Two

"Excuse me," she says, tapping me on the shoulder. "How long will it take me to get to Main? I'm taking the skytrain to Commercial and then I'll take the B-line from there, so that shouldn't take too long, but I don't know how long the skytrain takes." She is the cliche nosy neighbour from American films, middle-aged, dumpy, straw sunhat and cardigan, an oversized clutchpurse in her hands. She reminds me somewhat of my kindergarten teacher.

"Probably about 20 minutes from here," I replied. She looks hurt.

"So I can't make it there in half an hour?" she asks.

"Maybe you can," I say, not wanting to disappoint her.

"I'm going to be late," she whines, and then without breathing she switches subjects. "It's terrible what's happening in New Orleans, isn't it?"

"Yes it is."

"It should never have happened."

"No disaster should."

"I was there once. It was a magical city. It's so sad. What are they going to do?"

"I don't know," I say as we board the skytrain.

"It was all preventable, you know," she says, screwing her face into an angry caricatured pout. Her voice is gradually getting louder. "It was George Bush that brought this all about. The Clinton administration told him that the levees needed to be repaired and he didn't do it. No, he had to be such a fucking asshole!" Her voice was shrill now. The last two words had been screamed. People on the skytrain shifted from side to side nervously.

We are at Production already. She apologises as I get off. I tell her she didn't need to.