Cromer Street is a narrow road that I use to get from where I live to SOAS, or to the Senate House Library. As you walk down it towards London University, on the left there's an old church, and on the right a row of small shops - eateries, groceries, clothing shops - run chiefly by Bangladeshis. Today, as I was walking by, things seemed tense, though there weren't many people on the street. It was beginning to get dark, around the time that you remember friends telling you that King's Cross is a 'dodgy area'. Facing me, in the middle of the road, was a black man who looked absolutely livid - it took some time to realize it wasn't me he was glaring at, just staring inarticulately into space, tuning in to something I hadn't picked up yet. Two South Asian women hurried by, looking straight ahead of them, looking scared. And then I heard the voice.

'....fucking coming here with your filth. Coming to our land, with your shit and your filth.' It didn't take long to figure this out. Across the road was a man, a tramp, dressed in a thick white jacket which was probably all the clothing he'd been able to afford in all of last month, not shouting precisely but speaking in a very, very loud voice. 'I fucking wish you'd all fucking die. Go back to where you came from. I can smell you - from a mile off, you fucking filth. Coming here and destroying our land.' I walked by, darting a glance at him every two seconds despite myself. He didn't seem to notice me. I don't think he noticed anyone. There were three or four brown and black faces on the road - but to him we were a tidal wave, a plague of conquerors, a machine gun roaring away at his land, taking away his home, his happiness, his job. (Should I have shouted 'Maggie took your job, not me' at him? Trite as it might sound, it wouldn't have been untrue. But I walked by.) 'I KNOW you. ALL of you.' No, you don't. You never did and you never will. And that's not your fault. But it's not mine either. 'Go...awaaay. Fucking filth. Our land...' The voice trailed off. Speakers on Hyde Park Corner must often feel the same way, when they lose their audience. And they're often saying the same things. It was frightening, it was also pathetic. He didn't have enough strength on those bones to hurt a child. But there were children looking at him with scared, wounded eyes on the street. And I felt like them. That wasn't difficult. I wonder what it's like, though, to feel like him.