You watch as the whisky magically cascades into your glass, curling around itself in vevlety opulence. Thick, sweet and pungent. You hold the coppery libation against the light… and then your mind starts to drift… Homework-tax returns-memos-essays-parent-teacher meetings-tv guides-douchey self-help books-conference calls-dental checkups-working lunches-travel mugs-lectures-facebook-laundry-personal trainers-smart phones-nespresso-motivational talks-reality tv-email forward settings-traffic-skypes-tablets-radio adverts-fashion trends-cross training-small talk-multi-tasking-groupon specials-spring cleaning-emails-family dinners-stock markets-fast food-hangouts-dishwashing-gossip magazines-bad drivers-loyalty cards-medical aid schemes-books on tape-overtime-politics-car services-assignments-drive-throughs-instant coffee.
Do it faster. Do it yesterday. Do it whilst doing something else. But don’t you dare fucking do it well. That’s right folks – the times they are a’ flying. And when they’re a’ flying, we adopt some fairly moronic habits. Picture it. There you are. Successfully returned from a hellish shopping experience. You’re juggling your keys, your cappa-frappa-dappa-cino and hauling your loot out of the car. And my, is it a pile of loot! 10 bottles of wine, high GI bread (rare in this day and age), toilet paper (you’re not making that mistake again), apples, peanut butter and instant coffee (fuck you). And it’s all stuffed into your shopping bags: hessian if you’re a hippie, recycled plastic if you’re a realist and pristine, unsullied plastic if you couldn’t give a shit. All told, there are seven bulging bags. You have two hands…. And a grande cappa-frappa-dappa-cino. The house is twenty metres away. Do you take two trips?
F – U – C – K – T – H – A –T.
F – U – C – K – T – H – A –T.
Yes, fuck that. I could never spare the 47 extra seconds for the second trip, either. Efficiency, mofo! You toss over your shoulder as you stumble away from the car, only to disappear into a spectacular crimson explosion of wine, toilet paper and hundreds and thousands of hundreds and thousands. Efficiency eh, mofo? All told, it’s an awfully long word for its proposition. Between you and me, I don’t trust the schmuck. And neither should you.
Zen, one-ness, introspection, humming along to Enya, mediation. Call it what you will. We need more of it. Just take a fucking moment. And like, totally, like be in that moment, brosef. Be present. Calm your anxious nerves down and achieve some form serene wax-on wax-off-ness. Turn off thy computers. Off goeth the smart phones, the fluorescent lights and the TV. Closeth thy notebooks, thy reams of to-do lists, thy grocery receipts. Set aside thy watch. Take a deep breath. Pick up your whisky glass again. The content of the goblet you cradle in your humble hands is literally and metaphorically the distillation of infinite moments into a beautiful simultaneity. Carefully sourced ingredients, magical chemistry guided by master craftsmen and the unrivalled, unequalled influence of time. Years and years of patience; waiting in a musty cellar, overlooking some craggy drop into icy Scottish seas. All of that is now in your hands. So for peat’s sake, savour it. Start there and after a few drams, you'll start to ponder the meaning of life. Or fall asleep. Either will do for now.
And forget about the word efficiency – it’s overrated. Take a fucking moment and do things properly.
And forget about the word efficiency – it’s overrated. Take a fucking moment and do things properly.