The Lair

I like to complain. This is well known. I can be the crankiest, most depressing person ever. My glass is always stolen; never mind half full or empty. I can be the black hole of negativity into which all things positive are sucked in, never to return (much like the dryer and my socks, I think).

So, for a change – instead of bitching about the weather, the allegedly rough neighbourhood, the depressing environs of this town and sundry other causes for complaint – let me share what I like about this country.

In no particular order –

• Malt vinegar – on chips (fish are optional, since I find that approximately 1-2% of fish varieties give me horrendous allergic reactions)
• Sunday roast. Preferably with nice and crisp Yorkshire puddings that sop up the gravy
• The whole pub culture in this country. No, seriously. I don’t know of many places where it is acceptable to nurse a few beers and watch a widescreen television intently … which brings me to
• Football, Six Nations rugby and various other sporting events, most of which the Beeb screens for free
• The sense of humour. Acerbic wit is so very under-rated, but among people of a certain age and educational background, it’s practically a sine-qua-non.

• Decent cider. No, this does not include Strongbow. It never will.

So what if most of those things are food and drink? That’s just how I roll.

Possessing fingertips which are impervious to all fingerprint scanners.

Since fingerprints and other personal information is gathered when you need to ask to travel to some countries; I submitted myself to the indignity of being treated a tad like a convicted felon. Only, try as he might – the operator simply could not get my fingerprints to take, as it were.

I cleaned my fingers with some antiseptic smelling solution, washed them thoroughly – the guy even cleaned the surface of the scanner – but to no avail.

And it was just my fingers. He almost accusingly placed his own fingers on the scanner and triumphantly showed me as they scanned cleanly the first time.

And this is hereditary, to boot – my dad apparently has the same problem. If you want to call it that, of course. Now, if we can only figure out how to do this for the iris scanners, we’ll be all set.

If the title of the post is not a word, well … it should be.

FMyLife – because someone, somewhere out there, has it much much worse than you do. I love the idea, actually… and some of the stories in there are cringe inducingly hilarious.

And in the grand tradition of postsecret, Secret Tweet.