Thursday, 16 September 2010
Saturday, 4 September 2010
At the bus stop. Youngish guy rocks up carrying an open bottle of some fizzy thing (asti spumante, or something, with the foil peeled back at the top) in a paper bag, and a slab of stubbies.
GUY: (sings) Wha-aaa-t are YOU dooo-ing the re-EST of to-o-o-DAY?
ME: Going home and working. How about you?
GUY: (still singing) Con-TIN-yooooouuuu-ing to drink, then going to see my friends, and dri-i-i-ink....ING. (looks at me quite closely) I know!!! I don’t look the type, do I?!??!
ME: On the contrary, friend. The only empirical evidence I currently have is that you are, in fact, The Type.
GUY: I mean, ok, I haven’t achieved everything my friends have. One of them, he flies jumbo jets!! I don’t even have my driver’s licence.
ME: Not ambitious in that direction?
GUY: Nooooo, man! I hate cars. Hate ‘em. Never been interested. (nanosecond pause) I could buy a house in Brazil.
ME: Well, Brazil. Naturally.
GUY: This bloke I know has one there, right, and it has, like, everything. A kitchen, a whole school!! A four-car garage.
ME: What do you want with a four-car garage? You can’t drive.
GUY: *blinky blink*
GUY: Yeah, got my L plates, though, ay.