Choose Life

When I was 29 I decided that the world was too much with me, and that I needed to purge myself of everything that made me feel that way. So I gave up watching television programmes, listening to the radio, reading newspapers and clever-sounding books, engaging in chit-chat, shopping ‘as leisure’, answering emails, going out to bars, taking drugs... I emptied my life of itself.

What I needed was space to think, to breathe, to be able to savour the textures of life, to not let my precious days on earth piss away or get knotted up with aches and worries. Just to be and to appreciate the moment, that’s all I wanted for myself. To watch aeroplanes flying over my head, to watch the flowers grow, to enjoy the peace and quiet, the simplicity that life should be…

So I gave up all this stuff. No more iPlayer, no more Breaking News, no more Taste the Difference, no more ‘coruscating visions of the human condition’, no more pissed-up thrusting on sticky dancefloors, no more 'hi, how was your weekends', 'best regards' or 'all the bests'. I gave it all up…

I grew lonely and depressed. 

The silence that I’d wished so hard for started to drive me mad. I started to hate my own company. I’d look in the mirror and think, oh fuck me, you again. 

Suddenly I hungered for all the stuff I’d abandoned. Especially Taste The Difference. Going to the supermarket became a religious experience for me. Television, too was a salvation. Gok Wan became an angel. An orange-hued, redeeming angel with divinely white teeth. I’d go out on the piss with all the people who bored me so much before and I’d love it, love them, even the most boring of them, so grateful I was for the responsiveness of another human being. I’d delight in asking people I hardly knew how their day was and whether they’d ‘been up to much’, and when they said ‘Oh, same old,’ would respond with hysterical enthusiasm. Anything to get away from myself...

Batley Boy

At the crack of dawn under the train shed at York Station. It’s spring and I’m leaving the north. Tired but happy here. A clear morning, a fine broad-arched old shed, the trill of swallows echoing in the rafters. The sun comes alive. Light dances around the shed, lemon yellow and carnation pink glints bursting from high windows, lending the tracks a thin golden glow.

An assortment of puffy-eyed travellers is ranged across the platform. They keep to themselves, coat collars up against the residual chill of night, in spirit still back in their cosy beds.

Of all places to be, on the east coast rail network at the beginning of day, somewhere up north, might be best. Always a feeling of effervescence at these transit points, ready to speed across the country on a train, landscapes appearing and disappearing as a striated blur past my window, on the way to who-cares-where. 

A wintery breeze brings me back to reality, to the long filigree hands of the big clock, the echoes of the automated PA. As the heavy machine shifts reluctantly into motion, I feel a fleeting sensation that I’m going the wrong way. I have to suppress an urge to jump out, sneak on to the Aberdeen Express and just head for oblivion. Aberdeen, in this case.

  

The Dirty Old Town I leave behind leaves me vexed – it doesn’t care that I came, nor that I am leaving again.  As I head south, I leave a trail of grudging attachment to the town, to its bleak imagery: dark railway bridges built of barrelsized sootblackened bricks, endless damp mossy walls, bare tree branches soaked in smog and vanishing into the sky like dead yearnings…

I once saw my town mentioned in a poem – the only time yet that it has been so immortalised. This was no paean, though. Rather an escapee's send-up of the drabness of provincial life, arch little quatrains on a selection of grim-sounding northern towns. ‘I'll tell you now and I'll tell you flatly/I don't never want to go to Gatley,’ the poet begins - the town which bore me coming next in the list of places he never wants to go to by virtue of its easy rhyme.  

What is there to be vexed about, I wonder as the train speeds onward, through Wakefield, Sheffield and beyond the mystical boundary line of the north. What was so special about Batley?



A creased little photo of a boy in red corduroy dungarees with his shoelaces undone. A bright red-lipped smile and a thatch of dirty blond hair crowning his head… 

The boy in the creased old photograph was me. Sulky little boy, with a fear of everything he didn’t understand, a fear of almost everything beyond the limits of 18 Loxley St… a fear that met with no correction.

****

I grew up on a red-brick cul-de-sac in front of a sink estate, the main area of the estate and its squalor always looming behind. There was a fence separating my mum and dad’s house from the estate proper, but errant kids could climb over, or break the slats and wriggle through, if they wanted. I was one of those kids, sometimes.

