This morning, as is my wont, I was ambling my way through the Sydney Morning Herald website over breakfast. I keep passing edicts against mixing crumbs and keyboards. I keep flouting these edicts too, but at least I don't mix crumbs and keyboards with bedsheets. No. I refuse to sink that low.
The Sydney Morning Herald website, these days, is a maze of lurid sensationalism, through which one navigates one's compass off to locate decent coverage of the NSW election. Occasionally, as today, I find myself lured down one of the lurid byways: the lurid byway, in this morning's case, was one of those far-too-patronised-for-its-own-good SMH blogs and it did its enticing with the promise of my instant indigation and by using the phrase "sex etiquette", which promised instant indignation plus a French word almost rhyming with petticoat.
So I was lured, and there was nothing for it but to plough ahead, and savour my indignation. It came awful quick. The blogmeister's first paragraph was enough: "Modern manners are in strife. Chivalrous men are a dying breed, atrocious table manners are no longer shrugworthy and mobile phones have given a new meaning to sloth."
Atrocious table manners, I can take 'em or leave 'em; mobile phones, they're the tool of Beelzebub, although it's unclear how sloth fits in; but this mourning of the death of chivalry: puh-leeeaassse. You want courtly love, lady? It's all yours. I, for one, am just as happy to trade sitting on a pedestal and having my hanky retrieved for being allowed out of the house on my own. Chivalry schmivellry, I say.
Obviously this particular rant could be a lot longer, could refer to the blog's repeated use of the phrase "biological clock", could be generally rantier, but instead I tell you this: muttering invectives against this far-too-patronised-for-its-own-good SMH blog, I chomped down hard on my orange. Orange juice sprayed in all directions, bedaubing my poor keyboard, and my equally poor eyelid, which immediately set up an angry red protest, as if citric acid weren't good for sensitive skin or something. I stumbled towards the bathroom. The cuff of my shirt sleeve caught on the doorknob, and tore, and I fell, and conked my knee on a malignant bit of furniture. This, I tells ye, this I blame on the lurid byways of the SMH website. The price I pay for not just buying the newspaper.
I'm just lucky there wasn't any shining armour lying around. My trouser leg, someone else's greave: a potentially lethal combination.