Gas Men, Chavs & Thieves

With my trusty Euphonium in tow, the pearlescent snood of the past, containing its fair share of blue boob tubes, fights, collages & car crashes, now forgotten, I ventured through the County Gates that historically divided Hampshire from Dorset. Now just a lonely roundabout between Bournemouth & Poole, past Westbourne on the left and into the cold bosom of nippley Branksome, far away from its very own Chine.

After slowly scalding my hands whilst protecting an apparently precious carpet from a defective plastic cup, I set off for a stroll during a break in the brassy proceedings to the distant sound of multiple sirens. A short walk around the block and I was confronted by a puffy faced Gas Man in a fetching, fluorescent jacket lumbering towards me, jazz hands in the air. The sirens were closer now, in fact right behind my left ear, as two large police cars pulled up beside me and its occupants frantically piled out on to the street wielding a compact & bijou battering-ram.

I felt as though I was in the middle of an overly dramatic & badly-acted episode of 'The Bill' and thusly decided to practice my wife-of-a-criminal patter, wide eye-twitch & innocent head sway. "I can't believe 'ee's got the nerve, comin' round 'ere. You're 'avin' a laugh ain'tcha? etc." None of these things had time to leave my lips, though, as the beuniformed ones sped into a nearby house, leaving me to ponder on the situation (an autoerotic asphyxiation attempt, ending in a spectacular & self-aggrandising explosion decimating the whole of the Jurassic Coast?) as I firmly unrubbered my neck and walked on.


Currently listening: Devil Between My Toes by Guided by Voices