Thursday, June 30, 2011
I try not to fight with grannies.
For obvious reasons. They could poke me with their stick or fall over, and either wouldn't be pleasant.
Yesterday though, I had a colossal fight with one.
Grannies are meant to be kind, calm people who offer shortbread to vagrants and own cats.
Not this one.
In context, last night,a group of us went out to get drunk on steak.
There is such a thing. The meat packing district - bovine, not penis - in Farringdon, has some excellent restaurants offering the best in carniverous fare.
Whilst getting drunk on meat, vodka limes and wanting to steal the chandelier above my head, I was telling them the story about the woman on the ground floor of our flat.
She's a Curtain Twitcher.
Curtain Twitchers are usually 70+, have lived there for over 30 years, needs to know who comes and goes, and most of the time, are not sweet old ladies with clutches of grandchildren. Most of the time they have a scythe behind the door and if their Zimmer frames could move any faster, would go on a killing spree of the younger generation.
Curtain Twitchers HATE people like me.
You know someone is watching you. I left for work yesterday, dragging the rubbish down with me to the skip near the sheds outside.
I didn't need to see the doily lace curtains twitch to know I was being watched. I dropped the bag of rubbish next to the skip. Bearing in mind, England is a Nanny State when it comes to rubbish and recycling in general.
People get upset if you put the wrong trash into the wrong bag. Where I come from in contrast - people throw shit wherever they like.
I try to conform, I mean, I fucking recycle ok. Today, because the bloody skip was full, I put the bag [gasp!] next to it. On the ground.
Woe betide the ignorant bitch who puts tied, sealed and orange [colour coded for: this is recyclable] bag on the ground.
Well. The Granny went mental.
[Bang! Bang! Bang!]
Hark, what could that be?
Most rotund and wearing large spectacles, the Curtain Twitcher had pulled the doily away from the window and seemed to be commandeering my attention.
I turned around.
It was standing in the window, gesticulating wildly. Presumably about the bag I'd dumped next to the skip.
I then started doing the same thing. Don't fuck with me before 9am; don't fuck with me before my morning latte.
She started going ape shit, banging on the window, pointing a finger at me and mouthing, "I'm going to come out there and kick your ass."
I started mouthing, "SPYING ARE WE?" Forming telescopes out of my hands. "Spying on everyone who walks by like you usually do?"
She ranted. I ranted.
"DON'T YOU HAVE ANYTHING BETTER TO DO THAN POLICE THE RUBBISH?"
Then stormed off.
I expected a note under my door when I returned home after the Steak Up, but nothing.
This makes me VERY nervous. The bitch is planning to kill me.
She is, isn't she.
She's going to put arsenic in my tap water. Or report me to Wandsworth council, at the very least.
I sleep with my eye wide open. The Brit is in Athens working. So for now it's just me and the scythe-wielding Rubbish Nazi.