But he made eyes at me and shook his head as if to say, "Not now." 

"But offic — "

His head shook more vigorously. 

Great. So Andrea and I entered the station. It was now 6.40. 

Euston was far worse than King's Cross, hundreds of commuters frozen to the spot, gazing up at the ever-changing screens. 

I rounded on the first official I could. 

"Hi. I need your help. Right now. This lady is very disorientated. I found her on the Tube. We were sent here from King's Cross. She has a ticket to travel from here and I need you to put her on the right train."

"This train goes straight through to Carlisle," said the man (I'll call him Ferguson), inspecting the tickets.

Excellent news. 

"But it's not valid on the 6.50". 

Less good.

"She has to get the 7.30." I'm going to be really late.

Now in the disabled mobility office I am being told by another unsympathetic official that there are no more transit buggies available. 

"Which platform is it?" I asked, frustrated.

"One," says Ferguson, "but the train won't be there yet."

Out loud: "Then I'll take her."

In my head: "Since no one else will."