A fascinating new study from Germany finds that revenge doesn't pay.
In a sane world, this would be no surprise. Energy spent on making someone else's life crap, is energy that's not working for oneself, or one's loved ones. In economic terms, it's simply a waste of resources. From Othello to Captain Ahab to the Count of Monte Cristo, our culture is full of illustrations of how revenge is a dish best not eaten at all.
The fact that this isn't considered blindingly obvious is probably because there are so many batshit-insane people around nowadays. In particular, believers in that beguiling branch of maths known as "game theory" - a category that, nowadays, includes almost everyone concerned with social sciences. Game theory, as popularly interpreted, implies that if someone does something bad to you, you should retaliate proportionately against them.
As far as it goes, the theory is fair enough. But it doesn't go nearly as far as many people think it does. Game theory, like every mathematical theory I've ever heard of, is based on a vast pile of mostly-unspoken assumptions that simply aren't true in the real world. For instance, there's the assumption that all players are following the same rules, which are not liable to change. Then there's the assumption that the number of players is constant - nobody will enter or leave the game mid-way. Or that all players have the same motivation. In most economic and social contexts, these assumptions are patently absurd. But they're so seldom stated that it's easy to forget they're there.
Now, thanks to Prof Dr Armin Falk of Bonn University and his co-authors, we have concrete evidence that "negative reciprocity" is truly counter-productive. In particular, the study finds, vengeful people are much more likely to find themselves unemployed.
What does work, on the other hand, is "positive reciprocity". Turns out that, regardless of the level of motivation, returning good behaviour leads to a much more profitable relationship than punishing bad behaviour.
What I like about this study is that it doesn't care about means or mechanisms. It doesn't try to prove, or even imply, that reward is a better motivator than punishment, or that relationships based on threat of punishment are unhealthy. It doesn't even try to argue with game theory. Maybe these things are true, maybe they aren't; that's not the point here. The point is that there is a measurable difference in outcomes.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Monday, March 30, 2009
The privacy paradox
When I was a kid, I lived in a beautiful big house in a small-ish village in Sussex. Looking out of the windows at the front of the house, there was the front garden and driveway - then the road - and then open fields, with (as I recall) sheep grazing peacefully.
When I was about 12, the greedy farmer sold the land to an even greedier property developer. Over the course of a year or so, the tranquil field was transformed into a housing estate. Google Maps tells me that there are no fewer than three named roads, now, where those sheep should be, with the entrance virtually opposite our former house. I daresay it's a pleasant enough estate, but I never explored it much - I couldn't forgive it for destroying my view.
That's the way most building happens, in England. Some obscenely rich person or company buys a ridiculous amount of land, builds a huge swathe of houses, then sells them off individually, at - if they're even half-way competent - a profit that has to be seen to be believed. In pre-industrial times, it was the aristocracy (for whom, much of the time, "having too much money" was quite literally their biggest problem); in the 19th century, factory owners (who needed somewhere for their workers to live); in the 20th century, professional developers (or the government).
The effects are variable, but on the whole it works well. The population density of England is huge - if it were a US state, it would be second in overcrowding only to New Jersey - but most people live in reasonable housing, with reasonable privacy and good access to amenities. And that, I now realise, is because the houses were built en masse. It's quite possible to put 20 houses on an acre of land, each with its own tiny garden, such that each one is overlooked on only one side (if that) - if you're the only one doing the building.
But that's not the way it happens down here. When pakeha settlers came to New Zealand in earnest, the land was parcelled out in lots, with each landholder in charge of building on their own patch. At the time, that must have felt like a liberating idea. A century or so on, however, the drawbacks are showing.
Most of the early settlers in Auckland - the 'Fencibles of the 1840s - built their houses on quarter-acre "sections". Pretty soon it was clear that this was too generous, and section sizes came down steadily; in central Auckland today, it's very rare to see a section offered that's much more than 400 square metres (one-tenth of an acre). And each time the "standard" section size comes down, people on larger sections have subdivided their land and built new houses, according to their own whims and bank balance, wherever they could fit them in.
