Tuesday 200 - #46
She longs for the good old days, when it was a quiet neighborhood and the only reason to watch your step was to avoid getting stuck by a used syringe. Oh sure there were junkies, but at least it was peaceful.
Nowadays you can’t walk down the effing pavement without being sideswiped by a caterwauling child in a carriage that probably cost more than her rent — perambulating parents prattling into phones, oblivious to any other lesser non-breeding mortal.
Two blonde hellions bray at the table next to her, vying for any adults’ attention. “Look Gran, Smurf wars!” they squeal, knocking their blue plastic trolls off the formica table with french fries and fish fingers.
In her day, kids would mind their manners. Speak when spoken to and shut up and eat. If not … thwack!
She shakes her head at the cover of “The Sun.” Still no sign of the missing kid. Unlucky sods, they had to have the only quiet British brat in all of Portugal.
She stabs out her Mayfair, sticks a tenner under the ashtray and storms out of the cafe, waving her tabloid in front of no one particular, muttering, “Why can’t they all be kidnapped?”
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Tuesday 200