At last The Eurovision Song Contest has a
serious reason to be: it has focused the spotlight of publicity on the brutal
dictatorship that runs Azerbaijan, this year’s host country, making it clear
that we, the masses, have yet another fight on our hands to free our fellows
from the tyranny of oligarchy.
Not that I have much scope for helping them out
right now: I am busy trying to empty my in-tray so that I can escape to
Scotland for two weeks of trekking and whisky-sampling. But as fast as I empty
it more stuff lands and demands my attention. During my sleep I dream about
tasks unfulfilled and, on waking, am disinclined to approach the desk for fear
they have multiplied. One may argue that the tyranny of my in-tray is a
self-inflicted misery which could be resolved by the dispatch of each item as
soon as it lands. But this would be no less a tyranny since it would demand instant
action regardless of my inclination. The only way I can see to dodge all this
stress is to live the life of a Buddhist monk.
Instead of which I might just buy a stack of 3
trays. It would work like this: the top tier would contain things that must be
done urgently - such as the payment of a tax bill - in order to avoid imprisonment
or dire financial penalty. The second tier would be for things that ought to be
done urgently - such as sponsoring nephews doing sporting challenges - but
which incur softer, social penalties. The bottom tier would be the repository
for things I would really like to do - such as see all the films, plays and
gigs whose reviews I have cut out and collected hopefully. This would be the
tray of dreams and the penalty for ignoring it, regret, only become payable at
some time in the distant future. Any life-coach guru worth their salt would
absolutely reverse this running order.
As a prelude to the Scottish trip I went
walking with friends on the sodden peat moorlands of the so-called “Forest” of
Bowland where it became evident that my cracked and leaking trekking boots were
beyond repair and that their replacements should be given the same top priority
status as paying off HMRC. Buying new boots is a pleasingly straightforward
process because they are among the few items of clothing which are not in thrall
to fashion (unless they are made in Italy). Nor can buying them sensibly be
done on the internet: a perfect fit is all-important and a visit to a specialist
shop essential.
And specialist shops are staffed by experts: in
this case a young woman whose knowledge of boots and trekking shone like a
beacon through the haze of indecision that overcame me as I confronted the
massive display of footwear. She measured my feet, offered me a choice of two
pairs and within 15 minutes had me paying top whack for an indestructible pair
of Austrians. Good boots are expensive but there is satisfaction to be had in
paying for quality rather than branding - or so I assured myself.
I felt a little foolish wearing these big boots
at home - for that is what she advised to resolve any lingering doubts about
the fit (they won’t take them back if they have been worn outdoors) - but I am
convinced they do fit and must now decide on the best place to file the “caring
for your boots” leaflet which I have dumped into the in-tray. I will deal with
it when I return from Scotland - but I do hope they will have sorted out that
trouble in Azerbaijan by then.
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