Quips from the tracks (I)

Overheard on the DART:

“No, you’re wrong. He’s not a guy who would stab you in the back. He’s the bastard who would stab you all over…”

*****

“They tend not to visit much since they died…”

*****

Girl reading a sign today.

“’Blessed are the meek.’ Mum, what’s a ‘meek’?”

*****

“Every time I spatchcock a chicken, I really must stop telling my daughter we’re having roadkill for dinner…”

*****

Bus people are not my Tribe!

I took the bus. Easier to finish some work on the bus but generally a quieter breed of commuter than the train.

And quiet they are. The silence broke sporadically by an aul fella’s Guns ‘n’ Roses ringtone.

And then she comes to sit beside me – full force on my hip and she pushes me in further and wiggles her oversized arse until she’s comfortable in her – not our – seat. I say nothing – more focused on holding onto my folder of notes.

But she’s not happy so she arises and plonks herself in the seat in front, letting her manky hair cascade over the pages I am trying to read. No sooner have I extracted my pages from under her hood and strands of clumped hair than she gets up and off the bus.

Quickly replacing her is a young man who smells deliciously clean with his clothes fragrant with Lenor. All is well until he tosses his head back and I am encased in a shower of dandruff and dry scalp. And soon he too is gone.

I relax. Notes in place. I read on. And then they arrive. The endless gaggle of foreign students, snaking down the aisle, roaring at the top of their continental little voices. And just as I relax, intent on blocking out the din, two sit in the seat in front with such youthful force that I am almost garrotted by my folder.

My stop. I need at drink. A large one.

The feline has landed…

A cat jumps in and out of my landing window. I know when this happens. I hear the thud and know instantly the feline has landed.

Yesterday, I mentioned this to my neighbour – owner of said cat.

Today, he calls to the door. He wants to tell me there are in fact two cats. They look the same but his has white under its chin. That both of them may be jumping through my window simultaneously. He just thought I should know.

I look at him.
He look at me.
For what seems like an eternity.

I break the silence by saying “And what would you like me to do with this information once I identify which is which? Give them different punishments?”

“Hmmmmm”, says he. “This was pretty pointless information wasn’t it?”
“Hmmmmm”, says I. “Pretty much!”

Ah, Sebastian (Croatia: 2009)

Lying on a sun lounger in the glorious, Croatian, sunshine. So peaceful. Everyone either reading or snoozing. Bliss.

Then he arrives – the four year old from hell.

And so it starts – jumping in and out of the pool. Splashing everyone around. Splashing a lady full force in the face.

Daddy stands there saying “Oh no, Sebastian. I may have to put you on the Naughty Step.”

“But Daddy, I am playing ‘splash-around, splash-around.”
“I know”, responds Dad – without insisting he apologise to the lady, calm down and behave.

And so it continues.

Now Mummy and Daddy are sitting at the edge of the pool, legs dangling in the water as their little joy annoys everyone around.

“Would you like lunch, Sebastian?”
“NO!”
“Aren’t you hungry?”
“NO!”
“Wouldn’t you like to have something to eat?”
“NO!”
“What about Pizza?”
“NO!”
“Mmmmmmmm…lovely pizza!” and the two parents rub their tummies in a circular movement.
“NOOOOOOOO!”
“Yum, yum, yum in your tum!” continue the parents using gestures better suited to a TV programme for tots.
“NO!”
“Mummy and Daddy are hungry. Come have lunch with us!”
“NOOOOOOO!”

On and on this negotiation continued for what seemed like an eternity but what was probably 20 minutes. All around were now sitting bolt upright, growing angrier and angrier by the upset.

Then the end of the conversation which got him out of the pool and hurtled the rest of us to besiege the Manager with complaints.

“Mummy and Daddy need to eat, Sebastian.”
“NO!”
“If you don’t get out of the pool now, we will have to go back to our own hotel…”
“Oh!”

Poor kitty, kitty, kitty

“The cat went missing the other night.”
“What did you do?”
“It was raining so I sent himself out to find it.”
“Quick thinking!”
“I *know*!”
“Did he find it?”
“Yes. Eventually. There was a clatter in the back yard. Some screeching. And some shrieking.”
“Ah, poor kitty.”
“Poor kitty??? Poor kitty??? That feral fecker was fine. It was the husband who came in like the walking wounded, covered in scratches and blood!”