In which I make a series of disturbing discoveries on the way to the shops, and witness a surreal, theatrical dispute on the streets of Wimbledon…
The pavement is deserted and dark at 5pm, slick with rain, which is falling in a light haze. Below the curb, between two parked cars, I spot a large shape.
I investigate further and discover a large toy baby – plastic limbs and plump, stuffed cotton torso – lying forlornly on its side.
I sympathise with the family that must now be searching feverishly for the doll. My daughter has lost her own baby doll at least three times in the past five years.
Retrieving that irreplaceable plastic infant from a Danish supermarket nearly caused us to miss a crucial ferry crossing. On another occasion, the doll sat in a lost property bin for two weeks before we reclaimed it.
I pick up the damp bundle and rest it against the trunk of a nearby tree to await an uncertain fate. Is there really any hope that this beloved toy will be reunited with its owner?
I purse my lips at the injustice of an unfeeling universe, and continue onward in the direction of the high street.
Some 10 paces later, I see it: another identical toy baby lying face down at the base of the next tree along the pavement.
I can’t sit this one up, I think. That’s going to look really creepy to the next person who walks along the street.
I feel like I’ve upset the natural order
Now I wish I hadn’t intervened with the first baby. I feel like I’ve upset the natural order.
I make a quick visual check for further abandoned dolls. I’m not sure what I plan to do if I find more, or what the implications of such a discovery would be.
Maybe it’s better not to know why these babies are congregating here.
When I return from the shops 15 minutes later, I cross the road and walk down the opposite side of the street.
The Tempest at the traffic lights
Across the street from Wimbledon station, a man in his twenties coasts along the edge of the curb on his e-scooter.
Along the way he incurs the ire of an elderly gentleman in a long black coat, who must have been in his path. This older man is tall, mostly bald, slender, and apparently visually impaired.
The man on the e-scooter glides to a halt at the pedestrian crossing.
At this point, the man in the long black coat does what almost every Londoner does when confronted by such minor collapses in public courtesy.
He looks to the heavens, muttering despairingly about the state of the world. Then he half-heartedly remonstrates with the younger man about his nuisance behaviour at a distance of a few metres.
The man on the scooter, granted plausible deniability by his wireless earbuds, fixes his gaze in the middle distance and utterly ignores the tirade. The gentleman in the long black coat turns away for a second.
He turns and advances, his gaunt face curdling
Then he does what you are not expected to do. He continues his jeremiad, increasing the volume. He turns and advances towards Scooter Guy, his gaunt face curdling as he comes face to face with the target of his invective.
He has a zealous quality about him, his eyes flashing behind dark glasses. Perhaps he’s dealt with sundry other slights and instances of inconsiderate behaviour, and this was the final straw.
He barks at Scooter Guy in a booming Teutonic voice that brooks no reply. With his long white cane held like a staff, and his black coat flaring around him, he looks like a low-budget Prospero.
Scooter Guy remains calm but shows no sign of contrition, shrugging away the issue with a few words of denial. This is partly a function of Prospero’s continuing tirade – there’s no room to respond. It really feels like he’s working from a script.
“Ha Ha Ha Ha!” he barks, throwing his head back mirthlessly in a gesture that draws attention to his cadaverous overbite. Everything is a joke.
I think Prospero would be better off abandoning his grievance, for his own well-being. He’s pushing Scooter Guy unmercifully here. What does he want to happen next?
I’m standing a few metres from the confrontation, and have been on the phone to my wife the whole time, increasingly struggling to focus on our conversation.
The lights change and people begin to cross the road, glad to distance themselves from the dispute. But Scooter Guy doesn’t take this convenient off-ramp. The blood is up. He’s locked into this thing now and beginning to look a little irate himself.
My side of the phone conversation now consists of vocalising an impotent internal monologue (“No, no, no – just let it go…”).
Then, when I think things are approaching boiling point, two police officers materialise to diffuse the situation.
One of them quickly and calmly escorts Scooter Guy across the street, moments before the lights change and the traffic resumes. The other officer commiserates with Prospero before gently encouraging him away down the street toward the Broadway.
This perfectly timed intervention feels too good to be true. It has a Truman Show vibe – the security services materialising on cue to usher away undesirables before the arrival of a foreign delegation.
But then maybe stage management is entirely appropriate given the lead performer in this odd little drama. The actors were all spirits and are melted into air.
