EOIN BANAHAN
"Learning to live and living to learn"
It is said that variety is the spice of life and if true, then yesterday’s ingredients transformed what would have been a ropey old stew into a taste of the Taj Mahal.
If you have been following these posts, you will know that the demands on the wife’s time and talent, make President Biden look like a casual part-time worker, on a zero-hours contract. Under severe strain in the schedule, she was called upon to survey a client’s, rather substantial, garden and asked me to assist her in holding the measuring tape. As luck would have it, at present, I have nothing on that can’t wait a day or two and so, of course, I readily agreed. I have some previous experience in “tape holding” and although, I don’t have any formal qualifications, the wife seemed willing to take the risk. In any case, I thought that this was my opportunity to accrue some credits in the relationship account which, I figured, could be called upon in the near future should I step on any relationship landmines and find myself with the prospect of having to visit Javier, the florist, (see previous post). I should also add that Lily, (the dog who must be adored), was none too pleased to say the least, since she was to be left behind and by the look in her eyes, I knew she blamed me for that. So, all morning, the wife surveyed, taking readings, plotting undulations, calculating lengths and widths while I moved about the garden, tape in hand, like a stealthy ninja warrior with a sense of purpose and utter loyalty and obedience to his sensei. After about three hours of back-breaking tape holding, we finished up and the wife bid a fond farewell to her clients. On the way back in the car I basked in the glory of her expressions of gratitude, to the gratifying sound of “Kerching”, as the credits began to pile up in the relationship account. After lunch, drunk on the morning’s success, I decided to buy myself a new computer. Honestly, there are few experiences in life that release the torrents of dopamine than the idea of buying a new computer. But when it comes to executing the idea, it’s not a straight forward task. You have to do the research and choose your specs. This complex task, as I soon realized, is similar to carrying out a literature review for a PhD thesis. I had to fortify myself with several trips to the Nespresso machine. However, with the preliminary spade-work done, I was ready to go to the store for a final, pre-purchase inspection. In my view, this is important since it’s the only way you can judge whether you feel comfortable at the prospect of staring at the beast, more or less, every day for the next 5 years or so. Once through the doors of the shop, the first time I had visited such a cathedral in over year, I was pounced upon by a group of pasty, pimply-faced youths, dressed in black, all wearing masks. For a moment I thought I had found myself in the midst of an urban riot on the streets of Philadelphia in the aftermath of the actions of a trigger-happy “cop”. I gave the young tube, who managed to beat his compadres to the punch, the details of the computer in which I was interested. He promptly told me that they didn’t have the "said" machine in store, directed me to a store computer and guided me through the online ordering procedure, all of which I could have done myself at home. Shopping just isn’t fun anymore and I have to wait 2 days before I can get my hands on my new computer. Never mind, for once, I’m securely on the right side of ledger in the relationship account.
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![]() This is a cautionary tale of sorts - the sad, sad story of Buster Brown, the saddest dog in Toronto town. If this tale doesn’t strum the heart-strings and cause a welling of the tear ducts, then, you must surely be a cold fish indeed. Lily, (the dog who must be adored), told me the story as we were relaxing on the divan yesterday evening. Apparently, she heard it from a Scottish nobleman by the name of Angus McSad, who was Laird on the remote and desolate, Isle of Sad, which is located far north of the Shetlands islands, off the coast of Scotland. Angus lived alone, which is not surprising since there isn’t must to do on the island except sit around feeling sad. Sometimes, a year would go by before Angus would see another human being and when he heard the story of Buster Brown from a visitor from Ontario, I’m told he reached for the box of Kleenex, 4-ply tissues which he always carried with him and said, “Now that’s sad!” One point of clarification which I think is worth mentioning before we continue with our story, is that Angus, who, by the way had extremely good eyesight due to the predominance of carrots in his diet which grew all around the island on account of the