The incident outside the park toilet had been scary; that burly thug had almost got the better of him. If that could happen once, could it happen again? There was only one solution, and the more Jim thought about it, the more it made sense: he must get tooled up. Surely it was more efficient, kinder in a way, to wave a knife (he ruled out guns for now) than physically hurt someone? The logic of this was pretty much unassailable, so rather than even attempt to assail it he played with his little moustache and wondered if it would be ready in time for Movember.
At some point, he closed his eyes. It had been a long morning.