“Zat some good swag ye got man?”
The nasally toned question came from a pale and scrawny junkie with glazed eyes who was walking down the middle of the road.
I’d just jumped over a locked gate onto the pavement after mortaring-in a couple of holes that I’d made when I’d removed some drain pipework from the building next door. The shell-suited cavalier in question had spotted my big plastic bucket and assumed that I was operating at his level, and had been pilfering from the builders yard that I’d just sprang from.
“No, it’s half a bucket of cement, do you want what’s left?”
Like a call-centre battery hen, he scanned his screen for an appropriate response to the unexpected enquiry and came up with nothing.
“Eh, ye gawn for a drive?”
“Yes, I’m hoping to go to Kintail in a couple of days”.
“Eh, naw… naw, I was gonnae say, cannah get a lift… I’ll gie ye a couple a quid…”.
This was a conversation in motion by the way, me on the pavement heading around the front of the building, with the forthcoming statistic in a baseball cap still in the middle of the road, acting as mobile chicane for passing drivers.
My first thought was “Yeah, I’ll carry you in the same motor as I put my daughter in, you scumbag waster bastard.” Then I wondered if I could hold his head in my bucket long enough for the mortar to set on his head.
Coming back to reality with a little whoa moment. I merely explained that I was still hard at work and had much to do this day.
Good to know that my tolerance is still at the same level as it always has been, but reassuring that age and experience has given my a huge brake lever to throw on when necessary.
Anyway, the gear is indeed at the door, that drive is imminent. Doesn’t matter what the weather’s doing either.
Help ma’ Boab.