A young man walks towards us and throws his polyester sports jacket onto the floor next to the cash point. He sits down and swigs from his bottle of Fosters.
Man: 'Ere love, got any spare change?
[All three of us turning away simultaneously while we use the machine] . . .
Man: You there, you three girls!
[Looking at the floor]
Man: Scuse me! Can I have some change darlin'? You THERE! In the black JACKET! OI! I'm talking to you three, you wankers!
Option 1: Toss him some coppers and avoid catching his eye.
Option 2: Be polite and say we don't have any change . . .
Option 3: Tell him where to go... [namely back to his nice flat on Uttoxeter Road if he forgot his wallet and next time pretend to be homeless with a little more finesse. Then start running before he tries to bottle us].
We choose Option 4 in the end:
Continue to ignore his slurs of abuse aimed at the backs of our heads for five minutes while we each get a crisp ten pound note out, resisting the urge to waft it in his face and engage in a bitch fight with the faux-homeless that would probably have ended in a similar way to Option 3.
This happens quite a lot in Derby. It's a lovely place.
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