damp climate, was not, in any way, related to the Marquis de Sade, who, although also a nobleman, stimulated a whole different set of emotions which are worthy of consideration but we will leave that for another day. Buster Brown used to be a happy dog because, for many years, he was the center of attention and his humans were very liberal with their affection towards him. He loved nothing more than to stretch out on the couch and have his tummy tickled for hours on end. His humans would never make a decision without first considering his needs and desires, and overtime, he got used to this state of affairs. It never occurred to him that life, for both humans and dogs, is an ever-changing rollercoaster of events which are difficult to predict and so, as with the possibility of black ice on the roads on a cold, clear winter’s night, you must always brace yourself for the unexpected. But then, one day, another human appeared on the scene. But this human was not like the others, for he was small, lay on his back most of the time, flailing arms and legs and making the most idiotic sounds that Buster had ever heard. But this was not what caused Buster’s sadness for the source of his malaise was the effect that this diminutive had on all the other humans in the vicinity. For whenever the slobbering little articled hooved into view, the humans would lose all sense of propriety and start cooing like demented pigeons. Not only that but they were constantly passing the little tike from one to the other, as if he was the puck in a particularly exciting game of ice hockey between the Blueshirts and the Shamrocks. As a result of the whole situation, Buster became distraught and overcome with jealousy, but what could he do? He was no longer the center of attention and was left alone to stew in his own self-pity, or so he thought. I sincerely hope that before too long, Buster will realize, as we all must do, that the circle of life is an ever-spinning wheel which can change at any moment and without warning. Nevertheless, we must carry on as best we can, lest we end up like poor old Angus during the many cold nights on the Isle of Sad with nothing but a bunch of carrots and a box of Kleenex to keep him company. ![]() Up in the northern reaches of Ireland’s fair isle, there is a wild and windswept hinterland, well known amongst the frenzied followers of the BBC’s shipping forecast, called Malin Head. If you have ever been lucky enough to visit, you will recall the jagged coastline, pebbled beaches and lush, green fields that play host to a close-knit community of people more rugged than the rocks round which the ragged rascal ran, (apologies for the overdose of alliteration, just couldn’t resist it!). If you are a golfer, tired of the garishly gilded clubhouses and “easy-peasy”, 18-hole sprawls of Trump town where even my Nana could hit a hole-in-one; if you are a real, club-swinging aficionado who likes a challenge, then Malin Head awaits, to mark your card. You will need your windcheater and a stout pair of galoshes. You might as well leave your umbrella, ella, ella behind, for the wind that blows there, is a cruel mistress. Perhaps too, you should replace the grip on your clubs to accommodate a pair of Velcro gloves for, in Malin Head, the swinging of sand wedge and number 2 wood, is not for the faint-hearted. And if you find yourself, in that part of the world, looking for advice and guidance on matters of import, seek out the wise council of a “rum ole cove” that goes by the name of Fabulous Finn. For he knows what he likes and he likes what he knows. The "Fabster", as he is known to those who gather at his feet for council, is an unusual character to find in the windswept wilds of the Gael. Originating from the warmer climes of South America, Fab Finn, has become acclimatized to nature’s wrath, having dined, for many years, on a strict diet of western philosophy and natural bone broth, both of which keep the cranial fuel cells fully charged and ready for action. Who is this mighty master of mindfulness, you may ask, who stands proudly dispensing his wisdom to the weary traveler on the road to enlightenment? Lily, (the dog who must be adored), tells me that it’s rumored he is one of her canine brethren, but who knows for sure? For if it is true, how could such a small head be home to so much wisdom? It’s "a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside and enigma", to quote the great Winston Churchill. However, if you are ever up that way, ask around. Mention the name “Fabulous Finn” and gauge the reaction. If you are lucky enough to make contact with the sage of the Northern Gael, let me know, I’ll be waiting with anticipation for those pearls of wisdom. Can you believe it? Another exciting week ahead, full of infinite possibility.
