We were in a service station off the M6 (told you I had a tiny bladder) and I found myself in that awkward situation where you try to assess how far away is too far away to hold the door open for a person without looking like an overbearing idiot.
My method of decision in these situations is usually quite simple, if not completely mental. I think to myself, in the length of time it would take for said person to get from their current location to the doorway, could I sing more than the first two lines of Brass in Pocket? If the answer is yes, then fuck it. Cut your losses and run.
This was the case yesterday. I should have just walked on and never looked back.
But I didn't.
I got one look at the wee boy's cute little face and stalled. I waited just a fraction of a second too long and then had to hold the door open. By the time father and son reached the doorway, Chrissie Hynde would have used her arms and her legs (and her style and her sidestep) to bat me about the head for taking so bloody long to make my mind up.
So, there I was. A smile on my face, the Pretenders stuck in my head, and holding the door open for this angel-faced kid and his dad. I was standing there waiting for the shining praise I was about to receive... When the thundering gobshite strode right past me without even a second look.
Then the black rage descended.
Did this man realise how much mental turmoil I'd gone through just to decide if I should hold the door open for his ungrateful backside and his snottery wean?
Clearly not, as I saw him later in WH Smiths buying the child a bag of fruit gums without a care in the world. I can only hope the packet was filled with the rank green flavour gums that nobody likes.
As we continued our journey, I kept on thinking about the importance of saying thank you. Driving on the motorway was a perfect example.
In the UK, I'd say 95% of drivers on the road are courteous. When you let someone in, there's usually a wave, maybe a quick push of the hazard lights, or (my favourite) that brilliant wee flick between both indicators. When I'm behind the wheel it tends to be a nervous combination of all three cos I'm neurotic and worry that the driver behind hasn't seen me thank him.
These minute responses all make us feel quite good about ourselves. We relish the little flash of pride.
However, we all know very well that firey spurt of anger we feel when a person doesn't signal their gratitude. Robbed of the right to gloat, our reaction is usually something along the lines of "aye, you're welcome, fud" and a quick flash of the vickies (low enough that the driver in front won't see, obviously).
My favourite reaction to uncourteous drivers comes in the form of my step-dad. His method is to wave madly at the person as if he knows them, until they wave back. He'll then shout "no problem pal!" to no one in particular, and continue on his merry way. Comedy gold.
Recently we were in the States, where driving is an entirely different experience. Nobody lets you in. Nobody says thank you. Everybody gets slap-happy with their horns. It's the stuff of nightmares. It is genuinely like a real-life version of Wacky Races where every other driver on the road is Dick Dastardly.
But the only people who seem to care are the foreigners. Americans just go about their daily drive from A to B and never get worked up about the lack of gratitude.
Why have we got such different attitudes? Why is it so rage-inducing when people can't just say "thank you"? Is it really that big a deal? I have no idea.
But the one thing I do know is this - the next person who doesn't display some manners when I go out of my way to help them is going to get a high five. In the face. With a brick.
You were warned.
Hahaha!!! I love you :)
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