On Choosing One's Destiny

          Finally, we decided on a colour for the walls. It’s called Tundra Frost. Despite my slight embarrassment at returning several times for sample pots, the man in the paint shop told me that I was nowhere near the record, which is held by a person who bought 46 pots to determine two shades of cream for one room. It made me feel quite decisive.

          I became impatient waiting for the decorators who said they’d do the job to get back to me so, while my Other Half is away for a week, I’ve taken the opportunity to get on with it myself. The fact is, I never could resist a DIY challenge, especially one that fell comfortably within my abilities. Nevertheless, I have a nagging feeling that, despite enjoying the work itself, there are more momentous issues crying out for my attention. I am also a little anxious about meeting the somewhat demanding deadline.

          Am I over-worrying the situation? If so, I put it down to the accumulation of knowledge and experience that clogs my mind and inhibits my motivational impulse. Oh, for a return of the simplicity of youth, when everything was an adventure upon which I would embark without hesitation. Nowadays, I think at least twice about everything.

          Last week, our friends took us on their catamaran, as passengers, for a sail up the River Tamar. I chose not to get involved in manoeuvring the vessel. I have tried it before and decided that life is too short to spend it acquiring skills that I don’t need (I have a tendency to become sea-sick), which left me in a position to observe not just the scenery, but also the procedure. Under sail and with strong but variable winds, experience is required to navigate the several sharp bends while keeping to the deep channel. It’s not what you call ‘plain sailing’. But conditions were favourable, the crew were competent and we had time before the tide turned to drop anchor and enjoy lunch in the spacious cabin that straddles the hulls.

          Our destination was Calstock, around which the lucrative industries of mining and lime production thrived at a time when the spoils had to be transported down river by sailing barges. It seems to me that those involved in that trade must have mastered not only the skills but also the longanimity required to sit out the vagaries of wind and weather without suffering constant deadline-stress syndrome. Perhaps they enjoyed the work/life balance. If so, they were probably not best pleased when the railway arrived and deprived them of it.

          As to whether I could spend my time more profitably than by wielding a paintbrush – it is a moot point. We are all living our lives to a deadline (literally), we just don’t know when it’s scheduled. It makes sense, therefore, to make progress, while we can, with whatever we are best equipped to achieve. This is a thought that preoccupies me increasingly, in direct proportion to my diminishing future prospect. It can lead to a sort of desperation to try anything – as, for example, when I went recently to a performance given by a fifty-strong steel band. It was certainly impressive; there was no conductor up front and no sheet music to guide them through their impressively complex pieces. And yet, once the novelty wore off, I could find only so much musicality in the hitting of steel drums with sticks, no matter how masterfully executed. I left the hall uninspired, but in awe of the commitment of those involved.

          But I must get back to the job. Satisfaction lies in its completion, on time, within budget and to a competent standard: of that, I’m sure. It’s just the Tundra Frost I have a lingering doubt about.