Next time you’re out shopping, which for most of us will sadly be before Christmas, look around with the specific mission of identifying dolts.
You’ll find it’s not difficult.
There will be someone browsing an aisle with their trolley parked sideways in the middle of it. “Would you please move your tower of belongings so others can make their way through? By the way, I do believe there is a child precariously placed among your intended purchases.”
There will be those prodding the fruit in the supermarket, some sampling as they go. As the crowds intensify towards December 25, it worsens. Do you think allowing children to sample biscuits half-way through a grocery shop is a step too far? It happens.
Then there are those who spill half their soup onto the food court table before disposing of the bowl, and those who don’t bother to dispose of the bowl at all.
They’re everywhere, the dolts – walking alone with their head in their phone, knocking over all in their way; walking in pairs, insisting they must use the check-in app one at a time; walking in groups, three or four abreast at a snail’s pace so nobody is able to pass.
Or my personal favourite, the one who clicks along at a good pace, yet stops abruptly because they’ve seen something from the corner of their eye in a window.
It won’t be intentional, but I must warn you that my ageing toes no longer twinkle as they once did in my prime, which means I am likely to take you down. And if there’s a spilt ice cream on the part of the floor where we fall, the sticky stain of chocolate it leaves on your nice white shirt won’t be my fault.
If you’re lucky, it will be in a bear hug. That is unlikely however, if there’s a trolley between you and my well-meaning self.
When mum and dad said, “Grow up, and behave more like an adult,” it seems some lost the whole thing in translation.
I know. “Behave like a dolt.” It’s so much simpler to live up to.
I did hear someone say recently that they’re jealous of those who are so well organised that they’ve completed their Christmas shopping and no longer have to battle the crowds.
I’d like to say I’m one of those people. But in the month leading up to Christmas, we have three birthdays to take care of because as you get older, your family seems to multiply at an increasing rate – two children, four grandchildren, eight great grandchildren.
It stops only when I’m pushing up daisies.
I’m not complaining about the process of shopping, nor the process of finding gifts. I quite like it. But I like time, and I like space.
When I’m browsing an aisle of pottery and someone reaches from behind to pull a three-foot tall vase from the shelf, past my left nostril, grazing the hair protruding from my earhole, I know I’ve probably waded a little beyond my comfortable depth.
Wanda’s way of dealing with shopping centre dolts is one of poise and grace.
She will hold my arm and say, “Wayne dear, would you kindly move for the young lady with the mountain of homewares? It would seem she doesn’t have the same amount of time we do. And we wouldn’t want to be responsible for the child breaking its precious little neck by bumping the trolley now, would we?”
You see, Wanda knows the thought had crossed my mind.
Her advice is as much intended for me as it is for wonder-mum. She knows I’ll appreciate the condescending tone in which the “old person” has been so thoughtful. And she knows my intolerance for dolts will be issued a temporary reprieve as I ponder a point scored by the good guys.
I love my Wanda. She gets me.
