And other modern dramas.

First, from the comments, where Clam warns,

Regarding this:

What grates, I think, is the routine overstepping of boundaries, the casual insult. Judging by the transgressive sandwiches, to which the note is attached, it seems the child was prevented from eating and, presumably, publicly embarrassed.

A while ago, one of my nieces received a snotty note scolding her for sending her son to school with a packed lunch consisting of a banana and a peanut butter sandwich, an occasional treat. Apparently, peanut butter, like jam, is a verboten foodstuff. And so, as a result, someone is employed to poke through children’s lunch boxes and to then write snotty notes to parents. A function doubtless enjoyed.

But here’s the thing. If you aren’t paying for something directly, even if you’re still paying indirectly, via taxes, you won’t by default be regarded as a customer, for whom some minimal regard might be shown, and whose boundaries should be respected. Instead, it’s quite likely you’ll be treated as an inconvenience, an irritation, someone who can be insulted and subjected to condescension.

See also, our glorious NHS.

The item linked above recounts, in abbreviated form, my attempt to return a set of crutches to the local NHS hospital – and how an ostensibly simple task became a 45-minute ordeal with farcical overtones. Entailing a trek of a half a mile or so, down endless corridors on multiple floors, from one department to another, then another, then another. An odyssey enlivened by encounters with bizarrely rude and unhelpful staff, and while walking past posters stressing the moral imperative of patients returning their crutches. An undertaking made as impractical, as maddening, and as absurdly complicated, as would seem humanly possible.

And it’s not entirely heartening to realise, as you trek down yet another corridor, that you’re entrusting your wellbeing, perhaps even your life, to an institution that can’t organise a practical system for the returning of crutches.

Oh, and while I have your attention, I bring dating instructions from the land of the badly tattooed and terminally self-involved:

Please update your files and lifestyles accordingly.

Also, open thread.

And in woke dining news:

Setting aside the small matter of, er, assault and strangulation, readers may wish to ponder the notion, advanced by Mr Rivera and his numerous supporters, that white people, especially white people with blonde hair, shouldn’t be allowed to serve Japanese food.

At which point, I suppose I should mention this:

A shocking twist, I know. I do hope you were sitting down.

When not harassing people for having the wrong colour skin, and when not strangling women, Mr Rivera spends quite a lot of time blocking those who dare to quote his own social media statements.

Margot, seen below, is a “nutrition counsellor.” She is “root-cause and system focussed.” Oh, and she has some questions:

Turns out you can’t smash capitalism and agitate the proletariat without a solid meal plan.

Tiktok commies are doing revolution meal prep, I am dying 💀😂

You cannot make this up. pic.twitter.com/2OYFD6A2NP

— Right Side of History™️ (@xxclusionary) November 15, 2023

“We can fight with our food,” says she.

Bridge crossed, methinks.

Update, via Mr Muldoon in the comments:

Apparently, the revolution will be fuelled by cashew milk and vegan pseudo-cheese. Because as capitalism is toppled, and amid the riots and burning cars, there will, it seems, be space for neurotic niche cuisine.

Update 2:

NielsR adds,

I suspect that the fantasy of being in charge and important, of correcting others amid some cosmic drama, is very much the appeal. It’s the standard pattern of the type. And Margot, dear Margot, is very much of a type.

And so, while her comrades “break capitalism” and “abolish” prison, and as violent criminals roam the streets unmolested, Margot will be instructing the little people on how to dry pepper seeds and how to wash foraged bin scraps in vinegar to remove any trace of those nasty pesticides. And I doubt that this fantasy, this contrived, absurd mindset, is amenable to realism or logic, or any kind of correction. It’s probably best considered as a case of bad wiring.

Margot and her peers, these psychologically precarious young women – all of a remarkably narrow social class – are, they tell us, the ones who will be “moving the world forward.” And they’ll bestow this gift, this glorious transformation, by “coaching people in how to eat from a revolutionary and resistance standpoint,” and by making endless TikTok videos about themselves and their cultivated mood disorders.

Assuming, that is, that the proletariat are tempted by the prospect of economic ruin, roaming gangs of muggers and rapists, and evenings spent washing other people’s bin contents.

Somewhat related.

In dangers-of-the-workplace news:

The grown adult quoted above is Professor Susan Jebb, employed by the University of Oxford to think deeply on matters of diet, and current chair of the Food Standards Agency. For our disapproving academic, the workplace is akin to a “smoky pub,” due to the occasional presence of cake, and therefore conjures – in her mind, at least – notions of “passive smoking.” Being offered a slice of cake during one’s coffee break is, it turns out, grounds for invoking victimhood. And because struggling with even the most routine self-possession has to be blamed on something:

Cauliflower enthusiasts will no doubt be gutted.

Professor Jebb insists that her desire to make workplace cake-bringing taboo – and seen as something harmful and antisocial – is “not about the nanny state,” or, dare I suggest, some personal inadequacy. You see, the advertising of cakes and other confections – and the fact that they may be accessible in the workplace – is “undermining people’s free will.” Free will being demonstrated only by compliance with Professor Jebb’s New Rules Of Cake-Eating. And which is why, one assumes, this grown woman, a professional intellectual, can’t say no to a bit of sponge.

Cakes in the workplace – and their allegedly unhinging effects on women – have, of course, been mentioned here before.

Via Christopher Snowdon, who, as you might imagine, has some thoughts.

From the pages of Bon Appétit, where Brooklynite pronoun-stipulator Isha Maratha is determined to overshare:

Ms Maratha’s first time, in Boston, during college orientation, is recounted in some detail:

If anyone’s getting aroused by this, I’m fetching the hose.

If madam’s outpourings seem a bit much, be assured things do not get better on that front.