This weekend went by any I barely even noticed. Not that I felt it was wasted, but rather that I used it to watch some altogether very average films, eat a lot of rubbish that my toilet didn’t end up thanking me for and oversleeping well into the late afternoon of both Saturday and Sunday. You would be right for thinking I’d have achieved little and could have little to say after barely communicating with another human being other than yelling “twat” at Russell Crowe on my tv, and hissing at the mere sight of Diablo Cody’s name in the film credits that followed in the latter film.
However, my lack of heading out didn’t stop me from feeling rather estranged from human etiquette and feeling particularly old given my birth date in no way should allow me feel like I’m ready to draw my pension and bus pass…though given how steep the price of public transport is, I think it’s somewhat unfair that old age pensioners are allowed get on a bus, for free, and get off after only two or three stops. I mean, c’mon Government, that’s hardly good business sense, is it? OAP’s have money too, and if they so frivolously desire to use the bus, then they should do so at their own peril, and don’t even think about asking me to give up my seat for one of them. Not so long ago I did this good deed only to find the woman refusing rather loudly that she didn’t want my seat and it ended up with me looking like I was trying to rob /molest this blue haired coffin dodger rather than an attempt at being civilised and good natured. At any rate, OAP’s should walk more ; it’d help with their varicose veins and what have you.
Saturday night was fine. I slobbed on the couch for an obscene amount of time ignoring the fact that most people my age are out there getting rat arsed and felt up, waaaaay longer than the average person should watching, well, watching shag all of interest and what I have come to realise is very forgettable television. Feeling somewhat in the mood for an all out day of ill health it was decided a takeaway would be a good call ; and I ordered, online – to avoid contact with an aggravating soul, a doner kebab, chips, curry sauce and the obligatory bottle of diet coke, because heaven forbid I should consume one more item I would end up feeling disgusted at myself for having. The order went almost smoothly, however, I paid with Visa and Visa, obviously feeling like transactions were possibly too easy have decided to put an extra added security password on purchasers over the net. Now I have one password for everything, but this password isn’t allowed on this added Visa security because of its length…which is another measure of security, but not to Visa, so I had obviously put in place another easy to remember password – only I hadn’t. It ended up with me having to guess passwords I may have made up which rendered my bid of a trouble free purchase of a kebab possibly a more difficult means of order. Fuck you anyway Visa. All I wanted was a kebab…if my card was found trying to purchase first class tickets to the Bahamas
So there I sat in anticipation of the arrival of my 10,000 calorie kebab, having even left the couch to attain some salt and vinegar and a plate and glass to avoid any further unnecessary moving. Half way through watching another pointless Crowe and Scott collaborative film my ‘phone rang and with the ‘phone number being an unknown I knew my food was somewhere in the vicinity. It was of course the delivery man and he was at my gate, which isn’t an unusual occurrence that he should ring looking for further directions given my front door is located in a pretty unusual location…at the back of a what looks to be a house. Anyway, no problem I tell him where I am, but this isn’t the issue – he notes the gates are open, obviously having 20/20 vision, though fears they may close. I assure him I will get him out should he become locked in – so in he drives. Ten minutes after hearing his car come to a halt I still have no kebab, chips or curry sauce, and find myself now having to go see where he has gotten to, only he hasn’t gotten to anywhere – he’s still sat in his car looking bleak and frustrated at the world, and somewhat like a man that is currently gassing himself whilst listening to The Carpenters. My ‘phone rings once more – it is he, and I can see him speaking on the ‘phone. Now he’s questioning where I am, and when am I coming to collect the food?
Now hold on, wait…
This is a delivery driver asking me am I coming to collect the food…something is amiss. His job requires two things, driving and delivering, but he is so nonchalant about the latter part and carefree that my kebab is freezing on his back seat that I actually ended up going down to collect…in my slob attire. I had all these smart things in my head to utter at him as he handed over the food, but as always, in my head I’m a tough guy and in person I’m a subservient female. I took my food, said thank you, in what you might describe to be a sarcastic tone, only frustratingly I think he believed it to be sincere and he looked at me peeved for wasting his time. Somehow the shoe went on the other foot - and he sped off in a manner that could only be described as a getaway driver, and not an elemental food delivery driver. The bastard must have noted there would be no tip upon arrival as the food had already been paid for by Visa, but in all seriousness, when did delivery drivers attain such power over us slovenly individuals?
The night went on, and I decided to clear away the stench from the remains of the chomped kebab and chips that lay strewn on my plate. I walked into the kitchen only to hear some youngsters in the park adjacent from my front (back) door…speaking in tongues I could no longer understand, only for the obligatory curse here and there and having fun. And for the first time in my mid-twenties I actually felt an overwhelming sense of angst that they should be having fun in the park late at night, no doubt drinking their body weight in Bavaria and trying to set a Guinness Book Record for how many fingers they can insert to the ugliest/drunkest/sluttiest female in their company. I mean, I never did anything like that when I was young. The drinking part, perhaps, but the female thing? Never. I was far too nervous to even look a girl in the eye and the only time I would have felt such confidence to even suggest doing something, by all accounts, sticky, that would have been mates…and how I would like to. God, I must have been in college by the time I was able to suggest such antics to a female and even then I was rather clumsy and clueless about which and what went where. Youngsters these days… Having toyed with the idea of calling the police to break up this trouble-less bunch for no reason other than middle aged jealousy, I opted to return to my television and watch the annoyingly good, but not too far above average Juno, which in my opinion shouldn’t have gotten an Oscar for best script given the circumstances surrounding the genesis of the script – rumours of a co-script writer. The only comfort I could take from this night whilst watching Juno was nothing other than I hoped some young couple in the park would drunkenly fall into the pitfall that I had so easily avoided falling into in my youth – a teenage pregnancy. Not that I ever had the opportunity, the balls, nor the confidence to put my thing in a females thing…but I would most certainly have liked to.
So what did I learn from the weekend? In short – I’m getting old and particularly grumpy, which begs the question, are old people grumpy because of their age, or grumpy merely because they were grumpy all along? Whichever it is, it isn’t looking good for me. Have pity for me.
No comments:
Post a Comment