I feel disappointed in myself.  A bit ashamed, if I am being completely honest.  But, what would you do, given the same situation?

Picture the scene.  I am approaching my local post office.  It happens to be located at the back of a branch of W. H. Smith.  Several long aisles of stationery separate me from the post office counter, which I can see like a bright beacon ahead of me.  But, between me and my grail, there is a trial.  It takes physical form in the shape of an elderly, slow-moving, grey-haired woman of commodious proportions.  She is already halfway down the aisle ahead of me.  Instinctively, I know that she is bound for the post office.  Similarly, I know that she will have a long, complicated enquiry, which will tie up the post office assistant in hours of fruitless discussion: something about how much extra postage she requires to send a package––which she has omitted to bring with her––to her grandniece, who is currently living in Bratislava; that, or how she can top-up her gas account, in order to spread payments equally throughout the year.  I just have one simple letter to post.  One letter, one stamp.  The work of a few seconds.

I judge her speed against the distance still to be travelled.  In a straight foot-race, I estimate that I could easily overtake her.  But, it seems a bit… callous.  A more… surreptitious approach is called for.  Take one of the side aisles, so that I can still emerge at the post office counter in front of her, but without it appearing so obvious that I have deliberately pushed past her.

I go to the left.  Increase my speed.  I am already gaining ground.  I can glimpse my adversary, intermittently, across display stands of staplers and sticky tape.  My own aisle is predominantly filled with envelopes and wrapping paper.  An assistant is restocking a shelf.  It is a momentary hazard, quickly surmounted, but a delay, nonetheless.  I have lost valuable time.  It is going to be a close call.  I still have to cut back into the central aisle to complete my overtaking manoeuvre.  There are only seconds in it.  I emerge past greetings cards and roller pens.  I am slightly ahead in the race, but it is not a sufficiently great advantage that I can pretend to be completely ignorant of the approach of my bulky, shuffling rival.

In the end, there is nothing that I can do, but extend a gracious and submissive beckoning arm.  I acknowledge the winner with the simple congratulatory words:

“After you.”

© Simon Turner-Tree

Simon Turner-Tree is generous in defeat.

Some of Simon’s blogs have been collected in the book This Pedestrian Life.