lunes, 9 de agosto de 2010

The one with the pregnant woman, 3 Peruvians and a sprinkling of paco: this is not pornography

A healthy mixture of disgruntlement and fear is coursing through the office veins. In the last month, two pablobians have met the cruel hand of authority. One of which was pregnant, neither kept any dignity, both leaving a wake of tears behind them: glorious pablobian tears, justified by the public recognition of a fairly awful start to a mother-child relationship.

“What I do? I have job!” I heard her sob and thus, drawn by the sound of a woman's tears, the scent of vulnerability and a wonderfully low self-esteem, I trotted off to find the source.
“Oh, good afternoon Pablita ( subsequently they had made her work all day before telling her to piss off), you hardly seem in good spirits.” I chirped brightly.
“I lost baby,” she snuffled back at me whilst pointing at her stomach. I was well aware of where the baby might be, directions were not required.

I replied with condolences, inappropriately suggestive comfort hugs and internal laughter that warmed the area where my soul ought to be. She had lost her job and failed in the early stages of motherhood...was it too late for a good old fashioned donkey punch..or maybe Morrisons’ value coat hangers. A D.I.Y. job beckoned...besides, she hardly had the money. Had she but held on to her post for a following 4 months all would have been well and rosy, but alas, she did not. One would have thought I might have some compassion for such a dire situation, but alas, I do not.

What more...ah, yes, of course. The spoils of war are soon to be reaped: my current landlord, who also happens to be a lying, worthless piece of low life, obsessed by money and indescribably mentally fragile, is apparently to be moving out the house. It has eventually come to his attention that to live with those you viciously tax is not a wise life decision. Naturally, this did not sprout from unfertile soul. Along with an anonymous female north Londoner, I have been sowing the seeds of anarchy. Only the other day I got every single cat in the house neutered, along with the one he keeps elsewhere but, foolishly, brought back for a couple of days. Little does he know that these pathetic emotional users shall never breed. All thanks to the work of some plastic scissors. Added to this we continually alter the picture arrangement in the house. For a man with OCD, this hurts, although possibly not as much the aforementioned punishment administered.

I have been met with continuous resistance to my colonial aspirations, it seems many are unwilling to accept I am fundamentally better than they. For example, once again my chiseled features and soft, exfoliated complexion have place me in troubles’ embrace:

I was on my way back from work, a glorious image of superiority and colour coordination, riding along on a woman’s vintage racing bike. I believe I was sporting a saffron yellow jumper, pastel chinos, a French beret nesting carelessly on my head and a cashmere scarf drapping gloriously around my neck. Anyway, I stopped at my local veg shop to sort out food for the dinner I was to be cooking, a string of Moroccan dishes incidentally. After chatting away with my three Peruvian girls, whose shop it is, about what 3 spices they would take to a desert island, I payed and began to walk to where my bike was placed.

All of a sudden I’m confronted by this Pablo, around 25, drunk, high( off Paco I assumed) and without an item of cashmere in sight.

“money.” He said to me.
“donkey.” I replied, assuming we were playing the random word game.
“money.” He repeated.
“donkey.” I replied once more, knowing that this was unlikely to ever become a successful musical number...Simon and Garfunkel we were not.

The issue at this point was that I had some coins in my hand. Usually I don’t even think about it, I just shake my head and glide off into the distance. Today I did no such thing. The high spirits I was in meant that I handed him the coins and stood back. At this point, I must add that my danger raydar was beeping furiously.

“No. I see you pay for vegetable. More!” He requested of me rather rudely and began to get closer.

In a flash, however, one of the Peruvian girls comes out and tells me I had forgotten something. This was odd, as I was certain I had everything in my.... "oh...right, well yes. Thank you very much." I chirped back and allowed her to lead me back into the shop( which has an open front, only a wall of veg separated us from the outside world) and told me to stay where I was...I was unlikely to move. Instead I began to arm myself with sweet potatoes and a large aubergine.

Whilst I was preparing for a ratatouille based battle, my three girls led a verbal volley on my potential assaulter, all of them yelling at him in brilliant Peruvian unison. It must only have been a couple of minutes and yet it felt like hours as my life flashed before me and I winced at the image of my 12year old self in all its centre parting, quicksilver shame.

I had been saved by the collective height of around 4metres....Lord of the Rings in reverse. I thanked them and swore my eternal allegiance to their vegetable selling cause and gave them a number to call, should they ever be in need of help.....a number that obviously directed straight to the police station: I was thankful, not stupid.
So, the moral of the story is this: just because they’re short, doesn't mean you shouldn't talk to them.

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