I started talking to the bus conductor yesterday, on one of the old fashioned red double deckers that our Dear Leader Boris Johnson has ordained should still trawl Kensington High Street for the delectation of tourists and Londoners alike.
The conductor asked me why I was on a crutch. He was a distinguished looking man, with grey whiskers, and the sing song tones of East Africa. The bus was empty - it was 2.30 on a crisp January afternoon.
He asked me what was wrong with me - a broken ankle with complications; he told me that the doctors had not looked after it properly - which was true; he asked me what I was going to do about it, whether I had had second opinions.
I didn't really want to talk - I'd had an upsetting telephone call earlier in the day and was trying to get my head round it and buses are good places to think. But I could see that he needed to have a conversation. He stressed that I should get my ankle seen to properly. I agreed.
"There are many people in the world with problems more serious than my broken ankle," I said, trying to wind the conversation down.
The conductor went suddenly quiet. He withdrew, to the cinema in his head: where people watch reruns of their lives. You see it often with those who have undergone very traumatic experiences.
'Where are you from?" I asked. I knew the answer would be interesting.
"Somalia," he said. We both laughed.
"Then you know," I replied. I told him I'd written an article about Somali piracy - a major threat to global security.
"I come from Somaliland," he said. "The part that used to be a British protectorate. We are much better organised than the South. We have a government now. The South used to be Italian," he shrugged. "They brought the mafia in. What can you expect?"
I asked him what he'd done in Somalia. He was silent, then he suddenly walked fast down the bus as though he couldn't bear to face the answer. He turned.
"I was a Big Man in Somalia," he said. A pause. "Not cattle like I am here." Another pause. "A lion!"
I'd missed my stop. I had to get off at the red light. "You can't get off," he said. But I did.
I told a friend this story last night. He replied that one of the senior politicians in Somalia's current Transitional Government used to work for Neasden Council. All over Britain wounded lions lurk; sometimes they get to go home and roar again.
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http://www.dailymail.co.uk/home/moslive/article-2071108/British-ex-servicemen-battling-protect-international-shipping-Somali-pirates.html