Sunday, December 21, 2008

I was driving up a one way street– self-limiting myself to one way; my car hemmed in by parked cars on either side just like how it was in the Bible. About a hundred metres ahead a figure was walking towards me down the middle of the road. I was unbothered, I’ve seen people walking before and I was sure he would move onto the pavement when I got closer. This assumption was not worth the paper it was not worth writing such an assumption on; for my closing proximity brought no adjustment to the figure’s walking down the middle of the road.. In fact, the closer I get, the more confident his stride, the more aggressive his posture. I slowed down gradually still believing he would step aside when the realisation that I was in a car and he wasn’t, hit him like a car. The boney young figure, facial hair under various tidal systems, adjusted his NY cap and folded his arms in defiance as he came to a stop in front of me.

Who was this sack of nicotine, standing there in rubbish trainers, staring at me, letting the sun dry further his blown bulb eyes?. He unsquashed his orange arms, releasing them; pushing them slowly outwards like an animatronics Liam Gallagher. He focused, like a chav yoga instucter into the complete representation of the overly aggressive man stance.

The stand-off began. He started to jig a little, mouthing something repeatedly. I lowered my window to allow this mouthing to form into words, which then uncomfortably rearranged themselves into an almost non-existent question. ‘You gettin’ out the fucking way mate?’ He chanted it, swaying in front of me, his young but shrivelled beetroot of a head bopping forward and back like that of a bearded pigeon.

Gettin’ out the road would have meant reversing for 200 metres and back out onto one of the busiest roads in Bristol; it was an unreasonable request – we both knew that. I am assuming quite a lot in this story; but let's not forget how necessery it is to determine facts with out adequate evidence in this busy, five episodes of Neighbours a week lifestyle I live in.

He edged closer and closer and started slapping his hand on the bonnet of my car. Intoxicated, angry, both? Professor Yaffle had flown away a long time ago.

Finally the tapping stopped and he looked away for a second, lent back against a parked Corsa, no longer bothering with anything at all.


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