It has been quite cold lately. You might expect that I would follow on from that observation to bemoan the UK's risible state of unpreparedness for a phenomenon (winter) that happens once a year, frequently lasting for several months.
But no. My scale is considerably smaller and pettier than that.
Living, as I do, on a cliffside, snow and ice tend to render my road inaccessible to road traffic. In previous years, this has led to uncollected rubbish piling up in the street – the only thing keeping the giant Bradford rats from it being the fact that it has frozen solid.
Fortunately this year, the bin men got here just before the snow really set in, although the recycling lorry did not, meaning my house is rapidly piling up with empty bottles of Innis and Gunn.
It also means that the postman doesn't often deliver. No doubt because he's down at the Idle Working Men's Club debating what Lenin meant when he called the state an instrument for the exploitation of the oppressed class.
They are put to shame by one indefatigable group whose members will endure any hardship, any personal discomfort to make sure that their precious cargo gets through.
I am talking, of course, about the takeaway menu distributors. Come rain, shine, flood, ice, tsunami or hail of frogs, I can rest assured in the knowledge that I will get upwards of 15 menus for practically identical Chinese, Indian and the peculiarly Bradford pizza/kebab/curry/chip outlet every week.
Worried that there's been a change to the menu and you might not know about it? Maybe the price of the mysterious "OK sauce" has gone fractionally down? Don't panic! As soon as there's a change, you'll be the first to know. And if there isn't, they'll put your mind at ease by posting you a new menu every week, so that you can compare it to the last one and be sure that you're 100% on top of what's going on at Wok Wok.
However, I come not to praise the takeaway menu delivery men, but to bury them.
It's cold. I have the heating on to try and warm my house. If you're going to stick these damn things through my letterbox, PUSH THEM ALL THE WAY IN SO THE LETTERBOX FLAP CLOSES.
I don't leave my windows open in this weather. I don't leave the doors open. That's because I am only trying to warm the interior of my house, not the whole street and (indeed) the yawning void of space beyond it. I don't know a lot about physics, entropy and the eventual inevitable heat-death awaiting the universe, but I do know that when you shove a menu into my letterbox and leave it in there, the house gets bloody cold and my gas bill goes up.
In these times of selfish individualism, it's hard to put oneself into the position of another to appreciate their point of view. It's something we're no longer used to. So, I propose a little demonstration. Menu people – next time you're about to jam some spam into my letterbox and leave it open, why not try shoving up your own arse instead? Not all the way, mind. See how uncomfortable it is? Then there you are.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is called empathy.
Postscript:
Thanks to my mum - the only person in the world who (I think) has read everything on this blog - for the picture of the snowman she and Roger Jr built last week. Should my mum need to be referred to again in the course of future writings, she will be known as Adelaide del Vasto.
So I Googled "Wikileaks" this morning to see what the latest developments in this news story were...and look at the top paid result I got (left - you may need your glasses. Sorry).
