“He wears brown socks, and he can’t hardly spell good.”
Usually, when I ask someone for a description of a person I get, he’s fat, skinny, tall, short, blond, dark, walks with a limp —- that sort of thing.
But this bozo expects me to track down a joker because he has a limited selection of socks to choose from as well as his propensity for spelling ‘arse’ like an American; a-s-s my arse!
Why do I always get the bogans?
I hate ‘house to house’ at the best of times, but why do I always get the loonies and the downright nutbags.
My colleagues are tucked up all comfy in the local, a beer in each hand, laughing and joking and trying to find another reason to not go home and I’m still knocking on doors talking to people who watch reality television because it might increase their IQ.
My friends knock on doors, and five out of six don’t answer.
A quick note; ‘no one at home’ and on to the next house.
Me; no such luck.
Four out of five are at home, and they have something ‘really’ important to tell me.
“The bloke next door lets his dog bark all night”, which is interesting because the property next door has been vacant for six months!
All I want to know is, have they seen anything suspicious, but before I can narrow the parameters of their answer, off they go.
Current affairs television has a lot to answer for.
We usually do this job in pairs, but no one wants to be my partner.
Not because I am likely to get them killed or anything practical like that, but because they know that I ALWAYS get the crazies when we have a ‘house to house’. They know that practically everyone will be home and that they won’t shut up.
They know that I’m going to be ‘at it’ till the sun goes down.
I stagger into the pub some two hours after everyone else and a huge cheer goes up. The bastards really know how to rub it in. Everyone is still there. It’s as if they cannot go home until I get finished, but the reality is —- you don’t want to go home when you do this job. The more years you get under your belt, the longer it takes each day for the grime to fall away. When you do go home, you don’t want to take any of it with you.
It’s after midnight by the time I get in.
The kids are asleep, and there’s no food waiting for me.
She won’t give me a hard time about the late hour or my alcohol breath; we are way past that point. A sort of armistice has set in, but that does not include cooking me food in the evening only to see it go to waste.
I heat up some chips and sausage rolls and watch Robert Mitchum beat the crap out of someone in black and white.
I fall asleep on the couch, but wake before the kids get up.
I shower and dress, and the whole bloody thing starts all over again.