Growing Old Badly

Now look, I don't lightly decide to put a picture of my socks up here for all to see, but I'm not happy. Let me explain...

I went into Bromley last Friday to do a spot of shopping. I took the bus, because driving is ridiculous. There are no empty car parks anymore and, if you are lucky to find a parking bay, you get 90 minutes and then can't return for ten years. Having a car is a liability, if you want to go to more than one shop. It's OK if you want to pick someone up, or just drive through, but a car in Bromley is only good for that. I digress.

My bad day began on the 208, just as it pulled round Crown Hill Spur and past the Toby Carvery. Excellent Sunday roasts, I was thinking, particularly the beef and...

"Would you like a seat?"

I was vaguely aware of a woman sitting below me saying something, as I ruminated over the beef and...

She stood up and gestured to me to sit down. I frowned. She was young, had a kindly face and was clearly talking to me.

"Err, that's all right," I mumbled, not budging an inch.

She sat down again, looking uncomfortable.

My brain went into overdrive. What was that? Why did she...? Oh my god! Did I look that old? Old enough for a woman to offer me her seat? A woman! I glanced at her again. My heart sank further. She was pregnant. Pregnant. Pregnant...

I got off at the Glades shopping centre and deliberately ran a hundred yards, as if I were in a hurry. I wasn't. I just had something to prove. To myself. I'm not old. Not that old. Not so old that a pregnant woman offers you her seat. Not that old. Surely...

But she did.

I needed to do something. Something... young. Maybe buy a pair of shoes from that shop where teenagers buy fancy-coloured plimsoles, at ridiculous prices. Or perhaps a computer game - 'Dark Ops 3: Smack 'Em Down Hard, Galactic Expansion.' A Little Mix CD? Anything.

I went to Pret and munched through a ham and mustard toastie and supped at a carrot juice. I was being silly. Maybe the pregnant woman just had bad eyesight. I sighed. Panic over.

I decided to go to M&S, because I needed to get a pair boots (at a sensible price) and some socks. I found them both - all in ten smooth, unproblematical minutes. Then, up to the counter clutching my fur-lined boots and an economy pack of colourful socks. Another chance to show my young side.

"Nice boots," said the smiling cashier.

"Yes," I muttered, not really in the mood for talking to young women.

"Great idea with the socks," she added.

"I like the colours," I said, suspiciously.

"Very popular with our... senior customers and kids, of course."

My frown grew deeper.

She peeled the sock pack back and revealed... the days of the week on every pair. Now, in normal circumstances, I would have probably thought that this was a good idea. In fact, a very good idea. But these were not normal circumstances. Again, my brain went into warp drive. Senior customers? The days of the week on week pair, as if I... Oh dear god....

She dropped them in a bag. I paid.

"Now you have a lovely day," she beamed.

"Got to get back to work," I lied, trying to look busy.

"Of course you have," she grinned, knowingly.