Promises, Promises...

          The feeling that I really ought to make good on a few of the unfulfilled promises I’ve made to myself over the years has come to the fore. It gnaws at my consciousness from time to time anyway, but that recurring measure of urgency, my birthday, is here again to prompt me to action. Of course, advancing age renders some of those ambitions no longer feasible or, at least, less attractive than they once were: fast-tracking to rock stardom or wild-camping for two weeks in the Cairngorms are among the dreams from which I have awoken to face the reality of diminishing appetites and physicality. So, I have to refine the list and get on with ticking off the items that still qualify as achievable yet languish in limbo.

          A good place to start is the diary. A solid session of forward planning is an effective way to weed out unrealistic schemes. The very process of pinning down a date affords the opportunity to question the value of that to which you are about to commit. Whether or not you take that opportunity is up to you, with the proviso that your choice may be constrained by obligations to family and friends. Diarising (conversion of nouns to verbs is all the rage these days: I have it from Australia that a great-nephew “farewelled” his lifelong friend before he went off to study abroad) goes against my grain somewhat, as I like to think of the future as an open book. But my Other Half argues against this notion of que sera, sera by evidencing some of the lost opportunities that litter my past. I can’t argue with that, so I compromise by diarising key events and leaving blocks of time vacant and available for spontaneity – on my part, at least.

          As an extra refinement to this system, I have allocated a new colour code to the diary: graphite grey, which is to say, ‘pencilled in’. This category usefully covers the various events – gigs, meetings, exhibitions etc. – which are of interest, within walking distance, do not require advance booking, yet which I habitually miss. Now, with the ‘pencilled in’ category, I win/win. My options are left open, thus relieving my fear of constraint, while there is no chance of feeling regretful at having forgotten to attend.

          I tested this last Friday evening, foregoing a warm and cosy evening at home to brave a walk to the pub through a bitter easterly to see a “Barcelona street folk-rock” group whose percussion section comprised two tap-dancers. Interesting – for a while. But they did get an enthusiastic response from people inclined to dance. And there was a decent pint of cider on tap.

          But perhaps the more momentous event of the week – and something I have been dancing around myself – was my actual attendance, for the first time, at a choir session. Signs that I will keep it up are encouraging. First, they didn’t tell me not to come back (though this is likely to be because male voices are notoriously scarce in community choirs). Second, I did enjoy singing, even though it was difficult to make out whether I was hitting the notes, what with all those other people attempting the same. I suppose one becomes accustomed to that after a while, otherwise it wouldn’t work.

          The choir has been working for a couple of weeks on Leonard Cohen’s Dance Me to The End of Love, an unlikely choice, I thought. Not that I wish to disrespect Leonard’s legacy, but I never much liked that old klezmer-tinged dirge, though I do like the jazz-swing version recorded by Madeleine Peyroux. But our leader has come up with a complicated four-part arrangement that, if it ever comes together, will vindicate her endeavour and, to a lesser extent, mine.