She teetered her way into the corner of my eye, juggling armfuls of luggage, flapping her summer dress, and rustling a sandwich. She apologized for nudging my leg with a small bag, which she was trying to push under the seat with her foot. I assured her it was nothing, and she sat down, letting out a sigh of relief the way flustered shoppers do on commercials for tea, as they arrive home and sink into an armchair with a cuppa in their hands.

It was last Tuesday, and we were on board the 5.10 from Penn Station, New York to Harrisburg. She told me she had been in the city for the Memorial Day weekend to visit her daughter and was now returning to Philadelphia. I had been at the World Stamp Show for the day and was now coming home, tired but happy, thinking about the postage stamps I'd seen displayed and wondering how it is possible that a tiny old square of paper can be worth millions of dollars. Being British I am not used to talking on public transport. Where I'm from it's frowned upon. No one has yet passed a law banning it, but it's only a matter of time. On those rare occasions when I have held a conversation on a train I have felt such guilt afterwards that I have almost... (Read the full Sermon here: The Living Dead )