21

I'm not evil, am I?

This morning: the usual street from the tube to the office - but a blind man ahead, tap-tap-tap with his walking stick - and ahead of him - some metal barriers - stacked up from a recent whatever - and him heading straight for it - and me beside him or almost beside him - and coming up to the stack - tap, tap, tap - almost there - should I say something? I don't, the stick flicks them just in time, his body stops, shudders, shakes, his mouth gasping open as bolts of fear and horror thunder through his frame.

I'm a good person, right?

The other night: dawdling up to the tube entrance, not far now, jolly with cava, thinking back to some clever joke or whatever, and goodness! Look at that homeless man. Slumped against the entrance railings like he's lost the will to live. Should give him some change. Once in a while, it doesn't hurt. Have a bit from the pizza we ordered. Get it ready - here he is now ... and he's not a man at all, but a black rubbish bag.

Now, the end of another day in the same office. Papers shuffled about, taking turns for coffee, filing a few things, nothing in the post. Outside this orderly world, the chaos of city streets, and everyday mistakes waiting to pounce. Nothing to measure the ancient simplicities of good and evil with, as I post my blog, turn off my PC, take my umbrella from the back of the door, and head for home unwitnessed, just like most days from these weeks, these months, these years.