I am a firm believer (and by that I obviously mean that I’ve given this a whole two seconds of thought and reckon that it might be vaguely true but can’t be arsed to do any further investigation) that using fancy words is a thoroughly acceptable way of lessening the pain and discomfort of others when delivering unhappy news. Or it makes you a bit of a dick who enjoys demonstrating their superiority over those around them at every available opportunity? It’s definitely one of the two, the use of complicated words is strictly limited to these specific reasons.
But let me ask you this, fictional readers who rarely make any kind of response to anything I say, would you rather be told that you have simply horrible and entirely repellently bad breath or that you are exhibiting a particularly intense case of ozostomia? Yeah, I know, straightforward and to the point is very nearly always the better way of doing things. To hell with treading on someone else’s finer feelings. It’s far more important that you spare yourself even a single second of having to inhale that same person’s unfortunately odoured emissions.
Bad breath can be something of a delicate issue. It can cause all sorts of problems between two people within sniffing distance. The way I’m going on about it right now might make you think that I have a certain someone in mind, a person so dear to me that I can’t quite bring myself to admit to them face to face that I can’t bear the scent wafting out of their face hole and am left with this blog as my mode of delivery for this sad admission. Well I don’t, that would be terribly rude. Don’t you know that this thing is available for the whole world to see (not that it seems to care at all)? I’d never do such a thing, I’d totally have the guts to say it to their face…
It’s a new day, an exciting day crammed right up to the brim with probabilities that were complete impossibilities not so very long ago. Things will never be the same as they used to be and in a more meaningful manner than the normal state of affairs (in that we can’t go back to the past, we’re decomposing just by sitting around and atoms whizzing about as they so often do – I’m totally down with physics and that – make alterations to stuff all the time). I’ve finally caved to the pressures of modern life and now own a smartphone. I didn’t buy it but it’s mine (so very shiny), someone lovely gave it to me (I didn’t have to mug them or anything).
Of course it’s worth mentioning that it doesn’t work. Yet. I had to schlep all the way into Worcester (of all places) for someone to open the thing up and stick a tiny sim card into it. And I’ve signed up for a contract. It’s like I’ve finally joined the modern world several years late, I made the very nice sales girl (they’re probably called something a little more dynamic like merchandise optimisers or bamboozlers of the general public. Maybe I’m being unfair to the massive corporate machine that is now getting more off me per month than they used to) explain some almost certainly very simple concepts to me.
So while I wait for the pretty and clever new phone to be unlocked in order for me to be able to actually use it (I know, I have terribly high standards when it comes to my devices) I’m left with my two year old flip phone that is suddenly refusing to get any signal at the moment (they’ve done things with my account and I don’t understand life any more. I’m completely on track right? Right?). Wish me well with that whole communications thing. Please?
I’m still not entirely sure how I feel about being called madam. I haven’t really spent all that much time pondering the issue and I have no real idea what I’d prefer to be addressed as if I’m being completely honest. What are the alternatives in polite society? Sweetheart runs the risk all too often of becoming really rather patronising and Your Highness, Ruler of the Known and Eternal Empress of the Unknown Universe is just a tad too formal for everyday use (people have been calling me Rosalind quite a lot this week. As I’m sure I’ve said before, it’s handy to have a smart sounding version of my name to crack out on fancier occasions but I do find every now and again that I have to remind myself that it actually is my proper name).
So maybe an alternative manner of address isn’t the way forward. Maybe I should suck it up and accept that people are showing respect (probably because they want a tip. Who said that was cripplingly cynical? Get out. Right now, I refuse to have your negativity contaminating this beautiful pure white lily of a blog post. Alright, if you really want to you can stay but please stop speaking out of turn so often. I’ll have you know that you’re interrupting my highly delicate flow. That sounds pretty wrong. I’ll just move on) even if it makes me feel old.
At a couple of weeks shy of twenty two (I thought I’d put it out there so that you have time to buy me lots of presents. I like money. Just saying) I don’t think I should have to worry about my age for some time yet but I’ve always been relatively precocious (and a notorious liar). People should simply do as I do and avoid every method in speech of clarifying who it is you’re talking to. No misses, no sirs, not a name to be found. It keeps conversations interesting (I mentioned that I’m a terrible fibber right?).
Getting feedback on a creative endeavour is always fun. No wait, it’s the other thing. Horrifying. Nevertheless, as a writer and no matter how much any of us would like to deny it, we crave audience responses (provided that they’re overwhelmingly positive of course). And as I sit here, scribbling away with a large cup of tea in hand trying my very best not to represent some sort of tired stereotype, I have little choice (because there aren’t exactly many other thoughts rattling around inside my tiny mind) but to reflect on things that have been said to me.
It’s my dad you see. Believe it or not over the years I’ve come to know the man relatively well. I’m not pretending that I’ve made a concentrated study of him or anything, that might end up coming across as pretty creepy but one way and another you pick up one or two things. When pressed to disclose any posts of mine of late that he’d particularly enjoyed (I feel compelled to mention at this point that he really did bring the subject of the blog up. I don’t just go up to various members of my general acquaintance and demand to know how well they’ve been keeping up with my writerly exploits. It’s a spot check that no one’s going to come out of particularly well) I ought to have been able to predict the response. He liked the one about somewhere local and another that mentioned him.
