Well, after the five day marathon of employment I’ve had a good night’s sleep, got up at 9.00am and feel fairly good. And I got my only Xmas card this morning, which is one more than I was expecting, but then none of my friends know where I live thanks to my transitory year and the joys of electronic communication. Plus I don’t really go for this Xmas card malarkey.
I stopped giving cards sometime around, ooh, 1987 at school. I can’t remember the exact reason but I remember thinking that whole routine of giving everybody in your year a card, regardless of whether you liked them or not, was kinda stupid and one year I just plain forgot to get around to doing it. Since then no-one has ever received a plain Xmas card from me. Oh, I might have sent the odd one to Grandma or in lieu of a present but none of this mass mailing guff. And guess what, I still have friends. Odd that.
The same goes for cards generally. Chalk it up to having worked in a card shop for a bit (and selling cards in the bookshops), seeing the stretching eternity of blandness that constitutes that industry. Fact is, they’re all shit and I can’t bring myself to give something shit to someone I like. I’ll acknowledge that taken out of the context of the shop and marked with a personal message said card can take on a unique personality, but I’ve seen too much of the whole to take solace in the individual. And yes, there are nice cards out there, somewhere, but they’re so bloody expensive.
When I was younger I used to make cards for people. That sentence sounds really sad but some of the best cards I’ve received have been hand made, mainly from cartoonists (who have that skill and often the sense of humour to go with it) but also from non-artist’s like myself. Possibly the best card I ever got was a Valentines card from a girlfriend – a plain piece of red card folded over. Magic.
I don’t have a problem with people giving me cards, though I never know quite what to do with them after the event. During my bin-man job I was emptying someone’s recycling box and found a big wadge of birthday cards in there. There was about £30.00′s worth in this one inch thick bundle, which seemed a bit of a waste, though at least it was being recycled.
This isn’t something that really bugs me – it’s just that having been outside the card-giving circuit for so long I find the whole thing slightly odd. £2.00 (more of less) for a piece of mass produced printed card with my name scrawled at the top and someone elses at the bottom. I’d rather have a pint and a chat.
Now it’s off to try and fix the garden fence (which as mysteriously fallen down though I haven’t noticed much wind of late) before wrapping Xmas pressies and heading off for five days of family Xmas joy.
Enjoy yours!
OK, I know I said write everything but if you’re going to title a piece, in the name of that is holy, PLEASE! On XXXXX is a rotton, lazy title. Equally sinful is any opening paragraph containing the word herewith. I don’t remember you doing that, but do consider yourself warned.
Happy Christmas!
I’ve been thinking of dumping the titles all together, truth be told, but I think you’re being a bit harsh. If it was a regular misdemenour then fair enough but I do reserve the right to use any cliche that comes to me as a last minute, desperate, title.
And so I guess “In which…” is okay then?
Jez, I think you’re being a little hard on this, the subject of titles! Yes, there is probably a much better title to be found most of the time but just once in a while “On xxxxxx” has a good, poetic ring to it.
Titles are important, Pete, as they help us to decide whether or not to pursue the article thus (hopefully accurately) titled.
Merry Christmas!
Perhaps my anger is slightly misplaced, because you don’t do this kind of thing very often. I’ve noticed the use of On XXXXXX more and more on sites I follow though, and I find it increasingly irritating. It’s particular irritating when it takes the form
On Farting
We all fart, even me. Herewith a few random thoughts on farting, with especial reference to my own farts which, if I may say, are rather more fragrant than most.
So I let you off this time. Bah, and indeed, humbug.
It occurred to me that you, Jez, are the man who vehemently denies that he has a “home” preferring the term “house”, despite the fact that a house is a structure while a home is something more intangible (ie, can be a house or a cave or a tent). With that in mind I reserve the right to take your pedantry with a pinch of salt. Merry Xmas btw!
Well if it’s pedantry you’re after, then let me clarify my position. The particular phrase I objected to was
Jez’s middle-class home
I’m not even going to touch the middle-class part. But home? No.
It is, I feel, my home but your house. (Although to clarify the clarification, I would never say my home).
An example. Do you want to come home with me? vs Shall we go to your house?
I was going to send you a card (yes, home-made, I don’t think there’s anything sad about exchanging home-made cards) but I don’t have your address.
A card is a pint and chat which couldn’t happen because of geography (or a small sign you can put up in your room which says XXXXX about the giver and the receiver)
XXXXX = fill in
Ooh, home made cards are totally excempt, especially ones from cartoonists. What I’m objecting to are the big-box production-line cards. Little piece of paper given from one person to another I generally utterly have loads of time for.