So I was in the post office - queuing. All I wanted was stamps - six 1st class. No big deal. Just wanted to get them and get out. Fast. Huh. Fat chance. There was only one window open and the elderly man being served wanted foreign currency. The girl behind the counter dealt colourful notes to him as if she was a croupier in a Las Vegas casino. I looked at the man with his mop of white hair and thought he must have some sort of superannuation pension or something cos no ordinary pensioner on the state is gonna afford a holiday abroad - or so they say, anyway.
A woman came up beside me, pushing a buggy. The toddler strapped into it had arms like octopus tentacles. He kept snatching Kinder Eggs off a display near the queue and the woman kept prising open his clenched hands and shouting at him. And I thought blooming daft place to put Kinder Eggs right by the queue and then I thought actually it was a blooming brilliant place cos how many mums had given in to their fractious offspring and bought one. Anyway, I slipped a sly glance towards the woman. She was 50ish, had short, dyed hair, sort of Crimson colour and a ring through her pierced lip and no make-up. Her eyes were small, blue and tired. I decided, at her age, the kid couldn't be hers and then a young woman rolled up with another buggy and they started talking and I worked out they were mum and daughter. But I didn't get to see the younger woman cos that would have meant turning right round and staring and that would have been rude and they might haven given me a dirty look or something.
I was bored then and getting fed up cos I'd been in the queue for fifteen minutes and all I wanted was stamps. The old man shuffled away with his currency and the old lady in front of me moved up to the counter. She had a short, grey severe haircut and a green fleece and beige trousers and I thought if there's two colours synonymous with oaps it's green and beige. Not a nice green, either. Not like spring green or jade. No it's either sage or bottle green. It's like the day they get their bus pass they say 'Right. That's me off to the green and beige shop.' I swear, when I get to that age I'm gonna kit myself out in bubblegum pink from head to toe and I don't give a flying fig if the green and beige police come round and tell me off for letting the side down. And while I'm at it. What's all this with fleeces? They're like an oap uniform. Yeah. I know they are comfy and wash well but please - look at yourselves. They're baggy and shapeless.
I was in the dentist last week and this elderly lady and her husband were paying at the counter. They wore his and her sage green fleeces and she had on brown trousers, white socks and flat lace-ups. And her trousers looked they'd had the mother of all rows with her ankles cos they were like four inches too short. At first I thought poor love, perhaps she can't afford trousers that fit. But they were 'paying' for their treatment not like the rest of us who were getting it free cos we're poor. So I thought, well then, there's no excuse is there? I mean. Don't these people look at themselves when they go out? Or do they just get to an age when they think no one's gonna care what they look like so why bother.
I looked at the clock. I'd been queueing for twenty minutes and all I wanted was six stamps. The girl behind the counter handed the elderly woman a pile of bank notes and she was saying to the girl: 'put ten pounds on me electric and ten pounds on me gas' and now I was getting seriously fed-up cos I was gonna be late for work. And I thought, are pensioners really as bad off as they make out cos I'm always finding myself behind them in the Spar shop and I'm gobsmacked when they ask for twenty quid on the Lotto. I get the urge to poke them on the shoulder and say: 'I thought you lot were meant to be poor and what's the use spending all your money on lottery tickets, anyway. It's not like you're gonna be around long enough to enjoy it if you win.' But I don't cos that would be rude - and mean.
And then, at last, the old woman shifts off, but not before she has carefully folded up her bank notes, one by one, and put them in her purse. And then put her purse in her handbag and then done up her coat, button by button. And I want to scream: 'take your time, why don't you? It's not like there's a queue here.'
And then, finally, after twenty-five minutes and thirty seconds (yeah. I was really counting) I get to ask for my blinking stamps!
