Alison Hairdesser arrived upset. On her way she had pulled over to let a Landrover through. They both had their windows open, and the driver had shouted "wanker" at her as he passed. It seemed undeserved, and I suggested that perhaps he had said, "Thank yer," or even that he might have been German and said "Danke," but she said he had a leering expression on his face that made his meaning unambiguous. As it happens many 4x4 drivers around here have a leering expression. It may be inbreeding or a side effect of squinting down gun-sights at barely flight-worthy corn-fed pheasants, so the jury is still out in my book.
I told her a friend of mine had been driving along a lane, minding his own business, when a driver coming the other way leaned out of his window and yelled "Pig" at him. Puzzling at what he had done to deserve the insult, he rounded the next bend and ran one over. (Alison said she didn't understand. Was I suggesting that her Landrover driver had been trying to warn her of an approaching hazard?)
Undeserved, gratuitous insults have a disproportionately unsettling effect. I've never forgotten an exchange in the entrance to the Victorian Shopping Arcade in Inverness. A stranger and I did that avoidance dance in which you each move in the same direction, and when we'd sorted ourselves out I said "Sorry" unnecessarily in the way that politeness dictates, and he replied, "You will be". If you read this, Inverness person, or even if you don't, may your cloutie dumplings shrivel.
Manners can be a burden. I seem to have spent a significant proportion of my life holding the door open at Woolworth's while an endless stream of people walk through without even looking at me, let alone thanking me. And elderly ladies, assuming me to be a shop employee, regularly ask where the rubber gloves are. I've given up explaining that I don't work there, because they don't believe me. It's easier just to show them. Unless they ask rudely, in which case I send them next door to Ann Summers.
Wednesday, 5 November 2008
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I once made the mistake of mouthing the word "dickhead" at a dickhead who was walking along the white line in the middle of the road in front of me and took ages to get out of the way.
ReplyDeleteLater, after I'd parked up, he attacked me from behind, knocked me to the floor, and started kicking hell out of me, shouting, "What did you call me? A knobhead? You called me a knobhead?!"
I still find it hard to believe that, despite my precarious position on the pavement, and general cowardice, I somehow found the nerve to correct him.
Similarly I was bumped off my Vespa by a man on a 'proper bike' on Shaftesbury Avenue. I think he felt I was blocking his route on my slow scooter. Then, picking myself up, I shouted the C word at him. He stopped, put his bike on its stand and asked 'what did you f***ing call me?'. We then had an ineffectual fight (we were, after all, both wearing helmets and protective gear) in the middle of the road. The moral of the story is being polite avoids unnecessary violence - even if the other guy is exactly what you called him...
ReplyDeleteRol & Tristan: You make me worry. I often and nearly daily basis call a lot of worthless d*ckhead drivers a certain name in my mother-tongue. The female Afrikaans version which refers oddly to a "box" of wine...(doos)
ReplyDeleteBrother Tobias: Last week one of "your" 4x4 drivers refused to budge for my sister's fiat which I was driving, as he went the wrong way at a gas station. I gave the moron the type of smile he deserved but it rolled like muck from the pig's back. Oi-Urgggg...
I was approached by an elderly couple in Waitrose recently. They wanted to bend my ear over the lack of, or poor quality of some organic vegetable. I explained that I was not an employee and was like them an ordinary shopper. They were not satisfied with this and told me that I looked like management as I was wearing a suit and a white shirt and tie and it was all very misleading for other shoppers. I thought they were taking the piss, but I don't think they were.
ReplyDeleteI, too, am regularly mistaken for the help. I think I just look helpful.
ReplyDeleteOr that's what I tell myself. :-)
Pearl
It is a neverending source of amazement (and amusement) the way people hide behind being anonymous. Some of the things said in the situations described here you just know wouldn't have happened if you actually knew other dikhead. They're buggers, all of 'em.
ReplyDeleteAh, Brother; They are still thick in the illusion of seprateness as we once were. They are gone by in an instant and we remain as we were: Unaffected by their rudeness, except to remember that once that was us. We smile, glad that we have left that existence. Remembering those we thought "slow" or "old" (in our rudeness) as perhaps more than met our young eyes then. . .
