Mood:
incredulousNow Playing: incredulously... people!!-- gaah!!!
Topic: Daily Doings
MY PROPER POSTING for today. Yes I conked out again with my little Mousey up my sleeve. Mousing around, up and down my sleeve, whiskers all a-tickling me, push-push-pushing with his nose. Then, as I say, settling down to yet more extended hours of sleep. Funny, but when he’s intent on rambling somewhere more interesting, even if I put my forearms vertical he climbs up the material with ease, pops out and climbs on my hands, hangs over the brink of my cuffs, judging ever more cavalierly the distance for a leap down…
I’M GLAD I’M AT HOME. Am not too much of a fan of the Vast Outside most of the time.
People! Bloody people!
The girls in the bookshop were sweet, wishing me happy new year. They know me well from my times last year when I went through a great deal of the Wordsworth Editions £1.99 Classics range. Ordering titles, one at a time, through their computer. Leaving me with half a shelf full of half read Victorian fiction. Anna Karenina I'm still tackling gamely. I adore that book. It's just that I have the attentionspan of a gnat that makes the concentrating upon all 850++ pages rather difficult.
Then I’m leaving the booksshop when a Greek voice accosts me and two deranged eyes. A Local Psycho, who used to call himself my friend, demands £1. So he can go get a drink. I said no. Then, two glassy inner –spiralling eyes met mine and a rant — “I saw you with my friend (what friend?) in the off-licence (liquor store) this morning. What off licence? Don’t laugh at me. Next time I see you I’m gonna hit you. What’s wrong with now? Does he know my really puny left hook?
(MY RIGHT HOOK, on the other hand, even Charles the Schizophrenic Boxer admires my right hook. He tries not to look pained when, standing palms out, he allows me to smack them fearlessly.)
[I've just read this back the next day. And who was supposed to be fearless. Him or me?]
So Zorba doddles off. I brave the local supermarket. “Brave” is the operative word for their most recent “StoreD”, in an Alzheimerian feat of confabulation, remembers calling me into the back room of a prominent high street pharmacy accused of theft of what I later identified as a £25 copper antiarthritis bangle. What else annoyed me in this incident was that nobody had witnessed me even touching said bangle (that’s because I hadn’t). A new and rather thick member of staff had merely witnessed me stand beside the empty packet as I perused camera batteries (I needed a new battery for my oldfashioned auto-advance film camera.)
“Look, just put it on the table now and you’ll get a banning letter (banning me for life from the shop? For doing nothing? No thanks.) and we’ll leave it at that,” said Mr StoreD in a voice so reasonable I almost felt silly having to contradict him and tell him the truth. The harsh unpalatable truth that someone who looked like a junkie had actually, for once, not stolen the item in question. He didn’t like this. Once I’d emptied my every pocket, turned my bag inside-out, proved beyond doubt that no £25 arthritis bracelet was in my possession, I pointed to the luxuriant bank of CCTV monitors and challenged him to prove the “crime” on them.
My invitation was immediately declined.
What gets me the most about this episode is that the guilty StoreD remembers my face (though he assumed I’d forgotten his for I blanked him so effectively on so many occasions), remembers the accusation, yet affects to have forgotten my innocence. He even started getting quite lairy with me last time he caught me in this unnamed supermarket, ejecting me for “theft” of a single carrier bag. My friend Valium Marilyn’s had split so I was only doing a favour. He threw me out as if I’d been apprehended committing grand theft larceny. Well and truly in his element he threatened me with “the back room” should I dare set foot inside the hallowed sliding doors again. When I told him that the “last time” of which he kept reminding me, I’d actually done nothing wrong and he knew that, his eyes flashed with inner fury and he growled to , “Get out of my face.”...
Thankfully no security appeared to be “on” this evening so I braved the supermarket, got all me food. Feeling well pleased with myself I breezed outside ony to run slap bang into Crackhead of the Century imploring me for £50p. Come on, just 50p I know you’ve got it.” I pleaded poverty and hurried to the busstop. People!
Fair enough I used to beg up change. But I never begged “off my own” (why ask someone who has nothing?— that makes no sense. That is taking the pee-pee.) Also when I begged I sat down. In the end, I had so many “regulars” I didn’t even need to ask. The money came of people’s free will. If someone didn’t want to talk to me, so be it. I ignored them. And I got very little trouble because of this. C of the C, on the other hand, seems to have a bashed-in face nearly every other time I meet him. Which is far too frequently for my liking.
And here endeth today’s posting. People! Ukk!!
