More family than I thought

I’d love for ‘family’, in my context, to mean a little more mafia it currently does.

My family are simply my family, of the traditional context – father, mother and a brother.

But I wish it meant people were worked in the concrete shoe shop.

Perhaps it’s in the enunciation: “The Fairmily”. Maybe then people would give up their train seats for me, or when I enter their homes unexpectedly (I’m joking, don’t enter stranger’s homes).

And I’d have a plethora of brothers instead of the embarrassingly singular sibling I’m stuck with, and their names would be ‘Paulie’, and ‘Joey’, ‘Tommy’ and ‘Mikey’. My brother’s name is Ben.

And we’d have nicknames. Like ‘Sam the Nose’ – which would be appropriate because of what I’ve got.

My brother would likely be ‘Big Ben’, because he is enormous. But that wouldn’t make me ‘Little Sammy’, because I’m only really slightly less obese.


Family. I’ve come to realise I’ve more of them than I previously realised.

I have long disliked large crowds, which I presumed was due to coming from a small family. Both my parents were a single-child, whilst both my brother and I are both single-children too according to how we feel about one another.

But at a family dinner yesterday, my father invited his only living blood relatives (aside from me and my brother, which is weird as one tends to picture a ‘closet living blood relative’ as being an appropriately distant and appropriately many-times-removed grandmother of an ancient generation, instead of it being me).

And there was a pile of extra family, all ages, many types of clothes, basically all one colour, and they all had no idea who each other was, least of all me.

“Here’s Sam, the less obese one I was telling you about” says my father, “and his equally less obese wife and two kids – both of whom are also single-children”.

And everyone looks at me and my family, each of them agreeing vaguely and approving the description. There’s some handshaking and pecks on cheeks, and then I left the room because I’ve got a problem with large crowds.

I didn’t feel any kind of interest towards these people and so didn’t engage (nobody’s loss), but my father was keen to get to know them, because he really didn’t know them, nor they him.

As I played with my kids, I saw him leading them in comparing old photos, the black and white ones, followed by the later coloured photos that have now gone a 1970’s shade of nicotine-brown.

And then, my father told his stories to the new lump of distant family we’d discovered, detailing his upbringing (some family remembered his childhood address – which was nice), his family and career.

I was listening and realised something I’d suspected before.

My dad is really, really super-cool.

He’s a cockney-rebel, a cage-shaker, and the next new big thing in the classic style, a rebel with many causes (in fact, he’s a Rotarian), but he’s always been willing to do what he can do get jobs done and to achieve doing so with flair. He’s my hero. And looking through the photos, the variety of hairstyles and scenarios in which he had those hairstyles, were astonishing.

Meanwhile, I have a blog, and literally piles and piles of distant family that I’m about as related to as everyone else is related to the Cheddar Man.

I’d best look to emulate him. My dad I mean, but also the Cheddar Man a bit too.

They’re both fairmily after all.


“If there are any spirits listening…fuck off.”

Fucking spirits, get a grip.

You really have to be a bit of a loser to refuse to die and pass away.

Away‘ being the key word – bugger off please.

I don’t mean this in terms of refusing the next great adventure (most likely returning to dirt), but more so: read the room.

You died, and now frankly you’re bringing down house prices in the vicinity because you keep nudging chairs slightly and turning the lights off, both of which are super-duper inconvenient – both when wanting to sit on your chair and read a book, and when you’re trying to sell your home to someone timid.

I could sell ghost tours of my home, I suppose, but no one wants a spooky walk around a semi-detached on a suburban street in which the neighbours are clearly watching ITV programming, the least spooky of all programming (too much smiling and purple).

Woe betide you if you are one of those spirits that keeps blowing candles out. I’m middle class – I need many, many candles – and frankly each puff you conjure to blow mine out only makes me more tempted to burn the house to the ground in fury.

Maybe that’s you trying to force me to the point of fury via your demonic methods, meaning ultimately that you’re winning, but I prefer to see it post-event. Once I’ve burned down my own house, due to you continually blowing my candles out, I like the idea of you trying to haunt all that remains – my partially charred lawn.

