Crosstown traffic
It’s usually quite quiet in the City of London on weekend afternoons. Sadly, it wasn’t quiet enough last Saturday afternoon.
I was running a bit late and rushing to a talk at the Barbican Arts Centre when I hit the usually very busy thoroughfare that is Moorgate. There wasn’t much traffic, but I dutifully stopped at the pedestrian crossing.
Behind me was a man with a pram and a 6 year old girl. ‘Why don’t you press the button?’ the father said cheerily to his daughter - the very moment my hand hit the metal. I turned to give her a ‘sorry’ kind of smile. She glared back. Clearly I had ruined her day.
So we stood there waiting at the lights. The traffic cleared, but the lights did not change. I had just decided to make a run for it when the old lady who had by now joined us commented ‘I think that it’s great that you’re teaching your family to cross the road properly.’
I grimace. Can’t she tell that these are not my children? Do I look like the sort of person who has children? I try to ignore her and look at my watch to estimate just how late I could potentially be if I don’t cross the road now.
‘Yes’ she continues ‘It’s really great that you’re being such responsible parents.’
I kind of make a half hearted, embarrassed gesture and say that we’re not actually together. However, she doesn’t hear me and continues to rub the situation in: ‘We could easily cross now, but I suppose that we should lead by example and wait for the green man. How old is your daughter?’
Again, I try and unsuccessfully indicate that we’re not together. The father helps out by doing absolutely nothing other than smirking. His daughter continues to glare. I am glued to the pavement. The old lady looks at me a bit strangely, but makes yet another comment about how nice it is to see good parenting these days.
The lights still don’t change even though there is no traffic now. I look at the father. He continues to smirk.
Something snaps inside me and I just bolt across the road. I don’t look back and I don’t stop. I run all the way to the Barbican.
Tags: mindless minutiae