A man at the bus stop standing in a pile of orange peel asks me how long until the 21 to Holloway. I check my phone, it's in 3 minutes. My bus arrives, the windows are fogged up and a greasy hand print bruises onto the glass.
A tinny, rattling sound slowly curls and scratches its way into my train of thought, an empty can of Tyskie rolling up and down the aisle. Each turn of the can feels deliberately engineered to get on my nerves.