I’ve been back in Britain for less than 24 hours and already I’m beginning to remember that some things are a little different here.

My journey had already been slightly rearranged before I’d even left New Zealand. Dunedin had gale-force winds, my flight was changed, and I ended up travelling via Christchurch instead of directly to Auckland.

At the time, this seemed quite dramatic.

Then I encountered British trains.

I was sitting on the platform waiting for my train to Eastleigh when an announcement came over the tannoy.

My train was delayed due to:

“A person being hit by a train.”

Jesus.

I just about lost it.

Not because there was anything remotely funny about what had happened. There obviously wasn’t. It was the sheer bluntness of hearing it announced across the station that completely threw me.

In New Zealand, we simply wouldn’t be given that sort of detail. I was expecting something suitably railway-ish. Signalling problems. Leaves on the line. The wrong sort of rain.

Not that.

And while I was still trying to process what I’d just heard, a woman beside me told me the same thing had happened to the same train the day before.

I looked at her.

She looked at me.

Apparently this was information I was just going to have to absorb.

Dunedin had given me gale-force winds.

Britain was clearly playing in a different league.

And then a train came through the station without stopping.

Bloody hell.

I’d forgotten about those.

There’s something quite alarming about standing on a platform while several hundred tonnes of train comes hurtling towards you and then passes a few feet away at what feels like approximately the speed of light.

I took a step backwards.

Possibly several.

Having survived that, I started paying attention to the other announcements.

And that’s when I discovered that British trains don’t just tell you things.

They tell you everything.

“The train to Waterloo has nine carriages.”

Right.

Why do I need to know this?

Then came information about where the guard could be found.

At this point, I decided they may as well give me the rest.

Your guard today is Kevin. His wife is Mandy. They have three children and a dog called Worf. Kevin enjoys Sunday roasts and you’ll find him towards the rear of the train.

I don’t want to date him.

I just want to get to Eastleigh.

Then we had the train to Exeter St Davids.

Eight carriages.

I’m getting the hang of this now.

Except the doors on the front carriage weren’t going to open.

And if you were travelling to Whimple, you needed to be in the first three carriages because the platform at Whimple wasn’t long enough for the whole train.

So presumably not actually the first carriage, because we’ve already established that if you get into that one you’re never getting out again.

This was priceless.

Eventually my own delayed train arrived and I climbed aboard.

I looked up at the display.

CARRIAGE 2 OF 8

Two of Eight.

Oh God.

I’ve been assimilated.

Then I noticed the electrical sockets, complete with instructions informing me that they were for laptops.

Of course they were.

The Borg have to connect to the collective somehow.

Presumably I plug my laptop in and somewhere in Carriage 6 somebody immediately knows what I’m writing.

I was tempted to plug my phone in instead, just to see whether the entire train malfunctioned.

Or Kevin appeared.

By this point I was fairly certain Kevin would know.

Despite all this, I really enjoyed the journey down to Eastleigh.

But something was missing.

When I remember trains from years ago, I remember the sound.

Dumpty-dum, dumpty-dum, dumpty-dum.

That lovely rhythm of the wheels going over the joins in the track.

This train didn’t do that.

It just went:

Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Constantly.

And the doors don’t BANG shut any more either.

They glide silently apart.

So somewhere between Woking and Eastleigh I’d gone from being assimilated by the Borg to wandering around the Enterprise.

Screens told me exactly where I was. The train glided almost silently along. Doors opened as if I were walking onto the bridge. And an unseen voice periodically came from somewhere above my head to tell me things I hadn’t realised I needed to know.

All that was missing was:

“Captain, we’re approaching Whimple. The platform can only accommodate the first three carriages.”

Although presumably Captain Kevin already knew.

British trains have clearly moved on while I’ve been away.

They know which carriage they’re in.

They know how many carriages all the other trains have.

They know which doors aren’t going to open.

They know whether the platform at Whimple is long enough.

They know what I’m plugging into the wall.

Resistance is futile.

And somewhere aboard the starship to Eastleigh is Kevin.

I am disappointed that I don’t know whether Worf is a Labrador or a Rottweiler