No.417

Picnic Mick

Less than a few slow swaggers through the gates of Peel Park, Michael, or Micky T as he’s more commonly known down the local student jaunts, has already clocked Camilla Rees Pugh, supping a Pret a Manger amongst a gaggle of netballers over by the rhododendrons. The two have snogged a fair few times at particularly lairy varsity socials, but thanks to some inconspicuous accessorising, it’s near on impossible for eye contact to ever be established. Luckily, he remains incognito. 

He spends the afternoon pretending to read a busted edition of ‘A Catcher in the Rye’ which has been rattling around the bottom of his baccy-littered canvas receptacle for months. He inhales a whole packet of Quorn cocktail sausages and scoffs several Vego bars as he does so. A silent rebellion against his parents who will goad him into eating a meat-laden dinner when he next rocks up at the family gaff.  

Dog-earing his chapter, he pauses to calculate how many loads of spew-stained bedding he’ll need to ferry back home this weekend. No, this guy does not know how to work a washing machine, nor does he intend to learn how. His mam’s Lenor has been a hit with the ladies up to now and if it’s not broke, why fix it? He ought to get his head down this semester but, as his fellow peers keep reminding him, he only needs 40% to pass the year so it should be alright. 

If you’re actually down to earth or trying to keep up the pretence of someone that is, this get-up should be right down your public garden path.