Can't be done

I've just entered week three of the 48-hour cold I caught between Christmas and New Year.

Now I know He's omnipotent and everything, but I can't help feeling that, if I were God, I'd have given colds a miss. Colds and cats and athlete's foot: they're just not necessary. If I were Him, I'd have taken an extra day off instead, or spent a bit more time back at the old drawing-board, trying to sort out the total mess that is the human knee. Don't get me started on knees.

Talking of design faults in the human body, here's something I've noticed since I've had my cold: have you ever tried blowing your nose into a handkerchief using only one hand—while you're driving a car, for instance? I know it doesn't sound like much of a big deal, but I've discovered it's impossible. It can't be done.

Try it, if you don't believe me.


3 thoughts on “Can't be done

  1. A word in defence of the knee. It may not be the prettiest joint, but it is the biggest, and does a fairly good job since we have been thrusting most of our body weight (not inconsiderable in my case) onto it since we came down out of the trees (which is where the real mistake happened - I'd like to speak to the eedjit arboreal ancestor who couldn't contain his curiousity about what was happening down in the Rift Valley). And it's our fault really if we subject our knees to skiing and playing football with the likes of Robbie Savage.

  2. Look, I specifically asked you not to get me started on knees! My knees in particular. They're a mess, basically. In fact, I see my knees as definitive proof that we were not designed by an omnipotent, omniscient, benelvolent creator. If He does exist (which I'm sure He doesn't, by the way), then he fucked up big style with my knees.

  3. Okay, I won't mention knees again. A medical student came to see me the other day referred by another member of staff as the nearest Anatomist. She was a bit confused about the structure of the retina, which seemed to be back to front - all the axons running across the front while the light sensitive cells are at the back. "That's right!" I cried, "it's a mess! Give me an Octopus eye anyday (where things are the right way round)". I then held forth on Fred Hoyle's junkyard earthquake and Richard Dawkins, until the poor girl left, perhaps a little clearer on Anatomy, but her religious convictions in tatters.

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