A haunted lawn? Get a life mate.

You’re a ghost, you’re out of vogue, and to be brutally honest this is the era of the zombie apocalypse – something we’re all looking forward to.

I can picture all the people at approximately my age with the same generational intake of horror media, all making our way to the local DIY store and heading to everyone’s favourite bit – the zombie apocalypse aisle, filled with axes and chainsaws and sledgehammers and other heavy sharp things you don’t want to approach your head at speed.

With trolleys and car boots filled, they eagerly head home and start hammering down (with brand new hammer, nails, and wooden boards) the hatches, loading up their bows and slingshots with ammo (because this isn’t the US so we’d actually be doomed), and watching the sun set glinting off their years of tinned food through the window to their bunker.

And then as the apocalypse is about to begin, with the hoards beginning to roam down the street, either casually or sprinting (it doesn’t matter in this example), the final night is about to truly kickoff into a happy and very gory ever after, and then from the attic they hear…..”wwwwwwhhhhhhhoooooooooooooooooo”.

They can’t believe it.

It can’t be…

Ric Flair, is in the attic.

Not really, its just a ghost, but everyone is now really pissed off because whereas zombies offer us the chance to live a new life as a super cool zombie hunter in the post apocalypse in which we’re, for some vague reason, totally fine without having the internet any more, all that’s happening instead is a ghost is reducing the value of our home property.

“But we have a Ric Flair in the attic!!”, you might suggest to realtors.

But they don’t want to know.

Because no one cares about ghosts.

Which makes sense, since ghost are the most attention-seeking of Halloween baddies. They’re the supernatural equivalent of a still-living person standing in a room with a white sheet over their head and presuming everyone thinks they look impressive.

If there was a ghost here right now, I’d play Van Morrison’s ‘Brown Eyed Girl‘, the greatest song to kill a spooky mood and therefore hopefully ruin the ghost’s evening, and vastly improve my own.

That’s enough writing for today.

Next time, maybe, we’ll discuss werewolves and their cuddliness.

Until then, in case there are any spirits listening…fuck off.


Top Ten Fun Things To Do This Summer’s Heatwave

  1. We’re all going to die.
  2. We’re all going to die.
  3. We’re all going to die.
  4. We’re all going to fucking die.
  5. We’re all going to die.
  6. We’re all going to die.
  7. We’re all going to die.
  8. We’re all going to die.
  9. We’re all going to die.
  10. Treat yourself and take a trip down to the ol’ swimming hole (if the ol’ swimming hole is still here and you haven’t died yet).

Picking a fight with the wrong wall.

The ‘right wall’ was one I knew in Australia, a long time ago.

It would have been perfect to lose a fight against, with spikes along the top and obnoxious graffiti of classics such as “fuck” and “fuck off”.


If I were to fight a man, a real human with real knuckles, and he had “fuck” and “fuck off” scrawled on his forehead and eyelids, I’d happily lose a fight to that guy.

However, a wall that says such things, in luminous red, whilst wearing spikes atop it and the kind of rough, granite-like texture which (again similar to the human version) suggests: “don’t lick me. I said DON’T lick me.”

Best of all though, it was wobbly.

It was like someone built a few feet of wall, as a sample for an exhibition; a piece of wall to hand out to curious passers by.

And it had been left, leaning up against another wall for structural, and perhaps emotional, support.

I could have given that big bad Disney-villain of a wall a good smack in wherever its ‘chops’ might be considered to be in the moment, and then, clutching the remnants of my fist, looked up as it wobbled a little more but far more unendearingly, towards me, and finally upon me.

Obviously, I was (and generally am) in no mood to win, as losing is far more romantic, especially if it kills you.

But rather than seizing the moment, and I instead ripped my hand open putting it through a drywall several years later, because of some silly business with which I shan’t bore you (but if you’re really interested in being bored – it was something to do with mathematics).

