The View from Parson Street Nose

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By PARSONSTNOSE | Thursday, October 25, 2012, 09:11

I'd just walked down the slip from Lidl when a group of schoolboys shot out from an entrance, almost succeeding in knocking me over.

"Run!"

One of the lads raced into the road followed by his fellow truants. Disgruntled drivers vented their horns, braking to avoid squashing the lads. But they just hared up the hill hooting with laughter, jeering at the drivers.

I soon forgot the boys and trudged up the hill trying not to choke on the thick misty air that morning, but I had to pause when a coughing fit got the better of me.

"You wants to give up them Benson's, Love."

The truants were leaning against the wall on the corner of Wesley Street, fiddling with their phones, sniggering at something on one of the screens. I gave them a disapproving look and continued on my way.

 

The other evening just as dusk was gathering, the dog and I were scooting round the park when all of a sudden my sharp-eared hound gave a low growl, raising his head like a tousled sentinel.

"What is it, Pickle?" I asked looking round for signs of trouble. Then I heard it too, a low moaning noise was coming from just around the corner. It was getting a rather foggy and a few jitters cantered up my spine. A jogger passed us, wiggling her rump in time to her music she soon vanished in the direction of the moaning sound. As there was no following scream or shout, the dog and I shook off our colly-wobbles and carried on. I almost laughed out loud when I saw them.

Two rather roly-poly girls were slumped on a bench chowing down on a takeaway like a couple of young lionesses after a kill. Both were grunting and groaning, utterly transported with the bliss of the greasy fare.

I heard some shocking news the other day. Poor Mrs Bonnet broke her ankle when she tripped over her little Bugsy in the park. I must say, it's easily done to go headlong over a small dog, fond as they are of ankle-circling.

I headed straight for Asda on a mission of mercy and with crossword book, a box of French fancies and a nice bunch of blooms I stepped out of the store into a thick fug of cigarette smoke. A brace of brawny girls were blocking my way, chatting up some builders right in my path.

"I likes your coat." One of the girls stopped chewing long enough to take another drag on her extra-long ciggie before running her acrid-yellow fingernails down one of the bloke's sleeves. "It's proper lush! Is it Superdry?"

"Alexandra Workwear," chortled the chap. "It's their autumn range." He gave her a twirl, while his mates wolf-whistled.

I couldn't help smiling at him as he did look so amusing, flaring out the hem of his coat like a supermodel.

"Gor, Jeff," laughed one of the other builders. "You've got 'em all after you tonight. You're like cat-nip to women, you are. That one there's even got you some flowers!"  

      

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