No Strings Attached

Most of my friends seem so attached to something or someone: a devilish sportsteam, a stuttering moviestar, an author and her fantasy series, a film director or his chainsmoking sleuth, a band of coleopterine Liverpudlians, a northern mythological universe, a brand of dark rum, a saffron political ideology, a crimson economic paradigm, and so on. You certainly get the drift; the object of single-hearted devotion can be virtually anything. Something similar is even characterised by venal opposition to one (or more, in the case of generally visceral people) of the above that becomes too popular or too fanboy-ed in the hater’s eyes. Consider the pejorative ABU common on football discussion fora. (It stands for Anything But United, United here standing for the Mancunian kind.)

 

However, my sense of attachment, if any, is never too strong (relative to what others seem to feel). It ebbs and flows whimsically. I have favourites, but they generally remain that way, and do not lead me to the zenith of zeal or zest (this is not just tacky alliteration, only people from school will get what is meant). When I compare, I conclude that I’m perhaps afflicted by a perpetual sense of detachment. But that is probably where the problem lies, the instinct for instantaneous comparison.

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