Dear thirtysomething man wearing a suit in Broadwick street a few minutes ago,
You may be fascinated to hear that, although my casual attire is undoubtedly less snappy than your businesslike get-up, it is, nonetheless, solid. Westminster council may come up with some strange initiatives, but it has not yet found a reason to produce full-sized hologrammatic journalists and leave them dotted around Soho as some sort of bizarre obstacle course.
So, with that in mind, the next time you feel like barelling down the street in my direction and find that you have a choice between walking into a dustbin, the road, or me, you might want to consider waiting for half a second until I’m out of the way before attempting to pass between the other two hazards. Because, as you just found out, walking into me will only result in you bouncing off and into the path of oncoming traffic. And, no matter how exasperated an expression you choose to pull, don’t expect me to apologise politely because you’re either too rude to care about other people or too stupid to understand what happens when two physical bodies are propelled into one another at speed.
Finally, an extra word of advice: you may think that your black suit and tie, Brylcream and oversized sunglasses make you look like a movie star and/or one of the characters from Reservoir Dogs. They do not. They make you look like a twat.