As I write this, I'm sitting in the first class carriage of a GNER train travelling from London's King's Cross to Glasgow in Scotland.

I'm going to be filming an in-house training video explaining the "equal access to goods and services" part of the DDA for a well known company, which is why I'm getting star treatment.

My partner and I (still no assistant) were massively over-excited about the prospect of spending the five and a half hour journey travelling first class as for my regular TV presenting jobs, I always travel cattle class (sometimes even in the guard's van on trains), so this trip is carrying huge novelty value for me.

We arrived at the station's first class customer lounge half an hour before the train departed to bask in the executive ambience, sample anything that might be complimentary and check out the disabled loo which was very smart, as one would expect, and did not have the customary wee all over the seat (a feature that I've noticed has become de rigeur in disabled public loos nationwide.)

As normal, passenger assistance had been booked days in advance which reminds me: have you noticed how the travel industry in general firmly discourages disabled people from entertaining impetuous whims of wander-lust? Personally, I see this as a clear case of discrimination; surely we have as much right to spontaneity as able-bodied people?! But I digress.

When I checked that my name was on the list for assistance, instead of getting the usual weary, blank expression from the passenger assistance clerk, followed by a flurry of confused questions geared towards implying negligence on my part, the customer lounge receptionist smiled sweetly at me and instantly found my name on her list. I felt the tension in my shoulders releasing, everything was in hand; this was the smoothly oiled machinations of the first class experience at work.

Imagine my shock when five minutes before the train was due to depart, no passenger assistant had turned up.

After a few stern expletives in the manner of disgruntled first class customers, me and my partner made our own way to the train and with seconds to spare managed to organise the train staff to get the ramp out and get me on board. It seems passenger assistance inefficiency isn't strictly reserved for economy class passengers!

Once comfortably ensconced in our carriage, I was able to enjoy the views as the oppressive grey buildings of North London melded into picturesque, rural surroundings; green fields, streams, foliage and the smattering of farmyard animals that had somehow survived the foot and mouth holocaust.

The soothing rhythm of the train lulled me into a cocoon of contentment as I enjoyed the at-seat refreshment service (tea and biscuits) and glanced over the cordon bleu dinner menu.

It was only when I decided to go to the loo that I was faced with a sudden, painful jolt back to reality.

The train company had happily sold me the wheelchair space in first class and the opposite seat for my "assistant" at ?243 per person, but had withheld the fact that if you're a wheelchair user this price doesn't include the luxury of going to the loo at any point en route.

Yes, you've guessed it: no wheelchair accessible toilet and no mention of this convenience inconvenience at any point whilst you're handing over the Visa.

I was so furious that it was costing several hundreds of pounds for the indignity and stress of having to be carried to and from the loo during the journey that it completely ruined the trip for me.

I can't believe that such outrageous acts of outright discrimination and injustice are still occurring and that from a legal stand point we've got another couple of years of it.

Postscript:

By chance, on the return journey, the Chief Executive of GNER happened to be in our carriage so I wasted no time in telling him how disgusting the situation was with the loos and he was very polite and apologetic whilst looking rather like a rabbit caught in headlights, but I'm still writing in to complain just in case this little point of disabled passenger customer care slips down to the bottom of the priority pile at the next board meeting and nothing constructive actually gets done.

Call me "cynical" and you'd be right, I hold my hands up to the allegation, well, I hold one up (the other doesn't do "up").

And I'll tell you another thing for free; if I'm cynical, it's from relentless, spirit-breaking experience - I wasn't born bitter.

There comes a time where you just have to say, OK, I'm angry, I feel maligned, I'm disabled and I don't get the same opportunities and treatment as able-bodied people and I don't like it. I don't like it one little bit and I'm not ashamed to say so.

But, after that, you just have to shut-up and get right back to being "positive" and "strong", not to mention the internationally recognised job of the disabled person which is of course to be "inspirational", 'coz nobody likes a whinger.