Tuesday 200 - #66
Walking down Oxford Street this morning, I noticed several women scurrying about, carrying open umbrellas.
Fair enough, except … hello … IT WASN’T RAINING.
Yes, it was grey. Perhaps it had drizzled overnight, but there were no droplets dimpling puddles. There were no puddles, in fact. No passing windscreens had wipers waving. Nay … just random women (blokes somehow avoided this meteorological misunderstanding) ushered by unnecessary prophylactic parabolas.
I did my best to live and let live, chalking up another charmingly British peculiarity. Then one of them crossed my path, poking me in the eye with a spoke of her brolly.
“Excuse me!” I said, no longer able to just breathe and ignore.
She ignored me.
So I thwacked her waterproof halo and (making a point) yelled, “Ouch! Please pay more attention!”
She swung around and had the unmitigated gall to tell me to watch where I went.
So I shot her.
Not really … but I wanted to.
“I believe it was you who turned without signaling, ma’am. And besides, it’s not even raining.”
“Better safe than sorry.’
“Right. Do you advocate maxi-pads between visits from Aunt Flo?”
Seems some girls have exchanged their sense of humor for a mean left hook.
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