Edwin Norris cycles fast towards the bridges that mark the northern end of Kilburn, just as Anton Mishvelidze opens the door of his Toyota Prius, forcing Norris to swerve. Norris screeching to a stop and circling back round, furious. Righteous. Asking Mishvelidze how he didn’t see him. The uber driver remonstrating. Norris was too close for him to see him. Norris pulling at his yellow Santini cycling jersey. How could Mishvelidze not have seen him? Anton Mishvelidze who hates cyclists and their cavalier approach to road rules hitting back. Norris was going too fast. He could have hit a child or an old person. Norris incandescent; wronged; swearing at Mishvelidze and reaching for his phone to film him. Grey-bearded Denzil Brown walking out of the chicken shop next to the Chinese clinic with a tub of drumsticks hears two men shouting over one another, and stops to watch; Mishvelidze jabbing his finger and Norris holding out his phone, telling the Georgian that he is now all over the internet. Brown sets his punnet of chicken on top of a red pillar box as a small crowd gathers, and approaches the men with his arms out.

“Peace.”

Mishvelidze swinging round.

“What police?”

Brown again,

“Not police, peace!”

Mishvelidze raging.

“What police you bring?”

The Jamaican grinning, a few grey locks escaping the mob of hair kept in a giant woollen beanie. He picks up his food, shaking his head as Mishvelidze climbs back into his car and Norris, lips pursed, continues to fill the internet with fury.