The passage of time and our growth and development are so unnoticeably incremental that we find it hard to fathom how we transformed from one state to another. How often have we remarked, “I’m the same as I’ve always been!” The reflection is of course a comment upon our interior state of mind. Even the most vain of us acknowledges that the superficial skin undergoes observable change.  But we’re not so quick to recognize change in our way of thinking.  Do we really consider we’ve changed from the time we were younger?  And if so, when exactly did the change take place?  A year ago?  Ten years ago?  Ever?

Certainly there can be life-altering events in our lives but that doesn’t mean we changed our character.  I believe rather that we develop contrivances by which to accommodate the external temporal changes.  If for example one goes from being a carefree teenager to a mother of three, things are going to change fairly rapidly.  This of course doesn’t mean the girl stops being a girl and suddenly becomes a woman and a wife; instead she alters her behaviour to adapt to the changing circumstances.  Some of the devices may be purely pragmatic – such as training herself to suppress personal desires in favour of family; others may be calculated social conventions – such as encouraging affability by getting others to talk about themselves.  All told however nothing really changes.

One likes to imagine that the blessing of maturity will eventually blossom within us.  The take which each of us has upon this complex subject is bound to be different.  There are times when the resulting product is alleged to be the reaction to a harsh or unpleasant experience, something for example which suddenly prompts us to speak our own mind. Candid observation and blunt conversation are frequently considered to be signals of maturity and change, even the toxic privilege of “old age”.  Others by contrast adopt a more conciliatory approach and appear to become forgiving.  In either case the question remains, did anything really change?  Or are they just adopting (not adapting) a new posture?

The elemental nature of human beings is something which is not only bred in the bone and genetic but – that even deeper Darwinian concept – instinctive. The science of heredity is so profound that we are prepared to accept that our nature is traced in stone from the moment we’re born.  Anyone familiar with geological and animal documentaries knows about the references to metamorphosis which take place over millions of years: a water-living fish changes to a land-dwelling creature whose gills are adapted to lungs.  This is not something that happened over night.  By extension our own progressive alteration is equally protracted, assuming as I do that centuries of casual moral contemplation will eventually insinuate even the most obdurate surface.

In the result the adaptation may not be so much an improvement of our nature as an adjustment to it.  We simply learn to live with ourselves.  While this still leaves ample room for connivance, manipulation and other self-sustaining and protective measures, the blueprint of our persona likely remains the same.  And probably a good thing.  After all, it would hardly be worth promoting uniformity in all that we do.  Even if the skill of our maturity is confined to finessing the annoyance or obscurity of ourselves and others, at least it facilitates interaction and communication.  Nonetheless there remains the undisturbed toleration of individuality and uniqueness.  Ultimately we’re alone in this universe so anything we can do in the meantime to smooth the waters is welcome even if not certifiably mature.

Although neither of us works for a living we nonetheless embrace a Statutory Holiday as eagerly as the next chap.  Today is Good Friday.  Upon awakening we were instantly in the festive mood particularly as the sun was shining, the air was warm and the sky was blue. We know of course that most commercial establishments are closed so our loose agenda was formulated accordingly.

The day’s adventure began with the first of our Springtime bike rides, our modest concession to athleticism. Primarily for the purpose of putting air in the bicycle tyres we determined to head for Concession Road 11A which is near a gasoline station housing an air pump.  The ride is besides a pleasant one.  Concession 11A is a dead-end road into the country, bordering a municipally owned Alvar.  At the end of the road lives a young couple in a century-old stone house with two babies (a boy and a girl) and two dogs, Trudeau (a young black Labrador) and Jemma (an old chocolate Labrador). Trudeau greeted us with his customary bark when we rolled into sight on the crest of the approaching hill.  I am certain he remembers us from previous visits even though we haven’t laid eyes on him for about six months.  There followed the usual head patting, tail wagging, and “what-a-good-dog” declarations.

Our ride homeward was steady and tranquil. Although not early in the morning, the geography was yet fairly deserted on this holiday morn. Occasionally we passed others rejoicing in the sunshine, couples walking together, some with a dog, children batting a ball, a lone runner.  We wove our way through nearby residential subdivisions, around the Anglican Church where the cars of the faithful lined the narrow road, then into the bright sunshine along Bridge and Perth Streets to home.

