Within and without

I am currently stranded, trapped within a void. My house is a multistory affair divided into distinctly separate living quarters. My family owns the entirety of the large suburban construction but due to reasons of finance we rent out all but the ground floor. Due to this arrangement there is a hallway shared by all the tenants from which branches off a locked door that is the entrance to what I can refer to as my home.

After a particular alcohol fueled nocturnal excursion about a year back during which I lost my keys. My mother has refused to provide me with a new set which means I cannot enter my own abode unless she is home. In the rare instance that she is away, since I can politely ask one of the residents in the higher floors to come down and let me into the building its self, she usually hides the keys to our actual section of residence somewhere in the hallway.

Today however, she has neglected her duties to do so, hence I am currently sitting in the hallway. I am typing this on my phone, while draped tiredly over the stairs which lie directly next to the door to my beloved home. My sentiments of misery are only excentuated by the fact that the motion sensitive lights turn off every three minutes, plunging me into the evening darkness thus forcing me to stand up and display motion in order receive the short attention and glorious light of the fickle motion sensitive machine.

To further emphasize this feeling of pathetic depression, my cat has run right up to the other side of the door to venture on a campaign of continuous melancholic mewing and sad scratching. It has stayed with me these past thirty minutes, crying from the other side of the solid impenetrable rectangle of wood and despite myself I admit I am rather touched.

Now I hear the light clink of the metal front garden fence and with it the approaching footsteps of liberation. So ends my actually brief but sensationally lengthy stay, becalmed within the void.

Holiday

 If leaving things that need to be done as soon as possible till last minute were a crime, I would have been arrested and taken to court long ago. The news would show chalk or pastel illustrations of my downcast face as I stood before the judge, pleading entirely guilty to the charges of irresponsible work avoidance. In short, I am a self-confessed procrastinator. Because of this trait I am forever forcing myself into a metaphorical corner, backed up and cowering against the wall, surrounded by sinister looming mountains of tasks that should have been completed hours ago but quite inexplicably, aren't.
 Hence you might assume that the opportunity to take a break; to go on holiday; to flee from the menacing malicious parade of labor (seemingly forever in slow but definite pursuit) even if only for a few short weeks, would seem like my ultimate goal. A safe haven, my equivalent of the helicopter complete with ladder for the fleeing foiled villain atop a building, the beautiful oasis filled with water and vegetation for the weary desert camel rider or the inviting open toilet bowl for the severely inebriated guest in a house decorated with expensive carpets.
 However that is not the case. That is a case that belonged to me about three, possibly two years ago. A worn old case, its aged leather surface scratched and eroded with time, any colour it might once have had long since faded out save in a few faint patches which stubbornly stain their ground as the last crumbling bastion of dying vibrancy. But a case not without its charms for what it lacks in outward appearance, it more than makes up for in contents, packed full of dreams, hopes, adventures, aspirations and potential I saw in the world as a young child.
 Whereas my current case (the case here being a metaphor for my outlook on holidays generally) is a cold unfriendly coal black rectangle, its strong artificial geometry only emphasized by its viciously sharp clean cut corners. Polished and newly formed with a sparkling reflective surface like the back of a beetle, but for all the novelty it holds as a brand new object, it is entirely worthless due to its contents or rather a lack thereof. When its gold coloured clasps are unfastened with a precise click and its lid smoothly opened, it sits a gaping empty casket of hopeless nothingness.
 Recently I have begun to see holidays as nothing more than a depressing experience where one can agonizingly consciously experience the passing of time. Of course there are enjoyable moments, events and happenings to punctuate the dull monotone aimlessness of it all but these exactly that, mere moments ina  far longer sequence.
 Because when you're busy, the very act of excavating a free moment to do what you enjoy becomes a goal and a reward, like precious jewels occasionally discovered while hacking through a near endless tunnel with nothing but a rusty pick axe. However when the jewels begin to line the walls where before there was depressingly solid rock, after a very brief period of elation, the jewel market goes through a very rapid inflation and after a few days of hacking through nothing but vibrant beautiful jewels, all you want is too see some patches of dank depressing rock again. Soon you are driven solely by the desire to be reunited with boring old rocks and even begin to paint jewels black with tar just to convince yourself that its dull rock and not a stunning gem but in your heart of hearts you're aware of the fact it's just not the same.
 Perhaps its a trait shared by all humans generally or possibly it is just a trait held by me, a damning indicator of my weak psyche as a human unable to experience true freedom, that we cannot handle purposelessness for a prolonged period of time. Perhaps the fact I am dependent on the school to provide me with daily doses of purpose shows how poisoned I have been by the system as a whole, I have been turned an aim addict. Corrupted and enchained, unable to feel true liberation, a prisoner of my own mind, I am a victim of the system. Therefore I blame the world for the fact I cannot experience holidays with the pure innocent thoughtless joy that I once did, instead having to painfully endure the knowledge that I am doing nothing substantial with my time as I gradually waste away my holiday hours, feeling my conscience slowly decompose. In short, I blame society.

