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The Matriarch.

It was obvious from the beginning, exactly the type of person she was. She’s the matriarch. The one who has been around for so many years that they’ve turned to a blur. She’s previously been the head honcho, so feels a sense of entitlement that is so obviously present when she speaks to others. She is predictable in other ways, though. She wears the navy blue trousers of a 60-something year old – tight around her bottom, but for no good reason. Exercise is a thing of the past, so her behind itself is barely existent. The worst thing about the pants is the line of her knickers; plain to see as it cuts into what is left of her butt cheeks. The top half is usually clothed in a knitted cardigan of some reticent colour, nothing exciting, and most definitely nothing provocative. The neck remains concealed behind a scarf of the same genre – dull, monotonous, etc, etc.

Upon consideration of her mouth, thoughts opposing luscious transpire. It seems that reflection on this most important aspect could draw, at most, the notion of an older lady who considers anything and everything below her, and “young people” fundamentally rude. We all know who she is. The same woman who looks down her nose upon you in the bank line, the one gripping her bag and making judgements – her silence but a whisper; her verdict loud and clear.

Her attitude is not at all surprising, in fact she conforms perfectly to the stereotype assumed by her very nature. Plenty to comment on, her opinion is eternally valid. Especially to the younger ones. The newest one – but a girl!, obviously needs it. Being young, apparently, is in line with having little knowledge of the world. She is the matriarch – self-righteous, discerning in her years of experience. Little does she know how out of touch she truly is.

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