I pulled a drunk out of the road yesterday. He had fallen there through some roadworking bollards. Such was his stupour, he thought I might be mugging him or, indeed trying to engage him in some kind of sexual relations. Or both. So he tried to kick me, before collapsing again and going to sleep on the pavement, outside Waterloo station.
Aside from the sheer wonder that someone could drink so much, I was struck by just how many passers-by stopped to ask whether the guy was OK. Indeed, during the fracas, at least five other people stayed to check that both he and I were alright. Including a tramp. This is a stark contrast to the stereotype of Big City London, where (the myth has it) commuters stare down at their feet and walk past burning stab victims.
Nice work.
What is a burning slab victim though?
I’m pretty sure it says ‘stab’, but a ‘slab’ victim would be an interesting sight. A slab of what?
Oh frig, it says Stab. I’ve been marking student assignments all day, and the head is a bit woozy.
I thought slab victim might be some kind of British thing.
Just blame the font, Shawn. It’s always the font’s fault.
If I were to stop and check up on every drunk I see lying on the ground in this small Russian town, I’d be there all day. I saw a soldier lying in a snowdrift the other day, seemingly dead, at midday. Turned out he was merely intoxicated, and waiting for a bus.