To cut a long story short, two friends and I arrived at Stockton Campus to see the dean of medicine. We were pleasantly surprised by the architecture and scenery having heard it was…you know…the asshole of the north. Anyway, as I approached the reception desk to sign in I was verbally accosted.
“Hi there, we’re here to see [dean of medicine]“
“Ok sure, if I can just take your Christian names…”
ಠ_ಠ
“Um, my atheist name is Tom”
That showed her….bitch
Amsterdam Part 3/3
We were waiting at the tram stop alone, talking of circular references and wordplay that our minds could not resist when a couple arrived across the track, waiting for a tram in the opposite direction.
My mind was flooded with an incessant stream of consciousness. Creatures were talking, communicating with one another in a way that I could not fathom. I knew we were in a different country and so they were likely to be speaking a foreign language but it seemed more than that. I felt they were able to perceive things that I could not, for I was of diminished capacity. I tried to imagine what they were saying to each other but that only raised more questions. What do people talk about? What do I normally talk about? It was like trying to grab a handful of sand only to feel it pour out from between my fingers. They glanced over and their stares, though momentary, pierced my mind. They suspected, nay, knew I was not one of them, I was an alien in their world whose fundamental principals were based on social convention; something that I was unable to grasp. I needed to rectify this situation. I scanned my surroundings and found purpose! We were at the tram stop…because we were waiting for a tram…the digital sign says ‘3 minuten’…which must be when the tram gets here!
“3 minutes” I said to Pete who seemed surprised. He looked at me peculiarly for a couple of seconds, then nodded. Clearly his mind was thinking similar things to mine.
I knew the tram was €2.60 and decided to get the money ready to avoid an embarrassing situation later. I pulled a handful of change out of my pocket and looked at it. All those coins of different shapes, sizes and colours overwhelmed me. I knew I could count them, well had the ability to anyway, but what if something unexpected happened? What then would I do? I returned the coins to my pocket, thought briefly about how bizarre a concept the pocket was, before getting a 5 Euro note out of my pocket. ‘That is a safe bet’ I thought.
The tram ride was horrific. It was completely silent and everybody was sitting perfectly still, less their beady eyes that flickered around passing judgement. Pete and I were trying to contain the urge to laugh the entire way. My face would creep into a smile, then I would realise and overcome it only for the process to repeat. I must have looked like a special kid with OCD on his day out.
After what seemed like an hour, but was in fact 10 minutes, we got off the tram and followed the masses towards the glistening town centre. There were Christmas lights twinkling everywhere, laughter and cackling down every street and most importantly, the veil of darkness to camouflage our twisted personalities. We decided that the most appropriate itinerary was to first wander around the red light district, then go to a coffee-shop to warm up and drink tea.
As we walked, the streets got narrower and more cobbled; our jet black eyes went unnoticed by the groups of intoxicated tourists and illegal drug peddlers. I started to feel secure, safe. This was a city of hedonism, a city where drug use is not only condoned, but encouraged. My mind expanded and I began to take in the surroundings. AS the streets were warmed by the red glow of brothel windows, so too was my core. A look into a window would reveal a warm, barely clad being enticing you in with ‘come hither’ finger gestures and seductive kissing actions. Beings so conventionally attractive feature-wise but baring the label of whore presented a dilemma between lust and conscience. Perched on stools they advertised their own body as a product; one that grasped your primal urges and momentarily shunted civilisation back a thousand years. Glancing behind them you could see a plush, dimly lit and clearly warm room, surprisingly clean for what it was. Standing on the freezing streets staring in it seemed an attractive proposition, for a small fee you could select the being of your choosing, lie in carnal embrace for half an hour and then leave guilt and commitment free. It seemed like the perfect business, a modern establishment paying taxes but dealing the currency of basic animalistic pleasures. Genius.
