Rained Today

Got up late and left for the train station. Got wet, then just as I reached the station 50 Italian pensioners beat me. They then began to que at the ticket machine. The kiosk was just as bad. I don’t know if it was the getting up late or whether it was the rain. Today things were not going so well.

Walked to the bus stop, as I approached it a bus passed without stopping. Great. It rained some more. So I began to walk to an alternate bus stop. Two minutes after reaching the alternate stop a bus came along. One woman was waiting another was standing about fifteen yards away. The woman who was fifteen yards away walked to the bus stop and pushed in front of the only person waiting. It seems now a common practice in this part of London for some persons to not bother about the etiquette of queuing. They generally fall with in a specific category of ethnic origin. But I don’t want to mention it in case I get accused of being racist. Because now days you can not call a pensioner, a pensioner or an African an African even if they are accurate descriptions. I’m a native born Englishman. I can call myself this because I’m getting rained on.

On the bus I sat upstairs. At the back there was a young lady. Of a particular economic class and education, which a friend of mine would call a Scrote or if in Scotland a Gadggy or Ned. She was talking rather loudly so the rest of the upper deck could hear her. I watched the water from my umbrella run off and pool on the floor. She had been caught for shop lifting, but not been put inside. Her boyfriend was given eight months and she couldn’t understand it. She was getting sentencing later in the month, after some community work. It troubled her how some people got imprisonment for shop lifting and others didn’t. In reality she hadn’t really thought much at all. The bus shifted and my pool of water moved, turning into it’s very own stream.

Obviously her presence on the upper deck is proof of warped justice or damp justice as the day was drizzling out to me. The thought occurred to me to tell her she was a “moron” and didn’t she know; this was her life and it’s not an achievement to be banged up. I don’t think it would of mattered because her peer group see lawlessness as an asset. Maybe she could have a word with the other woman who had pushed in the que. And got some advice how to push herself behind bars a little quicker. This way she could of avoided stealing from a shop and upping the price of goods for those who do pay and perhaps avoiding the necessity of a couple of security guards here and there. She could submit to her guilt pre-emptively, so to say.

Being an enlightened country, here if religion is mentioned in politics it is frowned upon. We’ve done it, got the badge, been there and learnt politics and religion should never be mixed together. It happened a few hundred years ago. Yet, in a great many countries it is not. In some, a thief would have their hands cut off. I dare not think what an adulterer would have cut off, except they’d probably join the high pitched end of a choir afterwards. So the rain falls down. I get wet and internally curse the shoplifters and que jumpers. When my number’s up, I just wonder if she’d like to jump in front of me, I surely wouldn’t mind it would be a watery grave I’m sure.