The perils of older Wimmin

It is well documented that Timber has a strange effect on certain Wimmin of middle age. The most damning body of evidence, which can be confirmed by an independent witness, occured in the autumn of 2001 while your heroic blogger was making tracks down eastern Europe with the legendary Chakkers of Royal Ascot. Upon entering a bank in central Bucharest, just down the road from my chum Nicolae's humble abode, I approached a cashier-wench and asked her, in fluent and impeccable Rumanian*, where the foreign exchange desk was. Now what you would expect is a wearisome hand waving you vaguely in the right direction accompanied by a fake smile (UK bank) or the Universal Grunt of Reason (French bank).

* English.

What I got was a cashier-wench who stood up, came out of her booth and into the corridor, and invited me to follow by holding out her hand as if I were to take it. This may only seem minor to you, reader, but it disconcerted both Chakkers and I, and has remained inexplicable to this day.

Secondly, on departing Bucharest, we climbed upon a train that would cross Bulgaria and carry us to the gateway of the East, Istanbul. Shortly after crossing into Bulgaria, the train took a turn that we weren't expecting, seeming to head for the Black Sea coast. I unfolded out trusty European Rail Map and asked the ticket inspector wench, in fluent and impeccable Bulgarian**, whether she could confirm the route that the train was taking, just to reassure us.

She looked at the map, and then looked at it a little longer, as if seeing what Europe looked like for the first time, which on reflection is entirely possible. She pondered a while, then took out an impressively red finger nail and traced some lines in apparent Brownian motion, before triumphantly ending up in Bosnia. What?, I said. Hmm, said the wench, and put the map down before opening her wallet and showing me her daughter.

** Swahili. Oh, ok, English.

Now both these Wimmin were of middle age, perhaps around 50. Which is about the same age as my old English teacher, who had a reputation as something of a dragon, but who could be trusted as totally unable to tell me off from the moment I made eye contact. And which, incidentally, is the age of one of my piano students, who is possibly the most horrifically nice person I have ever met. I'm all for people being nice to me, but it gets to a stage where you just feel persecuted with niceness. Today she made tea and cake for Mutti and I, took photos (I increasingly hate photos), and offered me the keys to her flat for what must be the ninety-fifth time this year.

I'm sure I cannot be the only person that this kind of thing happens to.