strangereality144

Apropos of nothing at all, here's a picture of that snowy churchyard I mentioned last time. I captured this picture one night several weeks ago. It had snowed heavily for several hours. I was en route to work at the time and waiting for a good old bus. Isn't it marvellous that I am still waiting for buses after all these years? I spend a total of approximately 1 hour per week waiting at the bus stop next to the churchyard. In normal conditions the area looks like this:

You cannot stand long next to a churchyard without your thoughts turning to death. I have read the inscriptions on the gravestones nearest to the railing many times over the past several months, and had a good old think.

But this episode of strangereality is not about death. No, in a clumsy segue, it's about online calendars.

They're all advertised as full-on life-organisers: get yourself signed up to some or other calendar, and record all the details of the things you have to do in them. Barbeque at Steve's at 8 on Friday. Meet Alison for tea on Tuesday afternoon. Even, disturbingly (in my opinion), 15.30 Mon-Fri Pick up kids from school.

I can just about accept that there might be people who need to remind themselves about going to this or that random party at a cray-zee friend's house. But having to remind yourself that you need to pick up your children from school? If you have to do that, you shouldn't have children.

I once knew a flighty young woman – a long time ago, and far, far away – who was prone to dropping everything (except her knickers, unfortunately) and scooting off to the likes of London, Rome, Barcelona, or Oslo literally at a moment's notice. One night I was among a group of people at her house when she took a phone call. Listening to her side of the conversation it was clear that the other party, whoever it was (I never knew), was asking her to go to Paris that very night. So she did.

She went upstairs and came down ten minutes later with a bag packed. A few minutes after that there was a knock at the front door. “See you all soon!” she yelled on her way out. There was the sound of a car door slamming and an engine roaring away. We sat there smoking and drinking. Nobody had raised an eyebrow. I hadn't raised an eyebrow: by this point, it was normal behaviour for her.

If I ever go to Paris, I doubt it would be on such an ad hoc basis. Going to Paris would be enormous for me. I would have to spend weeks, preferably months, thinking about it, planning it; and then, after going to Paris, I would never get over it.