Failure of integrity
1pm: poised, intent and highly visible, I have been waiting for a good ten minutes when the number 578 bus sails (triumphantly, I think) past my incredulous figure. Righteous indignation is rising in my chest, shaking my fist at the driver just isn’t enough. The next stop is on the other side of the traffic lights; my boiling blood propels me down the road, panting, I reach it just when the front doors open; I make my wrath heard. What the fuck? Is that his idea of fun? I feel vindicated.
8.30pm, night has fallen, crowds are pouring in and out of pub; as I stride along St Martin’s lane, a young woman, clearly off her face, stumbles and falls, revealing a vast expanse of bare thighs. Amused/mildly revolted passer-bys watch; I help her, prop her up, make sure she knows where she is going.
This is my romanticized version of the day, for I am lying. I am lying because I was too lazy to run after that renegade bus driver, and possibly too meek, today anyway, to confront him. I am lying because I watched the piss-head fall on her bum just like everyone else did, without even trying to help. Too scared or too selfish, today, so I only thought about it, and kept moving. Just like everyone else.