Laced Up, Stitched Up

Did you know that the little, metal or plastic tip on the end of a shoe or bootlace, is called an aglet? Amazing what you learn from the Internet, isn’t it? And what brought on this particular display of pointless knowledge?

Last week I noticed that one of my bootlaces was fraying, ready for snapping any time, so I asked Ma’am to buy me a new lace.

Naturally, I know that you do not buy a single bootlace; you buy them in pairs, but give me credit for making the effort. It really pisses me off that I have to buy two. When was the last time you had two bootlaces snap on you at the same time? I can’t remember it ever happening. It’s always one lace that snaps, and yet I have to buy the pair.

‘Look on the positive side,’ you may argue. ‘When the other lace eventually snaps, as it must surely do, you won’t have to go out and buy any because you’ll already have a spare lace in the house. Right?’

Wrong. It doesn’t matter how many times I buy a pair of bootlaces, when I need that second lace, the little bastard is nowhere to be found. I get the feeling that somewhere in this world there is a heap of single bootlaces, lying around, creating an ecological disaster of non-biodegradable fibres. Or maybe they’re forming a work of art entitled ‘Black Spaghetti’, hidden away in some underground café where pot smoking, aging hippies pontificate upon the artist’s interpretation of the universe in dark nylon rope.

‘Tune in to this, people. He’s captured the chaos theory of everything, in a single matrix of Gordian proportions. Black for the colour of night, string for the latest quantum visions, knots for the materialism that ties us to this world, and the free aglets, leading the way through a contorted mezzanine to the openness of spiritual release. Far out man.’ (Takes another drag on his joint and passes out.)

As far as I’m concerned, this is nothing short of extortion (buying two bootlaces, not this loon’s imaginary rambles). Imagine the scene at:

The Tyre Depot:

‘I need a new tyre on the spare, it’s shot.’

‘No problem boss, but I’ll have to sell you two.’

‘Why?’

‘They come as a brace.’

‘I only want one. What will I do with the other?’

‘Look on the bright side, it’ll be there when your next tyre goes.’

‘That might not be for another 30,000 miles.’

The Restaurant:

‘Hang on, I only ordered one mixed grill.’

‘They come in pairs mate, so loosen your belt, tuck in and pig out. Our chef doesn’t like to see good food wasted.’

The Undertakers:

‘Why do I have to buy two coffins? I’m only burying one husband.’

‘You’ll need it one day.’

Worse than having to buy two bootlaces when I only need one is the price I have to pay for them. £1.80. One pound eighty?  (That’s about $3.60 to American readers.)  For two lengths of string with a plastic tip on each end? The last time I went out and bought them myself I think they were fourpence … in old money … and it was a bloke on the street corner selling them from a tray … with matches. (I never understood why bootlaces and matches went together. I mean it’s not as if I ever thought, ‘right, I’ve got my bootlaces, I’d better get some matches so I can set fire to them.’)

Having thus been stuffed for the better end of two quid, I proceed to insert new bootlace into boot and guess what? One of the aglets is missing. When I try to thread it through the eyelets, it strips and is useless.

So not only have I had to buy two laces when I only want one, not only have I had my hat nailed on for the price, but one of them is no bloody good.

Am I missing something here?

Sex On the Move

The Beeb reports that police in the Sør Buskerud district of Norway noticed a car travelling along the motorway at 20 mph over the limit, and veering erratically from side to side.

They soon discovered that the lady passenger was straddled across the driver’s lap and they were having sex.

The police said, ‘He couldn’t see much because her back was in his way.’

Only her back?

This gives a whole new meaning to the word screwdriver.

Side Effects

I suffer from athlete’s foot.  It’s a contradiction in terms. I stand 5’6’, weight 14½ stones and I’m shaped like a piece of early Minoan pottery: i.e. rotund, but I suffer from athlete’s foot.

It’s been bothering me lately. I think it’s the wear and tear of that 150-yard walk to the paper shop and back, so I’ll take the car in future.

However, I digress. I went to the doc’s yesterday to sort it out and he gave me some more pills. I now have enough tablets, creams, ointments, arthritis-helping bits and pieces to start my own pharmacy.

As is customary, I checked the possible side effects of the new pills and as usual, it reads like medical horror story. Junior doctors going through medical school don’t learn about half of these troubles.

Tucked away amongst the list were hair loss and wind.

Hair loss and wind?

My hair waved goodbye years ago , it’s why you always see me wearing a cap these days , and I can ill-afford to lose any of the little I have left.

And as for wind … there is no way that modern wonder drugs can compete with two bottles of Newcastle Brown Ale and two pork pies.