Ungracious older men (and women)

Sometimes you find yourself in a setting where the majority of the people present have tipped the big 80. First of all I should say that this post doesn’t include all the cute nannas or grandpas out there. It is the other kind of 80-somethings I talk about, the ones who shake their head in disbelief when faced with anything post-1950, or who secretly love scandals and talking about other people who conveniently are not present. You know the type, I’m sure.

Twice this weekend I have found myself in a situation with an ungracious senior.

Episode one occured when I was out shopping with my grandmother (who, by the way, is the sweetest woman). We ran in to one of her and grandpa’s friends, and they started connecting the dots like older people often do when they meet someone for the first time (the dots went from how this woman knew my other grandparents, to through such and such she managed to place me, or rather categorise me, in less than five minutes). Here’s how it went: After a short conversation, grandma finishes “…and she lives there with her australian friend” [on the side: note the use of the word friend. As long as you're still living the sinful(?) life as defactos, your partner will always be reffered to as friend among the older generations here.] When grandma has said her bit, the other woman, loaded with older generation judgement, says: “oh, yeah.. So that’s You…”. I manage a stiff smile, “yeah…that’s me”. That’s me…?

Episode two: My friend walks in to a room and reaches out his hand to greet one of the men in the room. My Friend says to him (in Norwegian) that he doesn’t speak a lot of Norwegian, and tells him his name. And the old man answers, in Norwegian: “That is a strange name”. And repeats in Norwegian when friend tries to explain that he doesn’t understand what he said. He repeats it in Norwegian again. Strange name.. And not said in a particularly friendly way either. Who on earth says something like that to someone you’ve never met before?? The whole thing is followed by my dad and grandpa stepping in, trying to save the akward moment by explaining that it is in fact a very normal name and that it is quite alright to be named that. I walk out to the veranda to draw breath before any of the people present sees the red flushes on my neck, but when nobody’s watching, I look at my mum, she looks at me, and I think I see her mouth form a little “I know…” smile, when I roll my eyes as I shout abuse at the old man, quietly, on the inside, with a stiff smile on my lips.