The Unbearable Being of Likeness

Best to move on swiftly from that mangled title I feel. I suffer from random passions and preferences for things. I'm not sure if other have the strange outlook as I do. I know people all like different things, but it usually for a reason. For example, people like the phrase 'life's rich tapestry', which would aptly fit what I am trying to describe. But I don't like that twee comment at all so I wont use it. I can't for the life of me think why I like Canada, Russian Literature of the town of Narbonne in France. True, there are likeable things about all of them, but that isn't why I like them. I sense I have lost you already. I am myself.

Canada is a fantastic place, friendly, scenic and bewilderingly vast. I've been lucky enough to visit a small fraction of this country and see it for myself. There's nothing strange about liking it. Except that I liked it before I'd been, before I knew anything about it other than what the flag looks like. I've been across North America and my favourite place is the pleasant but unremarkable Halifax, Nova Scotia, rather than Boston or New York. I drink whisky and I like Canadian Club more than better quality, tastier brands.

Russian literature has many classics, but everyone would agree there are equals from other cultures. But I haven't read a serious book by a non-Russian for years. I seek out obscure ones now that I've done the big names. And I forcibly enjoy them, denying myself the opportunity to criticise them even if I don't enjoy them. I rank Bulgakov's Master and Margarita in my top twenty books, and I just don't like it. Talking cats indeed.

I love France, have been many times and am comfortable in why I developed this opinion. But Narbonne, a small provincial city in Languedoc is my favourite place of all. It is surrounded my Montpellier, Perpignan, Sété, Toulouse and Narbonne. But I prefer to all of those other places. It boasts an impressive unfinished cathedral and a pleasant, compact centre. It also has a history of race riots but that doesn't put me off. I only went the first time because I had to change trains there, and had such a hangover I couldn't face the ongoing journey. I spent my stay there stuck in the hotel watching the Champions League final, rather than any great social or cultural pursuits.

I'm not sure how I can recognise the failings in the things that I like and like them all the more for them. Perhaps I'm odd. Sometimes this thought worries me. And then I realise people out there laugh at Rob Brydon, watch Holby City and read Dickens. And then I relax, as there's nothing rational about enjoying those things either. I realise, I'm not alone.