What would you do?
The Marchioness and I got to the match late at Lansdowne Road today to find our seats taken up by a middle aged woman and her children. Let’s call her Bertha. When faced with the rightful owners of said seats, this lady was much inconvenienced, “You’ll have to move up”, she said accusatorily to one of her kids, but really to us.
After we sat down, feeling slightly confused, annoyed and guilty that we had displaced a child, she said, sideways to us, “You’re welcome”, in a very ironic tone, scoffingly.
“We said thank you, several times”, The Marchioness and I protested, which she ignored.
As The Marchioness had a flight to catch (boo – why can’t she just LIVE here?!) we had to leave at half time. On passing Bertha -yes, we had the audacity to inconvenience poor Bertha again – she made quite the show of packing a rucksack and repositioning kids, I said “We are leaving now, so you can have our seats back”. As I was moving past her brood, I heard her mumble something after me. Of course, I couldn’t leave it: “Excuse me, but I paid for those seats”, to which she shrugged, as if to ask “And your point is?”
At this point an elderly man, right up into my face, asked, “Is there a problem here?”
“Not with me, but she seems to think I shouldn’t have been sitting in my own seat.”
Then he put his hand on my arm and began to push me to the side, he was very strong for an older man and I thought I was going to fall over.
“Take your hand off me.”
He didn’t. I tried to remove his arm but I couldn’t. He continued to push.
“Move away and let me sit down”. Eh, you’re the one gripping my arm?
Then he told me I was very ignorant.
“I’m think I’m ignorant? You’re married to ignorant!” I exclaimed, aghast at the cheek of him after I had very nicely had apologised for disturbing everyone to get to the seats that I had paid for.
“That’s my daughter”, he replied.
At which point The Marchioness whisked me away. I think she thought I was going to lose it. For a second I was, I thought, how bloody satisfying would it be to take a fucking swing for this self-righteous, entitled and condescending old bastard? That’ll teach him to shove women forty years younger and not get his wrinkly hands off me. Not to mention punishment for raising a daughter with no manners. Block 116, Row V.
What would you have done? Am I right to be supremely pissed off and glad I stood up for myself or did I provoke Bertha and her pop?
Should he have pushed me or should I have made an official complaint?
Am I just super unbelievably touchy and bad tempered? I remember throwing stuff at Husband, and Father Rory, and Quarter Pounder… well…
I was out last night, hence slightly worse for wear today but no migraine. Thanks be to the good lord of pharmaceuticals above for beta blockers. I’m just tired now. Anyway, it was a charity dance thing and lo and behold who’s standing right in front of me only Quarter Pounder’s mother. Talk about awkward. I was behind her all night so I honestly don’t know if she saw me, I like to think she didn’t because if she had she’d surely have said hello. She often commented on my stamina with putting up with her son. She didn’t know how I did it. But blood’s thicker than water and even though she liked me the fucker is still her son and I guess she sees some good in him, which I do too. Just easier to see it from afar rather than have to be in the same room and the the draft he brings with him.
It’s been a busy weekend.
On Friday after I picked ElsaDaughter up we went for dinner in town with The Artist to Neon on Camden Street. I love how industrial and relaxed it is, not two words you find together often. “Oh look at that super chilled out power plant over there!”
I like Neon because it’s not pretentious in its quirkiness. It doesn’t try too hard to look like it hasn’t tried. And whipping your own free ice cream is awesome. They have that in Jason’s Deli in the States too. So simple, so convincing.
Just as an aside. Ian Madigan is such a ride. If you’re feeling the Sunday night blues/had a near punch up with an oul lad/you’re hungover, have a look at this. What I wouldn’t do to that boy. As a friend of mine pointed out last night, he’d be eaten for breakfast and kicked out to go chop firewood. Pity he’s only twenty five.
One of our hot topics, emphasis on the hot, last night were the pros and cons of older and younger men. Honestly I’m beginning to think younger men don’t have a clue what to do with a real woman. Looking back, in my twenties I was such a prude. I really hadn’t discovered my body, what it likes and what leaves it cold. The Dirty Thirties, as christened by Marilyn, are so much more fulfilling. I guess it’s the same for guys but I’m thinking maybe they’re ten years behind and it’s the Frisky Forties when they come into their own. I’ve just had a fairly cute guy send me a KKII (Kim Kardashian’s SECOND Paper photo release). Wow. That’s not gonna cut it buddy. There is something so unappealing about the sight of a floppy lonely penis. How did he think that would entice me to meet him for a drink and end up in his bed on the fifth date (it’s our new rule)? Guys are donuts. Somebody please give them help in setting up profiles, chatting and dating. They either want a one night stand or a wife. I want distraction and a limp cock in your untidy rented bedroom isn’t exactly saying “I’ll take your mind off the everyday gloom in your head baby!”
Yesterday, we walked out on Sandymount with the Marchioness and the dogs. She was up early to run. I was… not. We got down home and I tried to get into my specially paid off week by week dress only to be met with a broken zip. Will someone in the name of God tell me why put a zip on the back of a dress that requires two other people to zip it up? We don’t all have room mates/boyfriends/dogs with opposable thumbs and then on top of that make it impossible for the zip to go over the waistband seam. A fragile little skinny zip on a double lined wool dress with a thick band sequinned belt seamed in. It’s like sending Kate Hudson to to fill a D-cup, you just know it’s not going to happen.
So I lasted four hours out. I was great until eleven ish and then the lights went off. No gradual fading, just black. I needed silence and darkness. I went straight to bed. But four hours!
So today was the match after searching for a parking space. But I didn’t lose it, I lost a few spaces alright but not my temper. Not till BerthaSeatGate anyway.
Dropping the Marchioness to the airport was harder than I thought. I felt so secure with her here. She’s so together. So protective of me. The way she jumped in to pull me out of that oul lad’s face and how she always calms me down. Perspective. She pours a jug of light into me.
ElsaDaughter is playing with my hair. Bliss. That’s the most I’ve done in weeks. Go, go, go.
I don’t even have the energy to go into the bad news I got Friday. But the bad news will still be there tomorrow so for now Strictly, having my hair braided and possibly Salt & Vinegar Tayto. Back on the wagon tomorrow.