Everyday I listen to the same stories, moans, groans and pointless ramblings. I stand transfixed as I glaze over listening to odd view this village has of itself, don't these people know that I have ADS and an aversion listening to crap about what house is for sale and how much its on for, not worth it , he tried to sell last year couldn't shift it now he's spent a fortune doing it up , 10k on the front alone, Wheres he going? no idea I say but I do . Still all good for us in the village puts the prices up for us all, keep the place special. Aren't we lucky, of course you're lucky you're living rent free in the almshouse all paid for by me and my Mrs. Fuck me how far up you're own arse can you get in this village.
8.43am in she slides the Lady Dowager herself, landlords wife, proud member of the ruling class, penny pinching and sour old puss. Proud to clip the coupons to save a penny or two. Each month she waits by her door for the bank statement to arrive, excited, almost wet at the thought of the balance on her account she and her husband have accumulated over the years, a penny here a penny there, a good deal here, screw someone there. A favour done, a debt collected with interest of course, don't buy the best buy the cheapest, don't repair make do, lie cheat twist and turn make the bastards squirm. Switching the sherry in the bottles at the parish council Christmas party to the crap stuff saves her another few pennies to roll around in naked when they turn into pounds and the bank statement arrives.
She hands me a £5 note for her 50p Daily Mail, fuck me a note she must be heart broken to see her blue friend leave the warmth of her purse.
The veg man arrives as she slithers out the door muttering nothing clutching her purse tightly, a black or a Albanian might be lurking in the laurel bushes getting ready to pounce on her £4.50. They do that you know, it said so in the Daily Mail last Tuesday.
Veg is fresh and a joy to unpack, smelling of the fields and still wet with morning dew. Its journey has been long and the mornings have been early , some poor bastard drove to market today at 1am just for so ungrateful bastard to prod and tell me cabbage is cheaper in Aldi. Of course its fucking cheaper but its not on your doorstep.
My poor old lost soul comes in, hair all wild eyes bulging boney cheeks shinning, more bloody tea bags , thats 160 this week if I'd allowed her, another pint of milk , two tomatoes and a small bar of chocolate, if she asks me one more time where the bread is I'll scream. Old-timers disease has got her but she loves it, wandering around the village mad as a box of frogs . I'd love to know what she does with all the stuff she buys , everyday the same thing no more than £3
but it gets her out the house , bless her.
Fucking walkers come in with muddy boots and snot dripping off their noses, thanks alot mud and snot to wipe up after they've gone. Stop gawping at my fresh cheesecake , pies and bread pudding, stop telling me how wonderful my shops is for gods sake stop telling me you're having lunch in the pub and not here. Buy something , christ knows you've dripped enough snot about the place, and for fuck sakes can you ask your friend to pull the Titanic of a bogey out of her nose before it drops on my cupcakes.
The butcher arrives, looks at me with that poor bastard look and leaves me alone again with mud, snot and a fucking bogey the size of Berlin on my marble topped counter.
Why oh why did I do this ?
Here he comes I can see him crossing the street, flat cap on his head, polyester track pants stained and worn , the warden from the almshouses, landlords little bitch. Thinks he has the right to touch every piece of fruit and veg and buy nothing. Fuck off I scream in my head as I welcome him with a smile when he enters MY shop. Fuck off to Morrisons and touch the fruit and veg, do you have a hard on for the feel of brassica does an apple do it for you, coz I doubt your Mrs has done anything for you for a long time.
I sell him his wifes magazine and wish him the best day ahead while screaming fuck off in my head .
The landlord skuttles by , speeding up as he walks past the shop, head down in shame, thinks he's the Mayor of the village. Ive seen him standing on his balcony surveying the village from his vantage point like the wanker he really is, what a prick
He's gone and Im settling down for a cuppa at the counter, out of the corner of my eye I see another fucking bogey hanging off the fluffy pink icing of one of Tinkerbells fairy cakes, fuck it I'll sell it anyway.
No comments:
Post a Comment