There's a special sort of "polite" that people reserve for the mentally and physically handicapped.

They pretend they don't exist.

That guy sitting in a wheelchair wearing a plastic helmet, drooling and banging a wooden spoon against his head? He's not really there. As a group of people may wander past, the conversation might falter for a moment - a barely perceptable pause - but no more recognition is given then that. A glance may be taken on the sly, but eye contact is studiously avoided. No outward acknowledgement that the situation even exists is given. No recognition. No mention. Ignore the very possibility of their existance -- it's the polite thing to do.

Apparently unicyclists are mentally handicapped.

I go wobbling past a group of people, in plain sight, right across their path. Arms flailing, fast then slow, every motion an exaggerated paradoy of desperately chasing balance and very much not catching it. It's fucking hilarious looking.

A slightly hushed silence results. Eyes fixed ahead, they pass by. Politely.

"Oh look, a chicken!" one exclaims, slightly too loudly, as they all fix their attention on the neighbor's pet chicken -- a familiar site in the neighborhood. They crowded 'round, firmly fixing their attention on it, grateful for the distraction. They even took pictures.

I swear to god, I think I'm going to buy a little helmet and a wooden spoon.