When doing the RIGHT thing just goes plain WRONG. Or alternatively... how I ruined someone's day.
Sometimes my friend, you try and do the right thing.
Why?
You just do. There's something that feels good about knowing you made an effort.
So when a Momma with a huge pram and another couple of unruly toddlers get off a tube, you bust your back helping her get said pram up the stairs and towards the exit - smiling smugly to yourself as she says an overly grateful thanks while you saunter off back to your non-kid forsaken world.
In the middle of dirty sodden winter, when a poor pretty lady slips in a puddle in the rain, soaking her immaculate cream trouser suit in the process, what do you do?
Answer: You ask her if she's ok, and that's all.
Nothing more than that.
Why? Well, firstly you don't want to get your own hand wet (!) or be accused of an indecent assault. Or to add to her shame by being overly concerned. She can get herself back up. Yes, she can.
So: you speak only to show her that London's not that impersonal, and how someone feels a little sympathy for her plight (even if you silently sniggered as she took the fall...)
It's nice. It feels good.
But then...
...sometimes it goes wrong.
Take yesterday for example.
I'm on the tube. Pregant lady gets on. She's got a cute little bump growing.
I think to myself 'I love sitting and reading the Guardian of a morning, but I can't let a lady with unborn sprog ready to pop stand all the way to Hammersmith, can I?'
So...
...I get up.
"Would you like to sit down?" I ask.
I smile, looking at her.
She says nothing, and looks perplexed.
I maintain the question with a quizzical expression on my face.
"Would you-"
"Er, sure," she says. Then she says "why?"
I look down at her bump. With quizzical look maintained on face.
She pauses. And blushes. Red.
Then awkwardly sits down in my spot.
Silence.
I blush. Red.
The train takes an age to reach Hammersmith.
I stand with my back to her, folding the Guardian as the train rocks. People look at me.
I blush even more. Purple.
I hope no-one from work's on this train.
I know. They know. She knows. That I've messed up.
She's not pregnant.
'Why am I so dumb?' I ask myself.
No-one knows the answer to that one.
Horrible.
It stays with me all day. And her, too, presumably.
Put it this way...
...I'm never doing the right thing again.
Why?
You just do. There's something that feels good about knowing you made an effort.
So when a Momma with a huge pram and another couple of unruly toddlers get off a tube, you bust your back helping her get said pram up the stairs and towards the exit - smiling smugly to yourself as she says an overly grateful thanks while you saunter off back to your non-kid forsaken world.
In the middle of dirty sodden winter, when a poor pretty lady slips in a puddle in the rain, soaking her immaculate cream trouser suit in the process, what do you do?
Answer: You ask her if she's ok, and that's all.
Nothing more than that.
Why? Well, firstly you don't want to get your own hand wet (!) or be accused of an indecent assault. Or to add to her shame by being overly concerned. She can get herself back up. Yes, she can.
So: you speak only to show her that London's not that impersonal, and how someone feels a little sympathy for her plight (even if you silently sniggered as she took the fall...)
It's nice. It feels good.
But then...
...sometimes it goes wrong.
Take yesterday for example.
I'm on the tube. Pregant lady gets on. She's got a cute little bump growing.
I think to myself 'I love sitting and reading the Guardian of a morning, but I can't let a lady with unborn sprog ready to pop stand all the way to Hammersmith, can I?'
So...
...I get up.
"Would you like to sit down?" I ask.
I smile, looking at her.
She says nothing, and looks perplexed.
I maintain the question with a quizzical expression on my face.
"Would you-"
"Er, sure," she says. Then she says "why?"
I look down at her bump. With quizzical look maintained on face.
She pauses. And blushes. Red.
Then awkwardly sits down in my spot.
Silence.
I blush. Red.
The train takes an age to reach Hammersmith.
I stand with my back to her, folding the Guardian as the train rocks. People look at me.
I blush even more. Purple.
I hope no-one from work's on this train.
I know. They know. She knows. That I've messed up.
She's not pregnant.
'Why am I so dumb?' I ask myself.
No-one knows the answer to that one.
Horrible.
It stays with me all day. And her, too, presumably.
Put it this way...
...I'm never doing the right thing again.
posted by The Scribbler at 9:07 PM
3 Comments:
Sometimes it's better to be a chauvinist :) Sign of the times, everyone is treated with suspicion, and people with courtesy and manners even more so ! I gave up my seat for a lady with a pram, and found my trousers covered with excrement from the pram wheels, next time they can walk !
Nah I disagree. I always give my seat up to others. Pregnant or not, I'll do it.
If they ask you why, just tell them that there are not enough gentlemen left in the world, and I'm being nice just for no reason whatsoever.
We'll send you a file in a cake....
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