i love my city

"gime oort eemf gen-ara-shum Romany gipsy" I can smell burnt chemicals and piss on his scraggy three day old beard, but even though he has leaned in far too close, I still cant make out his mumbling - I really starting to regret walking home from work; the route takes me from the gay quarter into a run down and dying warehouse district (that provides the ever expanding gay quarter with empty buildings), through crack town (a now supposedly cleaned up red light district), across a park, and then to my house, taking my chances with the crazies, crackheads, unlicensed taxi drivers, drunks and dealers that populate the edges of a city at the early hours of the morning. All for the sake of a couple of quid taxi fare.

If I deciphered the derelict correctly, he is obviously speaking bollocks, however the claim to having direct gypsy blood might romanticise his situation somewhat, and being three inches taller and a couple of pounds of crazy heavier, I'm defiantly going to get into an argument about his fictional heritage.
"I can see that, now you say. Yes defiantly." I blather while pantomiming a wise nod, he leans closer and the dirty shell suit jacket is brushing my t-shirt and a fresh wave of stink stings my nostrils. I'm now officially nervous, the streets are empty.
"Watch oor back" he says. I quickly try and work out if this is advice from one night walker to the next or a threat. Buying time I apologise and pretend that I never heard him.
"WATCH OOR BACK" he grits louder this time, either this guy has lockjaw or he is doing a unnecessary and unusually dedicated Dirty Harry impression, this time he adds "for the police"
With that he takes a two inch piece of glass from the hiding place in his mouth and waves it at the face height of an imaginary police officer, the glass is green but I can see fresh blood on it and on his dirty calloused hands. Clearly perturbed I back away in agreement.
"Very good advice thanks" he nods his head and with a cheeky wink shuffles off.