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.
Icarus tumbles unnoticed. Can you spot the little legs?
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.
Shame
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.
