Ancora imparo

As an Australian woman, being subjected to machismo is my birth-right. I was driving out near Clonmacnoise the other day and blew a tire. I was driving in a rental car which, as I discovered too late and at my own expense, had no spare tire. I’d been there about two minutes when a bloke stopped, produced a spare, changed the tire and drove off again without even pausing to patronise me.

I felt deeply cheated.

I had to fight down the urge to yell "come back and rock on your heels, hands in pockets, and pontificate, you bastard!" At the very least, he could have made up some technical terms to explain the problem. I mean, all I want is a little respect, you know what I'm saying?

But nature loves balance, and the real result of this incident was that I had a little bit of being patronised owing to me. It arrived yesterday and in spectacular fashion. As an Australian woman, I thought I’d seen machismo in all its forms and manifestations. I thought that I’d been patronised on every topic, from football to the subject of my own doctoral thesis. But as Prof. Kent (and Michelangelo) used to say, ‘Ancora imparo’.

I was in a greengrocer’s on Nassau St. yesterday attempting to indulge my love of avocados, when I was awoken from my reverie by the fruiterer asking me if I wanted a ripe avocado. That's a pretty stupid question under the circumstances and my mother didn't bring me up to be polite. However, I must have picked up some manners somewhere because I indicated that I did, though in such a way as to signal that he should desist from his inquiries. It was not to be.
With the air of allowing a novice to see a miricle it has taken a master years of dedication to perfect he ushered me into the shop, felt around in a basket and triumphantly produced an avocado.

I thought it was an ok avocado.

Mainly it was ripe but there was one patch that, with a little prodding, was revealed to be too soft. So I declined it. A cloud of furious disbelief passed across his face. He tried to stare me down - what a waste of time; I've taught in rural Australian secondary schools, there is no point trying to intimidate me. Finally,

“You don’t believe me, do you?”

He stormed out. Storming out of your own shop means that you lose your home-ground advantage but more importantly, that you look silly. Or, in his case, sillier. After a few moments, he did the only thing he could; storm back in again.

“You really don’t believe me?”
“No”

A thought occurred to him and his face and voice softened.

“Do you understand the difference between different kinds of avocados?”

I half expected him to add ‘little girl.’ I said that I did. He spat and stormed out again. Some people never learn. He had to go through the ghastly business of storming back into his own shop again.

“I’ve been a greengrocer for twenty-five years, and you don’t believe me.”

He moved to storm off again, paused mid-disgusted head-shake, and turned back.

“I personally select the avocados that we use in the shop every morning. Personally. And you don’t believe me.”

I flirted briefly with the idea of assuring him of my belief in his ability to fill his underwear on the assumption that the avocado-fixation must be a displacement. I dismissed the idea because I’ve never been any good at lying (something else my mother never taught me to do.)

The conversation deteriorated.

In H.G. Well's Star Begotten, the central character discribes himself as a young child trying to be overcome with awe and wonder at the mystery of the world. I don't find it difficult.