Walking through Neath yesterday, from the Bank back to the car, we encountered a seemingly drug-or-drink-crazed bloke being pinned to the pavement by one of about eight very burly policemen while another strapped his wrists and ankles with tough black plastic ‘cuffs. The other policemen were watching sternly, daring the bloke to try and get away, almost, and another of them was calling for reinforcement in the form of a large arrest van. I didn’t cheer the policemen, but I am grateful for their efforts in clearing another hazard from the streets.
Perhaps unreasonably I felt bad for the suspect, for being pressed into one of Neath’s dirtiest pavements, and into more discarded chewing gum to the square foot than you’d think possible. You try not to breath too hard in streets like that one and this guy had his nose rather too close to the pavement than I’d feel to be prudent.
We were a little shocked at the encounter and walked on by rather than join the small crowd of watchers gathering at the scene. Alright, I confess it, we were a little fascinated, too, but all in all we found ourselves in support of the police action. Disturbing, though.
So much so that, moments later Graham trod full in a pile of discarded curry sauce right on the edge of the pedestrian crossing. The nature of the nauseating yellow grunge wasn’t immediately apparent, and we feared the worst–there are poop and scoop areas in South Wales but this is decidedly not one of them. So Graham scraped his soiled boot on the kerb best he could, and squished them in every puddle he could find on our way to the car.
“This needs grass, that’s what this needs,” he said in response to my offer of tissues.
Fat chance. Grass? Centre of the grottiest part of Neath? Grass? Never! Wait a minute, though…
“There’s a newly turfed grassy knoll outside the council offices,” I said. ”If you can wait?”
“I shall have to,” he said, lifting his leg gingerly into the footwell so as not to contaminate the carpet.
The grass did the job and we went on into the council office to carry out our business on their planning intranet.
Coming back to the car Graham stuck his head in first, sniffing carefully. “That wasn’t doggy-poop,” he said. ”It was curry sauce.”
“Thank heavens for that.”
Except that, even so, Graham wasn’t taking any chances and avoided any contact between the soiled boot and the car carpet. And, when we got home, he took his boots off and left them outside ready for a bleach-water scrubbing.
Hey ho. See Neath and die. Or, at least, squirm a lot.
