It’s not my bag…

Today, I spent rather a long time sitting with an 81 year old Scotsman. This happens to me once a week at this point in my life and I have to say that I will never get used to the smell of this chap. I can’t quite put into words the way that he stinks but since words are all I have, here goes. Imagine a burst sheep, filled with porridge oats and cold tea. That doesn’t quite get to the actual meat of the matter but for now, it will have to suffice.

Now, this man can talk! I mean, unstoppable and unrelenting in his power of chatter. Tall stories and downright lies pour from this man like loose change from a pair of upturned trousers. The sheer weight of words would pummel a Bison and banjax  the most committed stenographer in town.

He started today’s 105 minute tirade telling about a “Wolf cuckoo clock” that he’d bought and didn’t want to keep. “Why, I say, why would there be a wolf AND a cuckoo together anywhere?” Very unlikely partners on a clock, I imagine and yet, he’d bought it for £189. They must have seen him coming but it’s more likely that they heard, or worse yet, smelt him because once he’d finished snarling about that, we moved on to more serious matters.

He started to regale me of the time that he’d been changing his colostomy bag in a toilet cubicle and was asked to explain himself by a Policeman who had entered the lavs. According to his story, he slapped the bag into the Copper’s hand and said, “If you squeeze this bag, you’ll have a two tone suit, you will not be proud of it.” The Policeman backed away in horror and “left me alone tae do mah bag up.” He expected me to believe that after that, he’d gained the respect of the local Police force and that he was a man to be reckoned with. So, if you wish to be taken seriously by any community Police Officer, threaten to squirt them with runny shit from a squishy bag and you’ll be King of the Hill.

He went on further to announce that he speaks German but it sounded more like underwater Danish. All guitar players should go “twang themselves” and he knew a man who lived to be 104 and ate over two dozen eggs per week.

All of this nonsense comes from my weekly stint doing voluntary work in sheltered accommodation. I might not get paid but I am gaining the most extraordinary experience in tolerating bad smells and veteran verbosity. GeeAmn’t I Lucky?  

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