Irony.

Today I got stranded in Datchet.

Datchet. DAT-gag-me-with-a-spoon-and-call-me-Edna-chet.

And you know what? I was right about the place. For years (well, one) I have maintained the belief that Datchet serves no useful purpose in the nationwide transport network. Nobody lives there, there is nothing there that you could want and no reason to go there. It may as well be its own isolated Principality. The Crown Dependency State of Datchet. Population: 12. Head of State: the Duke of Edinburgh. Currency: the Useless.

It just exists, serving no purpose, as if to fill up space on the topographic drawing of the train line. Some Power that Is up in SouthWest Trains Secret Entry-by-Iris-Scanning Robochemical Lair HQ obviously thought, "Hang on a minute, chaps, we've a gaping hole in between Sunnymeads and WIndsor & Eton Riverside. What we need is a seven-letter place beginning with D." Those are the origins of both the town of Datchet and the humble crossword, it might seem.

Oh dear. You just counted the number of letters, didn't you.
*Sigh.*

So I'm there in Datchet, and not only was there not a soul in sight, but there weren't even any trees, or cars for that matter. It was as if all life-possessing entities had realised, in one terrible glib expostulation of unity, thought "Shit!", and jumped on the next train to London Waterloo. (This is the only place possible to access from Datchet.)

This is an example of what apparently goes on in Datchet:

And you know what? I think it puts the idea across far better than I ever could.

That is all I have to say on the matter.