I talked to a man three days ago amidst the hustle and bustle of Boots. Quite what he was doing at Boots, I had no idea, because his face was as greasy as a greased-up greasel and has probably never known any splash of water. His clothes were not clothes, but rags affixed with the amazing adhesive strength of his sweat. But I digress.
A greasy man, flapping his jaw and belting "haw haw"s that dotted every sentence, whilst I stood still, stuck to the spot like a dropped piece of gum. All was nonsensical until, leaning closer, the shambles began to whisper.
"I've got to go back home, you see? Take the brick back. Haw haw!"
I started to say my goodbyes, vowing never again to appear as amiable as I had that day. But curiosity peaked. "What of the brick?" It was then that I noticed a small ring of gold packed around his finger, firmly dividing the flesh into the look of a sausage. Quite how his finger hadn't fallen from blood loss, I was at a loss to know. But the brick.
"She's my wife."
Reaching in his rucksack, washing his hands in repugnant odours that I dare not to think, he retrieved a red brick, presented it firmly to my cowering eyes. He had dressed the brick with a bride's attire, white-veiled clay and a wide creamy skirt. Under his breath, he started to hum Here Comes The Bride, whilst shuffling from foot to unclad foot. A final "haw", then a second of silence.
"Beautiful, isn't she?"
"Yes, Glenn Beck, she is."