On Little Silly and Strange Things.

Having nothing to write to the blog tonight, and having grown too sleepy to read my VS Naipaul novel, I was flicking through the TV channels and came across Dragon’s Den. I've never seen it, so I watched it for a whole five minutes just to be sure that I was right in never having wanted to see it. I was.

What should one make of it? It must be somebody having a joke, right? All that contrived attitude, all those ill-fitting suits, all the nervousness thinly disguised as earnest enthusiasm, all those men (and women!) doing weak impersonations of Torquemada, all that hair gel…

This is surely a conscious parody on the sillier side of post-80s corporate culture, isn’t it? Got to be. Nice one, whoever you are.

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A little while later I was sitting by the fire, ruminating on the continual competition between the world and me to decide which of us is stranger, when I became conscious of rolling something between my fingers. I looked down to discover a piece of soft, polythene-like material. It was black, and I have no idea what it was or how it came to be in my hand.