Though I was aware of my body’s urges, my mind was in no state to interact with another conscious entity; though the idea of paying for the most confusing and surreal sexual experience of my life (to date) seemed superficially amusing, a buried nugget of sanity grounded my thoughts and I just walked by.
Having tired of window shopping and refusing to buy drugs of street vendors we headed to a cafe to have tea. We sat hunched over on the indoor balcony of a coffee-shop drinking tea and passively smoking. I looked down on the clientele from my superior position and observed them. I noticed that nobody was yelling, then noticed that the observation I had just made was not a normal one, for it is normally taken for granted that people aren’t yelling. ‘But WHY aren’t people yelling?’ I asked myself, and retired into introspective thought.
That evening I had a revelation. Our impulsive trip was almost over and I was able to look at my situation objectively. This was no place to be at this time in term. I wondered whether in the fabric of life, I had strayed too near the fringes. Could I recover or was I a thread destined to unravel and fray? Colleagues, friends and acquaintances all marched in lockstep down the path of a conventional lifestyle and I had gone awry. It was time for a change.
The rest of the trip passed and the journey back was more silent than the trip down. As we left Amsterdam behind, the last few days became insignificant grains in the sands of time. We arrived back at the house late in the evening and were greeted by our housemates. They asked questions laughed and smiled at our anecdotes but gradually the conversation returned to the banal issues of everyday life. They were the same, but were we at all different?
Nearly all the bathroom lights in our house has gone. Instead of a constant glow, they were flickering on and off endlessly. What was a relaxing shower became a strobing headache inducing affair. My housemates requested they be replaced but a week later…nothing. So I decided to harass them daily with ridiculous emails until they came and replaced them.
Needless to say, the next day they came and replaced the giant UFO shaped lights meaning only one ridiculous email was needed!
Win!
Part 2
I woke up dehydrated and still tired. I looked out of my window to see a giant ferry and seagulls circling it. I sat up and looked around. It was 7AM. Middle aged people sat in their cars around us reading papers and drinking coffee from thermos mugs. Others scuttled around their cars affixing stickers to their headlights and sticking magnets to the backs of their cars. At first I was confused, then ridden with angst.
I was reminded that it DOES take planning to go abroad. I needed headlight adapters, a first aid kit and GB plates just to drive on the road. Did I have to tell my insurance company? Probably! I had packed nothing. Here we were about to board a ferry with only the clothes we were wearing and our passports.
Suddenly all the cars started to move around us. I quickly tried to change my chair from horizontal to a normal driving position but in the rush made it way too far forward. I started the car and uncomfortably drove it onto the ferry with my seat so upright it was almost acute.
On the ferry, I found a window bench and lay on it closing my eyes. Pete did a similar thing. If we were to make it to Amsterdam in a single leg, I needed some sleep. I distracted my mind by imagining I was a cowboy and drifted off into an uncomfortable sleep.
————————————————————–
PHROOAAAAAP
We were awoken by the foghorn and were forced to return to the car. We passed uneventfully through customs, both silently fearing the questions that would be asked if we were to be searched; having no plans, no bags, no clothes, no money, possibly invalid insurance, carrying offensive weapons and worst of all, no headlight sticker things. However we were soon on the road travelling dangerously fast towards…Amsterdam!
After several hundred miles, and apparently several thousand loops of the Shania Twain CD, we stopped for fuel, energy drinks and snacks. After we had eaten, Pete and I played a game where one would list an illness/disability and the other would have to give it to somebody from our social circle. This passed the remaining hours and finally we arrived at the campsite in Amsterdam, booked a log cabin together and decided to have a quick nap before heading out to town.
14 hours later we were awoken by campsite security, and evicted from our cabin to be moved into a cabinette.
We drove to a nearby supermarket and while looking at the cured meats, our attention was drawn to dozens of giant wheels of cheese on the shelf above.
“Pete, shall we just buy one of those massive cheeses and eat that the whole trip?” I suggested.
“We could, I DO like cheese!”
