From aliens to authors
I seem to have been thinking quite a lot about other life-forms lately. I don't mean aliens from outer space. I mean fellow inhabitants of this planet.
Today I watched the fish floundering around in the tank in the wet market section of my local supermarket. It may have been a fluke, but I think they were mudfish, not flounders.
They seemed to be bullying each other, trying to gain some advantage, to establish a pecking order despite the lack of anything to peck at. It seemed ironic that the most conspicuous bullies would likely be the first to swim in a pool of searingly hot oil.
For some reason, which no doubt has deep psychological significance, although exactly what it might be escapes me, my thoughts turned to puppies. No, not those sort of puppies! The sort you find in Battersea Dogs Home, an establishment which I used to pass by quite regularly in a previous life.
Even from within the hermetically sealed environment of an Adtranz Electrostar railway carriage, the sound of barking could sometimes be heard over the drone of the air conditioning. Hundreds of doggy voices all shouting "Pick me! Pick me!"
I didn't heed their cries, being more of a cat person, but it struck me how unselective those dogs seemed to be. Anyone would do. They'd be anyone's friend. If they were on Facebook, they'd be the ones with 5000 'friends', desperately hoping that one of them would lose the apostrophes.
A friend on Shelfari added a book to her 'Planning to read' shelf and almost immediately received a 'be my friend' request from the author. Her reaction was not positive. She said "It seems kind of like what political people do, become friends so you will vote for them."
I understood how she felt and that's why I wouldn't adopt that approach, but having written a book (yes, that was the obligatory book plug), I also understand how that author feels. We're a bit like those puppies. Except we're yapping "Read my book! Read my book!"
Woof, woof.
Today I watched the fish floundering around in the tank in the wet market section of my local supermarket. It may have been a fluke, but I think they were mudfish, not flounders.
They seemed to be bullying each other, trying to gain some advantage, to establish a pecking order despite the lack of anything to peck at. It seemed ironic that the most conspicuous bullies would likely be the first to swim in a pool of searingly hot oil.
For some reason, which no doubt has deep psychological significance, although exactly what it might be escapes me, my thoughts turned to puppies. No, not those sort of puppies! The sort you find in Battersea Dogs Home, an establishment which I used to pass by quite regularly in a previous life.
Even from within the hermetically sealed environment of an Adtranz Electrostar railway carriage, the sound of barking could sometimes be heard over the drone of the air conditioning. Hundreds of doggy voices all shouting "Pick me! Pick me!"
I didn't heed their cries, being more of a cat person, but it struck me how unselective those dogs seemed to be. Anyone would do. They'd be anyone's friend. If they were on Facebook, they'd be the ones with 5000 'friends', desperately hoping that one of them would lose the apostrophes.
A friend on Shelfari added a book to her 'Planning to read' shelf and almost immediately received a 'be my friend' request from the author. Her reaction was not positive. She said "It seems kind of like what political people do, become friends so you will vote for them."
I understood how she felt and that's why I wouldn't adopt that approach, but having written a book (yes, that was the obligatory book plug), I also understand how that author feels. We're a bit like those puppies. Except we're yapping "Read my book! Read my book!"
Woof, woof.
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