The View from Parson Street Nose

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By PARSONSTNOSE | Thursday, November 08, 2012, 08:49

There seemed to be more whiz-bangs than ever this year. When dusk fell on Saturday night my poor dog's little furry knees immediately began knocking with fright.

I tried to scoop him up but Pickle bucked like a spooked horse making off down the hallway as if I'd entered him for the Grand National.

"Where's the dog," Skipper asked me when he returned from his club-house. Well, we turned the house upside down and it was only when bedtime rolled around that we discovered Pickle bivouacked right down at the end of the bed tucked up under the continental quilt.

After three nights of noisy fireworks, Tuesday morning I emerged to find the pavement strewn with rocket wrappers, sticks and other such Guy Fawkery-type paraphernalia.

"Pickle! Drop it," I howled when my inquisitive hound began gnawing on a gutter-ball of brightly-coloured debris. Seconds after reining in the leash I looked up to see a cyclist pelting down the pavement towards me.

The man's eyes were firmly glued to his mobile phone while he thumb-texted like the clappers. Squaring up ready for a collision I was taken aback when valiant little Pickle sent out a mighty volley of barks. The texting-menace almost leapt out of both his saddle and his wits with surprise. The bike's front wheel wobbled wildly before hitting a garden wall with such force it jolted the phone clean out of the texter's mitt straight into a nearby thorn-bush.

Trying hard not to snigger, I made off down West Street with all the speed of a Lucozade-propelled power-walker leaving the bicycling-buglet to reclaim his device.

A short while later I exited Tesco's glazed portals, untied my patient mutt and strode forth with my Jute bag of milk and crumpets. A loud string of beeps rent the air as a woman and her small daughter, with no nod to safety, sped over the road, narrowly avoiding a white van.  

Upon landing on the pavement, the little girl began skipping merrily along while her mother started making a noise much like she was grating a stone. Far too late, I realised what was happening. Out of the woman's mouth came a glistening globule that flew through the air, only missing poor Pickle by a gnat's whisker.

Throbbing on the slab, the thing looked much like a misplaced mollusc longing for the coast. Almost immediately the little girl began hacking, trying to emulate her mother and only succeeding in dribbling disgustingly down her chin.

"Chantelle!" barked her mother. "Don't do that, you looks a right mess. Come yer and let me wipe it off ya."

I was aghast! Not least at the glaring irony of the situation. I remember way back when there once used to be signs that warned 'No Spitting!' Perhaps the new mayor, whoever he may be would like to consider reviving the practice and sparing those of us who shudder at such abhorrent behaviour.   



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