“They are HUGE; I wonder how much they weigh?”
“They are massive; they must weigh like 10kg!”
“Is it even possible to eat 10kg of cheese between us?” I asked
There was a moment of silence. Our eyes met. One eyebrow raised and a grin grew on our faces. We were both thinking the same thing…
CHALLENGE ACCEPTED!
We then had to deliberate over which one to buy. Obviously after buying the cheese we would buy bread to eat it on and milk to drink it with. But there were two colours of cheese, a brown wrapper and a green wrapper, aesthetically alternating along the shelves.
“So, brown or green?” I asked
“I don’t really care….brown?” Pete replied apathetically.
We deliberated for a few more minutes. During the discussion I noticed a shop attendant giving us a peculiar look but thought nothing more of it.
“Fine, let’s get brown” I said and I reached up to grab the cheese.
Grasping it in both hands, I prepared to haul the cheese down from its high shelf. I took a deep breath and…..
Lifted a fucking polystyrene display cheese off a shelf. It weighed about as much as a packet of Quavers. I replaced it and turned to look at the shop assistant who had given me a strange look before.
He looked at me, shook his head and said something in French German Flemish? a foreign language. He was too far away for me to hear, and speaking in an alien language, but I managed to translate his words perfectly.
‘Twats’
We grabbed some random cured meats, bread and milk and made a swift exit.
We sat in the cabinette eating suspiciously red sliced sausage for breakfast and planned our day. We decided to head out into town, look at some prostitutes and buy some (legal) drugs.
“Tom, did you see that prostitute in the window back there?” Pete said as we sauntered through the cobbled streets.
“Unfortunately yes”
“I don’t get the appeal of that! If she wants more business she should look less…..” he paused
“Hepatitis-ie?” I suggested
“Yeah!”
“Well, there’s a freak for every physique here Pete” I said wisely.
Pete ignored me but shuddered as a rotund black prostitute, seemingly trying to hide a chair inside herself, beckoned him over. We picked up the pace towards the drug shop.
Despite the sign above the door of the shop, it was far from ‘smart’. In fact we ended up taking advice from a woman with more facial piercings that IQ points, she did however supply us with our evening’s activity. Quite potent, “extremely visual” magic mushrooms.
After some more leching, we headed back to our cabinette and opened the box of mushrooms. We placed a glass pipe and a small vial of plant extract on the table for tomorrow, and halved a chocolate bar between us.
One box had about 5 large marble sized balls in, the other about 30 small ones. They looked like mouldy Revels and not in the least bit appetising. Undaunted we divided the boxes up between us and began to eat the bitter, walnut-like truffles with half a square of chocolate per mouthful.
Having finished the box, both of us felt rather uncomfortable. We had to wait an hour for them to kick in and we passed the time by talking. Our conversation slowly became more and more irrelevant until we found ourselves discussing the difference between the ‘cabinette’ that we were staying in, and a ‘cabinet’. Finally something clicked and we inspected each other’s eyes. Our pupils were huge and our iris’s were a narrow ring of colour. I briefly considered the damage the bright city lights would do to my eyes, thinking of my optometrist father (who is probably reading this with shame) then pushed it to the back of my mind.
We left the cabinette, completely unaware of social etiquette, convention and logic and made our way toward the town centre. Our first challenge would be interacting with other people, specifically the tram conductor. We feared the interaction. Our strange reptilian minds persistently lunged and grasped at normality, only for it to elude our grip every time. We were strangers in a world where everyone else knew how to act, what do say and what to do….
End of part 2
Part 1
It was the middle of the week, and Pete and I walked into town for an impulsive night out. We had decided minutes before that being impulsive is a good thing and that 10:30 was not too late to start getting ready for a night out. Although we were locked in a fierce battle of MarioKart Grand Prix, we mutually called it a draw and went to get ready.
Several minutes later we were showered, scented and dressed.
