Vandalism in the Park

Inspired by an email I sent a very cool chick…

Last Saturday was a dull affair. The rain was pounding and all I had for company was a reliable Robin (she comes for some Weetabix), a few hardy dog walkers, some career drunks immune to the elements and a smartphone.

With-a-bix

I have made friends with a couple of homeless men. I don’t know their names, but one of them is the gentleman tramp. He is well dressed, well spoken and likes to talk politics, cricket and fine dining. The other is a Belarussian who constantly bemoans the weather of Britain and tells me of his plans to save up enough money to travel to Spain. Both exceptionally nice fellows whom have fallen on hard times. Park activities tend to die down after 7pm, so the remaining 1.5 hours is generally spent in the company of them on a bench, basking in the sunshine (where has that gone, by the way?).

Anyway, they were having their dinner together, late Saturday afternoon, on a park bench (humous/lettuce/pitta), and the Belarussian rushed to my door with stories of a mob attacking the British Rail bowling pavilion. I downed my Strawberry/Raspberry/Loganberry tea and rushed out to defend the indefensible. By the time I managed to ward off the swarm of hoodies, they had kicked the door down and smashed a table. I made chase of the 15 (or so) drunken bufoons,  but luckily the years had caught up and  they were streets ahead of me.

3… 2… 1… Don’t smile!

Presumably they returned overnight and managed to trash about 50 metres worth of temporary metal fencing protecting the new petanque terrain. So in an effort to make myself indispensable to the council, I decided to fix it myself. Two and a half hours later, stood in the rain, my handiwork was complete.

However, as I made triumphant strides back to the safety of my little cubby hole, I managed to hook myself on a protruding screw. My shorts took the brunt of the damage and I ended up with a spilt leg from waistband to the bottom, with only a small thread holding them together. Being the practical gent I am, I used some string I found to hold the shorts together. This was at 11am, with another 9 hours to go. Alas the fabric did not hold and my upper thigh and boxer shorts were on show to all and sundry. Well, a few dog walkers and some career drinkers, but I didn’t want to show off.

It was only then that I decided to root around an abandoned bowling pavilion for some clothing to protect my modesty. Success, sort of. I discovered an old discarded bowling skirt, so with a few alterations, I managed to make it fit beneath my shorts and protect me from the howling rain and incessant wind (or the other way round).

Incessant wind? Yes, please do stop.

The best news was, when I return home and disembarked from the lady outfit was that it was a 14! I managed to squeeze my way into a 14!! Hurrah! No need to visit Evans if ever I felt inclined to return to a (mini/micro/summer) skirt. I did get some strange looks for the rest of the day, more so than normal. Although I have not been able to rid myself of that incessant smell of old ladies – I think it might be the aroma of face powder or scented incontinence pads.
Either way, they took the fence down the very next day, so my efforts were pointless, futile and downright… er… pointless.

Quote of the Day: “If people destroy something replaceable made by mankind, they are called vandals. If they destroy something irreplaceable made by God, they are called developers.” – Anon.

Word of the Day: Eyeservice – work done whilst the boss is watching.