Wednesday, 11 July 2012

Oh, it's you

Street urchin/middle class vagabond/inexplicably chirpy kid accosted me as I was leaving work again.

He ran over from the other side of the carpark, all freckles and bowl hair cut and childish joie de vivre. And then he said: "Oh, it's you." in a slightly disappointed tone.

"I'm sorry, who were you expecting?," I replied. "Willy Wonka? Spock? Luke fecking Skywalker?"
Rattled I was, that my presence was deemed less than satisfactory by the local bloody neighbourhood rent-a-tyke. He looks like he should be advertising Birds Eye Peas in the 70s, so almost unbelievably wholesome is he.

I didn't actually say that to him, of course, not, in fact, being the wicked witch of the east. West. Whichever.

He proceeded to show me his new piece of tat, some kind of snap on cycling bracelet thing that has something or other to do with the Olympics, according to his excited babble. Of course it does, I mean what doesn't have something to do with the bloody Olympics right now? Every product I buy, from marmite to tampons is endorsed by, supported by or blatantly advertised-for-filthy-lucre by the Olympics, various media whore athletes or 'Team GB'. Let's just hope they do as well as Andy Murray, the England football squad and all the other mediocre yet overblown out of sheer desperation sporting heroes from our glorious summer of sport.

So we chatted, sort of, about the Olympics. As much as one can chat with someone who burbles on incoherently in manner of a six year old cokehead. Same self obsessed monotone, same inability to answer questions or actually converse, same boneheaded, dogged determination to finish his point. Add on 25 years and he's a dead ringer for most of my ex boyfriends.

I had to start backing away, while still chatting. Because, you know, I didn't actually want to spend my evening hanging out with Just William. We parted amicably though.

I wonder where he actually lives. Where he comes from. I'm actually starting to wonder whether anyone else can see him at all.

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