An overly-enthusiastic shop assistant tries to sell me a new-fangled rain jacket that is so "Hi-Tec" I can't understand how the hood works. There are so many straps, buckles, snaps, zippers, and draw-strings it 's more like a Rube Goldberg machine than a regular anorak.
According to the dictionary-sized sales brochure attached to the jacket's adjustable sleeve, it's possible the inside lining can pull-out and with the help of some pegs and a telescopic pole (not supplied) provide emergency shelter in the form of a portable bivouac. In fact, the pockets are so deep and roomy they can easily contain all your camping equipment and food, making the traditional back-pack and picnic hamper obsolete.
That's great. But will the damn thing keep me dry in a storm? The assistant claims the jacket is so waterproof that some deep-sea divers have even started wearing it instead of a conventional wetsuit when exploring the ocean depths. Indeed, so positive has been the response of the oceanographic community to this jacket, the jacket's manufacturer is currently sponsoring Season Seven of Under Water Mysteries on the Travel Channel.
Okay, fine, I say. But can you explain to me how to put the hood up?
There's a full-length instructional video on YouTube, the assistant replies, featuring slow-motion HD aerial drone footage of how to operate the hood in a series of easy to follow steps. Online chat on the manufacturer's website and twenty-four-hour telephone helplines staffed by a team of certified experts are also available.
In the end, much to the assistant's chagrin, I opt for a much simpler and cheaper jacket. This jacket comes with an ordinary hood you just pulled up over your head when it started raining and pushed back down again when it stopped. Not very fancy but at least I know how it works. And the cheaper jacket is only "water resistant," not "completely waterproof," but seems to offer reasonable protection against the elements should I get caught in an unexpected downpour.
You won't be able to go swimming in that, the assistant says, and you'll need to bring a separate tent if you plan on sleeping in the woods.
I just want to wear it traveling back and forth to the office, I say Mine is an average commute, not a triathlon, and it's a desk job, not a Survivalist course.
The assistant gives me a pitying look, as if I'm missing out on life's great adventure. You only live once, his eyes imply, so you should live each day as an extreme sport. But of course, that is exactly what I do do. Every day I play the extreme sport of trying to be a normal person in this day and age. And it's extremely exhausting, I can tell you.
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