It didn’t even tell me to “fuck off”, let alone “fuck”. It was pallid-looking, wholly passive, forgettable and yet I wish I really could forget it as I regret the exchange entirely.

It was just the most easily-accessible, convenient wall within striking distance.

Ho hum, never mind. I’ve a lovely little scar on my knuckle now, which really impresses people when they take very, very close examination of that particular knuckle, usually at my insistent invitation.

And I don’t have hugely high standards, as though I’d settle for nothing less that that beast they have only in bits now across Berlin, or that mean old King Kong of a wall in Jerusalem, but it’s good to feel good about the walls you pick a fight with.

Still, I’ll never forget that true blue beauty of solitary architecture, staring at me from across the street in Bondi, winking at me (not really – that’s a lie) and saying sweet somethings of “fuck” and “fuck off”, a classy mess of spikes casually laid on top with an ‘I just woke up like this’ attitude.

One can get by doing very little, so long as the ‘very little’ is done, or attempted, with attitude.

Exhibit A, see above.


Perpetually IN – a solid handshake and lava

It’s been a while since I noticed that some things are invariable and persistently popular.

It’s easy to forget, because it’s all so everyday, but when it comes up in the everyday, it is lovely to remember that it’s happening right now.

Remembering the present?

Makes sense to me, but then again – maybe I ‘get it‘ because I can’t be bothered to dwell on it any more.

And frankly, I’ve other things to be confused about.

Not this though. I do feel like I’ve understood this following topic brilliantly.

Good, solid handshakes.

You’ve got to have good grip strength to have a reliable handshake.

Ballerinas have excellent handshakes, so I’ve come to understand.

It’s probably all the tiptoeing.

Tiptoeing, which is also perpetually IN by the way, take a lot of grip strength.

Try it. Try to tiptoe without holding your hands in a slight pantomime-creep manner, pinching nothing but your lack of dignity between your index finger and thumb.

Impossible. In fact, it is also impossible to tiptoe without thumbs.

Toes aren’t essential for it, however.

And that pains me to say, as I’ve a fondness for toes – they’re harmless and dopey. And I’d hate to take tiptoeing away from anyone, least of all an innocent toe. A promising young toe. A toe with gumption.

Toes are admirable as they’re the silliest body part after genitals, and therefore the second best.

And whilst we know toes aren’t essential to tiptoeing, we should appreciate that a penis or your favourite labia, ‘tween index finger and thumb, is indeed entirely vital to the procedure.

That being said, we should also remember that having a penis can debilitate your grip strength due to adolescence.

Thus, things have gone somewhat full circle with this initial premise, but with a lot of sudden corners.

I guess that’s my writing style, which is a ‘sudden corner’ in and of itself, as I had no clue I had a style.

I haven’t even started talking about handshakes properly yet, let alone lava.

“Let alone lava” – lovely.

A nice phrase, a little like the words ‘tiptoeing’ or ‘after genitals’.

I suppose the handshake could be improved via other means, such as living a long gritty life in a grey gritty part of a flat gritty country, raised by simple gritty parents.

But if you don’t have all that going for you, and you really want to improve your handshake, you’re going to have to start tiptoeing.

And I can understand why you’d want to improve your handshake – because a good sturdy (gritty even) handshake never wanes in popularity.

Even if they don’t shake your hand, folk like to know you’ve got a good handshake. It’s like hearing positive credentials of other people.

“Have you heard about Sam’s quality handshake?”

“Yes, I have, stop going on about it, it’s not news.”

But maybe even more perpetually IN is the dislike of a weak handshake.

I shook a chap’s hand once, though it wasn’t so much a ‘handshake‘ as he put so little effort in I may as well have just grabbed his wrist and waggled the hand so the fingers flapped about in the breeze I was causing.

The shake was so bad, I think other people could overhear the flapping and started to stare.

Fair enough though, as I was starting to stare too.

His hand was so limp, it felt wet.

Flaccid to the point of liquid – that’s a negative and no mistake, especially in the realm of body part functions.

