It all started with the young woman assistant I occasionally talk to in one of Uttoxeter’s discount stores. She’s seemed a little distant lately and I’ve deliberately avoided her so as not gain a reputation for being the creepy old git who stalks the aisles every Sunday at around lunchtime trying to ingratiate himself with nubile young females. (Those who know me well could vigorously and honestly attest to the fact that I don’t have a creepy bone in my body, but not many people know me at all well so I’m in the habit of exercising discretion.)
Anyway, today she was full of vim and vigour and talked willingly and confidently about her current position and her aspirations and so on and so forth. In return she got lots of comments-born-of-experience and what passes for wisdom to young people who haven’t lived for very long yet. Is that what creepy old men do? How can I know?
So then it was off to Tesco where I finally defeated one of my little bêtes noir. I walked past the newspaper rack without looking at the tabloid headlines. I hate tabloid headlines because they’re so crass and bigoted, but I find it hard not to read them anyway. Maybe it’s my jaundiced view of the human condition trying to find something to be angry about, but I’m no more a psychologist than I am a creepy old git, so that’s something else on which I have to reserve judgement. Today I averted my gaze, breathed on my finger nails, polished the imaginary medal on my chest, and then walked off with head held high to seek the cheap porridge oats for the bird tables.
There was a young woman walking towards me with her coat open. She looked so sweet and wholesome, and she was wearing a sweater almost identical to mine. Instinct took over again. ‘Like the sweater,’ I said without a hint of a pause. Surprisingly, she smiled a lovely smile and said ‘thank you’, but I decided to play safe because I didn’t want to be thought a creepy old git. I pointed to my own sweater. She smiled again and I smiled back. Imagine that: me exchanging smiles with somebody, and on a Sunday, too. That’s the sort of thing better writers write in better novels and films; the little things which make life so much pleasanter even if only for a few seconds.
And talking of Sunday, tonight I started watching a French film called The Brand New Testament. (I expect the version they sold in France was called something in French, but that’s what my version is called. And the soundtrack is in French with subtitles, which I greatly prefer to dubbing.) It’s about God being a real person living in Brussels. He’s boorish, ignorant, selfish, cruel, and a bully. His young daughter dislikes him mightily and decides to go out into the world to make it better, just like big bro JC did.
I’ve only watched half an hour of it so far, but the time passed quickly. The style is similar to Amelie – the same Gallic quirkiness and deadpan humour which draws me to French cinema like wasps to an onion seller’s shirt. Looking forward to the rest. Still haven’t got a copy of Mon Oncle yet.
The bluebottle count reached 31, by the way, before I stopped counting
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