The Annoyance Pandemic of 2012 started with the blast of a car horn, on the 28th of September at precisely 1.34PM. The horn was sounded by New York City taxi driver, Don Smith. Mr Smith was expressing his annoyance at how slowly traffic was moving through Times Square that afternoon.
Eva Mendel, who was holidaying in New York at the time, heard the car horn and exclaimed: “Damn, all this noise! I wish I was back home.”
New York local, Barry Jackson, yelled back, “Hey lady, if you don’t like it, why don’t you go back to wherever you came from?”
A group of passers-by heard both Ms Mendel’s exclamation and Mr Jackson’s reply. They quickly polarised into two groups: those who were annoyed by Ms Mendel, and those who found Mr Johnson the more annoying. Both sides were annoyed at the annoyance of the other.
Soon a third group started to form. These were people annoyed by the two groups arguing and blocking the street.
“Move on people!” the third group chanted.
Things really went downhill when a fourth group, a group who believed in the right to free speech, started to yell their annoyance at the third groups annoyance.
Soon there were groups of people arguing everywhere. By night fall New York City was in chaos.
‘The Annoyance Epidemic’ led the evening news and people around the country watched in annoyance. “Is this really news worthy?” they asked.
For those already annoyed by the poor quality of television journalism, this was the last straw. People left their homes and took to the street to express their dissatisfaction at the state of the media, and anything else they could think of.
International news picked up on the story and renamed the situation ‘The Annoyance Pandemic’. People around the world were annoyed: “Is this all those Americans have to worry about?”
And so a wave of annoyance spread around the world.
Everywhere you looked there were people getting annoyed at other people who were getting annoyed right back. Streets were filled with people having loud and heated arguments and other people who were telling them, equally loudly, to be quiet.
People who refused to get annoyed were forced indoors. There was nowhere else to go.
After a week of heavy arguing, governments started to get annoyed. They ordered riot police to step in, but the use of rubber bullets and water cannons just made people more annoyed.
Global annoyance levels peaked on the 23rd October, 2012. On that day, eight year old Billy Gently of Glasgow was running home thinking about dinner, when he found his way blocked by a wall of angry arguers.
“What’s all this about?” Billy asked one of the group members.
The woman looked at Billy and scratched her head. “To be honest son,” the woman answered, “I don’t really know.”
The woman turned to the rest of the group, “Hey!” she yelled, “Can one of you please remind me what we’re arguing about here?”
No one could.
The group wandered off and found another group of arguers. This second group didn’t know what they were arguing about either. And so it continued.
Around the globe the tide of annoyance began to recede.
Everywhere you looked you would see: people apologising to each other for being so grumpy; people smiling again; people shaking hands and making-up.
Well, everywhere except New York City. People there were still quite cranky.
Thursday, February 09, 2012
Friday, November 25, 2011
Making Money Made Easy
If I was rich things would be different. People would take notice of me. I would be able to do whatever I pleased. I would not have to worry about the mortgage. I would not have to worry about my car. I would not go to work. I would take things easy.
I wouldn’t want to be too rich though. If I was too rich I would feel bad about all the poor people in the world. If I was medium-rich I would do my bit for charity. This is more than can be said of some of the really rich people in the world today; they keep their money to themselves. Are they blind? Can’t they see that there are poor people everywhere? Sure, some of those poor people are just freeloaders, but still: they’re everywhere.
If I was rich I would do something significant to help people help themselves. If you teach a man to fish they’ll at least have fish to eat; which is better than nothing. If you’ve got fish you don’t need to freeload.
If I was rich I would start an organisation that taught freeloaders to become fisherman. Let’s face it, there’s nothing more off putting than a bunch of freeloaders hanging around when you’re trying to take the world by storm.
First I’ll take the world by storm then I’ll set-up the freeloading-fisherman organisation.
I have to do it in that order because I’ll need cash to buy fishing rods. I will need loads of fishing rods and some brands are really expensive. Having said that, freeloaders probably aren’t that fussy about what kind of fishing equipment they use.
Perhaps freeloaders should be fussier? Perhaps if they cared more about things like fishing equipment they wouldn’t be in such a predicament?
Anyway, my point is this: I am going to take the world by storm, and then I’m going to get rid of some of the couldn’t-care-less freeloaders around the place. Then, once I’ve done my bit, I can start some serious luxuriating, comfortable in the knowledge that people are eating fish because of me and my plan to take the world by storm.
I might even do a spot of fishing myself.
