Crikey, it's a bit scary leaving the house these days. Well, it is if, like me, you pull your companions to the ground every time a door slams. The main focus of my fear in the mean streets of Arthurs Hill revolves around nipping to the shop for a pint (well, not actually a pint, obviously, but it sounds nicer doesn't it? All sort of post-war, pre-fab, new washing-machiney)of milk. My first encounter with the scary brothers who run the shop was them apparently having an argument, in front of me but not speaking to me, about whether one of them had called me 'sir' and therefore thought I was a man. It started 'that's a friggin lass, man!' and ended with them just shouting at each other along the lines of 'I never!' 'You did!' 'I friggin never!' Since that incident I have rarely entered the shop without hearing them shouting about something, almost invariably at each other or their hapless assistants. On their days off there's a rather camp man who goes for a much more bitchy plan of attack that I find more entertaining. Yesterday I heard him asking a young woman for proof of her age to buy cigarettes. The woman got another shopper to vouch for her: 'Aren't I old enough to buy tabs?!' 'She's old enough to smoke them n all. She's got three kids!' Shop man's response: 'that means nothing round here my love, they're dropping them at ten'.
Oh, in other news, I have a flickr. Have a look and see what happens when you try to do close-ups without an SLR. See: half a dead crab, half some dead crab's legs, half a ... you get the picture.
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