A trip to the village store in Holiday Season. Just this afternoon as I was picking up my bacca from the local convenience store, we saw some of them strange folks that likes to walk round the village aimlessly, gawpin at folks gardens and houses, them that likes to spend all day in the midday sun on the beach and returns a shade deeper than a lobster after its been boiled... Twas funny I tell ee ... They was right up front of the queue buying up enough rations to feed a town for a month (thatll be us locals out of bread again) and was deciding which lotto ticket to choose. Well, as the gal at the counter blew the dust off the lotto ticket dispenser, she gave me this look with a big grin on her face, and I was grinning the same, just like the folks behind me was. You see, - now picture this - There was 4 of them, - Mr, Mrs and two young uns, one of either. Mr was your typical lad. Bald head, football t-shirt, bermudas and the obligatory new trainers (gleaming but not for long) Beaming grin, he looked like he was having a whale of a time, giving the family a cultural holiday... Mrs ... well, I reckon the hairdo must have cost a months wages, same as the perfectly manicured nails, eyes, eyebrows, teeth and anything else that can be adjusted by your wallet. Neat designer summer wardrobe and the obligatory pair of new trainers. A brave smile as she turned to see the queue of locals behind her ... all grinning back ... Sprog number one, teen-queen - more metal in her face than the ponies have when they need extra brakes on the X Country field. Hair that matched the local garden flora - Hollyhock pink surprise - designer summer wardrobe and the obligatory new trainers. An expression of embarrassment at realising she was so conspicuous. Sprog number 2, the youngest - designer summer wardrobe, obligatory new trainers, bored shitless at realising no wi-fi, no reception and miles of empty space with not an arcade in sight. Nothing of any surprise there til I describe the queue perhaps... me; 20 year old jeans with the arse hanging out from being grabbed by the blackthorn as I was pruning, stable jacket that smells of, ... well... stables, steel toe-capped wellies. Behind me, - farmer from down the road ... not sure what he was wearing, but if the ponies had been there they would have mistaken him for a snack ... and in amongst all the smell of fresh cut hay - that real life countryman pong that says a hard days work. Wearin wellies. Behind him, little chap from down the lane ... bless him ... hes a sandwich short of a picnic but got a heart of gold. (aka Village idiot) Last weeks t-shirt with some obscure metal band still almost visible on the front, his big bruvs jeans - think they were meant to be blue once ... and a pair of comfortable boots. Behind him, little old lady that has a lot of cats from round the corner. You know she has cats ... but this time you had to be familiar with her to know ... the smell of the visitors pungent mix of deodorants, colognes, perfumes and body sprays all topped off with this years must have sun creams kind of overpowered everything ... including the old dears cats. Oh, and the old dear was wearing a stout pair of walking shoes. Funny as fook. Makes all that gawpin through our windows and into our gardens worth it, why visit the zoo when the human zoo, fuelled by all those crap escape to the country magazines, with all their twee ideas of country living, brings them down with their riviera dreams, by the hundreds, every year. Just wish we could hunt the buggers. Now thatd be fun!
Posted on: Sat, 09 Aug 2014 20:20:53 +0000
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