The other day, on the High Street, I did the pavement shuffle. You know the one: you’re walking along the pavement; somebody approaches in the other direction; unless you both take avoiding action you will crash. You veer right, they veer left - you are still on a collision course. You shape to go left, just as they shape to go right. This wires-crossed dance ritual continues three or four times until you finally manage to get past one another, usually with a chuckle to acknowledge the idiocy of the situation. I quite enjoyed it, actually, I always do. But it brought to mind a time when I was bought a head-shaving machine as a present and, never one for half measures, gave myself a number one cut (ie with the tiniest bit of stubble on the scalp). It was winter, and I was dressed for it: Dr Marten boots, drainpipe jeans, and a big parka. Out walking, I found I was suddenly doing the pavement shuffle three or four times a day. It took me a while to work out why. Our normal pavement behaviour comprises semi-subconsciously giving one another the courtesy of subtle signals as we get nearer, as to which way we’re going to go. If we didn’t do this we would crash all the time. When I had my skinhead haircut, and was dressed like a skinhead, people did not expect the same courtesy from me as normal. I’m 6’2”. They were scared of me. They would try to get out my way, not expecting me to bother shifting my direction to accommodate them. I made all the right signals, but they did not read them, because they didn’t expect them. I suppose it shows prejudice, in a funny, fearful, back-to-front sort of way. Anyway, I got sick of the shaved hair, and let it grow. Now I fit in again, apart from on the odd wires-crossed occasion, like on the High Street the other day. Enjoy the week.