Dealing with Raggamuffins | Part 1
It is a sad state of affairs when coming face to face with Raggamuffins occurs on a daily basis, however all is not lost, as this helpful guide will now demonstrate.
We should first define a Raggamuffin; a Raggamuffin is:
- Not of Royal descent.
- Not of other affluent background.
- Someone who considers street drinking, rowdiness or other such anti-social behaviour to be the norm.
- Someone who does not consider the consequences of their actions relative to others around them.
The list could go on.
Next we should propose a typical situation in your life:
It is a Sunday afternoon; you are at home with your wife or husband, or other such partner of good standing. Perhaps you have two-point-five children, half a dog and two-thirds of a cat, they are all playing together in the garden.
You are having a final peruse of the periodicals you have unwittingly collected over the week, before using them as tinder for your mock Tudor fireplace. Your wife, or husband, or other such partner, calls in from the kitchen, he/she/they ask kindly if you wouldn’t mind just popping to the local shop to procure some final titbits forgotten during the weekly shop at the larger supermarket more towards town. Merrily you agree, and take down a small list of items upon your Moleskin–or other branded–notebook. Among the items, Ahh Bisto for Chicken (other brands are available) and a pint of milk. Content with your comprehensive list of missing titbits, you reach for your jacket and adorn the freshly dewed village with your presence.
As I’m sure you agree, a typical Sunday afternoon.
Now if this were the world we once knew, this story would remain just as typical and unvaried as it always used to. However this is not the world we once knew, it is a strange new world where Raggamuffins patrol the street corners like hounds, free to roam wherever and whenever they please. They answer to no one, yet answer back they do with the sole intention of taunting us with their seemingly blank cheque. Let us return now to the typical Sunday afternoon, and see how things pan out.
Gaily and without hesitation you sashay along the pavement, moving ever closer towards the green. ‘Ah the green’ you think ‘such wonderful memories. The Pear tree. The rope swing. The time you chipped a tooth on the Pear tree when your friend pushed you too hard on the swing.’ But alas the mainly fond memories of the green can no longer hold their sway, for now it is the congregation ground for… The Raggamuffins!
Feared by most, and idolised by some, the Raggamuffins patrol the village wastes by night–and early evening. They scour the terrain, claiming territory as their own by marking it with their scent, their tag and their droppings. You inch closer, hoping that they won’t notice you, or if they do, that they will notice something else nearby, perhaps something shiny, or smoky, or brightly coloured, or noisy, or oddly shaped, or not pregnant, or something. Something to distract them from your finely pruned moustache, or other lady garment. But luck is not on your side tonight. They spot you; they slowly slink towards you yet they wave their arms in the air like Orangutans and chant like scalded Parakeets. ‘Is this the end?’ you ask yourself.
To be furthered…