Hundreds of years ago, when the this here internet was all just fields, I used to work in a d.i.y. store. It was...let me see...hmmm...yes....the worst fucking job I ever had. You know, except for aaaaaall the others.
I hadn't been working there very long when one day a man came in & hung about the aisle with all the white spirit in it. He seemed quite sweet, in his clean if shabby tweed jacket and red bow tie. He walked straight up to me and began chatting.
He twinkled away to me about the weather and what promising adventures I might have lined up for the weekend, and as he did so he nonchalantly picked up a 2 large bottles of methylated spirit and put them in his trolley. He smiled and chuckled his way through a little more small talk before wending his merry way off to the checkouts.
And I said to myself, there goes the jolliest old soul I have ever encountered.
And later that afternoon, I passed by that same old man sprawled across a flowerbed near the store, shitfaced, with a half empty meths bottle under his arm.
I mention this for no special reason other than it is a memory that has been keeping me awake a bit lately. And I'm not really sure why.
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