Walking Down Praed Street

IT WAS THE hottest day of the year, and it was showing. Fat men shuffled by like Buddhas with their bellies held over their belts like badges of authority. Girls showed off their legs with skirts short enough to slow down the traffic, while the bleach white sun and the endless barrage of noise beat down on Praed Street. The diesel scented breeze offered little comfort. Horns blared as cars stacked up, snarling and shimmering in the ripples of haze they gave off. An angry queue of mirage makers, waiting to get home.
It was different somehow. The heat can bring out the best in people if you’re in a park, or at the beach. But at five in the afternoon when the streets are packed tight, you started to see a different face. Cars pushed through box junctions to block off pedestrian crossings, so that we swarmed around them, fists clenched, eyes angry, daring them to match our glare. Ready to meter out punishment for the crime of thoughtless and unnecessary delay of an office worker.
That’s when I heard her. At first, I thought it was a political rally. But she sounded angry. Really angry. Vote for me, you bastards! It was a repetitive mantra. Slogans being chanted. Accusations shouted above the roar of transit vans.
People were stopping to stare, and it didn’t take long for me to pick her out. She was of average height, with average dark hair. She was wearing unremarkable clothes with instantly forgettable shoes, and she was standing in the middle of Praed Street yelling and swearing at the top of her voice.
In no time at all she had a little crowd. The traffic backed up and squeezed past slowly. Nobody there wanted to be the first to risk sounding their horns and bringing her wrath crashing down upon them. The T-Shirted casuals drinking cold lager outside the Fountains Abbey pub sat uncomfortably close at hand, trying to ignore her, investigating their shoes or playing with tattered beermats.
She swore and she ranted as the man she was with tried his best to stem the tide of abuse. “What caused all this f- problem was YOU, you f- shit! You could have kept your f- mouth shut! But no – YOU had to f- tell every f- one! YOU had to stick your f- nose into other people’s f- business…”
And so she went on.
I passed by unnoticed, but close. She had the most beautiful golden brown eyes, and she was shaking. The sunlight caught in her hair and sparkled as she took another deep breath and let fly a fresh volley of profanity.
I carried on my way, listening to the rhythmic meter of her abuse which showed no sign of letting up. The sun still shone. Shadows crisp edged on dusty pavement. I passed the lock makers, then the jewellers, the sandwich shop and the news stands. And even when I drew level with Paddington Station almost five minutes later, I could still hear her voice, carried over the sea of impatient bodies on the gasoline flavoured wind.