All the rage
Time I had a go ... it's all part of the self-imposed therapy I am undergoing. It's an anger management thing. I have to stop getting so het up about everything, my nearest and (sometimes) dearest keep telling me.
We've just returned from our excellent local coffee shop, The Store, shortly to feature in The Redwell Recorder, available as an open group to everyone out there who wastes their time on Facebook - now there's something to have a go at, the way the people behind said social network keep buggering about with it. It's one of the few things that legendary curmudgeon Nigel Hastilow and I agree about.
Stop it - digression in progress and I didn't even know it. So, The Store. An informal symposium developed over communal helpings of lemon drizzle and blueberry, carrot and triple deck passion fruit and walnut cakes (that's three servings in total), as it's almost bound to do, about flashpoints between people. The sort of silly final straws that lead to these much-reported road rage incidents.
It started, as things often do in the company of my dear wife, as a literary debate, this time about the merits (or otherwise) of On Chesil Beach.
I've always secretly thought that Ian McEwan cribbed the basic idea for the plot from the alleged revulsion of William Morris on his wedding night which brought him the revelation that ladies' naughty bits were not bare - and which inspired him, some say, to invent the Brillo pad in an arts and crafts workshop in Hampstead. I've also, naughtily, remembered an old-time songwriter in the context of Beach. Go here to share my childish humour.
Anyway, our store seminar (as Beach does) seemed to conclude that there are diff'rent strokes, if I may phrase it that way, for diff'rent folks.
Our elder daughter, a long-time US resident, currently staying with us, shares my almost apoplectic reaction to the way locals park in our town and the UK generally. Our other daughter, who lives just round the corner, takes the clearly sensible view that the authorities are not going to do anything about people leaving vehicles on double yellows, the butcher's delivery vans blocking the street just as kids and mums are going to school etc etc, so we ought not to get worked up about it. It is beyond our control.
Elder daughter gets cross, beyond all rationality, at many bottles of wine in our stores being sealed with screwtops instead of corks. It simply doesn't happen in California, she says. Now, I think she's completely barking up the wrong vine. The closure, to my mind and palate, has nothing to do with the quality of contents.
The Co-op, by the way, on all the wines they bring in under their own label, give detailed information about such stuff on their labels - exactly what is used to 'finish' the product and lots more that I don't understand, although there's a lot of unappetising references to fish bladders which rather puts me off.
I once worked with a letters editor who would not even read anything sent to him in green ink (you can tell this was a few years back). I spent one delightful December and January sitting next to a wonderful Yorkshire lass named Lesley who edited out every reference in reports to mince pies. They were eaten at every WI that and every other year, of course, but with my willing help, Lesley censored them all. Rather in the way Mao was written out of the history of China for a long time.
It couldn't happen now, of course, because sub-editors have joined halberds, ruffs, fossils and untrimmed female pubic hair as things of the past.
So, where's this all going? Well, I was just wondering what rattled YOUR cage? The wooden stirrers at Starbucks? Plastic knives? Smart cars? Football? I had a really good one yesterday from Orange when to recover the PIN number of a mobile phone I had to enter the PIN number we had lost.
Come on, a bottle of screwtop wine for the moan I like best. No references to Albert Bore, Digby Jones or the M6 allowed. Don't you just hate it when conditions like that are imposed on a competition?