Uberrima fides (sometimes seen in its genitive form uberrimae fidei) is a Latin phrase meaning “utmost good faith” (literally, “most abundant faith”). It is the name of a legal doctrine which governs insurance contracts.

A higher duty is expected from parties to an insurance contract than from parties to most other contracts in order to ensure the disclosure of all material facts so that the contract may accurately reflect the risk being undertaken. The principles underlying this rule were stated by Lord Mansfield in the leading and often-quoted case of Carter v Boehm (1766) 97 ER 1162, 1164,

Insurance is a contract of speculation… The special facts, upon which the contingent chance is to be computed, lie most commonly in the knowledge of the insured only: the under-writer trusts to his representation, and proceeds upon confidence that he does not keep back any circumstances in his knowledge, to mislead the under-writer into a belief that the circumstance does not exist… Good faith forbids either party by concealing what he privately knows, to draw the other into a bargain from his ignorance of that fact, and his believing the contrary.

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The titillation surrounding the second impeachment of Donald Jennifer Trump is akin to the bloodthirsty animation accompanying a bullfight; namely, we know who wins in the end but not without the prospect of crowing about severe injury on both sides. The vindictive interest of the masses in the outcome is partially excused by the novelty of the citation in the history of the United States of America. The more compelling peculiarity in this instance is that the outcome will affect not only the combatants but also the spectators. America’s Grand Old Party (GOP) is on the precipice of more than cosmetic surgery.  Already certain of the Republicans have solidly distanced themselves from Trump. Their party colleagues are undoubtedly facing the same moment of truth, poised to fall back upon conventional identity or fall into the abyss of white supremacism that is called “Trumpism“.

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I’ve heard it said about writing, “Write what you know“. Sounds simple enough but it is not. There is a hesitancy to write what one knows not because of its intimacy but because of its negligibility. This I find is particularly so during the pandemic when everything social is limited. The implication is that gravity derives primarily from interaction, such things as gatherings with others, travel and specific adventures. Ironically the absorption then descends to what is happening not who is there. Yet nothing could possibly be more mind-numbing than a travel log. What sparks my interest is by contrast those bromidic reflections upon whatever one is doing. Permit me then to illustrate by sharing with you the trite brooding which arose during my bicycle ride this morning.

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I find my days are pleasantly interrupted by monotony or what I might more charitably call a lack of variety. Astonishingly – that is, by historical standards – we’ve continued to bicycle almost every day throughout the winter. The peculiarity is a welcome accommodation of my otherwise limited physical activity.  All the more so because with the passing of each day I more willingly succumb to the burgeoning theory that, at my age, I am entitled to abandon any ambition to exercise. Come to think of it, the identical theory now promotes numerous other predilections – or should I say diminutions. As much as I hate to admit it, I am increasingly preoccupied with the eventuality of “going into space” as my dear father used to call it.  To that I have added my own moderately relieving quip that, “I’m not saving it for the funeral!” The combination of mortality and Epicureanism seems to me to stabilize what risks becoming a state of either perpetual discontent or conduct unbecoming of a gentleman. I would not be the first who “retired to the country with his book and his bottle“.

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These are modern times.  Our collection of electronic “devices” with their “tap” facility has exuberantly overtaken us.  We’re daily adjusting to their many alternatives as variously listed on “Settings” or “Preferences” among a host of others. Meanwhile it’s an era when, thanks to the internet, truth has become a malleable instrument for personal use (and frequently for nefarious purposes).  Gone are the days when madness was confined to some obscure book written by an equally unrecognizable author. Now we’re daily bludgeoned with similarly frantic assertions by famous and sometimes renowned persons touting what they describe as illuminating and tenable fodder.

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It is always a welcome interruption for me to amuse myself doing nothing on a snowy day.  A snowy day blocks out every routine I normally pursue.  There is for example no bicycling. This is a double-feature because it precludes not only the performance but also the exertion. Though I recall when I was working at my private law office at 77 Little Bridge Street I would sometimes trudge through the snow to work on a snowy day with Monroe my French bulldog.  We both had to leap from one drift to another before finally reaching the liberation of a main road that had been plowed. We later had the privilege of spending most of the day snoozing or playing catch in the front office since my staff was housebound and clients were unwilling to venture out. The tranquillity of the snowy day enveloped the entire building just as it had quelled trade.

