The old guy on the Tube was wearing a Gap baseball cap and a psychedelic T-shirt and he was reading Elizabeth Taylor's Angel. (A battered old edition from the days when Viragos had far lovelier jackets than they do today.)

He must have been in his 70s. He grinned at me.

But he struck up conversation with the elegant blonde who got on at the next stop and sat down beside him. She was reading Eugene Onegin in what appeared to be Polish.

He asked her if it was good. She said that she had only just started it.

And then he got off the train, wishing me a happy Easter. And I said that I hoped he was enjoying Elizabeth Taylor.

It's not often that London Transport throws up such a literary encounter.

I'd have pulled Fanny Trollope out of my bag. But, as usual, I was rummaging in its depths and wondering where I'd put my Oyster card.