Grumpy Old Folks

Today there was a surfeit of angry old people roaming Castle Towers at ‘Elevenses’ eager to have their loyalty card stamped so they can have their free decaf, soy latte and complementary scones whilst plonked on a table for one with their large bags and zimmer frames blocking the aisles. They were out in force when I went to grab a decent coffee this morning. I was buffeted and glared at for having the sheer audacity to say to one old biddy that I thought I was in the ‘queue’ before her as she barge arsed me sideways..

I once said that when I get old (no lip from you younglings!) I’m going to wreak my revenge and do all the things that some grumpy oldies have done to me and mine over the years. Visit my kids and spill red cordial on the carpet, fart when I bend over, push small children out of the way, argue about who was first in the queue, crash through shops on my three-wheeler motorised trike, complain about ‘young people today’, pay for everything in five cent pieces, complain habitually about being ignored or not getting a senior's discount and tell everyone about every ailment I’ve ever suffered in graphic detail . . but after this morning . . I don’t think I will. I'm a reformed old person before I even get there! I will remain one of the many dignified old people who appreciate the young, like contemporary music and refuse to resort to crimplene and those half leg stockings that sort of wrinkle below the hem of the skirt when one reaches 70. I won’t be mutton dressed up as lamb but I won’t be a smelly old St Vinnies op shop slipper wearing shopper either. I'll know how to turn a PC on and use it, I'll remain in touch, positive and uplifted . . . I'll be as cool as some of the elder statespeople I've met through this blog.

Now before my older friends become affronted . . . of course there are many wonderful, witty, intelligent and entertaining older people as well. Perhaps because they're like that, they don't receive the attention they deserve. People with fantastic stories and memories that should be shared in a narrative and non judgemental way. My apologies to these marvellous ladies and gents who share their wisdom without too many repeats, don’t lecture but embrace the young, are interested in other people, don’t say too much about how much better things were in their day and can remember the glimmer of youth . . I will join you in asking questions of the younger generation, retelling stories, and highlighting jokes. I will also absorb information from those younger than me and learn from their attitudes and opinions. I will stay current whilst enjoying nostalgia, and remain aware of trends and schools of thought, yet be available if advice or experience is sought . . . but you grumpy old farts of the perpetual whinge have it coming to you! (and I might add, some of them aren't THAT old!)

I remember once going out west with the kids and we stopped at Wellington Caves. We cruised in just as a bus load of purple rinses and blue safari suits disembarked and crashed purposefully with steely resolve to toilets where they monopolised the stalls and basins with their ablutions, dreadful perfumes and incessant complaining about the bus driver’s choice of music and the lack of toilet stops.

We all pressed on into the caves. I propped ClareBear who was only 6 at the time, on a sort of ledge so she could see above the penguin like flock of seniors who had closed their ranks so tight there was no way even a kid could have pushed to the front. DrummerBoy was a babe and sitting firmly on my shoulders. Within seconds, another diminutive wrinkly came charging toward us – looked right through us and pushed my kid off the ledge so she could adopt the vantage point. Revenge was mine, when for a split moment our guide demonstrated how dark the cave would be without the artificial light. . . I pinched the hag’s stick while she was squarking about being left on a ledge in the dark. I think everyone forgot about her and she is now covered in calcite and called “The Glistening Virgin” or something.

Clearly food had now become the overwhelming objective. The biddies poured into the dining area as if they’d just arrived from the desert and were parched beyond quenching and proceeded to assault the simple but tasty buffet. We resolved to let them feed feeling they would be less aggressive with their stomachs full. The greedy cows, piled their plates as if it was their last meal and the dismal stream of men in the troupe had headed straight to the bar for a liquid lunch, or lurch - lured by a brassy looking 30 something with big tits. Dirty old men.

There was no need to have been so enthusiastic, within minutes of the Jerry Hatricks piling their plates and being seated in their ‘coach only’ area, out came the good stuff, prawns, cold cuts and a bain marie full of warm food, freshly made salads and a plethora of desserts. Their looks were black – they’d had to settle for shoulder ham and coleslaw as their lunch was obviously included in their day tour price and clearly the budget end of the scale. We, who had paid full fare and were patient, despite the tender age of the children, were well rewarded! All things come to those who wait!

So, when you’re pushing kids off shelves, whinging about young people today, knocking over others with your motorised shopping trolley, gorging at the buffet, lamenting that you’re ‘invisible’ or having a wobbly because you’re cappuccino didn’t come with cake . . . remember, there’s always someone watching who might take your stick and shove it where the sun don’t shine!