At the bottom of our street was the park. Here there was a boating lake with an island in the middle where they used to keep boats, but which had since become a home for ducks and geese. When I was a boy a few of us errant boys found a dinghy and paddled over to the island.

There were six of us so, in our two-man boat, we had to make the trip three times there, three times back. This meant that on the return leg some of us were left on the island at the mercy of the paddler, as the dinghy made its passages. As I stepped into the dinghy with two other boys and we were on our way back to the homeward side, an older boy grabbed a big duck egg from one of the hutches and threw it at us. We had no way of dodging it and it exploded against the side of the dinghy covering all of us in duck slime. It stank.

On the last trip, the paddler left the stupidest boy on the island and he had to wade through the lake to get back to land while we all laughed at him. I think as he got used to his clothes being wet and the slime under his feet he was laughing too.

The boy who threw the egg, Wayne, had ear studs in both ears and he shagged girls. He rarely stayed at home with his family, but rather with one of his succession of gum-chewing, Regal King Size-smoking girlfriends. ‘One of his slags’, as his brother Stephen used to say – until Wayne kicked the shit out of him for saying it. Wayne was such a troublemaker that I think his mum and dad were happy for him to be elsewhere.

Once, we were playing football on the field by the old railway track. By the side of the track there was a big ditch and my football got kicked into it. When I went to get it I found it had gone into a patch of thorns and burst. I was nearly crying and started walking home carrying my flaccid ball. Wayne was being a total shithouse that day and thought it would be funny to chase me and spit at me as I went. So I scuttled home sobbing with him laughing like a moron and spitting all over the back of my coat.

Wayne wasn't all bad. He was of what doctors would have called 'subnormal intelligence'. Got suspended from school over and over again. Nicked off to the point where his teachers simply forgot about him. 


His brother Stephen, who was my age, was not much brighter. I remember he used to spit a lot too. Later, he got an ear stud just like Wayne. Stephen used to have a little black dog called Lucky. Lucky got run over after a while, then he got another little black dog called Lucky Two and it got run over as well. Once when Stephen was sat on the floor by the swings in the park, Lucky came up behind him, hopped up and dangled his paws over Stephen's shoulders. We all thought it was funny and Stephen loved all the attention he was getting. Then Lucky Two started humping Stephen, growing a red slimy hardon all the while, and everyone laughed even more.

That dog had a horrible bark. We all thought it was annoying. We thought the same of Stephen. He was an absolute vegetable. He used to make strange animal noises for no apparent reason, like Chewbakka from Star Wars. He didn’t do it for attention - I know this because I once spied on him standing on his front doorstep late at night and just groaning like that… an imbecile's call into the void.

There was one other brother in this family who was a bit older. He was called Stacey. I used to kick the footy around with him all the time and swap stickers, even though he was older than was appropriate for that kind of thing. He loved Everton and would pretend he was their star striker of the time, Tony Cottee. I used to think Stacey was fucking ace at football, and fast as lightning, but looking back it was just that he made himself look good by playing against the young kids.

I had my first two sexual experiences with Stacey. The first time, he'd hidden a porno in the bushes over in the park. One day he took me over and showed the porno to me, and we spent a few minutes licking pictures of big peachy fannies on its weatherwarped pages. I hadn’t started wanking yet, but seeing those fannies made my head swim and my prepubescent cock throb. I didn’t know what to do with myself. I wanted to eat the pages of the porno.

The other happened in my back garden. It was starting to get dark and we were kicking a football around. My mum was peeling potatoes in the kitchen that looked out onto the garden. Stacey kicked the ball away from us and said, ‘Come over ere. I want to show you something.’ We went behind the rose bush in the middle of the garden. We lay down flat on our backs next to each other, hidden from the kitchen window by the rose bush. Stacey pulled his pants down to his knees and told me to do the same. Then he started stroking his cock. ‘Go on, you do it’, he said. I copied him, while my mum went on making the tea in the kitchen window. Stacey’s cock was hairy and thick. Mine was smooth and small. We both lay back on the grass with our jeans around our knees, stroking our cocks until they were erect. Then we pulled up our pants and went in for tea.

Stacey used to be really fast and a better football player than any of us, even though he was about five years older. Now he's really fat, with a bald ovaloid head. He works in a paint factory where his dad also works. He plays snooker, like his dad does, and drinks pints, like his dad does. Stacey's dad sometimes used to take us swimming and when we were in the changing rooms I noticed he smelled slightly of shit. Now I imagine Stacey smells slightly of shit as well. 

