Two days before Christmas, and wouldn't you know it.
Old people and pram pushers. Indiscriminately.
Well. When they behave like the world is their oyster, the shell of which is completely disregardable. That, not to put too fine a point to it, shits me.
I am fed up to the back teeth of being shoved front and back in the shops, because Saturday afternoon is the only moment that all of Paris' 75-year-old grans could spare for last-bloody-minute Christmas shopping, of being mumbled at because my standing self is taking up too much necessary space on the overcrowded bus that one of our friends the grans' older sister just had to take then, at rush hour, because her very urgent appointment at the hairdresser's for yet another blue rinse couldn't wait, could it, of hearing lengthy lectures about respect, how it was in the good old days when the youths knew to respect their elders, and BLAH.
I am very respectful of my elders. (Yes I am. Hey. Be on my side here.) Just stop shoving your age in my face like it earns you every goddam right on the face of the planet. It makes me mix my metaphors, and it's not good.
Similarly, the mother who steps up her pace, using her pram as a shield, because I might otherwise beat her to the boulangerie counter, or wants, nay, demands, oh forget it, grabs priority on the sidewalk because she has a pram, and actually uses said pram as a tank, just awakens all my killing, jungle-survival instincts and I instantly mutate into a blackened-faced, knife-between-teethed, combat-wearing, Rambo-like figure shouting "Don't push it or I'll give you a war you won't believe!"
So yeah. I'm now toying with the idea of setting up a non-profit, just-for-kicks association that would answer to the same basic principle as Death Race 2000. The more you hit, the more points you get. Who's with me?