A Boxing Day stroll along Diagonal was intercepted by a violent incident with a madman. “Puta!” yelled the hefty, pee-soaked man, who had already attracted my attention by spitting at me. “Why do you say that?” I replied. I realised my mistake immediately. “Puta!” he raged “Zorra!” He tossed aside his black bag and lunged at me.
On your own, love.
I looked around, desperately. There were a dozen people nearby. They sat on benches in silent couplets. They jogged casually past. One memorable man stood not two metres from me staring upwards, as if admiring the architecture.
I found myself oddly embarrassed, as if it were me who had ruined their morning, endangered them with a problem that was entirely of my own making. I slunk home alone. Now I ponder my seemingly ambivalent audience and its wider social implications.
- Were they despicable, cowardly bastards?
- Were they showing silent support?
What would you have done?
Click LIKE if you’d have at least asked me if I was ok afterwards.