Doughnut

 I'm certain most people have had the experience of a disappointing doughnut. Obviously I've just made the gross assumption that whoever, out of my very meager readership, is currently unenthusiastically running their bored eyes through this block of text, lives in an area of the world where doughnuts are readily accessible. That is to say, you, the reader, are not at present living in some impoverished mud hut situated within a third world country, clicking the computer mouse with starved twig like fingers and sitting on a chair more three dimensional than you are. However if that is the case, I would recommend that you sell the computer and use the money to buy yourself food, get something nice like some doughnuts. I'm honored that reading my blog is that important to you but would suggest that staying alive is perhaps ever so slightly more vital.
 To the other relatively non-impoverished majority of readers, I call upon you to recall a disappointing doughnut. In particular, a jam doughnut. It may be difficult, it may be painful, but try to remember that traumatic moment you felt thoroughly emotionally let down by a piece of confectionery. Close your eyes, let your mind wander back. In fact open your eyes since the act of closing your eyes must have prevented you from reading the proceeding instructions unless your eyelids are somehow translucent like the flesh of a jellyfish. Now, close one eye but keep the other eye open to read the instructions (unless you are the jellyfish man in which case your translucent eyelids allow you to see the instructions near perfectly without your eyes necessarily being open) then relax, think pleasant calming thoughts and allow your mind to drift back like a dead body down a river.
 You are a child again, your mind is pure, untainted and innocent. Words like "systematic", "infant" and "abuse" still hold no meaning for you and consequently you would be unable to accurately describe the games you play with your uncle when your parents are out, even if you wanted to. However that is not important at present, you must focus your mind on some doughnuts. Some round jam doughnuts which you assumed are packed full of sweet jam. No, not your uncle's two jam doughnuts, that is a different story for a different time, possibly involving a judge, jury and an anatomically accurate doll which you will be asked to point precisely at.
 Back to the jam doughnuts. Spherical balls of fried dough with a fine snow like sprinkling upon its golden coloured surface. You take one in your hand and bringing it to your mouth and imagining the delicious explosion of sugary flavor that will spread through your mouth as the jam breaks free of its floury confines, you bite down on it. Only to find that it tastes of nothing more than slightly sweet bread. You take a second bite, quickly followed by a desperate third, panicked and frantic like a mother looking for her lost child, you search in vain for the luxurious treasure trove of jam that was promised to you from the name "jam doughnut". Finally you find it, not a treasure trove, not a medium sized storage box, not even a shoe box but barely a scientific spatula full of jam.
 The unappealing globule of slightly sweet scarlet gel, the same colour and texture as congealed blood, lies sullenly, like some severely angst filled teenager sitting knees up to his chin, in a tiny corner of the doughnut. The same air of vague depression that is being emitted from the pathetic section of jam soon permeates your head, darkly filling the void left behind by the happy expectations which dissolved the moment you took your first hopeful bite. Feeling thoroughly let down by the supposed treat turned traitor, you cannot help but think to yourself, "Is that really it? After all that seemingly important build up, there's so little actual meaningful substance there!"
 That feeling, the sensation of surprise, betrayal and vague disappointment, is probably what most of my readership feel at the end of one of my long winded articles and it is more than likely the precise reason why I am yet to gain any followers.

