Let me ask you something: have you ever had an epiphany, a moment of clarity, that you knew would resonate through the years? Have you ever stood on the top of a mountain and gazed rapturously at the wonder of nature, or stared out of an aeroplane window at the millions of lights and boggled at all the people in all the houses spread out below you?
Maybe you found yourself in Sri Lanka or discovered God living in the stillness of the Hagia Sofia. Maybe opera makes your head spin and Dostoevski speaks to your soul.
But none of that’s for me. The sublime moments in life turn me off; it’s the bland stuff that thrills me.
Listen, I’ll be honest: I couldn’t give a fuck about the time you went white water rafting with your mates, or backpacked around India with your daddy’s money, or fought off a crocodile with nothing but toothpick and your Bear Grylls survival skills.
Tell me about how your mum saved the candles from all your birthday cakes – I’m hooked. I’ll hang on every word of your story about discovering slow cooking, organising your desk drawers and preferring raisins to sultanas. I’ll probably ask you to elaborate.
My eyes glaze over when you tell me about your transcendent moment at the top of Machu Picchu, but if the Chinese takeaway changed your life or there’s moles in your garden – fuck me if I don’t want to hear every single detail.
I’m not being disingenuous, reader; this is the shit I genuinely care about, and I thought I would take the time to tell you why. After all, if there’s space on the Internet for 40,000 stories about the Sublime, surely there’ll be space for one or two posts about courgettes and teapots.