Saw a ‘suspicious character’ on the commute home tonight. He was riding crazily in front of me and was, in Liverpool parlance, a right hard knock (to look at), tough, strapping and bald. I rode past him. He sped up. I rode faster. He sped up. I stopped, making out I needed to check my bike. He stopped and said: “I was following you.”
Which is not what you want to hear.
He was lost apparently. I offered to take him to a place in the city he knew – because I’m a nice guy. We chatted. He admired my ride, I admired his. We compared lengths. Before I knew it I’d told him about my family (not names, though) and about my six-year-old son, who has toothache.
Left him at the agreed point. We shook hands. I felt like the good samaritan (not in Phil Consequence style, but good anyway).
Mrs 16, though, was not impressed. I should never have told a stranger so much, apparently. He could have been a weirdo… or a thief…
So… when is trusting too trusting?