Dont get me wrong – I love Television. I think its the cultural epicenter of our age. Basically free, democratic, in short enough slots to keep everybody focused, but set up in a way to keep people wanting – no in fact – needing more. Perhaps I’m a bit of a television snob – there is so much dross on TV at the moment. Its as if the more mediocre the idea the better the chance of it receiving air time. This is highlighted by no less a set of programmes which include Young Fishmonger of the Year, Young Mechanic of the Year and Young Butcher of the Year.
The production values are a joke, and the personalities basically invisible. George Lamb is pretty pathetic and is as limp as the fish being filleted. All in all, get this shite of my beautiful tv screen.
Boxes – always good for something
Boxes in of themselves are inert, inocculous, and at their best useful in the extreme. Not only that but in certain circumstances can be folded into a more ergonomic shape for storage. A clever trick whereby the storer becomes the stowed. Another property – so to speak – of the box is the regularity with which we all come across these items.
As you can see, this post is in the Bad coloumn. The reason for this, is that boxes are always useful for something. At the time of receiving the box there is very rarely any pressing need for the container, but the instinct is, that somewhere down the line, this box is going to be the perfect box for something. what that something is nobody knows, but all agree that this something is out there somewhere lurking. The something is waiting, its in hiding, biding its time for when you turn around one day, and look at the vast accumulation of boxes, vast even when folded to conserve space, and you make the fatal error of saying to yourself ‘ Its time I got rid of those boxes.’
The deed has been done, the clock stopped and the spell cast. Now the flurry of tickets, precious keepsakes, require the box garnered when purchasing your new wheels (shoes) – in the bin. The receipts currently bulging your wallet need a new home – incinerated. A temple of storage is needed for the birthday cards your feel guilty about throwing away – currently laying on a scrap heap in Clapton on Sea, or anywhere in Essex.
So let me spare you the pain. Let me release you from the unending misery that is the search for the perfect contents for your box. There is no perfect object. There never was and there never will be. It’s a myth, just like Santa Clause and John Travolta’s hairline. Throw those boxes away and feel safe in the knowledge that what you lost in storage you made up for in breathing space. Besides, you can always use a shoe box from your girlfriends collection because those things aren’t going anywhere.