Dividend Yield

Someone's in my seat at the Covent Garden Prêt a Manger. The seat with the best view, the hypnotic perpetual aquarium of a six road circus at the edges of three tourist heartlands. 1

It's not technically my seat, no. I've never sat in it. Never been wily enough to slip in. Always had to make do with the Second Best Seat At The Covent Garden Prêt a Manger. Only, tonight, someone's in the Second Best Seat, too. 2

It's not crowded. It's not peak coffee brewing hours. There are plenty of seats to choose from. 3

So I've mooched about, squinted, tried 'em all out. And I've found the Third Best Seat At The Covent Garden Prêt a Manger. An unequalled view of the crossroads, marred only by the obtrusive, smug fat heads of the possessors: First Best Seat Bastard, and Second Best Seat Infiltrating Bastard. I have examined them for signs of dandruff, acne, unsightly rolls of lower back fat, evidence of bandy legs. I hate them. They're in my seat. 4

I've been coming here a decade. You'd have thought just once I could sit in the seat. Inveigle my way to the pinnacle. Am I not good enough? Not fast enough? Insufficiently caffeinated? Am I a loser in the Covent Garden Prêt a Manger of life? 5

I'll get my mild revenge. My peculiar, passive, insufficient revenge. I'll write my revenge at them. At the exclusivity of their seat. At the temerity, the chutzpah, the foolishness of reading a paper when you have all of humanity - tired, buzzed, pausing at too many exit roads, too much London choice - all of humanity walking past. 6

Don't underestimate me. Don't underestimate what I can do. Here I sit, Thursday evening, ten years into the plan. At the Third Best Seat In The Covent Garden Prêt a Manger. Plotting.7