Is it actually ironic that if I moved to the States I’d have to give up cola? Hmm, possibly, although the word has been abused so much I just don’t know anymore. Not that I ever did, not even in the halcyon, Reality Bites days of youth and China. I guess if fate did lead me there, I could import it from a country that understands that high fructose corn syrup is in fact the spawn of the Devil? A product that renders anything it’s put in completely unfit for human consumption?
So last Sunday we took a trip to a market (the Sunday Up market, for those who are interested – guess when it’s open, go on…) where I bought a can of coke. So far, so usual, you all might say. But I had failed to (cos, er, why would I need to?) check where the can had been manufactured, and it was only after that first, long anticipated draught that I realised that I held the abomination of American Cola in my hand. Disappointing coke is very, very disappointing. If I’d been MC Hammer, I would’ve had something more to say about it all, I’m sure.*
Luckily the Szechuan chicken I also bought was passable, and as the sun’s finally decided to come out in London, it’s nice to just wander aimlessly around the town, perch on sidewalks listening to buskers, and watch the strangely dressed life go by. The daffodils and crocuses (Crocusi? Crocii?) are up in the parks, the weather is decidely warmer, and the days are getting longer at an incredible rate. I suspect you could almost say that spring has sprung, and life is much, much better because of it. And much, much better just in general, thanks for asking. Excepting the fact I might be made jobless any day now, of course.
But what’s new? And do I really care? Not particularly.
Happy birthday, Juliet! One day I might even buy you a present, but not today.
* Speaking of which, does anyone else remember James T doing a piss take of that ad in 4th Form English with Bonita and Chiquita bananas? No? Well, he did. And now you know.