It’s been a tough week to be going outside by myself. I must look like a chump, or maybe in my fur-lined, red chunky knitted hoodie people are mistaking me for Father Christmas, wandering down Dumbarton Road merrily distributing fags and change. Yes, that really is what I have been walking around in. And of course it’s fake fur, I’m not Joan Collins, I even think the wool bit is polyester, but I think it looks cool, ok?
Anyway, on Monday morning I left the house to go to work and as I was crossing the road there was a guy in a tracksuit standing on the other side as if he was waiting for me.
‘Got a pound?’ he asked.
‘No,’ I said, though in fact I did have a wee nugget in my pocket, but I needed it for the bus.
He must have sensed the presence of the pound about my person, however, because he squared up a little and said sternly, ‘You’ve definitely not got a pound?’
‘Definitely,’ I snapped.
He didn’t look as if he was satisfied with this reply, but just as I was steeling myself for a mouthful of abuse and/or physical confrontation the wee burd he was with pulled on his arm and said, ‘C’mon, we’ll get a pound off someone else,’ and the guy sloped off after her.
On Tuesday afternoon I was on my way to work again and a steamer rolled out the boozer just as I was walking past.
‘Alright mate,’ he wheezed as he fell in step beside me.
‘Alright,’ I replied evenly.
‘Here,’ he continued. ‘Have you got…’
‘Fuck’s sake,’ I muttered, quickening my stride.
‘I was only going to ask you for the time!’ he shouted after me.
‘No, you weren’t!’ I called back over my shoulder.
Tonight was the best though. The baby had gone to her bed and we were about to settle down with a glass of wine to watch a DVD when I decided that since it was Easter we should treat ourselves to some crisps as well. I put on my hoodie and ran out for some Pringles.
As I was coming up to the shop on the corner a guy in a cheap leather jacket came out of the close in front of me, a fag in one hand, rummaging in his pocket with the other. He looked up at me.
‘Got fifty pence?’ he asked.
‘No,’ I said, walking past him.
He hurried to catch up. ‘Got any change at all?’
‘No.’
He blew up. ‘There’s no fucken need to say it like that!’ he screamed. ‘I’m fucken sick of cunts' fucken…hingmy!’
Anyway, on Monday morning I left the house to go to work and as I was crossing the road there was a guy in a tracksuit standing on the other side as if he was waiting for me.
‘Got a pound?’ he asked.
‘No,’ I said, though in fact I did have a wee nugget in my pocket, but I needed it for the bus.
He must have sensed the presence of the pound about my person, however, because he squared up a little and said sternly, ‘You’ve definitely not got a pound?’
‘Definitely,’ I snapped.
He didn’t look as if he was satisfied with this reply, but just as I was steeling myself for a mouthful of abuse and/or physical confrontation the wee burd he was with pulled on his arm and said, ‘C’mon, we’ll get a pound off someone else,’ and the guy sloped off after her.
On Tuesday afternoon I was on my way to work again and a steamer rolled out the boozer just as I was walking past.
‘Alright mate,’ he wheezed as he fell in step beside me.
‘Alright,’ I replied evenly.
‘Here,’ he continued. ‘Have you got…’
‘Fuck’s sake,’ I muttered, quickening my stride.
‘I was only going to ask you for the time!’ he shouted after me.
‘No, you weren’t!’ I called back over my shoulder.
Tonight was the best though. The baby had gone to her bed and we were about to settle down with a glass of wine to watch a DVD when I decided that since it was Easter we should treat ourselves to some crisps as well. I put on my hoodie and ran out for some Pringles.
As I was coming up to the shop on the corner a guy in a cheap leather jacket came out of the close in front of me, a fag in one hand, rummaging in his pocket with the other. He looked up at me.
‘Got fifty pence?’ he asked.
‘No,’ I said, walking past him.
He hurried to catch up. ‘Got any change at all?’
‘No.’
He blew up. ‘There’s no fucken need to say it like that!’ he screamed. ‘I’m fucken sick of cunts' fucken…hingmy!’
I was getting pretty sick of cunts' fucking hingmy too, but I didn’t tell him so because he had started to kick the shit out of the bin outside the shop. I slipped past him into the shop and bought a tube of Pringles, slightly worried that when I stepped outside again the Pringles would reveal that I had in fact had some change in my possession the whole time. I might have to fight the guy and spill my Pringles. They were sour cream and chive as well.
Outside, he was gone. I saw him further up the street, harassing other people and shouting, stopping every now and then to root through his pockets.
What is it about me that attracts bams? What is it that I am doing wrong? Is it because I respond when someone speaks to me in the street? I could just blank people, but that would be miserable. Maybe I should try wearing my flat cap more often, you know, go a bit more incognito.
You could try wearing a chib more often.
ReplyDeleteGlad the dude never spilled any sour cream and chive, or you would have had to kick his bahookie into wednesday week. And that would have been ugly.