Doing a blog causes me to occasionally think,
‘Do people really want to know about that aspect of your character, Charlie? Do people really want to read that about you? Will it change how they look at you from now on?’
I go round in a bit of a circle, then emerge at the same point as always.
Nothing I do or say is original. All the things I like/dislike/hate/love are liked/disliked/hated/loved by everyone I know, in less, equal or greater measures.
There are aspects of our characters that we’d prefer people not to know about. Not because we’re particularly ashamed of them, but because we’re not sure what other peoples’ reactions to them would be. You may be the sort of person who, when on their own, likes to have a good pick of your nose, sometimes going to the trouble of rolling it up into a little, algae-coloured ball and flicking it towards the bin. There’s nothing wrong with that, but you’re never going to put that particular skill on your CV.
You might be the sort of person who likes to do a quick impression of Buffalo Bill from Silence of the Lambs whenever you get out of the shower.
I wouldn’t judge you for that, but it isn’t something you’d mention on a blind date, unless you wanted to get home early.
Which brings me neatly on to farting in the car.
There, I said it. When I’m on my own, on the way to work, I will take immense pleasure from having a good fart in my car. I see it as a bit of a treat. Of course I’ll eventually put the driver’s side window down, sometimes all four, depending on diet, but not before I’ve had the opportunity to conduct a thorough, aromatic examination.
Is this something I should be ashamed of? Well I’m not, so there! The reason I’ve come out about it today is that I met a kindred spirit this morning. It was nice to realise that I wasn’t alone in the world of trump-relishing. I was at the lights and had just got to the point where it was time to open the window, as my skin was becoming slightly jaundiced. I noticed a car on the other side of the road, with the driver’s side window down. He wasn’t having a smoke, it wasn’t a particularly warm morning and he wasn’t trying to get someone’s attention. There could only be one reason.
As the lights changed, we drove slowly past each other, exchanging a knowing expression, that simply said,
“I know, mate - me too!”
This unseemly practice does have a drawback. After I’ve parked up at work, I’ve perfected a bit of an elaborate walk from the car to reception, so that I can rid myself of any residue that might be clinging to my clothes, hair or shoes. I’m sure the security blokes must wonder what I’m up to. Usually there’s a bit of speeding up and slowing down, with the occasional pirouette or energetic wafting to increase dispersal.
However, if we’ve had the pleasure of an Indian takeaway the night before, the only way to get in to work without setting off the smoke alarms is to do a complete rendition of Michael Jackson’s dance routine from ‘Billie Jean.’
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