After connecting on the telephone with family we drove to my mother’s place. But first we collected some Vietnamese soup and spring rolls which we subsequently laid out on my mother’s kitchen table for lunch.  My mother protested she wanted nothing to eat, but as usual ate everything in her soup plate.  She said she had to prepare a frozen lemon pie for dessert for lunch on Sunday with her granddaughter.  We took the opportunity to excuse ourselves and pointed the nose of the car in the direction of home.

However on our way back we diverted ourselves to White Lake on the off-chance that the corner restaurant was open for what we imagined would be the expected tourist trade.  It was.  And to our delight there was homemade apple pie à la mode which we promptly ordered along with a large glass of milk.  Our Good Friday was complete!

Today is the first day of April, a date one might naturally think heralded Spring. Yet the elongation of daylight hours is not matched by the escalation of outside temperatures.  In fact it continues uncommonly chilly, a feature which has characterized the long winter this year.  But the sky was a cloudless blue throughout the day.  We’re under a high pressure dome at the moment and as a result the air is dry and invigorating.

On a day such as this it is a particular delight for me to drive my automobile. The roads are dry. One can feel the tires gripping the pavement.  The sun glistens on the newly washed sheet metal.  My USB collection of dated songs by Vangelis, The Beatles, Enya and the like sparks endless halcyon memories. I recall flying down Avenue Road in Toronto 50 years ago under the shade of the boulevard trees, never then imagining that one day I would be living the dream.  The indulgent three years I spent in undergraduate university at Glendon Hall studying Philosophy were the first time in my life I allowed myself to disengage from constant commitment to studies.  I paid the price in more ways than one but on reflection it would be a barter with the Devil to change the course of history.  My subsequent endeavours at law school and in the practice of law circumscribed my range of actions for years afterwards. Lately I’ve made up for lost time.  I feel as though I have been lifted from a world of obligation to another of hedonism.

As poignant as my memories are, the present is so munificent that I cannot imagine improvement.  The earlier days were but a preparation, the legitimate price of admission.  I have the advantage of having gained entry to this model state.  Much of our status is a product of reasoned choice though naturally there is also serendipity at play.  No life is without a measure of advantage and disadvantage howsoever it plays out.

I continue to enthral myself by feeding my appetite for my favourite things.  A small indulgence in particular which nonetheless affords considerable return. A symbol of triumph, a personal treat.  Still there is an adjustment to age and retirement.  Medications now replace what once youth afforded.  No matter. Even Zeus granted immortality sparingly and I am no Ganymede or cup-bearer. I’ll content myself with my own fabrications and the waters of my past, a day of memories.

Step aside, pusillanimous rogues!  Make way for those hungry for enterprise! I’m all about P&V!  I have no intention of relenting while the bodily humours course vibrantly throughout my worldly frame!  To horse, I say, to horse! Until I’ve withered on the vine I mean to do what I can (a laudable ambition I think you’ll agree). We who yet tarry upon this unfathomable globe are inherently charged to fulfill the ordinance for which we are enabled by dint of our natural blessings and good fortune.

Trouble is, I haven’t an inkling what that might entail. The aspiration is for the nonce ineffective. Nevertheless I am Hell-bent upon doing what I can. In a word, I am driven. It is the percolation of the unstoppable creative impulse, the zeal that drives one to learn to play the piano, to read a book or to run for public office, even for some to play lawn bowls. For the time being however there has been nothing which has withdrawn me from my painless inertia. There have been bait lines thrown in my direction, invitations to join gaggles of immersed people – a religious congregation, a charitable troop, an intellectual assembly.  I have however rejected them without ceremony and certainly no apology.  As stimulating as each of them no doubt is, I haven’t been persuaded to succumb to the particular invocation. In these critical matters the discriminating mind must set its own pace, unpersuaded by rash projection and misguided rapture.

