She uses the term ironically, as if travelling with me could be romantic and fun, when everyone knows it isn’t

‘Are you enjoying your city break?’ my wife says

It is Friday afternoon, and my wife is issuing instructions to the youngest one regarding the feeding and care of the dog and the cat.

“Why?” he says. “Where are you going?”

“Your father and I are going on a city break,” she says. “To Exeter.” My wife uses the term “city break” ironically, as if travelling with me could be romantic and fun, when everyone knows it isn’t.

Before we leave the next morning, I find the tortoise clawing at the back door, trying to get into the garden.

“Are you sure?” I say. “Because I won’t be here to bring you back in if it gets cold.”

The tortoise looks at me with one dull eye, as if to say: I know what I’m doing. I open the door and he thunks down the brick steps.

Our platform is announced as we arrive at the station. As we shuffle with the crowd toward the barrier, something occurs to me. “Where’s my ticket?” I say.

“On my phone,” my wife says.

“What if we get separated?” I say. “Send it to my phone!”

“It’s fine,” she says.

“It’s fine for you,” I say. “You’ve got two tickets on your phone!” My wife exhales impatiently and texts me a copy of the ticket. What arrives does not impress me.

“It doesn’t look right,” I say. “Maybe you should have emailed it.” I look up to find my wife is gone; a stream of Italian schoolchildren with matching rucksacks has surged between us. I put my phone screen against the scanner. Nothing happens.

Eventually I am waved through an open gate by an inspector, and find my wife standing outside coach C. As we board there is an announcement: due to a technical malfunction, no seat reservations can be honoured.

“Sit there,” my wife says, pointing to the seat opposite. I look at my phone again.

“Actually I think I’m supposed to be across the…”

“Did you not hear?” she says. “The system is unenforceable.”

Once the train starts moving, we sit in silence for some minutes.

“Are you enjoying your city break?” my wife says.

“I suppose it’s less stressful than driving,” I say. “But presumably more expensive.”

“You’re not wrong,” she says. “I can’t tell you how much the tickets cost.”

“How much?” I say.

“No, I mean I’m actually not going to tell you.”

Twenty-five hours later we find ourselves on the platform at Exeter, waiting for the train home.

“Which coach?” I say.

My wife pulls out her phone and scrolls between the two tickets, back and forth.

“We don’t appear to have seat reservations for this one,” she says.

“How can that be?” I say. The train approaches. Passengers begin to mass.

“Dunno,” she says, shrugging.

The train is packed, but my wife finds two empty seats bearing reservations for passengers boarding at the next station. I already know what will happen, so I’m not surprised when we get to Tiverton: my seat is immediately claimed, and hers isn’t.

I end up standing in the aisle, driven toward the middle of the carriage by the growing number of seatless passengers pushing forward. I have a crossword puzzle with me, but the train keeps lurching, and I find I cannot let go of the seat backs long enough to fill in any answers. Worst of all, I do not think my wife can see how badly things are going for me from where she’s sitting. I can just glimpse the top of her head. It’s possible she is asleep.

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I stand for two hours, until a seat opens up at Reading. From there the train slows to a crawl. My wife texts to inform me that London’s transport network is basically shut.

“Did you ever get a seat?” she writes.

“No,” I reply, sitting.

We arrive late and get into a taxi. As it rises up on to the Westway, I see the traffic jam stretching ahead of us to the horizon.

“Tell me how much those tickets cost,” I say.

“Never,” my wife says.

I look out the window at the setting sun, hoping we get home before I need to use a torch to find the tortoise.