“Tom, are you wearing that?” Pete whined.
“What? My jacket? Yes!” I replied
“But Tom, we can’t both wear leather jackets, we’ll look gay”
I gave him a stern look.
“Fine, I’ll wear a blazer. Not enough people wear blazers nowadays anyway!” he compromised and continued talking about modern standards and linings and I drifted off.
We started the tedious walk into town towards Fabios, our favourite bar. When we arrived it was filled with what can only be described as a ‘slightly older’ crowd. There was a live band on and their shrill music was irritating to listen to and that coupled with the head bobbing of the lead singer was too much to bear and we moved into the next room.
“Urghh, look at THAT” I exclaimed as a sperm whale dressed in a bright green ‘body-tube’ muscled past.
“No, did you see the girl at the bar with the freckles??”
“Oh my god yes, it looked like someone had chucked ginger confetti in her massive face!” I replied with vigour
“Yeah, that’s too many freckles on too many acres of face. Shall we go?”
“Definitely” I agreed and we started to finish our drinks.
Before we could escape, like a Pokemon in the rough – a creature appeared. She proceeded to sit near us, engage us in conversation and drain our social energy to just above the threshold before disappearing again. She talked of sexuality and gossip and the theatre and for a brief moment I considered excusing myself, going outside and then making a fake emergency call to Pete that he would have to rush out to. I had glanced at the creature, smiled as it glanced back and decided against it. “No” I said to myself, Harriet would see straight through that…
Outside the door we paused to decide where to go.
“Jimmys?” I suggested
“No, it’s always either dead or too busy. We could always go to Klute?”
“Yes! Klute is under-rated! The outside area is great for meeting people!”
“That’s true” he stated unnecessarily.
With that we both optimistically strode to Klute, paid our £2 entry and walked in. The ground floor was empty and the downstairs bar closed. Our hopes were damaged to say the least. We headed upstairs, brushed past an obviously autistic giant rubbing his hands like a greedy slave trader, and waited at the bar. Looking around the club, there was not a single girl of note on the entire floor.
“Pete, everyone here is so….plain”
“Yeah, I was just thinking that” he replied.
“Shall we head outside?”
“Yeah” and we took our ridiculous legal loophole drinks outside.
The scene there was worse and we headed back inside to dance. After what felt like a month of that, we decided to leave and try LoveShack in the hope that it was open until 3.
We walked across the square of drunks all heading in the opposite direction and then it appeared again – the creature. It’s jarring call beckoned us over and introduced us to its mate. Pete, having conversed with the mate before knew all too well of its ways and immediately distracted him. This meant I was left talking to her. I was reminded of the time I had spent in the creatures life and inevitably the conversation turned to sex and was immediately both uncomfortable and unnecessary. The creature informed me that LoveShack was closed and I took that as my cue to investigate. I grabbed Pete and he ended his conversation with the mate and we ran towards the club.
Before we’d even got within 20m the bouncer addressed us.
“Nope lads, closed”
“Ah, I KNEW it!” we exclaimed together.
“What shall we do now Pete?” I said hopelessly
“There’s nothing TO do, we’ll have to go home”
And with that we turned around and walked slowly away. Then the bouncer addressed us again. Like a guru of the night, he uttered the fateful words:
“You could always try Sunderland”.
We turned around and gave the bouncer the third degree. In a horrible/mysterious place called Sunderland there was a club that stayed open until 7AM! We noted the name and rushed home, full of joy and anticipation.
When we arrived home we Googled the club and got the postcode. It would take almost an hour to get there!
“Tom, since we’re going all that way, shall we go somewhere good?” Pete suggested.
“What, like out of this country”" I said facetiously.
“We could…” he said. And with that we looked at each other with our wide eyes, still full of hope and wonder.
“Shall we?”
“Why not?”
“Let’s do it!”
“Ok, I’ll get my passport”
“Mine’s here!” I exclaimed, already holding it.
