Walking home from work, my hands buried deep in the pockets of my red jacket, my iPod buried deep in my brain with the 2x speeded up Alan Saunders talking Hegel, me with spiky hair, long jeans scuffing, heading to the gym… I saw a young man who had obviously been very well dressed this morning, quite a nice brown suit, but now his outfit suffered, his jacket was a little grubby, his shirt no longer tucked in, the collar was up unevenly, a bottle of Jack Daniels ready-mix in his hand.
Through a discussion on what it is that makes one oneself (myself makes me myself – or was that Daoism?) I could hear that he was calling out to me. I thought, maybe he wants money, maybe he blew it all at the races, maybe he’s trying to score and heard this corner was good for it, maybe he thinks I’m a whore, or a taxi driver, maybe he wants to tell me that I’m cute, or an ugly dyke.
I took an ear bud out.
“Sorry, what?” I said.
“Do you know Gemma?” he said.
“No, sorry,” I said.
He nodded, crossed the road, and went on his way.
