Well it’s all happening today. I just saw a man pull a knife on two blokes who were trying to stop him from robbing their jeep. They had him wrestled to the ground and when he pulled the knife they let him go. He pulled his hood over his head and strolled off but kept facing them the entire time. He didn’t run, he didn’t panic, he never looked like using the knife but his point was made, so to speak. Then about ten minutes later the hair salon across the street went on fire. Apparently one of the orange people who work there dropped some nail polish remover on a candle, then knocked the candle over and tried to put the subsequent blaze out with some nice dry towels. Judging by the thick black smoke that was billowing out the doors and windows I’d say she failed quite spectacularly. The salon staff watched the scene unfold amid sobbing and whaling and there was much running of mascara and flashes of French nails.
I was in Stoke on Trent for the past couple of days. It was recently voted the most depressing place in the UK. I quiet like the place though. I was over there with my boss. When we went to collect the car from Avis he was trying to examine the car and put his case in the boot at the same time. This resulted in him falling over backwards into a hedge. I laughed so hard a little bit of wee came out. He didn’t fall straight away. No he teetered and swayed and I stood there thinking he’s going, he’s going and there he goes. Middle aged man decked out in a suit, legs akimbo in the middle of a hedge. I could have tried to catch him but where’s the craic in that.
Stoke is a small place, with a rural feel and has a fair selection of pubs and restaurants. I was staying in a place called the Clayhanger, the Dangleberry I like to call it, a place I’ve stayed many times before. It’s run by two nice blokes who I think are in the gays. My only quibble about the place is that they don’t serve sausages with the cooked breakfast. I reckon there’s something in that but I’m a bit reluctant to ask them for some sausage action.
As I was waiting for breakfast yesterday morning I was accosted by a middle aged woman who wanted to know where I came from. When I said Ireland she was delighted. Her people came over from Ireland in the 1850’s she said, after the potato blight. She went on to tell me that she was a local woman who had just recently been divorced and was staying in the Dangleberry until she got sorted with a flat. Her husband had been abusive she said. It was her third husband in fact. She had been single for 25 years and then married three abusive and violent men. A bit greedy I thought, surely one is enough for any woman. She surmised that she should have stayed single and what could I do but agree. I learned all about Stoke and the Potteries, much more than I ever wanted to. She met her latest husband when he was in recovery, this peeked my interest. In recovery for what I enquired. A head injury she offered. He had fractured his skull quiet badly and had suffered some brain damage. They met during his recovery and were married a few days later. He wasn’t the only one with brain damage I thought. He swept me off my feet she said. How romantic a man with brain damage can be is not for me to say. He was prone to fits of violence. She suffered 22 instances of domestic abuse in 10 months.
It was half seven in the morning, the door to the breakfast room opened, I held it open for her and we entered together. This woman had given me more personal information in those ten minutes than anyone I’ve ever met. I’m not very good with sensitivity and feelings and stuff. She was obviously lonely or maybe I have a big hey talk to me head on me. We stood side by side at the cereal counter. I was almost afraid to pick a table first in case she sat next to me. All I wanted was breakfast, coffee and nothing more. She sat first and I chose a different table. One where she wasn’t facing me, and thus couldn’t make eye contact. I stared at her big round back and pondered her lot for a few seconds. I felt sorry for this woman. Life had obviously dealt her a series of shit hands. She was pleasant though, and seemed happy enough. Either that or she was crazier than a shithouse rat. Either way there was little I could do. All I wanted was some breakfast and why oh why is there never any sausages.
