There is a girl with a flamingo on her head and no one is moving. We are all watching and waiting and our muscles are ready but not tense. There is anticipation and a readiness, a willingness even, for action, for the spur of adrenaline kicking in and the sudden realisation that you have to do something, anything, but there is no nervousness and somehow the atmosphere seems remarkably calm. There is a man with a briefcase, held out mid-stride, and he hasn’t pulled it back from where it was swinging, it’s just hanging there poised and his arm is starting to shake a little but he’s committed to the shape of the stride. A woman is tying the lace of her boots, and she’s still crouched awkwardly between the ground and her height just holding the laces out, mouth open. We watch and we wait and suddenly I know what to do I know it is me this is the moment I have been chosen I have to act I am getting the adrenaline kick and I am throwing the little one pint bottle of milk from my Tesco bag at her head and the flamingo is lifting up and away, arching it’s head in a final act of aggression and showering fluorescent pink feathers on the ground around this girl’s head and she is still standing there stock still as it lifts up and away. Then everyone is moving again, bustling off into the subway, home, to the shops, to their rendez-vous with a lover or to pick up the dry cleaning and it is just me and this girl still standing there. Her face is turned to the sky like she’s trying to catch the light and keep it and as I turn to walk into the subway thinking I need to buy some more milk I see the look on her face as she stares at the sky isn’t relieved as I expected. Her face is full of yearning.