Dreaming of Bernie Goetz

Another day, another bout of low level violence on London's public transport. I'm on the way home from a publishing 'do on the number 12 from Oxford St. Am feeling blue, because of a number of things, but mostly because that's just me. So I'm listening to the folder on my iPhone I've cleverly called 'wrist slitting music'. So I'm engrossed in that in my it-would-be-amusing-if-it-wasn't-my-life way, when I'm tapped on the leg by the guy sitting opposite.

'The fuck you lookin' at, Boss?' he asks.

I stare for a long second or two, weighing my man up. He's up for some sort of scrap I can see by his eyes. I've been threatened and/or brought into some kind of Travis Bickle bullshit three times in the last few days. The worst incident when I was threatened with a stabbing at the fucking Camberwell Library amidst the graphic novels section. Tonight, I'm tired, I'm fucked off, don't at the moment care if I live or die, to be utterly frank. And I say, 'Looking' at you, fucko.'

This takes him aback, cause this thing is all about power. He wanted me, the middle class white boy to crumble. And I can see his eyes calculating. And they slide over to this older, dumpy East Asian woman and he says, 'the fuck you looking' at?' and she just gets up and walks away. And that leaves me and him, and we sit back and don't look at each other for the rest of the ride home.