A youth pulled my hair the other day. A horrible, smug, arrogant youth. It was a bus queue: let’s call it bustling and vibrant. (I euphemise when I don’t want to admit fear.) What it really was was full of youths and a bit threatening. They were all talking Tween language, and walking up the inside of the queue, not even pushing past people who’d been there long before them, because those people were parting like the Red Sea to let them through without incident.

Everyone over 15 – and that includes me, obviously – was staring at the ground and doing minding-my-own-business acting. We could all have done without the inane Tween speak being shouted in our ears: I know, because everyone was wincing. But the bold lads kept on bumping, and shouting, and palpably enjoying the discomfort and silence of the rest of the queue.

Finally, the bus came and most of the young ones surged forward as one, greasy, shouty mass. That was alright, then. Threat averted. They would go upstairs; everyone else would stay down. Even if we didn’t all fit and the lower deck resembled steerage on the Titanic, we’d be happier down there. It would be our destiny and for the best. It would be our bestiny.

But some of the youths held back. Damn! So close! I had almost been on board the bus, completely beneath their spotty radar! But now, here was one behind me, way too close. I’m ashamed to say I held my handbag a little tighter to my ribs, but then I do tend to do odd things like that when I’m feeling paranoid and threatened. Except I wasn’t paranoid: I was right. The little fecker reached out and pulled my hair. That hasn’t happened since I was about 12 and I didn’t even like it then. My stomach knotted in rage. This was an assault on my person! I had done nothing to this boy but stare at bits of pavement in the opposite direction from him and he had manoeuvred himself close enough to supply forensics with samples of me.

I was fuming. My stomach – already on edge from the jostling – knotted and I wanted to wheel around and give him a good shake. I at least wanted to tell him off. But I chickened out: I had originally wanted to get on the bus without shouting at anyone and there was still a chance I could get away with that. I knew that the impact I would have would be precisely zero and I’d only add another layer to my nascent ulcer. I wished Michael Legge had been there. He is the king of travel altercations and he would have sorted those youths out. He’d have given them a piece of his mind and then demanded they give him a piece of their clothing.

What did I do? Nothing. I shuffled, cowed, into steerage and tried to shut out the howling and stomping coming from the upper deck. This really must have been what the Titanic was like. Where the hell is a bleedin’ iceberg when you need one?

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