On the way to the gym I ran into a small woman in a long, dark coat opposite the graveyard. She was waving her cigarette expressively skyward, and shouting very loudly and very unintelligibly at the murky excuses for spring buds adorning the fuel-choked trees. Next to her head, scribbly crayon bubble writing proclaimed loudly Jesus LOVES sinners!!!! I looked at my shoes and scuffled past. I have succumbed to the British stereotype, the sticky eyes on pavement, the awkwardly silent shoe-shuffling Island.

If I could have that moment back, I would peel back her ears and check for the hands-free set.