Mon, 2 May 05, 12:11 PM
Well, this is my first “sighting” for quite a while, so I thought I might share it….
I am often out quite late in the evenings, and will usually fill up my car on my way home, to avoid a rush the following morning. The petrol station I use has all the facilities including a clean restroom, but at seven p.m. the door is locked and service transferred to the popular “bulletproof kiosk” arrangement – you know the ones: you put your money in a tray and the assistant turns the tray around to collect it ?
When I line up for a petrol pump the rather middle-aged Peugot 406 is already being replenished by a thirties-ish guy in sweater and jeans – he looks like he just turned out for a packet of cigarettes and decided to fill up the car at the same time. A companion – I cannot see who or what at this point – is sitting in the front passenger seat. Anyway, as he finishes with his pump I am starting with mine. He seems to be in a kind of a hurry, misses with the petrol cap when he tries to put it back on, and so on. He goes to the kiosk to pay – it takes time, maybe because a credit card is involved, or maybe because he is buying those cigarettes.
Dramatic pause.
The door of the Peugot bursts open and a girl, I would say in her late teens or early twenties, almost falls out. She has a short red dress on, and obviously did not just come out for the fuel. She is seriously NICE – the Posh Beckham look is hot around here at the moment and she was wearing it, expensively, I would say, and well. The elfin figure was gamine enough for the dress and the hair to frame, but just well enough upholstered to make the low neckline interesting. The rapid clack of heels as she rushes to stand (or really more half-crouch) beside her friend at the kiosk. Her hands are in front of her – I cannot see them – nor can I hear the content of their half-whispered conversation: but I hear her sorry voice pleading with the cashier;
“Oh pleeease! You must!” She is dancing from foot to foot, not still for a second.
Then, faced with the cashier’s obvious refusal, finally: “Fascist!”
With a parting remark to her companion she runs back to the car and piles herself back inside. Her eyes are everywhere, her face flushed with embarrassment. The garage is busy and she would draw a lot of attention anyway, the way she looked.
Even more flustered, it seems, is the companion. He more or less runs back to the car, starts it as he enters, drives away with a slight squeal of rubber. He does not get far.
The garage stands beside a slip road which rejoins the main carriageway a little further on. Another squeal of tires brings the matronly vehicle to a halt – just twenty metres or so down the slip and the passenger door, now, sadly, facing away from me once again flies open. A furious argument is in progress, the exact terms of which are not quite audible, but it culminates in the girl emerging from the car on the far side: by now I am in the process of paying for my petrol, so I cannot turn too obviously, but I am able to understand that the distressed Becks impressionist is standing motionless at first leaning forward on the car. Then she appears to be sinking out of sight. Two words come over quite clearly:
“You fuck!”
I look at the cashier, who is as aware as I of this scenario. She is a little pink and guilty, I think.
The car remains stationary for maybe a minute or a little more – the raised voices subside. Then its passenger clearly has climbed back in, because a door slams and it moves away, more calmly than before, into the evening light.
Leaving the garage after all this, I turn in the same direction as the Peugot. Reduced light, even with the aid of streetlights, makes detailed observation difficult, but there is no doubting the fresh and quite large pool of liquid still tippling over the kerb and running away in the gutter.
That happened on Wednesday night. I don’t think I have forgotten one detail!
I am often out quite late in the evenings, and will usually fill up my car on my way home, to avoid a rush the following morning. The petrol station I use has all the facilities including a clean restroom, but at seven p.m. the door is locked and service transferred to the popular “bulletproof kiosk” arrangement – you know the ones: you put your money in a tray and the assistant turns the tray around to collect it ?
When I line up for a petrol pump the rather middle-aged Peugot 406 is already being replenished by a thirties-ish guy in sweater and jeans – he looks like he just turned out for a packet of cigarettes and decided to fill up the car at the same time. A companion – I cannot see who or what at this point – is sitting in the front passenger seat. Anyway, as he finishes with his pump I am starting with mine. He seems to be in a kind of a hurry, misses with the petrol cap when he tries to put it back on, and so on. He goes to the kiosk to pay – it takes time, maybe because a credit card is involved, or maybe because he is buying those cigarettes.
Dramatic pause.
The door of the Peugot bursts open and a girl, I would say in her late teens or early twenties, almost falls out. She has a short red dress on, and obviously did not just come out for the fuel. She is seriously NICE – the Posh Beckham look is hot around here at the moment and she was wearing it, expensively, I would say, and well. The elfin figure was gamine enough for the dress and the hair to frame, but just well enough upholstered to make the low neckline interesting. The rapid clack of heels as she rushes to stand (or really more half-crouch) beside her friend at the kiosk. Her hands are in front of her – I cannot see them – nor can I hear the content of their half-whispered conversation: but I hear her sorry voice pleading with the cashier;
“Oh pleeease! You must!” She is dancing from foot to foot, not still for a second.
Then, faced with the cashier’s obvious refusal, finally: “Fascist!”
With a parting remark to her companion she runs back to the car and piles herself back inside. Her eyes are everywhere, her face flushed with embarrassment. The garage is busy and she would draw a lot of attention anyway, the way she looked.
Even more flustered, it seems, is the companion. He more or less runs back to the car, starts it as he enters, drives away with a slight squeal of rubber. He does not get far.
The garage stands beside a slip road which rejoins the main carriageway a little further on. Another squeal of tires brings the matronly vehicle to a halt – just twenty metres or so down the slip and the passenger door, now, sadly, facing away from me once again flies open. A furious argument is in progress, the exact terms of which are not quite audible, but it culminates in the girl emerging from the car on the far side: by now I am in the process of paying for my petrol, so I cannot turn too obviously, but I am able to understand that the distressed Becks impressionist is standing motionless at first leaning forward on the car. Then she appears to be sinking out of sight. Two words come over quite clearly:
“You fuck!”
I look at the cashier, who is as aware as I of this scenario. She is a little pink and guilty, I think.
The car remains stationary for maybe a minute or a little more – the raised voices subside. Then its passenger clearly has climbed back in, because a door slams and it moves away, more calmly than before, into the evening light.
Leaving the garage after all this, I turn in the same direction as the Peugot. Reduced light, even with the aid of streetlights, makes detailed observation difficult, but there is no doubting the fresh and quite large pool of liquid still tippling over the kerb and running away in the gutter.
That happened on Wednesday night. I don’t think I have forgotten one detail!