This morning, bereft of any entertaining reading material to help reduce the monotony of my daily commute, I decided to put this time to good use. Choosing to indulge in a bit of mobilular phonical housekeeping (yup, them's proper words thems are) having noticed that the scrolling bar on my sent and received text messages was minute to the point of being infinitesimally small.
I find it can be quite interesting, trawling through old text messages, as they tend to provide a wee textual snapshot of where I was and what I was up to, and in some cases, how drunk I was at the time of sending each text.
So I found I rather enjoyed my administratively minded walk down this textual memory-lane, having forgotten exactly when, many of the various exchanges relating to social gatherings, gigs and beer festivals had taken place across the course of the year so far. It may not surprise you to learn that my verbosity cannot be confined by the limitations of space allotted to SMS messaging. Indeed, I seem to relish the challenge of filling up as much space as is possible to ensure value for money is gained... although admittedly, I will on occasion, sink as low as to use the mangled bastardisation of our language that is TXT spk... I never feel good about this, but sometimes that message just isn't worth spending an extra ten pence upon.
Where was I?...
Oh yes, texting and that... ahem...
During the dredging of my text messages, I happened to notice a particularly alarming trend. Sprinkled intermittently amongst my more frivolously friend based forays in textuality were a good number of messages sent to my good lady wife... Now you! Texts to the wife wasn't the alarming aspect! But rather, the content of these messages. You could be forgiven for imagining that these were heartfelt personal paeans, declaring my undying love for the darling dearest mother of my beautiful child. Or even that they were saucily centred, sensuously sexy, suggestions of lascivious seduction, you could be forgiven for imagining that, but you'd be wrong...
Depressingly, more often than not, they were largely comprised of discussions concerning food, usually about what would be for that coming night's tea-time. And an unhealthy amount of them related to my apparent obsession with chicken breasts, and in particular, their subsequent placement either in or out of the freezer, depending upon the position of the aforementioned chicken breasts in relation to either their levels of frozenness or their approaching of a best before date.
Clearly, this is yet another dizzying milestone in a life that squarely refuses to accept the imposing boundaries of its own mundanity, seeking to leap ever grander heights of banality with each passing year...
Chicken Breasts?! Bloody Chicken Breasts?!
