Uncut diamonds

When I was younger, I used to be intrigued by mad people on the street. You know, how, exactly, did they become mad? I’m not talking about drug addicts or prostitutes or victims of abuse, because it’s relatively easy to see how they ended up where they are. We’ve all seen enough movies and TV dramas to at least be able to put their situation into some kind of context, even if it’s overly simplified or miles away from the truth.

But mad people. The ones who bark at you from doorways or shout at themselves in phoneboxes or just lie in the middle of the road while everyone pretends they don’t exist. What, I always wondered, happened there? Were they fine one minute and gone the next? Was there some kind of epiphany moment that made them cross over into some kind of alternate reality? I just couldn’t work it out.

But these days, the mad have become part of the furniture, and now I notice their interns. I notice the people who look like they’re on the outer fringes of politeish society – the ones still wearing suits and ties but with a look in their eye that suggests they’re just a missed promotion away from losing both. The ones struggling not to cry in public for whatever reason. The ones who say thank you to the bus driver and strike up horrifyingly normal conversations with strangers in an attempt to just get this right, to stay buttoned down, get a grip. They’re not there yet, but they’re interviewing for that post right now. And there’s no big story there, no addiction, no trauma, no illness. I think it’s just attrition.

And I don’t know why I’m noticing all this. Maybe it’s just living in the city for so long. Maybe it’s because I’m more perceptive these days. Or maybe it’s because it takes one to know one. Christ knows the grim reaper doesn’t worry me in the least. It’s his fucked up lunatic brother I’m scared of.