The park and the woods beyond them were a frontierland when I was young, places where I knocked about with the other estate boys, played football, tennis, touch rugby, green bowls, cricket, putting on the putting green, and any other game that any of us knew how to play. It was also a place where I sometimes went to get lost. 

Lots of gradated paths, flanked by fragrant rhododendron bushes and wild garlic, snaked up through the woods, meandering and branching off in so many directions that when you walked up them you were rarely sure where you would end up. Some of the paths would open up upon mossy relics of the park of yesteryear: stone ruins of bandstands and crumbling bridges. It was a place of mystery to a young lad like me. Its dark arbours, its undulating terrain and little streams, the sounds of unknown animals rustling in the leaves and snapping twigs, the whispering of the canopy, the unnatural darkness and hemmed-in fragrances - of rhododendrons, humus and stagnant water from dead streams… for a time this was an uncharted land to me, a place with its own moods, somewhere I would lose myself and, in my childish way, test fate.

At the top of the woods was the topiaried, tiered garden of the museum, with yet more rhododendrons, its huge Italianate fountain and a central set of broad stone steps leading up to the huge copper-towered museum. If Batley were the cosmos of the ancient Greeks, this is where Zeus and Hera would have lived. To the right, looking up towards the museum there are farmers fields, cattle pasture, but nearer, hidden under a natural curtain of tree growth, a little observatory, Batley’s modest link to the mysteries of cosmos, the door of which was always padlocked.

Often I would walk up the hill-sloped wood alone, trekking from the skanky valley floor where I and the scummy estate folk lived, to the rarefied heights, where people had latest registration cars and lived in houses that had names, like 'Woodrise' or 'The poplars'. Having emerged from the unnatural darkness of the woods, breathless with relief from the horrors that my imagination dreamed up along the way – of serial killers chasing me up the meandering path, of sex maniacs or cannibals leaping out from the bushes – I would climb the tiered steps of the museum garden, feeling like an alien, but safe at the same time. I'd turn around and look over the sea of dark trees that separated me from my the valley bottom, my home. Here I would experience an exquisite sense of solitude. I would look on the darkness of the wood below as a sort of cosmic void. And I would lean into it. Sometimes I would be too scared to walk back through the woods to get home and would have to take the road route round the wood, which was three times as long…   

About 95% of my youth was spent kicking a football against a wall. Or dribbling around the rose bushes my dad had planted in the back garden. (I remember as emblems of incongruous beauty those pale salmon-coloured roses that flourished for the two summers that dad wasn’t too depressed to tend them…) Dribbling the ball around the rose bushes and providing my own gushing commentary as I went (Oh and look at this gifted youngster,  such a joy to watch. He’s away! A glorious shimmy there. The ball’s glued to his feet. Past one, past two.This is wonderful stuff… Not since Maradona have we seen…) Practising Cruyff turns and stepovers I’d learned from the John Barnes training video that Malcolm the football coach had lent me. Left foot over the ball, turn and away with the right… over the ball, turn and away… over the ball, turn and away... Umpteen hours. Me, a football and my dreams of glory. 



Bittersweet velleities, born in the pit of the belly, travelling up to the creases of my eyes. As, when feeling stupid and lost, I read the spines of my favourite books. Here I am, sat on my backside, yet coursing with the speed of a hero across an entire country. The journey seems not four hours long, but of a single, dimension-bending second. Past my window streak the backs of houses, past scrubland and claggy, furrowed fields where suddenly, with blue confetti flickers, a flock of wood pigeons take wing. It’s a virginal day. The first sighting of blue in the sky for a long time.   

Shit under the Sole: The Torments of Ken Meaner

Ken was farting and dreaming when the brick crashed through the bedroom window. Shocked out of his ideal early-afternoon posture - spreadeagled across his mattress, his mouth splayed against the crumpled pillow - he suffered a phantom sensation of falling very rapidly and landing very abruptly. To compensate for its failure of corporo-spatial awareness, Ken’s brain then threw Ken's body off the side of the bed.

‘EerrrgghnmrnmnrrgmfckkAVEN’TDONEANYTH...!’  This Ken sort-of screamed, in semi-conscious remonstrance, before his unready bedwarm bones hit the cold floorboards. Nose-first.

