We tend not to read a lot of challenging literature here at the Privy Counsel, having come to the comfortable conclusion that we know what we like, and we like what we know. Why bother reading anything other than P G Wodehouse, if the result is that you end up depressed and horrified? Well, quite.
Depression and horror, of course, are part of life whether you like it or not. We endured, for example, a seminar recently where talking about one's personal life was encouraged, and people took this as a signal to start sharing information about their cats. As you may imagine, it took quite a lot of wine and ranting to get over this particular trauma, and we're not entirely sure that we ever fully will. There are, however, techniques for facilitating relative sanity.
The trick, or so the evolutionary psychologists tell us, is to not focus on the horror. The human brain is engineered to anticipate danger, preferably seeing it everywhere, not excluding that other seminar you nearly had to go to, about sustainability. By making you permanently anxious your brain is, to put it crudely, promoting its own survival by ensuring that you don't forget to worry about snakes, bears, and whether the acquaintance you just made is likely to send you pictures of lasagna in the future. This is all fine. The problems emerge when life becomes so safe that, although there is no lack of sociopaths who will insist on talking at length about their grey cat Jasper and their brown cat Molly and these animals' respective feeding habits and individual peculiarities, there are very few actual life-threatening dangers, like snakes and bears, around. The brain, however, doesn't know the difference between grizzly-bears and cat-fanciers, responding with reasonable horror and panic when confronted with either phenomenon, and ensuring that you dwell on the memory, thus continuing your state of panic. The most effective measure against this constant state of angst is to focus on whatever good things happen to float by, in the polluted mess of a river we call life. Let go of the metaphorical mangled bike tyre, and grasp for the attractively weathered and potentially useful piece of flotsam wood.
There are many different methods for focusing on the good stuff and trying to forget about that weird photo of layered pasta. Some people meditate, others, for reasons unfathomable to us, knit things. Personally, our preferred method of dropping ice-cubes down the vest of fear is to open a bottle of wine and let nature take its course. Whatever you do, do not read modern literature.
Jonny, that splendid piece of manhood, is a philosopher in the true sense of the word: a lover of wisdom. Not for Jonny the convoluted conversations about whether Foucault's fuck-ups in the realm of historical accuracy mean that he can be discarded as a credible academic (yes), or the anguished political contortions on the subject of interest-rates (nobody understands this; let it go). Jonny went to a restaurant in Leeds, and it was nice. This hunky sage writes:
Chaophraya, Thai restaurant in Leeds.
Double toilet roll. Ample.
Flowers. Lovely.
White tiled floor. Nice.
Even a place as nice as this is not immune to graffiti though it seems.
Reader, there you have it. Go to a nice restaurant. (Take photos, if you want. Maybe send them to us.) Have some wine. Spend time with people whose company you enjoy. Develop the skill of telling complicated but plausible-sounding lies to get out of having to hang out with people who are prone to talking about cats, or sending photos of lasagna. Chill the fuck out. Personally, we're off to drink vast quantities of champagne. Vale!
Festive Video: Whitney Rose, Chivalry Is Dead
Related Reading:
All posts featuring Jonny
All posts featuring man's pragmatic everyday struggle for survival in this perilous world
All posts featuring graffiti
Some posts featuring restaurants
All posts featuring Thailand
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