My Cupboard of Logic


Here’s the story of deckchairs, Britishness, and bunnies.

I’ve never been called a ‘sir’ before. I’ve been called a ‘twat’ on plenty of occasions, though. You see, I was walking down a path this week, and it was very narrow. I had to step to one side to let two young men through. “Thank you, sir,” said one. “Thanking you most kindly,” said the other. It doesn’t do much to temper the stereotypical view Americans have of Britain being this quaint Victorian wonderland. I mean, I’d have to agree with them if one of the young men was wearing a top hat, but he wasn’t. It was a trilby. He did doth it to me as he walked passed. It wasn’t that surreal though. I was having one of your typical ‘surreally’ sort of days. I mean, I’d just walked passed a gang of kids on those newfangled hoverboards. Although I don’t think a gang that can be defeated by a gentle breeze is particularly threatening…

Meeting nice people almost makes you wish you were less of a bastard, doesn’t it? That you could get up in the morning with a smile on your face. That you’d greet the bus driver with a friendly “Good morn, young squire, what a fine day our Lord has blessed us with.” That you’d go out into the world not looking like a bum. But, as I said, I’ve been called a twat on plenty of occasions, so I’m not like those things. Sure, I’ll say ‘hello’ to the bus driver on the morning and ‘thank you’ when I get off, but we all do that in Blighty. Even if the bus ride has been horrendous, we’re still too polite to tell the bus driver where he can shove his sodding bus. We try to be mean, we really do. ‘When I get off this bus, I’m going to give that old codger a piece of my mind!’ And then you get off the bus. “What a lovely journey! Thank you driver!”

We do that a lot as well. Call the bus driver ‘driver’ to his or her face. Mainly old people do this. They also comment a lot about the driver and his or her driving skills throughout the journey. “Oh, what a lovely young boy that driver is. And what a dandy driver he is, too.” And they tip the good ones. Tip. Does any other country tip bus drivers? Ah. What a country…

The same can’t be said of my appearance. I don’t care. I’ve given up caring. When I was younger, I was all, ‘Ah, well, my face aint no pretty circus show now, but boy oh boy, just wait until I’m all growed up – then – then, it will be all candy and roses, kittens and puppies, hoverboards and trilbies.’ Turns out, that never happened. It just got progressively worse until I arrived at the age of 26 with a face more bedimpled, rashy, spotty and scratched to kingdom come than ever before. With weird eyebrows. Covered in odd rashes. With a bizarre potbelly. With oddly proportioned features. And I’m not happy about my feet, either. You see, if I’d known things were only going to get worse, I would’ve tried a bit harder when I was younger. Hindsight is a wonderful thing, sure. What I should’ve said when I was younger was, ‘Shit! It’s only gonna get worse! Do something rather than hope it’ll get better, because in ten years, I will look like King Kong’s arse.’ So I just don’t try anymore. It’s lovely not caring. It saves so much time. I mean, sure, you look like a bum, but, well, there are worst things to look like. A deckchair, for example. That wouldn’t be great.

Not that it would be entirely easy for one to scrub up. You should see the state of the bathroom. You know how much I love my logic and order. It’s an absolute tip in there. I have that bathroom exactly the way I want it and then mum has a bath and suddenly, it’s like a chaos bomb has gone off in a tiny room of logic. I’m not a happy bunny. I’m rarely a happy bunny. I’m never happy, in fact. Actually, I don’t even think I’ve ever been a bunny. I wish I were. I hear they have much intercourse.

Ah well…

Take a look at the bathroom cupboard. Three shelves. On the top shelf, I have two tubs of cream and my foundation. Second shelf is a little crampacked. Mouthwash. Toothbrush. More tubs of cream. I’m the type of person who needs many creams. Some other gubbins are on that shelf, too. Third shelf is home to the toothpaste and yet another tub of cream. And amongst all this, there are the usual bathroom items. Your sprays and cleaning products. I wasn’t happy about this. That bathroom is very much my bathroom as it’s rarely used by others. After a lengthy discussion with mother and father, we reached a compromise where various things will go. And I know what you’re now thinking. A question, right? Yes. I am very much available.

Now, what happened this week? Well. I opened that cupboard door and my stuff was everywhere. Creams on the wrong shelves! My toothpaste had been moved. My foundation was on its side. I nearly fainted at the sight. Everything has its place. I spent a long time meticulously placing everything at certain distances, not only for my own convenience but also so it looked logical and ordered, otherwise, it would bug me endlessly. It would make me itchy with rage. I mean, what kind of brute would do this to my cupboard of logic? WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS TO MY CUPBOARD OF LOGIC! Think of the cupboard, damn it!

That took me a good half an hour to sort out. But then I saw the shampoo, conditioner and shower gel basket. Oh yes, we have a basket for all those things. They’re all in a nice and neat order. All placed just so. You won’t believe what mother had done. She’d taken my shampoo out of the basket along with my shower gel and put them next to the basket. Next to it! This is outrageous behaviour! Some people just don’t respect boundaries…

It gets worse. The reason my creams, shower gel and shampoo were all awry was that mother was using those products. They were my products! Here’s a top tip. If you ever find yourself living with me, don’t even think about using my stuff. It’s not selfish, it’s logical. You want to use my toothbrush? What a disgusting thought. Ditto for the toothpaste. It’s touched the toothbrush, god-dammit! I just… I just don’t – don’t understand… what’s happening here. Why are people touching my stuff and ruining my order!

You might think I’m exaggerating, readers, but I’m really not. I demand an enquiry and a conviction, please. I mean, mother has known me for 26 years. Why has she not learnt that if you mess with my logic, you have to fix your error before I realise, otherwise I will literally blow a fuse. And I only have a couple of those left, I thank you very much.

And believe me, it aint just mum. Oh, no. We have a tiny fridge. So we put cans of fizzy drinks in a cold space as there is no room in said tiny fridge. Now, I know when I want a can of Coke. I have it scheduled. One on Monday, one on Wednesday, one on Friday. Monday, because it’s Monday and I need caffeine. I don’t like coffee. Wednesday, because by that point in the working week, I’m pretty sleepy. Friday, because caffeine has been scientifically proven to make time go faster.


Now, I put a can of Coke in the fridge on Thursday night so it would be cold in the morning. I told everyone in the house it was mine. I woke up and it was gone. Turns out, dad had taken it. Oh, did he put another one in? Nope. I had extremely warm Coke on Friday. EXTREMELY WARM! As you can probably imagine readers, by this point in my week…


American historian, Henry Adams (1838-1918), once said: “Chaos was the law of nature; order was the dream of man.”

Peace Out :|:

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Please feel free check out the latest posts from my other blog:

To Contrive & Jive
New Posts Every Sunday, Tuesday and Thursday
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