Dark Bambi eyes, cute button nose, contagious smile, dainty frame, proud little pout. She is my princess, my little princess, her father’s joy. She dances, she sings, runs to me when I get home.  ’Diddy’ she calls me and asks after me when I’m gone.

Determined she is, a little busybody. She rushes here, there, everywhere. I watch her as she potters about. Careful little steps, pouting as she goes, carrying a little handbag – mimicking her mummy – a little lady and she makes me proud…

She walks across the room to the table. Careful steps, short little baby steps, then looks round at me and grins. My soul melts. Out of her handbag she pulls a star, a chunky metal behemoth of a star. Clasped in her little fist she raises it to the sky, glances across at me, watch this Daddy, and smashes the damn thing down on a chair.

That’s right, my precious little daughter is a vandal.

Vandalism

Miniature Christmas tree, pepper mill, lighted candle. They sat on the table like three wise men or a scene from one of those unutterably dire “incredible journey” movies. An elderly couple arrived and sat at the neighbouring table. She was dressed like a confused goddess, draped in coats, shawls, scarves and things. He was clad almost entirely in black. Jacket, shirt, trousers, shoes, all were black. “Two G&T’s,” he ordered, “Bombay if you have it.”

But the tie, his tie was hideous. Capable of inflicting moral and intellectual damage upon any diner that saw it. Bright red with arty black shapes scattered in wild abandon. I could make out some stars, a couple of squares, numerous squiggles, various giraffe segments and possibly Che Guevara’s head. It probably wasn’t, he was too posh and too Tory for ol’ Che, but it was definitely a head.

His face reminded me of Sam, an old school friend who was affectionately known as “Bam”. A pointless detail, you wouldn’t know him. Her face rabbitesque, her hair phenomenal, a fluffy mushroom-like bouffant precarious on her head. She looked like a rabbit wearing a World War I helmet. I could just about hear their conversation.

“Your top looks nice,” he was saying, “much better than I thought it would.” Talk about digging a hole. Restaurant murder: Wife strangles husband with hideous neck-tie.

I never heard Rabbit’s response. A party of eight clattered in, eight extravagant well-to-do ladies. Flowing dresses, monstrous rings, necklaced to the hilt, designer glasses, massive hair-dos. One of them in a sequined jacket, I thought those things were illegal. The largest of the eight was licking her fingers. I kid you not, it must have been anticipation – no food had been served.

On the way out we had to navigate past two black bears that were fighting in the doorway. Turns out they were old ladies, not bears and they weren’t fighting either, they were grappling with the zips on their giant black fur coats. Easy mistake to make.

My lager sat on the windowsill.  Behind it traffic buzzed, pedestrians ambled and the ubiquitous riff-raff loitered outside MacDonald’s.  It was remarkably engaging.  Life is fascinating when viewed through a pint glass.  The bubbles danced in time to Radiohead, or perhaps Radiohead were playing in time to the bubbles, but what caught my attention was the chap at the bar.

Coat folded neatly on the bar, hat balanced expertly on top, his usual drinking routine I suspect.  Faded t-shirt stretched over his belly.  Horizontal stripes never flatter.  An unusually prominent bottom lip made him look like a man who is perpetually displeased.  A nose like a parrot’s beak,  jet black hair that – given his age – had to be dyed.  He had all the deportment of a gloomy cockatoo. On his left wrist was the tiniest watch I have ever seen. Anorexic black strap and a minuscule face.  Seriously, it was so tiny that I can only suppose he had stolen it from a doll.

He checked his watch repeatedly, his manner was that of a wanted man.  He lifted the beer slowly, peered in the top and then slowly rotated the glass as he scrutinised it from the side. Humph, his expression said, the beer clearly disappointed and he glared at it morosely.  He put down the glass with a melodramatic sigh, shot a few conspiratorial glances around the pub, grabbed his coat and hat and left in a hurry.  But what was behind the suspicious behaviour?

I suspect the infamous Doll Mafia are after him.

A handful of beers, a couple of cuppas, as the TV blares I find myself busting for a wee. Absolutely busting, bladder like a Zeppelin, exquisite discomfort, what have I done? The eternal dilemma, upstairs or downstairs loo? Clatter all the way upstairs and grapple with stair gates, or gamble on the apparent convenience of the downstairs loo (we use it as a cloakroom and a place to stash anything that is a nuisance, which could potentially include small yappy dogs)?

I open the door slowly, fearing an avalanche, and carefully move the buggy out of the doorway. I shift the hoover and wriggle between the coats, inching painfully towards the porcelain and expertly manoeuvre into position. The baby’s car seat is on the toilet, which is rather unhelpful and most inconsiderate. I crouch down and lift the toilet seat, the angled ceiling only allows me to lift it a couple of inches. No worries, I think, a couple of inches gives me plenty of room.

