Borath: I found this in the dregs of my old C: and figured that, not having posted anything other than fanfiction here I might as well present this to the masses.  It’s a piece that I did for Coursework a few years ago and studies the behavioural cycle of people throughout the year.  Brits will understand this more than anyone else!

The Cycle

One cold, dreary, typically British Saturday morning in May, I found myself alone with my thoughts whilst awaiting my ride home from Town.  From my bench I had a good view of the people before me on the promenade and found myself making visual observations of these subjects.  I quickly realised that I had been ‘people watching’ during my excursions into Town quite a lot over the previous few years, and from these experiences I was able to extrapolate that the behaviour of society appeared to change collectively in an annual cycle.  One of the most prominent examples of this must be in January.

Mild mannered woman, in particular, who at any other time are calm and polite, are suddenly transformed into crazed beasts, hunting through every shop with predatory intent as they hunt down the best the January sales have to offer.  Standing outside Freemans, I watch their husbands, always keeping a cautious few feet away, trail behind the lionesses obediently, their purpose only to carry the products of the hunt in their strong arms as their wives hunt down more. 

Small children are tragically crushed in the onslaught of females, but many learn after the first department store to stay quiet and hover at least a metre away at all times while their mothers’ eyes glint with an insatiable hunger for the next bargain.  I watch all this with perverted amusement, learning and preparing for the day when I shall be ready to enter the melee and begin my first hunt.  But for now, I watch the chaos around me with a smile and pick up what remains when the hordes have left, their hunger satisfied for now.

The run up to this entertaining time is also one of interesting behavioural changes.  Parents, in the weeks prior to Christmas, have a duty imposed onto them by their young; to deliver the most popular and out of stock product on the market.  These ‘Fads’ have a tendency to be toys, which become frighteningly popular among children at the end of the year and frighteningly difficult to obtain.

One such incidence I am sure many would rather forget was the ‘Great Furby Rush’ where annoying little furballs that stated questionable phrases were the hopes and dreams of most children.  Supplies of the creatures trickled into the shops making the anxious parents more desperate to have one.  Many of the adults became angry and started fights over the toys, seemingly accelerating their popularity.  It was thought that if people would battle over them, then they must be worth getting hold of, and like some deranged disease threatening to eradicate mankind, more people fell victim to the craze and wanted them.

Once Christmas was over, the creatures were discarded like annoying parasites and the next Fad was eagerly awaited.  But no parent could be prepared for what descended upon their children’s hearts next.  Within months, when the Furby Scars had finally healed, a new craze banished civilised society.

I watched from a safe vantagepoint by the railing as children dragged their hapless parents into the shops once again.  I must admit, I was becoming increasingly nervous because of the small children,  with their eyes glazed like some drugged social reject, mumbling a new, alien language with words such as ‘Pikachu’ and ‘Bulbasuar’, a strange and frightening world that parents could not understand nor hope to compete with.  Pokemon, had hit the nation. 

Suddenly, small cards carrying the pictures of ‘Pocket Monsters’ appeared, and huge riots in school playgrounds, dubbed as ‘scrambles’ became a normal daily occurrence.  I was lucky to come out of one of these pitched battles as I made the mistake of crossing their path by ways of a shortcut.  Immediately seeing me as a potential Pokemon source, I was rapidly surrounded by a pack of Year Sevens, thrusting what appeared to be impressive cards at me. 

This new hunger was fuelled by films, books, games, more cards and the desire to ‘Catch ‘Em All’.  The film was possibly the most disturbing, being obliged as the older sister to take my Poke-fected brother to view it.  I believe that every person in the audience over ten years of age slipped into a mild coma at about the same time as I did. 

I acknowledged early in the movement that it would not last, and, thank the heavens, I was correct.  Like the ‘Great Furby Rush’, Pokemon too lost steam and is now nothing but another lingering Fad clinging to the bottom shelf for  survival.  Every parent became visibly relaxed until Digimon struck¼

A second change in the behaviour of society that happens in the weeks prior to Christmas is what I have dubbed ‘The Urge’.  With New Year weeks away, I avoided the crazed children and distressed parents, to observe the single people, most importantly those in their late teens and early twenties.  ‘The Urge’ compels them to snare a suitable companion for Christmas, and this annual action was only heightened a few years ago by the importance of the Millennium.

