12 July 2001
There is a long tradition in the UK of The Village Idiot, best exemplified in the Monty Python skit of the man sitting on the wall spouting nonsense and falling over backwards only to speak perfectly normally to another similarly-dressed man about stocks and shares before explaining that he's the visiting village idiot from the next village over. My theory is that last night I met a village idiot who had been upgraded to City status...
On my way home from work I went to check my balance at a cashpoint and withdraw some money, noticing a rather scraggy man leaning in the window of a white van parked beside the cashpoint. As music played in my ears I pushed the buttons and waited for my card to be returned, when it became apparent by the warm stale breath on the left side of my face that I was being addressed by the scraggy man.
A brown plastic bottle of Strongbow poked out from one coat pocket and the sleeves were rolled up far enough to show varied tattoos of sufficient "hardness" to instantly put me on my guard. His mouth had stopped moving so I mumbled "You're absolutely right. Couldn't have put it better myself." in as thick a Canadian accent as I could muster to make it abundantly clear that we had *nothing* in common and he should stop talking to me.
The cash-point meanwhile was checking whether or not it would give me any money, shaking an internal magic eight-ball for clues, scrying in lizard gizzards as to whether or not I'd put it to good use and generally being the little ATM-deity that we all hope will not one day laugh at us when we push the "50" button.
Mr Hard smiled at my agreement and a lull in the music allowed me to catch the next comment through lips that probably only parted for alcohol: "Grmm-mmmble-bibble-goooryy-yooll-go-mad-tonight. Yesh..."
In my mind raced every Stephen King book I'd ever read. Oh God! If he reaches out to stroke one cheek I'll become bulimic! Are those clown shoes he's wearing or just big army boots? Is he going to try and sell me a homicidal '58 Plymouth Fury because he knows I'm jaded and vindictive? Was he giving me some prophetic message that I foolishly ignore because he's the stereotypical mad man who's not so mad?
With as close to a regurgative sound as a machine can make the cash-point decides to be lenient. Eyes fixed on Mr Hard's I mumble, "Verily, it shall be so." and reach out to take the money in my left hand. He smiles again and puts out his right hand in that half-a-handshake manner, and I very nearly handed him all the cash. But I escaped with just patting the back of his hand carefully and leaving him in the very capable hands of the guy in the queue behind me who had been visibly praying that I shut the hell up and stop encouraging Mr Hard.
Well, I sat and watched Galaxy Quest when I got home, played Deus Ex, weighed myself twice to make sure I wasn't losing weight at a suspicious rate, but didn't go mad... that I noticed...
No comments yet.
... the online home and (not very) alter(ed)-ego of Ann McMeekin, a recently freelance Web Accessibility Consultant.
... passionate about many things, most of which will turn up on this site at some time or other.
... contactable via email.
Design and content copyright 2000-2007 pixeldiva, except where noted.
Copyright of comments remains with the individual author.
All rights reserved.
Left comments