It is, in a word, a mess.
Take, for instance, this place in Ellerslie, which we looked over a few weeks ago. Nice garden, decent area - but the whole of Ellerslie has similar privacy issues, and they're getting worse by the week. If these houses had been built all together as a two-storey terrace, or as duplexed pairs, they would have ended up with larger gardens, larger floor space and better privacy. But because they're each built standalone, they all overlook one another.
And the worst of it is that expectations have migrated steadily downwards, so now, even when developers do have a lot of land, they simply don't seem to notice the idea of privacy. Consider this pleasant house in rich Remuera. "Perfectly private" says the estate agent - which is an outright lie, unless you're willing to keep every blind closed 24/7.
Auckland has less than half the population density of London; but it's vastly overcrowded - just because it's ludicrously inefficient.
That's freedom for you.
When I was about 12, the greedy farmer sold the land to an even greedier property developer. Over the course of a year or so, the tranquil field was transformed into a housing estate. Google Maps tells me that there are no fewer than three named roads, now, where those sheep should be, with the entrance virtually opposite our former house. I daresay it's a pleasant enough estate, but I never explored it much - I couldn't forgive it for destroying my view.
That's the way most building happens, in England. Some obscenely rich person or company buys a ridiculous amount of land, builds a huge swathe of houses, then sells them off individually, at - if they're even half-way competent - a profit that has to be seen to be believed. In pre-industrial times, it was the aristocracy (for whom, much of the time, "having too much money" was quite literally their biggest problem); in the 19th century, factory owners (who needed somewhere for their workers to live); in the 20th century, professional developers (or the government).
The effects are variable, but on the whole it works well. The population density of England is huge - if it were a US state, it would be second in overcrowding only to New Jersey - but most people live in reasonable housing, with reasonable privacy and good access to amenities. And that, I now realise, is because the houses were built en masse. It's quite possible to put 20 houses on an acre of land, each with its own tiny garden, such that each one is overlooked on only one side (if that) - if you're the only one doing the building.
But that's not the way it happens down here. When pakeha settlers came to New Zealand in earnest, the land was parcelled out in lots, with each landholder in charge of building on their own patch. At the time, that must have felt like a liberating idea. A century or so on, however, the drawbacks are showing.
Most of the early settlers in Auckland - the 'Fencibles of the 1840s - built their houses on quarter-acre "sections". Pretty soon it was clear that this was too generous, and section sizes came down steadily; in central Auckland today, it's very rare to see a section offered that's much more than 400 square metres (one-tenth of an acre). And each time the "standard" section size comes down, people on larger sections have subdivided their land and built new houses, according to their own whims and bank balance, wherever they could fit them in.
It is, in a word, a mess.
Take, for instance, this place in Ellerslie, which we looked over a few weeks ago. Nice garden, decent area - but the whole of Ellerslie has similar privacy issues, and they're getting worse by the week. If these houses had been built all together as a two-storey terrace, or as duplexed pairs, they would have ended up with larger gardens, larger floor space and better privacy. But because they're each built standalone, they all overlook one another.
And the worst of it is that expectations have migrated steadily downwards, so now, even when developers do have a lot of land, they simply don't seem to notice the idea of privacy. Consider this pleasant house in rich Remuera. "Perfectly private" says the estate agent - which is an outright lie, unless you're willing to keep every blind closed 24/7.
Auckland has less than half the population density of London; but it's vastly overcrowded - just because it's ludicrously inefficient.
That's freedom for you.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Daylight
Dawn is completely unlike sunset. Sunset is all about pinks and patterns and particulates in the sky, still aglow and dancing in the heat of day. Sunrise, now... sunrise is a much more demure affair. The air is cool and clear and still; the sky changes gradually, the colours of the whole world grow stronger and clearer, and it becomes very hard to resist pretentious words like "suffuse". I can quite see why the Greeks had a goddess of the Dawn, while Dusk was left to its own devices.
