Tomorrow will once again mark the completion by the planet Earth of an integer number of orbits around its host star since I was brought forth upon’t. As is becoming traditional, I will spend much of this day in meetings – well, once you’ve seen a lump of rock return to broadly the same place in the local heavens a certain number of times, the novelty does start to wear off.
I am of an age when it would be appropriate to have a mid-life crisis – well, assuming I’m planning to stick around until my mid-nineties being a burden on the young of the future (and that sounds like a plan to me!). Sadly, I still lack any interest in needlessly fast cars or the amorous entreaties of a well endowed, much younger woman (or, indeed, man – this is an equal opportunities blog, I spurn the affections of all) so I will have to find an alternative outlet for the angst due a chap of my vintage.
I’ve also rather failed to heed my genes and indulge in any procreative act, and so I cannot live vicariously through my offspring. Nor, before anyone becomes over-excited, should this post be considered an appeal for a “partner” through which I can sire issue to inherit GofaDM. These genes end here – though, on average, I suppose we should expect 25% of them to live on through my nephew (though I have yet to sound him out on taking over this post – in our last meeting, I mostly trounced him at the London Game).
I could perhaps start preparing for the day of judgment, but despite (or maybe because of) an O level in Religious Studies, I’m not terrifically taken with theism. Nevertheless, I do expect to be judged: by the older me, who will no doubt be merciless in his views on how I have frittered away my forties. All too little roaring has gone on, I fear. Perhaps it is time to take the second act of my life by the scruff of its neck (after a suitable break for ice-cream and/or cake), so that my older self will be suitably impressed by the performance of my current incarnation. Quite tricky to know what an elderly Fish will find impressive, given I am not the man now I was even 10 years ago – but hey, my day job is all about forecasting so this should be meat (or vegetarian alternative) and drink to me.
I have decided (well, “decided” is a bit strong – “come to a vague view that” might be closer to the mark) that I am too risk averse and just allow myself to drift through the days and years with no firm direction. Don’t worry readers, I am not about to take up an extreme sport – way too well supplied with physical cowardice for that, hence my body remaining quite close to “mint” condition (though, sadly I have lost the box which will reduce my re-sale value). It has struck me that most of what I do, I do alone (no sniggering at the back!) – including, for the most part writing this blog (though don’t get your hopes up, the writing will continue) – and so perhaps I should undertake something with more emotional or psychological risk and which involves other people in a more meaningful way. It should probably also be less intellectually based (or at least using rather different parts of my decaying intellect then I typically tend to deploy) as, enormous fun though the OU was, it did rather play to my existing strengths. Is it time to give the world my Lear? (Edward, I suspect, rather than King). Is it time to bite the bullet and sing with other people in a choral context (though this is more likely to work in organum than anything more recent)? Or start my own band, religion or political party? (I’m not really a joiner – just ask my woodwork teacher – so I will have to start my own).
The world may well be my oyster (not that I am a huge fan of the oyster, so perhaps it could be my scallop?) but what could I do with it to gain some small measure of approbation from a nonagenarian version of myself? Answering this question is the plan for the near future – or the interval, as I shall be calling it – before I switch to become a man of action (or at least, slightly less inaction) and to hell with the entropic consequences.