I’m never going to get used to…

Ugg, a range of overpriced sheepskin

Lincolnshire Longwool

boots, sort beyond fashion: on the positive side, warm and soft and flat and on the bad side, too flat, too warm and no support for the foot. Every so often I read about how little sheepskin is worth in the UK and then see some other price hike for sheepskin slippers, all too often from abroad. Ugg is part of Australia’s revenge for historically sending our felons there .   My slippers – British sheepskin, weatherproof soles, a fraction of the cost – came from Westmoreland Sheepskins in Harrogate (Yorkshire forever).

I ‘m never going to get used to children sitting down while grown ups stand in the bus.   Of course if they are ill or fragile in some way, fine. But what happened to the adult sitting while the child either stood close by or sat on an available knee ?   Nor am I going to accustom myself to the (mostly) women who settle on the outside of a two seater bench, only to look askance when you ask if you may have the other side of it ? Or, they fill the other side of it with an enormous handbag which they clearly don’t want on their laps where it will crease their clothes.   Pity.

I am never going to get used to the streets full of people running in all weathers, but having their groceries delivered by somebody else, their houses cleaned by somebody else, their dogs walked by somebody else: all the things we thought of as exercise in earlier generations.

I am never going to get used to the “holier than thou” attitude of all too many cyclists. Bike is a four letter word.

And although I understand that most of the rest of the world seems to think that dragging the ubiquitous wheelie behind you is some sort of mark of belonging, I am never going to get used to people shopping with them.

I have just about come to understand that for some, a small fluffy dog is a soulmate but I’d rather not trip over it or its lead because you want it to express itself unchecked. Your foufine has less brain than I and is much more easily comforted.

I am never going to get used to the idea that giving offence is a matter of such dread that we settle for boringly bad communication (initials anyone ?), for example, an hour of being talked at in terms which may have been English but the level of jargon made it unclear. The surgeon for whom I used to work was associated with the Gender Research Unit at the Middlesex Hospital. I am not unsympathetic. I defend your right to express yourself, even though much of its more florid forms might have been called social inadequacy, but I am not going to get used to a lack of enthusiasm being automatically interpreted as a criticism .   That level of defensiveness is a psychological problem, regardless of sexual orientation.

I am not going to get used to a very large number of women between the ages of 40 and the rest of it who can’t smile. I used to think this was due to an overuse of Botox or perhaps paralysing constipation but now I fear they belong to that growing number of people who think any form of pleasantness is a waste of time if it doesn’t get you something.

I am not going to get used to the new model of weather forecast, which used to involve a short round up of advice on the evening and end of the day, and then propose tomorrow.   Now we rush through today and tomorrow and start talking about the rest of the week. Since it is scientifically agreed that our weather is ever less predictable, this is probably pointless and comes pretty close to wishing your life away. I don’t know about the following weekend if it’s Monday or Tuesday and I doubt if most of the presenters do either.

I know the above makes me sound like 100. Believe me, sometimes I feel it.

A fox’s footprints