I shouldn't be aware of this yet. It's still too early in the year to be waking up in the dark. But a couple of years ago, our government extended daylight savings for an extra three weeks in the autumn. It was one of those pointless moves that unfailingly shows that a party has been in power too long. (Incidentally it has flummoxed Microsoft, which despite having released at least two patches specifically to accommodate the change, still hasn't managed it - Outlook is currently reminding me of appointments an hour late.)
I'm not sure whether this illustrates MS's incompetence, or the inherent silliness of daylight savings. Both, I think.
Back home, the beginning of September was always my favourite time of year. For a couple of weeks the tail-of-summer weather continues glorious, the oppressive August heat is gone, the leaves just beginning to look interesting. Maybe it's the childhood associations of the new school year, but to me it always felt like a beginning, not an end. When I fell in love, it would usually happen in September.
Here, I've discovered, March occupies the same slot. The leaves are just beginning to turn. And because our weather is milder, late March is as good as early September back home. It's cool enough in the evenings, now, that one doesn't feel silly taking a jacket to go out, but the days are still relaxingly warm.
One of the nice things about our present city pad - one reason why we've stayed there for several years now - is that it's very well designed. Our bedroom faces northeast, which helps us get up in the morning. The living room is on a north-facing corner, which means it gets sun throughout the day. The kitchen is deep inside, away from the aggressive sunlight altogether. Pretty good feng shui.
And now in the mornings, I can lie in bed and watch the sun rise. Well, what I watch is the shadows moving down the wall, as the sun moves up the sky. Even after all this time, I'm still amazed at how quickly this happens - I can actually see the movement while I watch. At 7:30a.m., the navigation lights on the Sky Tower blink out, which I take to mean it's officially daylight. At 7:40, there's no help for it but to get out of bed and start the day.
Another ten days until daylight savings ends. I'm counting them down.
I shouldn't be aware of this yet. It's still too early in the year to be waking up in the dark. But a couple of years ago, our government extended daylight savings for an extra three weeks in the autumn. It was one of those pointless moves that unfailingly shows that a party has been in power too long. (Incidentally it has flummoxed Microsoft, which despite having released at least two patches specifically to accommodate the change, still hasn't managed it - Outlook is currently reminding me of appointments an hour late.)
I'm not sure whether this illustrates MS's incompetence, or the inherent silliness of daylight savings. Both, I think.
Back home, the beginning of September was always my favourite time of year. For a couple of weeks the tail-of-summer weather continues glorious, the oppressive August heat is gone, the leaves just beginning to look interesting. Maybe it's the childhood associations of the new school year, but to me it always felt like a beginning, not an end. When I fell in love, it would usually happen in September.
Here, I've discovered, March occupies the same slot. The leaves are just beginning to turn. And because our weather is milder, late March is as good as early September back home. It's cool enough in the evenings, now, that one doesn't feel silly taking a jacket to go out, but the days are still relaxingly warm.
One of the nice things about our present city pad - one reason why we've stayed there for several years now - is that it's very well designed. Our bedroom faces northeast, which helps us get up in the morning. The living room is on a north-facing corner, which means it gets sun throughout the day. The kitchen is deep inside, away from the aggressive sunlight altogether. Pretty good feng shui.
And now in the mornings, I can lie in bed and watch the sun rise. Well, what I watch is the shadows moving down the wall, as the sun moves up the sky. Even after all this time, I'm still amazed at how quickly this happens - I can actually see the movement while I watch. At 7:30a.m., the navigation lights on the Sky Tower blink out, which I take to mean it's officially daylight. At 7:40, there's no help for it but to get out of bed and start the day.
Another ten days until daylight savings ends. I'm counting them down.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
I wish Stephen Fry would mind his own business
Those of you who've been following for a while, who know my interests, and have invested a couple of points in observation skills, may have noticed that I didn't take part in the web-wide brouhaha over Section 92A of our shiny new copyright law. Those who did take part, however, will be celebrating now, as yesterday the government announced it was scrapping the ballyhooed provision.
