3/4 and 8 months), all wearing hoodies but with their faces uncovered were also seen kicking the hedge outside a rented residence on the corner of Recreation and Jessopp Roads. Recent graduate Miss G Payne, who was at the time approaching her home on bicycle and witnessed the incident, said she "feared for the life" of her fellow flatmate who was at that moment entering the property through the "back entrance", and narrowly avoided being hit by a small shard of flying shrubbery.
Police are seeking further information: Do you know Barry? Or someone who knows Barry? Or anyone who looks like they should be called Barry? "Call" "Norwich Police Station" on 01603-616-1616 or drop into the station in person for a mochaccino and a chin-wag.
Tuesday, 23 August 2011
Wednesday, 10 August 2011
Slackers, don't worry about the fact you never do anything. You're better off inside during these dangerous times. Apparently, a hoard of Key Stage 1 nippers has run amok in the dinner hall throwing spotted-dick, piercing the balls in the PE cupboard with plastic knives and refusing to stack their plastic yellow meal trays in a neat pile. A large mid-day-meals-supervisor called Lomelle is hiding under the table with only a sizeable bosom and a wet jay-cloth to protect her from a feral rabble of Reception children wielding sticklebricks and over-cooked pizza crusts. Someone tried putting a couple of the ringleaders' name cards under the red sad-face but it only aggravated things. The Head is at a "conference". The Deputy is locked upstairs in her office, telling herself it's business as usual by browsing alternately between eBay and Facebook whilst occasionally reminding everyone to stay calm via the tannoy but nobody’s listening. We’re all watching the battle for the dinner hall on the CCTV from the safety of the staffroom with some tea and biscuits and feeling a little guilty for finding it funny and/or getting annoyed with each other for our various shades of right-wing authoritarian opinion on the situation. We're not sure what started it but there is speculation that a lactose-intolerant Vietnamese boy with Speech & Language difficulties had been told off for not eating the custard he had never asked for in the first place. If it didn't constitute some sort of child protection infringement we'd quite like to tweet about it.
"Animals," we are all spluttering through mouthfulls of chocolate hob-knob.
And just in case you missed the introduction- there wasn't one-: This is no time for LOL or ROFL. If something made you laugh just bloody well say so. If you didn’t actually laugh but still found it funny that’s equally fine just say, ‘that was amusing,’ or use some other words that your brain knows. Just don't use that ignorant palindrome. In fact I think it would be best if someone just took LOL out the back, kicked LOL in the pie and made it sorry it ever came here.
There seems to be a hippy on the sofa. Definitely of the species amicus sordida. As to which breed, he looks like a genuine neo-hippy. Amicus sordida skip-divicus perhaps. A bender building camp food cycling fan of alfalfa. An inordinately lanky Jeff Goldblum with dreadlocks. Slow stoner drawl and pervasive detachment from most conversation and other signs of reality. In a nice way. He looks at me blankly when I ask a simple question, perhaps because I don't use the verbal equivalent of a full stop- "maaan", to indicate that I have finished speaking and that it is his turn to talk. When I make a joke he doesn't laugh. He's spent too long considering climate change to remember how to respond when someone makes a joke. His default action is to look a little blank and wonder whether to do a stock take on his beans and pulses. He is, however, a carnivore. He blames this is on a limited diet caused by allergies... to me this also impedes and throws into question his hippy status. I don’t hold it against him but note it mentally for future examination. He arrived in the night out of a black cab, singing (slash, loudly mumbling) a sort of intrusive and discordant lorelei underneath my window while the meter of the cab kept ticking, that went: ‘Baaarrnnabeee, Baaarrnnabeee.’ Barred from the house by several locks and bolts he tapped at the door, calling the name again and again, like the ghost scratching at the window in Wuthering Heights, while I tried to find the keys to let him in. Like that. Just like that but less romantic, less Northern and with more disposable income, more weed and more expensive looking luggage for an uninvited guest-ghost. I didn’t know he was coming. He doesn’t know who I am but his credentials seem plausible enough. ‘I should have been here five days ago,’ he explains. Meh. A man who bangs at my door in the middle of the night to attack me probably wouldn’t let me know if he had meant to be here five days before, so I let him in. Who knows how long he’ll be here. When he vanishes, a week later, he leaves behind him a large unopened packet of bacon rashers: the best kind of hippy leaving gift.