Nightmarishly busy day.

There was a woman on the bus from High Street Ken today, with big frizzy hair, noomeeja specs and a postbox red woollen coat. She sat down next to me, carrying too many bags covered in too many designer labels, and rummaged around in the smallest one, the brown one, for her bus pass. She flashed it at the conductor briefly, and then stopped as she noticed a slip of paper sticking out of the back - she unfolded it, and I peered nosily to the right to catch a glimpse.

It said, in an unmistakeably italian hand (ever noticed how certain European nations have immediately identifiable handwriting?):

Bongiorno, Bumpkin

Have a nice day xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The words were surrounded with cartoon hearts drawn hastily on this, the back of a bank statement.

The woman with the giant frizzy hair looked at it for a moment, and smiled, before folding it carefully twice, and then ripping it into small papery bits, which she placed in the outside pocket of another bag - the beige one, the largest.

Later, in the Armenian Deli from Helli, Bad Cop was having a go at the others, shouting at them passionately as she cleaned the cappuccino machine, and the others made up pre-packed sandwiches for the lunchtime rush.

Good Cop shook her head and shouted back. Nice Man interrupted, and Bad Cop yelled at him again, in Armenian, but containing the unmistakeable phrase (forgive my muffled grasp of armenian):

“Effeffeffeffeffeffeff effeffe eefffefeffefffefefefe Tony Blair ef ef efefefefefef eff efef!”

To which Good Cop replied:

“Ack ack ack ack ef ef ef ef ef Bin Laden ek ek ek ek eff ef Bush ef ef efefefefefef Taleban!”

I felt bad for assuming they’d been arguing about that morning’s croissant delivery, and even worse when Bad Cop handed my my latte, without my even having to ask.