As an activist, you might think I'd be pleased with the victory. But as a rational observer, I think it's the wrong victory. This was a battle that should never have been fought; indeed, it wasn't really a battle at all, since the government itself was practically sponsoring the opposition to the measure. Now that it's been "won", I don't know what the political fallout will be.
For those who haven't been following: according to its opponents, the provision in question "calls for internet disconnection based on accusations of copyright infringement without a trial and without any evidence held up to court scrutiny". "Three strikes", it was called. "Guilt on accusation", it was called. The campaign against it went viral. It's been all around the 'net, attracting support and celebrity endorsements from random publicity whores such as Stephen Fry.
In fact, the law didn't say any of this. What the law said, for those of us who took the time to read it, was:
And now the government - which had no investment in the law anyway, since it was its predecessor that passed it - has decided to "give in". (Big surprise there, since the prime minister had already gone on record as calling the law "draconian".) A popular move, which has earned it some good publicity.
But what will it cost us?
Now we, the unwashed, copyright-infringing, freetarded masses have won a victory against Big Business. We've thumbed our little Kiwi nose at Hollywood and shown them that we're not just another state to be pushed around at whim. And now the content industry is going to be back with its counter-proposal. Its compromise. To be embedded, perhaps, in the "Anti-Counterfeiting Trade Agreement", which is being drawn up in secret (from us, the public), but with full input from the Big Content industry.
What price now, our chance to negotiate proper restrictions for "digital rights management" measures? To say nothing of more far-reaching reforms, such as removing "copying" from the list of restricted acts entirely. We've shot our bolt, we've won our "victory", and never has it felt more hollow.
As an activist, you might think I'd be pleased with the victory. But as a rational observer, I think it's the wrong victory. This was a battle that should never have been fought; indeed, it wasn't really a battle at all, since the government itself was practically sponsoring the opposition to the measure. Now that it's been "won", I don't know what the political fallout will be.
For those who haven't been following: according to its opponents, the provision in question "calls for internet disconnection based on accusations of copyright infringement without a trial and without any evidence held up to court scrutiny". "Three strikes", it was called. "Guilt on accusation", it was called. The campaign against it went viral. It's been all around the 'net, attracting support and celebrity endorsements from random publicity whores such as Stephen Fry.
In fact, the law didn't say any of this. What the law said, for those of us who took the time to read it, was:
- An Internet service provider must adopt and reasonably implement a policy that provides for termination, in appropriate circumstances, of the account with that Internet service provider of a repeat infringer.
- In subsection (1), repeat infringer means a person who repeatedly infringes the copyright in a work by using 1 or more of the Internet services of the Internet service provider to do a restricted act without the consent of the copyright owner.
And now the government - which had no investment in the law anyway, since it was its predecessor that passed it - has decided to "give in". (Big surprise there, since the prime minister had already gone on record as calling the law "draconian".) A popular move, which has earned it some good publicity.
But what will it cost us?
Now we, the unwashed, copyright-infringing, freetarded masses have won a victory against Big Business. We've thumbed our little Kiwi nose at Hollywood and shown them that we're not just another state to be pushed around at whim. And now the content industry is going to be back with its counter-proposal. Its compromise. To be embedded, perhaps, in the "Anti-Counterfeiting Trade Agreement", which is being drawn up in secret (from us, the public), but with full input from the Big Content industry.
What price now, our chance to negotiate proper restrictions for "digital rights management" measures? To say nothing of more far-reaching reforms, such as removing "copying" from the list of restricted acts entirely. We've shot our bolt, we've won our "victory", and never has it felt more hollow.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Pride and Prejudice. No, really.
So, I was talking to a friend the other day about republishing classic, i.e. out-of-copyright, literature. And he, with an unerring talent for going off at the most ridiculous tangent, hit upon the idea of summarising it.
