I don't know what I did to deserve it but in the past few months (I blame the trees entirely) I have found myself conversing with more elderly gentleman that I would have cared to do. What strikes me is the remarkable difference in types of male elder. Some of them are indeed true elders - statesmanlike figures, emeritus professors, one's even a Fellow of the Royal Society - hey, what can say, sometimes I keep intellectual company. Of these elders some are also real gentlemen - kind, considerate, considered, temperate and wise - men you can admire and wish there were more of - and in positions of power unlike some other pratts who got there god alone knows how (but don't get me started on him...). These are men who though inordinately intelligent don't claim to know it all - which is refreshing given their vast brain power.
Then of course there is the other type of old gent. This type of old gent is pure old fart material - hold your nose, put your fingers in your ears and protect your eyes so you don't see the crunchy stuff that collects around their hairy ears. There are two or three of these old geezers that particularly spring to mind. And I have developed a very particular hostility towards them. This says something; I'm normally a fairly cheerful, even-handed soul with a bright voice and sparkling eyes. But I'm afraid when I encounter these old buzzards my voice goes dangerously low and quiet and my eyes turn to flint. The trouble with this type of old codger is that it thinks it knows everything - whereas I know I know very little. The worst part about these old gits is that they fail to listen, seem incapable of reading and despite that still insist on knowing best.
I had a call from one of them this morning. Oh joy. And I hadn't even had my first mug of cocoa of the day. Nothing like taking on an old fart when one hasn't even been fortified. He must have realised he was, as ever, on dangerous ground - of course last time he hadn't had the insight to back down... Thusly, it can only be said that this time my tone was rigourously "professional". As I'd said to a friend, I'd sooner have nits than have to attempt a halfway intelligent conversation with said geriatric. I will, however - she said patting herself on the back - say this in my defense - despite using the low, quiet and very dangerous voice - I still managed to be civil. No, I won't go so far as to say "charming" - that I reserve for the genuine tribal elders.
What I found ironic was during the last conversation the old goat had assured me I didn't have my facts straight, hadn't a clue what I was talking about and had my knickers in a knot over nothing (unlike the view taken by those other elderly gentlemen). The tone has been patronising and pompous, the attitude bellicose. Hmmm - well as we know chickens come home to roost - well at least Atyllah always does... This time the silly old pratt wanted to be sure that I was attending a tree meeting to be held this Friday (oh yes, that should certainly provide plenty of satirical entertainment) since he can't make it and he wanted "to be sure that someone with all the facts and a strong voice would be there". Yours truly, no less, and if you don't mind. Hmmm... Perhaps my resignation from all things trees, my previous pointing to 100 meter high letters of doom in the sky finally made the old twit realise he wasn't the last word and the final authority on the state of arboreal destruction. I have, however, learned that in certain instances one should not live in hope.
As for the other silly ass, well a few choice words of description should suffice: parochial, belligerent, bombastic, pompous, self-opinionated, arrogant - oh you get the general picture. No doubt after Friday I should be able to manage a suitably acerbic post on this particular subject. Watch this space.
(Images in this post duly nicked off the internet -thank you to the creators/providers!)
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