Took PG our for his weekly grocery shop yesterday morning as usual, then - also as usual - retired to the Plum Cafe in Munster Road for a coffee. It wasn't completely full, but it was crowded so he, being slightly claustrophobic and keen to sit close to the door, moved towards one of the round tables near the entrance. Each of these tables has three comfy chairs around it and his target already had a lady (of a certain age) at one of them. I asked, as close to politely as a Cardiffian can, if she minded if we sat at the other two. She looked at me as if I had just crawled out from under a stone, muttered something under her breath and then stomped off to the other end of the room. ("Stomping's easier in block heel court shoes than it is in stilettos sweetheart!" Don't ask me how I know.)
Fellow Cardiffians and not given to looking a gift horse in the mouth, PG and I sat down at the vacated table and waited for our coffees (ordered at the counter) to arrive. I told him she probably thought he was a skinhead as he was outfitted in blue jeans and a white t-shirt; a triumphant look for an 83 year old to pull off. Also, there were three square two person tables to our left; wall seats opposite bistro chairs that were entirely occupied by three girls. They were sitting, I s'pose, around the one in the centre but there was a handbag on the table furthest away from us, and the nearest girl had her glass on the table immediately adjacent to ours. That is four ladies taking up nine places before we two dared to beg to be admitted.
On her way out, the wasp chewing harridan stopped by our table to give me a severe wigging; sanctimonious bint. Would it kill her to be me more like the lovely lady I met calling for PG a fortnight ago (Icons passim).
Toxic masculinity? Me maybe, but Peter? I ain't buyin'.