All those wonderful antique curios called "magazines" in reception areas

 

(Not me by the way!)

This morning, I went early doors to have my local barber surgically attend to the three remaining hairs on the back of my head. This was rather than do the "mirror to the back of the head while facing the shaving mirror" thing that inevitably results in a visit to A&E to have the scissors surgically removed from my head.

The barber is a rather affable chap of Kurdish descent - he was thrown out of a 'plane over Manchester by that nice Recep Tayyip Erdoğan (who calls himself  "RTE" - does he not realise, seeing as he is a grand press oppressor, those initials are more commonly referred to in this part of the world as the Irish National broadcaster, Radio Telifis Eireann?).

Anyway, in commn with dentists, doctors and old-fashioned oak-panelled legal practices, there is an altogether grand selection of "vintage" reading material on the table in the waiting area. Magazines that would have Bargain Hunt's delightful Natasha Raskin Sharp in raptures (I find that depite having all her own teeth, no blimp lips and dressing somewhat rather conservatively, she does float my boat - however, a note to the bottle Genie - if I do find you in a junk shop, my first wish solidly remains to walk down the isle with Michelle Rodriguez!).

I grabbed the copy of National Enquirer, dated January 2015 to leap through while the barber continued with his existing customer. I really do wonder how the customer described to the barber, and the barber understood, the simply appaling haircut style he, the customer required.

Being only a short walk from home, I didn't take my phone with me, so could not photograph an article I spied (isn't it sad - could you imagine 40 years ago taking the old black bakelite base and handset, with three miles of flex trailing behind, everywhere you went, staring at it continuoisly with an inane grin on your face?). I attempted to find it online just before writing this, but to no avail.

It seems in the very large family mansion of a denizen of local industry in Arkansas, all current male family members of the three generations who live there (of which there are nine - nine Johns that is, not nine generations - now that WOULD be "American World WarII Bomber found on the Moon" material - where's Piers Morgan when you need him, eh?) are named "John". I must say that despite being extremely secular, I do agree with the Old Testament "rule" of not calling offspring the same name as their living parent.

What had happend was that an unholy row had erupted related to privacy matters. It seems that various  communications addressed to "John" around Christmas time 2014 were all being opened by the wrong John. Allegedly. Seemingly, great gnashing of teeth (real and dentures alike), tempers, smashing of furniture, fixtures, fittings and the fatal shooting of John the dad occurred in the space of an hour. Who was there to record the hour, and why they did not intervene, remains a great mystery.

 

Now I can appreciate in the non-internet age this must have always been a nightmare.

I remember, some 50 years ago, as a teenager in Dublin, when my schoolfriend Joseph (not his real name - let's have some confidentiality here) had a rather intimate love-letter opened in error by his father Joseph, there were fireworks, landslides and tornados in that household.

Mainly on account of the intimate love letter to Joseph being from Robert (not his real name), also in our class.