‘Body part functions’ – sounds like there are galas and dinner parties taking place across your body. I might suggest to my wife, “say, darling, I’m having a bit of a shindig in my groin area – fancy bringing a bottle”, and she’d say “no” because even in absolute fiction I have the capacity to revolt my most beloved with utter nonsense.

However, a banquet in the hand – that’d be superb for your grip strength, and if there was music and dancing afterwards, you could even squeeze in some tiptoeing.

So, yes a mighty handshake is what the people want, and they never shan’t.

A bit like volcanoes.

Great for the garden is a volcano, and really super duper if you’re in need of some very new rocks.

That’s a thought, as how often do you encounter a rock that is a matter of a few minutes old, depending on how long it took to cool?

That’d be excellent for the Pet Rock industry.

Visit Hawaii, wait for the regular traffic of lava to make it’s way down your street, don’t touch it (just don’t touch it) and once it has stopped and begun to cool, you can actually witness your Pet Rock being born.

By golly that’d be a tradition I’d heartily invest in. Perpetually, in fact.

All the best,


The 1970s – it was all the rage at the time.

You know what I mean, even if I’m not too sure of it.

That’s because you’re instinctual, and this is a compliment.

This isn’t though, fuckface.

In the 1970s, ‘Fuckface’ was just coming to fruition. A little more socially acceptable, to fuck a face, have a faced well-fucked, and a great term to call people. People like you, fuckface.

And if you didn’t know, you probably should, there was many a fuckface in the 1970s. That was their decade.

In the 1960s, Small Faces, the 1980s, the Talking Heads, the 1990s, The Spice Girls – the latter of which was a true revolution of retro-reversion for feminism, in which people from Princes Diana to the Pope (same thing at the time) realised that women could be fuckfaces too.

I like a motif to a blog, but its possible I’ve extended ‘fuckface’ as far as ‘fuckface’ can take me.

So from here, its a matter of talking about what I thought I was going to write about before ‘fuckface’ inspired me.

It’s still about the 1970s (which, as I say – were extremely popular at the time), and it’s still about faces.

Essentially, I want to talk about a 50 year-old photo I saw in my hometown newspaper, which celebrated the win of a pub darts team in some kind of regional league.

10 or so chaps, with the variety of haircuts, facial hairs and fuckfaces that you’d see commonly back then.

And what a time to look suspicious! ‘Suspicious’ was in vogue.

Not to mention that the fuckier your face was, the more iconic of the time you were.

This blog didn’t proceed last night, as my wife wanted to watch Mission Impossible II on my laptop. I’m not going to enter a fuckface argument with my wife and new millennium Tom Cruise, and nor would you, so I fled.

Bravely checking my wife is now asleep, and considering I’m now well rested (being 12 hours later), I shall continue, though I do miss Cruise.

Accordingly, I’m playing some ABC News footage from the Fall of Saigon. 1975, the heartland of the fuckface decade.

Would I, however, be willing to write-off the whole Vietnam/American War as a fuckface combat? Probably not, as people who took part in that war, or were just near enough for war-crimes, really have fucked faces to the degree of whatever literal or metaphorical extents you’d be willing to consider, quietly, so as not to wake my Mrs.

“Vietnam fucked my face” sounds the sort of script you’d read on a found Zippo lighter in the Da Lat jungle highlands.

But I was talking about a darts in an English pub in the 70s. Black and white an image, being printed in an old local paper, but being from the 70s there is also a strong beige feel, maybe even corduroy. And cigarettes.

And you can zoom in on these ten or so faces, of young and middle-aged men, and suddenly you’ll hear a distant voice saying calmly “he was a respected member of his community, worked hard at the brown cigarette factory, and once got a bullseye. But nobody knew he held a secret so terrible, that it wouldn’t be till years after the case closed that the truth became known. For in fact, John ‘Cigarette’ Brown, was a closet fuckface. Even his wife didn’t know. And his children are coming to terms with it to this day.”

Or something criminal, not in a good way.