However, I had a hard job extricating Lily, (the dog who must be adored), from the folds of the duvet this morning. It was cold outside and I took note of the other dog slaves, walking in silent resignation around the park, shoulders hunched, hands thrust deep in pockets with a look that reminded me of Sir Bob Geldof’s emphatic view of Monday morning which gave rise to many a migraine in 1979. But, as I explained to Lily, as we endeavored to walk with a sense of purpose around the park, it’s a new week and a new dawn and anything can happen. I’ve had my nespresso, (perhaps too much), and I’m ready to follow the advice of that ancient Roman poet, Horace, a legend in the realm of succinct expression, and “carpe diem”. I hope you are too! Lily, on the other hand, on returning from the park, scowled at me in a rather disparaging tone, which, if I could speak dog, probably translated into something like, “seize your own carpet, buddy”, and headed back upstairs to the warmth of the duvet. So, please don’t follow the example of an aging Jack Russell, try to suppress that annoying ditty, foisted upon us by Geldof and the rest of the “5-Lamp Boys”, take a couple of paracetamols if needs must, and get out there and reinvent yourself. Ahhhhh! Sunday morning! Don’t you just love Sundays? I like to get up just as the sun arises over the Kent Cobnut tress that line the bank of the river Medway, just beyond the boundary fence at the back of the house. I sit on the couch, eyes looking out through the window, like some over-nourished swami and listen to the birds chirping in the trees and the squirrels hoping from branch to branch, so reminiscent of Tom Cruise and his homies in Mission Impossible - the first film, not the subsequent iterations which were, lets face it, a tad unbelievable.
You see, Saturdays are for tying up those loose ends from strands of activity launched the previous week, replenishing the fridge and larder, cleaning the bathroom and, dancing the Dyson shuffle throughout the nest, an activity which, I might add, strikes fear into poor Lily, (the dog who must be adored). It seems to me that she thinks the Dyson is actually a real Dalek on a mission to “ex-ter-min-ate”. But Sundays are for quiet contemplation, a time when you can relax and review the learnings to be extracted from the week gone by so that you can design the cranial agenda for the week ahead, which, if you are particularly process-minded, you will record on your handheld device while watching Songs of Praise on the BBC. Now I make a modest living trying to help people successfully navigate life’s obstacle course on the path to self-actualization. Such work requires me to observe, analyze and explain the complexities of human behavior in the wider social system but often I find myself aghast at some of the behaviors I observe which leaves me with the question – “What on earth, is all that about?” Let me give you an example, and as I do so, please keep in mind that it is the behavior, rather than the person, that leaves me befuddled. This is important since we must accept that the human being is susceptible to extremes, one of which is taking personal insult when no insult is intended. So, with that qualification stone securely laid, let me press my case. “TATOOS!” What on earth, is all that about?” My dearest sister, who lives in the land of the lumberjack sent me a picture of her latest tattoo with obvious pride last week and, my youngest daughter, who lives in the land of, well, I’m unclear as to what Luxembourg is known for, so let’s skip the reference, would not look out of place, hanging on the wall in a Jackson Pollack exhibition. If I relate such behavior to when I was a younger man with his finger on the pulse of the popular zeitgeist, (or so I thought), I recognize the desire to express one’s individuality, to stand out from the crowd and be noticed. In my time, it was bell-bottomed jeans and platform shoes from the women’s section of the local hyper-store which, I assure you, took courage and resulted in a well-deserved black-eye from my school chums on more than one occasion. But I achieved my objective. I attracted attention. I understand the need for that! And in the current age of the FaceTube, perhaps the desire to be noticed is a far more potent driver than times past. But the issue I find so perplexing, with respect to Tattoos, is that everyone seems to have them. A leisurely stroll through the local county town is like wading through an inky morass of fractal-adorned skin but if everyone has tattoos, nobody stands out, since everybody looks the same. So, if you want to stand out from the crowd, don’t get a tattoo and when you see someone resembling a motorway underpass covered in graffiti, I, for one, won’t be surprised if you ask: “What on earth, is all that about?” Those of you who perused yesterday’s post will know of my latest faux pas with respect to my dear wife’s birthday card. Well, let me brief you now on how the day played out.