Hunched on the floor like a crumpled ball of paper. Left hand supporting the weight of the car seat, right hand pointing and aiming through the gap. Blimey this is dangerous, I think, and wince uncomfortably. The hoover is boring a hole in my shin, the sink is digging into my back, coats are falling all around me, the end of the world is definitely nigh.

For a brief moment I regret everything. Coats, mops and umbrellas collapsing all around me, left wrist straining under the weight of the car seat (shut yer cakehole critics, it was a difficult angle), pain shooting through my shin and up my back, my life flashing before my eyes…

Considerably disorientated. I’m now in a new job and living in a new home in a strange northern town where it rains like the days before The Great Flood. Absent from the blogosphere for a two weeks (building an ark in my garden). I’ve been missed, right? My soul screams for validation, my self-worth has dropped lower than a rudeboy’s crotch. Actually that’s a lie, the break was rather nice. But Mr Condescending has been pestering me daily, can’t live without my posts apparently. I told him to stop badgering me but he persisted. To make matters worse Rubbish rang me up last night and screamed down the phone, said he’d turdbomb my doorstep if I didn’t get my act together. Kids huh?! Told him I’d retaliate by putting laxative in his cider, but I really can’t be bothered to go to Wales so…

The old man sat on the top desk of the bus. He was staring straight ahead, a pair of thick-lensed black-rimmed glasses clung to his face. For the record I don’t condone the stealing of old men’s glasses. Seriously, why go through all that effort when they are unlikely to fetch you anything on eBay? Besides, old men cause enough trouble in the world when they can see clearly. The last thing any of us need is millions of pensioners stumbling around without their glasses. The world would descend rapidly into bedlam. Pensioners would be seen dragging squirrels about on leads, stuffing cats into letterboxes and waiting outside the pub on Thursday mornings while moaning that the “post office” isn’t open. Come to think about it, stuffing some cats into Rubbish’s letter box would be pretty damn funny. Or putting a squirrel in his cider.

Take the following situation. In our new street rubbish collection takes place on a Friday. During the week our bins stay in the garden to the rear of the house. The garden is surrounded by a high two-metre fence and accessible either from our back door or from the garden gate, which is also two-metres high and double-locked from the inside. One of the locks is half-way down the gate, i.e. only reachable if you are one of those astronomically tall men from China that occasionally make the news and use their long arms to reach down the throats of dolphins. Last Friday morning my wife asked me to take the bins out. I went into the garden and to my surprise the bins were not there. I went round to the front and there they were, sitting smugly on the pavement, chatting amongst themselves no doubt. The only plausible explanation is that at the crack of dawn an elderly neighbour had broken in and dragged them out front.

Now there are two possibilities here. Either this (uncharacteristically athletic) pensioner vaulted the two-metre fence or they managed to unlock the garden gate using a fishhook on a piece of string. Can you imagine the mayhem if this pensioner was without their glasses? I’d probably be woken at 5am as I am dragged outside with a fishhook through my nose. (This Friday I’m going to get up crazily early and find out how they get in). But anyway…

Danny pressed the buzzer, got up from his seat and started to walk up the aisle. It was cold and wet outside, the bus was packed. He moved slowly, his steps small and determined, carefully keeping his balance as the bus lurched about in a deliberate attempt to send him into the lap of an unsuspecting granny. With each step he grasped the handrails on back of the seats each side of him, he would not be defeated and no grannies would be squashed. Nothing could have prepared him for what happened next.

The middle finger of his right hand hooked under the bridge of an old man’s glasses. In a single movement he gracefully lifted the glasses off the old man’s face and launched them into the air. They sailed over the next five seats, all of which were occupied, their path a beautiful parabolic spectacle (haha, two weeks absent and my wit is still as sharp as a blunt razor). They cleared the passengers and clattered down the stairwell. The speed and trajectory – unimaginably perfect in every way – would have made the Roman army’s lead trebuchet operative sick with jealousy.

The old man whipped his hands up to his eyes. “Someone’s stolen my glasses,” he howled. One moment he had been quietly looking forward to Coronation Street, the next moment his glasses had been whipped from his face.

Funniest moment of his life, Danny tells me. I may have to try this next time I’m on a bus. With a bit of luck I could make a few quid on eBay.

Friends, Romans, sweethearts, gimp-grandchildren and cider drinkers, I’m not here today, I’m over at Calling People Names. I’m gong to be a bit absent this week – spent the last four days moving house and I start a new job today. But I’ll be back next week. Don’t miss me too much…

“This is fucking boring,” he said, sounding thoroughly fed up, “kiss chase, why don’t we have a game of kiss chase?”

