I had gone for a nice leisured healthy swim after work, and afterwards was walking up Tottenham Court Road on my way to Warren Street tube station, when I suddenly spotted a trail of clear liquid on the pavement in front of me, and as my eyes followed it back I saw that it was seemingly emanating from a (shall we say) 'hoboesque' chap sitting, head down, with his back against a nearby building, legs on the ground pointing forwards, carrier bag beside him. I was alarmed to notice that he seemed to be bleeding at his wrist, so I thought I'd go over to him to ask after his health, perhaps offer some help, that sort of thing. As I got closer, I saw that he was indeed bleeding, and the wound seemed relatively recent: a nasty gash on the upper side of his right wrist, with a fresh tear of blood weeping around his arm.
So I approached him and asked if he was all right, mate, and immediately he snapped his young strawberry-blond-bebearded face up at me and commented,
So I fucked off, the words "OK", "mate" and "chill" appearing somewhere in my hastily assembled response. As I did so I saw a friendly-looking young lady a little further up the road looking at me, looking in fact as if she'd been tempted to warn me before I intervened. When I got to her, she told me that she had had a similar experience mere seconds before me. We had a chuckle about it, and went on our respective ways.
So remember, kids: don't make the mistake I did. Ignore injured homeless people. It's the best way.