This is the age of the slogan, the soundbite, the snappy phrase in place of considered argument. Thought is dying; reason’s gone critical. In bookshops and magazine racks we’re told only what we want to hear: we’re told it in neat, bullet-pointed affirmations of our own worth.

No more. This is the fightback. The resuscitation. This is the slogan as explainer of the world. One a day for a year. Three hundred and sixty five phrases, soundbites and bullet points with which to make sense of the way things are now and point to how things could be tomorrow. Read them and weep.


Monday

59. Everyone turns into their parents

I am beginning to recognise my father: I’m beginning to see him in me. Increasingly, I find myself using his phrases, inheriting his foibles. A stickling for certain grammatical niceties and an exasperation with nonsensical verbal modernisms. For example: he couldn’t abide people saying “invite” when they meant “invitation” – and now neither can I. Likewise, I find myself unconsciously wincing when, after I’ve asked someone how they are, they reply “I’m good”. You’re not good, I think. Or if you are, that’s not what I asked. What you mean is, you’re well. And even as I’m mentally correcting them I can hear my Dad saying the same thing.
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