Whenever I take a bus journey, I try to take the same top deck left-hand side window seats - either the penultimate row at the back where there’s more glass angle - or failing that, at the very back where I can remain even more covert albeit with less width. I settle down, preset the camera and watch ahead for whatever dramas is about to unfold as we pass-by.

This afternoon, I’d had a very wasteful time in the West End. It’s so busy out there as it’s half-term so I took the 68 home early thinking to myself as I always do, that one day I’ll get lucky, that eventually I’ll see a body spread across the pavement like a starfish and I’ll make my name.

Literally 15mins later this happened.

I can’t say what happened nor how the players below are involved. But the bus crawled past giving me time to take a sequence of 37 pictures, of which I hope I’ve chosen the best and most meaningful frames (or meaningless, as I emphasise I have no idea what had just happened). Also, I’ve cropped annoying elements out, deciding on individual merit, rather than continuity. Each picture makes us reach different conclusions from the sum of the whole; different observations, unqualified evidence of liability. Who is at fault? How negligent is the man in the yellow helmet? Why is the crouching man so involved? Why is there a reluctant fist bump at the end?

I thought about getting off but reckoned I had what was important from above (starfish person again), that from the ground I’d struggle - and likely incite aggression too. We drove on and I looked around to see the fellow top deck punters staring at me in amazement. Or possibly disgust.