Sunday, 26 June 2016
It's been an odd morning
He tells me he's made a mistake, and seems to want to talk to me. I'm not in the mood. I push him out of the front garden and tell him to eff off and get walking. He doesn't want to. I repeat myself. Get going! He still wants to talk, He asks what my problem is. F*** off! Now he's says he's going to ring the police. He's spent five minutes trying to unlock my front door at 4.30 on a Sunday morning and he's going to ring the police. I tell him I'm waiting. It seems like the exchange goes on for five minutes, but it's probably less. I'm in the middle of the street now, in pyjama bottoms and trainers, with a rusty exhaust pipe in my hand. I can smell the booze on the other guy. Everything is in my favour. I'm not big, but I now realise I'm bigger than him, I'm also angrier, more sober and armed with a heavy piece of metal. I'm not a fighter, but I'm more ready now than I've ever been in my life to get into a fight. Still even at this point I'm sensible enough to know I want to avoid it and any consequences, so I bare my teeth and show him my front two are missing, perhaps letting his pickled brain conjure up how I lost them and come up with something bare knuckle-related. Eventually he walks off shouting at his piss-stained shoes.
I go back in the house, get dressed then walk back out looking for him, to find out where he lives and to make sure he doesn't have any ideas about walking back putting a brick through the window. I see him walking back up the street. I stand behind a parked van so I can watch him, but he can't see me. He's swearing to himself. As he nears our house he gets louder and swears at the house, but keeps walking, so I follow him.
He walks maybe half-a-mile, weaving from side to side as he walks, then turns left. I jog to catch up, turn the corner and see him leaning with his forehead against a large tree at the side of the road. I walk up and put a hand on his clammy shoulder. It takes a second for his addled brain to work out who it is, because I'm no longer naked from the waist up or carrying a large piece of metal.
'What the f*** do you want?' he wonders, then starts apologising, I put my arms behind my back to show I'm ready to listen. He asks if I accept his apology. I say I do and tell him I'm also sorry, I was angry because he'd scared my wife. He tells me he's from Portugal, he's lived here nearly ten years, he loves England, his name is Riccardo and he voted to leave the EU because it's a failed experiment. He also tells me where he lives. I check when I get home. He lives 0.8 miles from our house, in a semi-detached house on a narrow cul-de-sac. Ours is detached on a two-way wide road.
Like I said, it's been an odd morning. G