I was mugged this morning by one of the plucky eco-protestors who are trying to save Pinxton Tar Pits from commercial redevelopment.
‘I hate doing this . . .’
‘Don’t do it, then,’ I interrupted.
‘. . . but could you spare some cash?’ he asked rather sheepishly. ‘I ain’t eaten since yesterday.’
I blinked. ‘Neither have I. It’s 8am.’
‘Yes, but they caught me wiv me ‘and in t’biscuit tin.’ I have no idea what he meant by this.
Looking thoroughly hopeless and doomed, as if they had earlier been condemned to death by the parish council, he and his two girlfriends cut very sorry figures indeed as they begged up and down the High Street (it’s the Via Dolorosa of the village).
They were filthy, covered in sticky brown grease from the oily, godforsaken former picnic area they are protecting from evil property barons. But, because they are constantly bothering local residents for food or money, they have garnered for themselves something of an altogether unsavoury reputation.
‘People would be more sympathetic to your cause if you had a wash occasionally,’ I suggested.
‘Fascist!’ came the inevitable rejoinder.