A week after my birthday two of my neighbours invited me to a restaurant school. The meals we, I was told, inexpensive because it was prepared by culinary students, but very good. I came home from work and drove them to the school, out on the arse end of Creation.
Lo and behold, about 20 of my friends were there yelling ‘Surprise!’
In conversation over the evening and between courses (oh, may I recommend the cornish hen), I observed that basically my life is excellent. I have a university education, I work in a highly-skilled sector, live in a G7 democracy, am fit, and to top it off, am white and male. Basically, I’ve won the lottery of life. If anyone hears me complain, anyone within earshot should fee free to slap me. No, really. My life is overall, very good.
At this moment someone is deciding, somewhere, to spend the family money on food or mosquito netting. I have never been on the spot that way.
That my life is blighted by the manure spreader that is a mentally ill parent, needs to be kept in perspective.
My life is, yep, pretty good. Here’s a picture of a bunny.