Three run ins with old bats in the last 24 hours. The first was the one who exclaimed an outraged “excuse me!” when she randomly wandered in front of my bike on my ride home yesterday. The second was my nosy parker neighbour who refused to allow our neighbours on the other side to put their flax clippings in front of her house, even though the council were coming soon to clear it all away, so that I had to step in and let them use our frontage instead.
Flax: an unexpected source of neighbourly discord.
The last was the one who hissed “my dog will bite them!” as she yanked on her poor little fox terriers lead when my dogs and I walked past her on the beach this morning. Subsequent to this I have requested my husband to shoot me if I ever turn into an old bat. He looked a little crestfallen when I told him I’d never put it in writing (oops) and that I’d need two independent witnesses to corroborate the diagnosis. I think he muttered something about these caveats themselves being a sign off old battyness, but I may have misheard him. And actually, on further reflection, being a cranky eccentric, which I could imagine for my own future, possibly sails a little close to wind as far as being an old bat is concerned. I may have to rethink this whole “kill me for my own good” idea.