Summer is finally here. I don’t mind if it’s late if we’re looking at an Indian Summer on a par with what I think was 2011’s curious spell of prolonged warm weather when we were supposed to be in autumn. Of course, the reason that Indian Summer remains lodged in my memory is because it was one ridiculously hot October night, unlike any other autumnal night I’ve ever experienced, when the drunken Somalian was out there on South Lambeth Road verbally abusing everyone. He was like some satirist, homing in on some feature and then cruelly exaggerating it. That wasn’t a great time for me and the last thing I needed was to be ‘satirised’ on my way home, so I ended up, a rarity for me, ordering a third latte when they were about a third of the price they are now. The Head Man of SW8 was on his way into the café when he was spotted by the pissed-up Somalian, whose distinctive overbite was unusual even for the time, as normally these are picked up by today’s dentists early on. The SW8 satirist then launched into a savage putdown of the Head Man of SW8, spending at least thirty seconds on the Mancunian’s oversized head. The softly spoken café regular whose frequent arguments with his tight husband in the café have long amused me, was mortified and made, I felt, a mistake in calling the police because all that would do was to keep the ‘you’ve got such a big f***ing head’ remark fresh in everyone’s memory. Indeed, here I am, 12 summers/winters on, whatever this is, still writing about it.
© 2024 Daniel Ruiz Tizon
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