Thursday, 10 May 2012

Any rag bones?

The Boychild is frightened of a lot of things. I'm not sure where he's picked it up from as, obviously, I'm totally fearless, like Jet from the Gladiators. Apart from when it comes to moths and butterflies, and then I run shrieking like a big blouse for the safety of indoors. Unless the kids are there, in which case I just whimper quietly until it's gone, so as not to teach them that moths are the devil's work. Which they are.   And cotton wool, but that's a story for another time. The Boychild is petrified of spiders and bumble bees; even the tiniest of critters - barely visible without the aid of a microscope - have him producing the shrillest of screams and shaking like a dog taking a crap over the edge of a cliff. He is also scared of noises. But mostly he's scared of the Rag and Bone Man. This is quite unfortunate as the RBM seems to frequent our area almost daily. Our neighbourhood appears to be able to change their kitchen appliances as often as they change their pants which leads to a surplus of rags and bones (well, broken tat) ready for collection. Which means we get to hear lots of "ANYSCRAPIIIIIIIIROOOOOOOOON! ANYRAGBOOOOOOOOOOONES! ANYOL'WASHIN'CHIIIIIIIINES! " peppered with the sound of a trumpet being played through a loud-hailer. The Daughter used to be afraid of RBM, but that was mainly down to The Husband telling her he was the Child-Catcher, and thankfully Mummy has managed to convince the poor child this was all yet another example of Daddy's silliness.
To be fair, I'm a bit scared of the RBM too after an experience I had with him last year. We had an awful lot of rags and bones (broken tat) after a clear out in the garden and garage so, having heard his racket, I tracked him down and asked him to follow me. Follow me he did, and not content with taking the stuff that I'd left out for him, he then proceeded to pick up bikes and new gardening tools saying "What about this? Can I have this?". Cue hand slapping and "No*slap* you *slap* sodding-well-can't *slap*".
Here's a freaky thought - RBM are so called because in the 19th century, they used to collect all sorts of scrap - including actual bones, not like the modern day fussy beggars that want your lawnmower. Next time the loud bugger comes round with his megaphone disturbing the peace, I'm going to open the door and beckon him over. Then present him with a bin bag full of chicken carcasses and all the skeletons of our dead animals out of the garden and tell him to get back to his roots, see how he likes them apples!

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