I wouldn’t want to be too rich though. If I was too rich I would feel bad about all the poor people in the world. If I was medium-rich I would do my bit for charity. This is more than can be said of some of the really rich people in the world today; they keep their money to themselves. Are they blind? Can’t they see that there are poor people everywhere? Sure, some of those poor people are just freeloaders, but still: they’re everywhere.
If I was rich I would do something significant to help people help themselves. If you teach a man to fish they’ll at least have fish to eat; which is better than nothing. If you’ve got fish you don’t need to freeload.
If I was rich I would start an organisation that taught freeloaders to become fisherman. Let’s face it, there’s nothing more off putting than a bunch of freeloaders hanging around when you’re trying to take the world by storm.
First I’ll take the world by storm then I’ll set-up the freeloading-fisherman organisation.
I have to do it in that order because I’ll need cash to buy fishing rods. I will need loads of fishing rods and some brands are really expensive. Having said that, freeloaders probably aren’t that fussy about what kind of fishing equipment they use.
Perhaps freeloaders should be fussier? Perhaps if they cared more about things like fishing equipment they wouldn’t be in such a predicament?
Anyway, my point is this: I am going to take the world by storm, and then I’m going to get rid of some of the couldn’t-care-less freeloaders around the place. Then, once I’ve done my bit, I can start some serious luxuriating, comfortable in the knowledge that people are eating fish because of me and my plan to take the world by storm.
I might even do a spot of fishing myself.
Thursday, November 17, 2011
The Retreat
Zoe likes to feel that she's done some physical activity to earn her relaxation which is why she loves yoga retreats.
It had been months since our last retreat. Zoe was getting really tense at work. She came home one day and told me that she had snapped at a co-worker. The next day I rang the retreat and made a booking.
The man on the end of the phone took our details.
“And will you be arriving by car, sir?” he asked.
I confirmed that we would be.
“Would you very much mind picking up a fellow retreat participant? Allan is stuck without a car. I’m sure he will be no bother.”
I hesitated. I had thought that the drive to the retreat would be a good time for Zoe and me to catch up. So it was with some reluctance that I agreed to the request.
Zoe was thrilled when I told her that I’d booked the trip. She arranged leave and bought herself some comfortable clothing. She seemed happier at the thought of going away, and I felt very pleased that I’d arranged it.
The day of the retreat came. We slept in and picked up our fellow retreater in the afternoon. He was an unusual chap, not the kind of person you’d expect to find on a retreat; he was quite a tight person and seemed very serious.
As we drove, Zoe and I tried to make polite conversation with our passenger, but it went nowhere.
It was quiet in the car, too quiet really; until Allan said:
“Truck drivers are 91% more likely to have beards than other members of the driving population.”
Zoe and I laughed. This was more like it, we thought.
Zoe quipped back, “Does that include women?”
Allan’s reply made it clear that his observation was no joke.
“Yes, of course, the study included all truck drivers, regardless of gender.”
Zoe and I exchanged glances. What study, we wondered. But we didn’t say anything.
After that we couldn’t shut Allan up. He had a statistic for everything. Some of the statistics, well most of them actually, seemed to be aimed at women. Some even seemed to be aimed at Zoe:
Women whose names start with the letter ‘Z’ are 12.3% less likely to be married at the age of 37.
Women who do yoga are 83% more likely to suffer from a relationship breakdown in their mid-forties.
Women who wear loose fitting garments are 36% more likely to let a major illness go undiagnosed.
It was a bit much. I wanted Allan to shut-up but I couldn’t think of a way of stopping him without being incredibly rude.
Finally, in desperation, I suggested that we pull over and have dinner at a salad bar.
Allan said, “Oh, I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Salad was a contributing factor in 56% of the food poisoning cases reported in the past year.”
We drove on.
Zoe was upset I could feel it. Like I said, she’d been under an enormous amount of pressure at work and she just wanted to relax.
It was with a sense of relief that we drove up the retreat’s long unsealed driveway.
It was dark when we got out of the car and the sky was a sea of stars. Allan was saying something about women’s inability to name the constellations being 25.6% less than men's when Zoe finally snapped.
She turned on Allan and said, “Life is not just about facts and figures, you know. Life is for living. How much better would your life be if you just relaxed and enjoyed it?”
Allan didn’t bat an eyelid, “Approximately 73%,” he replied “I’ll give you an exact number tomorrow at breakfast if you like?”
Zoe froze. I thought she was going to thump Allan, and to be honest I wouldn’t have blamed her if she had. But she didn’t. She started to laugh. She laughed like I hadn’t heard her laugh in months.
When she finally regained her composure she took Allan’s hand, shook it, and said. “See you at breakfast.”
