Here comes that man again

I saw my Backwards Man again yesterday.  I was walking home down the hill as he was walking up, so his back approached me; much less socially awkward than last time when I approached his front.  (In that situation should one smile? pass the time of day? ask if he would consider becoming my muse?)  Anyway, yesterday he seemed intent on his note-taking and was looking sideways at the traffic rather than where he was going, so I merged silently into the privet to let him pass.

I could do with a muse right now, especially one who is handy with his notebook.  I have two ideas I’m not sure what to do with and I’m running out of time to decide.  Meh meh meh.  What would Backwards Man do?

Some uke on guitar action for a Saturday night:


The muse

Once upon a time, there was a skinny little girl who dreamed the big world through huge glasses. Then her hair was cut short. Her mother was an impatient soul so it might have been nits or insolence, but short it was, and it meant that the little girl was constantly mistaken for a boy. One day in her third year at school, the little girl’s teacher was ill, so Mrs Maitland came to teach the class. Mrs Maitland brought along her daughter, who was the same age as the class children. This daughter may have been called Cassandra and she certainly didn’t have to wear the drab school uniform. Instead, she wore a red tartan pleated skirt and a jumper knitted from sparkly turquoise nylon that scratched the little girl’s face as they were squeezed together in the jostle of the queue for the midmorning trip to the toilet. The little girl hummed a tiny tune as her gaze wandered from Cassandra’s fluffy blonde hair to the downy skin of her neck to the harsh brash glitter of the jumper. This pleased the little girl, so she let her eyes roll up and down, up and down, like search lights on the lookout for textures and sensations. But her poor little cheek was getting quite sore, so the little girl was relieved when Mrs Maitland pulled her over to the other queue. Then, once Mrs Maitland had given the word, she tagged along until the little girl found herself in the little boys’ room, in front of a crowd of boys who considered her in a mixture of sympathy and embarrassment. The little girl turned slowly on her heel and, trusting their silence, left the little boys to their urinals.

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