Anyone else feeling a bit jittery today? Our Parliament is in limbo, the last leadership debate has been run, the Mail is convinced that Cameron is the clear winner and there seems to be a distinct lack of sense being spake.
Whatever the outcome of next week’s election we’re facing a lot of change. Our national debt is (surprisingly) bigger than my mortgage and no matter how hard the PM candidates try to kid us, we’re going to have to start raiding the kids’ money boxes to pay it back. We all know that money doesn’t grow on trees, but something else does – at least in my constituency…..
I live in the North Bucks constituency of John Bercow, speaker to the house and all that. On a recent stroll down the footpath to my children’s school I glanced over to the park, it’s all very pretty:
with one small, but necessary blight:
Strolling back up the path after dropping off the 3yo, I happened to glance skyward. This is the sight that presented itself:
Sh*% happens, but it doesn’t generally package itself in a Tesco carrier bag, throw itself up a tree and lie in wait for a particularly throaty gust of wind to release it flatulently down onto an unsuspecting passer by. That takes human intervention.
How bored does one have to be to forage around in a ‘poo bin’, select appropriately throwable bags of faeces and launch them skyward? And who would take such a risk? It shows rare stupidity confidence to carry out such an operation don’t you think? The odds of #branchclingfail must be huge – how would you explain that one to your parents?
AHA! There – did you see what I did? I made an assumption that the perps of this civil outrage are hoody adorned, spotty and sullen, aka The British Teenager. That sadly maligned section of society.
And d’you know what? I think I might be wrong. It could well be that the blame lies at the opposite end of the spectrum, with the original teenagers. Because whilst our own 13-19 yos are sitting at home with their Skins box set and hot cocoa, discussing politics and religion, the Gillian Duffy generation are staging a rebellion. Replete in tabards and marigolds they sneak out of their sheltered housing of a night, ripping up playgrounds, stealing traffic cones and roadsigns, defacing billboards to their hearts’ content.
Banksy isn’t really some uber-cool, 30-something Bristolian funkster. No, no, he’s 86, on his second hip replacement, gunning about on a mobility scooter – as anarchic as they come.
So much for the silent majority – the uprising has begun. Is it any wonder GB went back to make a personal apology? He’s obviously heard about the knuckle-dusters 😉
This post was written for Tara’s Gallery – Week 9. The prompt was ‘Portraits’. Go visit the Gallery – it’s awesome!