Why do I struggle so to recommend things like television programmes to him? I’m fully aware of what he finds enjoyable. All I need to do is find a gritty show that makes an least passing reference to teaching and is set in the general midlands area or better yet, Wolverhampton specifically. That he also happens to be in. Get on it BBC, I’m counting on you (the boxset would do very nicely as a Christmas present – it’s a small box of crystallised fruit otherwise).
Were I in a particularly satirical mood (when am I not? I mean really, I’m terribly witty. You’ll all noticed it but are simply too shy and retiring to come out with the fact that I constantly outshine all those around me with my comedic brilliance. It’s alright though, we all know that you were thinking it very loudly indeed and that’s more than enough) I would say that we’re already living in a kakistocracy. You might think that’s terribly unfair of me to accuse the current government of being made up of the worst rulers possible. Then again, Nick Clegg. Need I say more? But maybe you’re a staunch Tory supporter and wish to stand by the glowing track record of Etonian prime ministers. You and I may well have issues if that is the case.
The unfortunate thing about the definition of kakistocracy that I’ve been able to unearth is that it’s disappointingly vague. The worst what precisely? The most ill suited to the role? The ones with the lowest amount of remotely relevant experience for the job? Those who are most resistant to the mantle of governorship? The most devious, unscrupulous bastards who should never be trusted with the merest scrap or shred of power in any shape or form? Essentially, is a kakistocracy a collective of super villains seizing the reins of authority with little to no prior warning? Because if it is that might not turn out to be the very worst thing ever. It could be the very thing to coax Batman out of the woodwork (I’m not exactly his biggest fan but there are many people out there who seem to go nuts over him).
One thing is for absolute certain, a kakistocracy would provide the British public with something that it truly needs: something legitimate to complain about. I’m considering running a campaign for the BNP (oh dear, that made me shudder. Even in jest that really isn’t a prospect worth contemplating).
It’s not been the best day. On the other hand, Jason Orange is leaving Take That so it can’t all be bad. Oh I’m not being entirely serious, I have no strong feelings when it comes to take that despite them being one of just two bands I’ve seen live (Mum really wanted to go. The other one was Bowling for Soup if you’re interested. It was an acoustic night and it was excellent. Of course that wasn’t the only live music I’ve seen – I happen to have attended many an open mic night. I’m not exactly sure why I’m being so defensive right now. I don’t think it has anything in particular to do with you, it’s not like I exactly care what you think of me or whatever. Deep breath. And move on).
This is the end of the road, once again. But not really because I imagine the remaining three millionaires will keep on making records and flogging them to their adoring public. Then again, how could anyone in their right mind want to leave behind such a glittering existence? Life as one of the lesser members (go on, name the remaining ones that aren’t Gary. You can’t do it can you? What do you mean you don’t care in the slightest? You know what? You’re all right you are) of a rapidly ageing boy band previously famous for shiny faces and tight bottoms or something (I was too young at the time to pay proper attention) must be nothing but roses and unending shininess.
Anyway, the lad’s made his decision and it’s his life after all. Why are you so bothered by this news? Name any of their more recent songs if you dare. Even if you are some sort of rabid fan it’s not really going to make all that much of a difference to your life now is it? And if it will then you might have to rethink one or two things. Just saying.
No, not Iceland. I meant iceland (which totally is a word according to a particularly obscure corner of the internet so that intensely irritating and completely out of place dotted red line can take an enthusiastic dive off a very tall cliff), which is apparently any land of perpetual ice. So it’s good to know that Iceland is appropriately named. After all, grave mistakes have been made before (here’s looking at you Greenland. And the thirty minutes or so I spent in Sandwich were noticeably devoid of bread encapsulated fillings of various kinds).
It would seem that Iceland is not the only land of ice to be found in this world (I’d have a crack at speculating about the next world or even the wider reaches of our own galaxy – Europa’s the one that’s an entire moon of ice, right? – but sadly there simply isn’t enough time. Because I said so. Anyway, I’ve got other stuff to be getting on with rather than going on and on about places abroad encrusted with water occupying its solid state. And even if I didn’t, which I totally do and I don’t know who’s saying otherwise, I douby that there’s anyone out there who would really be all that fussed with regards to reading my ice related musings. Yes that was quite a tangent).
Haven’t you ever heard of Antarctica? That magical place where the penguins roam (and take flight whenever they think we’re not looking, they’re running the long con those cunning birds)? Not that I’ve ever been or anything, but I’ve heard tell that it’s rather chilly down that way so it’s safe to say that it’s yet another iceland, blanketed in snow and wrapped up in glaciers and other various features of a sub-zero land mass. There are probably another couple of icelands up the other end of the globe around about the North Pole. Probably. Tell you what, you go and check for me.