Last night I had supper with the Conservative Party equivalent of a 'press Baron'.

On my way to collect him from Central Lobby, I noticed that once again, the dis-affected Labour group had gathered around a table.

Hazel Blears, Caroline Flint, Siobhan McDonough, Jackie Smith and all the others who have nowhere to go and nothing to do, for now.

You know the rule, more than two MPs gathered together in one place and it’s a plot. Only, it didn't look much like a plot. They were all obviously just friends having a good time out together. It was more like they've just given up - for now anyway - as though they were waiting for something to happen.

Now, what could that something be?

Two votes last night, missed the 23.11 West Hampstead to Harlington train literally by 2 seconds. My hand reached out for the button as the doors slid shut in my face. I then had to wait for the 23.26.

I had to leave the house at 6 this morning and didn't get home until after 1, so those extra 15 minutes really matter!

The train was packed and there was only one seat available, no one had taken it and lots of people were standing.

I sat down and immediately noticed why he seat was free.

A young lady was sat on the seat opposite. In her mid 20's, long dark hair, glasses, mildly attractive and smartly dressed. Her shoes and handbag were made of good quality leather. Blood was dripping onto her emerald green satin blouse from a badly grazed chin and face.

She was talking to someone who wasn't there, in the air just above her. Blood plopped onto her hand and she looked confused, as though she couldn't work out where it was coming from, she lifted her head to look at me. Her eyes asked me 'did you do that?’. I noticed she was wearing a wedding ring. She was roughly the same age as my daughter and belonged to someone and somewhere.

I immediately wondered if she knew where to get off. She wasn't looking at the signs out of the window and appeared to be unaware when the train stopped.

I look over at a lady sat to my left; mid-sixties, glasses, reading intensely, sensible sandals, mid-calf summer skirt and buttoned up blouse.  She is older than me, surely wiser? Should I follow her lead, keep reading and ignore the bleeding young woman? She looks at me and mildly tut tuts. I can bear it no more. I decide to dive in. 

I lean over and touch the un-bloodied hand. "Are you ok?" I ask. "Where are you going? Do you know where to get off?" She started to cry. I could make no sense of her words and even worse, I had no tissues for either the blood or the tears which were mingling together nicely, no tissues? What kind of mother am I? That question sounded strangely familiar.  I wanted to look in the good quality handbag and see if she had a phone. Maybe the someone she belonged to was looking for her? 

Aware I could be accused of mugging, I carried on talking to her and she began to calm a little. I had initially thought she was very drunk, however, she was mildly hallucinating, her pupils were much dilated and as I felt her pulse whilst I held her hand I realised it was racing. This was more than a girl from the office who had had too much to drink.

Suddenly, the older and wiser lady leaned over and offered some tissues and we helped the young lady to dab the steady flow of blood from her hands and chin. The man sat next to me, who had feigned sleep so well he deserves an Oscar, asked if he could help.

I eventually found out her stop (train ticket very useful) and that her husband was meeting her and made sure she got off the train. Later, as I collapsed into bed, I was so grateful I missed the earlier train. She could have been anyone’s daughter or wife.

But what is it about we English; that when faced with something out of the ordinary, something which we may not have encountered before or be confident to take on, we look deeper into our books, searching for words, or worse, close our eyes even tighter.