It had been months since our last retreat. Zoe was getting really tense at work. She came home one day and told me that she had snapped at a co-worker. The next day I rang the retreat and made a booking.
The man on the end of the phone took our details.
“And will you be arriving by car, sir?” he asked.
I confirmed that we would be.
“Would you very much mind picking up a fellow retreat participant? Allan is stuck without a car. I’m sure he will be no bother.”
I hesitated. I had thought that the drive to the retreat would be a good time for Zoe and me to catch up. So it was with some reluctance that I agreed to the request.
Zoe was thrilled when I told her that I’d booked the trip. She arranged leave and bought herself some comfortable clothing. She seemed happier at the thought of going away, and I felt very pleased that I’d arranged it.
The day of the retreat came. We slept in and picked up our fellow retreater in the afternoon. He was an unusual chap, not the kind of person you’d expect to find on a retreat; he was quite a tight person and seemed very serious.
As we drove, Zoe and I tried to make polite conversation with our passenger, but it went nowhere.
It was quiet in the car, too quiet really; until Allan said:
“Truck drivers are 91% more likely to have beards than other members of the driving population.”
Zoe and I laughed. This was more like it, we thought.
Zoe quipped back, “Does that include women?”
Allan’s reply made it clear that his observation was no joke.
“Yes, of course, the study included all truck drivers, regardless of gender.”
Zoe and I exchanged glances. What study, we wondered. But we didn’t say anything.
After that we couldn’t shut Allan up. He had a statistic for everything. Some of the statistics, well most of them actually, seemed to be aimed at women. Some even seemed to be aimed at Zoe:
Women whose names start with the letter ‘Z’ are 12.3% less likely to be married at the age of 37.
Women who do yoga are 83% more likely to suffer from a relationship breakdown in their mid-forties.
Women who wear loose fitting garments are 36% more likely to let a major illness go undiagnosed.
It was a bit much. I wanted Allan to shut-up but I couldn’t think of a way of stopping him without being incredibly rude.
Finally, in desperation, I suggested that we pull over and have dinner at a salad bar.
Allan said, “Oh, I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Salad was a contributing factor in 56% of the food poisoning cases reported in the past year.”
We drove on.
Zoe was upset I could feel it. Like I said, she’d been under an enormous amount of pressure at work and she just wanted to relax.
It was with a sense of relief that we drove up the retreat’s long unsealed driveway.
It was dark when we got out of the car and the sky was a sea of stars. Allan was saying something about women’s inability to name the constellations being 25.6% less than men's when Zoe finally snapped.
She turned on Allan and said, “Life is not just about facts and figures, you know. Life is for living. How much better would your life be if you just relaxed and enjoyed it?”
Allan didn’t bat an eyelid, “Approximately 73%,” he replied “I’ll give you an exact number tomorrow at breakfast if you like?”
Zoe froze. I thought she was going to thump Allan, and to be honest I wouldn’t have blamed her if she had. But she didn’t. She started to laugh. She laughed like I hadn’t heard her laugh in months.
When she finally regained her composure she took Allan’s hand, shook it, and said. “See you at breakfast.”
Tuesday, November 01, 2011
Recognition
Joel lined up with the other marathoners and waited for the starter’s pistol.
He had trained for months for this race. For months he had been getting out bed at 5.30 in the morning.
His wife had kept him going, the thought of his wife; it was the thought of the look she would give him once he’d completed the race. She would be proud of him, he knew it.
Finishing that race would show her that he was still strong, he still had fight in him, he still had life in him. She would see who he really was - who he was on the inside - and she would fall in love with him again.
The starter fired his pistol, and Joel ran.
Joel ran with heart. He ran with passion. He ran as if his life depended on it.
Joel ran the whole race as if he were running towards his waiting wife. At the end of the race he ran across the finish line and seized her in his arms.
She didn’t have the look that he had hoped for.
She was pleased for him, of course. She handed him a towel and a bottle of water and told him that he’d made good time.
Joel took the bottle of water.
He hadn’t done it for her, he realised.
He’d been running for himself, running for the feeling that he could be someone to be proud of.
Joel might have cried a little bit on the way home, but he was okay. In fact he was better than okay: he was alive.
He had trained for months for this race. For months he had been getting out bed at 5.30 in the morning.
His wife had kept him going, the thought of his wife; it was the thought of the look she would give him once he’d completed the race. She would be proud of him, he knew it.
Finishing that race would show her that he was still strong, he still had fight in him, he still had life in him. She would see who he really was - who he was on the inside - and she would fall in love with him again.
