Wednesday 11 March 2009

Aglets

Aglets. I bet you don't know what aglets are. I didn't either, until I was told what they are, by the same dude who told me what the philtrum is, on the same day. The aglet, he informed me, is the little thingy on the end of your shoelaces.
He didn't use those exact words, but if he did, he'd have been wrong. For my shoelaces that day would surely have long lost their aglets, through wear, tear, and my refusal to tie them properly.
Today, however, I wear shoes with laces that loudly assert their agletedness whenever they come undone, with a faint, but not so faint as to be un-discernible, tinkle. For my aglets are made of brass, or some similarly metallic substance. And they've remained steadfastly fastened to the end of my laces, partly because they're bonded on by some combination of superglue and opposite-charge attraction - in comparison to the faint-hearted transparent plastic aglets rolled around the laces of my school shoes - but mostly because I now redo my laces whenever they come undone.
That's partly because they look kinda nifty and I don't want to lose them, but mostly because of the tinkle.
The aglet that tinkles most lasts longest. My first contribution to the universe-sized fund of meaningless sayings. If this ever becomes popular, and gets recited in a hundred and seventy two countries in twenty thousand languages, I imagine that whoever reads about the dude who coined it - me - would imagine I had a beard.
(This is a response to Rajesh Madhini's response to my previous post)

Thursday 5 March 2009

More handkerchief nostalgia

When I was a kid, my laces were always undone. I was always told that I'd trip on them and break my fall by breaking my nose. It never happened.
I did once trip and fall and land on my jaw, however. One of my teeth broke.
But that wasn't due to a shoelace coming undone. What happened was, I was tripped from behind by a chap when he and I and a bunch of other chaps were playing football, on a basketball court, with a tennis ball.
Ah, the memories. Tasting blood, getting up, shaking off the dust from my person, reassuring my friends that I was okay to carry on, scoring a goal about five minutes later - a low shot driven into the bottom corner from the edge of the basketball D - going back home in a friend's car, feeling a mild sense of something not quite feeling right, putting food on my plate - lemon rice - putting a spoonful in my mouth, looking down to find a tooth on the plate.
Even now, I wear a false tooth. It's one of those false teeth which have a large bit that fits snugly into your upper-palate, a false tooth that you can pull out of your mouth when you brush your teeth, and apply the brush to separately. It was supposed to be temporarily in place until I went back to the dentist to get a permanent one fixed - permanently - in my mouth. I never got round to doing that. My dad - on one of his visits to the dentist - asked him if it's okay, and the dentist said it's okay.
Between losing my tooth and getting a false tooth, there was a gap of one day. And it was a weekday. And I went to school and freaked everyone out for a while before feeling embarrassed and speaking with my hanky clutched to my face.
There was another day in school when my hanky spent a lot of time clutched to my face, in a stationary, non-wiping-nose manner. That day, a zit appeared in probably the worst place for a zit to appear, right below the nose, on what's known as - and a friend of mine revealed this to me during one of those trivia-swapping sessions - the philtrum.
Trust me, you do not want a zit in your philtrum.