Some young fellas got on the bus this afternoon, singing the hits of the day which I gather are performed by names such as Rihanna and Lada GaGa because, y'know, I'm all about the pop culture, me.
I quickened on my earphones and played me some Debussy because, y'know, I'm all about the classical music culture, me.
I got to thinking about work. Specifically the blog I write for it. I'd written a short piece on golf which was no small accomplishment given my allergy to most sports unfootball.
There was one comment from some punter who called himself ZZZZZZZZzzzzzz and the words he left were simply...
'And your point is...'
I thought about the unctious little bedroomed toerag with too much time and a fine line in question-mark-forgetting and, coupled with the Poker Face Quartet below, got more than a little gloomy.
Then it struck me that there are far, far more important things to worry about. That these silly little trivialities matter nothing in the scheme of things, that far too much is taken for given and that I'd better join the fuck in.
So I did. But under my breath, of course.