Aren’t men weird?
I think they are, and my opinion was reinforced this morning in the Co-op when I was accosted by a rather peculiar fellow wearing a yellow lycra cat-suit – he looked like one of the Spice Girls on her day off. The effect was enhanced by a curious wet patch above his crotch. He was telling anyone who would listen that he was collecting money for a ‘charity cycle-a-thon’.
Of course he zoomed straight over to me. ‘I’m the Duke of Earl!’ he declared. ‘Giz a quid!’
‘No,’ I told him as I grabbed a basket, ‘I have to go home and shave my eyes.’
Then, the worst thing in the world that could possibly happen . . . happened: he began to hop and sing. It was a simple song, a three word mantra repeated over and over in a high-pitched voice for my personal Wednesday morning benefit: ‘Point and laugh! Point and laugh!’ he squeaked. ‘Point and laugh!’
Oh, God, why do I attract these loonies? I dived into the aisle with the baked beans and the Fair Trade bananas, hoping to lose him when I reached the chick peas. But he was not going to give in without a fight. ‘C’mon, Captain – giving makes you feel so much better,’ he insisted, rattling his tin in my face.
‘Mercy,’ was all I could say, but there was no stopping him.
‘Donate and your broken day will be fixed,’ he sang.
I bared my teeth. ‘My day isn’t broken. Now kindly f*** off.’
‘Fix your broken day! Fix your broken day!’ He was in full arm-waving dance mode now.
People were staring; I could feel disaster looming. I tried to confuse him with my mastery of sarcasm. ‘My therapist always told me: If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, and if it is broke, just ignore it – wise words don’t you think?’ That did the trick. He stopped singing and hopped off to bother an old woman in a wheelchair.
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