As a rule, I’m not a judgy person
I have an ability to see two sides of most situations; so when I see someone behaving like a twat, I can normally find some inner mercy for their idiot views/behaviours. Cos we’re all the way we are; because of where we’ve been and what happened when we got there!
My blind spot lies in my upbringing in Jolly Old Leytonstone. For all the many cultures I lived amongst, for all the differences I’ve bounced between, there was a steady message that permeated the lot in sunny East London, back in the day…
You DO NOT grass!
And you certainly DO NOT grass to the powers that be…
Unfortunately this little lesson didn’t reach 120 miles down the road
TRAGIC, in the eyes of Dawny…
During the last hose pipe ban in Norfolk, 35,000 people made the effort to sign onto the web, type in ‘Grass hotline number for Anglian Sewerage Co please’…and then they paid 20p to grass their next door neighbour up, for washing their car!
WTF??? Do any of you even know who has a hose pipe or an outside tap in your street?
Second, I live a few doors down from this lady who is the ‘Officer of Fly Tipping’. I found this out when I swiftly tip toe’d to the recycling facilities area at the end of my block and dumped 16 bags of rubbish in front of the bins (please note, I had no cardboard, or plastic or bottles in the 16 bags, just 10 years worth of house toot, and David Poxy Cameron never empties my bin) Plus, it was a choice of dumping them there, or across the entire garden of my neighbour below. I felt my choice was justified, especially as my car was semi dead and unable to take me to the tip. I may be marvellous but I wasn’t marvellous enough to carry 16 bags to the tip with my sparrow arms! In the name of calming the fly tipping beast…
As I tip toe’d away from the scene, my sister spotted a set of pinched lips emerging from a sash window; The guise of cigarette smoke did little to mask her fly tipping fury
Next thing I get a fly tipping letter (shocker), I let it go and a few nights ago I was clomping to the bins again; to discard the brewery delivery of empty champagne bottles; and the creeping sound of her sash window flying open hit before I reached the lip of the bin…I slammed the bottles in, displaying as much tantrum like behaviour as possible with bodily actions. I relished in the decibel’s of the smashing bottles, and it took all of my will to not scream
‘Get a fucking life luv!’
Far from snooping from my windows, I am so damn busy with my insular little self, to ever even wash them!
If I added up all the time I spend in a day thinking…worrying about my problems, leafing through my dreams, meandering onto playing the piano by the time I’m 40, taking 5 minutes to squash the fear that rises when the people who I love that are poorly; enter my mind. Not to mention calling my friends, working, studying, vegetating, blogging, fixing the worlds problems, ranting etc…There is no time left to glance out of the foooking window, let alone parole the glass area… in the hope you’ll spot a hose pipe or a bag of rubbish
The 2 sides of me weighed up the probable reasons for these people grassing everyone3 up, and I figured they probably have little to do with their time.
However, this is no excuse for grassing if your from East London. So to all you ‘little tell-tale’s’ 😉 my advice would be : –
“If you can’t get a life, get some fucking thoughts instead you tragic little mo-fo’s from Bitter-Ville. Live and let live; and life may come and find you again… you sad boring petty little pooey head bag’s; with very good reasons for your behaviour!”
Please don’t hate me, we all have our blind spots! 😉