Each stride felt longer than the last, as the lactic acid began to build he focused on his form — left, right, left, right, left (a change from his normal thoughts of right, right, right). 

Out of Downing Street, left onto Whitehall, through Trafalgar Square,  past The National Gallery, and beyond Leicester Square. Never breaking stride. Left, right, left, right, left. 

At Oxford Circus, brow drenched in sweat, he burst through the doors to Nike Town — as much as you can burst through automatic doors. Glaring, with shoulders back and chin up, blood pumping and boiling at the same time, he tried to make his slender 5'7 frame appear large. 

The man locked on to Sophie, just beginning her shift after finishing school for the day, but she didn't recognise him. As she was about to say hello the man's onslaught began. 

"How dare you change the colours, miss. This is England and by God we will not stand for this. I have the right to do this, I will hold a referendum if I must, but you can not. You must not. You must. You must change it back, miss. This is shambolic, this means something to me. It is an abomination. How dare you. If you do not change it back right this minute I will have you on the next plane to Kigali. We will see how much of my England you can change from there"

With Sophie in tears, the man marched back out the door, through Leicester Square, past The National Gallery, beyond Trafalgar Square, and down Whitehall. 

Arriving at his house on 10 Downing Street he burst through the doors. Standing, brow drenched in sweat, he let out a triumphant squeek to his wife, "I really earnt my paycheck today Murty! Your daddy would be so proud of me, we must telephone him"