All The Small Things

Mood: Amused and disheartened
Listening to: NCIS

I always thought that older people were supposed to be kindly, genteel sorts. The retirees that I work with are, overall, of this variety. They are kind. They have gentle conversations about their grandchildren, husbands/wives, their health, their crafts.

They spend their days catching up with the people that are important to them, they spend time tending to their gardens, or contributing to the community by volunteering at the local information centre, opportunity shop or neighbourhood house.

To date, that had been the sum of my experience with our older generation. I hope that I would grow to be a genteel old lady like the ones that I have met.

However, last week I met the SS, and all my perceptions were shattered.

The Senior Citizens (known round our town as the SS - an anacronym given them by someone more taken with phonetics than accuracy it would seem) have a poor reputation.

They have a group psychosis that leads them to believe that the whole town, with the Shire Council at the lead, is out to get them. They believe that we all want them out of the Community Centre (which they continue to refer to as the Senior Citizens Rooms - despite the name Community Centre being painted in 6 foot tall letters on the front windows, and being on the plaque from the grand opening held in the late 1950's).

There are many and varied reasons that "we" want them out, of which these are the most commonly lamented, loudly and at length to anyone who will listen:

*They are old and therefore useless.

*We have no respect for old people in general, and them in particular.

*We want their rooms. (Which is funny, as the rooms DON'T BELONG TO THEM ANYWAY!!!)

I made a deadly mistake last week, when I booked out the Community Centre to cater for a group that I couldn't fit in my own Centre. It was a Wednesday, and the class ran all day.

At 1.30pm, the SS arrived to play cards. As my group were in the big room, the 10 ladies had to go into the smaller room (which is exactly one meter narrower than the other room - 8 meters by 7 meters, opposed by 8 meters by 8 meters. Big enough for 10 people playing Euchre.)

After they had finished playing, one of the little old ladies came down to my office, and demanded to know who had organised to use the Senior Citizens Rooms. I responded with, "I booked the Community Centre, with council over 3 months ago." "Well you didn't ask us."

Hello? I had to ask some aggressive little old lady in a peach jumpsuit if I could use the Community Centre? Mmm, I must have missed the part in the Shire briefings. Cos I could have sworn that was told to book the rooms and collect the keys from the Shire and not some pissed off granny.

I did the right (and I thought respectful) thing, apologised for the inconvenience, explained that I had booked the room well in advance, acknowledged that it shouldn't have happened, apologised again.

Pissed of in Peach stomped off (obviously she wasn't suffering from osteoperosis or she would have broken her tootsies) and I headed up to the Community Centre to collect the keys so that I could return them to Shire.

Sitting outside the building was a group of 10, grey haired, various pastel shaded, wrinkly and very angry people. A small delegation of the SS. I approached them, and apologised to the group for the inconvenience that we had caused them - and holy hell. Have you ever been abused by a mob of angry oldies?

Imagine your gran, hearing aid out. The volume of her voice as she talks to you? Yup. Thats it. Now imagine her abusing you. Now times that by 10.

"You want us out of town" "You want our rooms" "You have no respect for old people" "Everyone in town knows we play cards here on a Wednesday"

"No I don't! No I don't! Yes I do! I didn't!! I swear I didn't!!"

Then came the kicker - "It was sooo hot in there, and our ladies are so frail that some of them were swooning, its just not right to do that to people."

Shit. I felt awful. It wasn't my fault, and I felt bloody sick to my stomach.

And then I realised that the SS had locked my keys in and I had no way of getting in to retrieve them. The lady who had the key had left already. Sorry dear.

Sorry my arse. When I finally got in the next day, retrieved the Shire's keys, I checked out the room that the SS had used. They had rearranged the tables, but not replaced them, so I had to do that, then I noticed something on the wall. You guessed it, blog reading genius. A frigging split system air conditioner. And, oh yeah. It was still ON. On. On. On. On.

Poor old ladies. Sweltering away. Again. MY ARSE.

I used to think that the moniker SS was an absurdity. But having met them, I can totally see it. Jackboots and uniforms, and they would definitely have every one younger than them in camps.

Nasty. Nasty. Nasty.

All I can think is of the lyrics to that Voodoo Doll song. "May I never grow old."

Bloggy Angry Old Folks,

Sass