St. Valentines Day and Other Matters

Dear Readers
It's been a while. A lot has happened, including moving back to God's Country - Florida for six months. A land where people seem a lot happier than those that survive a long cold Winter in The Olde Country - about the whole of 2009 if I recall. Some of us decry Obama's 'New Order', but as the Good Book says, 'it shall pass'. At least America has not succumbed to the British disease of having everything in centipedes or 'metric' as the EU would have us know. Which lunatic invented that? What is simpler than a 'thumb' being one inch (check your own, from the top to the joint - it's about right) - and a foot being 12 inches (thumbs). A yard is three feet - a person's step, unless you're vertically challenged. Simple.
To add to my woes, I bought a Volvo Wagon, which unlike my Volvos of old did not perform as its Latin name states. After $1,000 in repair costs, a PT Cruiser has replaced it. Almost Art Deco. And it runs on Regular gas - which is about 30 cents a gallon cheaper than the Premium the Volvo demanded. It also does about 25 mpg as opposed to 18. I cringe at the thought of what gas will cost me when I return to the land of Royal Weddings. Looks like about $10.50 a gallon. I shall no doubt fire up my trusty steed instead. So, now all is well. And the weather is improving. I even managed a walk on the beach today. The shark's teeth had missed me.
In the meantime, I've had time to consider other matters of some importance.
I thought UK TV ads were asinine and they still are. But what 'marketing MBA' thought that whistling to every ad was 'cool'? Why is it that on TV, women commentators/advertisers have incredibly squeaky voices, but if you meet them in person (as on Jerry Springer), they speak normally? Why do sports commentators/car salesmen shout? Why do I worry about such things - after all I have the Mute button. A godsend indeed.
Now, to more intruiging matters. I watched an ad (sans whistling and squeaky voices) extoling the virtues of buying your child a Valentine's Day card. In my day, I would scour my father's stationery drawer for a clean piece of Basildon Bond, and write an ode to whoever it was that I lusted after. In the absence of Basildon Bond, I sauntered to the local Hallmark to peruse such cards for the offspring. Silly me. You now have to buy cards for the children, the grand-children, the parents and the grandparents. And Mr Thomas who was the History Master at school. While there (Hallmark, not my old school), I could have bought a belated Hannukah Card for my old Jewish boss, and a card apologizing to Nain (Grandma) for forgetting her wedding anniversary.
And to think that I once sold an IBM Mainframe to Hallmark....
Here endeth today's lesson.