On the way home from work last night there was a Scandinavian couple at Victoria, I helped her up the stairs with the pushchair and an Underground bloke helped him with the luggage.
Helping tourists at Victoria is something that I do on a daily basis and a pattern has emerged. The Japanese, always polite and friendly, seem to head towards Kensington and west London. The Germans, always slightly miffed that they can’t figure out the complications at Victoria for themselves, usually head towards Westminster or the City. Both races of people are amongst my favourites.
Walking through a turnstile I catch a momentary glimpse of a short and wiry man going in the opposite direction, he is wearing a raincoat and carries a leather briefcase like a teacher. The thing is that I only saw him for a fraction of a second so my mind starts to re build his face into some weird fantasy involving a sheep that bleats in a strangely understandable language. As I walk away the imaginary sheep man is right in my face, his mouth and lower jaw looking like that of a mountain goat bleating away like he’s simply asking for directions.
I laugh out loud at the lunacy of it all and bleat back to nobody in particular.