“I’ll be riding shotgun…”

Today’s commute was…eh…interesting. I thought – foolishly – that, as I was taking a half day, I’d treat myself to driving to work. Didn’t realise that that decision had already been taken for me!

So it’s all so quiet on the road but as I near the next town, the volume of people starts to build. People are walking. People are waiting at bus stops. Bikes that haven’t seen the light of day are now being peddled furiously townward. The cyclists vary between those who are quasi-professional and those whose cycling and buttocks are wobbling in unison.

Seems people lost the run of themselves. Cyclists narrowly escaped scrapping off the sides of cars. Motorbikes sideswiped pedestrians and cyclists. Pedestrians stepped out in front of cars or deliberately blocked the road. And the motorists were just as bad – perhaps worse. Trying to drive into lanes where no gap existed. The end of the world as we know it? Certainly had that vibe about it.

I wanted to give a few people a lift but the bay of wobbly, hairy legged, cyclists (and that was just the gals…) blocked the way each time.

Eventually managed to give one girl a lift. As she rode shotgun, she shouted at the cyclists coming too close for comfort, gave a few choice gestures to cheeky cars trying to cut in and marshalled me into the Bus Lane. I didn’t fear a policeman catching us as I reckoned she’d box the bleedin’ head off them if they even looked sideways at us!

2017

Bedside manner me a**e!

In Hospital and the Nurse asks
‘Is that your surname?’
‘No’, says I. ‘It’s half my first name.’
‘So you are actually called that?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you are ACTUALLY called that?’ as she bangs her pen against my name on the page for extra effect.
‘Yes’.
‘And it’s a real name?’
‘Yes’.
‘And you spelt it correctly?’
‘Yes. I spelt my own name correctly.’
‘And how long have you been using that name?’
’46 years.’
‘Why 46 years?’
‘It was the name given to me at my Christening.’
‘Hmmmmmm’, goes the nurse as she turns to leave abruptly.
____

Later, the same nurse comes over to me, like a scene from ‘Hello, Hello’ (“Listen very carefully, I shall say this only once…”). Leaning in as close as possible, she whispers to me ‘I know someone who’s Church of Ireland or Church of England or whatever you are.’ ‘Anglican’ replies I. ‘That too’, says she as she turns on her heel to leave the room.

Compliment or insult? I’m not sure…

Pop to the village for groceries in my usual Sunday attire of tracksuit bottoms, runners, hoodie and no makeup. Random man stops me and says “Can I ask you a personal question? How do you look so easy?” I am horrified – “‘Easy’ as in ‘slut’?” I ask. The man is completely taken aback, starts spluttering apologies, that he doesn’t mean that at all. “No, you just look so beautiful with no makeup on, so natural. You make it look so easy, ” says he as he continues to apologise! I smile – uneasily – as I walk away…

Dealing with an -ex

Breaking the silence on tonight’s commute…

“Jaysus!” she shrieked after looking at her phone.
“What’s wrong?”
“Text from the ex.”
“What did he say?”
“Read it.”

“F**k – you – and – your – belly. F**k – you – and – your – belly – of – bellies!”

“What the hell did you say to him?”
“Here. Read it.”

“Are – you – getting – the – kids – runners – for – Christmas?”