In which I actually become an old man.

So today was full of many gripes from myself and Tanja. For once, though, these gripes were directed outward, causing not sadness, but a sort of happy-anger. Some examples, written in the first person to save the invective:

"Damnit, Oporto! I know it's fast food, but I'm a 29-year-old adult! Can't I order a chicken burger without without it being "feisty"? Or else having 8 words per burger title? Austrian royalty has fewer names than your "Feisty BBQ and Bacon Double Fillet Chicken Burger with Cheese"!"

"Woman getting off the train: it does not count as a knee-length skirt if all the skirt that is below, say, your labia is not opaque!"

"Other woman: if you choose to leave the house wearing a skintight leopard print minidress AND have a belly that sticks out like this _) then it would be a good idea not to scratch your belly in the fashion of a caveman. Sorry, caveperson."

"Look at the way that guy is stooping. His back is curved like an expensive lamp. Either he's slouched his whole life or he's some sort of were-heron."

"No, no, by all means, if I stop to let you pass, please, come to a complete stop in front of me and try to work out which way I'll go by staring down at my shoes, while making little jerks and starts, like an old car full of cheap gas left to idle."

"I've been burnt out from looking at comics today. Well, I only looked at one, but it was enough. What for Warren Ellis DO to make this stuff up? Here's a tip. If the last page is your hero exposed to the vacuum of space as he bleeds out his eyes, vomits out his organs, then has his head implode, lovingly drawn over 6 panels, your book is fucking weird and I don't want it."

"When did it become okay for buskers to bring a dolly full of amplifiers to play Pitt st Mall? It's open air! I want to be able to choose to listen to you, not to have your music combined with whatever tripe the cosmetics counters are blaring to imply it's Milan fashion week to become a great sonic mud so I CAN'T HEAR MYSELF THINK!"

So yes. Today I became an old man. The women were dressed badly and like slatterns, the food was too complicated, the music was too loud, people were too stupid, things were too expensive, and the whole cycle went on and on and on.

I blame this in part on the fact we've been watching Black Books again this week. I was reminded of the Bernard moment post-party:

"It was awful! The music was too loud, the food was cold, the drinks FEW, and the people MANY. It was everything I expected. And LESS."

However, this giddy energy spilled over into, well, giddiness at the bottle shop by our house. We'd grabbed a six-pack and waited what seemed to be ages for someone to come around from the bar and do us the favour of taking our money. I leaned way over to see if someone was coming, and was caught out as someone appeared. A little embarrassed, I babbled after being asked if I needed a bag .

"Yes, I'd like one, please. I've had a few bad experiences where the cardboard of the six-pack gets wet and disintegrates and then, well, tragedy occurs."

"Well, what you need to do is tuck it into your elbow, like holding a football." the woman replied.

"Or like a baby!" piped up Tanja.

"A baby you can open and consume when you get home!" I finished.

We left, in giggles. We further extrapolated on the subject:

T: "Beer is better than a baby too, because, you know, it's useful!"

L: "Well, you don't have to wait 18 years for a beer to be useful."

T: "Oh, come on. 14 should do it."

L: "Fine. Beer is better than a baby because it has a use before the age of 14 as something OTHER than spare parts."

At which point, as they say, the meeting broke up.

We're odd.