It’s now been two days since I started writing about this nonsense. But I’ve persevered, and all I need was three breakfasts.

The benefit to taking several days to conjure up a piece of writing such as you’ve endured reading (you’re lucky, you didn’t have to write it) is that you can look back on where you began a couple of days ago, what you went through, and where you are now, and consider: ‘what the hell am I doing here?’

And I like thinking that.

Because, what the hell am I doing here?

A blog, apparently, whilst watching a vast amount of news footage from the 1970s.

And breakfasts.


Wasting time, reasons to live, and eating surfboards.

My favourite thing is to waste time. I struggle with it on the job. I think it’s because I’m still aware it’s my time, and that I’m officially required not to waste it due to company policy.

Company policy says wasting time is bad for your back due to desk ergonomics, and if you’re not willing to improve your desk ergonomics then they’re going to part ways with you, which is fine until they mention this’ll include ceasing paying me money each month.

Another option is to die on the job. This would be a great way to escape the boredom and depression of working, but it would seriously inhibit my free time after work, which I’d prefer to spend having fun with my wife and kids, instead of being dead at my desk due to a bad back.

But then, it’s my own time and perhaps it’d return some ownership to me, so why not die on the job?

Because the chair’s uncomfortable? I agree.

But, that’s really because it’s a chair with a purpose, and that’s to waste your time, but not in the way that you really want to waste your time. There’s better things you can do with a chair, sitting aside.

You’d rather waste your time more appropriately, such as by inventing that new thing nobody knew they wanted, or writing that blog everyone knew they didn’t want but you really wanted to write it anyway.

And don’t forget jumping – as this is a marvellous way to waste your time.

‘Off of’ things of varying height and with varying confidence in the safety harnesses, or lack of them; ‘on to’ things which are preferably moving with speed, gusto, and sexy people already onboard; ‘into’ things, the wetter the better; and lastly ‘through’ things, which is perhaps best reserved for the more athletic time wasters amongst us.

Jumping ‘behind’ things is weird, don’t do it. And don’t tell me about it if you did.

Then of course, we must consider the more industrious ways of wasting time, the sort of time wasting that really takes a lot of effort, guts, and time.

Like opening that surfboard shop in the west coast of Devon, getting to know weird people with campfire and starlight, watching the wife and kids laughing a lot, and somehow making either a comfortable living out of it or discovering an ingenious way to find, craft, sell, live underneath and eat surfboards, for free.

This takes a lot of hard work, and is of course a waste of time, because most people would not do that (despite 90% of the UK having this exact secret dream themselves, with the other 10% being busy that day) and would rather make more sensible use of their time with grown up activities, like making appointments with their bank managers for fun, or simply spending some really solid time calming down following that overly exciting bowl of cornflakes.

And then there is wasting time unexpectedly, when you didn’t see it coming. This can be hard to deal with, wasting time out of the blue, letting it get in the way of those bank manager catch-ups or becoming nice and bored in some other way. One way of doing this, as we know, is simply saying “yes” to opportunities as they come.

How do we source the best questions to say “yes” to? Just keeping saying “yes” and you’ll work your way to the questions you want to say “yes” to, eventually.

And does your job, your career, your 9-5, provide you with those questions you want to say “yes” to?

Mine doesn’t.

Mine makes me want to say “no” a lot, regardless of the question.

Really, I want to waste my time in my own way. Perhaps worse paid, and with ‘attitude problem’ noted by recruiters next to my professional profile, but still my own.

All it takes, is finding that way to monetise me being me – ensuring that wasting time with writing blogs, parenting, and seriously, seriously enjoying my wife, can all be something that pays the bills until we can find a way to eat surfboards for free.

This is making me hungry and melancholy, because I’m still at work right now and I look forward to escaping to lunch.

But I must remember to say “yes”. It’s a great way to waste time in ways you can look back on with happiness, and it’s also an even better way to round off an overlong blog.


New year’s resolutions and the apocalypse

I’m not the sort to bask in the failure of a long-deceased civilisation, but I’m not half pleased that the Mayans were off the mark with the missed prediction of 2012.

