Took a trip into Oxford today to have a Sunday stroll around Christchurch Meadow with the family (very middle class and very pleasant) and a visit to the vastly underrated Modern Art Oxford.
But there was a problem. The exhibition by Karla Black wasn't my cup of tea.
No problem with that you might think. But it's not just that it wasn't my cup of tea it was the righteous indignation it stirred within my soul.
As I looked at the pile of pink chalk dust on the floor and the scraps of torn and scribbled paper hanging from the ceiling I had a burst of anger. Then a thought seeped into my brain: "How does anyone make money from this crap?"
Why bring it back to money? I've never felt like that before. If I've not liked something before I've thought 'horses for courses' and trudged away thinking about those sad teenage years when I would fail to see the sailing boat in the magic eye pictures.
Suddenly it's all about the bottom line.
I'm frightened to take my pants off at night in case my pubic hair is turning blue.
These feelings are the earliest signs of middle age. You’re a hair’s breadth away from joining Year One of the Grumpy Old Men brigade. You can’t help these feelings - the trick is to try your damnedest to not let them (or those confounded youngsters in the street) keep you awake at night.
ReplyDeleteIs that an intentional Mallrats reference?
ReplyDelete