And so, for the benefit of time-pressed (or lazy) Eng Lit students everywhere, I present the first in a series of Classics, As Summarised by Microsoft Word.
Summary
by Jane Austen
"Bingley."
Now, I don't know about you, but I think some of the subplots and character nuances are slightly obscured in this 100-word rendition. You need to read between the lines somewhat, to do justice to the high comedy and acute social observation of the original. So here, for the completists among us, is the 500-word version:
Summary
By Jane Austen
"Bingley."
And so, for the benefit of time-pressed (or lazy) Eng Lit students everywhere, I present the first in a series of Classics, As Summarised by Microsoft Word.
Summary
by Jane Austen
"Bingley."
Elizabeth felt Jane's pleasure. "Never, sir."
Mr. Darcy bowed.
"Miss Elizabeth Bennet."
"Miss Elizabeth Bennet!" repeated Miss Bingley. "CAROLINE BINGLEY"
Elizabeth silently attended her.
"How strange!" cried Elizabeth. Mr. Collins then returned to Elizabeth.
Elizabeth was in agonies. Elizabeth replied that it was. Oh, sister! Poor Jane! Elizabeth made no answer. Elizabeth looked surprised. "FITZWILLIAM DARCY"
"Oh, no!" said Elizabeth. Elizabeth was distressed. Elizabeth was delighted. "LYDIA BENNET."
"Oh! Elizabeth read on:
Well! "Mr. Darcy!" repeated Elizabeth, in utter amazement.
Elizabeth smiled.
"If! Darcy mentioned his letter. Mr. Darcy! Dear, dear Lizzy. "Dearest Jane!
Now, I don't know about you, but I think some of the subplots and character nuances are slightly obscured in this 100-word rendition. You need to read between the lines somewhat, to do justice to the high comedy and acute social observation of the original. So here, for the completists among us, is the 500-word version:
Summary
By Jane Austen
"Bingley."
Elizabeth felt Jane's pleasure. "Never, sir."
Mr. Darcy bowed.
"Mr. Darcy is all politeness," said Elizabeth, smiling.
Elizabeth looked archly, and turned away. Mr. Darcy replied with great intrepidity:
"Miss Elizabeth Bennet."
"Miss Elizabeth Bennet!" repeated Miss Bingley. "MY DEAR FRIEND,--
"CAROLINE BINGLEY"
Elizabeth silently attended her.
I thought Miss Elizabeth Bennet looked remarkably well when she came into the room this morning. "All young ladies accomplished! "Removed!" cried Bingley. Do not you, Darcy?"
"Your humility, Mr. Bingley," said Elizabeth, "must disarm reproof."
shocking!" cried Miss Bingley. "Mr. Darcy is not to be laughed at!" cried Elizabeth. Elizabeth turned away to hide a smile.
Mrs. Bennet's eyes sparkled. "Dear Sir,--
"WILLIAM COLLINS"
Elizabeth could not but look surprised.
"How strange!" cried Elizabeth. This information made Elizabeth smile, as she thought of poor Miss Bingley. Elizabeth felt herself completely taken in. "Insolent girl!" said Elizabeth to herself. Mr. Collins then returned to Elizabeth.
Elizabeth now began to revive.
Elizabeth was in agonies. Elizabeth replied that it was. Charlotte's reply was spared by the entrance of Jane and Elizabeth.
Mr. Collins!"
Elizabeth took an opportunity of thanking her. Neither Jane nor Elizabeth were comfortable on this subject. "My dear Jane!" exclaimed Elizabeth, "you are too good. Oh, sister! Poor Jane! "Elizabeth, you are not serious now."
_that_ abominable Mr. Darcy! Elizabeth shook her head over this letter. Elizabeth's courage did not fail her. Lady Catherine then observed,
Your younger sisters must be very young?"