Women, wearing the single item of clothing that best displays their hard-worked-for Amazonian figures, begin to appear in bars, sitting placidly on the stools and chewing their bottom lips engagingly.  Men prowl through these displays wearing their most appealing clothing, some cleanly, almost obsessively, shaved smooth, others bearing a thin beard growth that some expect woman will find ‘ruggedly handsome’.  I feared that I might drown in testosterone.

A partnership is often forged successfully and the couple is destined to spend their New Year in a most, friendly, manner, before they divide and find a companion who will satisfy them for longer.  Admittedly, this is not always the case, but the rejected peoples are often seen joining the rush in January, their misery clear.  The successor of the brief relationship will be out at this time too, hunting once again.

Again, I watch with interest, as, in the near future, I shall become like one of the two subjects that amble through Town.  I learn more each year and each year I become more afraid of when my behaviour must succumb to nature and begin the life-long annual cycles.  But for now, I am safe merely to observe. 

In May, the women are spared from this cycle of change as the men take the brunt of the season.  Usually strong, burly lads are reduced to the same level as anxious fathers, seen clinging to their children as they search for the best Mothers Day gift.  I find this activity is most popular the day before the actual event, as the unprepared or forgetful are reminded by a childish voice that they need a present for tomorrow, and a hasty dash to Woolworth’s ensues. 

I also see more sensible female teenagers searching for an appropriate present alongside the men holding the hands of small children; male teens are a rare sight at this time.  Although some do appear in the streets, sheepishly carrying flowers, a card, and a box of Quality Mum.  I myself am among these shoppers, my responsibility to my brother to ‘get something nice’ forcing me to bare the queues longer than usual.

Likewise, the same ritual is performed in June when mothers and their children scamper through the streets, searching out socks and pens for the second parental unit.  I have found, however, that the females appear to be more organised than the males, and a gift is procured days in advance.

A similar preparation is made at Easter time as the parents psychologically steel themselves for the sugar rush in their children that will bring them much heartache.  The Easter Eggs are on the shelves once the last shirt in the January Sales has been snatched from the shelves, and this is the sign for the parents to begin preparation.

Easter is quite a routine time, when everyone behaves normally except for the occasional bump in obtaining a particular decorated egg (Pokemon/Digimon this year).  And then, the day after Easter, the immense quantity of chocolate nestled in the children’s stomachs takes its toll. Like a time bomb, it explodes into a hyperactive frenzy.  Children can no longer speak, each sentence being blurted incoherently. Five year olds are often the most badly affected, and their elders try to ease their running and screaming with toys and balloons, but all is rejected whilst the sugar runs mercilessly through their veins, giving their wide eyes a disturbing sheen.

Fortunately, this particular aspect of the cycle does not last long, and parents are left free to sag in their chairs, a finger or two twitching as the memories are buried deep inside, joining the fragmented images of Furby.

But of all these times, the most pronounced change in behaviour is in the six weeks holidays.  This is the most stressful time for parents and the scars are often visible around their haggard eyes immediately afterwards and definitely during the trying period.  Every mother and father begins scouring the town, seeking advertisement of a place to take their family, to alleviate the deadly boredom that draws near.

This time is eagerly anticipated by children, teenagers especially, and the first week goes smoothly with much fun and laughter.  And then, it strikes.  Within days, the minds of teenagers across the nation have become more numb and closed than usual, their eyes blank and staring from hours of television exposure.  Every activity that the parents can conjure up has been performed, every friend seen and every game completed.  A new feeling overtakes the nation:  Fear.

Every lyric of the television is soon memorised; the songs resonating through each home and parents abruptly send their children away, banishing them from their dwellings into the streets.  I am among the refugees, destined to gather among others and spend the weeks talking and idly collecting around street corners and inside arcades.  The irony of the situation is that although the holiday is eagerly awaited, its end is also looked upon with anticipation.  And still the six-weeks of freedom from classes is cause for excitement; lessons never learnt from the previous year.

With such erratic behaviour in such an orderly annual pattern, it is no small wonder how human beings have become this planet’s most dominant species.  Thankfully, for a majority of the year, society is docile and placid, but the next holiday is always ahead, and Furby is only a shadow of what evil designers are capable of inflicting upon mankind¼

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