It’s the adverts which are the most abhorrent abusers of my
mental state. Lunchtime TV adverts mostly fall into one of three categories:
1. The elderly person who is content almost to the state of
delirium because he or she has discovered that the Acme Insurance Company is
his very best friend and not a bunch of whizz kids in suits trying to get as
much money as possible out of him. This is probably the worst of the categories
because it really does encourage in me the genuine desire to die before I get
there.
2. The late middle aged and comfortably off suburbanite who
thinks that happiness is a new – and often aesthetically hideous – sofa which
costs more than some people spend on food in a year. I admit to having gone
through this stage myself in my twenties, but saw through it and left it behind
when I moved house to a place closer to nature.
3. The gambling ads which generally show groups of
purportedly smart young things jumping about like a troupe of deranged chimpanzees
with advanced dementia. These are clearly aimed at people with nothing better
to do in the middle of the day than watch the box in the corner, and whose few
brain cells have long since atrophied beyond hope.
So why do I do it? Why, to observe of course. It’s what I
do, and it’s what I have to do because my only activity of note these days is
writing. Housework is a chore; gardening is a chore; I can’t go for walks to
observe either the workings of nature or the urban jungle at the moment because
my left leg won’t let me; and I don’t get visitors because I’m not the kind of
person who does.
That’s the explanation, and I’ve smoked three cigarettes
while writing this in an instinctive attempt to keep the negative vibes to a
manageable level. It probably isn’t good for me, but it might yet perform a
useful service. Off to do some housework now.
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