A tribute to the black box.

You sat on that shelf, collecting dust and hair. You endured the prods from our toes when we were too lazy to get up and change the channels. You didn’t like that did you? So you zapped our fingers every time we dropped your antenna. We repented. And we tried to be more patient with you – sombrely waiting the 20 minutes you needed to warm up so we could see more than fuzzy RGB lines. But alas, you still decided to take your own life. A fall and a sickening crack. RIP.

About time!

Part seven.

It’s a cheap thrill, really. Like taking the spoons from an airplane, or grabbing extra packets of ketchup from McDonald’s, or bagging pink nail polish from a shop.

People give me withering looks when they recognise the logos on the tissues. Yes, it is rather grandmother of me. I admit. But it’s not stealing, and I’m not wasting trees. If I were to buy a box of tissues, I would still be using trees to wipe my snot. It’s just a question of where the tissues come from. Might as well get a thrill out of it, right?

Part six.

As we left through the door, I shamelessly grab another stack of tissues from the busy bar and walk out without so much as a glance backwards. We got to the car park where everyone could pull out their loot and combine it. Yep. That would be enough to last me for many more months.

But it wasn’t about the free tissues. I mean, how much could a proper box of tissues cost? It was the thrill of collecting it. Of doing it right under the noses of waiters as they thought we were playing a flirting game.

Part five.

The guy comes back with an alcohol-branded glass filled with all too few squares. Grab the tissues. Hide the glass. Ask again.

“Excuse me,” Making sure it’s not the same waiter. “Could we have more serviettes please.” A polite but urgent look.

Yet another glass with more serviettes. Grab them. Hide the glass. Ask again – making sure our table’s waiter was out of sight. You get the picture. And that went on till each of us had an empty glass to account for. So we paid and left the table looking like we had quite some to drink.

Part four.

Three months later, my car compartment needed replenishing. Trips to Starbucks and IKEA provided the much-needed supply of tissues. Unfortunately, they came in odd-sized oblongs. So I kept an eye out for those pristine white squares.

My diligence was rewarded at a local restaurant, where I was having dinner with a bunch of girlfriends one day. The service was good, but the tissue allocation for our table, terribly disappointing. There was barely enough to go round. So we took turns asking for more.

“Excuse me,” Not forgetting to smile sweetly. “Could we have some serviettes please?” Coy look.

Part three.

I was to meet up with some colleagues for a brainstorm. Many cups of coffee and hot chocolate later, we were ready to call it a day. As we got up to leave, I saw what would have been a waste of a couple of clean serviettes that would indefinitely find their way to the bin. So (rather wisely, I think), I took them with me. And helped myself to an inch more of the stack of serviettes near the counter. Nice, square, white tissues, all just the right size for the little compartment under my car stereo.

Part two.

No, I didn’t start shoplifting. But all it began when I’d bought my new car. It came littered with freebies, a box of tissues among them. They didn’t last long. And I kept forgetting to buy a new box. I couldn’t even remember to bring one down from the house.

So I’d have spilt some water on myself, trying to drink and drive at the same time. Or I’d have this sneezing fit because my tolerance for dust couldn’t compete with my laziness to vacuum the carpets. But no tissues.

I found a simple solution to my predicament.

Part one.

I’ve always been a good girl. I was always home before my curfew. Never tried smoking. Never got drunk. Seldom lied – always got caught when I did. Never shoplifted. So I could never really empathise with people who did.

Not that I judge them. But when I hear things like “I didn’t shoplift because I wanted to steal stuff. I just loved the thrill of it.” I cannot wrap my head around it. I don’t shoplift because it is wrong. What kind of thrill are you talking about?

I couldn’t understand. Till I picked up a certain habit.

I remember walking up a flight of stairs.

It was a wooden one, leading up to a hut in the middle of the jungle. Absent-mindedly, I reached out my hand and slid it up the railing beside me. It didn’t feel right. I looked and saw that I had just swiped my fingers through a mob of red ants. I screamed and started vigorously shaking off the ants that had tumbled on top of my hand and were already clinging onto my skin. A few more quick flings of my arm and I was safe from a very painful experience.