Day 51, Friday February 20, 9am: Captain Louis Edward Nolan died 150 years ago, give or take, courtesy of a red-hot splinter from a Russian artillery shell at Sebastopol.
He supposedly gave out a blood-curdling scream on his way to his Maker.
The bit that really fascinated me as a boy, though, was that Nolan remained upright in his saddle, his sword held out before him, despite being very much dead as his horse galloped off the battlefield. That’s military discipline for you, that is.
Anyway. You may, or may not be immediately familiar with the Charge of the Light Brigade (even after my warning shot across the bows, see blog posting Feb 5). You may be wondering what I’m on about. But bear with me. In my mind, Captain Nolan and his commanding officer, Lord Cardigan, are inextricably linked with my New Year resolution of trying to be tidier about the house.
But back to 1854 and the Crimean War.
Historians disagree, of course – don’t they always? But the most popular hypothesis suggests that Nolan, suddenly realising that Cardigan and the Valiant 600 (actually about 673 horsemen took part in the charge, but don’t let specifics get in the way of a good poem) were about to ride into the Valley of Death, tried to intervene by riding across the front of the brigade. That, unfortunately, was when he copped it. Cardigan, being an absurd British toff, thought Nolan was showboating and trying to steal his thunder. “Damned impudence,” I hear him saying as he hurtled on towards the awaiting Russian guns (typically, Cardigan was one of the few to survive the charge, his eyebrows only lightly singed. He spent the evening drinking champagne on his yacht in Balaclava Harbour).
My point?
Simply, I have come to the conclusion that, domestically at least, there is more Cardigan in me than Nolan.
I keep charging off, doing things I find exciting and stimulating, even when the Nolan side suggests: “Look, perhaps this is not a great idea after all, those guns do look a tad menacing, why don’t you slow down, stop even, take a rain check, perhaps go and polish your stirrups or clip your sideburns rather than waving that sabre about in such a bellicose way?”
I simply will keep on doing the things which promise to quicken the pulse.
Which is why I go to the golf range (okay, okay, it might not quicken your pulse but it does mine), or practise my piano, or swim, rather than hang up my coat in the right place, take the washing out of the washing machine, hang up my ironed shirts or clear out the study.
Oh? Haven’t I mentioned the study yet? This is what this is all about, really. The study dominates everything, if I’m honest. It’s a boulder that I carry about with me in the haversack of life. It’s a monster lurking in my shadows. I know it’s there but I refuse to acknowledge it.
The study – actually, the whole house, to be honest, the study has just become the metaphor for my domestic incompetence - is now so untidy and cluttered that it’s impossible to traverse without falling over. I avoid going into the study whenever possible. If there’s paperwork that needs filing, I post it under the door.
Fact - I’m allergic to our study.
Which would be fine except that Jan sometimes works from home. I get ordered to tidy up and what do I do? I carry all the stuff from the study to another room. Then, when she complains about that room, I carry it all back.
It has taken my 49 and a half years, but I’ve just realised this is a waste of time. I was having a cup of tea with Lydia yesterday (aka Fragrant Wife, see posting of January 3) and she said she had cleaned up one of her sons’ rooms because she was sick of paying the mortgage for the three-bedroom house when her family appeared to be living in a two-bedroom home. Good point, I thought.
Lydia’s right. Things must change. No golf range today.
I am going into the study. I’m going in. I’m going in… (if I repeat it enough times, maybe I’ll believe it).
It’s time for Captain Nolan to stop Lord Cardigan for once. It’s time for the Russian artillery to miss.
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Yes, it’s been a while but yesterdays Times has set me off again. I had been puzzling over the seemingly universal enthusiasm that has erupted for taking on resolutions. Not happy with one(what happened to giving up smoking) all involved seem to revel in a multiplicity of challenges. These have been mostly self improvement with some re-visiting past failures , new ones are being added almost every day. The head sloth is now into double figures. I think we have an outbreak of dopamine addiction, you know the stuff the brain hands out as a sort of reward for ticking those boxes. The Times article said that the brain could even try to predict where the next event might come from and therefore was wont to shoot increasing doses of the stuff into the system so just thinking about succeeding can give you a high. Even though some of the company which judging by the mail list is now practically a society-are still hovering over the starting line once they start who knows where it will end.
