A Venetian Complaint

    On the Mile End bus a young, black, schizophrenic man began a long, loud conversation with himself,
   "Yeah, man! All the fun of the fair, innit? Out on the island - but not Long Island. That'd be too tragic, man. Too tragic. Too tragic, blud. Down on her luck that's for sure. For damned  sure, I'm tellin' ya. I won't even. I won't even. There isn't even one down there who can tell it like it is. When they come out of their shell, like, there ain't anuvver fing to say about it. For real, blud, for real. I'm tellin' ya." I got off at the junction and found a place that served Sunday roast lunch. At the next table sat three young women, two men and a child a little under a year old. One of the women said, 
    "When you go to Venice it's so damned confusing because you can never find a bridge to get over to the other damned side of the canal. I mean, we could see the damned hotel over there on the other side, but do you think we could work out how to get over there? Not a chance! We walked for probably a mile before we came to a bridge, and then we got lost trying to work our way back to the bloody place. Never again, I tell you! It's completely over-rated." The child's mother pulled a face and said to it, loudly, "Oh, do you want to go poo poo? Is it coming out now? Oh yuck! You DO want poo poo, don't you! I think I'd better go and change him, Marcus, before the whole restaurant gets grossed out." Too late, I thought, mission accomplished.

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