A severed finger lies on the floor of a train carriage as it pulls away from a railway station somewhere in Britain, while a nine-fingered man runs alongside, banging the door and shouting. Nobody in the carriage pays any attention at all. Eyes remain glued to newspapers. Someone tuts.

On the platform, the nine-fingered man explains his predicament to the guard. But it is not the guard’s problem, the guard is going on his break.

“But my finger is lying on the floor of that train,” screams the man, attempting to point at the disappearing locomotive, but finding it tricky.

“Then it will be asked to move along,” says the guard. “Lying on floors is specifically disallowed under subsection 7, paragraph 3, of the Passenger’s Charter.”

Meanwhile, back on the train the finger is attempting to attract the attention of the other passengers, but is rendered almost entirely invisible by the interlocking orange and yellow pattern of the carpet, laid in all trains at a cost of £2.5 million because extensive focus group workshops showed that it had a calming effect on irritable commuters.

A burly man in a tracksuit on his way to the lavatory steps on the finger as he walks through the carriage.

“Oi, careful!” cries the finger.

“You what?” says the man looking down. “You starting? You want some, do you?”

The finger apologises and the man continues on his way, looking back over his shoulder and snarling.

The finger, realising that there is no point waiting for assistance, drags himself to the seating area. Despite the fact that he is clearly wounded, nobody offers him a seat. Eventually a pregnant woman gets up to make room for him. “Thank you, Madam,” says the finger.

The ticket-collector comes round. “Tickets please!” he sings.

The finger looks up at him and shrugs.

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