Number 9

Today, I had a phone call from someone with an amazingly strong Indian accent, asking if my house number was the number it is.
I answered…. that it depended who was asking.
I was informed they were from the ‘Telegram Office’. Can’t say I have ever heard of them.
She said something really, really fast.
I chose to go, ‘Proper Pompey’.

The lady told me she was after my neighbour at number 9.
Had I ever heard of Clare G? Did I know if she resided at the address?
When I had last seen her?
Did I know where she had a gone?
Uuuuuhm….. Nope.
Did I know the people in number 9, as there was post for them.
Mmmmm…… Nope.
Being a good Pompey girl, I wouldn’t ‘grass’ green foliage on the Common if I was stood on it!

I went to tell my neighbours at No9 what was occurring, that I hadn’t grassed them up because it wasn’t the ‘Pompey way’…
You may be criminals….. But you are OUR CRIMINALS!
The neighbours were very pleased and would contact the said Clare.
“You get anymore trouble from these cunts babe, Let us know.
We‘ll end it”.
Then, as a kind of afterthought, ‘What’s your name’?
I told them.
‘Are you So and So from Such and Such?’
Mmmmm… Yes I am.
‘Is your Dad, What’s His Name?’
Yes.
‘Fucking Hell! Come in, Come in!… Tea? Coffee? Booze? Anything you want! I’m phoning my Dad to tell him who is sat here!
He loves your Old Man!
Somehow, I’m ‘trading’ on my Dad’s reputation as a bit of a rogue and a monster of the one punch knock out.
Then one of the mates piped up,
“Alright Miss?, You taught my brother, sisters, cousin and my Mum reckons she went to school with you”.
It turned out he was right on all counts and I had punched his uncle so hard his jaw still clicked when he ate and his Mother couldn’t wait to show me her scars I had caused.
I am now ‘well in’ at No9 Aliens Rd if I want to explore my Pikey heritage!

I’ve had a haircut.
Thank fuck!
It was getting a bit out of hand. I now have a substantial amount of grey!
I can no longer have my hair cut along the nearest thoroughfare to me, which hosts a multitude of shearing establishments.
There have been some violent incidents involving my Barnet and the use of “Ooooops!” as an acceptable adjective while being the ‘stylist’ wrangling my hair!
I think not.

What I really object to is the time it takes for Her to cut my hair.
£22 it costs me.
£22!
I think I should get a minute for every pound.
Make up shit, I don’t care!
My haircut involves clippers set on a Grade 5. Eight minutes…. Tops!.. For what is basically a strim!
Offer me tea, coffee, juice, light hand relief.
I want my Shekel’s worth.