On my way home from work today, I witnessed something odd.

A man was running down the stairs from the bus depot, obviously in a hurry. As he neared the bottom, he grazed past the elbow of a yoof in a baseball cap and puffy jacket, shouting “sorry!” as he rushed on, late for whatever.

The yoof turned and swore loudly and visciously, besmirching the lineage and lifestyle of the hurried man and going on to call him a number of common names for body parts (both male and female) more usually covered by swimwear.

He then turned to his companion (sports jacket, ponytail, earrings) and continued his tirade, replaying the incident to her, blow for, er, well, that’s it, actually, because there wasn’t another blow. Just the one, a light brush, which I saw, and which the yoof proceeded to over-react to vociferously for the next 20 minutes as we waited for our respective buses.

“Cha! You shoulda seen’im man! ‘E come flying an’ nilly knock me over! Cha! The fuckin’ caaaaahnt. I shoulda gone after’im and beat’im up’is’ed. BLA! Fucking prick!”

And so on, and so on. And on. And on. Who knew there was so much offense to be had from being jostled on public transport? If I reacted that way every time someone nudged me, I’d have to travel the long way home to give me enough time to bleat about it so extensively.

Similarly, not so long ago, and late one evening in the same bus station, I saw someone walking down the main concourse, past a group of nefarious-looking female yoof - yoofettes? - one of whom reached out and slapped the woman quite hard across the back of the head while another filmed it on her mobile. Classic happy-slapping.

The woman looked stunned and held her head. Then she lashed out and pushed one of the girls on the shoulder, who responded by going what is commonly called absolutely postal, shouting and screaming about her rights and how she was going to get the woman locked up for child abuse.

Surreal.

Then a couple of weeks ago, a bunch of boys (14ish?) were leaning over the railing on the balcony overlooking the shopping mall in the downstairs of the bus station, and gobbing on people’s heads as they passed beneath. Long oozy dribbles of spit, extending from lip to neat coiffure. I learnt then to walk under the overhang, whenever I pass that way.

And let’s not even go into that other time when I was on the bus and a couple of kids set light to the end of someone’s ponytail because it was there, and then ran off, popping the emergency door open button and shrieking with mirth.

I think, perhaps, I’m getting old. Or London society is breaking down. Or both.

Alternatively, it could be equally true to surmise that Hammersmith bus station is a hellish destination and must be avoided at all costs. Y’know,just maybe. Would that I had a choice in the matter…