I have just returned from Spain, says Atticus, where I had the pleasure of taking the night train, or "trenhotel" from Barcelona to Granada. It was the first time I had ever taken a night train and was looking forward to something approximating the glamour of the Orient Express. As I boarded I was horrified to discover that this wasn't to be the case – or rather it might be more like Murder on the Orient Express.

Each sleeping compartment, comprising four bunks made up with tightly tucked sandpaper-coarse blankets, had instead more than a passing resemblance to Clint Eastwood's sleeping quarters in Escape from Alcatraz. My horror intensified as I opened the door of my room – "Number 4.2" – to be confronted by the goggle eyed stare of my room mate for the night. This man was utterly sloshed; and he sent a shiver down my spine – there was something of the night in that intense but darkly vacant stare.

After beating a retreat to the plastic encrusted "lounge bar" and the comfort of a beer, I considered what the night held in store for me. Either I'd wake up to find him pilfering through my pockets or else trying to bite my ear off. Either way, I had a fight for survival in store.

Fifteen minutes later and I caught a glimpse of him stumbling into the room. My cue to leave. I may as well head to my bunk and await my fate. Despite everything, back in the room I soon fell asleep.

And then...despite all my worst fears, nothing happened. My companion returned hours later. I fully expected the moment of reckoning to be here, but instead spent fifteen minutes maneuvering an extremely drunk and melancholic man into his bunk and offering him some water. Many loud snores and hours later, we arrived in Granada.

As I took a taxi from the station I caught a glimpse of my erstwhile nemesis. He was a sad looking man with a cheap suitcase, standing dejectedly by the curb.