- Susan Morrison: In a tale of two reactions, it’s best to blame a drunken stag do

Under the Rules Of British People On Trains, the person nearest the door is responsible for pressing the Door Opening Button

We rise as one, pull on jackets, haul down cases and make for the doors. Waverley’s a good case in point. It seems no sooner have we cleared Dunbar than we’re told we will soon be arriving at Edinburgh, Waverley, where the disembodied voice says with slightly malicious glee, ‘this train will terminate.’

Newcastle’s another one. Even though I know that journey well, when the lady says rise, I do as I am told and make my way to the door. That’s exactly what I did last week, to stand next to a very nice young Geordie woman, a terribly polite elderly gentleman and an anxious American lad. Well, he didn’t start out anxious, but his stress levels rose in the next few minutes.

The train duly stopped. The young woman was closest to the door. Under the Rules Of British People On Trains she is responsible for pressing the Door Opening Button. She waited, as is required, for the beeping noise and the green-for-go light. She waited. And a little longer.

The American chap leaned across and pressed the still dark button. This breaks the rules.

The atmosphere chilled a tad. The elderly gentleman said “It lights up.”

The American said, “She might not have known.”

The young woman said, crisply, “Yes, actually I do.” And then she said, “This isn’t Newcastle.”

We all looked out. She was right.

A real person came on the Tannoy. The train would shortly be under way again, but when we reached the station we would not be allowed off. The doors would not open. There was a dramatic pause for effect and then the voice announced that the British Transport Police were waiting for us.

Well, I thought, not me. I may have harboured murderous thoughts about the bloke opposite who chose to dine on some extraordinarily smelly noodly garlic arrangement, but as far as I know they haven’t outlawed thinking. Yet.

We started up, we slid into Newcastle and passed what looked like a legion lined up for inspection. We stopped. The door remained locked.

The American, to use the language of the young, began to mildly freak out. “What if,” he said, in an anxious voice, “this is some kinda terrorist thing?” There was a faint air of panic about the lad.

‘Nah,’ said the Geordie gal. “It’ll just be some drunken a*seholes.”

The Scottish woman (me), the English elderly gentleman and the Geordie lass all sighed and nodded in agreement

The doors opened and we all bounced off. That young Newcastle woman has a future in the intelligence services, because it looked to me like she called that bang to rights. Drunken lads, indeed. Loud and lairy they might have been on the train, but a quiet weekend in the cells beckoned.

And there is a tale of two reactions to a potentially terrifying situation. Other nations might hit the panic button and assume the very worst, we on this rainy island wearily assume it’s a stag do on the lash. We’re usually right.