So. There I was. On my way home from quite an eventful but ultimately unfulfilling evening in Soho.

On the N207 to be exact.

“There are people on this bus that don’t appear that keen to go to bed.” I thought.

Hey. It’s London. More accurately, Notting Hill Gate. At 3.45 a.m.

A chap, staggers down the stairs, mistiming a jolt on the brakes from the driver.

“Oi, you wanker. You stood on my foot!” D&G waistcoat. Sharp Prada Shoes. Eyes like saucers. Blonde, trim, chippy.

“It wasn’t my fault! Don’t stand at the bottom of the bloody stairs!” Nice Indian gentleman. En guard and ready for anything.

“‘Ave you done any time inside?” says young Mr. Prada shoes.

“Yes! More than you could ever dream of! More than your age! Don’t look at me! Don’t touch me!”

Prada raises his well-threaded (now I’m guessing Essex) eye-brows. “

"Well then. Either apologise, or turn around so I can do you in the ’*@£$’.” That last word was muffled. I wasn’t enitrely sure what he actually said. But its not for blog browsing at breakfast.

The atmosphere is tense. There’s a Mexican stand-off. A hush on the packed bus. The two gents in question and myself are all standing near the exit doors. 

Then I see the nearly full moon’s smiley face look down on me, through the nearest window, filling me with calm philosophical power. I drink it in like a PacMan eats those big yellow biscuit things. I look at the two paused angry young men, ready to crash together like a Six Nations front row. Then it dawned on me. The solution. 

“Calm down girls.” I said. “ I went to public school and I used to bum people like you for breakfast.”

Ten seconds of very pregnant air. 

Prada looks at me with his cobalt cuff-links for eyes, and they begin to shrivel.

He gaffaws. Other fellow laughs. The whole bottom deck laughs. 

Then both combatants leave the bus, amicably. 

Ahh.

The power of comedy.

A well-timed ironic line kicks the shit out of a fronting, coked-up young buck and all the cage-fighting muscle he can muster.

Take note.

Goodnight children.