A well dressed man, wearing a crisp white shirt with French cuffs and exquisite enamelled cufflinks, attends the deli counter of the supermarket and orders 140g of sliced ham. The deli assistant says “150 ok?” No. It must be 140. Would you like anything else, sir? I would like ten slices of tasty cheese. No. Make that nine slices. He was later seen bemoaning the availability of eggs only in increments of six.
A young lady, negotiating a cobbled street in ridiculously high heels and wearing a long, tight, straight skirt while carrying a ridiculously large bag on one arm and texting ferociously with her only free hand. Astonishingly, she didn’t fall or stumble.
While purchasing work boots for Chaos at the local Kmart, he chanced upon a flannel shirt. Made in Bangladesh. Shirt was required. And there in front of me. But encouraging the proliferation of ridiculously cheap clothing that falls apart in three washes sits poorly. Not the least because of the treatment of Bangladeshi workers, but also for the wastefulness of such throw away commodities. Paying $8 for a shirt that will need to be tossed in six months and replaced with another $8 shirt seems inappropriate, when one can buy a $20 shirt, that will last at least year and be able to be passed along to Mayhem when the time comes. But the shirt was there now and required now so it was purchased. Reluctantly.
The events of last week would have been less displeasing had Mr Rudd not chosen to wear a blue tie. Lemon juice into a paper cut. Equilibrium seems to have returned to the media with two middle-aged Anglo chaps battling it out again, rather than that upstart Ranga wench. Still, don’t read the comments.
Right next to the fattest man in the universe, who chose that one vacant chair in a room full of similarly vacant chairs.