Elizabeth immediately began playing again. Elizabeth made no answer. Elizabeth looked surprised. Elizabeth was surprised, but said not a word. Elizabeth's astonishment was beyond expression. The pause was to Elizabeth's feelings dreadful. "FITZWILLIAM DARCY"
Lady Catherine seemed resigned. "Poor Wickham! Jane was not happy. Poor little Lizzy! "Oh, no!" said Elizabeth. Elizabeth was distressed. Elizabeth was delighted. "Does that young lady know Mr. Darcy?"
Elizabeth coloured, and said: "A little."
Elizabeth almost stared at her. Elizabeth answered only by a slight bow. Darcy was fixed in astonishment. Darcy made no answer. Elizabeth soon observed, and instantly understood it. "I do indeed," replied Elizabeth, colouring. From Elizabeth's thoughts it was never absent. "Not yet," replied Jane.
"LYDIA BENNET."
"Oh! Elizabeth impatiently caught it from his hand. Elizabeth read on:
GARDINER."
"My dear, dear Lydia!" she cried. My dear, dear Lydia! Well! Mrs. Wickham! Elizabeth was disgusted, and even Miss Bennet was shocked. Jane was distressed. Elizabeth could bear it no longer. "Mr. Darcy!" repeated Elizabeth, in utter amazement.
"Exceedingly well. Mr. Bingley arrived. Jane looked at Elizabeth with surprise and concern. Elizabeth dared not lift up her eyes. Elizabeth smiled. Elizabeth was forced to go.
"I suspected as much," replied Elizabeth. Elizabeth replied very concisely that she was.
Elizabeth looked with unaffected astonishment.
"If! No, never. Lady Catherine seemed pleased.
"Oh!" cried Elizabeth, "I am excessively diverted. Darcy mentioned his letter. Mr. Darcy! Dear, dear Lizzy. "Dearest Jane! "DEAR SIR,
Elizabeth will soon be the wife of Mr. Darcy.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Cobblers to the world
I don't suppose that shoemaking is quite immune to the recession, but it's not at the top of the list of industries clamouring for our money to prop up its business plan. After all, most cobblers went out of business decades ago.
And yet they're still out there. What high street doesn't have a shop advertising, among random other services, "shoe repair"?
Not ours, I'm delighted to say. This shop also offers to repair handbags and other random leatherware, but shoes feature prominently in its advertising, which is good. It's a lot of work to find a really comfortable pair of shoes, I'm glad there are still people out there who can extend their lifespan, and I was delighted, this morning, to have the chance to give them a bit of business.
"They're my wife's", I explained as I dumped the bag on the counter. Just in case they might be under any misapprehensions, you understand. Like any heterosexual male, I personally have never owned more than two pairs of shoes concurrently.
The cobbler was an elderly man - not perhaps old enough to be the Wandering Jew, but certainly old enough to remember a time when "service" wasn't a dirty word. He pulled out the shoes and examined them critically. Susan had helpfully tucked a note into the boot explaining what was wrong with them, but on examination it wasn't hard to see.
"Sandals - $30 to 40. It's fiddly, you see, taking the sole apart, you can never tell what's going to happen. The boot, that's easy - $20."
"Perfect", I replied. "I'm authorised to spend that much."
He grinned and gave me two tickets, stamped "THURSDAY" - which, after some thought and debate with his colleague, he crossed out and replaced with "MONDAY". "They're in good hands, sir," he assured me as I left the shop.
I'm not sure what it was that made me feel so good about this transaction. Perhaps it was the warm glow of repairing two of Susan's most-loved items of footwear. Perhaps it was the old-fashioned service ethic - the man was all but tugging his forelock as I left. Or the surprising sense of smugness from knowing that, once again, we were mending something rather than throwing it away. Whatever it was, it left me positively looking forward to visiting again.
And yet they're still out there. What high street doesn't have a shop advertising, among random other services, "shoe repair"?
