Adventures in commerce, Chinese New Year edition

My life continues to be some slapstick extravaganza. Somebody appears to have adjusted the water pressure in the taps in the office toilet, so that every time I wash my hands my groin gets sprayed liberally with water and I have to hang out there until it dries out, or else go back into the office looking like I’ve soiled myself.

This evening, I came home to a feverish child and another one with a bunged up nose. La Serpiente went to sleep surprisingly quickly, but Destroyer wouldn’t go to sleep. After an hour and a half of her shrieks, I took pity on my wife, and took Destroyer out for a walk.

It’s approaching Chinese New Year, and to celebrate, there’s lots of stalls selling all sorts of tat. I used to think how dreadfully commercialised the Chinese were, concentrating on buying, buying, buying, until I realised that that was pretty much the same as the way Europeans celebrate Christmas. (That may be because my old boss indoctrinated in me that All Chinese People Are Exactly Alike, and All Europeans Are Exactly Alike too. Say what you like for her terrible stereotyping, she did stereotype everyone. Although I suppose that isn’t such a great thing.)

Anyway, there is some odd stuff that gets sold at Chinese New Year. I only find it odd because I don’t have a rich history of Confucian wisdom, I suppose. Otherwise I’d appreciate the Lunar New Year glory that is…

Fizzy Ribena?

I’m not sure which is stranger – for a carbonated blackcurrent drink to be associated with the year of the Monkey, or for a middle aged man with a six-month-old strapped to his chest, taking a photograph of it with his smartphone and then failing to post that photograph to Twitter. Are we still in the future, or just the End of Days?

Then I went into the supermarket, and found myself worried and distracted that apparently the person who puts labels on the prices has been at the produce, because they can’t figure out if the beer is 8% or 9%.

If you can’t figure out if the beer is 8% or 9%, it’s not the beer you should be drinking. Those aren’t the droids you’re looking for. This is not the pop cultural reference you think you’re making. Put it down.

I talked to Destroyer about a few different things tonight, but grew tired of monologuing and eventually gave up and walked home with a carton of milk. Honest Milk, it was labelled as, not like that workshy milk that sponges off the state and doesn’t do a day’s honest work and… where was I going with this?

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