My dear wife, who despite it being her birthday, had to drag her exhausted frame out from under the duvet, to ply her trade, and satisfy the mountain of demands on her time and talent. As you will know from a previous posting, she is busier than Joe Biden on a particularly heavy day in the Oval Office. So, as she disappeared over the horizon in her trusty stead, “The Modus”, I took the hint from Lily, (the dog who must be adored), jumped into the car and headed for the florist. The florist, Javier, (pronounced Have-ee-air), is a native of Seville, a beautiful, historical city in the Andalusian heartlands where orange trees line the city streets and the sun in summer is more than fierce enough to raise blisters on Irish skin. Now, I know what you are thinking – isn’t it somewhat curious that he is on first name terms with the local florist, but Javier is more than just a florist. Besides his wizardry when it comes to arranging blooms, he gives good marriage counsel. (Although now that I think of it, perhaps I should take heed lest I find myself in future having to cozy up to the local locksmith). Being a man, and I mean a real man, a carnivore who is proud to wear boxer shorts, I know nothing of matters floral and I have enough experience to know that, when you “err” in your role as husband/life partner, it pays to have a close relationship with someone who knows his way around a bouquet. In any case, I like Javier. I admit that he has a rather flamboyant taste in clothes and a somewhat unsettling obsession with scatter cushions, but I attribute that to his aspirations for interior design. Javier greeted me with his usual affectionate, “Hola estúpido, que has hecho ahora”, which roughly translates as, “what have you done now, bonehead?” I gave him the lowdown and left with a bunch of impressive roses minus the cost of a tank of petrol – a small price to pay. Later that day, when my dearly beloved arrived home, I greeted her, blooms in hand, rather like Napoleon must have greeted Josephine, eager to brief her on his monumental victory at the battle of Austerlistz. My wife, although gracious in her acceptance of her prize, still smarting from the polling card debacle, (see yesterday’s posting), was more interested in a hot shower and a good meal. As we sat down to dinner later that evening, a sumptuous Thai feast which she had chosen herself, (it was her birthday after all), the wife looked at me. As she spooned out a decent portion of sticky rice onto her plate, she sighed, shook her head with a sense of defeat and reminded me that, since it was on her birthday that we had first met, the day also marked our 20 years together. Naturally, I had forgotten that fact! I sat back in the chair and caught sight of Lily. Her look said it all. Rather than Napoleon on his triumphant return from Austerlitz, a more accurate simile would be to describe me as a cannon ball, retrieved from the plains of Waterloo as Napoleon tossed and turned on his field cot at Quatre Bras, the night before his fateful date with the Duke of Wellington. And now, as my poor, exhausted Josephine, did her best to enjoy her Pad Thai and Massiman, that ordinance was securely shackled to her ankle. Today is truly a “momentous” day in the domestic calendar because today, is the wife’s birthday! Every year, as we slip silently into the month of April, the occasion looms large on the horizon, rather like Stonehenge, as you bowl along highway A344, as it snakes through the Wiltshire countryside.
As usual, I awoke before dawn’s early light, wiped the sweat from my brow and tried my best to quell the palpitations that were driving my anxiety. Why, oh why, do I always forget to purchase the obligatory birthday card? It’s always expected and, bonehead that I am, I always forget. I mean, it’s not as if I wasn’t given fair warning and, after all, her birthday is on the same day every year! So, “pas de panic”. The shops won’t be open for another 3 hours at least but she will expect something with her early morning coffee, in bed as usual, well before that. So, I have no choice, I need to think fast and improvise. I slither out from under the duvet, careful not to awaken my Queen, and tip-toe towards the door of the bedroom. But what about Lily, (the dog that must be adored)? Will she wake up and give the game away? No chance, Lily is sleeping like the proverbial log that has taken a handful of sleeping pills and been banged on the head with a heavy blunt object. No guard dog is she! I plough on. Once in the living room, I take five minutes of mindful meditation, just to center myself and steady the hand, before I start rifling though that drawer in the mock 18th century cabinet, the one fashioned in the style of Thomas Chippendale which I refer to as “the Chav-endale”, and into which all manner of objects are stuffed during the weekly run-around with the vacuum cleaner. I find a cadge of batteries that would power a satellite, an old watch, a bunch of keys to locks that no longer exist and, oh, a couple of pound coins. It’s a result of sorts, I guess, but nothing that could masquerade as birthday card. With the flashing light of the neighbor’s car through the window as they leave early for work, I catch sight of some papers stacked neatly on the windowsill. I grab something that looks like a piece of card and fold it in half. I grab a pen and scrawl something suitably “mushy” above what I think is the wife’s name and address, and stick it in amongst the other cards that have flowed through the letterbox during the week. I hope, that in the half light, as my Queen awakens from her dreams to my rendition of the birthday song, she won’t notice that I’ve given her a polling card to mark the occasion. However, if she does happen to notice, and give me “that look” that confirms Lily’s suspicion that I’m a useless surplus to requirements; with a flourish, I will produce the gift she so generously advised me she wanted by sending me an Amazon link the week previously. And to top it all, I will follow that up with a kiss and her cup of coffee. I might just get away with it. By the way, I should just say that my Queen is looking younger every year and is like a beautiful English rose whose petals unfurl to catch the light of the sun. Unlike Lily and I who are jostling for pole position on the grid in the race towards elderly. But that’s a story for another day. Happy birthday, my Queen! Whilst I was being taken out for my morning walk by Lily, (the dog who must be adored), who likes to take her humans for a walk, at least twice a day, because they need the exercise, I got to thinking about how our perception of self, invariably differs from the perceptions, others have of us. This then led me to consider a wider hypothesis in that we often tend to see reality for what we want it to be rather than what it actually is.
