It may have been perfect for Joe and his wife, but that didn’t mean that Balham wasn’t also home to others. Just as Joe was coming to terms with the advent of Tooting Bec, Rufus was Wilson-Straussing it along Chestnut Grove. He walked so well, his pace and mien pregnant with intent, and along the very centre of the pavement. This time of the morning smelt like success, and he trailed that residual scent as he barrelled along like a blustering gale, ready for those made of the right stuff to pick up and follow. His kinetic umbrella sent less worthy others flailing helplessly. He couldn’t help that. He wasn’t a half-measures sort, Rufus.

Passing the Blue Lion on the corner, he allowed himself an inner chuckle at the previous night’s shenanigans: she’d been frisky as a puppy and game as grouse, staying here with her cousin, or something, for a few days then back to whatever God-forsaken corner of the country she belonged to.

He crossed Balham High Road without breaking stride and entered the newspaper kiosk by the west door. He picked up an FT, took one glance at the queue of four, judged the meekness of its constituents well, thrust his way to the head of it and completed his transaction as unashamedly as if he had been granted that position in recognition of some kind of meritorious achievement. Clicking his obese fingers to hasten the appearance of his change, he gave some cursory attention to the front page headlines, grinned the grin of a great big booming winner, pocketed the shrapnel, turned on his heel and almost skipped down the stairs with a perfunctory whistle, eight eyes burning impotent curse into the back of his thick-maned bullet head, to where his carriage awaited.

The next train was already landing when he reached the platform, so he jumped in through the nearest open door. As luck would have it there was an empty spot between a grotesquely decorated and plaster-spattered specimen with close-cropped grey hair, and a rather nice piece of blonde. His sheer size and momentum delivered this prize to him as a too-timid individual considered approaching from the other end, took one look at the charging Rufus, and melted back.

Rufus enthroned himself, the doors sang their song and they closed with the finality that only completely robotic function can suggest. The bespectacled, tieless young man carrying his Guardian, left on the platform inches short of the closed doors, had been the second member of the queue at the kiosk. Rufus regarded him without even a scintilla of contempt and gave a little dismissive whistle to himself. Some are winners, some not. Winners make trains just in time.