I was sitting in a train recently, wondering why everyone’s mobile telephone conversations, except my own, were so utterly banal, when a young black man sitting two rows behind me answered the irritating wail of his instrument of the devil. He began to speak, and I wished that I had learnt shorthand.
‘Hancock’s definitely put in a plea,’ he said. ‘Moran’s in the early stages. I’ve got to go back next week, but for the moment I’m on bail.’
As is often the case, his telephone rang non-stop.
‘There was a lot of negotiation going on while we worked out a plea bargain,’ he said.
He was quite well-spoken, more Nigerian swindler than Jamaican mugger, I should imagine; and since he seemed so little ashamed of whatever it was of which he stood accused, and had clearly done, I was half-inclined to ask him what it was.
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