Reheated (140)

Dish magazine hailed the project as “Seasonal, sustainable, organic, artisanal, waste-free, foraged.” While readers of EasyJet Traveller magazine were told that the resort is “A new way of living that’s as sustainable as it is delicious.”

Readers will doubtless be intrigued by the “foraged” food – i.e., carrots and leaves, served repeatedly – plus the unheated rooms, the lack of running water, and the whole shitting-in-a-barrel thing. For a mere £900 a night, one can’t expect luxuries like plumbing, protein, or the prospect of heat.

And for those inclined to squint, there may be a rustic charm to things being a loose approximation of what is claimed. And so, just as unheated fishing huts with no plumbing or sanitation are framed as “luxury,” seemingly random objects on a plate are hailed as meals, as “artisanal” and “delicious.”

It occurs to me that cyclists are more likely to be the subject of unkind humour if their behaviour – not their chosen outfit, as Ms Laker claims – is causing a problem, or is perceived as such.

Well, courtesy towards other road users is a necessary social lubricant and, generally speaking, something to be encouraged. Readers are of course welcome to speculate as to whether changing the word cyclist to people who cycle for some particular purpose about which I’m supposed to care will make anyone’s journey more fragrant, harmonious and morally uplifted.

It may also be worth noting Ms Laker’s tacit assumption that only drivers are in need of behavioural correction, as if cyclists were faultless and incapable of being inconsiderate. Which in turn hints at what may be a factor in some motorists’ limited sympathy for People Of The Pedal.

It occurs to me that there’s something a little dissonant about the framing of affection and basic consideration – say, remembering your partner’s birthday – as “unpaid.” As “emotional labour.” As if being in a relationship or having any concern for those you supposedly care about were some onerous, crushing chore.

As if you should be applauded – and financially compensated – for the thirty-second task of adding a birthday to the calendar on your phone.

The attitude implied by the above would, I think, explain many failures on the progressive partner-finding front and the consequent “stepping away from dating altogether.” Though possibly not in ways the author intended.

Before we go further, it’s perhaps worth pondering how the conceit of “emotional labour” is typically deployed by a certain type of woman. Say, the kind who complains, in print and at great length, about the “emotional labour” of hiring a servant to clean her multiple bathrooms. Or writing a shopping list.

Or brushing her daughter’s hair.

The kind of woman who would bitch about the chore of choosing a holiday that her husband is paying for. And for whom explaining to her husband the concept of “emotional labour” is itself bemoaned as “emotional labour.” The final indignity.

And remember, ladies, when a male bedlamite pushes his phone camera under an occupied bathroom stall in order to livestream to his admirers a woman who is unhappy about a male bedlamite’s presence in a ladies’ toilets – and when said bedlamite’s phone is kicked away and he then claims victimhood, specifically injury to his penis, which he mentions quite a lot – this is totally normal and nothing to worry about.