ONE weekend in the nation's capital and I reckon I've got the great North-South divide debate sussed.

Well, what do you expect? I'm from the North, me, and it doesn't take a genius to work out the Holy Grail, the knowledge, the secret that lies behind the seemingly inherent differences between those living either side of Watford Gap anyway.

Personally I reckon you can spot the problem the moment you step off the train.

I know I did.

I was battling through the hordes of commuters and tourists at London's busy Euston station at tea-time when it actually went right past me in the rush.

There I was, armed and dangerous with a rucksack licensed to kill, when I spotted it through hurrying legs and bags, umbrellas and rolled up newspapers partly concealing my view.

I knew it instinctively but doubted myself for a moment, as you would, and it was only when I found myself stood two steps behind it on the escalator that I realised it was what I thought it was.

A Winfield's carrier bag -- or three Winfield's carrier bags to be precise.

Honestly. Can you believe that? I couldn't.

I mean, there I was, hundreds of miles from home and two women in front of me have been shopping not two miles from my house. Well, it was all too much.

My eyes trained on the pair in front as they took the same line on the tube, the same platform and then -- I couldn't believe it -- sat right in front my friend and I on the train, inches away.

I was absolutely gobsmacked. I had to say something. I was practically bubbling over to tell them of the amazing coincidence. I nearly grabbed them. I couldn't help myself. You know how it is.

Like when you're wandering along the beach on holiday and suddenly your next door neighbour goes coo-ee! from a nearby lounger or when you're miles away from home and someone you used to go to school with pops up from absolutely nowhere to say hello.

Though apparently how it is to you and me up here is not quite how it is down there and especially not on the London Underground.

You see, the crux of the matter, the real difference between the two camps, is that nobody speaks to each other down there. All right?

And to communicate with another passenger on the Tube is practically a cardinal sin.

I know because I told the Winfield's shoppers of the uncanny coincidence and they just looked at me and squirmed openly in their seats, apparently dumbfounded and totally unable to speak for fear of breaking this great anti-social golden rule.

And I wouldn't mind, you know them being Southerners and all that, but my friend next to me nearly died.

Honestly, you'd have thought I'd bared my bottom in between Charing Cross and Embankment, though by the way the whole carriage was looking at me it was obvious they wondered what I would do next. Well, I'm sorry, but I don't see the problem here. I thought it was an amazing coincidence they might be interested in. I was being friendly, you know, passing the time of day with fellow humans?

The unbelievable thing is that the next day I found myself sitting next to a woman who had exactly the same pants on as me -- and I mean exactly, identical, sameshop.com.

So I told her 'You've got the same pants on as me' and, pointing at the other end of the carriage, joked 'In fact I think I'll move over there'.

But judging by the look of disdain that washed instantly across her face, that particular sentence must be tube speak for 'I'm about to whip an axe out from under my coat and brutally slaughter anyone within ten yards.'

My mate said I was in danger of being banned from the London Underground if I didn't shut up.

But no, I'm sorry, why should I? "Because you're in London," came the reply.

And there, in a nutshell, is the difference my friend.

Personally, I'm glad to be back.