Today I found myself standing in front of him in the queue at a local coffee shop. I wouldn't have recognized him, except that while I was standing there he was accosted by a woman who introduced herself and asked to talk. And then - after all I'd done for him! - he had the nerve to agree and send her on into the shop to bagsy the only remaining table, leaving me to mark essays awkwardly on a bar stool like some caffeined-up Bob Cratchit.
Murder is one thing, but queue-jumping (even by proxy) is heinous indeed.