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You know you were born in the 50’s and are currently enduring this absurd century when:
- A shop-spoiled T-shirt, seemingly stitched together from two separate, inside out decorator's overalls and given a thorough going over with a parmesan grater by an enthusiastic catering student, is not turned into a duster but rather, costs £140 and is worn with pride and impunity by your son on a Friday night.
- Salad was a wholesome and substantial compliment to a meal, not a baffling array of delicate flora scattered eagerly across your plate as if by a leaf blower.
- Your chirruping, idiot staff spend all day giggling like imbeciles over inappropriately modified Excel sheets full of fatuous predictions and ersatz cultural paraphernalia from about half an hour ago.
Divorced, 1950’s born man, deeply at odds with the frivolous and incomprehensible nature of everything outside of this typeface and that pair of brogues seeks absolutely anyone who isn't on Facebook at box no. 18/04.