Sitting beside me was a famous wine columnist. I won’t name-drop, but only because I cannot remember her name. You would expect that we were having an intelligent, cultured and mind-numbingly boring conversation about wine, journalism and Chateau Magdelaine. Truth is we were distracted by the Jacob’s Creek boys to our right.

One thin, the other fat, proportionally identical to Laurel and Hardy, two strangers who had met at the station. They each had a bottle of wine, in front of them an array of discarded Fosters cans. Hardy seemed a pleasant chap, sitting there quietly, quiet and sleepy. Laurel was wired and extremely rowdy, one of those types who, when inebriated, will badger anyone and everyone around them in a relentless attempt to be the most irritating donkey on the planet. He looked very similar to the freaky guy in Something About Mary, the one with hives.

With Hardy falling asleep, Laurel turned to the seat behind him where a spectacled gentleman was sleeping peacefully. He shook the gentleman and woke him up, “where are you going?” he asked. “York? I get off after that,” he said and then in delicious irony, “don’t worry, if you’re still asleep when we get to York I’ll wake you up.”

“I get this train every few weeks,” I heard him say, “drink my arse off every time.” Could have fooled me. A lady came by selling tickets. “This whole service is great and you, my dear, are a darling.” A passenger squeezed past on their way to the toilet. “He just wanted to rub past you,” said Laurel, “the perv,” before waxing philosophical in drunken optimism.

“The worst things in life are train fares. The best things in life are everything else.” To be fair, there is a lot of truth in that statement, although it is incorrect. The worst things in life are public toilets.

As the ticket ladies moved up the carriage he turned back to Spectacles behind him, waking him rudely. “What do you do for a living?” he asked, before launching into a monologue. Did I say monologue? Soliloquy would be more accurate. Laurel spoke at great length, uninterrupted except for when he interrupted himself, speaking vaguely in Spectacles’ direction, but certainly not to him. Spectacles sat there nodding gently, the colour draining from his face. My companion turned to me, “he needs nothing more than a good slap,” she said. So I got up and…

…yeah, right.

Laurel’s language got progressively worse (for which I apologise) as he ranted against bankers, doctors and pretty much anyone who earned more than him, “so far up their fucking arseholes,” he raved. It wouldn’t have been a good time for my companion to let on that she spends her time travelling across Europe, visiting the odd château and drinking expensive wine.

We arrived at York and Spectacles escaped with an exhausted expression draped over his face. The poor chap looked like a man whose soul had slowly been sucked out through a straw. “Listen mate, ” said Laurel, placing his hand on the poor chap’s shoulder, “Ah fuckin’ hope all goes well for ya fella.” If Spectacles hoped for anything it was that Laurel slipped on the kitchen floor when he got home and died in a freak teaspoon incident.

And that’s when he suggested playing kiss chase. I thought for a moment that Laurel could in actual fact be Rubbish, but then remembered that Rubbish only drinks apple juice. From miniature kiddie cartons I suspect.

“Why don’t we have a game of kiss chase? There are plenty of girls around,” he said, bubbling with enthusiasm. He winked at a blond further up the carriage. “She’s alright,” he said, “and her, and her, but that one’s asleep so she can’t play,” and as if to explain the sleeping beauty’s exclusion from the game, “it wouldn’t be fair” he said kindly.

He stood there leaning by the door, propped up in a suave, arrogant manner. You could tell he had practised the pose, it smacked of hours spent in front of the mirror. He lounged about with exquisite precision. Collar wide open, the obligatory medallion, less buttons fastened than Simon Cowell on a forgetful day. Grey curly chest hair on the attack, a health and safety risk if you ask me. Man dies strangled by chest hair, the headlines would read.

An ageing swinger, 60s I’d guess, dressed like only an ageing swinger would. Dressed like no ageing swinger should. Casanova, to give him a name, was notably overweight. A blue frilly shirt was taut over his tub and tucked into smart tight jeans with a huge-buckled belt. The buckle sat there silently in iridescent glory, glinting wickedly, aggressively pursuing world domination. I feared for my life. Suede jacket and oh-so-pointy brown leather shoes completed the look.

Lingering, lounging, languishing I mean, he scoured the carriage, scoping I suspect, eyeing up potential conquests, a man who thought he was eternally young. I noticed he was flying low, low and wide I might add, his flies a redoubtable gaping hole. Did I indicate this to him?

Don’t be silly, of course I didn’t.

Flippant, inexplicable and determinedly puerile. Unprovoked he swung round, cocked his head back and grinned. An evil, leery grin. To be fair it wasn’t really a grin, more of a grimace or a snarl, almost like that of a cartoon villain. I knew exactly what he was about to do and I couldn’t believe it. Only seconds before I was on the bus…

…all alone on the upper deck. Outside it was raining heavily, the bus was damp and bitterly cold. Did I say damp? I mean it was wet, very wet. Puddles formed and vanished with the motion of the bus. Drips on my head, drips on my book. I could barely make out the world outside. The windows were misty with droplets running down. Buildings loomed with dark, eerie windows. Eerie, the whole thing was eerie. It was a bit like a scene from a zombie movie but with a noticeable absence of any zombies.

