Not the Ideal Birthday Present....

"I beg your pardon?”

Actually I didn’t. I heard him quite clearly, I was just struggling to come to terms with WHAT he had said.

Surely it must have been a joke? “Pensioner,” he repeated a little louder and, did I detect, somewhat more slowly? “I asked Oom* if Oom was a pensioner?” (*that’s ‘Uncle’ for those who don’t speak Afrikaans)


I smiled at the young man over his till. Obviously he was teasing. Perhaps the tediousness of working in such a huge hardware-cum-lifestyle chain-store was getting the better of him. In fact I was so expecting his face to collapse into furrows of laughter any second, that I gave a pre-emptive chuckle as I looked him in the eye.

“Heh, heh. That’s a funny thing to ask someone who….” My voice trailed off. His face was not changing. There were no laughter lines forming, only a small, somewhat sympathetic crease on his brow.

At loss for words I stared at him. He met my gaze steadily.
“Is Oom alright?” he asked. He was DEFINITELY talking MUCH more loudly now.

I quickly turned around, thinking he was perhaps talking to an elderly man, an ‘oom’, who was maybe standing behind me.

But other than two schoolgirls of about thirteen, there wasn’t anyone there.

I turned back. If this obviously short-sighted young till operator couldn’t see the error of his supposition, at least I might get other staff members to pick up on his obvious mistake, and perhaps send him off to get his eyes fixed.

“Why on earth would you ask if I am a pensioner?” I remarked, loudly. Perhaps a little too loudly. Especially considering that at that exact moment an embarrassing sliver of saliva caught in my throat at the totally wrong time – making my voice crack in a quiverish way…. like…. like an old person’s might.

I cleared my throat and started again. For effect I glanced round as I spoke. The other till points were quite busy for out-of-season mid month shopping day in George, but that didn’t stop all the other operators stopping what they were doing and looking round at me. In fact most of the customers did too.

“Ha ha!” I chortled for all to hear, “Can you believe it. He asked if I was a pensioner. Me? A pensioner?… ” I hoped that they didn’t find his mistake so hilarious that they all collapsed in belly-aching guffaws, that would be embarrassing…. But I wouldn’t have minded just a little laughter... Even the tiniest of chuckles… ANYTHING but those sympathetic stares.

The two girls behind me had moved to the back of the queue at the next till and were now looking my way and talking behind their hands. One was videoing me on her blackberry, probably uploading it to Leon Schuster’s Candid Camera website.

I turned back to my till operator, who reflected in a loud whisper.
“Oom doesn’t have to be embarrassed about when Oom was born, or how old Oom is. We get lots of pensioner customers what comes here.”

I couldn’t take it anymore. Surely by now he could see the error of his judgment?
“Forty eight!” I hissed at him, “Forty eight! And you are asking me…” I stopped short. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a door open. It was from one of those raised offices with the big windows built so as to allow the management to watch the shop floor.

A man briskly and efficiently trippedy-trapped down the stairs and strode across the floor towards us. At last! Someone superior was here to correct this nincompoop’s nonsensical nearsightedness.

I sympathetically hoped that the till operator wouldn’t get fired. A severe reprimanding would do nicely, but I would hate for him to lose his job. He looked very young, but what if he had a wife and children to support?

The manager smiled at me and turned quickly to the young man. “Is there perhaps a problem at all here?” he asked politely.

“Well not so much of a problem…” I interjected, “It’s just that there’s been a little confusion as to my age, but honestly I would hate….”
“Oom can’t remember if Oom’s a pensioner or not!” the young man whispered, a bit loudly for my liking, “Oom says he was born in ’48, but he’s not a hunnerd percent sure... I think.”

“No no no NO!” I exclaimed, hauling my wallet out, determined to show them my ID. “Of course I wasn’t born in ‘48, you’ve got it wrong. I was telling you my age. If you want the year it’s 66. The twentieth of September ‘66. That’s the date!”

The manager turned towards me, and I was delighted by the fact that he was smiling from ear to ear.
“20 September?” he whistled in an ‘I’m Impressed’ way. “66?” he grinned, “That puts a whole new angle on it sir!”

At last – someone with better sight than the average mole-rat and more intelligence than a broken side-plate. I flinched as he turned back to the till operator. Despite everything I wasn’t looking forward to the severe berating about to take place..
“Now look here young man,” the manager started, putting his hand on the boy’s shoulder. At least he was speaking in a cheerful tone. “It may be this gentlemen’s birthday this Saturday, but he’s not as old as you think he is....” He was even gracious enough to give the young fellow a friendly wink.

“Aaah, thank you,” I interjected.

“…. because,” the manager continued, “We all know that 66 is not old at all, ” he turned to me smiling in a strange, almost sympathetic way, “Is it sir? You’ve still got many years ahead, haven’t you?”

You could have knocked me over with a breath of DIY garlic. “NOT 66, YOU BLITHERING… BLITHERING….”

I couldn’t get my tongue around any words that would fit how I felt. I could feel my face reddening and that sliver of saliva, which had now turned into a flurry of fury-fueled spittle, flew out of my mouth onto the manager’s shoulder, which really didn’t help my cause at all.
“66 is when I was born! I said FORTY EIGHT! WHAT PART OF FORTY EIGHT DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND?”

“Do you see what I mean?” the till operator, hiss-whispered to the manager under his breath. He had his calculator out and was punching numbers and showing the screen to his superior.
“The oom is confused, because if oom was born in 48 then…” clickedy-click-click 2014 minus 1948, “....that makes oom 66. But he says he’s not!”

“Grnnbtchewthh !” I spat and muttered and spewed nothingness as I frantically pulled at my wallet to try and get my ID book out, “Will you two buffoons just look….”

But in the urgency of my attempts I was all thumbs. I dropped the whole wallet and my knee-jerk reaction of jerking my knee out to catch it on the way down only succeeded in knocking it under the counter.

I bent to pick it up… as did the hard-headed manager and the next thing I knew I was sitting on the floor. He was uninjured, except for a slight ruffling of his gelled hair.

Handing me my wallet he was still harping on about me being a pensioner to the till operator. Me? I’m forty eight!

“…..So you needn’t worry about asking for sir’s card, just give him the pensioner’s discount, and let him go home…”
“What.... What discount?” I asked, standing up, but instinctively remaining slightly stooped.
“Twenty percent,” the young till operator answered smilingly for his manager, “It’s Wednesday, and all pensioners get…. Where is Oom going?”

“Sorry,” I spluttered, in an impressively graveled croak, “But I forgot.... there’s a lot of stuff I forgot to buy….”

Muttering under my breath as I remembered my grandfather used to, and still slightly bent over, I shuffled back towards the DIY tools aisle.
“Must be my old age catching up with me…. Do me a favour young man and fetch me a trolley….. one of the bigger ones.... And could you perhaps show me where you store those home-brewing beer kits? I think I might like to try one of those out…. you know..... whilst I’m still alive….”

“Of course Oom,” the young man said sympathetically, carefully steadying my elbow and helping me along,
“Oom would be mad if Oom didn’t!”