Not for her:

Fists of years sweating in factories, rising before the sun and ten hours of labour, the fuel for a night-life of cocaine, with baseball bats running over city roofs; not for her, staring into the Career Advisor's eyes like they held hell-fire, as he mouthed the advice of a mini-Hitler, and you tell yourself you'd rather fist yourself forever; not for her, study going up in drink and smoke, or fingers tearing at the nylon pin-stripe, or flying from the family norms and the fool advice, no not for her.

For her instead:

Birth, suburbs, study, city, hubby, baby, suburbs, death. And now my standard, fresh-faced city financial pro, always so quiet and good and neat and tidy, and doing what everyone says you should - all that you know - I have news: you've made a mistake. Your new i-pod (I imagine you would never have been seen with a walkman, but how these are different, says your wiry dull boyf from IT) can't be played that loud on a train.

People are twitching at you - but buried in your report, you don't notice. Some face coughs in your direction - but Wham!, it's all as if you're in your teenage bedroom again, grinning at silent posters. Your faith that you'll sail through the world, with everything working for you, has failed you here with your headphones. And, so...

Here comes Fist:

To put you right. To train you in the art of carriage etiquette. To point a finger into your face, or stab at your hip and force the sound off, or fill your ears with fury - and then silence. Right?

Or instead:

Fist stays quiet, fingers fidgetting at the corner of a paper, and then brushes past your perfect bottom at the exit, so gently and so softly that you don't even notice.