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There was a pre-zombie Apocalypse vibe about Shepherd’s Bush today. Something weird in the air and more crazy people than usual and odd incidents of near violence throughout the day. Some kids crossing the busy road by the green seemed ungrateful when a driver decided to stop rather than run them over and when he beeped his horn they slowed their walk and gave him the finger. In the shopping centre I heard a voice nearby shouting “Just touch me. Just try it. Just fucking touch me”, on the Uxbridge Road a person of interminable gender, with a face that suggested years of drug taking saw a pile of horse dung on the pavement (left by one of the police horses on duty for the QPR match) and then laughed uproariously whilst repeating the words “horse shit”. A preacher at the station shouted about Jesus in an aggressive tone of voice which I would have said was out of kilter with the Christian message. It felt like the fates were predicting something gruesome and later I would have a mild altercation with a man who didn’t like the tone of voice in which I said, “OK” when he asked me to move my bag so he could sit on the train. I was annoyed because I was working on my computer and there were lots of other seats available (not as many as I had thought, but I had had my head down for the journey and not noticed the carriage filling up) and it seemed that he had picked the person for whom it would be most inconvenient to move. But you know, I did move for him immediately, just in a slightly exasperated way as the seats were small and it was a mild inconvenience. He explained he had a right to sit there and I agreed with him. That is why I’d moved my stuff. But he said there were reasons why he needed that particular seat (my guess was because he’d correctly ascertained that it would be the one that would cause the most disruption) and as he seemed to be keen on carrying on with his diatribe rather than sitting awkwardly for the rest of the journey I asked him to get up so I could move to one of the other free seats. Which he did. Still going on. He told me I was acting entitled. But I really wasn’t. If I was entitled I’d have refused to move my bag. I had done what he wanted, just not as delightedly as he’d apparently required. And he ended up with the double seat to himself as a result. Which is an odd picture of entitlement. I hate it when these buzzwords are used in any context by people who don’t have the ability to argue correctly.
But anyway, back in Shepherd’s Bush I went for a coffee in the fittingly downmarket My Mum’s Starbucks, Esquires franchise in the W12 shopping centre (now very much the poor cousin of the huge Westfield with its recognised coffee brands just over the road). I was with my daughter who hadn’t napped enough, but who I was charged with keeping awake so that she didn’t ruin her night time sleep. I left her at a table while I picked up my coffee, keeping my eye on her all the time, but feeling in the pit of my stomach that something awful was going to happen. I realised the table I’d put her by was right next to the loo so moved over one, in what I thought was an empty section. But suddenly became aware of a wild looking white-haired and scraggily bearded gentleman at the next table. The prejudiced/protective part of my brain ascertained that he might be homeless and paranoid thoughts of him suddenly attacking us crept into my brain. But I was angry with myself for the many assumptions buy sub-conscious had made and resolutely stated where I was. I gave Phoebe some of my chocolate croissant, but not too much because I want her to grow up healthy and also I really wanted it. When it was gone she seemed distressed, so I gave her a crumb or two. And the old man/ angel visiting earth to teach me a lesson leant into his bag, ripped off a huge bit of some kind of apple danish treat and put it on my plate. “For her,” he said.
“Oh no thanks,” I replied.
“No, please. It’s Italian,” the man insisted, as if this information somehow overrode all the concerns of giving my daughter food from a possibly crazy stranger who looked like he didn’t wash his hands.
I was now in a Moral Maze. It would be a victory for the tiny Donald Trump portion of my brain if I allowed my prejudice to make me throw this gift back in the man’s face. And yet was I willing to give my daughter food that might be ridden with germs or poison just to make this man think that I was a nice liberal who didn’t make judgements (even though I wasn’t and I did). This was most likely a kind gift from a man who had been charmed by my tiny daughter, but was it worth killing her to give her the lesson that we shouldn’t make assumptions about strange, possibly germ-ridden men. Not accepting sweets from strangers is rule number on for kids, so I was guiding her badly if I over rode this now, plus the Italian danish was in his bag and not part of the official produce from Esquires. And what would happen if all the customers who came in brought in their own food? The Esquires coffee chain certainly wouldn’t be the recognised brand that it is today.
And whilst, in hindsight, this will all make an excellent sketch for As It Occurs To Me about being moral, immoral or amoral, which I was writing in my head five minutes later, what was I actually going to do? My liberal guilt overcame my desire to protect my child and I ripped off a tiny bit of the pastry and popped it in her mouth. I was pretty sure I’d done the wrong thing. But if I had refused his gift who knows what this pleasant man would be capable of? I left most of the Italian fancy on my plate and left soon after, thanking the man, imagining how angry my wife was going to be with me when I brought home a poisoned/dead baby. But as it turns out nothing bad happened to her, so I felt doubly conflicted and bad about it all. Whatever I did was potentially very wrong and if, as is very likely, the non-tramp trampman was an angel then I am nearly all going to Hell, except for a tiny bit of me which will be ripped off and tentatively allowed into Heaven.
The zombie Apocalypse did not come today, which is lucky as I was gigging in Blackheath, where the risen dead would all have the bubonic plague, making them a double threat.
