Saturday, April 08, 2006

On Kingsland Road

Scampering past the yellow Metropolitan Police sign shouting "MURDER: WE ARE APPEALING FOR WITNESSES*" out the back of my flat, I boarded a bus for a slightly more savory part of town. Coincidentally, on the hunt for a new abode.

As I wasn't sure which stop to get off, I stayed on the lower deck. Usually, I'm on the top deck, with one hand hoisting a Jolly Roger flag and the other feeding Polly a cracker as I pretend to be the captain of a big red pirate ship sailing the seven seas of east London. AHOY!

Anyway, a guy hopped on to the bus, aged anywhere between 17 and 40. I only noticed him when the bus driver boomed:


Bandying about a concession card of some sort, the guy thoughtfully caressed his 5 o'clock shadow and contested:

"Nah, man. I am so twelve."

"Show me your ID," demanded the bus driver.

"What ID? I'm only twelve!" he replied, throwing his non-twelve-year-old manhands in the air.

"Well, what year were you born?"

Quick as a flash, he retorted:

"I dunno, man. 1992 or some shit."

And then the bus driver waved him on.


*Yes, both frighteningly and sadly, a 23-year-old guy was recently stabbed and killed on my council estate, barely even 50 metres from my flat. It happened around 7.20 pm a couple of Fridays ago, still in daylight, with plenty of people around, including me upstairs drinking wine with my housemate. Supposedly it was drugs and gang related, which makes me feel marginally better about my personal safety than if it was a random attack, admittedly. Doing their rounds, the police knocked on my door the other night to ask if I saw or heard anything or recognised his photograph, which I didn't, but putting a face to the horrible yellow signs that are everywhere made me feel sad. Anyway, enough blog fodder about that.


At 1:32 PM, Blogger flotiz said...

such is the heaving trivialty of life but never the less hairy 12year olds are common.


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