Why must my child identify the most crazy person in any given situation and go and converse with them?
Wilko’s, town centre. We’d bought some stuff (things to put on our Christmas wreath) and were sitting on the benches in the store having a toddler drink and a partially eaten gingerbread man; when an old lady, (ok, her eyes were on the wild side but nothing too out of the ordinary for Halifax) sits down on the end of our bench. Daisy immediately starts up:
‘Hello lady! You’ve got a pink coat! It’s fluffy! You are cute! Haha! Hello? I’m Daisy! Hello?’
The old lady starts muttering, and produces a long, long, menthol mayfair cigarette, as yet unlit. It’s bent in the middle and she barks
“Look at THAT, love. Like my dead husband’s COCK. His willy. BENT. BENT in MORE WAYS THAN ONE he was. Useless c**t”
No laughter, winking, smile. She means it, and by now it’s become clear she is barking mad. Completely cuckoo. Ten pence shilling.
Get out of there, sharpish, my head tells me, and I have to drag Daisy away, as she’s still obsessed with the coat.
“Ooo its lovely and fluffy and pink and…”
For the love of God. As odd encounters go, its up there with when a big muscular Eastern European gentleman stood very, very close to me on the tube with his ginormous willy, free of pants and unfettered, swung pendulum-like in his linen trousers, almost grazing my face. I suppose I should be grateful the old lady was wearing pants. That would have put a whole new spin on it, and not a good one.
Count your blessings, eh?