Tuesday, 17 May 2011


I'm convinced it is the destiny of readers of the London Review of Books to feel nothing but pain. I'm not going to call them intellectuals or academics which are kinda vague terms, but if you bother to subscribe to those fortnightly pages and actually read them, you are due for unremitting pain.
I was sitting in the pub opposite the university minding my own business in preparation for a marathon afternoon of tutorials. There was only me in there, and three student types in the easy chairs over the other side of the room. Unfortunately it was quiet and I could hear what they were talking about. Now don't get me wrong I have nothing against these particular hamsters, two identical looking males and one stereotypical female. But as they sipped their cokes and their chatter went on and on and on, I was plunged into profound despair, for the only thing they talked about for over an hour was cars. Car's they'd like, car's they'd 'outgrown', incidents involving cars, their relations interest in particular cars, their car histories (much talk of VW Golfs) trading cars, milage of cars, tire situations, all dealt with great deal of interest, including:
"The only white car I could possibly consider owning.." said the female with much pause for thought "....would be a sorta classic cabriolet.... yes an Escort cabriolet" at which point she relaxed back in her comfortable seat with quiet satisfaction whilst her companions contemplated such profound words.
I'm presently reading lots of essays from my own architectural hamsters which often involve total distain for the car. I wish they could have overheard that conversation, it shows how doomed we are.

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