Public Abuse

You know, in the city I mostly keep to myself, head down, fast walk, no dawdling. I don’t really like interaction with strangers. I feel my face go bright red when I get accosted in public. In the last two weeks I’ve had a pretty high rate of abuse; nothing serious, nothing violent, but still, enough to make me go red.

First there was when I was walking through a narrow part of a pavement which had been partially blocked by a food stall. My head was down; I hadn’t noticed someone was waiting for me to pass. When I did, he shouted out (sarcastically): ‘You’re fucking welcome mate’. I went red and walked fast. Next was the crazy homeless man who asked me for change. I said no. He had a rant at me. ‘Do you know who I am?’ (No). ‘If you knew who I was…’ (Yes?). ‘Go wank in your mother's face!’ And off he went, leaving me with that image and a lot of people looking at me. Then on the tube escalators, two women felt the need to tell me (loudly) that my shirt looked like a pyjama top.

Most recently it was raining and I was in the library. It was crowded but hushed. A woman stood up, came over to me and exclaimed in a loud, clear voice, ‘Has anyone ever told you you look exactly like Sven Goran Eriksson?’

‘Er, no.’

‘Well you do.’

‘Well, thank you.’ (Slightly sarcastic; I hadn’t taken it as a compliment.)

‘No, thank you.’ (Very sincerely.)

I don’t know, when I was younger I was told I looked like James Dean (fleetingly) and Bob Dylan (which I had taken as a compliment, though it was mainly to do with the hair). As I got older, it was Richard Gere and George Clooney (definitely the hair). But now Sven Goran Eriksson? Jesus.

Previously on Barnflakes
Train tales #1: the nipple-tassled French woman
Hair tips