For one reason or other my face no longer “fits” my skull. What little elasticity there once was is starting to fail. I’ve lost weight and the front of my head now has the sorry dishevelled look of a wee boy wearing his big brothers dufflecoat. The use of various creams, lotions and unguents has been recommended to me, but I am off a belief that such things should only be applied on the recommendation of one’s physician – not some silly wee lassie on the cosmetics stall of Boots.
Anyway, my loose and hanging face wouldn’t be problematic if it looked “interesting”. Sadly, it doesn’t. No, apparently (or so I’ve been told), my usual countenance is either described as a “scowl” or simply “sore to look at”. Truth be told though this could be due to the fact that I am a bit of a brumpy gastard.
Whatever. Having a bit of a scowly face can often work to ones advantage.
There are a few things that bring me no joy in this life whatsoever. Among these things I could list: my work, the “Dear Green Place”, travelling on trains and those awful “Chuggers” – those moronic student types who pounce out on pedestrians all full of fake jollity and joi-de-vivre, trying to get you to sign a standing order to donate half your monthly wages to save the lesser spotted Trinidadian Tree Frog, or some such. I really, really hate these people.
So, perhaps the other week the old sagging face came in handy…
All four of the above collided, like particles in a hadron collider to produce one of the worst moods I’ve been in in a long time -It had been another crappy day through in the DGP and I was trying to fight my way “upstream” through the tsunami of shell suit covered flab and pram pushing dole-scum-mums that passes for the populace, in an effort to get to the station on time to get a seat on the cattle truck back through to the civilised East.
I had already been approached by two moronic studenty type chuggers and was trying to bypass a third (a female of the species) when she clocked me and started to approach me and get ready to launch into her stupid routine. Without even uttering a word I simply lifted my head and looked up at this cretin… the effect was most gratifying. Her chirpy, cheery countenance fell, her hands went up surrender-style quicker than a Frenchman’s at the start of a war, and she backed away muttering “Whoa, Mr ‘Angry face’”.
Mr “Angry Face” waited till he had walked round the corner before he pissed himself laughing J