The Daily Blog #14

Pretentious yogurt

In a persisting state of exhaustion I left my seat and ventured out coatless into the January afternoon.

I had just eaten three sausage rolls and needed more. What of? I could not say. I just needed something else, some other sustenance that might be found in one of the two competing supermarkets nearby.

In the first, I fingered a flapjack thinking about all the sugar that was in it and then remembered the protein shake I had left in the fridge at work last week. It was probably still there. I needn’t have come out at all.

In the next supermarket, I saw something that could be the thing that I wanted. A yoghurt with compote and granola. The realm of the hipsters, not really breakfast, definitely not lunch, but some pretentious yoghurt might do to quell the caffeine-induced uneasiness.

If you really want pretentious, the other shop has artisanal yoghurt. The yoghurt that comes from a farm in the Hebrides, where they wear sweaters all year round and spend their free time playing table tennis and trying to perfect cold press coffee in a converted barn. You know, the kind of place you imagine is probably quite nice after you’ve murdered everyone inside.

Back at my desk, it was an empty experience. The yoghurt was inoffensive (except that I spell it with an h and perhaps due to international obligations the packaging reads without), the compote was insufficient both in quantity and sweetness, and the granola — if we dare call it that, was akin to what you might pick off the bottom of a hamster cage or peel off a leper’s back. Dry, tasteless scabs that are the feeblest impression of an oat or a sunflower seed.

I felt no better for it, but very little helps on days like today anyway. You eat junk, you eat healthily, it’s all the same, nothing picks you up. You just need sleep. I just need sleep. It’s a day of hangover and looking ahead to the blessed relief of sleep and then to the next day when you hope things might be better — it is clear that the deleterious effects will be present still, except you are more conscious of it. The effect of tiredness on the brain shares much with that of drunkeness.

For a time, I ate all of the pretentious yoghurt. I came up with it in a moment of abject boredom. When you are bored, you try to find things that will entertain you. What if I try all of this yoghurt to determine which one is the best? It was a hugely expensive endeavour. I couldn’t afford artisanal yoghurt. I still can’t.

People wandering about the office looked at me as though I had gone mad. I had little pots of yoghurt everywhere.

And why? What was the point? There wasn’t one, is the easy answer. It was something to do. Once upon a time there was one pot of yoghurt in the supermarkets, now there are hundreds. The market is saturated with these startups that have wheedled their way into the yoghurt game, and all because at some point, someone idly digging for earwax decided they could do yoghurt better than the next guy.

Another time, I got into the business of taking apart electronics. I would say fixing, but I don’t think I ever fixed anything. Instead of working, I would bring in a broken laptop and spend the day taking out and putting back in various components and differently sized screws. Of course inevitably I would re-assemble it and there would be left over screws and bits and pieces at the end of it to tell me that I hadn’t done a good job. This is the advantage and disadvantage of having no immediate oversight. I could do anything, but instead I chose to waste my life on this nonsense.

We probably shouldn’t talk about the macarons, but that was a weekend I will never get back. Yet another overpriced thing I saw in the supermarket…and I thought to myself: I wonder what those taste like? And I wonder how you make those? If I could make them, then I wouldn’t have to pay a king’s ransom for six of the little buggers. I proceeded to make hundreds of them. They weren’t at all bad, but they weren’t great either. I’ve never been tempted to give them another go. I haven’t been tempted to make yoghurt yet, but I have eyed up beer and wine production.

I suppose what I’m getting around to saying is that there’s always another side project to test the patience of the people around me. So far nobody seems to have minded (or I’ve just been too involved in the study of whatever whim has decided to take me away from the vital business of waiting for somebody to need my help with something).

I definitely shouldn’t mention the knitting. That one raised some eyebrows. I just liked the idea of being able to make a scarf or a hat or something. For the endtimes, you know? After world war three or whatever, in some nuclear winter scenario. I don’t know. The endless jibes at the thought of a man attempting to knit coupled with my being absolutely fucking hopeless at it were enough to curb that desire before it ever began.

You want to crochet a little pair of balls for yourself there, buddy?

What is the point of any of this? Well, if something piques your interest, surely you should give it a go.

You want to try all the yogurt? Try all the yogurt.

Thank you, as always, for reading. The gift for me is that you found these words and they found you at some moment in time (due to the chaotic pace of modern life, it’s likely you were in a toilet stall somewhere, that’s okay, that’s just fine) and we shared a brief connection with one another. Please, always feel free to leave a comment and know that I will do my absolute best to respond.

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Jon Scott

Jon Scott

Just another confused soul. Occasional scribbler of things. All views are someone else’s (probably)