“One sec…”
And with that Pete got his passport and we got in the car, locked the house and started driving. I drove to the nearest fuel station, filled the tank with petrol, asked the attendant to grab six Boost bars and started driving. The sat-nav destination was the port of Dover but our final destination was unknown.
“She was NOT happy at having to get up and get those Boost bars” I informed Pete.
“Was she fat? she looked it” He said while stuffing the Boost bars into the glove compartment.
“Morbidly” I replied and I screeched the car tyres to freedom.
Six hours, 4 Boost bars and 11 loops of the same CD later we pulled up at the last petrol station in England, filled up again, picked up 4 pints of milk, some Pringles and ‘Shania Twain’s Greatest Hits’. We bought a ferry ticket, parked our car in lane 125, reclined the seats and tried to go to sleep to the sweet voice of the most attractive and wealthiest country singer Canada has produced to date…
We had maybe an hour to sleep and we would need it. Bitching about Tom Fletcher would have to wait…
End of Part 1
Robbie and I were cooking Chilli con Carne in the kitchen.
“I bet you won’t eat this raw mince meat” Robbie said. He had that Elvin glint in his eye and playful smile that I knew all too well. He was happy because he had managed to open some cans of tomatoes that were inexplicably dented around the rim. It took him ages but he had done it. Eventually resorting to cutting the middle out of the top of the can with a knife.
“Easy” I said, and I ate the spoon of raw mince meat. It tasted like oil and not much else.
“I bet you can’t stab through that can with the omni tool”
“Of course I can” and I stabbed the knife through the side of a can of chopped tomatoes. It was satisfying.
“I bet you can’t stab through the can while it’s on your stomach”
“umm, sure I can” and I dangerously stabbed through the can towards my abdomen.
“Tom, one of these days you’re going to kill yourself doing something stupid”
“What? No I’m not! I’m lucky Robbie. Lucky people don’t kill themselves by accident.” And I stabbed the knife into the knife holder so it jutted out of the side at an angle.
“Luck isn’t something you have Tom, it’s just odds”
“No, I’m lucky, it’s in my genes. Think about when I play Mario-kart, do YOU get that lucky?”
“Hmm” he contemplated. “It’s just probability”
“Would THIS be probability?” I challenged, chucking a bowl of uncooked rice in the air and catching it again.
“TOM! Stop it! I’m not cleaning that up” He said, with that nervous look in his eye.
“Would you clean THIS up?” I teased while spinning a bottle of wine in one hand.
“TOM! Give me that, and as he tried to get it off me, I chucked it from hand to hand and spun it again. He backed off, scared his attempts to retrieve it would cause me to drop it and I put it on the side. He snatched it and put it out of my reach.
“Oooh” I said playfully, and I saw his neck snap toward me as he nervously watched my next stroke of luck. I tried to juggle some cans of kidney beans. I teased Robbie, stopping occasionally to catch that despairing look in his eye then carrying on.
“Tom. Stop it, please! You’ll drop them”
“So, they’re just cans, what could happen”
As I said that I dropped the cans, and they dented around the rims making use of a can opener impossible. Robbie’s face was priceless. It had finally clicked why he had had so much trouble opening those tomatoes. I made a speedy exit from the kitchen while he stood there halfway between annoyed and shocked”
As the door closed I managed to hear him yell in an uncharacteristically loud voice.
“THIS IS WHY WE CAN’T HAVE NICE THINGS!”
I was doing some important research on my laptop in the living room when Pete walks in. Although the work is important, I pause what I’m doing.
He looks fucking ridiculous. He has been to the gym and is wearing a polo shirt, knee-length shorts, black trainers with black socks and carrying a satchel. I laugh because he looks so farcical, like a gay porn actor in a schoolboy scene. At once a dozen potential jokes fill my head.
“You’re back from school early” I settle on.
He looks at me, hurt, and I laugh, cruelly.
“I’m sorry” I say insincerely.
