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Snob, dear? Me,dear? No, dear. ...

Posted Oct 04 2009 11:10pm

Oh, but in my heart, I know I am…..

Take Friday. There I was, popping to the ladies to brush my hair so that I didn’t look like a mushroom when I removed my wedding-hat, and there, next to me, reflected in the grime-streaked washroom mirrors, was a woman with peroxide hair and whiter-than-white teeth, saying to another woman:

“Eeeyahh. Whassa cownsiller do anyway?”

“Whaddya mean, whadda they do?” says woman 2, with dark hair and too much mascara on.

“How’d'ya become one, then?” says peroxide woman.

And I was immediately transported to this bit of Monty Python’s Holy Grail. (”Well how do you become King then?!!!”)

They of course, continued oblivious to me and my thoughts of King Arthur.

A third woman approached the mirrors to adjust some stray hairs and check her make-up, and in doing so she blocked my view of the other two, whilst joining into their conversation. Woman 3 was, as it turned out, a borough councillor. She furnished them with the details of the route from ordinary person to elected councillor, gave them a quick rundown of the average working week, and finished by reapplying her lippy in the mirror. 

“Issa proper job then?” said Peroxide Lady, not quite believeing her. I moved slightly, and realised she was acutally holding a section of her hair in a set of electric hair-curling-tongs which had been plugged-in somewhere out of sight. I couldn’t believe it.  

“Oh yeah.” said Councillor Lady. “Iss bloody hard work, actually.

“Oh.” finished Peroxide Lady. ” I fort it was juss visitin people and getting fed nice dinners an stuff.”

“Nah. Thass Mayors that do that!! Mind you, ya do have to visit your ward all the time, but you don’t get fed much.”  

“What ward? In the hospital?”

I could contain myself no longer. I glanced at the Councillor Lady as she began to explain what a council ward was, and left quickly, the brim of my hat gripped in my hand and my lips pressed tightly together, for fear that a shriek of laughter should get out.

The word c ommon formed itself in my mind, and hung there for a moment as I escaped.

I told you I was a snob.

Oh, but in my heart, I know I am…..

Take Friday. There I was, popping to the ladies to brush my hair so that I didn’t look like a mushroom when I removed my wedding-hat, and there, next to me, reflected in the grime-streaked washroom mirrors, was a woman with peroxide hair and whiter-than-white teeth, saying to another woman:

“Eeeyahh. Whassa cownsiller do anyway?”

“Whaddya mean, whadda they do?” says woman 2, with dark hair and too much mascara on.

“How’d'ya become one, then?” says peroxide woman.

And I was immediately transported to this bit of Monty Python’s Holy Grail. (”Well how do you become King then?!!!”)

They of course, continued oblivious to me and my thoughts of King Arthur.

A third woman approached the mirrors to adjust some stray hairs and check her make-up, and in doing so she blocked my view of the other two, whilst joining into their conversation. Woman 3 was, as it turned out, a borough councillor. She furnished them with the details of the route from ordinary person to elected councillor, gave them a quick rundown of the average working week, and finished by reapplying her lippy in the mirror. 

“Issa proper job then?” said Peroxide Lady, not quite believeing her. I moved slightly, and realised she was acutally holding a section of her hair in a set of electric hair-curling-tongs which had been plugged-in somewhere out of sight. I couldn’t believe it.  

“Oh yeah.” said Councillor Lady. “Iss bloody hard work, actually.

“Oh.” finished Peroxide Lady. ” I fort it was juss visitin people and getting fed nice dinners an stuff.”

“Nah. Thass Mayors that do that!! Mind you, ya do have to visit your ward all the time, but you don’t get fed much.”  

“What ward? In the hospital?”

I could contain myself no longer. I glanced at the Councillor Lady as she began to explain what a council ward was, and left quickly, the brim of my hat gripped in my hand and my lips pressed tightly together, for fear that a shriek of laughter should get out.

The word c ommon formed itself in my mind, and hung there for a moment as I escaped.

I told you I was a snob.

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