The 100s of things I won't do before I die

What follows will be my personal take on experiential materialism. I will begin with an evocation of the cultural artifacts both indicative and promotive of such a disposition, attempt a little insight, drop some drole remarks and end on a metadiscursive throw-away.

As many of you who will read this sentence know, I am a thirty year old man. In my life so far I have done some existing: this has been largely unavoidable. 

When I was twenty-three I worked in Waterstones - at that time a concession in one of London’s favourite corner-shops, Harrods. Owing to its popularity as one of London’s favourite corner-shops, the store attracted many celebrated customers. While televised personalities were content to drift about in non-exciting ways; the foreign dignitaries demanded a degree of pomp and circumstance, tuggings of forelocks, etc. No one really took it as seriously as I think we were supposed to. Luckily, there was a shitload of dignitaries so we had plenty of practice: look impressed, don’t smile too much. 

It was on a Sunday afternoon and I was already woozy with celebrity; I had earlier heard Rod Stewart sneezing over a walnut table in the antiques department. Later that day, our manager speed-walked in and speed-whispered, “The *** of *** is following behind me. Best behaviour.” I'm not referring to the *** of *** because I intend to keep his real name anonymous, I simply can't remember. I believe he was from Saudi Arabia.

Several minutes later, the ‘*** of ***’ sandalled in, looking insistently ridiculous in blazing Nike finery and wrap-around Bono shades. After breathing-up the store he made a beeline for a thick stack of books, the ‘1000 *** to *** before you die’ volumes arrayed on a centralish podium. While he rifled through them, his assistant selected a column, their personal shopper picked up the column then shuttled that column across to a trolley attendant. Though of course the *** of *** could have inspected the merchandise in some luxurious grotto deep down in the building he clearly felt the need to stretch his legs. Something of interest caught his attention at the till. It was a copy of ‘Crap Towns’. Though I couldn’t see his eyes, he seemed irritated. He called his assistant over and they leafed through the book, stopping to point at the names: Luton, Corby, Bath. His assistant looked to be attempting to appease him and finally and quickly took the copy of ‘Crap Towns’ and added it to the 1000 column.

Now, I didn’t know what was going on exactly. I didn’t know why  the *** of *** seemed so upset by this compendium of disappointment, so much so that he needed a copy; he seemed personally affronted. The full title was Crap Towns II: The Nation Decides. I looked it up on the stock-checker: the first edition of the series was entitled Crap Towns: The 50 Worst Places to Live in the UK. 

Had he felt compelled to visit the 50 worst Places to Live in the UK? He had exhibited a familiarity with the '1000 *** to *** before you die series (I think he might have just been buying the column for friends and family). Maybe he thought the 50 worst Places to Live in the UK was part of the series. Maybe he had visited each of the worst places and now, with heavy heart, accepted this new edition's unspoken command to visit the sequels. With sufficient wealth, it really wouldn’t be beyond one’s means to actually do all that stuff before you die. 

Luckily, my level of affluence is such that I can only really dream one hundred dreams before I die. I can also completely disregard any intention suggested by a single sentence.  Like most normal people.