Some interesting things that have happened to me recently.

In Which: Our Hero Looks At His Life, Gives Away His Body, Examines His History, Evaluates His Style, Notices The Well-Dressed Of Norwich And Subsequently Realises That Most Of The Above Comprise A Stark Catalogue Of Failures And Gross Errors Of Judgement.


All sounds quite heavy doesn't it. Don't worry though, I shall break this down for you into two manageable chunks. The first is entitled: What Happened At Boots.

What Happened At Boots.

As some of you may be aware I went to Sydney recently. If you weren't, then please get in touch and I will happily phone you up and brag about it in depth. I may even post on here about it in time, because believe me, it's a WEIRD old place, and certainly worthy of a lengthy and calculated diatribe.

Having lost my trusty digital camera in London I took the only option open to me, and borrowed my dear mother's trusty old Olympus Trip 300. Several things about this camera are excellent. It's very easy to take really good photos, with little adjustment of controls, the light metering/exposure is automatic, it brought delightfully memories of family holidays of yore, and of course the simple tactile pleasure of loading a film and winding through the first few dud shots, then winding the film up once it reaches the end. I am also very keen on the mystery of not knowing what your photos look like until it's far too late, the inability to over-think shots and spend your entire holiday staring at your camera screen taking ten shots of everything to make sure one definitely comes out right rather than just taking a photo and getting on with and enjoying it.

There are several things about this camera that are fucking terrible. It's taken such a battering on old family trips that the light metering is broken, as are all the controls, so I had no idea that at least 70% of all the photos that I carelessly took (instead of spending a while lining up and making sure the shot was reasonable) have turned out over-exposed and blurred anyway, or just bright orange from where I hadn't wound the film up properly or loaded the fucking thing in the right way. Not to mention the memories of being dragged endlessly around backstreets of some dull coastal Spanish village searching in vain for a restaurant on old argument filled family holidays.

Whilst I was in Boots waiting for my pictures (if you could even call them that) to be developed, I was offered the exclusive chance to be part of their Advantage Reward Points Special Discount Reward Card scheme. Thinking I might be getting many more awful photos developed in the future, I agreed to fill in the application form. Bizarrely, one of the questions was whether I would like to donate some of my organs. I kid you not. Of course, I didn't want to jeopardise my chances of obtaining the limitless bounty that comes with an Advantage Special Money Points Help Loyalty card so I agreed. I am hoping that if this decision ever comes to being taken up, they will realised that every one of my organs is useless on account of being shrivelled/fatcoated/black/pickled. My dreadful lifestyle may just save my life.


What Happened Outside Of Boots.

On the way home from Boots I walked past a man wearing two different shoes. I mean that in the sense not of finding it unusual that he did not have both feet crammed into one shoe, more in the sense that his left and right shoe were from different pairs, one being white, one being black. I felt unsure as to whether this was absolutely the thing to be seen in this season, or a fumbled mistake in the dim light of early morning.

I can hardly talk when it comes to peculiar fashion decisions. Several people in one day told me I should wear a bow-tie. Only on doing so the next day did I realise that they were probably joking. Never mind though; I shall persevere - I think the days of old fogeys wearing bow-ties are sufficiently resigned to the catacombs of history to forgive their inclusion in the modern gentleman's wardrobe, with only the slightest hint of irony. I felt liberated, and I shall do it again.

I was also informed by a colleague that he could see my trouser luggage last week. I had never noticed (given my complete lack of propensity to stare at my crotch during the daytime). I suppose in reality this is entirely unacceptable. I'm really not sure what to do about it though. Perhaps I could stop stuffing socks down my pants with a view to making myself look averagely endowed... But then what would people think? I would seem less of a man. I think this alternative is far worse.

Anyway, I thought for a moment this shoe chap may have been making some daring and exciting fashion statement, until I took in the rest of his garb, which was an ill-fitting tracksuit. On closer inspection the shoes were in fact trainers, most likely Puma, I don't know, I can't tell. He was obviously what we used to call back in the 90s a 'rude-boy'. Is this what kids wear on the streets these days? Another inexplicable chav style idiom along the lines of wearing a hood over a baseball cap?

I would have taken a photo for you to judge the merits of his dress choice, but of course my camera had no film in it.