Fishheads

I was driving to work this morning and there was this guy came fishtailing out of a sideroad onto the highway. It was this old Ford, one of the old square ones. He (and I assume it was a ‘he’, but it may have been a ‘she’) put too much oomph into powering through the slight change of direction from the sideroad onto the highway, and the Falcon’s tail started sliding out. The driver seemed to enjoy this effect, judging by how he continued it for sometime, all the while getting larger and larger in my rear vision mirror.

I was so busy monitoring his sideways hijinks and contemplating their consequences for me, that I was distracted from the traffik in front of my own car. When I’d focused my tunnelvision back onto the car next in line from me to the City, I saw that it was very much stationary. I clutched and hit the brakes.

The thump that came alarmingly from behind was only my Melways hitting the back floor, having slid off the rear seat. I’d stopped in plenty of time, and without major incident, but my car did nosedive somewhat in the process.

I looked at the stationary tradesman’s vehicle before me, the one that I’d avoided missing. Sticking out the back of it like a lance, wrapped in a warning pink t-shirt, was a pair of steel beams.

Had I not stopped, the steel beams would have gone right through my face.

The dancing Falcon continued on up the road, as if nothing had happened.

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Clogging, sabotage, and other shoe-related issues

After having served diligently for a decade or so, my work shoes finally wore out. One of the soles developed a crack, and the first time it rained (we are in the worst drought in a Millennium), my left shoe filled with water.

This meant I had to buy a new pair of shoes. I hate buying shoes as much as I hate buying birthday cards. Which is a lot.

So I went back to the shop I’d bought the first pair from back last century, and I bought a new pair of shoes, as similar to the first as humanly possible. But the shoe-assistant convinced me to go with a size 8, when I’m actually an eight-and-a-half.

I persisted for a week, but then I gave in, and went back to exchange the shoes for a more comfortable design, and a larger size.

Incredibly, there was no problem with returning the shoes. The shoe-assistant even asked me if I wanted another pair to replace them, or if I was happy to just walk out.

It was a return policy, you see, not an exchange policy! How unusual.

I went extra-safe with the width on these shoes, the new new ones. I even tried on a size nine, but that was ridiculous. Size eight-and-a half was fine.

The new shoes are comfortable and all, but they are 120mm wide at the ball. The gap between the clutch pedal and the transmission tunnel in my car is 118mm. So now I have to take my left shoe off to drive.

***

The other night I was watching ‘So You Think You Can Dance’, and a happy-looking girl came on and clogged for the judges. The judges seemed to have no idea what clogging was, and didn’t seem to like what they knew. They belittled the girl, and took away her happiness. She tried to explain that clogging is really big where she comes from, and fun, and all.

But they weren’t interested in any of that. They had belittling to do. They had to weed enthusiastic dancers in genres other than ones they approved of from the gene pool.

The girl appeared to be heartbroken as a result of their throw-away one-liners about how twee clogging was, and how she should give up her dream that dancing should be fun.

I note at this point that the word ‘sabotage’ comes from the French word for shoe. During the Industrial Revolution, those who didn’t want the machines to take over the world made it their mission to throw wooden clogs into the fine mechanical gears and workings, the object being to ‘clog’ up the machine.

The machines took over regardless. It would seem, however, that those who dance for the sheer fun of it will not be able to take over the world. Dancing is a serious business, and if you can’t dance (in an approved way), then you shouldn’t.

That’s the message, IMHO, of ‘So You Think You Can Dance’.

It’s an evil show, and I like the fact that half the time I’m not sure whether the dancers are any good or not.

I’d like to see a competition along the lines of ‘So You Think You Can Lay Bricks’, in which young hopefuls do their level best to lay bricks. Imagine the hilarious possibilities.

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