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Judging by the current weather forecast, today is likely one of the best for outdoor bicycling for the next week or more. Snow is on the horizon. The temperature today is just around 0°C under an azure sky. And we’re profiting from the recent cold snap and clear air so the roads are predominantly dry. Last evening we resolved to go cycling this morning; accordingly we were on the road by 8:30 am.

Jamieson Street, Thoburn Street, Dr. Bach Street, Fairburn Bros. Street, King Street, Argyle Street, St. George Street, Country Street, Ann Street, Church Street, William Street, Robert Street, Country Street, Argyle Street, King Street, Metcalfe Drive, Tait McKenzie Street, Thoburn Street, Vaughan Street, Jamieson Street.

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Looking over the contents of the North Lanark Regional Museum in the Village of Appleton it is apparent that the collection of things from the past hundred years or so is nothing more sublime than a Waltham pocket watch given as a wedding gift, a Teddy Bear originally named after the 26th President of the United States, Theodore Roosevelt, a medal issued by the citizens of Almonte in commemoration of Harry McIntosh, a soldier of the First World War, the glass plate negative of a school house classroom, a creamer, ice tongs from a log home, military medals, a milk pitcher belonging to one of the first settlers, a Pinard Horn a type of stethoscope used to listen to the fetal heartbeat invented in France by obstetrician Dr. Adolphe Pinard who was an early supporter of advancing prenatal care, a Fleam being a commonly used medical instrument when bloodletting was a frequent practice, a doll made from dried corn husk leaves and corn silk, a practice credited to the aboriginal people of Canada, a military greatcoat, a wall clock made by the Arthur Pequegnat Clock Company in Kitchener, Ontario which used to hang in the School Section (S.S.) No. 11 school in the Village of Appleton, blacksmithing spectacles, a porridge pot brought to Canada from Scotland in 1821, a weaving shuttle used in the Collie Woollen Mills, a handmade quilt, an antique copy of the works of Thomas Moore, 19th-century Irish poet and lyricist, a commode chair, a bread mixer and dough maker, a Red Rose Tea porcelain figurine, graniteware pie plates, and a T. Eaton Co. trophy presented to the student with the most points at the Ramsay School Fair in 1937 won by Malcolm Frederick Benjamin James, a student at S.S. #11 Ramsay in the Village of Appleton. Yet these less than stellar things, pedestrian as they are, instantly capture one’s wistful attention and reflect similar items which many of us to this day continue to cherish in our boudoir drawers and disconnected cupboards like cousins twice removed or a garbled narrative.

North Lanark Regional Museum

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Though I sleep better now that I have quit drinking coffee (formerly a morning and late afternoon ritual which was an excessive addiction because of the appalling strength of each cup), I nonetheless occasionally continue to ruminate idly throughout the night. My inveterate middle of the night preoccupation is about what I intend to write on my web site. Not that I consider the expositions duty or employment; but rather for some inexplicable reason I must elucidate. It is likely no more than an inborn bent for storytelling. Last night’s witching hour focus was an inquest behind the distasteful behaviour of Trump supporters; in particular, what fear, hate and anger promotes such apparently insane beliefs as those advanced by Congresswoman Marjorie Taylor Greene whose vows according to Senate Minority Leader Addison Mitchell McConnell Jr are “a cancer” for the GOP.

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Pardon the vulgarity but my boarding school portrait of the ideal start to the day was a “Shit, Shave and Shower”.  Below is a less crude piece I discovered this morning on the internet. Though it has the flavour of a flower child – and it certainly would not constitute the copybook prescription for an alcoholic – there is for those of a more restrained cast the modicum of attraction. The thing noticeably missing in my opinion is music. With my Bose NC 700 Headphones on and a connection to Apple Music it is but a swipe to Chopin, Bach, Beethoven or Ravel and the instant elevation of spirit!

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