If I am striding down the Euston Road at 5.45pm, it generally means that I am heading home or to the pub. Please do not try and hinder my way by biffing me in the ribs with one of your newspapers in a vain effort to get me to take one. If I want one, I will make eye contact and do something that suggests I want one, such as extending a hand to reach for one. If I scowl at the pavement, it means I generally don't.
Dear Wheely Luggage People
Why? WHY do you all have to wait until the minute I step out of work to all converge on the street, weaving your vehicles of sin in front of my feet and right behind my feet (as in knocking into the heel of my sandal - thanks, loud annoying foreign-exchange teenager) and right over my feet? Also, please explain why you all feel the need to tell all your friends this rilly rilly, like, hilarious story about, like, whatever while standing right at the top of the Victoria Line escalator and being completely oblivious to the eleventy thousand people slowly filling up King's Cross station who are all letting out growls of hate? And then look utterly perturbed when a woman with insane hair and a broken sandal tells you to move your like, ass so that she can actually get to the pub before it shuts? Oh, and while I'm at it, a cardboard Travelcard will not be topped up at the Oyster machine no matter how many times you kick it and tell all your friends how much "England sucks, dude".
Dear Muggy Weather,
Dear Chelsea In EastEnders,
Quit the damn pouting.
Dear Dawson Leery,
Shit, your forehead is huge. Not as huge as your ego though.
Dear Microsoft Office paperclip 'helper' thing
"It looks like you're writing a letter!" Yes, yes I am. A LETTER OF HATE. Be gone.