Wrapped around the half-brick with a pink post office rubber band was a typed letter, tri-folded and headed with a logo Ken had come to recognise and dread.

‘I haven’t done anything.’  Ken’s tone this time round: whimpering, twattish.

He unfolded the letter and, at the same time trying to stem the flow of blood from his nostrils, mouthed to himself the letter’s contents.

Dear Mr Meaner,

Following from our last correspondence dated 14 Jan 2009 concerning your outstanding professional study loan, we write to advise you that, due to your continued non-payment of the sum owing, the bank has obtained legal sanction to impose its Voluntary/Involuntary Organ Donation penalty, as provided for under the loan's terms and conditions (Section 13 ix - Extraordinary Default Compensation Policy).

The EDCP gives the bank the option to extract with or without consent any non-vital organ (or organs) from the body of the default customer, the resale value of which, as determined by the bank's legal department in conjunction with the Department of Health, should be equal or to within £10.00 of the unpaid amount. As the balance outstanding from your loan is currently £1,451.01, the bank will exercise its legal right to extract your right kidney.

You will be hearing from our VIOD surgeon's office within the next 14 days. Please be advised that if you fail to present yourself for the donation of your left kidney within the timeframe given, in accordance with the terms and conditions of your loan, you will be hunted like a rabbit, strung up and flayed alive.
Please also be advised that a £25.00 administrative charge will be applied for this operation.

A copy of all relevant legal documentation will be attached to another brick and thrown through your window in the next three to five working days. 

Please ensure that you drink plenty of water and avoid smoking and drinking alcohol before your operation.
Yours sincerely,

The Bank

Walking through the park, palpating what may or may not have been a broken nose (it was) and listening to old soul songs at a dangerously tinny pitch through his charity shop earphones, Ken tried and failed to address the day’s anxieties. The impressions flashing across Ken’s ‘mind’s eye’ gave the following:

‘We get to doing… oh god… precisely the shit… won’t somebody have mercy…we said we were most keen to avoid … sometimes I don’t know… and it’ll all end with a howling and a hating…how I stand…and we’ll do it all again but with a dimmer dimness in the eyes and a harder hardness in the heart and…somebody have mercy… what does that matter anyway…and tell me… when I’ve got holes in my shoes and…what’s wrong ... no money for a haircut…what’s wrong…and a bastard broken nose… with me…and the bank’s going to take my kidney… oooooh, wo-wu, woooh-woh…baaastaaard…’

Headhunter

Dear M,

I am writing to you because you are brilliant at your job and my bank is jealous of your bank because you work for your bank and not my bank. My big boss wants you to work at my bank instead.

It's a really good bank. We've got loads of money and gold and diamonds in the safe and a big, tall skyscraper in the middle of the City (our bank's tower is much bigger than your bank's tower).

If you joined my bank you would get a suitcase full of £50 notes as a reward for joining us and a yacht in Monaco. You would share it with one other person to start with, but you would come to own outright after just a year of working in your job in our massive tower.

We have lots of parties when we can't be bothered working any more and lots of mega-celebrities come to entertain us while we drink champagne from gold cups. Last week Bill Clinton came and played his saxophone for us and next week Damian Hirst is coming to give us a workshop on how to make diamond-studded baby skulls.

If you are still not sure if you should join us and do all your brilliant work at my bank instead of your bank, let me just say one more thing: everyone's really cool, you can smoke in the office, we have Illy coffee in our really expensive coffee machines, you will get a really nice badge with your name on it which is made out of solid gold, a massive office with bulletproof glass walls, and a chauffeur-driven limousine as long as two stretchy buses.

See please let me know what you think of my big boss's offer as soon as you can. We only like the best people to work at our brilliant bank and we think you're one of the best, so have a really good think about it.

Kind regards

DS

Imposture on the London to Edinburgh night train

I had the chance to realise a persistent fantasy. We sat opposite each other - table seats in an otherwise empty carriage. This is how it was meant to happen. She might have been a bit prettier, and a bit less drunk, but she was, I was sure, without inhibition - if caught in the right frame of mind there was nothing she wouldn't have done.

Ah, it might have been so different. I might have proved myself a man. I could've fucked my way to true adulthood. Instead, my bottle went AWOL, my stomach shrunk, and I didn't know what to do with myself.

