Rather camp fellow, a homburg about three sizes too small, perched slightly askew on a think coif, sitting next to me. The upper deck of the bus, full of tired, cold looking people on their way home. About 6.30 pm. He is shouting into his mobile, the only sound on the upper deck as we near Waterloo.
"No, no, no. Oh, no. It is not about me, not about me. Don't turn it around. Why do you always have to turn it around? It is about you, sweetheart. It is all about YOU. I'm not the one smoking 30 a day. I'm not the one with the three heart attacks. I'm not the one who went out and had to get fucking lung cancer. You are so selfish, so goddamn selfish. So go ahead and die for all I care, go ahead. What? What? You have to go? OK, bye, bye. Love you, Mum."
He turns off his mobile, looks around a bit, then cheerily asks if I am finished with my London Lite.
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