i-want-more

Labelwhore

This morning, at Waterloo train station, I was shuffling along behind a sporty-looking but shabby middle-aged man. He was carrying a khaki holdall, probably with a gym kit in it - he had a tennis racquet under one arm. On the side of the holdall was (what I'm assuming was) his name, written in scruffy, uneven capital letters in black marker pen - ANDREW TURNBULL.

This got me thinking...what if labels didn't exist? What if we had to wear our own labels, instead of swooshes and jumping cats and figures of men on horses playing an arcane sport? What if we had to wear our names emblazoned across our chests? Or our job titles (heaven forbid)? Surely those two things define us more accurately than (the surely slightly threatening slogan) 'JUST DO IT'?

Unlike my great-nephews, whom are aged six and five, my youth was largely unemcumbered by such worries as 'do I have the right make of trainers?'. However, that didn't mean that I didn't get teased for wearing the wrong kind of clothing when I was a kid. That's inevitable, I think.

Every time I am tempted by a new item of clothing, I'm going to imagine that I have my name written on it in black marker pen. That way, I should be able to work out if I really need it.

posted by deafdisco @ 11:34 am