Friday night I cried a little. Life had been tormenting me cruelly. It had been sitting up the back of the classroom firing off saliva-sodden wads of paper via a slingshot at the back of my head. It had been sticking 'Kick Me' signs on my back. It had put a frog in my school bag. It put its school bag on the remaining seat on the bus and said I couldn't sit there (I've drawn this metaphor from an incident that happened to me when I was thirteen, and if you're reading this - and you should know who you are - just remember you're a cunt and you now weigh close to 100 kilos, and I've stayed reasonably hot and smart). It took my lunch. It took my lunch money. It knocked on my front door and ran away. It put snails in my letter box. It put a dog turd in a paper bag, placed it on my front step, set fire to it, rang the doorbell-
But I didn't fall for it. I refused to stamp on a flaming turd-in-a-bag (doesn't that just sound like some kind of quick-to-prepare convenience food you'd buy in a supermarket?).
Today I tackled some housework, and as is my wont, pressed 'shuffle' on my iPod to prepare me for the tasks. Those of you who know me well will know how important music is to me. You will also know I have broad and eclectic musical taste.
The first track that came on was 'What Is Life?' by George Harrison. I interpret this as being from the point of view of a confused enamoured man. But for the past few days I have been wondering just that. What is life? Stacking the dishwasher, I had to ruefully chuckle as I wondered had the Gods of Music colluded with the Gods of the Universe.
I think they did. Why? Because as I sprayed over the kitchen benches with my environmentally friendly and efficient home-made cleaner (recipe can be provided upon request), the next track to play was 'Walls Come Tumbling Down' by Style Council. I have always liked the pep and passion in that song. Today I really listened:
'Are you gonna try to make this work
Or spend your days down in the dirt
You see things can change....'
Paul Weller, you're right: things can change. I 'don't have to take this crap'. I 'can actually try changing it'. Thank you, Paul Weller. Thank you, Style Council.
Feeling better than I have in days, I got out the vacuum cleaner, accompanied by Foo Fighters' 'Learn To Fly'. Ostensibly I was assembling the appliance, but in reality I was 'looking for something to help me burn out bright.'
Ah, the power of music. As much as of a drudge as housework is, today I felt better than I have in days. I pulled the freshly laundered clothing from the washing machine, and Tom Jones came on. I skipped that track. Tom Jones appears on my iPod courtesy of Mr Bingells. Thanks, dear.
I learned a new word today. Well, it's not a new word per se, but a very old one that has slipped away from everyday usage. I'm bringing it back. That word, my friends, is: ultracrepidarian. How fantastic is that word? It's both a noun and a verb, and it pertains to a person who criticises or gives judgement on a subject about which he or she has little or close to fuck-all authority. I deal with lots of people who display that trait. I used it today, in fact. Someone in a Twitter feed called me a 'twat'. I responded in a Wildean manner, telling him to insult me I would first have to value his opinion, which I happened to not do. He then called me pompous. Responding to this metaphorically thrown gauntlet, I used the word 'ultracrepidarian' in my reply. I wont regale you with the details of the convo, but will assure you it was well above the sandpit style of 'Ink Pink You Stink' type of verbal warfare. On my part, anyway.
But there's the important thing. I laughed. I had a really good laugh at this. Friday night I cried a little. Sunday afternoon I laughed. I laughed a lot. This is a good thing.
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