I walk into the post office. The queue is huge. It snakes around the cordoned route all the way to the entrance.
I can already hear her.
Quite a large lady. Middle-aged? Leisure-wear and bleach-blonde with black roots. Big curls in a top-knot.
She is effing and blinding right in the faces of a pair of women who are quite calm about it.
At first I think that the woman is rather animatedly telling them a story.
It soon becomes evident that she is not as she turns her attention to someone else.
‘Don’t fackin tell me ta calm darn you fackin calm darn I’ll rip ya fackin ead off bout calm darn who dya fink ya talkin to ya cant?’
Her swearing is relentless.
An older man looking at the greetings cards turns around.
‘I don’t think you should talk to people like that.’ He gently suggests.
‘I’ll fackin talk to people how I fackin like. Don’t you fackin tell me wot to do you should see my dad he’ll rip ya fackin ead off!’
She mutters more things under her breath. Tutting and swearing. Rolling her eyes.
She talks to anyone and everyone and has to have the last word. Even with herself.
News, forthcoming shows, work in-progress, writing, and other things I get up to or find interesting.
