By John Locke
( Warning!- Do not read this if you are of a squeamish personality)
We leave the train on Sunday at Manchester Piccadilly after the lad has barked at every train stop on the journey, ( he also tried to eat a huge lurcher in the next compartment, and scared a Polish cyclist somewhere outside Runcorn ) unless I offered him a Polo mint or let him stand on my legs like a panting mountain goat with the boredom threshold of a mardy 6 year old kid.
We enter the lift and I drag in my bulging suitcase on wheels, my man bag over my shoulder, the idiot is straining at the leash and grumbling away to himself as per.
The lift opens and we exit and walk toward the travelator through the throng of happy, chatting, bustling travellers.
The usual ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhs’ are said and admiring and affectionate glances are given toward the idiot as well as one young girl who almost falls over her bag to get away from him as we walk by, ‘Bloody dog hater!’ I mumble to myself under my breath ( maybe She knew something I didn’t! ).
We then hit the travelator together and half way down, unusually Rassie stops trying to pull me down behind him like a huskie driver without the trolley thing and squats.
‘No! Not here!’ I groan as he suddenly delivers a horse sized package onto the moving metal of the busy travelator much to the dismay, disgust and shock of the assembled crowd of Sunday travellers behind us.
As you can imagine I am mortified and make many apologies to a somewhat sickly and shocked audience. No one needs to be greeted by this as they arrive in Sunny Mancunia after all.
I scramble through the man bag for something to pick this monster do do up with and luckily find a random plastic bag.
I then have to wait utterly mortified and humiliated for him to finish his ablutions whilst disgusted folk tut and pull faces as they walk past us
To aid to my embarrassment, is then added an element of old time impending doom and movie threat ( cue tinkly piano soundtrack).
I realise in a sudden grip of panic we are almost at the end of the travelator and he is mid motion! ‘ Hurry up!!!’ I plead pathetically of the shitting fool, who glances up at me as if to say ‘Do you mind, I am having a moment here’.
He is also oblivious to the impending danger and downright disgusting messiness of our situation and how hideous it wil be if his handy work hits the end of the shiny, clean and busy travelator before I pick the steaming mess up in my God sent Sainsburys bag.
‘Hurry up you little …He’s finished!’ I shout to myself in relief.
I frantically grab at the horrible mound and get most of it in the bag as we are just inches from the end of the silver snake of travelator!
”Yes!’ I shout triumphantly! ‘Got it” just as he squats for part two of ‘Poo at Piccadilly’.
Little bastard!