Life is about fortuitous intersection! I harbour the belief that when the seasonable project comes along it will implore my sense of purpose and I shall then do what I can. I am confident that the collaboration which is the “right fit” will in time transpire and I will know when to commit, to seize the opportunity.  This meanwhile compels a measure of assiduity, keeping one’s ear to the ground and an open mind.  The window through which to contribute to society is boundless though the aperture is to each individual select. It requires discernment.  I perhaps flatter myself to say that serendipity has always played an astonishingly pivotal role in my life. I interpret even the casual skirmishes of life as fortunate happenstance, good luck for the most part, nothing as unremarkable as mere coincidence.  But stoicism is required to ensure life’s expressive unfolding.  There is no toehold for haste in the sound implementation of these signal manifestations. Prudent reservation and a degree of hauteur recommends itself to the proper navigation of these winsome waters to ensure a happy correspondence of energy and cause.

When one is at the end of their tether (such as I suppose I am) it might be considered more prudent to forgo the occasion to re-engage.  Or if one must do something, at least keep it uncomplicated.  This precious state of unflappable lassitude should not be recklessly unhinged.  Its cherished fuel may exhaust more quickly than expected.  Only when one is assured of the worthiness of one’s propitious campaign should it be targeted with uncompromising avidity.  All that I am is in preparation for that fateful moment of circumstance!  I shall lunge like a skilled swordsman when the occasion is properly conceived!

Until then I shall do what I can.

Having to wait is seldom considered desirable.  Most often waiting is associated with delay and annoyance, like waiting for a bus or the traffic to move or your accountant to call back.  But holding one’s horses is not always irritating.  Think of waiting for Christmas.  Or the arrival of a friend.  Even something as pedestrian as hanging fire for dinner or for a movie to begin. Waiting can at times be a teasing preamble, a temptation of what what is to come.  There are even times when waiting proves to be more exhilarating than the event itself.

Waiting does however universally cause anxiety of some degree, good or bad. In its happier incarnation waiting is called anticipation, looking forward to something, not just loitering or impatiently calculating the minutes or hours remaining.  There is the added veneer of expectancy, even suspense.

At the moment I am in such a state of enthusiasm.  I needn’t bore my dear reader with the trifling details; waiting for anything is always personal and the object is not guaranteed to move another as it moves oneself.  Heightened longing is not peculiar to any particular category of person; it can strike anyone at any age.  One would think that after a certain point in life the possibilities of amusement have been exhausted but this apparently is not so.

While one waits, one contemplates.  An inertia takes over, prohibiting extraordinary undertakings until the latest passion is accomplished.  It is setting the stage for what is to come.  A scan of the constituents of one’s life mechanically occurs.  Where will the awaited object or person fit into one’s life?  The strength of the occupation is not diminished by the recognition that almost everything about oneself was at one time or another awaited, once longingly envisaged. The novelty of what one is waiting for nonetheless stimulates its attraction.

It would be wildly foolish of me to liken the absorption with the anticipated arrival of a newborn babe, for the focus is often nothing more than objective, a mere thing.  But even then the uplifting spiritual feature is there!  The object is meant to transform albeit in a small way.  It may be a reward, compensation for something.

Meanwhile the abstract view of one’s being lends itself to this mature way of dealing with what is expected.  The details of everyday living are slotted and categorized, put into their place pending the arrival of the foreign element.  It is however a project as artificial as attempting to stop the clock.  It is quite impossible to arrest the status quo for any length of time no matter how significant the object of one’s attendance may be.  But it at least enables a fleeting glimpse of the whole before its components are revised, the inevitable shuffling of anything new in one’s life.

As we squished our way along the smooth highway surface, the car splattered by the large wet snowflakes of a late Spring day, glancing at the grey and brown countryside covered in its mantle of whiteness, we talked. The conversation was initially of a summary nature, rounding out our most recent communications with friends, ensuring that each of us had all the details of what was said, including the nuances, then surmising what they are intending to do.  The digestion of all the raw material afforded us by our friends requires time and reflection.  No one is completely transparent; the application of reasoning is required to deduce the correct conclusion, or at least to attempt to reach the correct conclusion.  For the most part we’re more amused by what our friends say and do than by where they are going.  Besides speculation is so often wrong.

