There is a large, older, moustachioed man sitting diagonally opposite me on the tram. For a moment I think he's looking at me, but conclude he's probably looking out the window behind my head. The man sitting directly opposite me gets off at the next stop, and the large, older man immediately takes his seat. He sits with his legs aggressively spread, the inside of his left ankle resting on the side of my foot. I stiffen and stare pointedly out the window. Out the corner of my eye I see the man's hand move, casually, not too quickly, to his crotch. Oh dear, I think, and zip my coat up to my chin. He can't be. But he is, he truly is, he's sitting here, taking up my space, cupping his cock in his hand through his jeans. Is that really appropriate behaviour in public? I glance at his face. He's not looking at me. It's not personal. This must be how he likes to sit on trams.

For a moment I imagine how it must appear, a big, swarthy, moustache-wearing man in a leather jacket and too-new blue jeans slouched on a tram, his legs penning in a short blonde girl sitting straight, bag on her lap, staring pointedly out the window. What would Judith Halberstam do? A dozen breathless, uniformed teenage girls tumble on at the next stop. I secretly hope for trouble. I feel the man's foot twitch against my ankle. His hand is still on his crotch. The teenagers talk loudly about Chopper Reid, telling each other to harden the fuck up over and over. Perhaps his penis is just really cold, I wonder.

He gets off without comment, and I get to where I'm going, reasonably on time.