I return once more from a weekend sabbatical from blogging, in order to talk aimlessly and come to an eventual climax where everyone goes "ohhhhhhhh."
Everyone being the three people that read this. You know who you are. You champs, you.
But needless to say, my enthusiasm drifted somewhat over the weekend, as I entered a hibernation of sorts, resting in my bed and chair alternately, fueled by a combination of night nurse and strong antihistemines. The resulting dreams were ghastly, and seemed to focus alot on failure, aswell as my fear of being in zombie movies. Now I want to be very specific on the movies part, being that my zombie dreams seem to contain brilliant dialogue, and plot twists that were frankly incredible. Really, I didnt see them coming!
When the question of food came drifting into my mind, I had to think, really think, about what sort of food I wanted. The possibilities, the adverts say, are endless, and naturally I can get on board with that way of life. When the option came, I chose a pizza. Probably not the wisest of choices in retrospect, especially not for a dehydrated person waking from what felt like a 15 hour coma, but nevertheless, I proceeded.
It wasnt a good choice. Its never a good choice, in any capacity. If i had children, I would surely sit them on my knee, and say to them lovingly, "Son/Daughter, your 17 now, and its time for you to know what you should and shouldnt do."
To which the reply would be:
"Dad, you tell me every year, and why do i have to sit on your knee? its really weird."
"Dont eat ready made pizza thats stale when sick. Its not good for your body. Its not good for your health."
And following the the interchange of conversation, not only would they be scarred for life, but they would leave that little bit more educated, that little bit more worldly, that little bit more knowledgable. And I would be safe in the knowledge that one less teenager would make the same mistake I did.
But anyhoo, the main crux of this was to ascertain why I enjoy the so called "ready meals", especially after my father had been cruel about the whole subject at breakfast. And the simple answer is; Its food. Probably not good, not wholesome, but it gets the job done, and pretty fast. I wont eat it every day. Ill be surprised if I eat it more than once a week, but at this point in my life, I couldnt care less whether the ready meals have pasted beetles wings or not, because frankly, its just damn convinient. And isnt that what England is all about? Wanting to do something, and not doing it, and choosing the easy way out? like in every war? and in every faucet of English culture? In this respect, isnt slacking the most profound and brilliant of English Pastimes?
God bless the Queen?