Utter balls

"Dear me," said the exasperated man at the cashpoint, where we had been waiting for a good five minutes. A lot of people wanted to get their cash at 3 p.m. on a Saturday in Bethnal Green.

I felt the same mild irritation, but it was the last thing I had expected him to say. "Why was this?" I hear you ask.

Well, I first spotted my fellow-queue member as we were both waiting at the pedestrian lights to cross Roman Road. He was unremarkable - a bit scruffily dressed, iPod, standard Londoner. Except in his left hand he held a glass orb. Like a big paperweight, except completely round. Like a crystal ball. Whilst he was waiting to cross the road, he did tricks with it, rolling it round his hand, moving it from his left to his right hand, up and down his wrist. He was very good at it.

The more I looked at him, the more I realised he was a little bit odd (most people would have accepted that at the crystal ball stage, but I can be a bit slow on the uptake). Closer examination proved him to be very scruffily dressed - no socks, shoes with massive holes in, last season's French Connection - you get the picture. I labelled him as one of London's eccentrics, and studiously ignored him playing with his balls.

We ended up in the same NatWest cashpoint queue. He continued with his tricks, and added to his repetoire a little moonwalk-type dance on the spot.

He looked like a twat.

So to hear him say, "Dear me," sounding utterly like a normal person, was a bit of a shock. I wish people would be a bit more consistent. It would make my job as stereotyper much easier.