has always been a major with me.
I know: pathetic.
But them’s the breaks and if The Fates see fit to treat me so, kismet. Or not.
After generations of effort I’ve finally subdued the raging beast—mind overcomes; and when red mists rise before the eyes I squash ’em right back to where they belong. In the pit.
EXCEPT ON SATURDAY
as I was driving The Spouse to town; a scruffy red-brown car damn near broadsided us, swerved across my bows and forced reflexes to hit the anchors while my mind was still absorbing the recent changes in our circumstances and thinking WTF?
A short-fuse ignited.
I accelerated and was about to to—without actually making contact—become as a second coat of paint on his rear. (It annoys idiots at first, then scares the snot out of them; and I have excellent brakes.)
He swerved back to the left where he belonged—as fast as they’d arisen I subdued the red mists. (Spouse’s delicate little whimper helped too …)
We got his number, make, colour and such stuff which Spouse wrote down, and then I allowed my speed and hormones to die away. Man is master of The Beast, no?
UNTIL WE PULLED
into the shopping park where we abandoned our car and walked to the entry … and there was that very same car. Right alongside the entry doors. Bingo.
Spouse hauled me inside where I grabbed us a table—and saw by the window, that very same face that had peered oafishly at me as I manoeuvred to avoid disaster. Spouse wasn’t here …
… I went over …
… the guy just sat staring as I made my case (all in good English); namely that I’d got his details and was going to report him to the Police for dangerous driving. And then—
—then completely matter-of-fact in a slow voice he said that he’d come into town to pick up his missus. Only then I noticed the heavy black metal walking stick. And the fact that there was something a little … different … about him.
And then he said he’d had three strokes (medical)—and I realised that I was in the presence of quality, not an ignorant buffoon. A man who’d taken a broadsides and was still afloat; in damage-control mode but quietly doing the best he could with what was left. He glanced across the room. Following his gaze I saw the troubled eyes of a woman who was obviously the missus, and had scored them a decent table.
I deflated. No option …
I advised him to please be more careful in future. I also made sure he understood that I was NOT going to take the matter any further; and feeling humbled I watched as with a dignity I could never hope to achieve he semi-stumbled through the throng to Wifey.
So I’m a wimp.
Sue me—despite the scruffy clothes and old car that looked even more like mine than mine does, that guy had CLASS. When The Spouse arrived with our coffees she spoke first, words to the effect of “That was the guy? Looks like he’s had a stroke—”
it pays to remember that some folks have (and as best they can, cope with) real problems.
If it’s true what my ‘psychic medium’ sister tells me, that angels walk amongst us, I just hope that I didn’t lose too many points—certainly I got the lesson.