Shouting match outside, Portsmouth-style. (Well, somewhat.)

I go onto my balcony, wish the guy a good evening, assuming that he just was the target of racism. There’s a little bit of that here locally, I’ve noticed. It’s horrible. Awful, just awful. People whose skin isn’t white and/or who speak a different language.

He shouts back, too angry to listen in detail to what I am saying. Oh, I know what that is like. After years of being showered with blind hate and contempt, you can end up very angry indeed. I know how it goes.

(He wanted to be heard. He was NOT in a mood to listen to me.)

He was merely angry. Controlled. But hurt.

Been there so many times myself in the English enclave of Hatesville. The hate knows no bounds and nobody wants to listen to you, about what is being done to you. I know what that is like. Boy, do I know what that is like.

Next, young women tell me to keep my mouth shut because there are people living here. What am I? A tomato?

Shortly after that, three low-flying helicopters pass, some kind of VIP. (They flew NW-SE. Heading 130, maybe.) I’ve seen something similar when Trump arrived in Portsmouth.

Some young woman under my window starts shouting that these are our liberators, that they’ve been preparing for 80 years. Or was it 60?

I’m so through with the human species.

I hope that the guy got rid of his anger by shouting at me. You can’t keep bottling it up but nobody wants to know about it, so you have no choice but to bottle it up. Every once in a while, it comes out, whether it’s convenient or not. Usually it’s not at all.

Fuck you, Portsmouth with all your hate, your relentless hate. Fuck. You.

That guy’s anger resonated with me.