Chopsticks

This morning, following limping on to the number 88 bus, yes the self imposed bucking bronco incident is still causing partial lameness, I sat down ready to deliquesce into my lovely carpeted seat and enjoy the before 8am peace and quiet.
Unfortunately some unthinking proletarian had other plans and put their phone onto uber loud so that when it rang the whole bus would be forced to listen to their ingenious ringtone revealing their evidently jocular nature.

I know you are now curious as to what mirthful tune they could possibly have chosen for the event to culminate in a whole blog posting, so I shall tell you. Chopsticks, yes chopsticks or kuay tzu as the Chinese say. Can you believe it?

Out of all the symphonies in the world why on earth would you choose such a puerile and monotonous composition?

Perhaps it was to bring back the memories of rebellious, pubescent behaviour in music lessons, just as the smell of semolina for me takes me back to the challenge of sneaking the whole bowl into the bin before the corpulent dinner lady with the Hitler moustache caught us. But why would you want to remember chopsticks?

But then Austin O'Malley did say "Memory is a crazy woman that hoards coloured rags and throws away food."