What is really going on in politics? Get our daily email briefing straight to your inbox Sign up Thank you for subscribing We have more newsletters Show me See our privacy notice Invalid Email

Jeremy Corbyn was in my seat.

What were the chances? That less than a month after the leader of Her Majesty's Loyal Opposition derailed himself over a train seat, he'd be sitting in mine?

On a genuinely 'ram-packed' London to Liverpool train heading to Labour Party Conference.

The night before he'd learn if he's been re-elected leader of the Party.

I checked my ticket reservation. Coach B, seat 41.

I checked the seat number. Coach B, seat 41.

I checked the illuminated panel above his head. "041. Reserved."

I took a moment to process the information, before deciding on my options.

I couldn't make him get up. He's 67 and was sitting contentedly reading next to a travelling companion, probably enjoying the last moments of relative solitude he'll get for the next five days.

And I couldn't just leave it, because, let's face it, my boss was in the next carriage and he would quite rightly have fired me.

No, I took the only option open to a never-not-working reporter who isn't an absolute monster.

I was going to have to make a joke about it.

"Jeremy?", I said. "Sorry to disturb you."

The Labour leader lowered his magazine - which I think was about trains - and peered over his glasses, smiling wearily.

I introduced myself, and told him who I work for. He instantly shot back at least three inches in his seat, blurting softly: "I don't do interviews on trains, thank you."

Video Loading Video Unavailable Click to play Tap to play The video will start in 8 Cancel Play now

I told him not to worry and that I didn't want to interview him.

"But you're not going to believe what I'm going to tell you and I hope you find it as delightfully ironic as I do."

He looked nervous.

"Jeremy," I said, holding out my ticket. "You're in my seat."

He immediately hoisted himself up, asking his companion to move so he could vacate the chair.

"No, no," I said. "Jeremy sit down. I don't want you to move. I'm not an absolute monster."

He looked nervous again.

I said I didn't want him to move, but just wanted to tell him what had happened, because I thought it was really, really funny.

He laughed a little, nervously.

He asked: "Have you got a seat?"

"Yes," I lied. "I'm going to sit in the next coach and have a drink with the guys."

He explained that he and his travelling companion were supposed to be sitting across the aisle from each other, but that someone had been sitting in her reserved seat.

"So we were supposed to be sitting next to each other." I mused. "That's even better."

He did not react.

Before heading back to my non-seat in the next carriage, I asked: "Is there any chance I could have a photo? They'll never believe me otherwise."

Obviously, being Jeremy Corbyn , the most selfied man in politics, he obliged.

Job done, I bid farewell to a good sport and shuffled off down the corridor.

And with no sense of irony whatsoever, I bumped my colleague out of his seat so I could write this story.