He definitely didn’t see me coming.

So yesterday I was waiting for the bus with a considerable crowd of people. From the corner of my eye, I noticed a blind man with one of those sticks they use, rapidly approaching. He seemed in control as he effortlessly made his way toward me. Oh no prob I thought. He’ll veer away when he needs to. Wrong. Within seconds, I had his “poker” rattling between my legs.  I had to jump over it to avoid falling. The 5-second exchange felt like an eternity. Was I about to be tripped by a blind man? The irony was too pronounced for me to even see it as a possibility.  In the end, I managed to avoid falling. He apologized and went on his way with razor sharp accuracy I might add.  His stick glided past everyone else's legs with ease. Apparently, my gams don't register with blind folk. What's next? Will I find myself being told to shut up by a deaf man? I wouldn't be surprised.

No. Not a deaf man. Instead, while nestled between 15 passengers on the bus, a man not 5cm from me  decided that it was the perfect time to start whistling. It was one of those moments, much like almost being tripped by a blind man, that you just can’t prepare for. So I said nothing, which for me is a revelation, as I tend to seek out confrontation whenever and wherever it presents itself. No. This time I decided to endure his coffee-and-timbit-soaked melodies until I reached my destination.  I got there halfway through his rendition of "Holiday" by Madonna. I kid you not. It would be so nice my ass. 

Manhandled

I only write when something – an idea or thought - presents itself to me naturally. That hasn’t happened for some time. But today, inspiration hit me in the most unexpected way: through a giant set of transsexual man hands. Let me explain. I get my hair cut at a place down the street and it’s usually a crapshoot in terms of who ends up styling my coif. Completely random. So I threw caution to the wind and let fate make my decision for me.  As luck would have it, I ended with an Asian transsexual with hands that made my head feel like a pool ball. These were mitts. Baseball mitts. And every snip brought more attention to her meaty gloves. The scissors literally disappeared into the never-ending sea of flesh. My head thrashed recklessly. With my eyes closed, I swore it could have been Wilt Chamberlain behind the chair. It’s all I could think about.  In fact, I’m still thinking about it. My haircut is a constant reminder of the ruthless manhandling I endured not 3 hours ago.  Then came the shampoo after the cut.  It was miraculous. With one “palming” she could scrub every inch of my head. Efficient? You bet she was. Convincing in her transition? Not so much.