“You joke, but I actually got insulted by a child on my way back. A young girl!!!” He said, feeling insecure.
“Did she want to know why you delivered her post late? I chided.
“No”
“Did she try and steal your Pokemon cards?” I chided again, gaining momentum.
“NO”
“Your lunch money?”
“NO, STOP IT!” He said, hurt.
“Did she…”
“No Tom, stop it.”He interrupted. He sounded genuinely upset, so I tried a different approach.
“Come on Pete, what did she say?” I said, in my most earnest voice.
“I don’t want to talk about it”
“Oh come on, we’re all friends here” I comforted.
“Fine, she said….” He paused. It built tension. He continued. “Well, she yelled ‘is Michael Jackson back from the dead!’ at me. People in the street laughed”
I laughed crassly in front of him
“I’m sorry. Really.” I said. “You don’t look anything like Michael Jackson” I said, not lying.
“Thank you!” he said, feeling better.
“But I reckon wearing that you could seduced him and got a fat settlement!”
I laughed crassly in front of him again.
He silently left and went to his room. I briefly considered his feelings but got bored, he had interrupted me after all.
I continued searching for a video of a Gorilla lifting weights, but all my efforts led to nothing.
My phone rings, to the tune of ‘marimba’ of course because I have a good phone, an iPhone. I see it is from “Blocked” and go through the usual thought processes.
Me – Ooh, blocked, it could be anyone!
Me – It’s your mother, she always calls you on withheld number
Me – But what if it’s not? What if I’ve won a competition or it’s the Police or something good?
Me – Good point answer it!
Me – But no, it’s never good, it’s always her, or work.
Me – Yes, but what if it were something good, and you miss out, won’t you feel stupid?
Me – Yes. Yes I would. I shall answer it!
I answer the phone. It is my mother.
“Hey, sorry I let it ring for so long, I’m so busy” I say, lying.
“Oh, sorry Tom. I was just reminding you that you need to take all those bottles to the bottle bank” She says, understandingly.
I glance over at a huge bag of empty bottles containing an assortment of every imaginable glass product in every fathomable colour. The result of 4 consecutive days of hedonism and drunk, clumsy friends. I imagine how long it will take me to sort out all the colours and various items and place them in their respective bottle banks while car park onlookers judge me for the number of bottles I loudly throw away. I instead decide to take them to the tip, where they have a single container for all types of glass and where there is an air of rubbish-removing camaraderie.
“Oh, uh yeah, well I’ll take them to the tip instead. I have some, er, wood that needs throwing away” I said, again lying.
“Oh, no, well you wont make it in time, they’ll be shut” She said lying for no apparent reason.
“What? Well what time do they shut?” I asked, probing to uncover the lie.
“Sunset” She said, with such conviction.
“Sunset? Sunset? Mum, this isn’t the wild west, no business’s opening hours are based on the true solar day anymore.” I said, feeling clever.
“Well 6:00 then” She said, backtracking.
“What? That makes less sense!” Firstly it’s 5:15 leaving me plenty of time to get there, and secondly yesterday it didn’t get dark until after 8:00!”
“Tom I’m not going to argue, they’re shut, just go to the bottle bank like I said” She ordered.
“No Mum, I’ll take them to the tip, that’s what men do, you wouldn’t know, being a woman” I said, pulling the gender card.
“Fine, but if they’re there when I get back I’m not going to be happy” She concluded.
I was about to make a comment about how she wouldn’t be happy anyway, and how the world would be much simpler if it were more like Logans Run, but she had hung up, perhaps sensing that I was about to say something witty.
I hauled the huge bag of bottles into the boot of my car and drove to the tip speedily whilst playing music loudly. Having driven the 8 miles to the tip I found it to be closed, I silently cursed and drove the 8 miles back, plus the extra 1 mile to the bottle bank where I menially began to sort out all the colours and various items and place them in their respective bottle banks while car park onlookers judged me for the number of bottles I loudly fed into the bottle bank’s greedy, rubber lipped mouth.
