blamebrampton (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
blamebrampton) wrote2009-02-21 01:07 am
blamebrampton) wrote2009-02-21 01:07 am
Young people today ...
I was on the train home from work last night. It was crowded and there were a gaggle of blonde teenagers in the doorway who clambered on at the stop before mine and arrayed themselves around the doors. They nattered about hair, nails, one of their boyfriends who was unfortunate in the pants department.
I looked at them, and began to mentally rehearse my comments that would see them move out of the way of all the disembarking passengers at my stop (for some reason, it's always me who says something first, I have come to accept my role in the daily commute). 'Girls,' I planned to say, 'could you let us out, please?' I would be kind and a little older-sounding, because I knew they were not bad girls, just flighty and young and unlikely to have the spatial awareness one develops with age.
As the train pulled into the station, the loudest blonde girl looked behind her, looked at the crowded vestibule, then turned to her friends. 'We should jump off to let people out and get back on!' she announced.
'Yeah, good plan!' said the second-loudest girl.
As the rest of us disembarked, it was like a row of nuns passing a group of schoolgirls who had just won an award for civic mindedness. Everyone had a little word for them: 'Thanks!' 'What lovely girls!' 'Cheers kids!'
They all beamed, and we jaded inner-city dwellers mistily agreed that there were still parents doing A Good Job out there.
Of course, there are also The Other Sort.
Tonight, we were walking up to Newtown (which, in summer, is akin to descending into a Dantean hell) when a Young Man in a Porsche 911 came screaming around the corner and revved his engine painfully so that he could catch up swiftly to the line of traffic doing 15mph 50 yards ahead.
'That,' said J, 'Is the car of someone who has nothing in his pants.'
'What about his driving?' our friend asked.
'It's like an exclamation point,' I said. 'No really, there's nothing in there and I have no idea what to do with it!'
We all nodded in agreement and then a man went by on a rattletrap bicycle.
'Hung like a pony,' muttered J. We nodded agreement again.
I looked at them, and began to mentally rehearse my comments that would see them move out of the way of all the disembarking passengers at my stop (for some reason, it's always me who says something first, I have come to accept my role in the daily commute). 'Girls,' I planned to say, 'could you let us out, please?' I would be kind and a little older-sounding, because I knew they were not bad girls, just flighty and young and unlikely to have the spatial awareness one develops with age.
As the train pulled into the station, the loudest blonde girl looked behind her, looked at the crowded vestibule, then turned to her friends. 'We should jump off to let people out and get back on!' she announced.
'Yeah, good plan!' said the second-loudest girl.
As the rest of us disembarked, it was like a row of nuns passing a group of schoolgirls who had just won an award for civic mindedness. Everyone had a little word for them: 'Thanks!' 'What lovely girls!' 'Cheers kids!'
They all beamed, and we jaded inner-city dwellers mistily agreed that there were still parents doing A Good Job out there.
Of course, there are also The Other Sort.
Tonight, we were walking up to Newtown (which, in summer, is akin to descending into a Dantean hell) when a Young Man in a Porsche 911 came screaming around the corner and revved his engine painfully so that he could catch up swiftly to the line of traffic doing 15mph 50 yards ahead.
'That,' said J, 'Is the car of someone who has nothing in his pants.'
'What about his driving?' our friend asked.
'It's like an exclamation point,' I said. 'No really, there's nothing in there and I have no idea what to do with it!'
We all nodded in agreement and then a man went by on a rattletrap bicycle.
'Hung like a pony,' muttered J. We nodded agreement again.
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