The other day I did something I swore I would never do.

I could scarcely believe it myself as I handed over the money.

But, in a heady moment of madness, I had paid for a public transport upgrade and found myself sitting in the first class compartment on |a train.

This may sound insignificant but it is a worrying sign that my standards are getting higher as I’m getting older.

I have only ever travelled economy before but on my way up to visit a friend I had found myself sharing a quiet zone with a group of studenty types who were not overly burdened with brain cells but clearly believed they were fascinating.

I struggled to read my book as they marvelled at their own twee observations and loudly, and repeatedly, celebrated their own “mad”

yet unbelievably mundane escapades.

Ironically, one of their dare devil adventures was the time they were all told to “shut the hell up” by somebody on the quiet zone of a train.

I longed to see this silence-loving protagonist swaggering down the aisles hungry for vengeance now, but to no avail.

On the return journey some days later, I got onto the train to see a crowded carriage with a man licking the tiny carcass that was once the main attraction of a KFC meal.

Staring to my right was an airy, near empty compartment, with comfy-looking seats.

Back to my left, a man arrogantly using a ghetto blaster on his lap was joined by an exceptionally ugly child.

Looking the other way again, a smiling chap was laying out his newspaper on his roomy table and sipping an expensive looking coffee.

That’s when I broke.

As I handed over actual paper money, I imagined what my new VIP life would be like – surely first class would soon be full of the super rich and celebrities.

Sadly, this hitherto mysterious carriage was not occupied by Cheryl Cole and Simon Cowell enjoying an Upper Crust baguette with Bill Gates and Richard Branson, as I had hoped.

However, as my eyes adjusted to my new lavish surroundings,|I began to wonder if word of my glamorous lifestyle would help attract an aristocratic type of lovely.

I would certainly have to hide it from the many thrifty chicklets currently in my social circle, who would be appalled at me shelling out on this kind of decadent splendour.

They were appalled |enough when I agreed to go to a festival only if I was not pestered to stay in a tent but allowed to book into a hotel near the resort.

Perhaps it is another sign of age and standards that when the event was mentioned to me, my first emotion was not excitement about the music or vibrant atmosphere, but concerns over the toilet arrangements and how muddy my clothes would get.