I am sitting in the mobile fast-food restaurant, we’re currently dodging London village taxis (you’ll understand that they aren’t bound by the normal rules of the road especially in regard to signalling?) and I’m feeling guilty.
The smell of burgers, chips and freshly fried chicken is thick in the air. And fried grease, that too.
Actually, I’m on the coach.
Two lads got on, one with a McDonald’s sack which contained a burger and fries, another with a KFC sack of fried chickien pieces. And fries.
They sat opposite me and started unloading their nosh – which began the whole air-filling-with-the-stench-of-fast-food thing, just as two other lads tried to get on.
They too had similar sacks of food, but the driver’s nose had alerted him to the presence of fast food and, in accordance with the rules he refused to let them on.
The two lads opposite me overheard the exchange, picked up their food and… disappeared upstairs to scoff it.
Should I have said something to them?
Should I have said something to the driver?
I’ve had a shit of a day full of the bitter, brain-stunningly, disappointments that usually go hand-in-hand with the wheels coming off two of one’s projects because of circumstances entirely beyond one’s control.
If I’d had a word with them it would have just involved hassle, and if I’d told the driver about them it would have just put hassle on his plate. And I just couldn’t be arsed to get my paddle out and start rowing around in seven tenths of shit.
The sun is low and my enthusiasm for any kind of interaction with my fellow carbon-based lifeforms is lower.
So as a result of my inaction I sit here, steeped in the combined and almost equally-balanced stench of second-hand fast food and guilt. The former because of them, the latter because of me. Because I did nothing.
Christ, sometimes I can’t win.
I’m wondering if my inaction puts me on a par with them in the selfish twat stakes.