Monday, 7 August 2017

Rummy Granddad and the Glistening Nipple

Rummy Granddad and the Glistening Nipple

By Casey Douglass


Picture used freely from the excellent Gratisography site. It is likely "a" granddad though, not "the" granddad mentioned below.
I went into Norwich yesterday, struggling against the aches, pain and fatigue that follow me everywhere like some kind of lice-infestation. There was a charity run or bike-ride happening which meant lots of glistening crowd barriers and road closed signs glinting in the sunlight. It appeared to be over by the time I was in the area, but there were still plenty of short-wearing sweaty people walking around looking happy. Well done and all that, I thought, but you’ll all be extra hungry and flock to the various eateries now. So I ate an early lunch in an attempt to have some peace and quiet.

After eating and having a browse, I found myself nursing a large 99 flake ice cream. I say nursing in the sense of it needed protection from the hot sun, and I happened to have a safe place close at hand, if only I could get it in there. I was preoccupied with ice cream dynamics when I realised I was walking behind a drunk. He wasn’t someone that “looked” like a drunk though. He looked like someone's granddad who, while out shopping, just thought he’d have a couple of drinks before heading home. It wasn’t until he leaned his left shoulder against the wall, stopped walking for a few moments, then pushed away again that he drew my attention. That, and the sudden bout of singing. Him, not me.

I overtook the rummy granddad, still anxious enough about my ice cream to not want to risk any complications that might arise from being near a swaying old gentleman. I left the narrow road and crossed a footpath. A big dollop of ice cream splattered down my front. “Bollocks!” I hissed. My outburst had all the elements of a shout of rage, except the volume. A curse-word shot through a gun with a silencer on the end. It was then that I saw the glistening nipple. It wasn’t mine. I’m not in the habit of walking around topless in public. It looked like it belonged to a bald woman, a woman standing rigid next to a doorway. It wasn’t until I noticed the lack of arms and eerie lack of movement, that I realised it was an old shop dummy for sale outside an antiques shop. It looked suitably sullied, either from years of being dressed and undressed, or a hard life living with a pervert, I couldn’t tell. All I saw was the price of £48 quid. A bargain for someone I suppose, but I was soon past it and heading down the lane. I had an ice cream to finish after all.

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