Garden update: the pesky rodents have been digging up the bulbs from our pots. I am not happy. A couple of casualties, then I put the pots in the shed. Hopefully they will shoot, unassailed.
The window box at the front has several shoots, but the back has none. The back gets all the morning sun. Possibly they're unrelated, and the front pot just had the bulbs that were further along. The rest of the garden looks lovely: yellow croci keep springing up, and we have a lovely couple of daffs in a crack between decking and fence. (Yes, cowboys).
Showing posts with label rudeness. Show all posts
Showing posts with label rudeness. Show all posts
Wednesday, 25 February 2009
Friday, 22 August 2008
Only ladies of a certain age
And foreign women.
I just came home from seeing Flesh is Grass, and a lovely little time we had. Babs and I had a happy journey there, she watching trees, me watching another mother, and both we mothers feeling guilty we couldn't help a third with her toddler and her buggy battling a bus driver who took corners too fast and wouldn't keep the bus still so lady3 could fold her pushchair like he wanted. Lady3 avoided our apologetic smiles and her toddler looked timid. Lady2 looked scary at first (young, pushy, child big enough to walk and happily sit on bus seats reclining like a king in a pushchair) but smiled widely as we were embarrassed by lady3's predicament and at some cute kiddie-baby interaction.
The trip home - hardly traumatic by any means - reiterated my misanthropy and provided another illustration of the flippant entitlement that makes the world a scary place to me. Three girls had hopped (waddled) on ahead of us, and plonked themselves in the wheelchair/pushchair space - one in the flip-down seat opposite (and across the space from) the other two. And there they sat, as I manoeuvred the buggy in between them. And there they sat as I put on the brake and took off my bag to keep the buggy from up-ending. And there they sat as the bus took off and I clung on to the pole to steady myself and on to the buggy to steady the baby. And there they sat as the two seats across the aisle remained empty. On the bottom deck. In the priority seats. Like the world was theirs. With their funny sleb-influenced handbags in the crooks of their elbows. And I wanted to ask them if they wouldn't mind just moving across to the other two seats so I could sit down and keep my baby safe without dislocating my shoulder. But I was scared.
Only ladies of a certain age, and foreign women, help women with buggies. But I think that's a different post.
I just came home from seeing Flesh is Grass, and a lovely little time we had. Babs and I had a happy journey there, she watching trees, me watching another mother, and both we mothers feeling guilty we couldn't help a third with her toddler and her buggy battling a bus driver who took corners too fast and wouldn't keep the bus still so lady3 could fold her pushchair like he wanted. Lady3 avoided our apologetic smiles and her toddler looked timid. Lady2 looked scary at first (young, pushy, child big enough to walk and happily sit on bus seats reclining like a king in a pushchair) but smiled widely as we were embarrassed by lady3's predicament and at some cute kiddie-baby interaction.
The trip home - hardly traumatic by any means - reiterated my misanthropy and provided another illustration of the flippant entitlement that makes the world a scary place to me. Three girls had hopped (waddled) on ahead of us, and plonked themselves in the wheelchair/pushchair space - one in the flip-down seat opposite (and across the space from) the other two. And there they sat, as I manoeuvred the buggy in between them. And there they sat as I put on the brake and took off my bag to keep the buggy from up-ending. And there they sat as the bus took off and I clung on to the pole to steady myself and on to the buggy to steady the baby. And there they sat as the two seats across the aisle remained empty. On the bottom deck. In the priority seats. Like the world was theirs. With their funny sleb-influenced handbags in the crooks of their elbows. And I wanted to ask them if they wouldn't mind just moving across to the other two seats so I could sit down and keep my baby safe without dislocating my shoulder. But I was scared.
Only ladies of a certain age, and foreign women, help women with buggies. But I think that's a different post.
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