Last Sunday I wrote a terrific blog.
I began by pointing out that increasingly I find a reluctance by other guys to answer my simplest questions with a ‘Yes’ or a ‘No’. Instead I have to suffer a lot of smart-ass remarks, the majority of which boil down to something in the ‘maybe’ or ‘perhaps’ or that they’re ‘considering other options’.
This wonderful blog then goes on to say that I think this resistance, or inability to provide a straight answer, is the result of the fact that we live in a world in which we find ourselves with too much choice, hence what perhaps would have been a simple decision in the past now places a greater demand on our thought process.
My blog then took a detour as I brought to my readers’ attention the fact that this inability to make a choice was not new to me. As a county bumpkin born here in the Yorkshire hills, I had a mother who had previously worked at the local woolen mill as a spinner.
One of the results of this was that she had a very working class approach to life which included a strong conviction that everyone should ‘know their place’. This was not limited to her ‘place’ but included my ‘place’, your ‘place’ and pretty much everyone else’s ‘place’.
Returning to my main theme I then pointed out that the changing ideas of ones social position in the sixties, the arrival of buying stuff with the help of credit via cheques and overdrafts and, later, today’s ‘plastic’ (all of which horrified my mother, of course), led to the rampant excess of ‘stuff’ which we all have today.
And thinking about this led me to my shirts.
I’d had difficulty finding one to wear on Sunday. None that I possessed pleased me. Now can you imagine a situation more pathetic? Years and years ago I remember distinctly that I only had two shirts, both white. If you’d’ve asked me which one I was wearing the answer was always the same; the clean one.
Nowadays, jaded and pampered, I counted them; sixty-two. Unfortunately all my ‘faves’ were away at the laundry, including my ‘bestest fave’ which doesn’t actually fit me – it’s too small, I can neither button it at the neck or the cuffs. I bought it from the Salvation Army sale for 50p.
And at that point I stopped writing. I knew that as soon as I presented it to my two writing colleagues the clever one would demand to know what the blog was ‘about’, and the pretty one would mutter something to the effect that my insanity was getting worse.
My response to these cruel jibes is to point out that I am not ‘Joe Average’ so if they want a ‘Joe Average’ blog that appeals to the
mass mentality then don’t come to me.
But thinking about it in the early hours I’ve so far avoided presenting it for use. Is it really a load of bollocks about my mother, my shirts, my choices and/or my state of mind, bearing in mind that I recently chose to buy a shirt that doesn’t (quite) fit despite the fact that I have sixty-one others?
Or am I, in truth, a typical ‘Joe Average’ who’s as confused by excessive choice as everyone else?