The received wisdom is that, in hard times, people pull together. It's what the British call "the Dunkirk spirit", that sense of communal suffering and of the salvation that emerges when we all experience our share of the hardship. In an article I read this week, entitled "10 reasons to be cheerful", a management magazine listed such behaviour as one of them. "There's nothing like a shared sense of adversity to make people forget their differences," the article said. "Productivity and social cohesion rise as a result."

It may be true under extreme hardship, but I doubt it's likely to happen in Bermuda today. For one thing, when the going gets tough, criminal activity rises. Reading the court reports this week suggests that Bermuda is already experiencing a change in the intensity of crime, before the recession hits with full force and the quantity increases as well.

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Here are some numbers.

Estimated number of explosions I have seen on TV, at the movies or in computer games: 5,000. Actual number of explosions I have seen in real life: 0.

Estimated number of guns I have seen fired on TV or etc.: 10,000. Actual number of guns I have seen fired in real life: 0. Actual number of guns I have fired in real life: one. (Rabbit hunt; actual number of bunnies shot: 0.) Estimated number of fights I have seen on TV or etc.: 15,000. Actual number of fights I have seen in real life: five. The scary part is that three of those fights took place in Bermuda in the past 90 days.

The first was an eight-man affair with baseball bats, acted out on Ferry Road, St. George's, late in the afternoon. No one was hurt. The second was a hammer fight between two men, on Cedar Avenue one lunchtime. Again, no one was injured.

The third was among teenagers on Monday night at an almost empty Swizzle Inn, where blood was spilled. Sitting outside, the first I knew about it was when a young woman shouted "Fight! Fight!" Seconds later, a number of young men spilled out onto the patio in a cartoony sort of high-speed scuffle, all arms and legs, knocking over tables and chairs as they went. There was shouting and a bunch of other young men broke it up. The fight calmed, then sprang up again and worked its way to within no more than two feet of where I and another geezery-type were quietly enjoying $15 (!) hamburgers.

Someone had said something to someone, although with drunken teenagers it's always more effect than cause. The main protagonist was bleeding quite heavily from his nose. Several adults emerged from the Inn and took charge of matters, eventually loading the most enraged fighter into a taxi in the care of young woman with whom he did not have a grievance.

The numbers tell it all. Reared on TV violence, Bermudians, it seems, are becoming street-fighting men, to quote that great analyst of human affairs, Sir Michael Jagger. In that regard, at least, this is not another world, just the same violent, hollow place as everywhere else.

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The only other time I left the house this week was to nip into Hamilton for a meeting. Having found a parking spot on Dundonald Street, I waited for a few minutes to allow quite a lot of traffic to pass, before backing into the space.

A woman drove up out of nowhere, cut in behind me and took the space. One might immediately associate such behaviour with New York or another big city, but you try that kind of thing in such places at your peril.

Presumably, the woman figured that because this is Bermuda, I'd good-naturedly shrug it off and have the grace to go elsewhere, which I did, finally. But if she's reading this, she should know that I came surprisingly close to a different outcome. I thought long and hard about beating her within an inch of her life, but I didn't have a tape measure (to quote Groucho Marx). I'd have faced jail time, and for a few minutes, I sat trying to work out if I thought it would be worth it.

I'm the most peaceable fellow in the world. I've never hit anyone, let alone a woman. But when the social contract breaks down, when you behave without regard for anyone other than yourself, all bets are off. Have a care, lady. Your decision to ignore everyone else is going to cost you very dear, one of these days. If Ashfield de Vent is right, and the place is full of guns, be careful lest the next person you enrage with your selfishness doesn't shoot you dead. If I were on the jury, he'd walk away with a verdict of justifiable homicide.

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To end on a brighter note, my favourite moment of the week occurred later that same day, when I met an insurance pal for a cup of coffee. During our conversation, I deduced and then told him that my gross pay was roughly equal to the rent he pays for a house way out in the boonies. In a split second, his face registered shock, incomprehension, denial, calculation (as he tried to work out how anyone could survive at that level), more denial, acceptance, and finally pity. That array of emotions was followed by a not entirely successful effort on his part not to look at me as if I were the unluckiest man in the history of the world.

I explained to him that, because everyone can write a postcard, writing is not considered a real job and is paid accordingly. That eased his pain. Still, it's not nice when your friends feel pity for you and you don't deserve it.