The View from Parson Street Nose

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By PARSONSTNOSE | Thursday, October 18, 2012, 09:52

I saw the strangest thing when I was preparing to cross British Road the other morning. A young man with a sports bag hurried along the pavement then ducked behind the wall into Albert Place.

I watched transfixed as he stepped out of his trainers and removed his jogging bottoms. Luckily, the young man was wearing quite generously proportioned underpants so I didn't feel the need to avert my eyes. After he'd pulled a pair of jeans out of his bag, he topped off the ensemble with a stripy shirt then proceeded to vigorously brush all the gel out of his hair until it lay smooth and neat in place of his former hedgehog spikes.

Still pondering on the young man's clandestine costume change I joined the queue at the Post Office behind a woman with spectacularly immaculate hair.

"Have you got all your documents ready, Graham?" she asked the man standing next to her.

Graham, who appeared to be a surly 35 or so, who suffered from a calamitous scurf problem, promptly held up a clear plastic folder and then, quite theatrically I thought, removed each document, holding it out for her perusal.

"Use your words, Graham," said the woman. "The lady at the counter won't want to hear silence."

"How can you hear silence, Mother?" scoffed Graham. Struggling to close the popper on his folder he sent forth a flaky snowstorm. "Being as it is the absence of sound."

His mother veritably bridled with umbrage, only her hair remained immovable.

 "Would Mr Sarcastic like to pay for his own tax disc?" she snapped.

"Sorry, Mother," said Graham, hanging his head in the cold face of fiscal reality. Not another peep came from either of them until they reached the head of the queue and Graham darted forwards towards the counter.

"Don't forget to smile nicely at the lady, Graham," trilled his mother in a voice as clear as a blackbird's call at dusk. Poor Graham dropped his documents on the floor. His cheeks continued blazing all the way through the transaction.

Late one afternoon I realised with a pang of fright I'd strayed over my allotted two hours in the Asda car park. My mind filled with thoughts of the tow truck I picked up my pace. The lights at the crossing outside the White Hart were still in my favour, but typically, just as I drew level with them, the beeping stopped and I skidded to a halt, tutting loudly in frustration.

"What's happening?" asked a teenaged girl. "Them lights didn't wait for me to be ready." Batting her long eyelashes in bemusement she stared as the flow of traffic restarted.

"Eh?" said her friend, tearing her gaze from the phone she was jabbing at. "Was we meant to be crossing then?"

A loud groan escaped my lips, which I rapidly turned into some comprehensive throat clearance. The very moment the lights changed again I was off like a Jack Rabbit.

"Look," called one of the girls in my wake. "It's Marathon Gran!"

How embarrassing!

      

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