HOMEFRONT: Fiona Gibson

THE kids and I are taking the train from Edinburgh to York. I love the train and am confident that we have enough pens, paper, snacks, games and puzzles to keep everyone occupied. I have even brought my laptop in the hope of doing some work. Across from our table sits a mother with two little girls. They are quietly leafing through comics. Within minutes, the mother falls asleep. "Look at my trainers," says the older girl. We all admire them. "Can I have some paper?" she asks.

"Sure," I say, handing some over.

"Can I borrow your pencils?"

"Here," I say, handing over a bundle. We learn that the girl is five, her sister is two and they are going to visit their auntie. The two-year-old wriggles off her seat and wanders off to explore the carriage. I try to wake up her mother with a hard stare.

"Yaa!" comes the scream. At the far end of the carriage, the child has somehow wedged herself under a seat. I help her out and return her to her mother, who is still asleep. The younger child wants paper and pencils, too. "Pink and lello," she demands, but the older girl, who has somehow appointed herself Chief of Pencils, will only let her have red and blue. The girls start kicking each other and screaming. My sons waggle their eyebrows frantically at me, as if I should be capable of sorting this out. What am I supposed to do? You can't tell off other people's kids or physically pull them apart. Your only option is to say "hey, hey" in an ineffectual manner.

The woman wakes up. I'm relieved she appears to be about to take charge of her children - particularly as her five-year-old has demanded that my daughter and I squish up to make room for her on our seat.

"Can I sit on your knee?" the girl demands.

"Um, no, just sit beside me," I bluster.

"Why not? Why can't I?"

"Because ... because ... I'm going to have something to eat." I rummage in my bag, pull out a tub of fruit salad and rip off the lid, aware of the girl's eyes boring into me.

Her sister is whirling around the carriage with a fistful of pencils which could easily spear an eye. What if there's an accident? I haven't signed any disclaimer form and could be blamed for over-sharpening the pencils. The older child squeezes her drinks carton so hard it spurts all over our table. Her mother, who has been gazing beatifically out of the window, puts her iPod on and closes her eyes. Her table is bare. Ours is heaped with comics, stickers, sweets and paper, all liberally sloshed with Five Alive. An elderly man walks past with a coffee and throws me a look of disgust for over-breeding.

"What's that?" the five-year-old demands.

"Fruit salad," I say.

"No, what's THAT?" She plunges her hand into the tub.

"Um, mango," I mutter, although what I really want to say is: "It's a Marks & Spencer fruit salad that cost over four bloody quid." I glare at the mother who has - hallelujah - removed her earpiece but only to use her phone. "I'm on the train," she bellows. "I'll call you when we get to Newcastle."

Newcastle! Although it's not far, this train seems to be taking several decades to get there. I yearn for the Tyne Bridge and that funny maggoty building to come into view. The five-year-old is plucking various bits from my fruit salad, greeting the melon and grapes with enthusiasm but deeming the mango "yucky" and spitting it back into the tub. I am tempted to slam on the lid but wouldn't feel good about trapping a little girl's fingers. Besides, I've lost my appetite.

The mother makes another call. "I'm on the train," she shouts. "Yeah, it's not too bad. A woman's entertaining the kids." Oh, is she now? Frankly I've had enough, especially when the five-year-old slaps my dozing son around the head and screams: "Wake up!"

"Where does your auntie live?" my daughter barks.

"Far, far away," the girl trills.

Finishing her call, the mother finally turns to us. "York," she says.

Contact Fiona at hello@fionagibson.com