ReplyDeleteI don’t need to look any further than my own abode to witness this phenomenon where life partner Clare has decided not only to become a plumber but an all round jobbing builder with plans to learn plastering and brick laying also planned. She is not what I would call a typical builder, hair is mainly on her head for example and I have not noticed a spirit level tucked neatly in that genetically imposed space possessed of all builders down the back of her jeans. I have trouble carrying the shopping (benefit people please note!) so I won’t be volunteering to carry the hod. But if you want to be my guest.
To balance this pectorally challenging ambition she has also taken up swimming and knitting, again. Swimming is good, it needs a pool and to be somewhere else , but knitting!. The sound of click clacking needles was last heard here before the children were born, in fact I may still have a pullover tucked away in the loft which I suspect will now fit me, although it may still be too long as my legs have not grown since then. There is something soporific about the sound of needles tickling each other, at first anyway but once you have tuned in it’s all you can hear. It is a bit like other peoples mobile phone conversations on trains, no matter how hard you try to ignore them you find yourself drawn to them and wanting to give them a hug or a slap as a one sided drama unfolds in your ears. From around 8 pm most nights the gentle almost musical pre-snore susurration of exhausted womanhood relaxing for the first time all day has been replaced by an intense teeth grinding mantra of “knit one pearl one” or “how many stitches is that” or “nnnngh I’ve dropped a knstitch”. This is accompanied by the staccato click clack of plastic on plastic. Head sloth or dopamine has a lot to answer for. However, there is one silver lining she won’t have any trouble with building site language.
What about my own resolutions-well anyone who was at the gathering in February will know. What started out as gentle Saturday afternoon social soon accelerated into something a little more intense with the party moving location mid way through the evening and finally ending around midnight. However it was interesting to put faces to names and meet new people , there is something to this sharing as I came away quite enthused, well I was until Bacchus stole my mind. For those who don’t know I decided to do something that would require several stages to achieve which meant taking account of fatness and fitness and doing something about it. Leading ultimately to, learning to ride a uni cycle. The very idea of a unicycle is to my mind preposterous anyway and ranks alongside waterproof teabags and therein lies the attraction it is just a little off the wall and therefore may just hold my interest longer than any other resolution has managed to. However to achieve this I will need to address a basic body shape issue and be a lot fitter. Although round is to my mind an almost ideal aero dynamic shape… but have you ever tried balancing a ball on the end of a pole , you see my problem I am sure. What astonishes me is that there is a whole fraternity , a sub culture even around unicycling. Gel packed shorts, special shoes and different cycles for different conditions and activities. They are as common as seagulls in Brighton . I have identified suppliers, taken advice on weight to height ratio, priced them and identified courses . What impresses me is how neat and portable they are encouraging me to dream about cycling the corridors at work, tweaking noses and generally being very impressive. The biggest problem I see here though , is where do I put the balancing pole, 15 feet of beech is a bit cumbersome .
I have decided that plenty of room and warmer weather are needed so my first flight (carefully chosen word) will not be for a few months yet but knowing my family the first teetering lunges will be very publicly witnessed so Lindfield common here I come. I was grateful or maybe not to have some advice from the Head Sloths brother Roger who as an actor has had some experience of this ancient skill of the burlesque theatre “lean forward “ he said “and sort of lunge , speed will bring you upright” I may buy a crash helmet as well . So what else has my dopamine soaked psyche come up with , well ginger beer and gin specifically sloe gin(I know what a sloe look like ) which means a sort of high summer and later autumn activity. Clare has already passed judgement on the gin experiment given that my chocolate pudding has seen off the most ardent of chocolate lovers she thinks my gin might make people go blind but I will give it a go as I think it might go very well with a record size barbecued Pike which one of our fellow travellers is attempting to land.
Even as I am finalising my thinking on this the click clacking of needles invades my consciousness but interestingly it has taken on a new beat , a tune even , something like quick , sloe , quick quick , sloe……Mrs S is giving me a very peculiar look, I am chanting now…. It could be a long year.