The Observations of Patrick Kraker.

Chapter 1

I like observing people. And saving energy. I mean, why would anyone do something they don't have to? Even if I was a social butterfly, (which is highly unlikely) I'd probably be something akin to a moth. Dark and brooding. Do I want to share my peanut butter sandwich with anyone? No. Do I want anyone else's sandwich? No. I like mine. You might say that this is just me trying to make myself feel better about a having an infinitesimal amount of friends. Maybe it is. And maybe that infinitesimal amount of friends are my mum and sister.

My dad isn't really my friend at the moment because I'm a bit cross with him.

What kind of parent forces their kid to work during the summer, when I should be relaxing, lying in an uncomfortable folding chair in our backyard, trying to (and failing to) sunbathe under the moody British skies?

As I said previously, I also like observing people. I like to discover who people really are through their behaviour and expressions. Would that lady really get a coffee without whipped cream if her friend wasn't there?

Especially people's expressions. Especially my dad's, when I said I'd got a job and then told him what it is. I don't really fancy dealing with snotty managers, moody teenagers or bratty children, so I'm currently self employed, earning about 5 pounds a day if I'm lucky.

I'm a living statue.

Let that sink in.

It's actually a pretty cool job: I can go to work whenever I want, I can take breaks whenever I want, I'm not forced to say anything or smile at strangers, I don't have an irritating manager, and I can hone my observational skills without looking creepy.

The only downside to this is that I find silver paint in places that you probably don't want to hear.
***
At 7.45 a.m, I stood at my usual place and froze into position. Across the street, I spotted old Mrs. Phinnegan with a couple of laundry bags in hand, passing a homeless guy. You may be wondering
why I didn't offer to help her.

Just because.

And because I don't actually know her, and her name isn't Mrs. Phinnegan. She's just one of those old ladies that smiles at everyone and grins at teenagers and children.

Though if you saw her, you'd understand. She's a red head, and has a sort of triangular face, with a sharp nose. In other words, she looks exactly like an aged female version of Phineas from 'Phineas and Ferb'.

She sounds Scottish, and seems like her name would be Finnegan, except she also seems like she would be related to Phineas, so therefore her name is Phinnegan.

She grinned at me in greeting, showcasing her dentures and looking at me like I was a one of the many stray cats, that she, being a smiling old lady would probably possess, and one that she wanted to take home with her, to live with together forever. I shuddered internally at the thought of living with her- I could almost smell her cat litter perfume and her- stop. I was definitely not going anywhere with her.

However, after she greeted me, she made her way across the road, tottering towards me.

"Hello cutiepie, how are we doing today?"

I nodded.

"Actually, you were looking a bit down and out today, so I have a little something for you."

She put her little hand into her gigantic old-lady purse, and for 35 seconds, as she rummaged through it, I was afraid it was going to be a kitten. She pulled out some hard-boiled sweets and dumped them in my bucket. Then she tottered of and waved from the distance before disappearing round the corner.

A crowd of buzzing walkers swarmed onto the pavement.

***
At about noon, I heard the chime of the ice cream truck, just as Pollyana- Polly and my mum came to drop my lunch off.