A famous miss, quite the ‘swish’ to echo through the eons.

Perhaps, it’s an error in translation? Rather than ‘apocalypse’ – they meant ‘low chance of showers’? In which case, they were bang on – as I distinctly remember that there was a low chance of showers that particular year.

It’s also a fantastic way to stay relevant – doom braying.

And that’s what I’m bringing to 2023 – predictions for the end.

So here it is.

You’re all going to die.

So you’d better put the cat out and leave a note for the milkman or the paper boy – or any other 1990’s chores you choose to turn to in your time of time-cessation.

Of course, most of you will have realised this years ago, which is nice, but you forgot to keep yourself relevant by reminding people.

It’s not just for selfish reasons that I do this though, as a healthy dose of daily death can be invigorating. Very.

Knowing you’re going to leave life inevitably, and potentially suddenly (especially you), should influence your actions. It might not, but it should – because you’re going to die.

And it’s best not to be religious about this, even if you use that to guide your morality. Not just because I’m agnostic, but it’s hard to play the odds well in picking one God out of the thousands there have ever been – you’re likely to choose the wrong one and then comes heavenly vengeance – just like what presumably happened to the Mayans.

Zeus is the only God I’ve seen mighty evidence for, thanks to all that lovely lightening, but I don’t want to believe in him because if I could impress and terrorize the world with tempests and lightening, maybe I’d want to fuck a fish too since, at a certain point, humans won’t cut it any more when you can seasonally fuck the sky. I don’t know how that could guide my morality, but I know I don’t want to fuck a fish this year.

A new year’s resolution is dandy, good for you and yours, but you were supposed to die via apocalypse (or potentially a dangerously low chance of showers) over a decade ago.

You were mortal last year, and it’s the same again this time.

Remembering this, and that it might happen at any moment, is a fantastic way to start the year.

To die preferably is all we can aim for, really.

That being said, Merry Christmas! May Zeus be with you (but not standing too close).


Anger to the point of fudge. Don’t make her fudgy. I don’t speak Fudgish.

This week my wife mothered our kids (including two baths nights), cooked all our evening meals (getting better all the time), worked her job in the Justice policy sector (one day commuting to London and back), sold our car (made a heavy note wad at it), studied evenings for her post graduate degree (late into the nights), hoovered (for fun apparently) and otherwise generally put up with me.

Forgiveness is important with this kind of wife, as it’s no wonder she didn’t have time to thank me for doing the washing up one evening, which I did do fairly loudly.

I would have done more this week, but I was too occupied watching her in astonishment. In honesty, I would have been watching her regardless of how many tasks she was doing, as she is invariably my favourite thing. I even like her handwriting, and I know I like her handwriting, which is an odd thing to know you like about someone.

What don’t I like about her, aside from her husband?

She’s got a bit of a temper. Only a bit, because she tends to leave the lion’s share of her temper about my head and neck following a dispute, such as me suggesting post-graduate education is less important than washing up, by me.

Then again, it is that same temper that I find oddly charming, on those rare occasions I see it make its way towards other poor unfortunates.

It’s somewhat as I’d imagine it to be, if I were the Arizona deserts watching little planes flying very fast towards and even faster away from little island in the French Polynesia sea.

I remember in an Australian town called Hahndorf, we’d been to a local petting zoo to pet some lambs and camels, ostrich and emu. Both ostrich and emu, this is important.

Afterwards, we were in a little sweet shop on the main road, and my wife mentioned in conversation with the owner that we’d been at the zoo.

“What did you see?” he asked.

“Well, an enormous ostrich!” my wife remarked.

The owner paused, leant back in his chair and looked out the window in a manner that suggested he just read the gospel of instructional manuals of ‘how-to-be-arrogant’, and said with his hands behind his head:

“Yeah, we call ‘em emus over here, love.”

He ran a sweet shop. Once. Who knows what’s become of him since?

He’s probably being arrogant somewhere, deceased.

