Well after a two weeks of suffering from something that resembled Ebola mixed with a virus that was a close relation of bronchitis I finally feel fit enough to resume the school run.
As an aside I must mention that even after the torrential rain of the past weeks there are still remnants of the orange dog turds adhering to sections of the pavement. As the laying of fresh turds is about due I shall resume my investigations with the new deposits.
The school yard was full of the usual mothers this morning but, as I approached, I could sense an air of excitement amongst the gathered throng and a sort of restless movement from the tight jeans encasing the multitude of tattooed and child bearing thighs. Local legend has it that the greatest excitement in the village was in the late fifties when Hammer Films did some casting for junior vampires in one of their Dracula films and I suspected that something similar was taking place, although I could see no sign of cameras or film type personnel in the immediate area. After a moment a figure, furiously scratching its' left buttock, broke free of the milling throng and sort of semi hopped in a large circle around the painted markings used by the cycling proficiency people. As it scratched there was similar movement amongst the the crowd and I half expected that they were practising for the tribal dance held on the anniversary of the miners strike every year. As this anniversary ritual also includes breaking the windows of all 'scabs' houses and the firebombing of the local police station, the rehearsals do take up many hours of the local community time and are often carried out in any convenient location such as the school playground.
However the initial participant was now surround by others all of whom were flapping their hands and a voice shouting 'got the bleeder' indicated that the furore had been caused by the first wasp of our delayed summer. To everyones relief the agitated parents soon settled down and I was able to read some of the intricate messages inscribed by the tattooists pen on both their exposed and indeed less exposed areas of bountiful flesh.
I hadn't previously realised it but many of the messages, especially the ones curving from the navel to the groin, are actually written in text speak. I noted two lols, one wtf and four of consecutive letters from scunthorpe, although the one was partly obscured by a large fold of surplus flesh. From some of the inscriptions I can only conclude that one of the local Chinese takeaways has struck a deal in order to advertise their menus albeit in the original Mandarin rather than modern English.
As this post has taken the better part of a week to complete I'll finish now and perhaps tomorrow relate a few more secrets of this mysterious community.
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