Monday, 18 July 2011

Outrage on the Village Green.

One was gliding elegantly along the pavement by the village green the other day, in a stunning pair of Gucci pumps and gorgeous trouser suit. The air was moist with an agreeable level of humidity and a warm breeze brushed one’s velvety cheeks like that given off from the exhaust pipe of a Harrier jump jet.

In the far corner of the green, one could see Mrs. Tickles, with her daughter Tess, planting an array of floral delights. To one’s right the row of picturesque cottages with their gardens in resplendent bloom. The heady scent of Mr. Craddick’s sweet peas filled one’s nasal passages with molecules of odorous splendour as it drifted heavenly across the narrow road. It was a most fragrant morning indeed.

Just as one began to take a deep and lung-bulging sniff, one stopped suddenly when one noticed a small dog squatting down to one’s left, making ready to leave a little parcel for Mother Nature.

One looked down in total disbelief. At that same moment, the village school teacher, Molly Coddle, strolled by reading her weekly glossy magazine and stopped for a chat.

“Morning Dame Crusty. It’s a beautiful day isn’t it?”

One was forced to hold out one’s exquisitely manicured hand and shake it to command silence.

The little creature completed its task, held its front paws steady and scratched its back legs through the grass; then with a half turn, looked up at one, wagged its tail and shot off with a yapping noise towards a car belonging to a visitor to our sleepy hamlet.

“Good boy!” the woman shouted in a child-like manner, as she lifted the tailgate of her Vauxhall Corsa. “Mummy’s very happy you had poo-poo! Yezzz she is; yezzz she is!”

Looking down at the small deposit squidged on top and between the blades of grass, one wondered if the owner was intending to bring her legging-clad, gladiator-sandaled self over to remove the offending mass. Instead, she bent down and kissed her Shih-tzu (quite a trick in anyone’s book), closed the tailgate to secure her inside and walked towards the driver’s door. It was all quite outrageous!!

What happened next was like the superhuman combat precision one only sees in Hollywood blockbusters such as the Matrix. In what seemed like slow motion, one turned; the previously fluttering hand now reached out to grab Molly’s magazine – opened on the page where Katie Price stated she felt fat and ugly (for a brief moment one thought, 'if it’s any consolation, dear, you look it too!') – and in a wide arc-like scooping movement, shovelled the faecal matter onto the pages and with a fairy godmother like flick, fired the bullet of botty business across the street to land with a thud against the rear panel of the escaping car.

The woman drove off without knowing, while the little pooch recoiled back from the window with the shock of the thud. One turned to hand Molly her magazine back.

“No time to stop and chat now, dear. Off to the Badger’s Snatch for a coffee with Fanny.”

One had only made a couple of steps when one heard Molly shouting from behind.

“Dame Crusty?!”

One turned, “Yes, dear?”

“My magazine?! The pages are covered in shit!”

“Oh I know dear! … and to think they call themselves journalists!”

With that, one turned and picked up one’s pace (naturally, maintaining elegance at all times) to arrive at the Badger’s Snatch on time.

One was not all sure what Molly was shouting as one gained a greater distance from her, but by her inflection one feels it was certainly not befitting an educator of young children.