Wibble

The right-hand elevator smelled like shit and Pine-Sol this morning, so I waited several extra minutes for the left-hand one on my way back up.

Also, the warm weather has been coaxing out the weirdos like nobody's business. Between my smelly ride down and my delayed ride up, I encountered two complete wibblers and a gentleman of poor breeding:

WIBBLER IN A HUGO BOSS OVERCOAT: I noticed this fellow long before his wibblishness came to the fore. He had on the most marvelous overcoat, see. It was long and flappy--capacious, sort of thing--but impressively bulky, as well. You'd put on this coat, and immediately appear broader across the shoulders and sturdier in the legs. It takes a lot of money to get a coat like that. My overcoat has one layer of fabric, with false pleats sewn into the skirt. The hems are ironed under instead of stitched, and the lining only comes down to the bum. This fellow's coat, well, you didn't have to open it to know the lining came all the way down, tucking itself neatly into a hand-sewn hem. The fabric was heavy and luxurious, and folded into several layers. You'd stay warm in a coat like that, without having to look like the Michelin Man. Perfect blend of form and function, right there.

"Wow," I thought--"a Hugo Boss overcoat! What I wouldn't give...." Some ladies like shoes, or hats or scarves or knickers, but me, I go for coats. I've got more coats than pairs of socks in my closet. I might even have more coats than underpants, though I'd have to count to make sure. I hate to throw out a coat, even a norrible old skratty one, or one I never wear. Mother tried to heave-ho my brown suede one last October, the one with the shiny-bare elbows, but I wasn't having any of it.

"What do you need this for?" She waved it in my general direction, spreading a mothball smell. "Look at all these coats! That's half your closet full of coats. What are these red ones? You have two the same. When are you ever going to wear this?"

I tried to explain about my all-consuming coat fetish, but she was delving into my underwear drawer by then. There's no privacy when she's around.

At any rate, I've never had a coat quite so wonderful as that Hugo Boss one. I wouldn't go so far as to say I was staring, but I was certainly casting the odd admiring glance. I'd look like Batman in that, I thought. I imagined myself running across the road with the skirt ballooning out behind me, or standing on a windy bridge with the pleats snapping open and shut. It takes yards and yards of fabric to put in real pleats, like that. Most coats just have fake ones, with two panels pinched together to give the appearance of a pleat. You can always tell the real thing, though. I'd add a bit of a flourish to my turns, if I was wearing a coat like that. People going by in their cars would think My, what an exciting coat.

Oh, right--the wibbler, though, eh? I suppose I ought to get to the meat of the thing. Just as we passed each other on the street, he lifted up his briefcase and broke into a run. He ran around me three times--

--and then went on his way. I can't even begin to imagine what possessed him to behave in such a manner. Playfulness and incredibly expensive overcoats don't tend to sit terribly well together. I suspect out-and-out insanity, à la American Psycho.

WIBBLER IN SHORTS: Well, you'd have to be a bit on the barmy side to wear shorts in February, wouldn't you? Still, there he was, an elderly gent in flip-flops and Bermuda shorts, enjoying his morning constitutional. I shivered a little, just looking at him. The sun's out, but it's hardly warm.

GENTLEMAN OF POOR BREEDING: He farted!

When I was a wee one, and somebody farted, everyone used to clap their right thumb to their forhead and yell "Thumbtack!" Whoever forgot to do so got blamed for the fart. Then, there was a period of "He who smelt it, dealt it," and then a permanent scapegoat emerged, in the form of a fat boy named Paul. Children are cruel.

On another note entirely, I haven't seen any Razor scooters, just lately. A few years ago, everybody had one, self included. Nowadays, it seems to be back to skateboards.

One time, at the height of the scooter craze, I managed to trip over mine. I wasn't even riding it, when it happened. One minute, I was walking it down a particularly crowded section of Hastings Street, and the next--whoops! Many strangers laughed at me, that day. I may even have been written up as a wibbler on one of their Internet journals:

I witnessed a scooter accident on East Hastings, today. It was probably the lamest accident in history. This kid didn't fall off her scooter, see: she tripped over it. Everyone waited to make sure she was OK, then burst out laughing. She took a bow, and nearly tripped over the scooter again. What a wibbler. Some people shouldn't be allowed things with wheels.

Wibblers or no wibblers, I walked nearly five blocks, which is the furthest I've gone in ages. I was a little tired when I got back, but generally optimistic. I think I might go to the beach tomorrow, see if I can't spot me some waterbirds.