Monday, April 29, 2013

Post Office


I join a line. I’m a position. I’m near the back or I’m almost there. At one point I’m in the middle and I become absolutely nothing.

There’s a shout: “Turn”. We all jump 180 degrees to face in the opposite direction. Those that were at the front have to start all over again and those that are now at the front are experiencing something happening far too quickly.

“Counter number 5 please”

She asks me if she can help. It seems too little too late, but I don’t tell her that. In fact I fake enthusiasm while she hands me form after form after form.
I’ll come back later with them.

My dinner doesn't understand me


Many people have eaten pork. Some famous, some not so famous. It’s the non-famous pork eaters that are perhaps the most interesting. They don’t have the distractions of fame and fortune. Thus, eating pork becomes something akin to becoming married to a person or catching a train on your own for the first time.

Potatoes are always there of course. Lurking in the background with a flask of coffee and a copy of Metro. They’re content to play second fiddle to Mr Pork today, with the full knowledge that long after everyone has become tired with that attention seeking pig-death, they’ll be still being invited to the plate night after night to look after the children and produce “art” on an iPad.

To finish off there’s the green beans. Let’s all pretend we’re happy they’re there. Let’s in fact pay them extra attention: talk to them about their job. Discuss how motorways should be wider and longer and altogether more satisfying.
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