nunoncastors

I am not, to use the parlance of the day, a ‘hoodie’. You may have gleaned this from my ability to write using complete words rather than txt spk and the attitude of complete distain I exude in the direction of, well, ‘hoodies’. I do however, own a hooded top, a recent purchase borne of the fact that Wednesday was rather cold and I’d walked into town wearing just a tshirt. Silly me.

Anyway, I’m sure I don’t need to explain to you, dear person in the inter-tubes, that in order to be a ‘hoodie’ you require not only the requisite top, but also an extrovertly anti-social demeanour and a startling capacity for gittishness and twattery. Mere possession of a hooded top does not a ‘hoodie’ make.

Imagine my surprise, then, as I stood at the bus stop this morning, to be viewed with an air of suspicion and caution by the three pensioners waiting with me, and imagine my irritation when, as I politely asked the time, I was told by the only gentleman of the three, to leave them alone.

Now, it’s quite hard to leave me at a loss for words, I usually have at least three snide comments prepared for any given situation, but this did the trick and all I could manage to say was, “pardon?” This seemed to make matters worse and the three of them retreated to the farthest end of the bus stop, eyeing me askance, and leaving me somewhat befuddled.

Which, to put it bluntly, really fucked me off.

Then events took an unexpected turn. The bus arrived and, despite the fact I am apparently some terrifying youth intent on theft and probable murder, and also overlooking the small matter that I had been waiting at the stop for longer than anyone else present, the three of them barged their way on first. No pause. No excuse me. No forethought. Nothing. They just bustled onto the bus as quickly as possible and spent the next five minutes counting out their change, causing me to spend yet more time in the cloying mist this morning provided in lieu of a sunrise.

Befuddlement became irritation. Not the exorbitant irritation reserved for doing something stupid and having no one to blame but yourself, but that peculiar brand of irritation born of the suspicion that you’ve been wronged in some way. It’s the sort of irritation that makes me – well, truculent, for want of a better word. And so it was that when I finally got onto the bus, seating myself behind the wary group of pensioners, hood thrown back to avoid further terror, I asked the following question.

I’m sorry, is there a problem.

Silence. Nothing needs filling quite like silence.

You see, I only ask because when I enquired after the time, you responded as though I’d voiced my intention to murder a priest. Which, to be honest, threw me a little. Not as much as your barging onto the bus without any consideration for the fact that some of us, namely me, have been queuing in the cold for fifteen minutes. So I’m confused, is there a problem?

What are you talking about? Look…

What I’m talking about, is why you felt the need to be so rude. I thought your generation was supposed to be the last bastion of manners?

Sit back. Trivial moral battle won. Reflect on just how small a person you can be at times.

Unsurprisingly at this point they all became mysteriously deaf and mute, age I suppose, and I reverted to my original plan of reading the Edda while trying to tolerate public transport. Yes, I know I could have just let it go, but really, who the hell do they think they are?