On the underground, Central Line, coming back from Shoreditch on Saturday, there was dely and cancellations so the train was packed, I'd been standing for most of the journey people watching. It hink it was at White City, some sleepy oriental tourist laden with luggage realised that it was their stop and stumbled off the train afeard the doors would close and they'd be whisked away to Acton and beyond.
Someone who'd been sat opposite noticed she'd left her camera behind, they pointed it out to a friend and shrugged.
Instinct took over I left forward, picked up the camera case and thrust it out of the door, hollering "'scuse me" to the bewildered tourist. I got back in just as the doors closed and people nearby mutter about how that was very kind of me and stuff. But in my head I was in a nearby parallel universe.
I was Stockwell 2, now on the floor with bullets in my head, or it was a nail bomb, left by a befuddled extremist. It could have been anything rather than a camera, even a bog standard hand grenade stuffed into a camera case.
Whatever it was we would have been damned whether I handed it to its owner or not. But because I'm not living in an action movie or terrorist plot, one befuddled oriental tourist still has their holiday snaps thanks to me.