The coming of another new year brings certain responsibilities.
Not to waste as much time in the year ahead, for example, as during the year
gone by. Particularly not with the sands running out so rapidly. Why is it that
they appear to speed up nearer the end, do you suppose? Even Albert Einstein would
have struggled to explain it. Figuring out the speed of light was a doddle in
comparison. I believe it has something to do with perception, but that's about
as far as I'm prepared to go.
I deal in stuff like metaphors rather than theories. The
SPV, for example. That's a Spectrum Pursuit Vehicle, for those
who were never attuned to the wonderful miniature world of Gerry and Sylvia
Anderson. Captain Scarlet, Lieutenant Blue and the other uniformed puppets
would travel around the papier mâché landscape of Supermarionation in their
SPVs, moving rapidly forward yet sitting at the controls facing the road
receding into the distance. I think that's marvellous. The Andersons certainly
nailed the visual part of life's complex equation.
Anyway, I'm frittering away more valuable time, so I'll
leave the philosophical dilemmas to others. Let's just reiterate that, for
whatever reason, time passes more quickly the older you get. So, at New Year,
the pressure is increasingly on to do something with life before it drains
away, not with a bang but a gurgle. The decorations are down and the warm glow
of Christmas is consigned to the bank of happy memories. The serious stuff of
living has started all over again.
Resolutions are again on the agenda. This year, I resolve
to... I resolve to... What exactly? Keep my desk tidier? Good luck with that
one. No, that's an impossibility and I learnt from a programme the other
evening that by exerting willpower on something that you don't necessarily want
to do dissipates the willpower needed for something dearer to your heart.
It was a programme about keeping fit, actually. A subject
that's germane at my time of life. A staggering amount of money annually is squandered
on subscriptions for gyms that are either unclaimed or seriously under-used.
The message was that one should not waste time and willpower on activities
(like lifting weights or running on a treadmill) that you simply don't enjoy –
particularly when new research shows that there are just as effective and far
less time-consuming ways of keeping fit.
I'm not sure that playing more golf counts, but since
I've verified that I can sit down and stand up without the use of my arms 10
times in under 18 seconds, I feel that I've passed a test of sorts and can
therefore sign up for a sport that's not that physically demanding (no matter
how mentally taxing). That said, after playing with my pals Tim and Steve on
Monday afternoon, I sat down with a book and promptly fell asleep for half an
hour. I think I've spent too much time watching the domestics. Their propensity
for sleep is amazing. Too much petting pets
makes Mark a dull and dozy boy.
As I hadn't played the merciless game since late summer
and I was feeling roughly like the Burton Albion players must have felt
travelling to the Ethiad Stadium to face a Manchester City team (that would put
nine past them), I was quite relaxed and resigned to defeat. Besides, I don't
generally do sport to win, I do it to battle my demons. Nevertheless, my
shoulders were loose and my swing, such as it is, was fluid. I made a point of
keeping my eye on the ball, which I've found always helps, and consequently played
well enough to confirm that I'm not a cretin. Flushed with success, I've
resolved to sign up for an annual membership and to look for some golf shoes in
the sales. Yes, this year, I shall play more golf. Other retirees do it, so why
shouldn't I?
Last year, I fully intended to buy less music, but it
just didn't work. My heart wasn't in it. With retailers and junk shops
virtually throwing away CDs now, it's like trying to resist an open treasure
chest. Anyway, I can kid myself into believing that they're also an investment.
One day, they will be valued again – as LPs are once more. Besides, I've
already subjected myself to the sales. I was there bright-eyed and bespectacled
soon after opening time on the second Wednesday of the month to plunder the bins.
Given bargains like a double-orange-vinyl-with-free-CD set of Amadou &
Mariam's Dimanche à Bamako for six
euros or a seven-CD set of John Coltrane's 1961 European tour for the same price,
what can a compulsive collector do? My wife understands me, even if she can't
quite see the worth of seven different versions of Coltrane's transformation of
'My Favourite Things'. The first interpretation, at the Paris Olympia, has
already transported me into the kind of ecstatic state normally reserved for
whirling dervishes, so I don't see it as over-egging the pudding – which may
sound a little tragic to those who are only familiar with the Julie Andrews
version from The Sound of Music.
So, no. E'en if the hills be alive with the sound of it, I
won't resolve to buy less music. As a youth, I used to smuggle my vinyl
purchases into the house to avoid Checkpoint Mother, but now I'm past shame.
After all, I spend far less than a smoker does on tobacco or a drinker does on
alcohol and it's cheaper than a life-support system. Instead, I shall resolve
instead to do something that doesn't come naturally to a hoarder: to get rid of
some old things to make way for the new.
Where does that leave me? If there's any time left from
all this hunting music in bargain bins and gadding about golf courses, then I
shall resolve to do more writing. Now that the French government is paying me
90 bucks a month to be old, I can concentrate on writing for pleasure rather
than writing for gain. It's high time I knuckled down to the business of
writing something of substance. And since I generally do my best work in bed, nor
should it matter too much my quest to get a little fitter fails in the process.
And with that in mind, I must be off – for five minutes
of brisk star-jumping, squatting and running on the spot. Who needs to go to a
gym, anyway?
