The Highway Man

I read a great story last night by The Britchy One (sure all of hers are great anyway!). She told a yarn about how she caught someone who was thieving from her handbag. It jogged my memory about someone who was pinching from me…

Once upon a time, a hundred years ago when I lived near Spain I thought it might be a good idea to move in with my then boyfriend.

We were deeply in love and decided to take the next step. We used to spend our nights walking along the harbour talking about our future…he would play the lute and sing sweet music while I would watch the lights twinkle on the water and breathe in the warm sweet air….

Oh Christ, how did I get that far with a straight face?! The real story goes like this:

I worked for an absolute thundering gobshite of a Cork man at the time. Unless you actually sweat blood he wasn’t happy. Because I was ‘good’ at the breakfast shift, I got them all.

I wasn’t ‘good’, I was just fast. I am a very grumpy waitress and even more cranky before 3pm. Can you imagine the hack of me rolling in at 9am to open the bar after hitting the clubs until 6am? Just give me the bloody order and don’t expect chit chat unless I see a €20 tip upfront and hold it up to the light to make sure it’s not a fake.

Anyway I got lumbered with all the morning shifts. Up to 100 breakfasts with just me and our Filipino chef – who also hated me….because? You guessed it, I’m a cranky waitress! He also had a busting hangover most mornings since he spent his nights up late gambling and drinking with his buddies. We were a shining example of the food service industry! To be fair to Reuben if it wasn’t for him sliding me my dinner under the table during my poverty stricken days I probably would have died of starvation. He may have hated me, but he was a sympathetic sort.

Anywho, one morning I rolled in ten minutes late and sure lo and behold wasn’t the Cork fecker there with his stopwatch dying to dock my wage by the 4 cents I missed.

Reeking of drink (since he too had been up all night in the sauce, he probably hadn’t left the pub in three days)* he followed me round the bar barking in my ear. At that stage my lovely temper took hold. My temper’s a bit like Jekyll and Hyde. I keep it under wraps the majority of the time, but when it raises its ugly head, I like to get my money’s worth.

So I took the stack of ashtrays I was holding at the time, slammed them on the table (he actually jumped) and told him to stick his poxy job forcibly where the sun doesn’t shine. The pittance he was paying me wasn’t worth looking at his ugly kisser so close at that ungodly hour of the morning!

As I trotted out the door he garbled some nonsense after me about how I would be sorry. I’d tell you what I replied but I’m pretty sure it would see me banished from the WordPress pages for all time.

Gleefully I skipped out the door and headed to my fellas where I then broke down and wept like a child cos I didn’t know how to pay the rent.

Being the lovely bloke that he was (yes, I am one of those girls who still likes their exes) he told me not to fret, get my stuff and to hell with my apartment.

Back to the main story: my ex was from Mauritania. It’s the done thing to have an open door policy to allllll friends and family. So I found myself living with 5-7 blokes with zero privacy and no sofa. Those boyos are so happy on the floor they literally bin the couch and keep the cushions. I was the only weirdo in the gaff who actually slept on a bed.

So my money began to go missing. Not spare change mind you…chunks of the stuff. Given it was all I had in those days I wasn’t too pleased. Someone obviously assumed I was a descendant of Nelson Rockefeller and thought I wouldn’t miss it.

Though, in a house full of unemployed men with no visas on an island that mostly employed white people – I knew what I was getting myself into, I may play the fool but I ain’t no eejit.

So one day as I walked into the bedroom I heard a scramble. When I opened the door there were a big pair of black legs in shorts sticking out from under the bed. To this day I think he genuinely thought I wouldn’t see him.

The conversation went like this:

“What the effing eff!! Effing eff you! *$€@*^#!! I worked hard for that and you sit on your effing @*%# and then come into MY room to lift MY effing money?? What the *€%@*???”

“…..*silence*….”

“Hey ***** you know I can see you right?”

“Yes.”

“I’m going to stand and look at the corner while you leave the room. Do not take anything with you.”

“Ok.”

What could I do but laugh?

Looking at his legs hanging out from under my bed was literally the last time I saw or spoke to the guy. As my mum would say, at least Dick Turpin had the decency to wear a mask! But hey ho at least it makes a good story for my memoirs!!

Your money or your life!

Shortly after I got myself a new gaff for fear they’d leave me bankrupt and met my daughter’s dad…but sure I’ll leave that for another time!

*(In hindsight if we had all given our livers up to medical science we’d be millionaires by now. We’d be half dead but at least the money would take our minds off it)