All the same, I all but giggled as I clutched my candy canes in a trembling and sticky fist, watching my wife slowly lean over the counter in an all-encompassing manner and gently ask him:

“Fucking idiot?”

Good question, if confusing in that way questions you’re not meant to answer can be. He answered, and he was incorrect in and of his very being, dialogue aside, though I’m pleased to say I did my duty as a husband and global citizen of sweet shops and coaxed my wife out of the shop with the promise of there being some enormous ostriches out there someone which might match her temper, so she should try it. Also, I had some fudge.

Fudge heals all wounds. Apart from those that happened to that sweet shop guy. He needs hypnosis.

My wife then shared the fudge with me, and it was brilliant, in-Australia-and-not-in-trouble, fudge. We ate it together.

She has many other qualities I also adore, but now I’m hungry and the washing-up really needs doing loudly.


Bananas are the punchline fruit. Give them a break.

Sometimes a thought enters your head, and then you hear yourself saying it to someone.

In some of these ‘sometimes’, you might find yourself muttering it aloud, causing others to get off the bus quickly.

Other ‘sometimes’, the preferable ones (unless there were no spare seats on the bus), mean you do what I did, which was to say it to my wife. In a museum. There were many seats.

In fact, there were so many seats, you could tell that some people weren’t sitting down, but not due to seeing anyone standing. Just, lots of chairs really.

You might also find yourself typing such things on a blog, causing people reading it on smart phones to get off of buses all the same, but perhaps it’s still best to revert to my what was going to be my original point.

I said something to my wife. And now I want to share it with you.

“Jenny, which fruit looks best in mid-air?”

My wife has a wonderful capacity to both humour and wither me with a look. She doesn’t do that for just anyone, but perhaps not many other than myself can draw such infuriated pity. Especially in a museum (lots of chairs).

Choosing the ‘humour-him’ route (there were children present), she indulged me, saying “I don’t know Sam. Bananas?”

I had hoped she wouldn’t say that, because I worried she might be right, which meant I was too with my first thought.


The punch-line fruit.

A very applicable fruit, certainly, but still the go-to fruit in the historical contexts of people using a fruit for something a fruit shouldn’t be used for, and for things that don’t actually need to be done.

I think it’s a blend of the shape, colour, peel, consistency and pronunciation. Everything else is just legend.

Certainly over-relied upon, and as such, I didn’t want it to be the answer to my question; I didn’t want banana/s (singular or plural it really doesn’t matter at this point) to look good in mid-air.

But, damn it, they do.

I expressed this all to my wife, who by this point had chosen her well-practiced alternative to humouring me.

“Pineapples?” she ‘fuck-offed’.

Unfortunately, perhaps more of the same with Mr Pineapple. Certainly not the jobber of mid-level fruit expectations, but they’ve at least been put forward for their obvious attributes.

Pineapples, really are just trying too hard.

A silver-placed friend with the wacky green hair-do, trying to talk to women at a party where women are really in-to fruit but getting ignored in favour of his friend shaped like a big penis with a healthy yellow glow.

I wanted to tell my wife this, but she’d been through enough today, even though earlier we’d practically had a bus to ourselves.

So I continued my thoughts and settled on a fruit (phrasing you can’t use in reference to bananas or pineapples because it is inappropriate and, more so, already been done) with a degree of subtlety.

The lime.

Bear with me.

A lime, emerald green, backed by the bluest of baby boy skies, suspended in mid-air, just for us to see.

I thought that was nice. I told my wife that I’d concluded, and this cheered her up immensely.

Then again, maybe all fruit are pre-determined to look good whilst falling. If they drop from a branch, with few-enough leaves, on a clear autumn noon with strongly sunlit blue skies, any fruit looks good, because they’ve been doing it for centuries.

Bananas, pineapples, limes, maybe even a tomato.

A sense of style, doing as the ancestors did it. Dropping, and looking good.

THAT is good museum conversation, but I couldn’t continue as my daughter needed help eating her apple.

It was a good one. You should have seen it go.