Walking On Broken Glass – Annie Lennox
Pa Ranoid they might call me, if my name was Pa, Paddy, Pat or Patrick. Thankfully, it is none of the above. But I am paranoid. And I’m in a hotel lobby. On my final morn in London. Waiting for a car to show up to take me to the airport. Wondering whether I should just eat all this paper? Or… Can’t see any other option really.
So the day before my parents and sister flew over to London from Cork for a day trip. Didn’t have time to fly back home because of meetings et. al in London and then had to get back to L.A. for more gibber, so they had to make the trip to see wonderful me. Delighted, so they were, thrilled and enthralled! Mighty seeing them. Unfortunately the weather didn’t play along. Sporadically jumping from bucketing down with rain to brief moments of dryness. Simply superb weather when your plan was to do some sight seeing strolling around the city. Dose. Plan B? Let’s just stroll along Oxford Street and Piccadilly, do some shopping, eat some food, spend some time.
While my sister went off and shopped ’til her bank balance dropped, my parents and I mostly strolled. Until it rained. Then we just went into whatever shop we were near until the weather cleared up. Stroll. Rain. Shop. Repeat. And so on. One thing I noticed is that shops are a great place to go if you’re looking for the best looking women in any city. Kind of obvious really, clothes and all that. Whenever I swoop in to a city for a visit I always see far more beautiful women during the day then I do ever at night (besides L.A, where nobody walks anywhere). Kind of gets you pumped to go out at night. And then the quantity of quality decreases drastically. Where are all the hot women? Actually, where are the women?! Oh right, you brought me to a gay bar, nice one. Day time – shops, clothes, good looking women. Night time – Bars, mostly men, women who resemble something close. Now that I think of it, I spoke to very few women on the nights I went out. Maybe I was too busy having a laugh with buddies. Or maybe there were none around. Although one girl did try to chat me up one night.
Myself and my buddy Chisel Bam were on the tube when a pretty drunk New Zealand girl got on and sat down next to me (notice the lack of a comma). Poor Chisel must’ve been very upset she choose my side of the tube over his, particularly as soon as she spoke she established that she was a sloppy, slurring drunk with very googly eyes. Added to this delight, the first few points of her gibber to me were “I have no money” and “I’m a mess”. Not that I’m adverse to either of those things, but not sure if they’re the first impression you want to give someone who I think you’re cracking on to. Entertained her slurs for a few stops with the required amount of Ha, Oh right, and That Sounds Nice. Counting down. Here we go, her turn to alight the tube. Oh, it’s your stop, oh yeah, you said this one earlier, well, that’s a pity but it’s been great meeting you. “Wouldsch yu like tu come for a piint witsch me? See whatsch happensch after? The woman I schtay witsch letsch me bring guysch back.” What surprised me most was her shock at my rebuttal… That’s a lovely offer but I’m – *loud yaaaawn on cue* – getting a bit tired so I’m OK. Thanks though. “Huh? You’re notsch coming witsch me?” Shrug. Sorry. No. “Whatever, loscher.” Missed out on a gem with her.
Some rambles. Where was I, oh yeah, girls, hot, clothes shops. Great tip. Moving on. Mighty day visit from my parents and sister Sarah. Savage meal that evening. Sad to see them leave. Short. Sweet. Slán abhaile! Time for me to go back to my hotel and pack. Sleep. Next morn. Time to kill. Might as well open the mail my Mum brought over for me from Cork. Letter from the tax office. Couple for work. Few cards. Oh. Hmm. Balls. Actually. A tax document from Ireland. Is this going to be dodge? Just a letter of confirmation from them but it has all my details and looks very official. Seems odd I would have it traveling with me. Particularly as my mighty friend Kailand who I flew to London with got stopped by UK Customs when we arrived and was denied entry for ludicrous reasons, then sent to prison over night, treated like a criminal and deported back to L.A within 24 hours of us landing. All of which has been on the back of my mind for the duration of my stay in London. Because I certainly don’t want that to happen to me on my way back to America where I have to deal with US Customs. Ergo, now I am Pa Ranoid. To the hilt. Back of my mind jumps right to the front of the queue. You should really get rid of these documents. Better safe than sorry. Check out the bin by the coffee machine in the lobby. Empty. Fresh bag. There’s no way I’m ripping it up and putting it in that bin. Too obvious. Cleaner might see it and piece it together. Go ask the hotel front desk if they have a shredder…
Hi, do you have a shredder I could use please?
“I don’t but I can just rip up the documents into tiny little pieces for you and dispose of it that way. What are the documents? Anything valuable?”
Well that’s certainly not the weird answer a Paranoid Pete was looking for…
Ehh, it’s fine actually, thank you.
Back I go to the couch. That lady was suspicious. I wonder if she’s watching me? She wants these documents, they have my name and social security number and home address and everything, she’s an identity thief, I knew it, Jesus, I need to get rid of these papers quick, everyone’s onto me, the government, the people, EVERYONE!!! And then I just started eating the sheets of paper. Well, I ripped off the bits that had any trace to me on them. Chomp. Chew. Chew. Chew. This is mank. Tastes like mulch. Although no clue what mulch tastes like – Tastes like matter? Bark? Just lifeless stuff. Started off chewy. Now just hard. Wonder if I could get internal bleeding from paper cuts this way? Just chew some more… Can’t. Getting like a piece of cement. Going to have to swallow. Gulp. Ugh. Mank. Keep going. We have three sheets to get through.
So, while I waited for my cab I passed the time being Pat Ranoid and ate the evidence. As much I could stomach. Ripped up the rest of the papers into tiny little shreds. Keep them in my pocket. Went to as many different bins as I could find and dispersed a few tiny shreds in each. Did this as well at every bin I could find outside the hotel. And in the airport up until I had to go through security. You know, very normal behaviour, particularly when you’ve not actually done anything wrong. Still. Better safe than sorry, right!? I agree. Now. Time to fly back to L.A. Oh. Me. Bowels…
The River of Dreams – Billy Joel
RanDumb! -> WEE HUU!
RanDumber! -> SNAP HER UP!
RanDumber Kindle -> SNAP ON!
RanDumber UK -> GIDDY UP!