View From The Bridge

TURNING THE SCREW

August 1st, 2008

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Yesterday I had occasion to travel to central London – ironically at one point walking by the South Bank for the second day running - on my way to meet my old pal Sir Harry Airborne for a luncheon appointment that in many respects I had been dreading ever since it was first agreed two months ago.

In recent times, given my own reduced circumstances, I have found the burden of keeping up with the detail of the boulevardier’s relentless bonhomie, name-dropping & complicated business dealings (which he is only too ready to explain at length to a captive audience) requires an intense effort of concentration on my part and tends to promote unwelcome feelings of personal inadequacy as I compare my mundane Pooter-ish existence with his busy jet-setting lifestyle.

As I walked towards the glass & metal edifice that is Sir Harry’s global headquarters I saw ahead an attractive, informally-dressed, young lady standing on the pavement handing out what I now know to have been free invitations to a new dance club. As each male - I counted at least four in front of me - went by she gave him an open-eyed smile and offered him a card … but as I approached (no fewer than three times) she failed to afford me this privilege. At first I was disappointed, worrying that perhaps my appearance had in her mind rendered me too old & fat to have any possible interest in the object of her promotion, but then I realised that - spying the full majesty of the fully-mature male strolling towards her - she had become diffident & shy, convinced that an Alpha such as myself would have no need of the opportunity to seek out studying opportunities, sensing that (as night follows day) all my classes would have been automatically over-subscribed long ago.

Having tried to gain – and been politely refused - entrance to the imposing Airborne building, it was only about twenty minutes before the familiar whoosh-whoosh-whoosh of the Merlin engines heralded the arrival of Sir Harry’s Chinook, returning from his expedition to watch the first two races at Glorious Goodwood, on the roof-top helipad.

I had expected he would need to receive updating reports and/or conduct a series of important meetings before being able to sneak away, but it was only an hour and a half before the revolving door suddenly erupted into action and the great man came flying out onto the pavement in his Hawaiian shirt & familiar battered homburg. Catching sight of me as he sped by, he reached into his pocket and flung a handful of coins … together with the advice “For Christ’s sake, man, get yourself a cup of tea, a sandwich & some new clothes but don’t ever stand outside my office again!”… in my direction. Before I had the opportunity to offer him my well-rehearsed cheery opening greeting, his chauffeur had held open the rear door of his red-silver Mercedes Maybach and he’d disappeared off (as I later discovered from the Evening Standard) to a Government conference on how to reduce carbon emissions by discouraging large luxury vehicles from visiting central London.

On the way home from Waterloo station I was in reflective mood. If I’m honest about it my failure to make the GB swimming team for Bejing has hit me harder than I have cared to admit in public. There’s a sense in which an athlete cannot help it – you work so hard to prepare to reach your goal that you sort of assume you’re going to get there. Almost to the point where you ignore or discount everything else that’s going wrong in your life, because (at the end of the day) by achieving your goal you’re surely going to justify your single-mindedness - your very existence – by winning through. To then discover that you haven’t is a bit of a kick in the gut.

Back in the flat – on the verge of calling in my tame IT specialist to come and sort out the family laptop which has ‘seized’ and for the past two months would not even fire itself up when requested – I pressed the ‘start’ button one last time … and was delighted to discover it was offering to re-install the Windows XP software. Without thinking I clicked ‘accept’ and an hour later the deed was done. But not quite as I would have wished. The only thing that the laptop now has in its memory is the Windows XP software. All my contacts, documents, photographs, downloads, other software, even eight years’ worth of golf scores & related data and the original ‘original’ version of my book (and all the research for it) have been totally wiped. Gone forever. It is as if they – and indeed I – never existed. I’m still trying to work out whether this is a liberating experience, or more akin to coming back invisibly to the Earth five years after I’ve died.

Sections

Links

TURNING THE SCREW

MAYBE IT’S FOR THE BEST …

THE BENEFITS OF PERSEVERANCE

CROSSROADS AND NUDGES

A BAD DAY AT THE OFFICE (NOT)

FROM GYM TO OPERATING THEATRE

A SLOW NEWS DAY

HELLO AND GOODBYE

REFLECTIONS

A SMALL COG IN THE WHEEL

INTERLUDE

HOW LITTLE CHANGES IN FORTY YEARS

COMING UP FOR AIR

THE CIRCLE

I JUST HAVE TO GET USED TO IT

THE ADVANCE PARTY SETS OFF

A HARLEQUIN IN FLORENCE

RAINING ON SIENA’S PARADE

ARRIVAL OF THE HORDES

LET THE GAMES BEGIN!

THE COMPETITION HOTS UP

THE PIZZA EVENING

A DEGREE OF SUCCESS

THE LESSON OF LIFE

HOLIDAY BLUES

FOUR YEARS AND COUNTING

BANK HOLIDAY ENNUI

TIME TO GET BACK TO WORK

THAT’S LIFE

A NIGHT OUT WITH THE LADS

BACK ON THE PARK

GETTING READY FOR THE OFF