Arts
It is with a featherweight heart that I teletype this abstract. Yesterweek, I took it upon myself to go a-perambulatin'. The compelled monasticism we have all been practicing to greater, lesser, even lesser and not-at-all extents has sired its unfair share of plumpage. Afooting is now mandatory lest I go the way of Pfidze... FATZE... I am made queasy by my heretofore neglect of this ripe wordplay...Anyhow, in my local park, I spied an elderly chap accompanied by whom I inferred and hope was his granddaughter. The tot was eager to engage with one of the many playground thingamabobs on offer (the geodesic climber it would transpire). The only snag impeding recreation was an insufficiency of Jaffa Cakes. Nimble deduction surmised that the two were on their way home from the nearby Tesco Express, as evidenced by the laden Bag for Life at Pops' brogues. The child wanted Jaffa Cakes and who could blame it? Jaffa Cakes are ambrosial*.After much hectoring, the old'un yielded. Do not judge this man. For one, he is a grandfather and the questionable indulgence of his progeny² is his right. For two, if you've tasted the sweet orange of JC, you know its denial is a fool's venture. For three, if you haven't, you are not entitled to an opinion anyway, stop reading this, go away and acquire a life.The sole condition for capitulation was that the child share with the other juveniles in orbit. The patriarch had milked the transaction for a lesson in benevolence. The subtle anguish of life's transience was swallowed by admiration. I was wowed.The child verbally consented. But then, from atop the wobbly dome, the little fucker reneged and scoffed every last cake in that wrapper - which is now clear instead of orange, but that's a furious editorial for another day. The grandfather propounded impotent disapproval 'cross the rubber 'rena. The damage was done.But this hero did not sink into despair. He did not desperately scale the apparatus, force his fingers down his descendant's throat to stimulate regurgitation and pathetically grovel to distribute the bolus to the other kiddywinks. No. Instead, he let the ordeal float away on the crisp spring air. He sat back and retrieved a crossword book from the Bag for Life. He "did him".It brought to mind OUR relationship. I endlessly curate content. If you deign to accept the offering, it is without gratitude. Nor does it occur to you that others might derive pleasure therefrom. No more. I take my cue from Park Man. As I enter my there-is-yet-hope twilight, I'm going to "do me". No longer will I claw cloyingly for the consideration of lower people. For YOU.There is a certain gratification in making it to Episode 50 of this podcast-shaped albatross. But after that half-hundred bench-/skid-mark, inclination-dependent...I AM OUT. I retire.Until then, tune in. Or don't. WHATEVER. Its classification as "my problem" ain't long for this world, baby.*Earlier blurbs have scratched the surface of the complexity of my unironic love for this confection. Forgive me for taking it as a given that you haven't read them. Then again, why ask forgiveness when this too shall go unregarded? If a tree falls in a forest...