We also tossed about the idea of a jaunt to the East Coast, to the beloved Atlantic Ocean. My mind is set free whenever I contemplate the seashore,  the views, the smells, the people, the food, the inns.  We decided to avoid the major urban centres like Montréal and Quebec City.  The object is St. Andrews-by-the-Sea, a place we’ve never been.

And we talked about books and philosophies, including broad subjects like the evolution of thought throughout the world – as though we could do it any justice!  There were practical matters too, the latest purchase and chatter about finances and income tax.  The transition from one subject to another had no theme or purpose.  And then we were funnelling into Gananoque, parking the car and walking across the street to the restaurant.

We are never disappointed at the Socialist Pig, the butter dripping from the grilled sandwich of brisket and cheese, a delicate vinaigrette on the fresh leafy greens, a tangy old fashioned lemonade.

Our project accomplished we turned around in the opposite direction, this time along the Ivy Lea Parkway with its panoramic views before entering Highway 401 for the clinical ride home.  We stopped along the way at my mother’s to bring her a Mocha coffee and to share the news of the day.  Then it was groceries and back to our apartment, nibbles of crudités, cheese and yes, a Nanaimo bar for dessert.  House of Cards to end the day, what will become of Francis and Claire…

The real danger of an inductive leap is not that there might in fact be a black swan; rather the danger is that we imagine things that don’t exist.  It is one thing to hope for the best; it is quite another to imagine only the worst.  How we get to the unfortunate second alternative (imaging only the worst) is both understandable and excusable.  Essentially we prefer to rely upon a quick assessment of a situation rather than a detailed analysis of it, a posture which is arguably natural and healthy. There is after all considerable support for the “fight or flight” theory. Besides, thinking is hard; instinctive reaction is by comparison conveniently easier. But just as a dog can mistakenly flee from the pop of a balloon, so too can we become needlessly alarmed by an inconsequential disturbance in our life.  Just because our instinct causes us apprehension doesn’t mean we’re right to be worried.

Thanks to the discovery in 1697 by the Dutch explorer Willem de Vlamingh of black swans in Australia, we’ve learned to mistrust extrapolation from generalizations. That is, we’ve learned to be cautious about extending the application of a conclusion (especially one based on statistics) to an unknown situation by assuming that existing trends will continue.  Nonetheless we succumb to the influence of buzz words or other indicia of panic to which we are accustomed by previous experience. It is hard to find fault with this reaction because it has all the force of background and practical knowledge.  It would be equally unfair to suggest we only expect disappointment in life. Being trepidatious is not the same as being pessimistic; caution should not be confused with despair.  There is however a lesson to be learned; and that is that idle speculation can be misleading.  If we’re going to draw hard conclusions we need hard facts.  Too often we sacrifice one for the other – we throw aside the evidence in preference for a quick and dirty verdict.

If one proposes to be a rational being it requires training of the mind.  Given the standard of universal education it would be absurd to suggest that any particular class of person is less suited than another to clear thinking.  What is however clear is that most of us are by nature disinclined to analytic thinking. It is a rigorous undertaking, one which forces us to contemplate alternatives (a prospect which frequently takes the wind out of the sails of a thesis).  At the very least logical thought requires dissection of a problem.  Breaking up a problem into its constituent elements not only facilitates handling of it, it further obliges the analysis of those elements.  If nothing else this retards the process of examination and inhibits hurried conclusions.  There persists the possibility of misunderstanding and misinterpretation which of course contaminates even the most prudent scrutiny.  Oddly it is the hint of doubt (instinct) which may in such instances trigger the need for professional advice which will hopefully advance the correct evaluation.

Even if one feels that the critical analysis of a particular set of facts is beyond one’s capacity, there is a fall-back situation which may be as relieving.  It requires a more global assessment of one’s situation.  One might for example take the high-level view that there is nothing one can do to alter either the past or the future, that one can only live in the present.  Assuming that is so, the quality of a particular problem can only be usefully managed by confronting it.  To impart unrestricted speculation to the problem does nothing to advance its resolution.  It is frequently attractive to indulge oneself in endless obfuscation but this only builds on the shaky foundation of the initial reaction.  If unsure it is better to resist supposition.  While this may seem to be a fainthearted approach it nonetheless dilutes wild surmise. Oh, and if all that seems far too demanding, remember to add another of those illusive human virtues – patience!

