On my way downstairs from upstairs, my wife catches me by the arm, pulls me into the bathroom, shoves me up against the white wall and takes my glasses off. “Don’t smile,” she says. “I’m not,” I say. She holds her phone up between us and takes a picture of me. “It’s for your railcard,” she says, looking down at the screen. “You’re not going to be happy with it, by the way.” By railcard my wife means a senior railcard, which is meant to save me a lot of money in my old age, provided I go on enough trains. I’ve been eligible for about eight months, but have done nothing to secure one. Ahead of a coming rail journey, my wife has taken matters into her own hands. “Have you got your railcard yet?” she says, appearing behind me in the kitchen. “It’s only been an hour,” I say. “Is someone biking it round?” “It just lives on your phone,” she says. “Clink on the link in the email I sent you.” “Email?” I say. “Then you need to download the app.” “App, you say?” “Give me your phone,” she says. I show my railcard to the train manager. ‘He looks like a grim customer,’ he says. My wife laughs “No,” I say. I find the email and download the new card. In the middle of it is the picture from the bathroom. My wife was right: I’m not happy. It is by some distance the worst photograph of me I’ve ever seen. I look as if I have just been arrested for sleeping in a bin. “I think I’d rather pay extra than show this to anyone,” I say. “Don’t be silly,” she says. “It makes it much cheaper.” “I don’t care,” I say. “And it’s good for three years.” “I have to have this for three years?” I say. On Saturday morning I am at Paddington station staring up at the departures board, the strap from my bag already weighing heavily on my shoulder. I am tired and hungover from a poker game the night before, but also a little pleased with myself, because I won. My left pocket is stuffed with cash. “I don’t think we’ll be leaving on time at this rate,” I say. “That’s right,” my wife says. “Keep searching for the downside.” “I’m just saying,” I say. “Do we even have seats?” “We do,” she says. “Coach H. Have you got your railcard?” “Ugh,” I say. “I hope you’re not going to be like this for the whole journey,” she says. “There’s a good chance I might be,” I say. “Well, I don’t think that’s very fair,” she says. “Would you like some money?” I say. Our track is announced. We board the train and take our seats. Not long after it departs, the carriage door behind me opens. “All tickets please,” says the train manager. I find my senior railcard, wince again at the picture, and place my phone face down on the tray in front of me. “Tickets,” says the train manager, leaning over me. My wife holds out her phone, scrolling between one outbound ticket and the other while the train manager scans the barcodes. “Thank you,” she says. “And you should have two railcards,” he says. I turn my phone over slowly, as if I’m revealing a pair of fours to someone with a straight flush. “He looks like a grim customer,” says the train manager. “What?” I say. “I wouldn’t like to meet him down a dark alley,” he says. My wife laughs. “He’s just, yeah,” I say. “Huh.” If one were accustomed to looking on the bright side, one could suggest the train manager was remarking on the contrast between passenger and unflattering photo, rather than the striking similarity. But I am not so accustomed, and besides, I saw myself in the mirror before I left the house. “You’re gonna get that every time you take a train now,” my wife says. “No I won’t,” I say, “because I’m never taking a train again.” “Cheer up,” she says. “We’ve got hours.” “I can’t,” I say, reaching into my pocket. “Please accept forty quid instead.” Two days later we board the train for our return journey. This time we have no seats reserved, but luckily the train is empty. After a few minutes the train manager appears. My wife shows him the tickets, and I turn over my phone. He studies the picture for a long time, then looks at me, then back at the picture. “All right, Jürgen?” he shouts. “What are you gonna do with all your spare time now?” “Um,” I say. “Ha ha!” he says. He is some way down the carriage before I understand that he suggesting a resemblance between me and the Liverpool FC manager. I look at the railcard again. “Well, I’ll take that,” I say.