Or a case of escalating of "What the..." syndrome.
Wednesday evening, bus stop Brixton. Brixton is a very busy bus interchange, where a couple dozen routes meet the end of the Victoria Line. Just after 6 pm. Busy.
A mother and child (4 or 5 years old) alight from a bus. Something minor happens, a bit of crowding or pushing, and the child bursts into tears and wailing. I guess she's overwhelmed by the throng of bodies, all much taller than she is, in the dark.
Mum continues chatting into her phone. Child carries on wailing. Mum continues chatting. As she does so, she scoops her hand under the child's chin to push her mouth shut. Not violent, not brutal, not tender. Not one word is said to the child, not one second of eye-contact is established. The phone conversation continues.
Thursday morning, waiting to cross Parliament Street by the Underground, on the corner of Parliament Square. I hear a siren and see an emergency ambulance on a blue speeding round Parliament Square. The pedestrian crossing shows a red person of indeterminate gender. I wait. Two men, not with each other, look to their left to see if there is any traffic turning from the Square into the street. As the only vehicle turning is the Emergency Ambulance on a blue, they judge is safe to cross and proceed to do so.
Thursday evening Westminster Underground. I am at the ticket barrier about to touch my Oyster Card and awaiting my turn to pass through. In front of me, a man walks through the ticket barrier holding his daughter's hand (she's about 5).
The ticket barrier closes, hitting the child in the face. Her father carries on walking, then realises that she is holding back and resisting his attempts to walk on. He glances back and looks surprised at the child, now wailing with pain and shock.
He looks at me. I stand there, rooted to the spot, my jaw scraping the floor, trembling slightly with shock at what happened in slow motion before my eyes. He sees my face and looks away embarrassed. He looks at Mum who is struggling to manoeuvre buggy and baby through the gate, and struggles even more as she has to choose between her anger at her husband and her need to console her daughter.
Somehow the child struggles free and who is reunited with her father who stands there doing nothing. I go through the ticket barrier, the child's wailing gets louder, father stands there. I descend to the District Line. Above the hubbub of a busy Underground station at 6pm the child's wailing is audible, until the train arrives to drown it out.
He gave less care to his small child going through the ticket barrier than most people do to their suitcase or shopping.
