I do not read the Daily Express (sometimes life throws shit at you like a truculent ape)

I was taking some pictures the other day and I nearly punched someone.  Sometimes life throws shit at you like a truculent ape.  I was hanging around some derelict buildings doing some ever-so wanky photography of crumbling Victorian warehouses, feeling like a bit of a dick, and cold, and I heard a rough voice calling me.  Outside, away from the gloom, there was a transit van, marked with some building firm or other, and a short but moderately tough looking bald guy getting out, looking irate.  The little fucker evidently thought I was spying on him; either he was working when he wasn’t supposed to be, or not working when he wasn’t supposed to be, it could be either or both.  I don’t know, don’t care. I had a really bad back and was having poor luck with photos because of seriously shit lighting, so resented having to twist around to look, and  furthermore I resented the implication that if I were spying on him I’d be caught that easily. I saw red a little bit. 

So I clenched my fists, probably looked a little angry, and marched over.  To which he said, angrily, “what are you taking pictures of?”.  So I showed him the pictures I’d taken, including a fetching picture of ducks, and it placated him somewhat.  Then he said “oh, I thought you were with the developers and you were planning something, I live in the house next door”.  Then it occurred to me -  the whole semi-fictional fact based encounter was clouded by class stereotyping, prejudice, a bad back, and gloomy lighting.  And over rationalising.  Later that day I ate a bean and cheese wrap.  It was OK.  I probably farted too, which is extraneous, these two paragraphs do not benefit from it, and just for sheer bloody mindedness I’m going to finish this post with cunt.