Tuesday, October 17, 2006

One Day In History

The One Day in History site is being a bit wanky with me over the length of my entry--4000 characters is all I get, and once I've taken out bothersome things like spaces after full stops and commas, it's what I've got. Actually, 3995 is what I've got. Arsing thing won't let me enter it. I'll try again later. But for now, here's my snapshot of life in 2006. Enjoy.

Why do shampoo manufacturers make bottles with screw caps? Hard enough to unscrew it with wet hands, but then after you pour the shampoo into one hand, you’ve only got one free to screw the lid back on. I don’t care how volumising and shinifying the stuff is: if it’s got a stupid lid, I ain’t buying it.

The Lottery. By now I should probably have realised for once and for all that I’m not going to win, and yet every time I see that magical word, ROLLOVER, I veer off into wild fantasies of a big house with characterful features, heating that makes no noise, mains electricity which doesn’t need rewiring, holidays wherever I want, with proper first class travel and flat beds on long-haul, a car that doesn’t make weird clunking noises when it moves—actually, a car of my own, full stop. See?It’s not like I’m asking for billions. A few million would be nice. Actually, a few thousand wouldn’t be turned away.

Also in my dream millionaire house (see, I want the millions really), I’d have someone paid just to sort out my recycling. I know the council isn’t doing it for the good of the planet, they’re doing it because the government fines them if they don’t. And because they’re only doing it for money, it’s all token gestures, and no one’s really thought about it in enough detail. I have absolutely no idea what kinds of plastics are recyclable, and the manufacturers sure aren’t telling me. At one end, I’m buying food wrapped in three different materials so as to avoid any kind of bacteria whatsoever—including the good kind—and at the other, I’m being told that All Packaging is Evil and if I don’t recycle it, no one will collect my rubbish any more and it’ll all pile up in festering heaps outside the house. Bunch of bullies.

It’s like the fat/thin pronouncements. I’m confused. Am I in danger of succumbing to the Obesity Epidemic—epidemic!—sweeping the nation, creeping in my door, probably borne by some poorly packaged foodstuff, or should I be worrying that my body image is distorted by too many skinny women on TV and in magazines? I have no idea if I’m too fat or too thin, and no one else seems to be able to tell me.

Speaking of heating—well, I mentioned it earlier—this is the time of year when I’m perpetually cold. Mostly because my dad, who has the constitution of an ox, stamps around wearing all his clothes at once, hacking at things in the garden and leaving all the doors open. While I, for some strange reason preferring to spend my leisure time sitting somewhere watching TV, reading the paper, or surfing the internet for porn—I mean, information and communication—sit there shivering, because I’m only wearing one or two layers of clothing, not seventeen, and it’s October, which is officially chilly. I don’t care if the sun is shining. I don’t care if there’s global warming heating us up like an oven. 17 degrees is not a comfortable temperature when you’re as lazy as I am.

Am I lazy, though? See above re: obesity. I think a lot, and I exercise my brain, so does that make me lazy? I’ve tried exercise. It either involves paying money to clubs, which I don’t have, or coordination, which I really don’t have, or team spirit, which I’m also lacking in, or sweat, which I don’t enjoy. Sitting quietly reading a book, however, requires none of these things. And it’s got to be better for the brain than whacking a ball with a stick.

While I’m at it, one more thing. In the future, it’s entirely possible no one will be able to read this because I have, to the best of my knowledge, spelled and punctuated it correctly, and also proofed it for errors. Unlike some people, including: Uttlesford council, who ‘don’t do’ apostrophes on street signs any more; The Times newspaper, which doesn’t seem to even spell-check its articles any more; professional signwriters, such as the one who corrected ‘Luxery En Suite Accommodation’ to ‘Luxury Ensuit Accommodation’; people who write menus, flyers, advertisements, websites, book reviews, and on occasion, books.

There’s my snapshot of Daily Life in the Early Twenty-First Century. My, don’t I moan a lot.

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