Alone in the Mansion

 The once crowded mansion stands empty, its heavy oak doors, which once shone with a refined polish, now sit in slow lusterless decay. Those poorly maintained gates have been motionless for a few hours now, no one has entered or left since the rusty creak of the last departure which echoed forlornly through the dusty corridor. The fading gray rooms are filled with the desolate silence of an abandoned building, gone are the days when the sound of snide and mocking but nonetheless happy laughter had bounced through its sparkling structure. All have left to pursue a vast and varied life outside its thick impenetrable walls, all but one. This is the Bachelor Mansion.
 The lone figure sits hunched malignantly by a fireplace black with soot, a cold empty fire place in the shape of a heart. In the figures twisted malicious hands is clutched a once fine china mug, its pristine white surface now stained to a dull yellow. The mug contains a deep dark brown fluid, tar like both in appearance and texture, very strong tea without milk or sugar. Very bitter tea. Very very bitter tea.
 How did it come to this? There used to be others here with me. All snidely talking about the foolishness of love and the stupidity of relationships, mockingly discussing romantic ideals or viciously insulting those clueless fools roaming outside the mansion. Now there is only me, me and my thoughts which provide no comfort at all.
 I'm certain everyone has experienced that one long distance race at school where the five or so non athletic friends line up at the starting line, smiling humorously at each other. After a brief minute of amicable discussions its decided that all of them will take it slow, go at a nice jogging pace, take it easy, cruise it, chill. The starting pistol is fired into the air and one secretly competitive supposed comrade suddenly breaks rank, running with all his strength so as to get as far ahead as possible before the others realize they have been deceived. In that instance, everyone shakes their heads and roundly agrees that the one former comrade dashing aggressively ahead is, to put it mildly, a complete dick and should be excommunicated from the alliance of the non athletic.
 However this time round, we all agreed to take it easy but all except one, at the sound of the starting pistol, revealed themselves to be secretly competitive dicks charging headlong down the path of romantic success. By the time I realize what's happened and decide to quicken my jogging pace, that is at present infinitely close to a walk, it's all too late and my former comrades have crossed the finishing line, cheering as they do so. I watch them celebrate, teeth gritted and all I want to do is take the starting pistol and take careful aim at those distant , now coupled, figures.
  I thought we were all on the same boat, all proudly sailing under the fluttering banner of "Awkward", the academic cynical types whose only knowledge of love came through a study of biochemistry, a bunch of social outcasts united by our ability to insult romantics in Latin. Now "Amicus" has turned "Hostis", "Callidus" has turned "Stultus", they have all recently dived into the surrounding oceans to leave me bobbing up and down on the unstable raft, feeling more than a little bit nauseous.
 Riding the wave of a drunken kiss or holding onto the helpful dolphin of previously hidden charisma, my former fellow sailors swiftly move across the ocean to reach their own idyllic islands, overgrown with convenient coconut trees and pretty flowers as I watch on from a distance. My last fellow bachelor sailor dived from the raft a few hours ago, or rather was gently pulled into the waves by an enticing mermaid (I sincerely hope that this is a mermaid of slightly older, more brutal, less Disney type myths which will go on to ravenously shred and devour the ex-comrade turned turn coat). Now I stand alone, realizing suddenly that my raft has developed a hole and is sinking fast. It's either swim or drown from here and I haven't done much swimming since I received my Kellogg's Frosties 200meter swimmer badge seven years ago.

