I am on a train.
A train to nowhere, calling at Reading, Didcot Parkway, Bristol Temple Meads and Your Mum.
"We would like to apologise to passengers in Coach B," the train guard announces, "There is no Coach B on this service."
Well, that certainly taught me for travelling with Schroedinger Railways.
In fact, on most occasions, I buy tickets for Sigmund Freud Transport, but their train was stuck in a tunnel.
I am on a train. But am I?