The starter fired his pistol, and Joel ran.
Joel ran with heart. He ran with passion. He ran as if his life depended on it.
Joel ran the whole race as if he were running towards his waiting wife. At the end of the race he ran across the finish line and seized her in his arms.
She didn’t have the look that he had hoped for.
She was pleased for him, of course. She handed him a towel and a bottle of water and told him that he’d made good time.
Joel took the bottle of water.
He hadn’t done it for her, he realised.
He’d been running for himself, running for the feeling that he could be someone to be proud of.
Joel might have cried a little bit on the way home, but he was okay. In fact he was better than okay: he was alive.
Monday, October 17, 2011
My Mountain and Me
My mountain is calling to me. I hear it across land and across sea.
My mountain is there in my dreams. I see my mountain standing on the flat plains. It is watching me. I am a young boy riding a blue bike. I am laughing as I ride around and around in circles. I am light and free. I watch the bike’s front tyre as I turn and turn and turn. And suddenly, the whole world is turning but I am still. I stop. I look at my mountain. It is still. It is heavy on the earth. We are like the sun and the moon, my mountain and me.
Oh great mountain, you remember me before I remember me. You are in all my young memories.
You are with me now, even though I am far from you; even though I am too far away from you.
I remember you when I am anxious. My pulse may race, but your stillness is with me. The spirit of you is in my heart.
I remember you too, when I feel life’s power coursing through me. I am lifted up. My head is in the sky but my feet are on the ground. You are beneath my feet.
You are the mix of sky and earth that I have sought after every day of my life.
I long to be near you. I long for the land of my birth at my feet and you by my side. It is through this longing that I hear you calling.
I hear you. I hear you.
And I will return to you. I will bring my own child. We will stand at your mighty feet and I will tell my child of you; the things you have taught me: strength and courage; sky and soil; sun and moon.
I hear you calling.
I will return.
My mountain is there in my dreams. I see my mountain standing on the flat plains. It is watching me. I am a young boy riding a blue bike. I am laughing as I ride around and around in circles. I am light and free. I watch the bike’s front tyre as I turn and turn and turn. And suddenly, the whole world is turning but I am still. I stop. I look at my mountain. It is still. It is heavy on the earth. We are like the sun and the moon, my mountain and me.
Oh great mountain, you remember me before I remember me. You are in all my young memories.
You are with me now, even though I am far from you; even though I am too far away from you.
I remember you when I am anxious. My pulse may race, but your stillness is with me. The spirit of you is in my heart.
I remember you too, when I feel life’s power coursing through me. I am lifted up. My head is in the sky but my feet are on the ground. You are beneath my feet.
You are the mix of sky and earth that I have sought after every day of my life.
I long to be near you. I long for the land of my birth at my feet and you by my side. It is through this longing that I hear you calling.
I hear you. I hear you.
And I will return to you. I will bring my own child. We will stand at your mighty feet and I will tell my child of you; the things you have taught me: strength and courage; sky and soil; sun and moon.
I hear you calling.
I will return.
Monday, October 10, 2011
Ambition
Paul was getting ready for a night out on the town when his phone rang.
“Paul Darby,” he said in his most authoritative voice.
“Paul. It’s Andrew Weston here,” the voice on the other end of the phone replied. “Sorry to call you on a Friday evening, but I have some rather bad news for you.
We’re letting you go, Paul. The Executive has decided to move in different direction…”
The voice continued to talk but Paul did not hear it.
Paul was standing in the dark, his phone still in his hand, when Kim, his girlfriend, arrived. She looked gorgeous.
“Paul,” she said, “what’s going on? Why aren’t you ready?”
Paul didn’t move.
“Paul?” Kim said a little less certainly.
Paul slowly turned his head towards her.
Has he been crying, Kim wondered, but she instantly dismissed the idea. Paul was tough. Paul was confident. Paul was motivated. Paul had ambition. He wasn’t the kind of guy to sit in the dark crying.
“What is it Paul, what’s happened?”
“I - I’ve had some rather bad news babe,” he answered.
Paul’s voice was so uncertain, so troubled: listening to it made Kim feel uncomfortable.
“I’ve been sacked,” Paul stifled a sob as he said this. “I’ve never been sacked.”
“Oh, is that all,” Kim laughed. “I’ll buy you a drink and you can tell me all about it.”
Paul stood over Kim and Kim could see that he was full of fire.
“What do you know?” Paul yelled. “What do you know about anything? You’ve never worked a day in your life.”
Kim’s back straightened.
