Sunday, 24 August 2014

Kyle’s Always Grabbing My Tits.



“Kyle’s always grabbing my tits,” said the young woman in the too-tight playsuit whose young son had just grabbed her tits.
“I know! Mine too, it really hurts,” said the older woman in the noteworthy trainers, gathering her low maintenance hair into a scrunchie.
And it’s embarrassing,” added the younger one, pushing her unfashionable specs up the bridge of her nose.

The butcher was recommending a cut of pork loin to the thin-lipped elderly woman with the big black canvas shopping bag and frown. He waved a large knife over it in the display counter, “That’ll be lovely; tender as a woman’s heart!“ he said.
“I’ll have the sausages,” said the woman.

A boy of about six or seven years old stopped me in the street.
“Do you want to buy this for a pound?” he said, opening his palm to reveal the pebble I’d just seen him pick up from Mr Beever’s driveway.
“What is it?” I asked.
“A pebble” said the boy, rubbing it on his sleeve, “It’s shiny”.
“A pound for a pebble?” I said.
“It’s magic,” said the boy.

I was watching a nuthatch in Hangingstone Road when a thin man in washed-out black passed at dangerously high speed. He was riding a pushbike and trailer with GAY written across the back in large plastic letters. He looked up at me as he shot through the narrow gap between the double parked cars. “Hiya!” he yelled at the top of his voice. The nuthatch flew away.

Tuesday, 19 August 2014

I Chased the Cloud Shadows up Over the Moor...



I chased the cloud shadows up over the moor and onto the estate where the men still drive Rovers and wear their hair in elaborate comb-overs that flip up in the wind like busy, beige peddle-bin lids. Wind-assisted lapwings flocked in the field behind the abandoned Renault camper (£500 ono), the pretend duck by the bin-store ‘quacked’ as I passed, and a replica of a basset-hound peered out from the large stone handbag in Mrs Hinchliffe’s alpine rockery, its head bobbing on a spring. People in comfy shoes were restraining small terriers, frying liver and onions, smoking cigs, and scraping fluvial sediment from a storm drain with a butter knife. A man with a bit of dinner on his face was sitting on a collapsible chair outside his conservatory door. He was surrounded by marigolds, begonias, gladioli, Sport For All stickers, a faded Basil Ede print of some ducks, a pile of VHS video cassettes, a dozen or so pretend meerkats, and a miniature wooden wheelbarrow stuffed with pansies and snapdragons. Next door, a ten year old dusty-pink Kia Picanto pulled up and a grey haired man with thick, plastic rimmed reactolite glasses and a three-quarter length beige anorak climbed out. He slammed the door, opened the boot, and unloaded three heavy looking Lidl bags-for-life. He pulled out a small packet of dog biscuits and held it up high to show the man with the dinner on his face who shouted, ’Thanks, Derek!’ and pointed towards the open door of his green plastic shed, ‘Wob us it in there, can you?’