Always One Glove Away From a Duel

 I am, at all times, approximately one glove away from issuing a formal duel.

Not for dramatic historical reasons. I have not been insulted in parliament. No one has slandered my family name. Nobody has stolen my horse, my land, or my prized goose.

No.

My duels are reserved for the truly serious offences of modern life.

For example: when I hold a door open for someone and they walk through without saying thank you. Not even a nod. Not even the awkward half-smile people give when they realise they’ve made eye contact with a stranger and now must acknowledge the shared burden of existing.

Just… silence.

They pass through the doorway as if the door opened automatically through the power of advanced architecture.

And in that moment my brain quietly loads the software for 18th-century honour culture.

Internally, I remove a glove.

Very slowly.

The glove is imaginary, obviously, but the intent is very real.

I drop it onto the pavement.

“Sir,” I say in my mind, to the man who has just treated my act of door-holding charity like a natural weather phenomenon, “you have wounded my honour and also slightly my wrist which has now been holding this door for seven full seconds.”

Around us, in my imagination, a small crowd gathers. A pigeon watches with interest. Someone whispers, “Good heavens.”

“Tomorrow at dawn,” I continue, “we meet behind the Tesco Express car park. Pistols at ten paces. Or, if you prefer, a strongly worded conversation about basic manners.”

Queue-related crimes are even more dangerous.

There is something about a queue that feels sacred. It is a quiet social agreement between strangers: we are all suffering together, but we will suffer in the correct order.

When someone casually drifts into the middle of the queue like a confused duck who has wandered into traffic, my brain again reaches for the glove.

I approach them mentally with calm dignity.

“Excuse me,” I imagine saying, “but I believe you have accidentally committed a queue violation of the highest order.”

The glove falls.

Gasps ripple through the imaginary spectators.

“Dawn,” I announce. “Bring a witness and a basic understanding of fairness.”

Of course, in reality, none of this happens.

In reality I simply stand there like a normal human being, smiling politely in that very British way which roughly translates to:

“🙂 I will remember this forever but do absolutely nothing about it.”

But the duel energy remains.

Because modern society runs almost entirely on tiny acts of politeness. Doors held open. Thank-yous exchanged. Queues respected. Escalators exited without stopping dead at the top like someone who has just discovered gravity for the first time.

These are small things, but they are the duct tape holding civilisation together.

Remove too many and suddenly we’re all wandering around supermarkets like confused goats with shopping baskets.

So I will continue holding doors.

I will continue respecting queues.

And somewhere in the back of my mind, a quiet duelling field behind a Tesco Express will remain permanently reserved for anyone who forgets their manners.

I already have the glove ready.

Just in case.