Where is my “Sir”?

I am a Sir.

Call me Sir.

Shut up. Shut up I’m talking.

I am X years old. I am Y times your age- we are in no way age mates.

Do not tell me “Good Morning”, tell me “Good Morning Sir”- Ā that Sir is imperative. Non-negotiable.

Shut up. Shut up, I’m talking. Do not attempt to interrupt me. No “buts”.

I am a Sir. Call me Sir.

Silly boy. Born last night, yet has the guts to pay me a greeting without appending my Sir.

Nonsense.

Or what am I supposed to do to make my Sir-status obvious to you?

Scrawl my age on my forehead?

Tattoo my year of birth across my chest?

Re-depict my age as a composite of prime numbers and then sing them out to you?

Nonsense. Rubbish.

I have my own Sirs too. The people I cannot dare to address without their own “Sir”.

You, are my boy. My own boy. The prestige I afford my own taskmasters, you afford me too.

Yes. Yes yes yes yes yes, that is exactly how it is going to be.

Now, where is my “Sir”?


PS: I feel slightly rusty.