• Location: cold porridge
• Mood: peevish

let them eat fox turds

Yesterday, heading down the shabby street of corner shops near the tube near work, I came upon two old codgers peering uneasily at the ground. They were huddled over some glistening black pellets on the ground near one of the wastebins. One had a walking stick, one an unnecessary hat similar to the one that kissmeforlonger wore the day after Pete Fenelon's funeral (she stuck the unspeakable thing on her head like a sort of special needs memento mori and it made me cry).

Hat: I reckon they're from a fox. I reckon it got summink to eat out the bin and then took a dump.

Stick: Yeah. Markin' it's Terry Tory, weren't it? Where it had got its food from.

Me (I'm a teacher; I cannot allow ignorance to go unthwarted): Excuse me, those are not fox spraints, those are kalamata olives.

Stick: Bloody 'ell! They're them fings you take off the toppa pizzas.

Hat: (to me, disapproving, now doubt, of my filfthy dago eating habits) Unt you clever, love? We must look a right pair of charlies. Olives. Bloody muck.

I haven't forgotten. I have FIVES to write about for a couple of you.