at LK Bennett and the trauma of public transport; my very own Farmer in Shining Armour!