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Tuesday 12 August 2008

Vodbog: Old Ladies

I sneak into the computer room, hiding under the invisibility cloak I ‘borrowed’ from Harry Potter. The computer is already on, so I brush the pins off the cushioned seat, and sit down. I quickly switch the keyboard with one of my own, and start typing.

“Currently being on my holiday in Brittany, I have come to see that old ladies in Britain are very, very different from old ladies in France. For one thing, I’m not at all scared of the little pensioners who fall about in the care homes in Britain, sucking their dentures back into place every five minutes or so. I’ve always joked about them having bricks in their handbags, along with their sticky toffees, but over here they carry anvils!

Everyone thinks that old people in general are annoying to have on your roads, if not dangerous. We all complain about how they trundle along the outer lanes of the M4, shitting their pants at 12mph, causing several crashes a year because everyone wants to kill them for blocking up the road when they really need the loo - but seriously, you don’t know how safe you are around them until you’ve driven along some dark country lanes in France, being very much aware that a ninety seven year old woman with a sour face and a Ford Focus is trying her best to make sure you pay for keeping her down to 180km/h, by ramming the bumper of her car right up your arse. And she’s cackling. There is no French phrase for Personal Space.

I’ve always thought it nice that they say to everyone not native to France to have a ‘Bonne Voyage’. I used to enjoy the knowledge that the old women aren’t that bad, even if they drive like cows on steroids - although I’ve always wondered why they say it even to the people who have moved in permanently for their retirement.
No more. I’ve worked it out, and I don’t like the answer. They’re telling us to have a good journey, because where we’re going, there will be no more good times. All foreigners, whether they know it or not, whether they have been good Christians or have been going to scouts since the day they were three, are on their way to hell.

I’ve been scared half way there already. I spent most of yesterday hiding in the boot of a car, terrified beyond the common use of the word. I was just wondering innocently down the street, when I saw in the distance, a small shape that looked to me like fury in human form. I gave a panicked look around, trying to find a place to hide. Had it seen me? It was just me and the kind Sir. At first, I hid behind him, but as the old woman neared, he stopped laughing at me, and we both searched desperately for the nearest object that could withstand her hot stare. There wasn’t one, so we had to make do with the boot of a Citroën AX. It was tiny, but we managed to get in when Sir sucked all of the groceries into the black hole he’d taken to carrying around in his pocket since that incident with the horse and the ten foot pole.

What happened next was one of the most petrifying things I’ve ever had to go through - and that’s saying something, because I’ve been sat on by a pig with rabies. The woman stopped right outside the back of the car, and had a little chat with another from her coven, while Bruce and I quietly wetted ourselves. Finally, the talk came to an end, and the second old lady stalked off to find some new prey. Meanwhile, the first one walked up to the driver’s door of the AX and got inside! I cried. She drove all the way to Cannes before stopping. Over the two hours it took to get there from Pontivy, the piss got company many times as she slammed on the breaks whenever she was stopped by a police man. Strangely, she never had to show the men her licence, let alone get fined. They’d come up to the car, see who it was in the driving seat, then run away screaming that they were going to have a nice holiday somewhere very far away. Like Barbados. Or the North Pole. Or maybe even the afterlife.

Eventually, we got there and she stopped the car. I almost laughed with relief, but then she began to walk, excruciatingly slowly towards the boot. Oh god, I thought, she’s come to get the groceries! As soon as she opened the boot, Bruce and I were away almost as quickly as she had driven to get there! The policemen might like some companions, we reasoned. We half expected a click of her fingers to crush every bone in our bodies while turning us inside out and simultaneously burning our eyeballs to crisps inside our heads. But that didn’t happen, thank Bruce Almighty. She gave us a look that could have melted a six by six metre block of tank armour in less than five seconds as we sped away, then a loud pop brought her shopping back from beyond and she took it inside, mumbling about black candles and cinnamon sticks.

There is no doubt in my mind that Granny Weatherwax was French. None at all.”

I hear an echo of the squealing breaks in my mind, and quickly pack up my things and leave the room. It didn’t have enough exits to be safe, and the walls were only fourteen inches thick. After what happened to the Sir [Hit and run incident. No one knows who it was, but he swears it was a Citroën] , I’d rather not be in a place where the walls will hurt so much when they melt.