Learn­ing not to fry off the han­dle

The Leader (Nelson) - - FRONT PAGE - STU HUNT

I wouldn’t say I’m an an­gry per­son but I’m prob­a­bly not the best per­son to ask ei­ther.

I’m a lit­tle man though, and there­fore so the the­ory goes, I’m quick to rise to the small­est of provo­ca­tions.

I have a the­ory though – it’s called emo­tional acous­tics.

We al­ready cov­ered the fact that be­ing fond of a beer or two and less fond of ex­er­cise I’ve gained a bit of weight lately.

We won’t over­state the case here it was a cheeky few ki­los, a dozen or so in rough num­bers and mostly parked up round my waist although in truth I prob­a­bly did go up a cup size.

Not ex­actly obese but def­i­nitely not slen­der.

But the one key ad­van­tage of this was the strangely soft­en­ing af­fect on my mood swings.

That’s not to say the lid didn’t come off oc­ca­sion­ally to let out a burst of poorly ar­tic­u­lated steam but by and large for a time I was the eye of the storm.

My the­ory thus goes some­thing like this. The ex­tra fat ab­sorbed the neg­a­tiv­ity.

A bit like baf­fles in a stu­dio, my emo­tions weren’t al­lowed to am­plify by bounc­ing around my cushy midriff.

This of course could hold hands with the ``all fat peo­ple are jolly’’ and ``all thin peo­ple are mis­er­able’’ lines of thought.

It’s a dif­fi­cult hy­poth­e­sis to test and early re­search has not ad­vanced the the­ory much.

For in­stance it doesn’t ex­plain my wife’s re­ac­tion to my buy­ing her a fry­ing pan for her birth­day.

I wouldn’t call my wife fat (at least not within earshot) or wafer thin but she could barely con­tain her dis­plea­sure at this sur­prise move.

In lay­man’s terms she did her scone and for a short time I thought it may turn into a fly­ing pan and come into land on my head.

In line with my other the­ory `ev­ery­one knows some­thing I don’t’ most blokes reading this are prob­a­bly shak­ing their heads right now at such an am­a­teur­ish mis­take.

Les­son learnt, my wife will need to get to the point she needs to be fork­lifted out of the house be­fore she’ll con­tain her feel­ings about fry­ing pans on her birth­day.

The dog never gets an­gry and he’s thin as a rake.

I sus­pect the an­swer for him is the fact that he’s got a brain the size of a wal­nut.

I fired off my the­ory to New Sci­en­tist and they po­litely thanked me for my ef­forts but stated that it wasn’t some­thing they’d clas­sify as ground­break­ing.

They did how­ever put in red writ­ing at the bot­tom that I should take spe­cial cau­tion in my next experiment in find­ing how much it does take to find the dog’s breaking point.

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