In a city that never speaks, why are some things still said?

Having lived in London on and off for almost four years now, I have encountered countless scenarios where some acknowledgement or support between city dwellers could have saved a whole host of inconvenience.

But then again the Big Smoke is filled with dead-behind the eye drones, resembling the setting of an apocalyptic massacre, both under and above ground. Don’t expect anything more than someone stepping on your ankles as they fall in line with zombie shufflers headed towards their 9 til whenever colleagues finally cease spouting bullshit in back-to-back meetings office jobs.

It’s understandable that buff young bankers will crush past old ladies struggling down the stairs with two or three suitcases. That a man stares vacantly at a cardigan as a commuter walks away after unwittingly dropping it. That no-one stops to assist a lady who’s stumbled over at the top of a flight of stairs, or the man who’s collapsed in the middle of the street. Or that no one thought to tell me when my rucksack was wide open, expensive electronical goods hanging precariously from it as I walked in front of them on a busy underground escalator.

It’s every man for himself.

Usually.

However a few days ago, I did encounter a rare and good Samaritan in the city whose streets are paved with pedestrian rage. She approached as tube-dwellers spilled onto a busy crossing near my home.  

“Excuse me” she bellowed, tapping me on the shoulder, “your underskirt has pulled up at the back and your dress is see-through.”

Looking a little embarrassed, I thanked her as I pulled it down.

A nice gesture, considering most people would have looked the other way if I had a gun held to my head or was about to step out in front of a double-decker bus.

She could have said “you’re welcome” and left it there.  There was absolutely no logical reason for her to feel compelled to announce to all within earshot:

"You're wearing white knickers."

One word, beginning with "C."