Had I seen him before? Nope. Did he look dodgy? A bit. Was I doing anything other than minding my own business? Not at all. Yet here we were in torrential rain, facing each other like a couple of cowboys. I wasn’t scared or even feeling uneasy. I just walked towards him while looking him in the eye. Such a surreal moment in comparison to the lonely and peaceful setting just moments ago…

…where I pumped out the tunes through my mammoth headphones, I had the whole top deck to myself and it was lovely. Sure it was wet, cold, miserable, damn miserable, miserable as the little sodden leaf that clung to the window beside me, but the solitude was strangely refreshing. Lights outside flickered through the droplets on the window. Brake lights, traffic lights, street lights, police lights. Watching them made me dream, thoughts that no one could understand. Hooded and tightly wrapped in my coat I felt comforted. Nothing compares to the comfort of a good coat. (Apart from perhaps a good clean poo).

I stepped off the bus and headed home. I love listening to music while walking in the rain. In the distance I could make out the shape of a man. He walked slowly so I gained on him quickly. He was lugging a huge shoulder bag, wearing a baseball cap and one of those bomber jackets that were slightly cool fifteen years ago. I was five metres behind him when he swung round.

It was the bizarrest thing that has ever happened to me. He was standing the other side of a massive puddle. That’s when he grinned, snarled, grimaced or whatever. I knew exactly what he was going to do. The bastard. He, a total stranger, was going to drench me from a puddle using the schoolboy method, i.e. cause an airborne tsunami with a slow, swinging kick through the puddle.

He pulled his leg back slowly as if he was teasing. I picked up the pace and charged morosely at him. I was too wet to care and besides, any retaliation would require puddle-side positioning. He got the timing all wrong and soaked himself. The idiot. As I closed in on the puddle he scampered away into the night.

It’s like I’ve always said. You can never trust anyone in a bomber jacket.

***

P.S. Libby if you stop by again – you missed an absolute riot at Kings Cross on Friday and I even had to confront a total prat on the way home…

The bus was about to leave. Just as the doors shut there was a sudden knock on the glass. The bus driver sighed and opened the doors. An old man stepped slowly onto the bus. Sandals with socks, long straggly beard, blue mackintosh, more plastic bags than a bag lady on an exceptionally productive day. And when I say “slowly”, imagine an ageing snail travelling against the wind.

He gently relieved himself of his plastic bags, carefully arranging them along the aisle. He rummaged through them, we sighed collectively, a bitter and despairing sigh. Even the chubby kid looked up angrily from his maths homework. The bus route had already been wrecked by the spectacular incompetence of a leading gas supplier. At every stop dizzy college girls delay us as they fumble for the change that they failed to get ready WHILE THEY WERE WAITING. Imbecilic drivers do their best to ruin our day. I don’t let these things get to me. And now this? I’d have more fun being pooped on by a flock of deranged pigeons. Guess I picked the wrong day to give up sarcasm.

Stooping, drooping, his shaking hands fumbling, he searched for something as we looked on in horror. The bus was now five minutes late and it had not even started the journey. For several minutes he rummaged, (chubby kid went back to his maths) eventually pulling out a leather-bound book. He slowly unwound the binding cord. Round and round, round and round, a bit like the wheels on the bus, apart from the fact we WERE STILL STATIONARY. Good job I’ve been working on managing my anger. My patience is legendary. He flicked slowly through the book, finally removing his bus pass.

“Sorry love,” said the bus driver, “you can’t use that pass before 9.”

What followed was the most painful exit I have ever seen. Rummaging, fumbling, dithering, mumbling. He slowly gathered his bags, chatting to the bus driver all the while. He chatted about this, about that, discussed that one and the other one. “About what?” you ask. I have no idea. The bus driver begged him to get off. We were running late, she pointed out. He commented on the weather, mumbled about the other one again, and something else, and this and that. The infernal wagging of his beard infuriated all of us (apart from the chubby kid apparently).

After much coaxing he stepped off the bus, bags and all. We emitted a collective sigh of relief, there was still a possibility of not being too late. Of course if the gas supplier and college girls had their way we would still grow old on the bus. He turned and stepped back inside. We shuddered collectively, anticipating a vicious loop of death whereby we all died trapped in the bus as this old codger shuffled on and off for eternity (watched by a deranged flock of pigeons no doubt).

“Cheerio,” he said merrily, gave the bus driver a wave and shuffled away.