I'm not making a political comment here by the way, I'm just saying.
The etiquette of the Brit is, in my opinion, second-to-non on the planet. (Says she with very little experience of anywhere much further afield than Brid). However, as The Beautiful South sang so beautifully, I shall carry on regardless.....
I know in my last blog, I was banging on about lack of etiquette when it comes to the Per Una lady taking a leak in M&S but today I'm putting a positive spin on the peculiarities of habitual behaviours in our green and pleasant land.
And, before I'm accused of making a religious comment, I refer to our green and pleasant land in the literal sense and countryside British etiquette in respect of the rules of the road.
NO, it's not another lecture about bad driving. The road may be the same, but I'm referring to different users, those who choose to travel along them at speed, but on foot.
I'm a jogger, not exactly gaining any of the aforementioned speed as I pootle along the country lanes near my home, however I am technically jogging.
While out on the green lanes and roads, I exchange the customary nod and 'good morning' or 'good evening' (as the hour dictates) with anyone who crosses my path; fellow joggers, dog-walkers, ramblers, everyone except those pesky cyclists who just whizz past with an air of superiority and not so much of a glance in my direction.
However, the nearer I get to the built up areas the etiquette takes a stark change of direction. What was a pleasant formality a few metres away would now appear just plain weird. I mosey past people, sweating and panting, but my eyes are fixed firmly on the pavement and, in turn, the other people also do everything in their power (i.e. look at their watch or mobile phone intently) to avoid looking in my direction.
Why does the presence of homes and shops change this etiquette? It's not that there are more people in the built up streets. For example, if I met just four people on the country roads and also only four people in the town centre, the aforementioned pleasantries would only be exchanged with the four folk on the country lanes.
It's like being on the tube. I've noticed as a mother travelling with children, it's OK to smile at other mothers travelling with children of a similar age; not weird at all. However, outside the parameters of these exact specifications, no one EVER smiles at anyone else on the London Underground.
There are times when I ponder the unspoken laws of the road, the tube and indeed the time-honoured rules of what one is and is not expected to do at certain times in life and I just think, 'oh fuck it!'
For example, I took up ballet when I was 40 and now spend a couple of deliriously happy hours a week dancing with a bunch of ladies, and gents, of a certain age and we have a whale of a time (no pun intended).
In fact, I penned a little something, mainly for myself, but as I'm clearly in a 'fuck it' mood (must be the cheap white wine), I thought I'd share.
Why ballet?
Ballet at 40, who'd have thought?
A tutu she dashed out and bought.
She huffed and puffed as she pulled it on,
Picture a flaccid, bingo-winged swan.
Her piroettes got just half way round
And echappe jumps would shake the ground.
Grand plies; too much for the pelvic floor,
And saw her running for the door.
Back in class, she'd fondu with the rest
But chaines turns were a bit of a test.
Like cheap white wine, they'd spin her round
Until she'd land in a heap on the ground.
But for her, there is only one barre,
And within the year, she's come so far.
With strength and grace, her head held high,
She replies 'why not', when they ask her 'why'?
Ballet at 40, who'd have thought?
The tutu? Best thing I've ever bought!
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| Please note this is NOT me....it's some dancing bird called Darcy, never heard of her myself. |
