This morning I went to the office on the early side. The streets of Reading were quite empty still. I was about half way from my home when I heard a fellow yelling furiously from somewhere behind me, but from the other side of the street. When I turned toward him, I saw that he was looking at me, as well. In his forties and graying, he had a long ponytail. He ranted and raved, but I could not understand what it was that got his goat. In fake sympathy, I raised my hands: “There ain’t no justice!” But then I realized that his anger was actually directed at me. He brandished a large umbrella in my direction. I kept walking at a clip, and he fell behind me. He kept yelling, though. After a while he vanished just as he had appeared. It is evening, but I still cannot wipe the encounter out of my mind. I was not afraid of him. Mad or not, I could take care of him. Rather, I was afraid a brawl might keep me in Britain beyond my departure date planned so far in advance. For crying out loud, I got the airline tickets at least six months ago! It is evening, and I am still perplexed by that fear. Does it have to do with the world I am leaving, or the world I will be joining? Alternatively, does it have to do with anything other than our stupid plans, to which we cling for no reason whatsoever except that they are our own stupid plans?