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(270) å**&

Error: I didn’t obey Horus today (the second time this week, the other time he told me to go to Edinburgh). When I got to the station, there was a train already there—Horus said to wait to buy a ticket, I overruled him. At the end station, there’s a kiosk where you can buy tickets before the barriers, but the man who sold me the ticket looked at me, with sheer anger and hatred, and said, “Why did you get on the train without a ticket?” When I paused for Horus to tell me what to say he just repeated it quickly again with an even harsher sneer. The voice of control—anger and self-importance.

The train company sells you tickets on the train, they’ve never punished me for it—nor have they when I bought a ticket at the kiosk. However, it’s a double-bind—more monkey-man insanity, because although they happily sell en route tickets they also have posters that say “there’s no excuse for not having a ticket”. So which is it? Why ask me why I don’t have a ticket and then sell me one anyway—why not just charge me the £95 penalty?

It’s because he felt I didn’t make enough eye contact when I first spoke to him, didn’t make him feel important; and because my hair is shaved he wanted the routine “Dunno. What’s your problem, mate?” “I don’t have a problem, sonny, I’m the ticket inspector here.” (he didn’t know I’m upper-middle-class, just reacted to my lower-class fashion semiotics). I said, “The train had just arrived, and I got on,” because he didn’t want to know “why” really he wanted to play “domination game”—and as I said it I looked into his ice-chipped blue eyes to give him the affirmation he craves. The ticket game is schizo: “there’s no excuse”, except clearly there is an excuse—unless we feel ego-fragile today, in which case we’ll punish you but not punish you. Man is asleep.

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