Where is boss?

Life here for a middle aged feminist can occasionally be distinctly trying.

At the weekend I sometimes run the seven kilometres to my favourite pool for a swim. I needed to drop something off, so went via work. Kamoga, and excellent, earnest graduate nurse asked to speak with me ‘on an important matter’.

He started with “Do you mind me asking, how old are you?” I told him how old I was. “Oh! It’s even worse than I thought. You are older than my mother. You should not run. It is very dangerous. Do you not fear dying?”

I explained that where I come from I am not considered old. In fact, I am only half way, and it’s quite OK for people of my age to exercise. He looked doubtful. “I agree, you look strong. But you have become very old. It is time now for you to rest.”

As I set off to continue my run he waved me off, looking very sad.

On arrival at the pool I was greeted by the pool attendant. “Good morning Mrs Mark. How are you? Where is boss?”