I am of the people.
Entre nous the connection is not desired by us. The people address to me epithets, entirely unprintable. I reply that they should wash. The situation is strained. Hence the Strike Docks and the Demonstrations Laborious.
Upon the funeste tumbril of the Proletariat I take my seat.
I demand air outside upon the roof.
I will have all my penny.
The tumbril advances.
A man aged loses his equilibrium and deposits himself into my lap.
Following the custom of the Brutal Londoner I demand the Devil where he shoves himself.
He apologises supplicatorically.
I grunt.