"She said if I suck her toes later she'll give me a gobble tonight," said the tracksuited teen outside a shop two weeks ago. My most recent favourite is the woman who, two people ahead of me in the queue, muttered to a friend, "It is a shame to see dear old Marks and Spencers looking a bit 'Asian corner shop'".
This last incident was delivered sotto voce, very much the preferred way of spreading opinion in every office and workplace I have ever called my own. The influence from reality television is very prevalent within offices nowadays, as though addicts of Big Brother and such have re-programmed themselves to speak in the manner of contestants worried about eviction night or electrocution hour or whichever punishment has been contrived.
Whilst waiting to get into the Manc Academy - who for? Was it Biffy Clyro? No....t'was Fightstar, ah yes.....Anyhoo, behind me stood and chatted two young women who were clearly close friends. I was made aware of their closeness by their long and detailed conversation centred around a bloke was some kind of common link. "Does he still ask loads of questions during sex?" one asked the other. "Am I doing this right, how's this, what about this?". I wondered how far this q&a would go - bedroom doors have a lock on them for a reason, no? - until they were met and interrupted midflow by a cheery man who was clearly the fella with the love making interview process. You could not, really, make it up.
Will spend today away from the temptations of eavesdropping, if I can. Some writing needs to be done, as does cleaning (the flat is looking 'lived in' rather than 'livable'). To help me, I need music in the background (I am blessed without easy access to BBC One and therefore Sunday morning stables like Nicky Campbell's increasingly contrived 'debate' show).
I have been mostly listening to Preston's ambient metal hotspurs Stichthread, whose temperament bubbles underneath like a married couples argument.
Much repeated listening too to Cats and Cats and Cats, who are now on the radar of all the magazines hip people skim-read waiting for the Tube, through whom I am now enjoying Wot Gorilla?, whose plucky-strummy-loveliness nevertheless implies all Hell could break loose given the chance.