Racing Time

I am currently having a race against time, my computer monitor tells me that it is 23:42 at the exact moment of the writing of this sentence and if I am to stick to the one blog post a day system that I have set myself then I must complete something within the next seventeen minutes. The starting pistol has been fired and right now it feels like it's been fired horizontally next to me and I'm desperately racing the bullet. And since I am not of African origin nor am I particularly athletic, the latter perhaps more important than the former which could be perceived as a little bit racist, the likelihood that I win is extremely slim.
 For one thing the very fact I've been managing to stick to the "one post a day system"(there's something not quite nice about the ring of that phrase, it somehow has an institutionalized totalitarian atmosphere similar to the Chinese "One child per family system".) considering I'm extremely easily bored and usually any of the projects which I propose with an air of self deception, knowing in my heart of hearts that it really will be the exact opposite, "will be long running" usually end up faltering to a halt two days in.
 Nonetheless I've managed to soldier on this time and I've maintained some sort of structure and residual wit throughout all of my blog posts despite the fact that I have readership which is constantly on a low hanging surface skimming glide above the sea of zero. However even that glittering legacy may come to an end today as I have nine minutes left to think of a coherent topic, structure and punchline for a vaguely amusing, semi witty post which uses a needless amount of convoluted over stretched metaphors and complicated similes, combined with a lovely sprinkle of obscure analogies that do very little to actually clarify the situation. This must be what James Bond feels like upon faced with a ticking bomb which his enemy has, for reasons unknown, always left on timer, as opposed to say, triggered to explode when he gives the signal or presses a button (which would be a lot more convenient all things considered, all things in this case including a somehow invincible, invulnerable, seductive spy whose face and character changes every once in a while, each new Bond displaying a new and completely different set of features and characteristics apart from the one resoundingly common link that they are all very very white and posh). The ultimate question, the blue wire or the red wire? Should I just give up now and post an incomplete piece or post several seconds after midnight, thereby failing my daily quota.
 For one thing I'm yet to even think of a proper topic for this post let alone a punchline. Hmm... Ah, the punchline is that I have in fact used the idea of not having a topic as a topic? How's that? ...A little weak perhaps?

Procrastination

 The time is fast approaching midnight and it is Sunday evening. As such there is school tomorrow starting at eight thirty in the morning sharp and there is a 3 page history essay and a write up on a Shakespearean play due in tomorrow, both of which are as of yet looking resoundingly uncompleted.
 I am currently procrastinating in the same way that a man who has been pushed from the empire states building procrastinates the inevitable collision with the ground by flapping his arms and hoping the bingo wings he's acquired through many years of unhealthy eating will somehow catch the wind and allow him flight.
 I admit that procrastination is not the best way forward nor is it the best habit to have since it tends to manifest its self in moments of pressure and immanent danger where concentration and willpower as opposed to the desire to do anything but what you're meant to be doing, are necessary. It's true that no airplane has ever been saved by a pilot procrastinating the emergency flight procedure with the plane falling apart around him as the ever increasing emotional and air pressure take hold.
 However in other less potentially fatal circumstances, procrastination may prove its self the mother of invention (in which case the pressuring work load would be the brutally abusive and sadistic twisted father of invention). I am willing to bet serious money, in relativity to the total sum of my pitiful finances (so about five pounds and fifty seven pence) that if ever a time machine is invented, it will be invented by a procrastinator creating a machine out of the manic desire to travel back to that very morning so he could get started on the bloody 3 page history essay a few hours earlier than he actually did.
 I've just given it some thought (which also took some increasingly precious time. Time is currently going through a period of extreme deflation. I am pretty sure that if time is money then the time now is worth at least a hundred times more than the time this morning) and it seems that I'm yet unable to come up with a working time machine. Hence, with sixty five minutes to midnight and the prospect of getting up at six in the morning tomorrow. I shall now leave this place to start my history essay.

