HIP TO BE SQUARE
”Maaaate! I’m so sorry my man, I’ve scuffed up yer motor wiv my ring, innit,” says a jolly human, unpicking himself from the cumbersome wreckage of his Boris Bike as he holds aloft a bejewelled signet ring that would give the Star of Africa diamond profound anxiety. “But it’s no problem, just a scuff – I was trying to take a picture, yeah? And I fell off…”
Unperturbed by the fact that I might actually be angry at him for crashing into the back of my – stationary – car at a set of inner-London traffic lights, it’s impossible to to be grumpy at someone who is basically force feeding the world cheeky cheerfulness. It’s like being faced with a nuclear reactor full of chutzpah. “Are you alright?” I ask, dipping my head to get my mouth level with the window flap. “Yeah, ’course!” says the Bearer of the Ring. “Wicked-looking ’fing that