ReplyDeleteRol, what a nasty experience. You were a lot braver than I would have been; I imagine your correction dumbfounded him (if he was capable of being any more dumbed).
ReplyDeleteTristan, again not fun - although it must have been a little entertaining to watch two helmeted and gauntleted guys squaring up like de-horsed knights. Glad it sounds as though no damage was done.
Extrta Virgin, they are the same the world over. Probably there are Inuit driving sledges with four runners, throwing their weight around. Thank you for introducing me to the word 'Oi-urggg'.
BW, you can't win, can you? We might as well go dressed in straw boaters and aprons; at least we might get staff discount.
Pearl, it's a good look. But perhaps you just look nice.
Amanda, they are. Although the worst thing is mouthing crossly at another driver, and then realising they are someone you know.
Cloudia, you are so right. The impatience of youth. It's watching own's own parents age that brings tolerance; seeing an elderly person shuffling along a pavement, hunched over a shopping trolley, chokes me up now; they may have lived a life filled with achievement, but age has rendered them no more than an inconvenience to the proccupied crowds that hurry by.
I came home one day to find that my upstairs neighbour (a widely-hated man of nasty temper and no charm) had made our plumber let him into our flat so he could "see what was going on". I lost it completely and screamed at him, at one point using the unforgivable C-word. He said "WHAT did you call me???". I have to say at this point the red mist had risen and I couldn't have backed down if I'd wanted to, but the man had effectively let himself into our flat while we were out and I was livid, so I said it again. And he just went "I have never been spoken to like that before!!" and left without another word. The hardest thing I've ever done is NOT rushing after him and yelling "I FIND THAT HARD TO BELIEVE" but I didn't...
ReplyDeleteI'm just glad that I can't understand what my cats call me. I know it is nasty by the expressions on their faces and the volume!
ReplyDeleteYesterday whilst queuing in a shop I found my queue position usurped by an OAP gentleman who seemed to know exactly what he was doing. I insulted him not at all. Not out of respect for his advancing years but because, if I'm honest, he could have had me with one hand tied behind his back. "Cowardice: live to run another day" is my motto.
ReplyDeleteLucy, the gall of him! You were so justified. I'm sure it did him good, and must have usefully established exactly where his relationship with your household stood.
ReplyDeleteHelen, it's since you eliminated your mice; they've no one to play with (and eat).
Steve, it's a sound philosophy (although I know jolly well you kept your counsel out of politeness).
Guilty as charged, m'lud.
ReplyDeleteI found you through comments on other blogs and I am so glad I looked. The pig story made me laugh so much ... I needed that, I am a miserable so and so most of the time. I live in Tunbridge Wells which is full of superior, sneering 4x4 drivers. I don't pick fights, I am too small, I just curse under my breath, though I am trying to take a more zen like approach. I got stuck behind a huge jeep once leaving my elder daughter's school (collecting her late from something or other I hasten to add - she has to walk home normally.) The exit is along a dirt track lined with parked cars and with a sharp left hand turn into a narrow road parked up on both sides. The lady in front of me had real trouble turning out - it took her about 20 goes, edging forward and backwards while I sat there laughing quietly to myself. As she finally got round the corner she wound down her window and waved her thanks at me! Not sure what for - my patience perhaps, or just for not getting out and yelling at her?
ReplyDeleteGreat post, B. I too have spent most of my life holding doors and saying sorry. I'm starting to get a bit more "French" though and tell it like it is! It hasn't been an overnight personality change though because only today my colleague shouted at me to stop saying thank you!
ReplyDeleteHello Completely! Sounds as though the zen is paying off - much nicer to be rewarded with a thank-you salute than a snarl. I imagine T Wells 4x4s are just that little bit smarter than Maidstone ones, with french-polished paintwork and Hepplewhite wheel trim.
ReplyDeleteHi Daisy. A little Gallic assertiveness and sass must be useful - but don't let them take all of the softy out of you!
You are so funny. I've just read out this post to The Man but I was laughing too much about the 'pig' to get the words out.
ReplyDeleteFancy, the Social Secretary calls me funny too, but I think she may mean funny peculiar, not funny haha. I must admit I borrowed the pig story from a joke someone told me once.
ReplyDelete