bored of excitement – the griefjunkie blog 

Hiding Bacon Behind Pictures

Dear Rachel

I love dogs, and although bull mastiffs would not be in my top five favourite breeds – I’m a terrier man at heart and by temperament – Danny and I have discovered that if you hide bits of bacon burger in a confined area such as Keith’s stall and let a hungry one off the lead, it goes surprisingly mental.   As Keith rebuilt his pitch, I pointed out that the bull mastiff is a good natured breed – docile, gentle and highly suitable for families with small children, which already pretty much hands it the moral high ground in any bacon related market stall misunderstanding between the two of them.  I can’t use the ‘c’ word on this part of an entry, as it’ll be on the front page and work filters everywhere will block the site, but I estimate that Keith called me it at least seventeen times in the ensuing exchange.

Into this canine initiated swearathon stepped toddler-brained liability Mike, who I’m sure needs no further introduction.   However, because I get a bit hysterical when talking about Mike, I am going to introduce him further anyway:   I am having surgery on my right eye next year.   It’s a corneal graft, which is a straightforward, if somewhat gruesome, procedure.   I’m made of pretty stern stuff, so the operation itself holds no particular dread for me.   I am, however, becoming increasingly troubled by thoughts of coming round after general anaesthetic, to see Mike standing over me with white coat, clipboard and stethoscope, saying ‘Yeah, I dropped the replacement cornea down the sink while I was mucking about with it, so in the end we didn’t do the operation.  You did need a pint of blood however, as you’d started to lose a bit, and I volunteered.   That’s where your luck changed: although my blood type is completely different, it turns out that my piss is exactly the same colour as yours, and I was able to provide not one but three pints of it.  So actually, you’re down one and up three – but we’ll say no more about it’.

Mike was as ever coming over to apologise, or as is his usual practice, to lace bad news with inane nonsense – ‘Yes, you’re on fire – but at least it’s the weekend!’ – or some total, total, bollocks.   In a ground breaking turn of events, the thing that he was coming over to apologise for really wasn’t his fault.   Mike makes our place settings.  Or place setting clusters, as I like to refer to them, being that they are typically one of the A1 print designs cut into four parts, attached to heat resistant glass and then finished with cork so that they don’t scratch up a dining table.   The surface of a dining table is a very delicate thing; the surface of the rough chipboard planks that make up the part of a market stall that you cover with, in my case, a length of material salvaged by Tony from a skip in Brick Lane two years ago and never washed since, are simply not.   The differences don’t stop here, either: a stack of brand new place setting clusters with a street value of a couple of hundred quid will be well supported by a typical dining table, anchored like myself with sturdy but shapely legs.   The chipboard planks of an unadorned market stall are not anchored by anything whatsoever, although they will provide a secure platform as long as no one weighing in excess of twenty stone – one of Mike’s mates from the Coach and Horses end of the market, for example – decides to hoist themselves onto them with a lightness of touch reminiscent of a factory collapsing under aerial bombardment, early on a Sunday morning at exactly the same moment as I am walking past with elfin handbag designatrix Amy.  ‘Isn’t that your stuff?’ Amy said, looking at the fat man wallowing in the now vacant part of the frame that had until recently housed chipboard planks and place setting clusters, which were now in, I estimated later, about seven hundred parts on the floor.  ‘Yes.  Let’s just keep walking’ I replied.

Photards: Top – a bull mastiff called Max, who has had a very exciting morning of rooting around behind valuable photographic prints for bits of bacon burger, and probably needed to spend a bit of time sleeping off all the excitement afterwards.

Middle – A piece of wood with ‘Bollocks’ written on it, thrown by Danny onto the roof of Keith’s stall.

Lower – The same piece of wood thrown back at Danny’s stall.  Keith has written ‘Tosser’ on the other side, which is a play on words if you think about it.

Twitter – Still feel like a bit of a sap for using it, but it has it’s moments.

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