why Thursdays seems to be the day I'm targeted for public abuse?
Some old harpy lambasted me with a stream of invective this morning for the cardinal sin of letting some poor fucker off a train before we all piled on board, thus impeding her several vital seconds in her single-minded quest to get to her favourite seat.
Apparently, my bright pink-purple fencing bag exhibited its esoteric stealth camouflage properties once more and both it and the vile harrdidan came into brief-yet-none-too-jarring contact as I reversed direction so the man had a space to get out at his stop. I wasn't even aware I'd made contact with anything until she started complaining.
Had perhaps she been a little further than two inches off my heels, straining to get past me (even though I was at the door before she was), or actually looking where she was going - instead of me looking backwards - this might not have happened.
Didn't appreciate me telling her that, though. I'm rude, uncultured, and a shame to my mother apparently.
And still I'll outlive you, you poisonous bitch. How about I take an epee out of the bag and show you the importance of maintaining reaction distance? Pick which eye you'd like me to have as a souvenir . . .
It came as no surprise that a fight nearly broke out on the tube later - although in close proximity, it didn't have anything to do with me this time. Still have the journey home though, so the night is young.
Another day listening to the same song on repeat . . . I'm sure this isn't healthy.