The breakfast of champions and Russian women

THE train was utterly packed. People were jammed upright in the aisles with less room than a Chilean miner in a rescue capsule.

Sitting opposite me were two generously built ladies who hailed from somewhere that used to go in for statues of Lenin.

They looked like they used to rivet tanks for the Motherland.

Somehow, the beverage cart was getting through. The plucky little lass in charge rammed her trolley along that train as if the Relief Of Lucknow depended on her.

Sweat poured from her brow, every sinew strained, as she dispensed tea, coffee, soft drinks and sandwiches.

She pulled up alongside me. I got coffee. I thought I should.

She had battled so hard to get to me.

The ex-Soviet ladies had a brief conversation. The larger of the two turned to the trolley dolly and barked 'Do you sell beer?'

Even I draw the line at beer at 9.45 on a Sunday morning.

Beer in hand, one turned to me and asked if I lived in Edinburgh. Memories of the Cold War stirred, so I wasn't too sure what else I should tell them, but I figured they'd find the castle anyway.

They looked at the beer cans and said - and Tennents might like to use this for an entirely new campaign - 'This is good you make in Scotland. Good breakfast beer.' Thanks, comrade.