‘Excuse me sir…’

But first…
Dulltown, Europe: Today’s existential angst is centred around the sound of the word blutwurst.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

As I was strolling around town yesterday afternoon, wondering where I could buy a set of 11 gauge electric guitar strings for my acoustic guitar, I became aware of, out of the corner of my eye, a moving figure; I could feel that it was on an interception course with me; it was diagonalling (is that a word?) across the wide pavement and I felt that as it got closer it was trying to manoeuvre itself into my path.
It was a bright-eyed, brightly dressed woman who looked about 18 to 20 years old. She hopped and bounced from side to side flapping a clipboard and grinning at me as I walked. She was one of those ‘chuggers’ – charity muggers, (I get the feeling that most of them are desperate out-of-work young actors) who are paid to engage complete strangers in conversation and persuade them to cheerfully hand over their bank details so their account can be tapped into on a regular basis… (for ever?)
Anyway she tried to fix me with her cheery pink face, she fluttered her eyelashes, and chirped in an enthusiastic and child-like voice, ‘Hey!… You look like an artist… or a musician!…’ and then after getting a clearer look at me added, ‘Sir…’ to the end of her sentence. How very perceptive she was, correct on both counts!
I did what I normally do on occasions like this and cut her stone dead. I really do find these buggers annoying; I don’t mind handing out a bit of heavy loose change from my pocket to homeless people in the street… and no, I don’t mind if they buy drugs or strong cider with it – it is up to them what they choose to do with the cash. You can’t show them the money in your hand and say, ‘Now look here young man, here’s 72 pence in loose change, I hope you will spend it on something sensible, and not fritter it away on the pleasures of life…’ and expect him to tug at the peak of his baseball cap and respond, ‘Thank you kind sir, I’ll buy a small, but wholesome meal with it…’
But these chuggers are being paid for being annoying, or are they on commission on how much they get you to sign up for? Who knows? Anyway she was blocking my path, as they are obviously trained to do, but I managed to sashay around her and slip away to continue my string hunt. As I walked on, hearing a rather peevish ‘Have a nice day, sir!’ echoing down the street after me, I couldn’t help but wonder at how she deduced that I was a musician or an artist. It sort of cheered me up – I’m glad that I apparently look like what I am…

About Dave Whatt

Grumpy old surrealist artist, musician, postcard maker, bluesman, theatre set designer, and debonair man-about-town. My favourite tools are the plectrum and the pencil...
This entry was posted in conversation, drama, Dulltown, existentialism, Grumpiness, Hull.UK., humour, information, jobs, observations, puzzle, serendipity, surrealism, words and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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