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If I hurried, I could get my prescription and still catch the last bus home, so, leaning fairly heavily on my collapsible
walking stick, I picked up my pace and walked past the bus stop seats where two old ladies were sitting, chatting animatedly.
It was a pleasantly warm day, with long-awaited sunshine, so I was wearing my usual sandals and jeans, with a singlet type
top. To counter a weak Fremantle Doctor, I had my hair fastened back with a fancy claw, and had applied a long lasting lipstick
to complete the picture.
I felt a little sorry for the two old ladies, who were wearing the obligatory skirt and lacy blouse, stockings and sensible
shoes, with shapeless cardigans hiding what was left of their figures, and of course, their neatly permed hair was snowy white.
Their clothes were totally inappropriate for the weather, and despite looking neat, they looked uncomfortably warm.
They looked up at the tapping of my walking stick, adorned with little glittery stickers, placed there in an attempt to
help me feel more comfortable using it. As I walked past them, I heard one of them hiss, loud enough for me to hear, "Huh!
Mutton dressed as lamb!" I knew the insult was directed at me, as the street was almost empty, with most of the shops
already closed for the day. As you'd expect, I was more than a little taken aback by this comment, and unable to come up
with an immediate response. Seething, I made my way to the late night chemist, and handed over the prescription to the familiar
man behind the counter.
"Your hair's looking nice today," he told me cheerily. "Is that the colour you bought here last week?"
"Yes, I feel good with it like this. I think it suits me," I replied.
"It sure does," he smiled. "It takes ten years off you."
"If I buy another, will that add up to twenty years gone?" We continued the usual banter while my prescription
was being made up, then I exited the shop, just in time to see the last bus disappearing around the corner. The two old bats
were still sitting there, and I assumed they had been too deep in gossip to notice the arrival of the bus. I took a seat
near them, and set my shopping bag and walking stick down so that I could rummage through my handbag for my mobile phone.
Clearly it was a taxi or walk home.
One of the pair began to moan, "That bus driver must have seen us sitting here. He should have stopped to make sure
we weren't being stranded here. That's typical of the younger generation nowadays. No respect!"
"I'm going to ring Transperth in the morning and complain about him," fumed the other woman. "Now how
are we supposed to get home?"
"We'll have to ring for a taxi, I suppose. Where's the nearest phone box?'
"It's right round by the Post Office, and my corns are killing me. I can't walk that far."
I'd heard enough by then, so I raised my mobile phone and dialled a number. When the operator answered me, I asked for
a taxi to take me to Hilton as soon as possible, giving my location and name. "We'll send the first available cab, madam,"
said the operator, so I thanked her sweetly and stowed away my very useful piece of modern technology.
Leaning back in my seat, I closed my eyes in satisfaction that there was no problem, and enjoyed the stunned silence that
emanated from the normally garrulous old bats.
"Please let them ask me to ring for a taxi for them," I prayed silently, to no avail. I should have realised
that their pride wouldn't let them do such a thing after the way they'd tried to make me feel less than the dust beneath their
chariot wheels.
Revelling in my technological superiority, I reflected that they probably wouldn't even be able to switch on a computer,
far less send emails around the world at the touch of a button. Only that morning I'd received a photo of my new niece, taken
just after her birth, yesterday. I too could send pictures taken on my digital camera, within minutes of taking them, while
those two were probably still in the old Box Brownie stage of evolution. I wouldn't mind betting that they couldn't even
operate a Video Cassette Recorder, and felt quite smug.
I had enough kids and grandkids to make sure I didn't stagnate in an electronic wasteland, and who were eager to teach
me what they knew, and I was more in touch with the younger generation, as I could speak their language, and hold my own in
any computer discussion. I naturally gravitated towards those people of around my own age that also possessed these technological
skills, having little in common with people who could only talk about knitting and cooking and how cute their grandkids were,
and how the world had gone to pot since their younger days.
Getting smugger by the moment, I was happy to see my taxi pulling up around ten minutes after I'd called it. The two
old bats were still sitting there bitching about how they had been callously abandoned and left helpless.
As I got into the taxi, I asked the driver to wait just a second. Leaning out of the door, I called out to the ladies,
"If you'd care to apologise for your unkindness, I'll be happy to call a taxi for you. No? OK, enjoy your wait. I
think the next bus is around 7.30 tomorrow morning. Good evening."
Giving my address to the driver, we took off down the road. I explained to the driver what had led up to that comment
and he laughed.
"Good on ya, luv," he said.
"I'll call a cab for them now," I said, "I don't hold a grudge for long, but I'll ask them to instruct
the driver to tell them that it was the lady they insulted who called for him."
"That's OK, save your phone fees. I'll call base and get them to send a cab past that bus stop to pick them up."
I cast a sideways look at him. "Don't worry; I'll call them after I drop you off, luv. Don't let's make it too easy
for them!"
© Sandy Parkinson, January, 2006. Word count 1071
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