After a while, a man joins me. He scrutinises the map for a while, tracing the lines of every bus route one by one with his finger as though trying to decide which looks the most appealing. He could choose the 24 and get off at Hampstead Heath, to spend the rest of the afternoon strolling among the fat snow flakes, smiling at friendly dogs. Or the 134 to Muswell Hill broadway, for huge slabs of pillowy cheesecake from the tiniest bakery in London. His finger stops and circles Tottenham instead.

Having made his choice, he moves over to the ticket machine and stares at it intently for a few seconds before rummaging in the pocket of his khakis and pulling out a fistful of loose change. He feeds in pound coins as I squint into the wind, craning my neck for a glimpse of red coming up the road. His ticket is dispensed, but he continues to stand expectantly, hand on hips. Eventually he starts to jab a bitten forefinger at the button, becoming increasingly agitated as the machine refuses to do his bidding. Chancing that another will succeed where his index finger has not, he starts to press every button on the machine with all the fingers at his disposal but the machine remains silent. He is red in the face now, steam pouring from his nose like a highly strung racehorse, muttering viciously under his breath that the machine has stolen his money. I wonder if it would be helpful to indicate the large letters above the coin slot that declare NO CHANGE GIVEN, or whether an aneurysm would be the kindest thing for both him and the people around him.

The bus arrives and we get on. The man waves his ticket in the driver's face, announcing loudly that he's paid two pounds for it. I wonder what he expects for his excess fare; an extra smooth ride perhaps, or to be delivered to his door. I sit down, and when he realises that the driver will not change his expression from blank indifference, he sits next to me and starts to jiggle his knees up and down, rage bubbling and hissing through every muscle in his body. Almost instantly, his phone rings. Too busy reading the territorial markings that Baby Fresh and Lady Dove from E5 have scrawled with compass and Tippex into the formica back of the chair in front and inventing outlandish reasons to account for his rage at losing 50p to hear what he's saying, when my attention is pulled back to his conversation when his voice lowers and he tilts his head until it almost comes to rest on my shoulder.

You're special.
No, you're special.
No, you are special.
You are the specialist.
No, you are the specialist.
Youa re the most special.
No, you are. You are.
You're special, baby girl.
Really special.

I wonder if for the lack of 50p he can now no longer afford the emergency plane ticket to Thailand where his girlfriend is incarcerated in a filthy jail on trumped up smuggling charges, to rescue her from the clutches of sadistic prison guards and over enthusiastically lesbian inmates.

I wonder what he's like when he gets angry with her.