Monday, 21 January 2008

The Gyppster does poetry

Allow me to share with both of you a small poetic oeuvre (is that the plural of oeuf? Who knows...) of mine own, which is - alas - in danger of becoming outdated in the near future.

When a man receives some Dubya gaffes in letters through the post,
He dismisses them as junk mail with a single glance at most;
But when posted on a website he'll peruse them without fail -
For the e-mail of the speeches is more deadly than the mail.

I apologise to you all. Don't know what came over me. I'll just take my service revolver and step outside now, shall I?

Tuesday, 8 January 2008

Turning into one's father

When one reaches a certain age, with children of one's own, one tends to notice a disturbing trend to become one's own father/mother according to gender.

Let me say at the outset that this may not be in and of itself a bad thing. My father is a lovely man and I'd far rather turn into him than pretty much anyone else, and having a close role model into whom to turn is doubtless infinitely preferable to a fatherless childhood.

However, one does notice certain half-forgotten character traits surfacing at odd moments. Such as - in my case - while driving.

My father had, and I am developing, a habit of dissipating frustration by giving a sarcastic running commentary on other people's driving. I find this better than reacting angrily or noticeably to the other driver in question. So "road rage" is replaced by "road unsolicited advice"; and to the guilty party it appears that you remain placid and unaffected and are merely having a pleasant conversation with your passenger. Or - if alone, singing along to the radio.
"Reduce your carbon footprint by refusing to use either indicator on approaching a mini-roundabout! Brilliant!" I say, smiling broadly.

Or "Yes - why not wait until the last moment to change lanes on approaching the lights, thus neatly blocking two lanes instead of one!"

Mrs Byard, inevitably, takes the side of the other person. "Well he might be lost. Or confused by all those big painted arrows on the road indicating which lane to use," she will say.

For a time, I experimented with Shakespearean road rage. "Fie upon thee for an inobservant knave, sirrah!" I would mutter. But it became too predictable.