Folk is folk

The scene:

I am standing, looking somewhat bedraggled in the post office queue. My longboard in one hand and a pastel pink envelope in my other (DL for the envelope enthusiasts among you), waiting in eager anticipation to discover the cost to ship said envelope, and it's contents to the USA. The queue is made up of a 'town centre lunch time' demographic. Typically those with greyer heads, except for the long haired youth wearing a skull and crossbones hoody. He's got a tash too... 

The mood is quiet, the gentle murmur of the Post Office till's printer the only thing to willing put its head above the parapet of silence. The gentleman behind me is very tall, slender man, one who I can tell is the polar opposite to me. He looks detailed, thorough and like he cares very much about having life defined to the third decimal place. I hear this man whisper under his breath, in tones that are filled with desire and longing and would not be out of place on one of those high rate telephone numbers, ‘oh, I really need one of those…' 

Due to the way I am designed, I leap to the only conclusion that seems sensible, the subject of his breathy yearning must be for my longboard! He’s been living his life for too long bound by rules defined by life’s great auditor, calculated on the abacus of truth and sown into the very fabric of his elbow patches. He’s realised the error of his ways and is ready to break free of the ticker tape which binds his soul and launch himself on a sheet of wheeled, curved, Canadian Maple down a tar-mac hill to meet his destiny. You can imagine my confusion, therefore, when I notice his desiring eye, not taking in the sleek, yet worn lines of my chosen mode of transport, rather the sensible coloured, hard-backed, ruled accounting books upon the shelf behind me. And then it struck me maybe, just maybe, he gets the same thrill when he brings order to chaos with the suite of books and calculators and rulers and protractors and compasses displayed in their functional glory behind me as I do when carving down the high-street…