Antisocial Behaviour

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Occasionally I do a ‘scenes from…’ story where I describe little scenes I’ve observed. Scenes from a Tram Stop, Scenesfrom a Departure Lounge, Scenes from the Hayes Island Snack bar. Today, I am doing scenes of anti-social behaviour.

“Hey what are you doing?” I said to the middle-aged woman who was removing traffic cones from the road.  

“I need to get my car through,” she said.

“But the road’s closed,” I countered.

She looked me up and down, obviously wondering who the fuck I was to be challenging her. “Who died and made you a policeman?”

“No one, but the road’s closed, you can’t just decide it is open.”

“Well why’s it closed? It’s a nonsense.”

I didn’t know why it was closed, but it was, and in my experience the authorities didn’t close roads for no reason.

“Look they’re even not doing anything.” She pointed a jowly arm at the deserted road. I like the way that people think that as soon as a road is closed, work must start.  

“And I need to pick up my grandson.” She said.

With that she got back into her car and slammed the door. The next thing I knew I was jumping out of the way of her Vauxhall Corsa as it sped through the gap in the cones the woman had created.  

The rain lashed down on Bute Park, water dripped from the stooping trees. Hunched under a large umbrella the equally large event supervisor looked thoroughly pissed off. I smiled at him.

“Are you there all day?” I said, showing some solidarity to a fellow recipient of the Cardiff deluge.

“You know what,” the man said. He’d obviously been desperate to vent his spleen for a while now. “We have two Poles working for the council.” He sniffed, there was a drop of rain on the end of his nose. “And they are dry and warm in a car, while me, a Brit, I’m out here in the rain.” The look of indignation on his fifty-year old  face rivalled the stroppiest of stroppy teenagers. Life wasn’t fair and he wanted the world to know about it.

“Well, it is British rain,” I said.

He looked at me like I’d just urinated on a war memorial.

“Have a nice day.” I smiled at him and skipped out of the park under no doubt what he’d be voting next week even though that would surely send the Poles, home meaning there was even more chance of his large figure standing in the rain next time.

Tchik, tchik, tchik.

It was a familiar noise but so out of context that I couldn’t work out what it was.

Tchik, tchik, tchik.

It sounded like someone cutting their finger nails.

Tchik, tchik, tchik.

But surely not.

Tchik, tchik, tchik.

Not on a train.

Tchik, tchik, tchik.

It was. I looked around and just behind me, on the opposite side of the aisle was a man clipping away to his heart’s content.

Tchik, tchik, tchik.

On a train.

Tchik, tchik, tchik.

Cutting his finger nails. As if he was in the privacy of his own bathroom.

Tchik, tchik, tchik.

But he was on a train. In public. People around him.

Tchik, tchik, tchik.

The keratin discards falling on to the floor of the carriage, with discarded coffee cups and free newspapers.

Tchik, tchik, tchik.

I looked away. The noise continued.

Tchik, tchik, tchik.

I bit my tongue. I wanted to say something, but I was too bloody British.

Tchik, tchik, tchik.

And Jesus, how many fingers did he have? Please tell me he wasn’t doing his toes.

Tchik, tchik, tchik.

Tchik, tchik, tchik.

Tchik, tchik, tchik.