Articles

I have a confused relationship with croissants. At an overground station I use, there is a kiosk where the smell wafts out as you wait for a train. The smell has that duality of being both enticing and nauseous. But when I take an early morning flight and breakfast in the departure lounge, the smell is irresistible. I march up to order a berry compote, and end up with....guess what?

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Changing trains on the Underground, I saw a shabbily dressed man standing on the platform looking confused and seeking someone who would listen to him. People walked by. What did he need? Was he a vagrant? If I approached him, would I find a knife-wielding mental illness patient? Not being in a hurry, I decided to see what he wanted. The accent was heavy, and it took three goes to make sense of his words. Eventually it became clear. He was confused on how to get out of the station. My help was of course no more than middle-class North Londoner virtue-signalling, but anyway.