the lennox nugget
I won a bet today when I saw this fellow walking down the street towards me. About my age with scraggy white hair and a set of shoulders so wide some door jambs wouldn’t be far enough apart to fit him. Brown as a nut, barefoot. Just outside the IGA.
Hat. Singlet. Boardshorts. Chunky on the body and limbs, a lot of work done there – all in the sea. A nugget.
Lennox is like this sometimes, you see an owner walking towards you and if you haven’t larded out and spent too much time at the barbers and don’t mind walking barefoot yourself and still carry a bit of square about the shoulders, and don’t dress in rags, you can eyeball these hardnut codgers until they get to be about three feet away.
That’s when their peripheral glance turns to high-beam your way, and he flicks his cockies’ eyes into yours – got him, and he gives you a knowing squint. Mate!
So you give him a mute gdaymate’owyezgoin one back, and by the time he’s gone by you’re almost a local.
Bet with self won.
Pity women don’t understand this,
– and all it took was ten seconds.
Lennox is different.