Not ours, I'm delighted to say. This shop also offers to repair handbags and other random leatherware, but shoes feature prominently in its advertising, which is good. It's a lot of work to find a really comfortable pair of shoes, I'm glad there are still people out there who can extend their lifespan, and I was delighted, this morning, to have the chance to give them a bit of business.
"They're my wife's", I explained as I dumped the bag on the counter. Just in case they might be under any misapprehensions, you understand. Like any heterosexual male, I personally have never owned more than two pairs of shoes concurrently.
The cobbler was an elderly man - not perhaps old enough to be the Wandering Jew, but certainly old enough to remember a time when "service" wasn't a dirty word. He pulled out the shoes and examined them critically. Susan had helpfully tucked a note into the boot explaining what was wrong with them, but on examination it wasn't hard to see.
"Sandals - $30 to 40. It's fiddly, you see, taking the sole apart, you can never tell what's going to happen. The boot, that's easy - $20."
"Perfect", I replied. "I'm authorised to spend that much."
He grinned and gave me two tickets, stamped "THURSDAY" - which, after some thought and debate with his colleague, he crossed out and replaced with "MONDAY". "They're in good hands, sir," he assured me as I left the shop.
I'm not sure what it was that made me feel so good about this transaction. Perhaps it was the warm glow of repairing two of Susan's most-loved items of footwear. Perhaps it was the old-fashioned service ethic - the man was all but tugging his forelock as I left. Or the surprising sense of smugness from knowing that, once again, we were mending something rather than throwing it away. Whatever it was, it left me positively looking forward to visiting again.
Monday, March 16, 2009
Disasters
Bad things happen in threes.
I'm not quite sure where I picked up that bit of folk idiocy. I suspect my mother is to blame. But anyway, it's bugging me now.
Two weeks ago, I ran the car into a small rock that someone had thoughtfully dropped in the middle of the road. The impact bent the arm of the suspension, and made the car unnecessarily interesting to steer. It cost $400 to fix.
Last week it was the TV. That only cost $100, plus a week of Making Our Own Entertainment.
All this is bad enough, but what's worse now is waiting for the third shoe to drop, if you see what I mean.
Has it already happened? Is it the nice house we saw last weekend, that - by the time we got around to making an offer for it - had already been sold, for less than we were willing to offer? (I blame that one mostly on the bank, but partly on my own incompetence.)
Is it something health-related? Susan is currently struggling with a cold, and I've been fighting an ongoing battle with my innards for longer than I care to tell you.
Or is there something worse, something more dramatic and acute, lurking around the corner to complete the set?
I don't know. If no-one had ever told me that bad things happen in threes, I wouldn't be worrying about it. But on the other hand, I wouldn't have understood all those cultural allusions and references either.
So I can't really blame my mother. Blame myself, rather, for not believing me when I tell myself superstition is bollocks. I'm such an idiot.
I'm not quite sure where I picked up that bit of folk idiocy. I suspect my mother is to blame. But anyway, it's bugging me now.
Two weeks ago, I ran the car into a small rock that someone had thoughtfully dropped in the middle of the road. The impact bent the arm of the suspension, and made the car unnecessarily interesting to steer. It cost $400 to fix.
Last week it was the TV. That only cost $100, plus a week of Making Our Own Entertainment.
All this is bad enough, but what's worse now is waiting for the third shoe to drop, if you see what I mean.
Has it already happened? Is it the nice house we saw last weekend, that - by the time we got around to making an offer for it - had already been sold, for less than we were willing to offer? (I blame that one mostly on the bank, but partly on my own incompetence.)
Is it something health-related? Susan is currently struggling with a cold, and I've been fighting an ongoing battle with my innards for longer than I care to tell you.
Or is there something worse, something more dramatic and acute, lurking around the corner to complete the set?
I don't know. If no-one had ever told me that bad things happen in threes, I wouldn't be worrying about it. But on the other hand, I wouldn't have understood all those cultural allusions and references either.
So I can't really blame my mother. Blame myself, rather, for not believing me when I tell myself superstition is bollocks. I'm such an idiot.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)