Fighting The Aged

A man on the bus yesterday spent the entire journey hocking up nasty things from his throat (hhhhaaaaooooooggghhk!!), and then spitting into a hanky that he kept in his coat pocket. He'd carefully fold up another specimen, return the hanky to his pocket, only to repeat this ritual twenty seconds later.

The man was old, and I tried not to let it get to me. I tried to cut him some slack. I closed my eyes. I took some deep breaths. I tried to hum a cheerful ditty. I went to my own little special place. None of this worked.

It was the end of the day, and I wasn't in the mood for these shenanigans. I started giving some death stares, after each hhhaaaaaaoooogggghhhkk. Even this had no encouraging effect. He'd just stare back, keeping his beady little eyes on me while he put the hanky to his mouth yet again. He was pretty belligerent for an old man, it must be said.

As I sat there, I wondered what would happen if he started a fight with me. He was probably in his late 80's, and was kinda hunched over, sure, but he had a gleam in his eye that said "bring it". I imagined him taking a feeble swing as he slowly alighted at his stop.

I grew thoughtful and pensive. Could I really fight an old man? After much meditation and consideration, I decided this could only be judged on a case-by-case basis.

So, as the old fella's phlegmy hand touched the button for the bus to stop, I quietly rolled up my sleeves, and patiently waited, come what may..