Deductive Reasoning:
General to Specific

In deductive reasoning, if something is true of a class of things in general, it is also true for all members of that class. For example, “All men are mortal. Harold is a man. Therefore, Harold is mortal.” For deductive reasoning to be sound, the hypothesis must be correct. It is assumed that the premises, “All men are mortal” and “Harold is a man” are true. Therefore, the conclusion is logical and true.

Inductive Reasoning:
Specific to General

Inductive reasoning is the opposite of deductive reasoning. Inductive reasoning makes broad generalizations from specific observations. “In inductive inference, we go from the specific to the general. We make many observations, discern a pattern, make a generalization, and infer an explanation or a theory. Even if all of the premises are true in a statement, inductive reasoning allows for the conclusion to be false. Here’s an example: Harold is a grandfather. Harold is bald. Therefore, all grandfathers are bald. The conclusion does not follow logically from the statements.”

An inductive argument is an argument that is intended by the arguer merely to establish or increase the probability of its conclusion. In an inductive argument, the premises are intended only to be so strong that, if they were true, then it would be unlikely that the conclusion is false. There is no standard term for a successful inductive argument. But its success or strength is a matter of degree, unlike with deductive arguments. A deductive argument is valid or else invalid.

The phrase “black swan” derives from a Latin expression; its oldest known occurrence is the poet Juvenal’s characterization of something being “rara avis in terris nigroque simillima cygno” (“a rare bird in the lands and very much like a black swan”; 6.165). When the phrase was coined, the black swan was presumed not to exist. The importance of the metaphor lies in its analogy to the fragility of any system of thought. A set of conclusions is potentially undone once any of its fundamental postulates is disproved. In this case, the observation of a single black swan would be the undoing of the logic of any system of thought, as well as any reasoning that followed from that underlying logic. The black swan theory or theory of black swan events is a metaphor that describes an event that comes as a surprise, has a major effect, and is often inappropriately rationalized after the fact with the benefit of hindsight.

While most people are happy with thinking about what they do know, Taleb takes great pains throughout The Black Swan to try and focus his readers on what we don’t know — which is far more relevant to the black swan problem. Unpredictable events by their very nature are things that lie outside our common experience and happen precisely because of this. Therefore a good appreciation of our own ignorance and a full rationalization of where our knowledge ends is essential in dealing with (although not necessarily avoiding) black swan events.

During the night I was haunted by disturbing thoughts, the carry-over from the half-baked struggles and uprisings of the previous day.  Though it is quite preposterous of me to imagine that every concern I may have, whether big or small, will be resolved immediately, that is precisely what I do. My impatience instantly translates any delay into anxiety. Even for example if I write an email to someone from whom I haven’t requested a response, I expect one. At least an acknowledgement.  These tangled engagements beg rebuttal, they should not be ignored.

Lately there have been a number of discomfiting introspections which have percolated. When one must rely upon conjecture and surmise to decipher another’s behaviour the mind becomes a seedbed for distortion.  This is especially so when the signals being sent are tenuous and without any particular relevance at the time (though upon reflection the foundation for the foray is always evident).  One settles the contentious matter either by acceptance or dismissal; seldom does reasoned analysis highlight anything more than annoyance.  Until however one reaches that critical tipping point, the problem is literally in the balance, teetering indecision which is all the more frustrating.

There were other less psychiatric dilemmas to deal with as well, strictly matters of business though in that vernacular awareness and strategy are equally important.  Here however fact counts more than sentiment.  Once again my impatience causes disruption.  It is quite unbelievable how my active imagination enflames bizarre complications.  My petulant researches at last produced results. In these technical matters it’s a binary world, all or nothing.

And, yes, there were even more tiny aggravations, alas the repeated product of irritability.  I seemingly have no capacity to allow the world to unfold on its own steam, I must be perpetually pushing it along.  But I am attempting to modify this pattern.  It is however an admission that there are factors other than one’s own input which govern the evolution of the universe.  Such insight!  It requires incredible restraint upon myself to do this.  I mistakenly harbour the view that it is my alloy which stiffens the resolve. But I am learning to accept that the transition from discord to concord is more natural and untangled with my personal elements.  In the result it is but the unglamorous business of putting temporary distance between the fractious parts, a diplomatic theory which barely merits the distinction of politic.

