I'm letting the train take the strain

What better feeling in life than passing your driving test? After being restricted to lifts from parents or smug friends that passed first time, to be master of your own destiny is a very special feeling.

I had to wait a bit for that feeling. I passed aged 21, having failed two tests, and taken countless very expensive lessons. But I was lucky third time, and finally had the opportunity to go wherever, whenever I wanted. It was liberating, if you can describe driving to the cinema or the shops as liberating. But as with most things, the novelty soon wears off. Eight years on, and ‘wherever, whenever’ now means work, every day.

Having added some 100,000 miles in less than five years, and after enduring the trauma of a late night breakdown on the M3, I’ve decided to give my beleaguered Astra a well earned rest. Save it for special occasions. Days out, holidays, drives in the country, that kind of thing. How civilised. I’ll be one of those Sunday drivers. You’re going to hate me.

Yes, I’ve made up my mind. I’m letting the train take the weekday strain. So far, I’m rather enjoying it. I no longer have to put up with middle-lane hoggers, narrow lanes, average speed cameras, queues at petrol forecourts, traffic jams and people that think overtaking lane means ‘fast lane’. You can flash all you like matey, I’m not going above 60.

Instead, I get to listen to some music, have a nap, read my book, and not worry what my feet are doing. Why did I not discover sooner that that there was a better way of getting to work? Alright, alright, seasoned train travellers. I know this can't last. There’ll be cancellations, delays, people with their music on too loud and talking in quiet zones. And when the time comes, I'll be moaning for Britain. But right now, there's just one thing that infuriates me. And it’s something pretty fundamental.

What’s with the lack of ticket checks? I spent the thick end of £80 on a weekly ticket on Sunday. It’s now Tuesday night, and so far this week, I’ve not been asked to produce it. Barriers up, unmanned, both ends. Morning and night. No checks onboard. And having so far made four of this week’s ten separate journeys, that’s £30 worth. £30 I could have done with.

And no checks means a win for the ticketless chancers. You can spot them a mile off. Why should they get away with it? And here’s me, the mug dutifully paying his outrageous ticket price (OK, that's another moan). Of course, if I was to chance it one day, try my luck, you just know that would be the day they check. That’s life. And life's not fare.