Well, I had some shopping to do so I went into central Manchester. I know the city well enough that this is not really a chore. I knew pretty much where to go but I had a sit in Piccadilly Gardens to collect my thoughts. As is my wont I had a cigarillo. Now this moocher comes up to me and asks for a fag. I have to describe him. He looked forty-ish – much of it spent living in dumpsters – but I was feeling generous and gave him a tab and a light. He then insisted on paying me back. Now at this point you have to appreciate he was wearing a pair of trainers that would disgrbbace a Harold Ramp, a ball cap older than Abner Doubleday and a pair of ratty generic football shorts and nothing else. I was somewhat glad I was in a crowded place in broad daylight. He tried to offer me money (which I knew was a blind) and then rummaged in the front of his shorts (which by then I had noted without joy were packing some heat – Good Golly Miss Molly! I’d just gone into town to buy a birthday prezzie and now I’m about to be sodomized by some fucker with a cock the size of a bleach bottle. It was not how I’d planned the afternoon to pan out.
But he doesn’t whip his gentleman’s gentleman out. He has an already opened 2L bottle of Strongbow cider in the undercart and offers me a swig. I decline as politely as I can.
So I make my purchases and get the train back. It’s all good. Until I realise my wife is out and I have no keys. Locked out of my own home. You can imagine the swears. No you can’t – they were beyond comprehension in rapidity and violence (I can swear for England). So what does Nick do? Well, my house is co-extensive with the Quaker Meeting House and they never lock the ladies toilet window and I know that nobody is in on a Monday afternoon and the communicating door only locks from one side so I build a ziggurat of garden furniture and break in. I come close to spackering myself but I get in in one piece. It was dicey for a while because the window only opened to a vertical 45 degrees and I had to crawl, rotate and drop onto the toilet. And I did that with bust ribs (from an incident a few days back). And I’m 40.
So just an average day. But that was fucking Bravo 2-0. That was Sailor Malan on the R/T yelling “Tally!”. And why not? My wife is astounded at my window creeping. So am I. I had to take my trainers off to fit through. That is how tight it was. That is how cool it was.