Rude V Polite; Politeness wins.

Think I bumped into a bastard yesterday, a really nasty big but little man, intent on making money for him self at the expense of others, making money at all costs, and at all times, all the while being a small time builder who probably shits on his mates, none of whom talk to each other in the pub about anything other than money. That type of man. I went round to a mates house to help him and her clarify an anomaly between their boundary and their title deeds,I guess I am in a small way qualified to give this sort of advice. We ambled around to the rear of their house, in a kind of working from home type of dishabille, shoelaces untied hats on and jackets open, billowing in the wind. Theres some disused land behind their house, and no one is ever there, and as we were doing nothing untoward in plain sight, we thought nothing of it. Until this man, stormed towards us, raising his voice unnecessarily his face reddening. I told him what we were doing and stupidly I mentioned who I worked for, to which he said that I should know what I was doing was wrong. Technically it isn’t, for me, but that’s for when I win the lottery or get the sack for trespass, at that point all will become clear, and i’d beg you not to bother guessing, because the cover could be blown. Secret agent man. He carried on whitening on and false accusing and then borderline shouting, asking where they lived and looking in his cab for a pen and paper which he was struggling to get together at the same time, he definitely had both, but was so wound up he couldn’t seem to coordinate pad and paper, and in the kerfuffle forgotten what we’ed told him. He accused me of “Doing a Foreigner” which is a job out of work hours and out of all work jurisdiction, because it’s all about money isn’t out. Its all about how much one can squeeze from the juicy lemon of life, which is becoming less and less juicy as I write, literally, with our genius Chancellor and PM ruling with what can only be described as Mallet’s Mallet, rather than a rod of steel or an iron fist.

We walked off, knowing full well we’ed see him again in our local, with his equally duff friends, not talking but conspiring against someone, some scheme to shit on someone else and profit from their bad luck. Christ the small village syndrome, doesn’t hide itself away too well, the latent racism, the misogyny, the leering at newcomers, the mistrust, the entitlement of being a longtime resident of the village, not a custodian, he was just born here, or maybe moved in 30 years ago, a firm disagreement in the belief that things must change; new estates bring money into the local economy, estates with too few affordable houses so the children of local people can no longer afford to buy in the village;  this guy is a builder, this prick is trying to cram 5 luxury tightly fitted bungalows onto a piece of land where 3 would sit comfortably. And yet he can’t see it.

In contrast to this prick that I am going to have to ignore in the pub, and his sour faced Pinot Slugging Wife, he drinks Carling I’ll bet, no fucking taste, just wants to get a cob on with folk; spoiling for a fight, because foreigners exist, some men dress up as women and strangers come.

Today I was doing a job for my company in the middle of nowhere opposite a golf course, I didn’t need an appointment but let the chap know I was coming out of politeness, who told me to crack on. Anyway I had to wade through head high weeds; nettles, brambles and sticky bushes, stealing into a field with some sheep in the far corner. In my job I do kind of blend in in plain sight and usually no-one bothers with me unless i’m close by and then they may ask what I’m upto, it is usually at this point I ask them what they are up to which throws the conversation somewhat and puts us on a slightly awkward setting, but usually breaks the ice at parties. I had to push my way through a hedge to get into a spinney which I was meant to be looking oversaw  and quickly did what I was there for and scarpered off over a barbed wire fence through a load of dead wild rose brambles and back to my car. Covered in sweethearts I chucked the laptop and phone into the car, fired up the radio and drove off into the milky blue sunshine. Sat outside Aldi later I took a call from the bloke who’s land I had visited apologising for the farmer who was shouting at me and chased me after seeing me emerge gracelessly through the hedge, I had no idea. What a nice guy, contrary to the bloke yesterday. 2 days and 2 different sorts but both a similar age I suspect. Polar opposites. Funny that.

Tomorrow I am once again bloody miles away from home, which is becoming a slightly irritating theme to my work day, and over the next month or two I predict it will get no better, until the whole world of my work folds in up its own arsehole with the introduction of a new terrible operating system, not fit for my purpose, maybe my purpose will become not fit for their purposes… 


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