Whilst walking through the local park, I noticed how much weight Lily has put on over the past 6 months or so; for before that, as a result of intestinal issues, she looked more like Mick Jagger at the end of a month-long dietary regime of nothing but green tea. As I emerged from these thoughts, I noticed Lily looking up at me and in that instance, I realized that she was thinking the same about me. Not that I ever looked as svelte as, nor have I ever had “moves like”, Jagger. But her gaze was noticeably fixed upon my mid-rift and, there was a discernible look of pity in her eyes. OK, OK, I admit it, I’m no stranger to the nose-bag; I enjoy having my face down in the trough just as much as the next guy but I’M NOT FAT!!!!! Rather, I’m a man of substance, a well-nourished titan of a man, not some salad-munching, drink-of-water, who pigs out on nut-rissoles twice a week and has to change into sweat pants, as a result. In any case, those scales that stand so ostentatiously in the corner of the garage by the filing cabinet containing all the take-out menus that have provided a life-saving, lifeline since the start of the pandemic, are not to be trusted. They taunt me with their quantitative-assessment capabilities, but are bloody liars that deserve to have their batteries removed. When I was a younger man, before I hit that pinnacle of the bell-curve at 40, I was slim and trim. Indeed, whilst in school, I was so skinny that my class mates used to call me “skins”. But once I progressed deeper into my 40s, gradually, I began to look more like the “bell-curve” than a mere statistical representation within it. But I kept telling myself, as I still do, from time to time, its not so bad. I just have to walk more, ease up on the pastry and continue to avoid mirrors and those reprehensible liars in the corner of the garage. Whenever there is the possibility that I may succumb to the lure of what psychologists refer to as, "the confirmation bias”, or in other words, whenever I need some awakening to reality as it is, as opposed to what I want it to be, I have Lily, and of course, my dear wife, to shock me out of my complacency and into corrective action. “What is that dear? Put the pastry down, you say, and go put the batteries back in the scales?” Be still you trawler men who prowl the fishing grounds of the British Isles. From Fastnet to Fair Isle, from FitzRoy to the Dogger Bank, and everywhere in between, be advised. For what you hear in the distance is not the faint sound of warning, foretelling of adverse weather conditions ahead. It is but the insufferable fog horn that is Nigel Farage.
