Fabulous Animals / October 5 2007
I popped down to the shops last night to buy porridge and apples and was confronted by an unusual sight. There is no night-life to speak of here in the village so I was astonished to see a gaggle of heavily made-up and garishly dressed young women standing around outside the pet shop.
They were being engaged by a drunken man holding a can of cider who seemed to be experiencing some kind of fit or other mental aberration. He was jigging around aggressively in front of them and chanting what sounded like African war songs. I fancy that he was quite ill as well as completely inebriated. He did look rather forlorn and I felt a little sorry for the poor fellow. He stank of failure and was wearing the ruined evidence of lost love.
As I drew closer, I could hear that the women were not speaking English. They were conversing in what sounded like Polish or some other East European language. There has been something of a substantial influx of such people into the area recently, a fact that is evidenced by the sudden appearance of various Baltic food products on the shelves of the Co-op supermarket, the like of which I find quite mysterious.
I was suddenly distracted by the sound of one of the women’s uncaring laughter and I realised to my dismay that I had stopped in my tracks and was staring open-mouthed at the people in front of me. I resolved once more to stop doing this kind of thing: it has the potential to develop into regular beatings if I am not careful.
Audrey loves this pet shop. Indeed, she has made it known to me that it is her favourite shop in the village. She loves to go in and sing to the guinea pigs, but, predictably, the little things totally ignore her attempts at forming a cross-species friendship.
It is a sad and scruffy old shop that has long seen better days. It has a front window that has not been cleaned in years behind which are ancient and dusty red curtains that are now only held together by dead moths and cobwebs. I once ventured inside and asked, ‘How much are your wasps?’
‘I’m sorry, we don’t sell wasps,’ the pipe-smoking proprietor told me.
‘Are you sure?’ I asked. ‘You have one in the window.’
Filed under Alcoholism / Audrey / East European / English Village Life / Immigration / Pets
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