So there I was, 7am on a Monday morning, standing in the sub-zero air on the platform at Preston Station.

Because I’m a sensible chap, I’d got up a bit early to scrape the ice off the car windscreen and let the engine run a bit to allow the windows to demist. I’d known to get up early because it had been clear the day before, and as every six year old knows, a clear night in the winter means it will be cold the next morning. Anyway – because I’d made these preparations, I was at the station in good time.

You’d have thought the people at Blackpool station would have know to get there a bit early to make sure their trains weren’t frozen, wouldn’t you? But no. Two trains were cancelled and I ended up driving to work after 9am. I eventually got in at 11.15, more than four hours after I’d set off.

What a great country.