Aggressiveness Doesn’t Pay

Well, unless you’re a boxer, that is.  Then it pays very handsomely indeed.

But let’s assume you’re not a boxer (or any other sports person who needs to be aggressive in their approach).

In most circumstances aggressiveness doesn’t pay, not when we’re dealing with people.

As usual, I seem to be starting this story in the middle…

It was New Year’s Day and I was eating my breakfast.  Being Scottish, this was about 2.30 in the afternoon and I was a touch… delicate.

Now, I live in a first floor apartment and my kitchen table is in front of patio doors in, funnily enough, the kitchen.  I have a view of the central park area, the road that runs around it and anyone moving about.

As I was generally watching the world go by I saw the resident mafia from the development where I live heading towards me.

You know the sort, officious, bumptious, retired with nothing better to do and on the Resident’s Committee.  As far as I know there’s no-one else on it.  I’d seen him before stopping the children playing on the grass and he once pursued my husband when he was walking our dog to make sure the woofer didn’t wee anywhere until we left the vicinity.

I tried to ignore him but he walked to within twenty feet of where I was sitting and started up into my kitchen.  He stared so hard I was about to offer him a piece of toast.  Instead, though, I looked enquiringly at him.

He stabbed his finger at me and then at my car.  I was mystified.  My car was parked on the road, along with a dozen others, perfectly legally as far as I could tell.  I looked back and nodded weakly to indicate yes, it was my car.

His finger stabbed out again, pointing to my car and clearly indicating he wanted me to move it.

Why?  I mouthed.

Mafia man (or, more accurately, his aggressive finger) clearly indicated my car was parked in front of his house and he wanted it moved.

Now, my car was on the road where many cars were parked; indeed there were cars in front of my apartment and everyone else’s for that matter, so I shrugged my shoulders and went back to my toast.  Mafia man became a little more aggressive in his pointing until I started pointing at my toast and so we descended into farce.

I didn’t move my car and I haven’t seen the old guy since.  But I still wonder why he wanted me to move my car.  The thing is, if he’d knocked on my door and said something like ‘I’m having a new sofa delivered and I’d really appreciate it if you’d move your car so the lorry can get close’ I’d have been out to move it in a shot.

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