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.