I haven’t moved out of the apartment all day.  Though I had a sneezing bout I don’t think I am ill but everything else about the day reminds what a child would do when staying home from school to recuperate from a cold. Why I should recall that metaphor is beyond me!  The last time I might possibly have done that was when I was five years old living in Nova Scotia. It seems extraordinary that my memory should serve me so well though I can clearly recall being with my younger sister in our small upstairs bedroom at the front of the house in our pyjamas learning to knit thick emerald green wool with knitting needles the size of tiny baseball bats.  In the forty years of my professional practice I never once took a sick day and barely missed a morning of employment when I had my first hernia operation.  The open-heart surgery and three-month sabbatical doesn’t count.

Today I languorously ate my breakfast in my bedclothes, drinking coffee, spearing orange wedges and banana slices with a small fork, followed by bran cereal and milk. Later in the morning, after having toiled at my computer to delete year-old redundant emails and folders, and after having answered another unexpected email from a passing acquaintance with the same measured diligence that an ambassador might rebuff an objectionable foreign mission, I prepared a small bowl of granola and Almond Breeze and concluded with spoonfuls of 100% all natural peanut butter straight from the plastic jar.

I awoke no later than 7:10 a.m. this morning so the hours ticked by quite noticeably.  I recall glancing at the clock around 8:00 a.m., then again at 9:30 a.m.  Mid-Morning there were noises in the hallway, drilling and banging, construction work of some kind.  I subsequently discovered when I went for the mail that the workmen had cut a hole into part of the ceiling and wall, presumably in preparation for some electrical installation (perhaps an illuminated EXIT sign).  Suddenly it was noon (which is when I had my second round of cereal).  I read some F. Scott Fitzgerald and fell asleep for a moment in my cushy green leather chair.

Throughout the day I have contemplated taking my automobile for a spin but it required more energy and preparation than I was prepared to commit. Maybe I am sick. Besides the bottoms of my sweat pants are too long and must be rolled up, giving the appearance of complete disregard, not something I’m anxious to retail publicly.  I can’t bring myself to pay a seamstress to tailor the bottoms. I resolved the matter by reasoning that it is good for me to remain inert for a change, to quell my usual instinct to be moving constantly.  I telephoned my mother and subdued the usual commotion of her aging mind. She’s always going on about getting her papers and clothes and things in the garage settled even though we have removed almost all of it already.  At least today she didn’t fret about the fuel tank being empty.

Even though it is singularly cold outside today (another reason to remain indoors) the afternoon sunlight has been pouring into the apartment and elevating the interior heat above the manual thermostat setting.  This little apartment is bathed in light on a sunny day like this!  We get it from the southwestern exposure (along the living room, den and bedroom) and also from the northeastern side of the building (the second bedroom window).  I sat in an armchair and stared at the wall paintings, the crystal decanters of sherry and scotch, admiring the brilliant colours displayed to advantage by the sheered sunlight.

While I am afraid to jinx the process, I also telephoned my jeweller to enquire about the design progress of a new piece I am having made.  He hardly needs any encouragement.  He shared with me when we first met to discuss the project that he is the type who likes to get onto it right away.  I believe him. Within a week I had some compelling CAD mock-ups of the ring, “preliminary renderings for general design and scale only” as he put it.

Having agreed generally upon the look of the piece we then concentrated upon the choice of synthetic stone finally settling upon the latest model which exhibits considerable hardness and impermeability. It makes sense to avoid the need to replace a chipped or discoloured stone. I finally asked him the vulgar details of estimated cost and he said he would email something to me.

Apart from wallowing in the lethargy of the day the mere fact that I can do it astounds me.  Only if I were able to measure the remaining hours of my existence would the torpidity make any difference at all!  Nothing depends upon my activity.  This is an adventure of its own.

When I casually shared with others that I had lately composed an article about the “Ladies of Lanark County” the immediate response was that I should do the same concerning the “Gentlemen of Lanark County“.  And I suppose I should. Not just because it’s even-handed but because the project admits to the possibility of some mirth.  Really, when I reflect upon the subject even for a moment I instantly recall all sorts of rare birds whom I’ve known over the years; and I am bound to own that casting a sardonic eye upon that historical landscape might indeed prove diverting.

