Saw Miss Gladiola this morning and I totally dobbed in those kidnappers. And, being a big christian herself, she knows exactly what church they come from. I asked her how she knew, she said: 'It's arcane, dear,' and tapped the side of her nose. (One of us doesn't know what 'arcane' means - I bet it's me). Then, Miss G. said she will go round there (!) and have 'a word' with them - I almost feel sorry for them (not). Then Esther turned up with Henry (who wasn't wearing his King Arthur gear).
I said: 'Where's his Camelot outfit?' And Esther rolled her eyes and said: 'No only did the ingrate chew half the fringing off, but the vet said he had to get as much sunshine on his coat as possible.'
Miss G. did some tutting, she said: 'That dog has always been a hypochondriac, Esther.' And I stroked Henry's head cos even though he is a dog, he knows some English and I thought he looked morose.
Then Miss G. (bless her) told Esther about my ordeal at the hands of the Baader Meinhof, and if I thought Miss G. was angry you should have seen Esther (who is totally Onward Christian Soldiers). Esther said: 'I'll give 'em Healing Ministry at the end of my bleeding toe, raging bloody charlatans.'
Miss G. said: 'And they only told young Carol (I'm 48) that god did this to her.'
Esther said: 'Oh! Slander. Whenever you want to confront them, Gladi, I'm coming with.'
Miss G. said: 'Thank you dear, I'll need your spiritualism by my side in case I start in with the smiting of the Pharisees.'
Esther moved Henry into a patch of sunlight and said: 'I might have a word with my vicar as well.'
To be honest, I reckon they've been waiting for an excuse for a bit of the old smiting business. I tell you, the christians round my neck of the woods are not of the 'airy fairy god is love' variety. Or mebbes all of 'em hate the Baader Meinhof Church of Bare-Faced Cheek. We shall see. Bit exciting, eh? I am SUCH a blab!
Some time back, one of them charity muggers got severely shirty with Man Friday cos he wouldn't give him £2 per month for some poor people in Africa. He told M.F. that: 'You realise you'll be the responsible for the death of at least one child today, you know.' And Man Friday got vexed and told the charity bloke (in no uncertain terms) that he'd never killed anyone but in his case he might make an exception. Then (acc. to M.F.) he made a fist, pulled back his elbow and made a fake lunge for the bloke whilst going: 'Gertcha.'
However, although he looks like your typical alpha male (burly, big beard, armfuls of tatoos etc) he is more of an omega, and when he came home, he had to have a lie down and a sherry.
Well, the same sort of business happened to him again, poor beggar. This time it was for some starving people (prob. in Africa again). What is it with these charity muggers - they jump out at you and hound you down the road like a bunch of complete spivs: like that's going to endear you to 'em.
Anyway, Man Friday said: 'Sorry, I give my money to the R.S.P.C.A.' and went to walk on, but the guy stood right in front of him and said: 'So you care about animals more than people?'. And Man Friday said: 'Yes,' and tried to move on but the man followed him and shouted after him: 'I suppose it's understandable that someone like you doesn't care about the starving.' And considering old M.F. must weigh 16 stone odd, it was obviously a dig.
M.F. told me later: 'I had tears in my eyes, Cal.' Poor devil. But the upside is that Man Friday pulled himself together and chased the little toe-rag down Holloway and into Seven Sisters Road and the little tosser had to run into the Anderson Estate to get away from him. Now M.F. made it back out of the estate but who knows about the charity bloke - it is rare for a stranger to walk out of the Anderton with all goods and chattels intacta. Serves him bloody right.
The next altercation happened about a week back when I was in the middle of our estate (it's shaped like an oval and there's two big greens in the middle of the oval where people hang out and kids pitch battles, bless em). I was walking over to see the lady with the labradoodle, when who comes out of her back gate - it's only old Bridgit (I haven't seen her for mebbes a year). Turns out Mrs Labradoodle hadn't seen her for aeons either. So we all stand there having a chat and I keep on looking at old Bridgit (who is mebbe 50 or late 30's, I'm very bad at judging) and thinking that there's something different about her, but I can't put me finger on it. Luckily she said to us: 'Don't suppose you've noticed?' and pointed to her Bristol section. Which isn't the sort of thing that you normally look at - well, not unless they're like watermelons, or wet stockings on the radiator - bit embarassing. Anyway we looked at 'em and then me and Mrs. Labra looked at each other, like: 'Eh?'. And old Bridgit is all smiley and she goes: 'They're super aren't they?' So I said: 'Oh yes, marvellous' - but only for something noncomittal to say and then, thank god, Mrs. Labra says: 'Oh Bridge, have you had them done?' And then I realise we're discussing a boob haulage operation.
Then Bridgit says: 'I had the full works, had them evened up - I was two cup sizes bigger on the right than the left, I had to use an sock to pad it out. So they evened them up, they're both bigger and I had them lifted,' she lifted up her arms, 'from right under the armpits.' I really didn't know what to say. Luckily, Mrs Labra said: 'That must've put you back a few quid, Bridge.' And Bridgit said: 'Oh yes, the full altercation cost just over 3 grand.'
You really can't do right for doing wrong in these situs: if you correct someone, you come across as a right know-it-all; but if you say nothing you are letting dimness loose in the world. Hard one. I said nothing, as you might have expected.