Flap.
The postman unceremoniously stuffs our post through the letterbox. I collect it, unfold it and after I check to see if it’s birthday cards for the ex-tenants, hand it all to Pete who opens it excitedly.
“What happened to delivering the post in the morning” he said, as it was now past 1:00.
“We’re up north!” I reminded him “Up here they strike until noon, go to the pub for lunch and then start work”
“Huh” He said, agreeing.
“What have you got there?” I asked, uninterested.
“A letter from the bank asking me to send them a letter from the bank to confirm my address”
“Oh, so need to send them a statement?” I asked
“Well, maybe, but I think just to be ironic I’ll send them this letter back instead” he said, grinning.
“So wait, you’re going to send the bank the letter they sent you to this address asking you to send them a letter from the bank to prove your address” I asked
“Yeah” he said, still grinning.
“Let me know how that goes…” I said, imagining the look of despair on some bank clerks face when they realise who they have to deal with.
One evening as Pete and I optimistically strode into Durham town out of term time, we noticed a gang of youths being rowdy at the end of our street. The kind of youths that tabloid papers condition older generations into fearing with stories of stabbings and muggings. Considering ourselves immune to working class propaganda we decided to march on past them and give them a chance.
A couple of hours later, the police dropped us home, noted the smashed windscreen on my car, handed us a leaflet on violent crime and promised to return tomorrow. We were sober, tired, and one of us bloody and shirtless. We sat in our respective places on the L-shaped sofa and drank tea.
“You give them a chance” He started, angrily “and they just prove themselves scum!” he said, almost yelling.
“True” I concurred.
“They just are….SCUM!”
“True” I councilled.
The conversation continued along these lines for a few hours before we each went to bed.
In the morning the (I suspect) dyslexic female police officer turned up at the door. Social convention dictated that I invite her in and show her to the living room where Pete and I were. The living room was of course a complete state with dishes everywhere and the remnants of semi-legal activities present. I noticed her ambivalence at taking a seat, so I quietly took the air rifle from its position on the armchair and put it in the cupboard. She then sat down in the armchair on top of Pete’s clean washing. She started talking, wavered slightly as her eyes caught sight of a flick-knife, and then continued as if she hadn’t seen it. I suspected it was because it had been used to cut a pizza that she decided it did not constitute a weapon. She turned to Pete and in a very non threatening, been-on-a-counseling-course way made formal informal conversation with him.
“How are you?” She asked, in a calming manner.
“Fine”
“It’s normal for victims of Violent crimes to feel intimidated and frustrated”
“Yeah, I can imagine”
“So how are you?”
“Fine”
“Did you read the leaflets on being a victim of a violent crime?”
“Yes, all it did was make me feel like a victim”
“Well in a way you are”
“Yes, but I didn’t think that until you kept calling me a victim!”
“Do you need counseling?”
“No. Well, not for this anyway”
“Ok well, we’ll give you a call to follow up”
“Are you going to call me a victim then too?”
“You are a victim!”
“I know, just stop telling me I’m a victim”
“But you are a victim!”
“O..K., I’ll wait for your call. Thanks” he said in despair after a heavy sigh.
“You have our number don’t you?” she said, insulting our intelligence by assuming we can’t remember 999.
She left and Pete and I continued talking after replacing the air-rifle in it’s chair.
“God, I’ve never felt like such a victim” He moaned.
“but Pete” I said, and paused to build tension. “you are a victim” I teased in a mocking councilor-like tone.
“Fuck off. Do you wanna play Goldeneye?”
“Purist?”
“If we must..”
“O.K. then”
“Gimme, a sec, I’m gonna wash my clothes again”
“But they’re clean!” I exclaimed
“No…she sat on them”
We laughed out loud because the same thought ran through our heads.
She was fat.
