Earlier this week, I had a call out to a young family. The mother of the family had a strong london accent, and in passing I asked where she's from?
"South London, do you know Croydon?" came the reply.
"Yes, very well in fact. Whereabouts?" I asked.
"Thornton Heath (Pronounced Forton eef)," said in thickest Saaf Lannanish
"Oh crikey. I know it well. A lot of people from my school lived there."
"What was your school?" she enquired. (or she would have done, if she could have spelt enquired.)
"It doesn't exist anymore," said I, skirting around the fact it was closed to remove the vermin that went there, and to mop up the steady tide of blood caused from stabbings and drive by shootings. "It's now called Harris."
"You went to Sylvan," she said with some disdain. "So did I."
It turns out she was two years below me. I showed her the pictures from my jaunt back to the area in May and she suddenly said "You knew Danny?"
"Black Danny? Yes of course. You knew him as well?" I should, however, point out two things at this point. First of all, Black Danny was called Black Danny because his name was Danny, and he was black. This was because we also had a Danny a couple of years younger then him living in the area, who became known as "Little Danny." Secondly, the customer was also black, and I had to explain the previous point to her. She just laughed rather nervously, before we continued to compare notes.
Most staggeringly, the highlight of the conversation was the myth (*cough*) of a boy years above them who'd planted the personal information of the teachers on the computer system, and had been expelled because he'd been caught. Fame and fortune should have followed, but in reality the Robin Hood act had meant that whilst I had to kiss some serious arse to stay in the flea ridden school, some folklore had been generated from it.
At least I know my work there was done.
That Donald Trump handshake gif
1 week ago