There But For Fortune

I'm walking up Regent Street to work in the mornings lately. This week at 7.30ish. Just in time to catch sight of the homeless guys sleeping in the Posh Shop doorways.

It's a terrible cliche but I wander along with my iPod tinkling away, maybe about to spend £3.49 on a carrot and ginger smoothie thing or £1.79 on a latte or £2.20 on coffee and toast or £3 something on a bagel or nearly £6 on a pack of Marlboros.

I'm suffering a hangover from an unexpected night of 5 pints of £3 odd beer and a £1.89 sausage pasty thing and used a £14 rail-card. I'll spend maybe £4 on Boots sushi at lunchtime and a good chance of a couple more coffees.

I've got to get round to sending back a dud piece of £30 RAM to Crucial, pay an overdue NI contribution, a credit card bill, rent and swap a £13 CD at HMV.

And I saunter past these fellas in the doorways in the morning feeling little more than a passing anger aimed somewhere between Top Shop and Western Capitalism that soon fades back into the everyday background drone.

The frustrating thing is that I feel it doesn't frustrate me enough.