What. The. Actual.Fuck?
Nothing brings the old folk into town like market day. It's like a zombie invasion, but you could easily outrun them because zombie Ethel's hip replacement is still causing her gip from beyond the grave, and Michael's eyesight is that bad without his varifocals that he'll be gnawing on that lamppost for days before he realises it's not some chunky lasses calf muscle.
I kid you not, they are absolutely EVERYWHERE, they shuffle about like the world's shittiest ice dancing troupe that have forgotten their skates and the fact that there's no fucking ice!
I needed to withdraw some cash, so I went to the hole in the wall (ATM for you Trump loving, gun wielding American lunatics), and there was an old dear stood in front of me in the queue. I'm pretty sure that initially she tried putting her library card into the machine, because 4 minutes later she was digging around in her ridiculously oversized Mary Poppins like bag.
Pot plant X
3 seater sofa X
Jim's false teeth X
Oh, there it is! she puts the card into the machine with the urgency of a Spanish shopkeeper at siesta time, and then proceeds to spend a good 5 minutes window shopping for fuck only knows what on the touchscreen.
I got to wondering if she could increase the withdrawal amount a penny at a time she took so bloody long, and then, after she's finished her business she spends another 12 minutes staring at the wad of notes in her hand like they were showing a movie. No wonder old people get robbed in the street, I'd have had time to take the cash off of her, go home, have something to eat, pop back with a bunch of flowers as an apology, place them in her arms and wander off before she'd have even noticed.
They also delight in using their shopping trolleys to form checkpoint Charlie down every single aisle of the supermarket. I swear to god it's something they must talk about in the lounge of their old folk's home, meticulously planning it like a military operation.
Betty and Frank, you take aisle 6, don't allow more than 1 able bodied person past every six minutes. Your topic of conversation will be prostates, extra bonus points for mentioning that Frank's is currently the size of a small meteorite and growing.
Ethel and Bill, you're down pasta and cooking sauces today, I want you to slow that shit the fuck down, go down the route of bread costing too much these days, tell the world that you used to be able to buy three loaves for tuppence and you'd still have enough to visit a strip club and go on a round the world cruise.
I know it's not all old people, some of them are decent enough to invest in mobility scooters! The problem with that is they passed their driving test when the fuel for the engine was a carrot or sugar cube and the emissions were scooped up with a shovel and placed among the fucking rose bushes. The fucking things seem to have just two speeds, comatose or fucking warp factor 11. Captain Kirk would have had trouble piloting one of those things, they peel off down the supermarket like it's Santa Pod, and they don't give a shit who walks in front of them, you're fair game, road kill.
I love old people when they are sat in chairs, I think they are adorable when they share their Werther's originals and tell us what it was like in the Crimean war, I just hate being stuck behind them in a shop.
If anybody ever has anything they want me to write about I'm always open to suggestion, if it's something I need to experience before writing it I'm happy to do that too, just let me know :)
Dave out.
