I love old ladies

There's something about elderly ladies that I love. Not in a kinky, dodgy way - obviously. This is a family show. What I mean is, I find women of a certain generation appealing (geez, this still sounds dodge) because of particular characteristics they all seem to share. Quite possibly, these characteristics are all in my head, but nevertheless.

I don't know if it's just me, but octogenarian ladies that I come across in the supermarket, the butcher's, the chemist, wherever, they all have the same twinkle in their eye. They're usually running some errand or other, and you can tell that they're still fiercely independent. Even more so if there is a stooped, gentle octogenarian gentleman/husband type accompanying them. In winter, they wear sensible knitted jumpers or cardigans with pressed slacks or a skirt. Sensible shoes. Proper handbag or trolley on wheels. Hair nicely brushed, jewellery on, usually face powder and lipstick at the very least. There's something undefinable that sets them apart as being capable.

I always run into them at the shops, because during the day when all the busy people with jobs are at their places of employment, it's only the mummies or daddies with little children and old people...ahem, I mean, the senior citizens...at the shops. Next time you're at Woolies at 9:30 on a weekday morning, take a look around. It's always a veritable sea of toddler-toting trolleys, mums mumbling shopping lists, and grannies doing their groceries. And it's a hell of a lot more pleasant than the scene at 4pm, when tired schoolkids are added to the mix.

Lately, my littlest 'helper' has decided she doesn't want to ride shotgun in the trolley anymore. No, the Mouse has been quite vocal about her decision to run the aisles like Beebee. And I've got to say, she's pretty good about trotting behind me. She only occasionally gets distracted by a random Dora picture, which is completely understandable. Most of the time, both my girls quite happily run circles around the trolley while I throw the bare essentials in as quickly as I can.

What I absolutely love about the elderly ladies in the supermarket is that they always have a smile for a toddler. I don't think it matters if the lady in question had ten children, or none at all - the older the lady, the wider the smile. Every single time Maisie or Phoebe cross the path of an elderly lady, they are bestowed with a beautiful, understanding, patient smile. I don't know if it's the blonde curls or the cheeky grins my daughters both possess, but they always manage to elicit warmth from an old lady.

Today, both of my little princesses had immunisations at 9am, which meant that the weekly supermarketing was done under the cover of Dora and Diddles bandaids. Maisie needed the help of a bag of pikelets to get her through the ordeal (I paid for the packet at the end - yes, I know this is technically stealing, as my husband continually points out, but what would you prefer? Eardrum-popping screaming, or payment for an empty bag of pikelets? Yep. That's what I thought.) but overall, it wasn't too bad. We kept running into one lovely older lady who beamed at the Mouse and Beebee every time we crossed paths. Phoebe was quite enchanted, and did some ballerina dance moves to show her appreciation.

By the time we reached the chemist to get some antihistamine for Miss Mouse, I had a full trolley, a tired and sore big girl, and an armful of very sad toddler. There was one lady ahead of me being served, so I stood and waited. Without warning, I was surrounded by a crowd of ladies, all clutching prescriptions and enviro-friendly green shopping bags. But these were no octogenarians. These were at least ten years younger, if not more. Which, I'm sure you realise, is a completely different kettle of fish.

These ladies did not beam warmly at my offspring and feel sorry for their poor, sore little arms. These ladies did not see my plight of full arms and take pity. Oh no. These ladies wanted their drugs, and they wanted them NOW. While all four pharmacists and three assistants were suddenly too busy to serve, I watched as the crowd of women crept closer and closer to the counter. They were all eyeing each other, like sprinters at the starting line. One in particular was watching me, because she knew I was there first. And she knew I knew. And I knew she knew I knew. Um......sorry. What? Oh.

So anyway, the young girl asked the fatal question, "Who was next please?" Now, usually, I would have left it alone, and allowed the pushy oul one to go first. But I had a silently suffering Phoebalina next to me, and a weeping Mouse wrapped around my neck. So I did what any woman worth her salt would do. I thrust my hand up in the air (jostling poor Mousy around) and said over the other woman, "I am!" The sales assistant looked at me, and then the other lady, and seemed unsure what to do (because, in the interim, I had been pushed back with my cumbersome trolley, while the other one was in poll position). There was murmuring in the ranks. I repeated myself, saying very clearly, "I am next. All I waiting for is some Claratyne for my little girl. Thank you."

Some old biddy (well, she was!) up the back muttered about pushing in, and I turned around and said, "Yes, it's terrible, isn't it? I've been here for ten minutes. No one seemed to know how to line up behind me." I heard several sexagenarian noses get bent out of shape with that, but I didn't care. I'm sure I heard one octogenarian present snort with laughter, before she helped me move my trolley through the crowd. There was definitely a twinkle in her eye.

Now, I'm not saying that all 60 year old women are grumpy pusher-innerers. I think I just struck a bad bunch today (withdrawal symptoms from their diabetes meds, perhaps??) But generally speaking, I think the longer it's been since they themselves had small children to raise, the more tolerant they are. (Certainly, the 70 year old men in the supermarket are universally awful. Seriously!!! Watch them bump into a toddler, and wait for the child to apologise. I'll give them manners....) I love old ladies. Don't you?