Musical Musings

 Last night at my school there was a small charity musical festival of sorts titled TILT where several bands composed of students of the school stood on stage to sing and play various instruments. A festival I did not attend due to several reasons. Firstly the tickets cost five pounds, with five pounds I could buy myself a decent meal at KFC or Subway or maybe even a medium portion of fries at Caffe Rouge. Secondly I was quite convinced that if I were to buy some fries to sit silently crying and eating, all alone in a dark corner of Caffe Rouge, I would still have a better Friday night out than those attending TILT due to the fact that the latter had been organized by a certain member of staff called Miss Peel.

 In order to get an accurate mental image of Miss Peel, first imagine an ordinary woman. Then throw her into a cave in which dwells a horrendous dragon. The dragon then hungrily devours the woman's face, scarring her both physically and psychologically thus creating a pitiful twisted miserable human being. Miss Peel is that dragon. She can often be seen hungrily patrolling the school grounds, blond hair flowing behind her like beer regurgitated out of a car. Her features covered by a bullet proof layer of fake tan which nonetheless fails to conceal the crater like frown lines on her face, bearing greater resemblance to battle scars than wrinkles.

 Because TILT had been coordinated by this monstrosity, I had been under the illusion that it would inevitably be horrendous seeing as the only thing remotely close to a party Miss Peel had ever been present at was, in all probability, her own summoning where she stood in the middle of a five pointed star as the Satanists who had brought her forth from the deepest depths of hell chanted and danced around her. However contrary to my expectations, Facebook news feed has been reliably informing me that TILT was a resounding success (as well as reliably informing me that if I Facebook like a particular photo of Jesus I will more than definitely go to heaven whereas if I were to ignore it, eternal damnation awaits) with accompanying photographs.

 I have never been a musical type of human being. My taste in music does not range much beyond anime opening music (beyond this geeky borderline lies the terrifying vastness of popular culture, a place in which many a strange and horrifying beings dwell, giving out numbers and getting down on Fridays) and my only instrumental experience is the six months worth of utterly futile and fruitless violin lessons I took at the age of ten. Nonetheless even I had to concede that the photographs of people with guitars strapped across their chest, standing heroically on stage, smoke swirling around them and the flame like orange light to their back, were impressive.

 Thus, for the first time in more than six years, I have begun to consider learning an instrument. However though I am blessed with the natural ability to annoy or torment, as well as the talent to ably articulate or compose aimless articles abound with artistic alliteration and draw decidedly disturbing doodles, I was not born with a single musically able bone in my body. So unmusical am I that if I were, having been killed by some ancient slightly arts-and-crafts type tribe, made into drums I would still create a horrible non rhythmic cacophony, unpleasant to listen to (which in this case, I suppose, would be some sort of petty revenge).

 Tone is to me what ghosts are to most people. Something to be vaguely believed in and feared but never actually detected by the senses. I can keep rhythm in the same way football players can keep out of the paper. I am, also, by my own admission an extremely lazy individual, such a picture perfect representation of Sloth that I would volunteer myself for a portrait if a new illustrated bible were to be printed in future. Hence its surprising I've kept up this blog so far, let alone start to learn a musical instrument. Thus, when all these factors have been considered I am left with only a number of options: a)The triangle b)The rectangle c)The pentagon d)The hexagon e)The heptagon f)The octagon g)The nonagon and h)The decagon.

 Though it does occur to me that (like the protagonist of some moralistic novel in which, for example, the main character starts off motivated by good will and attempting to gain money with which to hep the poor starts a lucrative business manufacturing carpets. Then over time is seduced by the allure of money its self and having run out of good carpet making material begins to round up and skin the poor to create cheap rugs to sell. Finally, having seen some suitably moving scene, the protagonist realizes that he, in compromising and pursuing alternative goals, had lost the main purpose of his deep moral journey.) I have wandered off some way from the original purpose of learning a musical instrument which was to look impressive in photographs. And while polygonic instruments are great in their own special way, one thing they are not is impressive when on stage.

