I’m not going to lie to you, dear reader: though you may find the next statement hard to fact check. Counting chronologically in order of creation, this is the 800th post in GofaDM. In most respects, this is little different to the 799th or 801st post – but our use of a decimal counting systems grants it some greater significance. At the least, it should probably go down in the annals of, or at least as a footnote to, the history of poor ideas continued long past the point at which even a fool would have abandoned them. I pride myself that a fool must rise very early in the morning if he (or she) is to arrive before me, no matter how much they rush.
You might expect some celebration or razzmatazz to mark this occasion and some such is planned, but it will require a more significant degree of preparation – including some (or all) of equipment to acquire, fanfares to compose, wardrobe and make-up to prepare, venue to hire etc – before it can burst forth onto your screens. In the meantime, the author’s life continues and grist for his blogging mill continues to arrive waiting for the humour to be ground out of it. For now, I shall offer up a small haiku as an earnest of future delights:
The eight-hundredth post:
A million pointless words?
Finite life: wasted.
(For the avoidance of doubt, I am of the view that ‘million’ has three syllables – or better yet, kōans.)
On Friday night, the regular reader will be unsurprised to learn I was at a gig. On the whole this need not detain us here other than to note that I had a whale of a time – I’m thinking right or killer, rather than sperm (the evening was sax-free) – and to note the philosophical revelation that came to me as Bad Cat delivered their rousing encore and the clock turned itself up to eleven (like all the best amps). I recognise now that Cara Emerald intended the song as a warning, rather than a template for life, but my thought at the time was “it’s never too late for a Liquid Lunch”. Reader, it shames me to say that I acted upon my new found insight that very night and did not make it back to my home (let alone my little trundle bed) until 4:15am. This is the latest night on the tiles (or any other flooring) I have had since I was in my twenties. Truly, if wisdom is a function of age, it is not a strictly monotonically increasing one.
Talking of temptation, my resistance to the acquisition of an accordion is ebbing dangerously low. Will our hero make it through this week?
The side-effects of my late night, and its vicissitudes, were remarkably mild but I was left a little tired and perhaps slightly more frayed around the edges than normal. This may have had some impact on the several hours of English ceilidh dancing to which I applied my weary mind and limbs the following evening. This is my fourth ceilidh-style session in recent months and you might expect me to be improving but I’m not entirely sure the evidence would fully support that thesis.
Trouble began when I was required to perform something rather alarmingly described as a gypsy meltdown (or that’s what I heard) followed by extensive spinning of my partner. It may be that lack of sleep was a contributing factor, but this amount of spin applied to the middle-aged body did leave my middle-ear reeling (though that could have been appropriate) and its owner decidedly dizzy. This manouevre was repeated with sufficient frequency that my vestibular apparatus never recovered its poise. As a result, I became ever more dizzy and the dance only just came to an end before I was reduced to a crumpled heap, capable of little more than observing the hall spin around me. Talking to my fellow practitioners of the Terpsichorean art, I was not alone in this and at one stage the inner and outer circles of dancers almost became conjoined in some strange Moebius strip formation. Had I been less dizzy, my inner topologist would have been fascinated!
My finest moment – and the one for which this blog was entitled – was the waltz. I think this may be the first time I have danced the waltz and I won’t claim that I am a natural (I shall leave others to argue that point). However, there was a phase within the dance when, for the first time in my life, I felt not unlike Mr Darcy. I will admit that I was a very poorly dressed Mr Darcy (I was in shorts for a start, but a chap gets very warm strutting his stuff on the dance floor) and I was very sweaty (see previous brackets) and I suspect the fictional original might have been more competent. Nevertheless, there was about me an aura of Darcy and I’ll take what I can get. I might also mention – much as I hate to blow my own trumpet (that’s a lie: I would love to blow my own trumpt, especially with a mute, but I have neighbours) – to any ladies (or gents or others) reading that I am on a little more than ten thousand a year! I’ll admit that my apparent wealth does ignore the insidious impact of inflation over the last couple of centuries, but I reckon I could still make quite a catch!
My least fine moment was a dance that involved casting off into and out of multiple stars. The eight, of which I was a part, never came within a parsec or two of coming to grips with this particular sequence of manoeuvres and the chaos that ensued would have kept a team of cosmologists busy for years. If you thought the three-body problem was tough, trying doing it with eight nominally conscious bodies!
I like to imagine that all this dancing is doing wonders for my brain and body with its combination of serious concentration and vigorous physical exercise. However, a part of me worries that the sweating might be explained more by 120 bodies being packed into a hall rather than any exertion on my part. To manage the perspiratory issue, it was suggested that next time I should go topless (if I’m honest, a bikini was mentioned) but I think I might instead (and to spare my fellow dancers’ finer feelings) just eschew ceilidh during the warmer months (subject to their availability).
To be on the safe side exertion-wise, I have been taking life fairly easy today – aided by my discovery (prompted by a friend on social media) of Waltz for Debby by the Bill Evans Trio. Beautifully chilled jazz, with a title that fits into the theme of today’s blog: serendipity, old friend, you are spoiling me!
- Gig mentioned: check
- Obscure maths reference: check
- Extended cosmology riff: check
Then, I think we can safely bring this post to its long awaited conclusion: please check that you have all your personal belongs with you before leaving. Thank you for flying with GofaDM.