The fad for parties to tell friends and family if an expected baby is a boy or girl often go spectacularly wrong, but not always for the reasons you think
It’s me again, the Metaphor Enjoyer. I find no greater thrill than when our bloated culture belches forth another living metaphor for my files, recent joys having been often property-based and monumental: the glassy new builds chucked up behind Victorian facades, for instance, the wobbliness of authenticity discussed over four storeys of visual tension; or the 25m “sky-pool”, a see-through swimming pool suspended from the roof of a skyscraper in Battersea, from which millionaire residents can look down at the less fortunate. In 2013, developers of a glass office block of bankers and insurers in central London were alerted to the fact that reflections from its mirrored windows were burning down its neighbours – a Jaguar parked across the street melted.
I love them because they are bigger than words. They are grand and stupid and occasionally fatal. See, for instance, the recent death of a 56-year-old woman at a party in Iowa where the firework her family had made, its colourful smoke intended to reveal the sex of their unborn baby, instead acted as an amateur pipe bomb.
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