I’ve met my first Australian.
No, I lie.
I actually met my first Australian on the thirteenth September 2001. I know this because it was me, him and some American chap surrounded by Czech people on a Czech coach travelling back to London from Prague. We shared a day-old copy of the Financial Times, which told us very little about what we wanted to know [9/11], and chatted about nothing significant. When we got to customs in the English bit of the French bit the Czech’s all looked warily at the Sikh men standing near-by. It made me laugh and want to flick cigarette ash over them.
But that’s another post, one that discusses the merits of being intelligently introverted and shy, yet stupidly brave and ignorant.
So, I’ve met my second Australian.
The Bald Guy [a new chap on the bus, only twenty-two but already going bald – I know this because a) I’m not blind, and b) I eavesdrop on conversations (edit: the Bald Guy is not the Australian, the Australian is someone at work)] didn’t realise that the Three Witches [and their cohorts] sit at the back and screech so loudly that I have to play my Therapy? at maximum volume on my [pink mini] iPod and can still hear everything they shout when I’m right at the front of the bus. He was hemmed into a corner and made a hurried exit when he discovered the error of his way, to which the Pain In The Arse Witch cackled, Oh, it it something we said?.
One day I’d like to turn around and tell her that yes, it was something she said. And something she did. And the fact that she wears those shite sunglasses and practically sits on people’s laps. And then I’d turn to the youngest of the Three Witches and ask him why he’s running after freakin’ girls when it’s so freakin’ obvious that he’s freakin’ gay. And would he please refrain from telling the same story day after day after day after day [*yawns and struggles not to fall asleep*] …
Still, that was yesterday. Today it was just Pain In The Arse Witch and she had nobody to talk to.
I am so pleased that GayChav [who isn’t gay, and isn’t really a chav either] is back on the bus because now we can claim the backseat as ours [I realise that sounds naughty, but it isn’t – I’ve never even spoken to him. Besides, he’s too young. And oh, yeh, I have a blokey], and tsk and tut and roll our eyes when we get pushed into tight corners and find it difficult to breathe …
People who are panic-buying petrol are making me chuckle. Today the Tesco garage had a sign saying, Out of fuel at its entrance. The next garage had only half its pumps working and the final garage on my wondrous journey home had a strange woman in a posh convertible filling up three [yes, three] little petrol cans. Me assumes that there is some sort of petrol thingy going on that I don’t know about because I don’t drive.
*laughs at silly people*
please God bless the petrol, that it may find happiness xxx Elsabeth