I’ve been travelling around London a lot on the train recently so I’ve had several raucous mobile phone conversations imposed on me, each of which have reassured me that there is still plenty of work for social workers out there!
Two such chats overheard recently on a commuter train particularly come to mind; the first left me wanting to intervene in some way. I’m also tempted to use the local dialect in relaying these, but some of you might find that patronising so I’ll stick to jolly good old Queen’s English.
OK, so there was a young lady sitting behind me, just before Christmas… “Oh man, this isn’t going to be a good one, a goodChristmas. My cousin’s got Ally and ain’t letting me see her. My X-Box has broken… do you know Jackson? Battersea, yeah. He’s got my car. No, haven’t seen him for days.” And the punchline, delivered at a decibel level not out of place on an airport runway: “But I’ve still got my crack. Unless the xxxx lot stab me tonight.“
Fast forward to this week. “You going out with your cousin’s friend? But what about Debs? Still going out with her? Her brother’s inside isn’t he? How long did he get?”– wait for it – “35 years, that’s way too much for that… that’s too long, they gave him too long.”
What amazed me was that a life sentence was being discussed in the same manner as most people would describe a parking fine.
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