Here’s the story of annoyances, language and my wardrobe.
I hate my glasses, and hate is a very strong word I don’t use lightly. Although I do hate the way certain people can’t seem to pronounce ‘glacier’ correctly. Glay–sha. Simple. That’s why we say ‘glacial’. But some hickory-dickory thought it was a good idea to change the pronunciation. This I find rather annoying. Forcing how you speak onto people. It won’t do, it won’t. I’m not going to force you to say ‘glay-sha’, though. Although rumour has it that every time you mispronounce it, a puppy dies.
Language bothers me. Although not as much as my glasses.
I have to clean them incessantly. Several times a week, and I find this routine dull, monotonous and frustrating. Pronounce the ‘r’, please. It’s not silent (I have a thing about pronunciation; I thought I’d mention this as I wasn’t aware if you’ve noticed). I clean my glasses with toilet paper, which is torture for my lenses as toilet paper is made from sand. Which is also where we get glass from. Try thinking about that next time you ‘tremble the backgammon’.
This process creates an inordinate amount of wasted toilet paper. I don’t want to throw it out, it’s wasteful. So I do the logical thing and keep in a bag for future use as its intended use. This bag is in my wardrobe, where my t-shirts are hung colour-coordinated. Black, grey, blue. They’re in the order I wear them in, too. It makes my life easier. I don’t like having to make decisions. I feel my wardrobe procedure cancels out this threat. It’s sad that I really do that, isn’t it? It’s also sad that I only have three shirt colours. I did try red recently, but it made me look like a giant watermelon. That’s red… for some reason.
Sight was the least of my problems this week as the most pointless festival on Earth since the Delaware Brick Festival of 1956. It was Bonfire Night, or Guy Fawkes Day. Or, as I call it, Let’s Remember A Madman Day.
Well, that’s a tad unfair as we do set effigies of him on fire. But then again, we set off fireworks, and then clap and cheer them. We’re doing it to remember what an awful dude Fawkes was. But why do it with something fun? It’s like remembering an anniversary of a historical genocide by eating candyfloss and giving each other wonderful presents. Good heavens. It’s a real befuddlement.
I don’t like Bonfire Night. I don’t think Guy Fawkes is a person we should remember, nor do I believe fireworks should be legal for the general public here in England. It’s insane. They start setting them off a week before and keep it going for the week after. They’re also very loud. They scared my late goldfish, Maggie. Yobs throw them (fireworks, not goldfish) at buildings and at each other. I tells ya, Guy Fawkes’ menace lives on.
Of course, one could argue that I’m being a misery, and that the festival has moved on from some dude trying to destroy British democracy. It’s not the way I work in life. Sadly, for me, once a misery, always a misery. I don’t think I’ll ever enjoy Bonfire Night.
My parents arrived backed home this week on November 5, after being away on their holidays. During the day. During the night would be ill advised. It’s nice to have them back. I was starting to go crazy with no one to talk to and no one to see. Sometimes, when the loneliness got too much, I closed my eyes and thought of my family. Just doing the day-to-day routine. It gave me some sense of normality, a sense of normality that I now have back thanks to having a full house again. There’s life in these walls once more.
Although some still maintain that in those 16 days that my parents were away, I did, in actuality, go crazy. As if. I don’t believe that for one minute.
It’s not like I started colour-coordinating my wardrobe, is it?
American writer, poet and cartoonist, Theodor Seuss Geisel (1904-1991) once said: “Don’t cry because it’s over, smile because it happened”.
Peace Out :|:
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