I was driving to the Aldershot train station, coffee in one hand, steering wheel in the other, hoping I wouldn't nod off. It wasn't even 6 a.m. and I was going on less than a few hours sleep. Train time is daydream time, though, and I'd been looking forward to it all week.

I like the 6 a.m. train from Aldershot to Montreal.

This time, it was for my parents' 40th anniversary. My father, who I've previously mentioned regards himself as hilarious, gave himself a medal. Literally. This is what I was walking into.

My sister, Wendy, organized a party for them. I handed over my credit card for half the payment and we declared it a joint effort. She found the location, hired the caterers, made a guest list, designed and printed the invitations, sent them out and sneaked old photos out of my parents place for a slide show. I took said photos and threw them into a slide show program. Even-steven.

While I do love my family, there's been a whole lot of face time with them lately, and for this I need some psych-myself-up time. Some mental Zen time to prepare for the weekend ahead.

The train is easy -- get to Aldershot, get my seat at my big window, coffee in hand, iPod in ears, block out reality and daydream on. Plus, the sight of the sun rising over Lake Ontario as the train speeds past tiny homes, church steeples and cows can cure whatever ails you. You'll get that if you're sitting at a big, open window on the right side of the train.

Across the aisle, you see train tracks. And trees. No sunrise. In an aisle seat, you see the train attendant's butt and varied passengers' shoes. Neither scenario is conducive to good daydreaming. And let's face it, on the best of days, I need all the help I can get. At 6 a.m. going on little sleep ... well, it serves everyone's best interests if no one talks to me until lunch.

Which is why I didn't book first class ($15 more). The first-class car is always packed, they come around with food and coffee and hot towels every five minutes, annoying you with their pleasantries, expecting you to respond in kind. Who needs that at 6 a.m.?

Plus, the 6 a.m. train is direct to Montreal -- no switching in Toronto. Which allows me to pick my favourite seat.

Which is why I was so pissed when they announced we'd be switching trains in Toronto that morning. I didn't sign up for that.

So before 7 a.m., now crankier than ever, I'm being pushed and shoved by people who, I'm sure, by all other accounts, are respectable members of society. But everyone wants those big window seats. And they'll step on your neck to get them.

I fought my way past a 50-ish woman to get at the last window seat on the left side of the train. Not great, but better than an aisle for sure. Behind me, a family with what seemed like 17 kids, all suffering from ADHD, who were tearing the place apart.

Just as I settled in, iPod blocking out the irritating sounds of kids' laughter, I felt a tap on my shoulder. A small, moustachioed attendant told me flatly, "I'm going to move you to that seat on the aisle so those two people can sit together."

I glanced back at the couple in question. The couple who were already sitting together across the aisle from the family with the rambunctious kids. I guess they didn't want to sit near them either. So for some reason, this couple's enjoyment was more important than mine. And Moustache didn't even ask if it was OK. He just pointed.

"No," I said. "Not OK."

Everyone turned their heads to look, and now I'm the SOB of the train, so I got up to move. I guess they got scared off, the couple did. So I moved back after a couple of minutes of inactivity from them. And they were eventually moved to another car.

There are benefits to being the train SOB. Not one person took the seat next to me. And even though I didn't have a window on the right side of the train, I got the next best thing -- leg room.

snadler@thespec.com