This is not a misspelling. I am not going to discuss the Brits, but something far more insidious and nefarious. The bits. Whole cultures are built around seeking to keep the bits at bay. Sadly they roam freely over carpet and linoleum in my house. They move, they gather, they multiply; they disturb me.
At the weekend, when I can finally grab an hour to myself, I will enjoy a bottle of red and some TV. After a couple of glasses my attention moves from the TV screen to the floor. I see an ocean of mud, food, fluff, dust and the mysterious detritus of life. The flotsam and jetsam of the mundane congregates in my living room. They all to a bit are giving off a sonic hum that sounds like ‘shame’.
I am at times moved to action. Late at night I can be found pushing around the vacuum stick only to be frustrated with the poor suck. I then pull off the end and apply full suck on my hands and knees, coaxing the bits to come quietly. They do because they know they will be back.
People bring bits into the house, mostly on their shoes. My daughter spills her food. I do too. My daughter loves picking up bits outside and stashing them in her dress pocket.
My solution is simple. We have to learn to hover above the ground so we don’t collect any bits when we are outside. I also have to learn better manners.
First published in the July 2017 edition of The Bewdley Bridge