“Listen buddy,” she retorted, “as far as I can recall, you’ve never worked that hard either. You were always ambitious, but you got everything you ever wanted. Perhaps it’s time you woke up to yourself. The world doesn’t run on cocktails and charisma, you know.”
Paul clenched and unclenched his fists.
“Kim,” he said coldly, “I think I’m going to have to let you go. I’ve decided to move in a different direction.”
Kim had never seen Paul so conflicted before. She was filled with pity at the sight of this man of confidence brought low. She wanted to reach out to him, but she realised that there was something strangely farsighted about his words: Paul needed to move in a different direction.
And Kim knew that she would not follow him.
“Paul Darby,” he said in his most authoritative voice.
“Paul. It’s Andrew Weston here,” the voice on the other end of the phone replied. “Sorry to call you on a Friday evening, but I have some rather bad news for you.
We’re letting you go, Paul. The Executive has decided to move in different direction…”
The voice continued to talk but Paul did not hear it.
Paul was standing in the dark, his phone still in his hand, when Kim, his girlfriend, arrived. She looked gorgeous.
“Paul,” she said, “what’s going on? Why aren’t you ready?”
Paul didn’t move.
“Paul?” Kim said a little less certainly.
Paul slowly turned his head towards her.
Has he been crying, Kim wondered, but she instantly dismissed the idea. Paul was tough. Paul was confident. Paul was motivated. Paul had ambition. He wasn’t the kind of guy to sit in the dark crying.
“What is it Paul, what’s happened?”
“I - I’ve had some rather bad news babe,” he answered.
Paul’s voice was so uncertain, so troubled: listening to it made Kim feel uncomfortable.
“I’ve been sacked,” Paul stifled a sob as he said this. “I’ve never been sacked.”
“Oh, is that all,” Kim laughed. “I’ll buy you a drink and you can tell me all about it.”
Paul stood over Kim and Kim could see that he was full of fire.
“What do you know?” Paul yelled. “What do you know about anything? You’ve never worked a day in your life.”
Kim’s back straightened.
“Listen buddy,” she retorted, “as far as I can recall, you’ve never worked that hard either. You were always ambitious, but you got everything you ever wanted. Perhaps it’s time you woke up to yourself. The world doesn’t run on cocktails and charisma, you know.”
Paul clenched and unclenched his fists.
“Kim,” he said coldly, “I think I’m going to have to let you go. I’ve decided to move in a different direction.”
Kim had never seen Paul so conflicted before. She was filled with pity at the sight of this man of confidence brought low. She wanted to reach out to him, but she realised that there was something strangely farsighted about his words: Paul needed to move in a different direction.
And Kim knew that she would not follow him.
Monday, October 03, 2011
Insurmountable
It was 4AM. Something had woken me. Further sleep eluded me.
Outside, Australian Magpies sang their angular night song. Those black and white birds; those day and night birds: they’ll be tired in the morning, I thought.
My mind was restless. My mind moved across the surface of the earth looking for trouble. My mind swooped down on innocent victims: how easy other people’s lives are, I thought; how simple their problems.
Outside, the wind sighed in agreement. Eee-sss-eee, it said.
My problems are real problems, I thought; my problems are not trivial; my problems are insurmountable.
For some time, an hour perhaps, I tossed and turned and thought about my insurmountable problems. The more I thought about my problems the more restless I became.
Outside, night was turning to day. A kookaburra - that early riser - interrupted my cycle of thoughts with his unsympathetic laugh.
A new thought entered my mind: insurmountable problems start wars.
I am at war, I realised; I am at war with the problems I can’t make peace with.
Outside, wind moved through trees making music learned from sea and sand. And, as I listened, my problems dissolved into the music and floated away.
I slept.
Outside, Australian Magpies sang their angular night song. Those black and white birds; those day and night birds: they’ll be tired in the morning, I thought.
My mind was restless. My mind moved across the surface of the earth looking for trouble. My mind swooped down on innocent victims: how easy other people’s lives are, I thought; how simple their problems.
Outside, the wind sighed in agreement. Eee-sss-eee, it said.
My problems are real problems, I thought; my problems are not trivial; my problems are insurmountable.
For some time, an hour perhaps, I tossed and turned and thought about my insurmountable problems. The more I thought about my problems the more restless I became.
Outside, night was turning to day. A kookaburra - that early riser - interrupted my cycle of thoughts with his unsympathetic laugh.
A new thought entered my mind: insurmountable problems start wars.
I am at war, I realised; I am at war with the problems I can’t make peace with.
Outside, wind moved through trees making music learned from sea and sand. And, as I listened, my problems dissolved into the music and floated away.
I slept.
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