 A triangle simply cannot compare to the sheer magnitude of having a large guitar hung casually across your front like some large artistic shoulder bag packed full of awesome. Perhaps size is the issue here? Perhaps if there were some instrument, like a triangle but thicker and a meter in length, it would have the same gravitas as a guitar whilst maintaining the easy playability of a polygonic instrument. Sadly, at this moment in time, no such instrument exists. So until the day such a contraption arrives to revolutionize the musical scene, I shall regrettably be forced to postpone taking up an instrument.

Entrepreneurial Spirit

 The dark robed man glided slowly across the dead earth of the graveyard, its soft soil transformed into a quagmire by the pelting rain. He stood in front of one grave stone scarred with the words "Entrepreneurial Confidence". Lifting a thick leather bound book before him as if preaching to an invisible congregation, he began to utter a series of deep ominous words with a rhythmic droning rumble that would drill fear and uncertainty into the mind of any who heard it. His tone, the speed of his immaculate pronunciation and the volume of his voice simultaneously rose as he snapped the book shut, raising both hands violently skywards to be blindingly silhouetted by the sudden and vibrant flash of lightening. A moment of silence punctuated the scene, then a slow trembling shudder ran through the ground, gently at first, like a colossal beast shaking its self awake from slumber. As the quake reached its climax, the ground before the gravestone cracked then, after a moments pause, exploded upwards. Fragmented soil flew through the rain, pelting the old necromancer with a mixture of mud and water but he continued to smile, transfixed by the figure climbing out of the fractured wooden coffin.
 ...That was not how my entrepreneurial confidence was resurrected today but in terms of the dramatic mental impact it had on me it could be comparable to the slightly over extended and tenuous metaphor above. For my confidence as an entrepreneur has been dead a fair few years, ever since a school competition titled the Social Entrepreneurs Project (SEP for short, I do feel its shame they didn't title it the Entrepreneurial Social Project in which case the abbreviation would be ESP giving the misguiding but nonetheless interesting suggestion that it is some program associated with psychics) whose basic aim was to raise money to help children in Africa.
 A friend, called Faisal, and I decided we would buy sweets cheaply then resell them at school at a far higher price. Since Faisal lived in New Malden (despite being Pakistani, or more importantly, not Korean which meant he was treated as an immigrant within a community of immigrants, like some sort of Matryoshka doll of mild racism) we decided to buy a vast quantity of penguin bars (about thirty pounds worth of confectionery in total) from his local Iceland as well as some Japanese sweets called "Haichu" (A chewy fruit flavored sweet which gave you happiness and diabetes in equal quantities). Our ploy went a little like this, "The people at school shall all become addicted to Haichu and penguin bars, relentlessly eating and buying, trapped in a vicious cycle of sweet consumption and craving (cue evil laughter)"
 However, as if to prove there is some karmic justice within the world, both Faisal and I promptly became addicted on our own stock of foods (I on Penguin bars, he on Haichu). Like hunters who had been ensnared and captured by the sheer excellence of their very own traps we had finished off our entire supply of teeth torturing treats by the end of our first day of business. However we still had our pride as businessmen, and as true vendors we could not allow our customers to not pay, even if the customers were ourselves. Hence we paid for our ridiculously over priced confectionery (while being bitterly aware that it was over priced and even more bitterly knowing that we had already paid for it once) thereby successfully making a profit on paper but in reality making huge losses in terms of money, dignity and confidence in enterprise. At the end of a tough week of being social entrepreneurs we had actually gained nothing apart blood sugar levels and weight.
 From that crushing tragic defeat forth, I had never thought I could ever be a, entrepreneur. It was one potential aspiration which had become less of a career path and more of a 120 mile per hour career motorway utilized exclusively by trucks, the middle of which I would have to walk, trying to deftly dodge the metaphorical vehicular executioners lest I be splattered thinner than my chances of becoming a successful businessman. However, on this very day, my eyes were opened, then kept open with a contraption of metal wires as I was metaphorically put through the entire Clockwork Orange experience (though generally more positive and pleasant) to a whole new possibility of career for me.
