Retiring

Family, close friends, work colleagues, neighbours. The top four categories of relationships.

I would like to add a further layer under the label of  'people who we do not actually know but we wave to regularly'.

There are some set-in-stone members of this club established from childhood and these include Policemen, bus drivers, Automobile Association mechanics, juggernaut drivers (although more of a gesticulation to honk the air horns than a definitive wave), irrationally the pilots and crew of aircraft at 30,000 plus feet altitude and train drivers just at the point of going under a pedestrian bridge.

As a child passenger in my Parent's VW's there was great glee in waving at other VW's on the road. In the 1960's and 1970's the marque was probably quite rare and, pre-single european economic market, regarded as a foreign luxury. A bit like the place now held by Marmite (First blog history mention) in the ethnic food section of Stateside hypermarkets.

Under the current market domination of the VW brand any attempt to emulate the childhood wave would resemble juvenile dementia or look like a panic stricken attempt to alert the authorities to abduction or mistreatment.

The attitude of motorists and their passengers has also changed dramatically and any hint of a hand signal, even an innocent wave, from a passing vehicle can be misconstrued as an invitation to road rage. I grew up, I now acknowledge in much more innocent times. A wave was then a wave and not a declaration of war.

I am on waving terms with a Lollipop Lady on my short drive to the office.

She has been a regular for many years at the school crossing in front of the main entrance to All Saints Juniors and I was on speaking terms when passing the time of day at dropping off and picking up times for my own children now some 15 years ago.

My youngest went to Secondary level some 6 years ago. Our waving is probably a continuation of our last conversation at that time, a semaphore based communication around the merits and rivalry of our respective footie teams, mine Hull City and hers the mighty Leeds United. Her team have yo-yo'd through peaks and troughs over the last 15 years from Champions League semi's to rapid insolvency and a series of relegations to the lower leagues. I have waved sympathetically and with due respect on the mornings after a particularly bad result for her team. Hull City's brief two seasons in the Premier League and a series of humiliations did lead me to consider taking a more roundabout route to the office on many monday mornings after the regular weekend defeats.

Now that our respective teams are in the same league and play each other quite regularly there is a definite edge and oneupmanship in our gestures. I am grateful that her duties involve holding onto a fluorescent lollipop stick in her right hand and stopping traffic with the raised palm of her left hand as if I time my drive at well below 20mph over the successive speed bumps outside the school I can avoid her celebratory wave when her team thump 3 or more goals past The Tigers.

The Lollipop wave takes a mere 3 seconds but is a nice constant in a changing world. The other crossing point at the eastern gate of the playground has had a massive turnover of quite grumpy and officious jobs-worths with no intention of fraternising with the enemy.

It is a bad thing to admit to but I would probably not recognise the Lollipop Lady out of context of the school gates or the jauntily worn peaked high viz cap, dazzlingly bright and reflective banded all weather knee length coat and her Doctor Martin bovver boots.

(The Lollipop Lady has now retired and I have yet to start up any form of relationship with her rather grumpy, dowdy and downright unfriendly successor)