I had looked at her with my best tenebrous stare. She had smiled and shuffled round the table to sit next to me. In the sickly dim light, I had noticed the relief of a cluster of little whiteheads on her chin. She had waited for me to act. But I had no strategy. I didn’t know what the word meant.

She wanted wit, innuendo, or maybe (as my fantasy would have had it), ravaging, and I didn’t know what to do. I proffered sheepish grins and a muttered ‘sorry’ for ever having existed.

She laughed. ‘You're cute but your shit,’ she slurred, perceptively.

I had nowhere to hide. I had nothing. I had become a child again, far from home, far from anything except raw, inescapable shame. I was cute, but I was shit. No way out of it; a spotty drunk on a lonely night train had bested me.

Now, as the train raced through the night, her head swayed slightly and she closed her eyes. She took my hand and held it. I held hers back, fizzing with my sense of failure. She began to laugh short, stabbing laughs – the only appropriate reaction to the general silliness of things, personified in me for the remaining hours of the journey.

Then the lights of the carriage suddenly went out. Her laughter diminished to sighs. She continued to hold my hand. ‘You’re a cute wee lad,’ she said. She kissed my hand, and let it fall with hers into her lap. Then she went to sleep.

The Missing Biscuits

During the school holidays when I was nine, a big dog appeared in our back garden. It must have wriggled in under the privet hedges.

When I was nine, life’s limit was announced by privet hedges, but that wasn’t the case for dogs. They could squeeze underneath them, between the trunks, and steal into anyone’s back garden if they wanted.

When dogs strayed into our garden, my mum would run out and stamp her foot and shout ‘Go on! Get out of it! Shoo!’ Mum was at work today though. I was on my own. I was scared stiff of dogs when I was nine.

This one was a big mongrel with a shaggy, dark coat and a long, wonky tail that looked like God had stuck it on for a joke. It was moping around the border of the garden, stopping here and there to sniff in the weeds. It was in no rush at all.

I spied on it through the kitchen window, holding my breath – afraid that it might hear my breathing and charge at me.

I had to make it go away – that’s what you did when stray dogs came in your garden. They were full of fleas, they babbed everywhere, and they had jockoff teeth that could bite through to the bone.

I crept to the door and opened it just enough to peep my head out, tingling at the thought that we were now sharing the same air.

Sharply I whispered over: “Shoo! Oi! Shoo!”

It looked up and stared right at me. I thought it was going to charge. I got ready to slam the door shut, but it just stood there.

“Shoo! Shoo! Go on!” I said. Still nothing.

I stepped over the threshold and, acting myself into boldness, walked out into the garden. “Oi! Shoo! Go on!” I shouted, stamping my foot on the ground, feinting attack like I’d seen my mum do.

The dog started to move. Then it stopped, as if not quite convinced that it had to. I stamped again. “Shoo,” I shouted.

This time it moved. It went back to the gap in the hedge and disappeared.

I couldn’t believe it what had just happened. I couldn’t believe I had got rid of this big black dog… all by myself.

I went back inside with my head fizzing, my heart thumping. It was an intense feeling I hadn’t felt before. I thought of how my mum, the master in shooing unfamiliars away from the house, would be proud of her son.

That night I couldn’t stop thinking about the big, black dog. I lay awake, wondering where it could have come from, why it came to our garden. But most of all I thought about other people’s lives going on beyond those privet hedges, people who were happy to keep dogs and didn’t  worry about  fleas and about them babbing everywhere. And anyway, not all dogs did bite people. Some dogs weren’t like that.

Maybe this was one of those dogs. I imagined that it could be my friend. I imagined us going out on adventures together. He would protect me from the mean lads on the estate. He would do tricks, bring me my shoes. This dog. This big, mongrel dog that fate had plonked right in my garden.

The next morning, I went to check whether the dog had come back and, to my surprise, there it was, sniffing in the weeds by the hedge.

I watched it again from the kitchen. But today I felt different. I didn’t want to be scared. I didn't feel scared. I wanted it to be my friend.

Give him something to eat, I thought.

I took a custard cream from the biscuit tin and cautiously stepped outside.

I crept onto the grass holding the biscuit in my fingertips. He looked over at me, his nose twitching in the air.

“Here dog. Here boy,” I whispered.

He sniffed.

