The rain hammered against the cobblestones of Trafalgar Square, mirroring the storm brewing within Sergeant Alistair Croft. He stood rigid, his jaw clenched, his gaze fixed on the American tourist who stood gawking at Nelson’s Column, oblivious to the growing tension.
“Oi, mate,” Croft growled, his voice thick with a London accent that could curdle milk. “Move along! Can’t you see you’re blocking the path?”
The tourist, a lanky young man with a bewildered expression, jumped back, startled. “Sorry, mate,” he mumbled, his eyes wide with a mixture of fear and confusion. “Didn’t mean to cause any trouble.”
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Croft scoffed. “Trouble? You’re causing a bloody obstruction! This ain’t a petting zoo, you know. This is a national monument.” He gestured towards the towering column. “Respect it!”
The tourist, still visibly shaken, stammered, “I’m just… I’m just trying to get a good look at it. It’s amazing.”
Croft snorted. “Amazing, is it? Well, try amazing from further back, yeah? There’s a whole bloody square to admire it from, instead of hogging the entrance like a bloody ox.”
The tourist, clearly flustered, mumbled an apology and quickly retreated, bumping into a passing couple. The woman glared at him, muttering under her breath. Croft felt a surge of satisfaction. He wasn’t known for his diplomacy, but someone had to maintain order.
He straightened his posture, adjusting his helmet, and resumed his patrol. As he walked, he couldn’t help but reflect on the increasing number of tourists who seemed to have no respect for London’s heritage. They snapped pictures with selfie sticks, littered the streets with their rubbish, and generally behaved as if they were above the rules.
He remembered a time when tourists were treated with more courtesy, when they were seen as guests, not nuisances. Now, it seemed like every other day he was having to deal with some out-of-towner who thought they could do as they pleased.
