It wasn’t the fact that he was browsing a website of brown, slip on boat shoes at 8.30 in the morning.
It was not even the way he looked at his watch with such a flourish of noise and movement, purely because he wanted people to see what brand was on his wrist.
Nor the fact that he had dressed himself in clothes that had come straight from the pages of whatever style magazine he had been told he should read. Sitting with his legs crossed, all the time looking to see who was looking at him.
No, none of those reasons was why I hated him.
It was the casual way he finished his takeaway coffee and dropped it on the floor of the train carraige for someone else to clean away that did that.