Yes, my dear friends, gird your loins for the latest “Barrage from the Farage”. Despite the fact that we are facing enormous challenges ahead that require dedicated concentration, creativity and problem-solving capabilities from our politicians, this “self-styled, politico with aspirations to influence is turning his (self-professed) gargantuan political acumen to the vexing issue of school uniforms and flag flying at a local school in Pimlico, in central London’s City of Westminster. Forget about the fact that otherwise hard-working individuals are struggling to cope with the loss of their livelihoods, or indeed that sectors of our business community are striving to overcome barriers to trade that this “master of the mundane” has so prominently erected for their consideration. The subject that Farage wants us all to concentrate on, in his latest posting on YouTube, is some local spat at a Westminster Academy about historical interpretation and the flying of the Union flag. Now, any politician with a genuine interest in fostering peace and harmony in the local community and a mere dribble of integrity to boot, would, in my humble opinion, have sleeves rolled up and be hard at work acting as a mediator, exploring underlying interests, generating options for compromise, calming tempers and helping to resolve dispute. But this is not the Farage approach. For this blowhard cares not a fig for the best interests of the community. His behavior is driven purely by self-interest and so, revealing his true intent, he pops the cap off the Gerry can and pours petrol on the flames. For Nigel, this conflict, which has arisen because a school’s principal, like many up and down the country, is trying to establish certain norms relating to school uniforms and hair styles amongst his student body, is now the well spring of “the worst division that any of us have ever seen in our lifetime”. I remember many occasions during my school days when my teachers would admonish me for my failure to wear regulation uniform and, on more than one occasion, the school’s headmaster told me to get my hair cut. I can even remember a particular instance in which the school thought better of flying the Irish national flag because a rugby team from Northern Ireland was visiting and the principal wanted to show some respect for different cultural identities. But I have to admit, that I don’t remember any politician, local or otherwise, ever resorting to such hyperbole and broadcasting to the world that such actions would lead to the “worse division that any of us have ever seen in our lifetime”. Get a grip Nigel, let’s not lose perspective here. We have more important challenges to address. Let’s leave schools’ principals to get on with their jobs and if they ask for help, let’s give it, in a positive, constructive way, rather than fanning the flames of conflict and division. I am fast approaching one of those milestone birthdays that stick out like a sore thumb across one’s lifeline. I’m bracing myself for the salutations from family members, flung far and wide. I can hear them now; “Congratulations old man, whilst you may be over the hill, at least, as yet, you are not under it”.
It was with this in mind that I awoke in the early hours of the morning thinking back through the various phases I have gone through in my life, none of which I could have anticipated at the time. The earliest memorable phase was in my mid-to-late teens when I went through my “emo” phase. Rather stereotypically, I was very much “into poetry, man”. Oh yes, back then, apart from my rather desperate, yet fruitless, attempts to attract the fairer sex, it was the mechanics of the iambic pentameter and dactylic hexameter that fuelled my fundamental motivations. In retrospect, it is not so surprising that “the ladies” gave me a wide berth. But now, looking back, the immortal words of Robert Frost ring out, as they do for many who, like me stand ready to accept the title “elderly” - Two roads diverged in a wood, and I - I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference. Now, Lily, the (dog who must be adored), is a very happy dog as you would expect. I mean, wouldn’t you feel a sense of extreme contentment if you were the object of adoration both day and night? But I don’t think that is real source of her fulfilment. You see, Lily is a dog and she is just happy being a dog. She doesn’t strive to be anything but what she is because she is fully ceased of her fundamental motivations, in being a dog. I have the enormous privilege of helping people find their way in life and although for each person, the challenges are unique, for those starting out in their careers, the hill before them can seem more like an insurmountable mountain. Often, a young student will confide by asking, “How can I decide on what to do when I don’t have any experience to act as a frame of reference?” Sometimes, if appropriate, I will counter with, “perhaps asking – what do I want to do? – is the wrong question. Perhaps the right question is to ask, “what do I like doing?” This reframing of the question from the present simple to present continuous tense, I suggest, is more likely to lead to identifying one’s fundamental motivations and therein lies the road ahead. It would not be unusual for a student, these days, to respond with something like: “I like watching Netflix, but where is the career in that?” And I will ask: “yes, but why do you like watching Netflix? What is it that excites you about such a prospect?” The probing will continue in a similar vein until we reach the bottom of the well. For there we will find the seeds of talent from which, with a little encouragement, care and attention, we will see the prospect of future growth and personal development. The process of identifying your fundamental motivations is something we all go through at various phases in our lives and if we do so with positivity and a willingness to learn, we will, like Lily, find happiness in being ourselves. Key learning: Find your inner motivation as you climb your own Mount Olympus……..and stay clear of rhythm and meter in English poetry if you want attract the opposite sex. |
AuthorI am an organizational development specialist and managing director of RoundRose Associates Ltd Archives
August 2021
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