One - I have man-flu. Second, I have always wanted to title a blog-post in this way. I have nothing meaningful to say about these blood-pressure gauges, so I will talk about something else. And as I have man-flu, you are going to humour me, innit.
I am fast developing a sense of what causes the members of our society, advancing in years, to become gently and increasing bewildered about modern life. I am no longer young, having moved into my forties, and the transition has started.
I wandered into a branch of Marks & Spencer yesterday, accompanying Mrs Acular on her bi-daily jaunts to the retail emporia of posh West London. As I am now old, I felt a primal draw towards the Big Pants section, having developed an unexpected but innate desire for trollies with letters of the alphabet marked across their frontage. However, that is for another day, so calm your ardour.
No - it was something else that cause my mind to go into "getting-old-meltdown". Once, you could walk into a shop, buy trousers - themselves available in many sizes ranging from Scrawny to Pudding, elasticated or otherwise. It was easy then. Not now. No. Now, you can buy Jeggings and Treggings, and not just Jeggings and Treggings, but Jeggings and Treggings in sizes that are now euphematised. No longer are you categorised as malnourished, over-caloried or simple shapeless - you have a name. No more S, M, L, XL, XXL, Round - but ladies names for ladies. I can't recall the exact names, but S = Twiggy, M = Maud, L = Tracy Turnblatt. You have to buy Treggings in size Maud now, not shapeless leggings for the shapeless in size Medium.
There went my ageing head. I should imagine that before long I won't find baked beans on shelves, but Fart Pellets in Colour Titian. Eggs will be Baby Chicks forlorn of Future and Cheese will be Culture of Gone-Off Milk with Mould Spores. That said, Gherkins will always be Snot Sausages, so not everything changes.
There went my blood vessels. Anyone got a sphygmomanometer?
See what I did? Did ya?