A New Englishman In New York Part 19: The Bunny Rabbit And The Bare Bum

A simple trip to the shop for lemons, tomato juice and toilet paper gives our man much more than he bargained for...
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A simple trip to the shop for lemons, tomato juice and toilet paper gives our man much more than he bargained for...

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Bunny Rabbit

It’s so cold outside that leaving the house isn’t an option I’m willing to entertain. So like a true gent I send out the wife to be. She leaves the flat to bring in supplies for the evening.  I have two requests “tomato juice” and “a lemon” I repeat this three times to the point where she gets annoyed.

5 minutes later she returns. No tomato juice and no lemons. I bring up the missing items, which then lead to an argument. I have no idea how I can sidestep blame by pointing out missed items. So now it is my turn to head out into the Tundra and buy these goods.  As I’m leaving, she says, “Oh, and Tam (she’s American) grab some toilet paper.”

“I’m sure I can remember three things.” The sarcastic reply of a bell.

I walk up the street and turn the corner. On my side there is a new clothes shop that has just opened. High end. Small. A boutique. About 4 blouses in there in total. As a pointless gimmick they have a small front in the window, which houses two live Rabbits. This makes it popular with tourists and children.

As I walk past the shop something else catches my eye. It is a woman’s bare bottom. In the middle of the shop is a young lady. She is wearing an outfit that defies not only the most basic understanding of how and why to dress in the cold but one which straight up delivers her tush to the viewing public. It is mental. It’s a short skirt that barely starts and ends too early. To compound matters she is wearing holed fisheye stockings with a whole hole over her knickers. Beyond. I shake my head at a world gone wrong and head to the shop. I pick up the stuff I need.  And walk back out into the cold. As I approach that shop with the near naked woman, a little boy and his Dad are walking past.

“Daddy, can we see the bunny rabbit.” Asks the little boy.

“No, we are late to meet Mummy.” Says the Dad.

The dad then looks up to the bunny rabbit. Then with magnet eyes of nature spies the bottom exposing fashionista. He pauses.

“Oh, ok then, just for a few minutes.” He says to his now elated son.

They head over the glass. The son is glued to the glass waving at the little animal. The Dad also glued to class, not even looking at the Rabbit at all.

This pleases me greatly; I turn the corner to my street. Walk up the stairs. Get inside. Tell the fiancée about the girl with the bottom. She asks, “Did you get the toilet paper?”

I forgot. I couldn’t remember three things. We all know who to blame.

The other day after shamelessly high fiving a Greenpeace person, I went to study my Greenpeace direct debit

Charity Person 3

I try to walk everywhere, which can be trying at times as it turns out I’m not the only person in the city. One of the many hazards of walking through the streets of a big city are the few people that actually try to get your attention. The most prominent of these offenders are the charity workers, desperate for your signature.

Back in January 2006, I was walking home from my last day at work before embarking on a travelling, trip of a lifetime to sample McDonalds in Malaysia, Australia, Fiji and beyond. Naturally I was in a cracking mood and when stopped on Boscombe high street by a very pretty Greenpeace worker I was all ears. Breaking a habit of a lifetime I stopped, chatted and presumed she would kiss me if I signed up to paying 5 quid a month. She didn’t kiss me when I signed but I have assumed that since this moment 6 years ago I have been paying this amount a month.

I’ve used this tiny amount of charitable good to give myself a level of moral high ground. A sense of joining the common good. I am a key architect of the big society.

Now back here in New York 2012, on my walk home there are always some Greenpeace people, clipboards ready, looking to catch my eye. I have to walk past them all the time, so when they say, “Sir, can we have a minute of you time?” I have chosen not to ask if they know the pretty blonde girl that used to walk the streets of Boscombe in 2006, but to tell them “I already donate every month.” This smug altruism would often be greeted with a “Thank you” or a high five. I would actually often high five the charity man, walking away fully aware that I look like a tit, but a giving tit. Full of warm milky philanthropy.

The other day after shamelessly high fiving a Greenpeace person, I went to study my Greenpeace direct debit. In the same way, as all people responsible for the economic crash, my bank balance is a sort of imaginary number that exists in my head calculated in the dead of night before sleep. Even during the leanest of times I had tried to make sure I had at least 5 quid in my imaginary net worth to pay for the direct debit. So I get home, log onto to Internet Banking, go to the Direct Debit section. My Greenpeace giving expired in June 2006.

So, I’m no longer a giving tit, just a tit.

I now walk a different way home.

You can follow Tom on twitter: @twgreaney

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