September 17, 2012 - Written by: Yazmin Joy

It Takes All Kinds to Make a World

So every summer, there is roughly three to four weeks I spend in isolation in this tiny little shed with no electricity sitting like a forlorn shetland pony peering out of the stable-like split doors at the pitiful British summer rain, squinting desperately in my shadowy cockpit, clinging to my copy of Grazia for dear life as the wind rattles at the doors. (Gosh that was a mouth full!)

The shed in question is situated in the middle of a touristy town car park where I have the joyful task of selling tickets to the public. O dear gawd. Don’t you love the general public? What a bunch of crooners. Every year I get a reboot in mankind studies. I particularly love it when people slag off the events you are selling as if I am deaf.

‘Ever seen that band Harold? They are shit!’

Hey, thanks for that lady… not that I’m trying to sell tickets or anything. Geeeze!

Or even better they just come and moan to you about the state of the town or the council or the local weather for twenty minutes. They also like to ask painfully irritating questions such as: where are the toilets? Answer: behind you. And where can I buy stamps? Answer: I’d try the post office.

On the first day I watched a seven year old boy take a piss in the car park. The little guy just didn’t give a monkeys. At first I was rather impressed. What a vigilante! what a scandalous bold statement! Screw popular conventions and social constraint. How liberating, how – BUT then again – there was a toilet roughly 10 meters away. Surely his doting mother should have mentioned to little Billy that that having a slash next to someone’s Peugeot 306 outside Rick Stein’s Fish and Chips is not fitting behaviour at 2 in the afternoon.

The town drunk also loved to pop by for a chin wag from time to time – not that I’m complaining. I was glad for a bit of conversation if truth be told. First time I was sitting outside my shed (making the most of a little sunshine) reading my book when I realised I was not alone. There she stood, uncomfortably close trying to read the list of events on the poster behind me.

‘Can I help you’, I said after about seven minutes.

‘NAhh miiiluurvve gust reding whachuugott on (hiccup)’ She gurgled, swinging to and fro with her can of Special Brew.

‘Okay’, I said smiling.

‘The BASTARD!’ she suddenly exclaimed.

‘Pardon’, I said slightly taken a back.

‘Tod hit me, didn’t he the fucking baasssstard?’ She said, as if it was a question and a statement all at the same time.

‘Oh oh my god, are you okay-?’ I said, suddenly appalled at this revelation of domestic violence.

‘-with a biiig stick.’ She continued. ‘Am I bleeding?’

‘No’, I said, ‘although you are a bit red’.

‘That-al-bee the spesh-spesh- speciaal brew my (hiccup) love. Don’t worry I punched him in the face.’

‘Who? Who did you punch?’

‘Tod.’

It was all a bit awkward to be honest. I don’t really agree with domestic violence. She then staggered off.

I continued reading. A few minutes later a man resembling Gandalf with a can of Carling strode by with, what can only be described as, a rather big stick.

…

A few days later I was reading Fifty Shades of Grey when an elderly couple approached me, enquiring about the town and upcoming events. They must have been in their eighties.

‘What are you reading young lady?’

Bollocks. I had just read a rather bawdy part of the book where Mr Grey is fondling Ana and then whips her till she cries. I blushed as the old man peered at the title through his little round glasses. O god please don’t ask me about it I thought. I was half expecting a few disgruntled looks, but instead –

‘Oh she’s been reading that,’ he responded, a smile creeping across his face as he looked to his wife.

‘Oh yes,’ she exclaimed, beaming, ‘I read all three in one go on my kindle.’

‘That’s nice,’ I replied. Uncomfortable.

Then with a naughtly glint in his glistening eyes the old man piped up, ‘Picked up a few new positions didn’t we love.’

He then nudged his missus with his elbow a few times. Oh dear god. The old lady then started to giggle like a pubescent school girl.

I regret to say the image of saggy balls entered my mind and I suddenly felt nauseous.

‘Now now Michael, I’m sure the young lady doesn’t want to hear all about that’.

Saggy balls. Saggy balls. Saggy balls.

I smiled politely.

‘Anyway, have a nice day love,’ they chimed, walking off together arm in arm.

‘You too.’

I guess it was kind of sweet in a way.

I saw the town drunk again a week later. People looked at her as if she was dirt, blanked her, crossed to the other side of the car park. Okay she may be a bit of a scrote and she did have a beard, but geeze where’s the tolerance? See that’s what I hate about the general public. She never caused me any trouble except when she tried to prize my book from my hands ‘Whaaaaatss that??’. I guess she only wanted a look. Maybe she just wanted a bit of casual conversation you know.

After witnessing someone shout out some casual verbal abuse at her (hey she’s the town drunk so no-one bats an eye lid) – I can now see why she reverts to alcoholism in the first place.

I don’t really know what I wanna say about it all, except that I guess that sitting in a shed taught me a lot. Nothing’s so black and white any more: ASBO kids just looking for a urinal, town drunks are just looking for someone to talk to, randy OAP’s just looking for some inspiration…

As my dad always says: it takes all kinds to make a world. And sitting in my little alcove contemplating the meaning of life I came to the conclusion that the man is absolutely right.

Anyway enough ramblings for one day.

Have a great week peeps.