I’m walking down the street, and a minivan pulls up beside me. A young mum pops her head out the driver’s window and, looking harassed, asks if I can tell her where Dufferin is. Sure, no problem. I give her directions that will take her down to Dufferin, and as she’s repeating them back to me we are suddenly interrupted by a condescending voice from above.
“The easiest way to get to Dufferin is just to go up to Dundas and across!”
Um, what the? Ruling out deities, I realize that this is a man on a balcony who is: a) listening to our conversation, and b) /correcting/ me.
Now I ain’t too proud to have my directions corrected. I often appreciate it if a second stranger standing nearby pipes in and takes over navigation so I can be on my merry. Often, because I get asked for directions several times a week. But to be sternly corrected, by someone who is listening to us from their balcony two houses over and three floors up? That’s just weird.
Fortunately, I had the presence of mind to reply “Not if she’s heading south”. Which is true. And which shut him up. Since, according to his directions, she would suddenly run out of Dufferin at Queen (and given where she was going, that would have been a significant problem). Stick that in your nosy exasperated pipe and smork it.