Tag Archives: blackberry

It’s still a policy

There appears to be a glitch in the logic pistons of many human beings, at least according to a couple of things that have recently happened to me. Turns out people don’t expect others to be honest, or nice, or helpful in any way. Which leads me to believe that people expect others to be horrible, thieving, scumbag monsters of death from hell.

So I’m tempted to live up to their expectations.

A few weeks ago I was going for a haircut OH WHAT A LIFE I LEAD when I stopped at an automated teller machine (“ay tee em”), ostensibly to withdraw paper cash with which to fund aforementioned service. There was a man getting out moolah before me, so I stood and waited. Maybe it was the light rain in the air, maybe it was his downright idiocy, or maybe it was the fact I was stood one inch behind him, breathing down his neck and whispering things about “robbing him up well good”, but something must have made him lose concentration.

Whatever it was, it meant he walked away briskly, only for his cash to pop out of the machine after he had made his escape. I leapt in and, without thinking, grabbed the money. I whirled around on my heels and, using all the might my diaphragm could muster, bellowed (“said”) “excuse me mate”. It was pretty epic, truth be told.

Anyway, he turned around, his eyes widened at the sight of me holding a wodge of cash that was technically (“actually”) his, he made a comment about “forget my head if it wasn’t attached” or something, then he put his hand on my shoulder and sincerely thanked me for being so honest. My brain’s reaction?

Irritation. Irritation that a man would be surprised or find it so out of the ordinary for someone to be honest that it deserved such a ‘you did good, you know?’ reaction. Well done brain, you’re mental.

Then on Tuesday I was arriving in King’s Cross by train. I stood to gather my things and, while doing so, noticed a Blackberry (phone, not fruit) had been dropped from the seat in front of me. The guy who had been sat there wasn’t there anymore, and I couldn’t see him waiting to get off the train. I grabbed it and instantly made my plans to sell it on to the highest bidder and by that I mean ‘give it to the guard’, when I noticed the guy who had been in front of me had somehow ended up in the thoroughfare behind me.

I whirled around on my heels and, using all the might my diaphragm could muster, bellowed (“said”) “excuse me mate, is this yours?” It was pretty epic, truth be told.

He looked confused, patted his pockets, looked worried and then said “yes”, before taking the phone from me and thanking me profusely.

And my brain’s reaction to this? More irritation. I don’t know, maybe I’m insane.

But fuck it, at least I’m honest.

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