I Don’t Get It
Unless you are a steadfast contrarian, there is something slightly disturbing with being out of step with public opinion on trivial issues. Not sharing in the global enthusiasm for this or that can leave you feeling churlish or even antisocial.
But I’ve done enough nodding and smiling politely about the following topics when they come up, and it’s time to come clean and say I don’t like…
Nothing against them personally, lovely people, etc., etc. but they just don’t do it for me. Needless to say the dames had an outing to see the film of Mamma Mia, and a jolly good time was had by all, but I don’t mind if I never hear any of their songs again.
I never get the same rush of pleasure or nostalgia when I happen to hear them in the way that I do with, say, ‘I’m Not In Love’ or ‘Space Oddity’. And as for ‘Dancing Queen’ – well, what is there to dance to there? It’s got a slow, plodding beat that does nothing to get me on my feet.
(In passing, I could never understand the preference for Agnetha over Frida, either…)
Honey is the metaphor for everything that is sweet and bounteous and healthy, and has been for thousands of years – the Promised Land was flowing with milk and honey. It’s a term of endearment, the object of Winnie the Pooh’s passion, and signifies loveliness and pleasure as a prefix in ‘honeymoon’ and ‘honeychile’. It’s even antiseptic. But I just don’t like it. It has a metallic taste that puts me off, and I can never detect any difference between acacia honey, orange blossom honey or any other of the fancy honeys, and bog-standard own-brand honey.
Give me golden syrup preferably from a green and gold tin bearing the legend ‘out of the strong came forth sweetness’. It has a matchless depth of flavour and smoothness – and, sadly no beneficial qualities whatsoever, unless you count balm for the soul.
Trainers hit the big time as everyday wear in the 1990s, and I’ve been waiting for them to go out of style ever since. Instead they’ve become ever more egregious, more bulbous, more garish, more branded – more like alien life forms battening onto your feet.
And what’s with the near-universal white edging on the soles, guaranteed to go grubby in a week?
I’ve always owned one pair of trainers for the express purpose of wearing in the gym, and at one time I could pride myself on them being the uncoolest trainers on the planet: from a Clarks (Clarks!) discount outlet in Ebbw Vale, they were dun-coloured all over and served me very well for about ten years, until the day my Zumba teacher asked me to see him after class. How exciting! Was he going to ask me to take part in one of his dance-a-thons? No, he was going to tell me that he didn’t think my beloved Clarks provided enough ankle support for a woman of my years…
Luckily, anticipating that after ten years I was likely to need a new pair, I had already bought a half-price (naturally) pair of Geox trainers that are black – BLACK – all over. I don’t think they’re quite what he had in mind, but he accepted them.
But I do like Dolly Parton, butterscotch Angel Delight, and anything fleece!