I saw the woman from The Ting Tings the other day. (The Ting Tings are this great new band with a fresh sound that young folk like.) Now, I have seen her on TV, bopping about rather energetically in the video for their first two singles. I would have
imagined she was about 5ft eight, broad shouldered, a tad Amazonian.
She is in fact tiny – a tiny wee thing with tiny wee hands and tiny wee feet. Now I should know better. Old friends of mine who haven't seen me in the flesh for ages and have only witnessed me on the telly often say how much slimmer I am looking since the last time they clapped eyes on me. The reality is quite simple: I am the size of a whale with a high BMI when witnessed off the telly. I lumber like a large tin of lard when walking across screen. Anything in comparison would seem svelte and elegant when compared to that be-turbanned heffalump on screen.
I have not lost weight; but they are not being insincere, they are simply being fooled by the difference between the Hardeep in high definition 16:9 and the relatively normal Hardeep that wanders the streets eating pastries. I have definitely not lost weight. In fact I have been putting it on, chiefly because I believed all my friends that told me that I had lost weight since they last saw me. It's a self-fulfilling prophesy, vanity.
Reading between the lines, he may be Kelly's heroMy friend's girlfriend can think of nothing nicer than spending Sunday morning with a big mug of coffee and the Sunday papers. He, too, enjoys the tranquillity, when the only sound is the arcing rustle of a broadsheet, weighed down with polysyllables.
Being the polite man that he is, David allows his girlfriend, Kelly, to read the best bits of the paper first. Kelly, however, insists upon reading bits out to him before he has a chance to read them for himself. She normally prefaces her reports with the phrase "Oh, you'll like this" or "Mmmh, David listen to this". He tries to make the point that if she thinks he is going to be interested then maybe she should just let him enjoy it himself.
Much as I think David is being reasonable I also think it's very lovely that Kelly bothers to read bits out that she thinks he'll like. That's not annoying David; that could well be love.
Some instant rules on cyberspace etiquetteI like to be polite. My mum always used to say "it costs nothing to be polite". I did once ask her what the tariff was for being rude and whether it was tax deductible. But politeness has always been a virtue instilled in me from a young age.
I can't promise to always uphold its cause but I certainly try whenever possible. I have managed to channel my politeness through new waves of media. When I obtained my first mobile phone in the mid-1990s (was it really that long ago?) I soon learned that it was impolite to accept a call during lunch or dinner. Soon it dawned on me that even having my phone on could be construed as rude.
Similarly, loud phone conversations on a bus were never to be construed as polite, particularly when the subject matter became medical, if you know what I mean. I learned that block capitals on an e-mail means shouting: I had spent most of 2003 shouting at people through cyberspace since my CAPS LOCK had been stuck down by some errant Superglue.
Somehow I overcame the gamut of technology-driven politeness and thought, rather smugly, that I had every eventuality mastered. How wrong I was. A new piece of techno-nonsense came along and lured me with its techno-charm and its techno-ease. It was a messaging service that was instant. Oh yes. Instant messaging. It was like a real conversation except the words were written and sent rather than spoken and heard. It was genius. The ease of communication was immense. Simple, short, snappy statements, unlike e-mail, receiving simple short snappy responses. My life was changed.
That was until I discovered the single yet sizeable downside of instant messaging. You see, unless you notify the world that you are "offline" you are "online". This is basically an invitation for instant messaging folk to send you instant messages. That seems fair enough. However, these instant message senders require, nay demand, instant messaging responses.
Here is my dilemma. I feel rude if I fail to respond to their messages instantly. I feel somehow that they think I am ignoring them. It is as if someone at a party has asked me a question and I refuse to answer. I feel compelled to immediately respond and chastise myself if I fail. Now some of you more astute super-users might suggest in your know-it-all techno-embracing way that I simply switch my status to "offline". I would if I could work out how to do it.
The only way I seem to be able to find the correct wee box to change my online status is after someone has messaged me. By then it is too late; the damage is done. If I then change my status it is as if, having been asked the question at the party not only do I fail to respond I actively walk away and speak to Jeanette in the corner by the music system. And Jeanette's not that nice anyway.
I would like to take this opportunity to apologise to any instant message senders who read this and have felt spurned by my lack of timeous response. Perhaps you will forgive a man who tries very hard to be cyber-polite but fails, instantly.
Every weekend was a roll-over SaturdayI had a lovely bagel on Wednesday. Bagels are great with their dense, chewy texture and seemingly endless supply of toppings and fillings. Meatball and mozzarella with an arrabiata sauce was last week's offering with a poppy seed-encrusted cap.
A far cry from my original experience of the Jewish bread snack. When I was a boy my mum, who owned and ran a newsagents in the Southside of Glasgow, had a lovely customer who would, every Saturday, drop off a carrier bag full of delicious unleavened breads that was a gateway into another, deliciously glamorous and different world. There were all sorts of breads and pastries. And every Saturday, religiously, he would give them to my mum.
It was only years later that the penny dropped and I realised he was Jewish and sharing with my mum the unused bread of the Passover the night before. I always think of that customer with his bag whenever I sink my teeth into a bagel. I'm sure he would be happy.
The full article contains 1167 words and appears in Scotland On Sunday newspaper.
