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My late mid-life crisis continues. Freshly coiffured, and having just left the salubrious premises of my tonsorial artiste near Derby Road, I was strolling along the Felixstowe Road in the direction of Sainsbury's on Wednesday. Passing by the traffic lights at St Augustine's I saw that I was being clocked by four young lads in a little red Peugeot. There were no other pedestrians around, so when I had passed about twenty yards beyond them and heard repeated shouts, to accompanying laughter, of 'Hey, Harold!', I decided not to look back, fearing that to do so would encourage even louder guffaws. It didn't take me long to work out that the only Harold who would be familiar to such youths would be Harold Bishop, formerly of Neighbours fame; a bumbling, pompous chap with a paunch. Not me, surely? Harumph!
As you will appreciate, my overt maturity leads to my having few problems in purchasing alcoholic items at supermarket check-outs. For the first time ever, however, I recently encountered the flip-side of this, and I'm undecided as to whether or not I am happy with the situation. Over the summer I attended (with Mrs RCB and a friend in his 70s) a computer fair at Ashton Gate, the home ground of Bristol City Football Club. Our friend secured our admission, gaining entry for me - without my complicity, you understand - at the concessionary OAP rate. I didn't know whether to be pleased at having got in at the lesser rate, or annoyed at the ticket seller for imagining someone of my youthful appearance to be of pensionable age. I decided that to say nothing would be the better course of action. I'm now wondering whether there are other situations in which I could perhaps turn my apparent decrepitude to my advantage...
Mrs RCB and I were enjoying afternoon tea in the restaurant at Sandringham. An American family sat nearby. My attention was drawn to them firstly by their accents, then by the fact that their young teenage son was wearing a baseball cap. Being something of a snob in these matters I asked Mrs RCB what sort of parents allowed their offspring to wear headgear at the meal table. I then noticed that every twenty seconds or so the young brat in question suddenly extended his right arm to its full length in front of him, then returned it to its normal position and examined his palm. My annoyance turned to compassion: poor lad, I thought. He's obviously suffering from some serious physical affliction. How wonderful of the parents to be so patient with him. My admiration was short-lived. Half an hour later we were wandering through the excellent museum. There was the American family again. The adults were showing a keen interest in the exhibits, the afflicted teenager in the baseball cap following closely behind, paying no heed to the items on display but presenting the same physical symptoms. When I saw the reason for these all suddenly became clear and my sympathy disappeared instantly. In his hand was an iPod-like electronic device. Instead of showing a healthy interest in the exhibits he was going through the motions of ten-pin bowling and checking his score after each attempt. This is what he had been doing in the restaurant and was clearly what he was going to continue to do until falling asleep in bed that night. Oik.
