Yesterday someone hit me in the head with their umbrella. I was walking fast, in an eastwardly direction along Oxford St, and she was walking, again fast, westward bound. Somehow she managed to get me in the temple with one of the plastic goboons at the end of a spoke.
‘What the…. Jesus,’ I said rubbing my forehead.
She said nothing and continued striding along the road. The tilt of her head evoked Boadicea on her blade-bedecked chariot. I imagined her chuckling and then one day removing the plastic covering and sharpening the spoke.
I find the average commuter in London town is a barely contained mass of seething resentment. I must admit there are days when I feel not dissimilar to this.
It doesn’t take much to turn up the heat of this inner rage – and almost getting stabbed in the eye is a bit more than not much.
It was not a good moment then to join the rush of commuters pouring down the steps into the hell that is the northbound platform of the Victoria line at 5.45pm on a Tuesday.