 Men with Nicknames

Any discussion of men in the same breath as women is bound to include comparison.  An obvious dissimilarity is the quaint tendency of men to have nicknames.  I can’t think of an instance in which women suffer the same susceptibility.  Men however appear to invite the cultivation.  The monikers, while certainly not always contemptuous, are not necessarily terms of endearment, affection or familiarity.  Very often the nickname captures some physical characteristic of the gentleman, whether his own appearance or some prominent feature associated with him.  There are of course occasional instances of nicknames which are mere abbreviations but the frequency of good-natured ridicule is not to be discounted.  No doubt some men view the hypocorism as equivalent to a stage name and therefore desirable, symbolizing a form of acceptance.

 The Entrepreneur

Over the years we’ve had our fair share of grand business developers, some of whom are mockingly called “typhoons” owing to their blustery showmanship but strategic lack of substance. If you’re up against one of these seasoned professionals you are wise to afford yourself ample time for “sober second thought”.  The persuasion of these gentlemen is seemingly irresistible even though there are seldom any facts upon which to base the conjecture.  If by chance you allow yourself to become entwined with this culprit, you can be assured that the result will be unfavourable even if you’re lucky enough to disengage.

 The Politician

As popular as it is to razz politicians (a hobby I regret to say is often also directed at lawyers) my personal experience is nonetheless quite different.  I am proud to say that of the many gentlemen whom I have known in local politics all without exception have been honourable, trustworthy and diligent.  The veteran politician is particularly laudable as he clearly takes his responsibilities seriously and submits to both the real and perceived needs of the electorate in an effort to placate their expectations.  I harbour the traditional view that politicians can be presumed to aim for high standards and invariably our representatives do not disappoint.  As someone who has but dipped his toe in the treacherous waters of public office I can safely say that our local members are much to be admired for their performance.

The Clerks, Labourers and Service Providers

The front-line workers of our community are of course widely varied in age, appearance and personality but oddly on balance they all prove to be universally helpful, outgoing and dedicated.  Whether it is an attribute of country living or something in the water, I find it remarkable that in our community the tenure of these gentlemen is often very long.  Once you have acquainted yourself with the people in a particular department or store or institution, you are virtually assured that they will be there to assist in the future. This segment of our community also lends itself especially to its characters, gentlemen who by their singular nature have become readily identified as distinctive and even symbolic.  One would be remiss to overlook the important element of volunteer which so often characterizes these gentlemen. Whether they are first responders or club members of charitable organizations they all share the attributes of selflessness and unfailing commitment.

The Old Fogeys

As I am myself now dangerously close to being herded into the fold of old-fashioned conservatives, I feel I am entitled to weigh in upon this particular category with impunity. We all know these gentlemen, usually “elderly”, typically retired for goodness knows how long, oddly bouncy for their age and who never recoil from the opportunity for a chin wag.  To add to their further embarrassment of others, the Old Fogeys are active in endless social gatherings and even undertakings which pass as athletic.  They have long ago abandoned the necessity of a tie but it is well-known that many of them were once leaders in government or held high office though they would never do or say anything so vulgar as to betray their pedigree.  A mere scratch of their veneer is guaranteed to provide some very entertaining history.

The Lads

This is a division of gentlemen which I suspect is distinctly peculiar to Lanark County and anything else resembling rural Ireland, Scotland or England.  It is a subset which transcends class, age and occupation and might conveniently be considered the lawful equivalent of the Italian Mafioso as it reeks of membership even if not nefarious.  There is no mistaking “one of the lads”. He exudes self-confidence and very often carries with him some characteristic local identification, whether in his appearance or by dint of his language or accent.  He is the embodiment of maleness and is not uncommonly considered either good looking or attractive.  The senior constituents of this branch are not infrequently successful by any standard and they are afforded every latitude to the demonstration of it.  Merit and entitlement go hand-in-hand for these gentlemen and the prudent observer will be alert to their capacity whether alone or in concert.