I’ve been reprimanded three times this week for ‘inappropriate behaviour’ — issued with a trio of verbal ‘warnings’.
I’ve been reprimanded three times this week for ‘inappropriate behaviour’ — issued with a trio of verbal ‘warnings’. None were handed out by law-enforcers — all came from members of the public. Random do-gooders. Total strangers have found the time, energy and self-importance to publicly tick me off for micro-misdemeanours. It’s a trend. Social vigilantes are the new police.
The first time I got told off I was parking outside my house. As I reversed, I was suddenly aware that I had an audience. A middle-aged couple were silently observing me. They weren’t threatening, they weren’t waiting to mug me — they were just standing on the pavement watching. Their fascination was vaguely disconcerting, and by mistake I lightly ‘bumper-touched’ my husband’s car parked directly behind me. My silent witness nudged his wife and then mimed for me to wind down my window.
‘Re-park and come in at a sharper angle,’ he advised.
I meekly did as I was told and then turned off the ignition. His wife thumped the back of my car.
‘Don’t get out,’ she instructed bossily.
‘What do you think you’re doing? Stay put,’ said her husband. ‘I’m telling you, you need to straighten up.’
Defiantly I got out.
‘I think it’s fine,’ I said, before inexplicably thanking them for their interference — what it is about being British that often compels us to fight hostility with politeness?
‘I’m glad you think it’s fine,’ the man smirked before pulling out his mobile and taking a photograph. ‘Because I now have evidence to the contrary.’
‘Are you a traffic warden?’ I asked. He didn’t reply. He just roared with laughter, grabbed his wife’s hand and swaggered off towards the pub — presumably glad his ‘good deed’ for the day had been accomplished.
Shopping at Waitrose with my husband, a man came and tapped Johnnie on the shoulder.
‘Is that your wife over there?’ he enquired. ‘Because I’ve often seen her at the Pimlico market and I read her column every week. Tell her from me she shouldn’t chew gum, it’s not attractive.’ When Johnnie (unwisely) repeated this conversation to me, I saw red.
‘Who is this jerk?’ I snapped. ‘And why on earth didn’t you tell him to mind his own business?’
‘I thought you knew him,’ mumbled Johnnie, who also happens to loathe public displays of gum-chewing.
‘And? Even if I did know him, why would you allow a total stranger to tick me off?’ Poor Johnnie had no answer and we both continued down the aisle in silence, furiously hurling Häagen-Dazs and Dentyne into our trolley.
On Saturday I worked in my shop. The weather was oppressively hot and we were depressingly devoid of customers. I’d just dragged a deckchair outside on to the pavement when a passer-by appeared, stood in front of me and sighed ominously. ‘Do you really think this is a good idea?’ she tutted disapprovingly.
I found myself using a childhood phrase I thought I’d long-forgotten.
‘MYOB!’ I snarled. I’d suddenly had enough.