Is it appropriate - ever - to laugh (either to oneself, inwardly, or out loud) when the victim of undeserved abuse turns the tables on his or her tormentor?
If not laughter, we have all felt a sense of satisfaction when such situations are played out in literature: when Papillon flings a full pan of scalding water into the face of that bastard Trebouillard; when Milan Kundera's non-Communists limp and walk through their race in defiance of orders.
That's literature, though, and no bony, infinite fist is likely to smash through the pages and into our three dimensions any time soon. It's probably safe - maybe even therapeutic - to afford a smile as Trebouillard goes down clawing at his own face. But what about when you're in a train during a winter's night when the umbra has already fastened itself around the carriage, and there's a woman being subjected to all manner of sexual remarks from a group of drunken football supporters?
The poor woman was unfortunate enough to be carrying a piece of rolled-up carpet - it turns out the purpose of her train journey was to collect this - because in English slang the word 'rug' is used to colloquialise the occurrence of lesbian sex. So she was told enough times that she probably enjoys the rug.
I wasn't confrontational enough to stand up to the men. I never am. So my diversionary tactic was to engage the woman in conversation in the hope that the supporters would lay off her. It's not a surprise that it didn't work as I'd wished: within a minute they'd asked the woman if she'd already fucked me. Some diversion!
The woman's casual indifference to her intelocutors - a smile and a raised eyebrow, as one would deliver to a delinquent child - was hardly the most stinging repudiation. I somehow felt that it was enough to 'turn the tables,' however - certainly enough to cause me secret amusement. When getting off the train, I told the woman she was brilliant.
