satan

I’m outside Charing Cross, drinking a coffee. There is a small area of seating, and I’m one table back from the edge. On the edge table, a young couple. To my left, four student types. I’m wearing a linen jacket, panama hat and my home shirt, and I’m writing a blog on the laptop.


I become aware of someone ranting loudly, near the couple. A stream of consciousness rant about shoving something up someone’s arse. Before I can fight the reflex prejudice, but the image of a beardy, staggering, pissed old bloke comes to mind. One of the couple says,

“Do you mind?”

I look up. I realise the beardy, staggering, pissed old bloke, for it is indeed he, is talking at me. And I’m not even wearing me bloody trenchcoat. He’s still going,

“…not you you fucker him he’s fucking he’s the devil he is stay away from my cigarettes devil I should shove that up your bastard don’t come near me fucking Canadian bastard you’re evil you are sitting there with that that…” etc.

I maintain eye contact, slowly close the laptop, which seems to be the source of some of his irritation, and zip the case shut. This is an almost reflex protection measure. I say nothing and keep my expression impassive. Everyone within earshot is watching, nervous, embarrassed and a little afraid. There is the distinct threat of violence, and the signature of it’s equally distinct partner, adrenaline, in the air.


However, my would be adversary decides not to pursue his attempt to unmask me as the Antichrist, or relent and offer me a cigarette. He starts to back off, and shuffle away, keeping eye contact and mumbling until he round the corner. I reopen the laptop, and take a drink. Everyone is still staring, some still in slightly comical ‘frozen in mid sip / sentence / motion poses.


I decide, spontaneously, that a tension breaker is required. Relying on my wit and sangfroid, say,

“Well, that’s the price of gin these days for you. Still, ‘Canadian’ was a bit low.”


This does the trick, a few people actually laugh. I get back to typing. I reflect. I could have said something sympathetic, or at least understanding, that made it clear I was not afraid of beardy, and that the last thing he probably needs is fear and ridicule. But I didn’t. I think ‘you total bastard!’


Still, that’s going to be par for the course when my 1000 years of Infernal Diabolic Rule reduces you mortals to a state of agonised servitude, so you’d all better get used to it. And you can forget about nipping out for a fag break, too.