I inched forward until I was right next to him. There was no way back now. If he’d wanted to bite chunks out of me, there was nothing I could have done. For some reason, this made me feel calm.

I held out the biscuit.

“Here,” I whispered again. He padded up to me on his big, hairy paws and, with a last cautionary sniff, took the custard cream.

I felt his wiry whiskers against my hand.

Just like the day before, I felt that quickening feeling, an uncontrollable rush with no words or thoughts attached to it. I couldn’t believe it. I, who had been so petrified of dogs, had now made a friend of one – and not just any dog, but a big, scraggy mongrel with a huge, wonky tail. I felt as if I could do anything.

Unblinking, I watched him eat the biscuit. He lapped up the crumbs that had fallen on the grass, licked his chops, then looked up at me, panting.

“Wait there,” I said.

I ran to the house and grabbed four more custard creams from the tin. When I went back outside he’d moved much closer to the door. He was stood right next to the house. My mum would have had a fit.

I strode up to him and held out another biscuit. “Here boy. Biscuit.” He took it without hesitating this time. I waited until he had finished it and handed him another, then another, then the last. He chomped them all down.

He looks up at me and I look back at him, my new friend. I look at his scraggy, dirty coat and his silly tail that bobs from side to side like a dowsing rod, with a strange, uneven motion.

‘What now, dog?’ I ask. But the dog has no answers. He only looks up at me.

For a moment I don’t know what to do.

I ruffle his matted mane. I say “Good boy”, then I walk back inside.

I look out of the kitchen window. He won’t go. He just looks at me. I want something to happen but nothing does. Why is he just standing there? He's already had five biscuits. He should go now before my mum comes home. This wasn’t how I imagined it.

I heard the sound of keys in the front door. Mum was back. I looked towards the front door and when I looked back he was gone. I decided not tell mum about my new friend. It was my secret.

The dog came back to the garden every day for two weeks. At the same time of day he wriggled through the hole in the hedge and waited in front of the kitchen window. I gave him a custard cream, ruffled his mane, then told him to go.

After two weeks, there were no biscuits left in the tin.

On the last day the dog wriggled into the garden and I walked out to him with my hands empty. But he still looked up at me expecting to be fed.

“They’re all gone,” I say. He just looks up at me. He is panting softly.

They are all gone. Is that all you can do - stare at me with those ‘Can I have another biscuit?’ eyes.

Suddenly I can’t stand the sight of this dog any more. Suddenly I see it for the stupid, greedy animal it is. 

Is that all you wanted, I think. Is that all you can do – eat biscuits?

My eyes cloud over. I bite down on my tongue. The dog looks up at me. Its mouth is open. Its tail is bobbing from side to side. I stamp on the ground and I growl, “Get out!” I stamp and I growl again. “Get out! Get out of it you fucking scrubber! Get out!” And the big, black dog runs, runs back to the hole in the hedge and out of sight.

Wiping my stinging eyes on my sleeve, suddenly I panic: what will mum say about the missing biscuits?

Monday

A day of spirit-fattening sunshiny brightness. Summer extending its dominion, keeping the taloned grip of winter... blah, blah, blah, blah - Doesn't make a fuck of a difference if you're trapped in an office staring at a computer screen.
But why make light? I was completely demoralised by 5.30pm. Gone the full-blooded yesness of Saturday afternoon on the football pitch. Gone the post-coital peace of Sunday morning under the warm duvet. This is Monday, and everyone's a cunt again. Cunts on bikes (the way the tossers with rolled up trousers balance on their pedals at the lights), cunts in cars, cunts staring at you like farm animals on the pavement. Narcissistic cunts. Cunts in suits. Homeless junkie cunts drinking tins of beer as soon as they wake up and looking for an opportunity to nick your stuff so they can sell it for money to buy more beer and scag.
My first thought as I approached home: drink.
But shouldn't I resist this? Shouldn't I use the power of rational thought to sidestep this cheap sense of despair?
I drank. The hecticness, the horrible gravity of workaday London is too often too much.
On the way home I saw the scattered fragments of a car lying in the middle of the road unattended. Remnants of some hateful afternoon collision, the effluvia of another bad-tempered day. And how I wished for an excuse to headbutt a stranger. How hungrily I fantasised, as I pedalled through the rush-hour traffic, about making someone bleed.
What am I doing here? Why do I subject myself to it? Surely I should just walk away. Surely I should just walk away.