Astounded that someone would squeeze multiple packets of bread from the shopping centre table before putting one carefully-selected, and uncreased packet in their shopping basket, I went home to tell the story.
Not just a prod and a poke, might I add. This person gave it a good solid wrench, so much so that I’d be surprised if their middle finger from one side didn’t meet their thumb in the middle of the loaf.
It was like they thought it required an additional knead.
I’m not sure how there was no hole in the plastic wrapping. I just hope they managed to get the loaf with whatever alluring features they were looking for.
Some other poor person will get home to wonder why the baker had free-formed what might normally have come as a cube.
There are always ways and means of achieving an outcome. Surely, a soft centre can be determined by a caressing of the loaf, or a crusty edge uncovered by a brisk flick.
No, this person needed to make sure nobody else was going to enjoy bread that didn’t need to be ironed before it was buttered, or popped into a toaster.
I’m sure you’ll agree that my story makes for entertaining dinner-time entertainment, and a nice conversation starter as we pool thoughts about the psychology behind such a brazen aisle manoeuvre.
Mid-story at the dinner table though, I was asked to describe the person.
The first thing that came out of my mouth was “old”.
Not male or female, short, tall, grey-haired, fair-skinned, hunch-backed or any features of their casual mode of dress.
“You mean older than you?” asked Wanda.
You might think my dear wife was waving a red rag to this old bull in order to prove that – like the bread-crushing shopper – I wasn’t perfect either.
One thing that comes with age is wisdom, and seeing her cunning tactic from a distance, I failed to take the bait.
Rather, I expressed that she quite possibly had a point.
You see, I often find myself referring to other people as “old”, and quite often they’re not a day older than ourselves. Possibly even younger, although I’ll regularly find a case to argue that they “look” older than me.
“Did you see what that silly old so-and-so did just then?” I said recently when driving, seeing a man in a fading lawn bowls hat. I couldn’t see their face, but everything about that scenario said this guy was old.
“Cut off three people trying to get out of his driveway. Shouldn’t be allowed to have a license,” I said.
That same man, I discovered later, was one of the gun skippers at a neighbouring club, still a member of the Under 50s, and a good 20 years younger than me.
Well, if you drive like an old man, you deserve to be called one.
Problem is, I often correlate “old” with “stupid”, or bad manners, or fading memories, or materialising ailments that aging people see no reason to hide with a long-sleeved shirt.
And if Wanda’s right, which she usually is, I’ve for some time now been inadvertently calling myself all those daft titles. I’ve become ageist – towards myself – without even realising it.
What a silly old fool I’ve been. However, no longer shall I be “old”. Just straight up “silly” will suffice.
Thank you, Wanda. You have given me reason for self-reflection, to look at how those things good for the goose should also be good for the gander. It will now be my mission to look for other ways to describe those of foolish intent.
Hey Wanda, would you kindly pass the butter. I have a piece of bread I need to flatten.
