The Plastic Population

Lunchtime and I’m having an Oasis soup (you get a roll with it).
Having previously been barred from Tonbridge rail station (for smoking in the waiting room and turning the toilets into a sauna by drying my laundry on the radiator), I just talked my way back in for later by chatting up the staff: ever the charmer.
And somewhat charmed it would seem: as well as the Telegraph vouchers I found earlier, yesterday I found a pair of jeans in the library: Top Man, 30″ waist, 28″ leg, skinny fit: made for me. I tried handing them in but the library wouldn’t take them on hygiene grounds. They’ll go in with the laundry then before adorning me.
I’m relieved to be re-admitted to the railway station in the evenings. It won’t be for long as I’ll be in Shelter but it’s where I’ve met most of the people who’ve become my new friends around here (there, McDonald’s and Wetherspoons). these are the kind of people my ex-family would largely disapprove of but they’re decent people. Leave them alone, lead your cosy little lives and think of no-one but yourselves.
For now I’m in McDonald’s and in the hour that I’ve been here, there’s been a very noisy, annoying, out-of-control children’s birthday party going on. I don’t begrudge the kids having fun, nor making a noise: I have my own kids (although McDonald’s may not be my first choice of birthday party venue). These kids have had their Happy Meals and they now have plastic toys as souvenirs (which will break within hours). What does grate though is that the kids are so rowdy because the parents are pretty much constantly outside, smoking (setting an example).
And the parents are straight from central casting: designer label tracksuits (although they look fake), gold jewellery (probably from Elizabeth Duke) and trainers; pristine white and by the brands acquired and cheapened by Mike Ashley and Sports Direct.
Plastic gangsters.

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