In the same way as people of my age write things down so that they will remember them, people of all ages now have a tool to write things down so that they can forget them. I refer, of course, to those brain purge events called Tweets. I use Twitter on my iPhone to follow a few people I like to read, but I could never post anything. I don’t really know why, just that, at my age, it would make me feel that I belonged in the same category as teachers who wear jeans or vicars with guitars who want you to call them Dave.
This leaves me with only this blog as outlet for all the accumulated stuff, what programmers call cruft, cluttering up my head. The Twilight Home for the Bewildered that is Hay-on-Wye is a rich source of such clutter, and as I am going to bed, I am going to unburden myself of some. Feel free to ignore it, this is my therapy not yours.
Why do people who presumably dress quite normally to go for a stroll at home, dress as alpine climbers to walk the pavements in rural areas?
I strongly dislike people who wear backpacks in shops.
I am not too keen on them out of shops either.
Why do people on pedestrian crossings, seeing you waiting in your car, lean forward and go into a sort of trotting movement without actually speeding up?
Why do people using mobile phones go into a sort of trance and walk straight into roads without looking ? (Two last week)
How do people who pull out of junctions without looking (“But Officer, I always pull out of here at 10:30”) get to live to such a ripe old age?
Why is it wrong for someone who runs a global business employing many thousands of people to be paid as much as a badly behaved academic under-achiever who kicks an inflated pig’s bladder around for an hour and a half, once a week, for half the year?
Why do grown men buy replica sporting kit ? The only people entitled to wear it get it for free.
Better now, g’night.