So, there was this old lady on the bus giving this young bloke grief about his tattoos, yeah? Hes just sitting there in his white vest, arms covered in ink, totally zoned out with his headphones on, not even noticing her side-eyes. Every now and then, shed huff and turn to the window, muttering under her breath.
Then, out of nowhere, she snaps:
“Whats wrong with kids these days? You lot just scribble all sorts of nonsense on yourselveswhats next, summoning demons?”
The lad pops one earbud out, proper calm, and goes, “You alright, love?”
“You alright?” she mimics, all dramatic. “With that mess on your skin, youll never set foot in heaven! Its a sin, plain as day. Hows the earth even putting up with the likes of you?”
“Didnt mean any harm,” he says, still chilled. “My body, my choice, innit?”
Well, that just winds her up more.
“Disgraceful! In my day, youngsters knew their place!” she barks, proper loud now. “Who raised you to talk to your elders like that? No wonder the countrys gone to the dogslook at you, painted up like some Halloween mask! Bet your parents are ashamed. And good luck finding a decent wife with all that! Mark my words, Godll punish youyoull be begging on the streets till you repent!”
She crosses herself, shakes her head, and adds, “Hope your hands rot if you keep sticking needles in yourself! Every tattoos just another stain on your soul!”
The lad doesnt bite. Just sighs and looks out the window. Bus trundles on, but shes not done.
“Oh, youve gone and given me high blood pressure, you little toe-rag! Thank heavens I never raised a son like you. Youth of todayno respect!”
Thensuddenlyshe goes pale, clutches her chest.
“Oi I dont feel right cant breathe” she wheezes.
Everyone else? Dead silent. Some pretend theyre deaf, others stare at their shoes. Not a soul moves.
Except the tattooed lad. He whips off his headphones, clocks her properly, then saysdead quiet but firm”Gran Im a paramedic.”
The whole bus freezes. Time might as wellve stopped.
Next thing, hes at her side, no hesitation. Loosens her scarf, undoes her top button, helps her sit up. “Easy nowbreathe slow. Panicll make it worse,” he says, gentle as anything, not a trace of the “rude lout” shed been slagging off.
Checks her pulse, props her up proper. “Bad spasm, BPs all over,” he mutters, already dialling 999. Gives em the bus route, her state, all clinical-like.
“Hold tight, loveambulance is coming,” he tells her, steady. “Ive got you.”
She manages a weak look at himproper stunned, maybe even a bit sheepish. Wants to say something, but all she can do is nod.
