Tuesday, 28 February 2012
I happen to be a professional queuebarger. It's not intentional, I just don't see the queue until I'm at the front of it. In the over-arching metaphor of life, this is a great advantage. However,in more small-time, practical situations, it is not. I frequently end up in stand offs where I am being cursed out by scores of numbskulls, affronted. This last particular, I was on top form. Arriving in Malaga (off course), I got turned on by a line up of retired bouncers and small time crooks. "I've hit a woman for less," one said. With full support of the auditorium, an old woman took the helm, cursing me out about patience and respect. I laughed. And laughed, looking at the silent baggage carousels beyond passport control, which rendered who went through first meaningless. Giving up on getting through to me on any rational level, she turned to the boy I was with, grabbed his arm and spat, vehement, "she'll never love." She'll never love! I liked her style, so I fronted off the old bitch out. Chest puffed forward, teetering over her, I let the words spill. "I can see your scalp."