New life

Old world chivalry

Zenga Longmore

It was Wednesday afternoon when the realisation hit me. I should have known all along, really. I mean it's been staring me in the face for the past few months, but only on Wednesday did I realise that, when it comes to lending a helping hand, the young people of England are duds.

There I was, struggling with Omalara, a wonky pushchair and a broken sewing machine. I was waiting for the tube, making my way to the sewing machine

repair shop after a morning at :the clinic. Olumba had kindly walked me as far as the clinic, telling me in doleful tones to make sure that 1 tell the health visitor about Omalara's bumps. You see she has several small bumps on the top of her head which Olumba claims have been causing him no end of sleepless nights.

`They're perfectly natural,' said the no- nonsense health visitor, 'and if you had been reading all the baby books I had recommended, you'd know all about it, wouldn't you, mmmm?'

I didn't say anything at the time, having too much respect for the health visitor, but, let's face it, what's the use of all these baby books which clutter up our libraries? All the experts say different things, and none of them mention the important issues, such as how to breast feed with one hand and type with the other. Besides, not so long ago in 1750, it was the experts who advised mothers to bath their young in icy water every night, and it was this same breed of expert who, in ancient China, explained the necessity of binding young girls' feet. Experts, bah!

Anyway, to get back to the tube, the sewing machine, the wonky pushchair and Omalara. Baby and pushchair were tucked underneath my right arm, and the sewing machine was balanced precariously 'neath my left. Great beefy young men and women swanned past me, stopping every now and then to throw a sneering glance in my direction. Pharisees one and all, as the Archbishop said to the Pope.

'Excuse me, would you mind helping me?' I asked piteously every so often, only to be ignored.

Just then, a very old man, bent double, with a walking stick, made his way towards me.

'Just a minute, dear, I'll give you a hand.' And with that he feebly took the pushchair and carried it into the tube train. I could have thrown my arms around him if they weren't so full of babies and broken sewing machines. In the tube, everyone under 30 pretended they could neither see me, nor hear Omalara, who by this time had set up a pitiful wail.

'Would you like a seat?' came the quavering tones of an elderly lady. Two strapping boys were heard to mutter, 'If she's not fit to stand on the tube, then she shouldn't be travelling on it.'

I felt a pang of guilt at taking the old lady's seat, but I did so with alacrity. Arriving home, after finding out that all that was wrong with the sewing machine was a bent bobbin, I ordered a very strong coffee from Olumba.

'What happened? How did it go?' 'The bobbin's bent,' I replied.

'What! Oh poor Omalara! Is it serious?'

This well-meant comment caused my sour mood to melt, and although Olumba couldn't see the joke, I laughed until the tears ran down my cheeks. Dear Olumba. Who says young people are that bad?