It’s 9.19am on a Tuesday morning on London’s Central Line. As is so often the case, I’m examining two hard flakes of skin that have developed on my right hand. As I bend one of the two away from my palm, it disappears into the ether. Is it stuck under my fingernail? Nope. Did it land on my leg? Seems not.
I bend the second one, the result of which almost definitely explains the fate of the first. It pings away from my hand with the acceleration of an Exocet missile, embarks upon a semi-circle trajectory that mirrors Wembley Stadium’s crap arch, and lands, silently but with evident pride, on the woman next to me.
I knew I should acknowledge what had just happened but the words eluded me. Besides, speaking to a stranger on the London Underground is a cardinal sin that’s approximately equal to pushing children in front of traffic. So I held my tongue. Never explain. Never apologise. Never look back.
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