tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-66825784506191955882011-07-30T20:21:16.386+01:00Mundane is a word used to describe the life of the majority populace of your typical norm, and in an attent to dramatise this, may it cease to be so.OttoIndianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03704578364428801051noreply@blogger.comBlogger21100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6682578450619195588.post-54202095732696480362010-01-29T21:25:00.002Z2010-01-29T22:21:17.711ZI am part of a generation where the name Steven, whilst a common-<em>sounding</em> name, is not common at all. The generations before me, that of my parents, is where the name has flourished; it's the name of my father, my friend's father, that guy who died (from that band, y'know), and I'm sure, many other fathers, too. The generation I am in is one of the Jas', the Ashtons, the Jordans and the ridiculous names such as Porscia. But it is amongst this generation that a more obvious observation is there, and that my generation is plagued by Toms. Tom is the new 'Steven'.<br /><br />In my life time, I presume, and presuming I am only, there will be a Prime Minister called Tom Smith. Whether a Thomas, Tom, or Tomas, who even cares? You still have to list through several second names before you're on the same page with someone when you talk of a Tom.<br /><br />The rare-breeds, the dying out, the Ottos as myself and the classic-but-classy-still names like Helen, are the minorities. We are the ones who will not live to see PM Goav Sweetrail Pendragon. But at least in 50 years time, when the demise of the Steven is nigh, they'll still be here, not as remotely susceptive as I to these important notions. National security is at stake, <em>perhaps.</em><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6682578450619195588-5420209573269648036?l=likeplanetsclingtosol.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>OttoIndianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03704578364428801051noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6682578450619195588.post-7224449753829050982010-01-28T23:31:00.005Z2010-01-29T18:57:22.980ZIt was the other week I was with my father to pick up my younger brother, aged only four, from a school trip to a production of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. Indeed, a classic, and to dislike it is that odd contrast of seeming either 'cool' or 'unpatriotic', so it's a mild taboo line to cross with most people.<br /><br />I asked my brother, as he hastily got off of the loud bus into the cold, what he made of it, and his reply was certainly a disheartening one.<br />"Yeah, I guess - ice cream was good," he said with an accent of melancholy, "my friend has it on DVD, though."<br /><br />The whelp seemed highly unimpressed, and I'm still unsure why. As a child, I was amazed by the extremeties and adventure in the tale, but my brother probably didn't give it a second thought as we got into our car and flew home.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6682578450619195588-722444975382905098?l=likeplanetsclingtosol.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>OttoIndianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03704578364428801051noreply@blogger.com0