 Today, at my school, it was Make A Difference Day, abbreviated with self deprecating humor to MADD. A day dedicated to charities of all kinds (ranging from childrens' hospices to cancer research to helping infants in Africa) where the school grounds are littered with sweet vendors, coconut shies, sport competitions, buskers and various other fairground style activities all raising money for charities. The day also gave permission for students to come in dressed not in the usual suits but in their own home clothes. So there I was, dressed in my lavender colored shirt, violet trousers, purple tie, jet black top hat and billowing dark coat, feeling thoroughly misanthropic as self righteous charitable souls walked around smearing their goodwill in people's faces.
 Then as I was harassing a group of buskers by tunelessly joining in on their singing, one of the people running MADD approached me with a tray full of sandwiches in their hand. Apparently there was an excess of sandwiches and she, along with several other tray bearing laborers, were now attempting to rid themselves of the sandwiches by distributing them for free. I, like other great business leaders before me such as Lord Sugar or Steve Jobs, in one inspired entrepreneurial move exclaimed "I'll take the whole tray!"
 Quickly I began to run amongst the crowds, attempting to sell my sandwich to passers by for just twenty pence while also eating some of them myself as I hadn't had lunch. However, despite the fact I did everything to make them seem appealing (verbally promoting them, rotating the tray seductively, threatening potential customers with violence) none of them seemed to sell, perhaps due to the recent economic downturn or the fact that the sandwiches were getting drier and drier by the second, losing what little appeal they originally had or the fact that there were other people going around giving out identical sandwiches for free.
 Very soon my legs were tired from running, my voice hoarse from shouting, my heart heavy with despair and my stomach heavy with sandwiches yet I hadn't sold a single sandwich. I sank to my knees, my will (like a "shatterproof" ruler in the forceful hands of a curious child) on the verge of breaking, was I to lose at this first hurdle on the road to business success? To be defeated like other business tycoons before me? Defeated like Murdoch by the Leveson Inquiry, Woolworths by the economic downturn and Steve Jobs by cancer?
 As I sank deeper and deeper into emotional submission a voice called out to me, a lifeline cast from the banks of the river, a blond, stupid and gullible lifeline called Hugo Speak (An individual whose bar of chocolate I once snatched and ate after he said "I wonder what it would be like to live in a lawless society") and his clueless words echoed in my grateful eardrums like the tinkling of gold coins on a marble floor "Oh, how much are those sandwiches?"
 "Twenty pence," I replied cautiously, hardly believing my luck but grasping onto it with all my strength nonetheless.
 Now, the brilliance of a charity event where many things are being sold for charity is that people instantly assume any goods being sold are being sold for charity. Example one, Hugo Speak spoke to say, "Well I'll pay fifty pence since its my donation." Donation to my wallet, I thought but did not utter. "Oh my money's in my bag" he announced and began to slowly unzip his bag. However even as he did so, I realized there was someone walking behind him, a tray full of sandwiches identical to the ones I had in every respect except his were completely free. If he were to call out to Hugo at this moment the entire deal would be blown. Silently willing the blond haired idiot of a customer to hurry up and take out his money, I watched my competition edge ever closer, sweat on my brow, the tray shaking in my nervous hands.
 Then, with a sudden clink of a fifty pence coin and the swift selection of two triangular sections of bread, the transaction was complete. I had a fifty pence profit and my customer had a dry tasteless sandwich he could have had for free. Of course he had the benefit of having the emotional satisfaction of thinking he had given to charity, a benefit I destroyed with a few smug words. I proceeded to quickly flee across the school with a very disgruntled customer behind me, a tray of sandwich in my arms, a profit in my pocket and a bright future in business ahead of me.