There is something to be said for joining the ranks of Grumpy Old Men and Grumpy Old Women. At last you are in a position to be able to tell the world where to get off, and, by dint of age, be able to do it with aplomb.
You go to a restaurant, you wait, others come in, and you find they are being served before you, so with the utmost dignity and, fuelled by the drink you ordered -and which came with undignified haste - you simply leave the table, paying for the drink and complaining about the service loudly to anyone else who is keen to listen. The staff, who are of course, way younger than you, look at you with a mixture of total dislike, and servitude since you are the ones who are paying their salaries.
But you win. You walk out of the restaurant, hopefully leaving the chef in the kitchen on the point of delivering the plate of hot food. You wish. The bastard hasn't even started your meal. For some reason, being old means you are totally valueless. Lygon Street, it was, Melbourne. Supposed to be the eating street in the city.
You go to a restaurant, you wait, others come in, and you find they are being served before you, so with the utmost dignity and, fuelled by the drink you ordered -and which came with undignified haste - you simply leave the table, paying for the drink and complaining about the service loudly to anyone else who is keen to listen. The staff, who are of course, way younger than you, look at you with a mixture of total dislike, and servitude since you are the ones who are paying their salaries.
But you win. You walk out of the restaurant, hopefully leaving the chef in the kitchen on the point of delivering the plate of hot food. You wish. The bastard hasn't even started your meal. For some reason, being old means you are totally valueless. Lygon Street, it was, Melbourne. Supposed to be the eating street in the city.
We'll have to get it right next time then... come on Lygon St !!
ReplyDelete