There likely isn’t anyone who would characterize life as expendable. Yet one has to wonder at those who treat life with diminutive esteem.  To condescend to life or to treat it as a disposable commodity is a mistaken and unworthy presumption. Even if particular circumstances were to lead one to adjudge life hard or unfair it never warrants our small-minded disdain.  Life is incalculably precious.

For those who have suffered or who continue to suffer extraordinary harm, deprivation or defeat, the thesis is less easily retailed. Loss of any description is never a philosophical nicety. Barring utter ruination, however, there is still generation in even the coolest of embers. The risk one takes in becoming misanthropic about life is the possibility of confusing disappointment with transformation.  At its extremes life is a beginning and an end; in between there are degrees of modification, some obviously more precipitous than others.  We can be assured that life will ultimately only get worse; what we choose to do until then is what makes all the difference.

Part of my gripe is with those who haven’t the foresight to see life as a diminishing source to be exhausted with utmost discretion.  This is such a patent truth as to border on being a mere platitude yet so many of us disregard it.  On the other hand the limitation of life shouldn’t be a governor to the point of restricting it to complete inertia.  Consumption of the fuel is inevitable.  There is a difference however between going up to the trough and getting into it.

It is not uncommonly observed that we can’t predict life’s fortune but we can nonetheless control our assessment of it.  This adage speaks to the element of attitude.  Once again there is a huge distinction between losing one’s bike and losing one’s limbs. I won’t trivialize the experience by suggesting each is similarly surmountable.  And while one such loss may with time evaporate and become meaningless the prejudice must in either case eventually be addressed.

There is for some people overwhelming evidence of perpetual misfortune. Even in catastrophic conditions however there equally persists the logical possibility that what exists today may be better than what is to follow. Applying this rationale to any situation highlights the necessity to draw from life whatever nourishment and energy it currently provides. Granted it is in some state of affairs an unpleasant labour and drudge but even the mere seeds of life can blossom into something far more abundant than we might have imagined.

On a superficial literary level the transcription of life’s mundane frustrations can perhaps capture its grittiness.  At the other end of the spectrum is the capitulation to fabrication and design.  Accounting for life can involve as a compromise the imposition of manners, an effort to elevate life above the muck without being sterile.  This isn’t to diminish the value of directness or the avoidance of camouflage.  It is more a tactical decision about the direction one wishes to go.

It is approaching six o’clock in the morning. We are perched at the dining room table as though it were a library table, sipping coffee and noiselessly performing our morning computer routine. The Weather Network informs me we can expect a high of 72ºF today. I opened one of the balcony doors to admit the balmy air and the sound of the waves. While I slept last night I struggled with a dream, something involving an obligation which I couldn’t fulfill. It may be true that “there ain’t no ship to take you away from yourself” but it nonetheless appeases me to hear the sound of the surf before dawn and to see the harbour lights in the distance.  Currently my only waking concern is whether to refresh my cup of coffee.

We have already adapted to our temporary burrow.  The absorption was by degrees in accordance with need. Groceries were for example foremost upon the list.  Then followed the mundane adjustments, computer connections, sorting out the luggage, ensuring the toiletries were at hand.  We have now the privilege of unqualified leisure.  Bicycling is high upon that particular agenda.  I can readily distract myself and expiate any guilt I might otherwise harbour for unfettered indulgence by undertaking a bicycle ride, a healthful combination of exercise and tourism.  There is no threat of monotony when I know I can at almost any turn overlook an expanse of Ocean and feast my eyes upon white powdered sand and surf. It titillates me no end to confront what may as well be an eternity of harmony.

We have plucked ourselves from our customary surroundings and alighted upon a distant shore. The greatest challenge seems only to be the changing of gears. I won’t pretend that our former agenda was fraught with commitment or burdensome obligation, but I have to acknowledge that the current calendar is about as wide open as one could possibly imagine.  It dares me to revel in a dream come true.  I recall my mother having educated me years ago about the expression “to winter”, a phrase she knew instinctively denominated desirable social position.  To find myself living that once much anticipated aspiration is nothing short of remarkable, so much so that to fail to embrace its luxury would be an unforgivable indiscretion. I am confident that I have achieved every goal I might ever have had.

Upon the advent of any holiday I have traditionally thrown myself into the mix with all the stops out, seeking to submerge myself in whatever is to be had.  Given the historical shortness of my holidays it is a forgivable compulsion.  Though I haven’t the same excuse on this occasion (we are here for the season) I nonetheless succumbed to the overwhelming urge to go bicycling today.  Perhaps it was the hangover from two and a half days of traveling to get here by automobile, sitting for seven hours for each of the first two days and four hours the next.  My aging carcass was more than a bit rigid from the prolonged inactivity and I pined for some exercise in hopes of loosening the fibres and awakening my numbed sensibilities.

Earlier this morning I had taken the car to get it filled with gasoline (at a station which accepts Canadian credit cards) and then went to Harris Teeter to collect some further provisions.  I was back at the condominium shortly after noon and we then tucked into a succinct though satisfactory lunch.  By 2:00 p.m. we were at the bike racks fumbling with the locks and getting set to take off.  Before ten o’clock this morning it had been lightly raining, but the skies had cleared considerably and the pavement was generally dry except for the occasional puddle of water.  I was pleased not to have been forced to confine myself to barracks today.  Bicycling is very much the essence of our stay here and the enactment of the ritual is imperative to fulfill the objective.

Our unhurried and leisurely cycle took us first towards Turtle Lane (where we had spent three weeks last year) to see the new beachfront development adjacent the Marriott Hotel.  We agreed it would be a respectable place for a seaside lunch sometime in the future. We then continued along the familiar Sea Pines paths to Coligny Beach where we caught a gander of the Ocean and paused for a Cappuccino coffee.  From there we headed along Pope Avenue to the west end of Sea Pines then down to Calibogue Club Place where we’ll be staying in a couple of weeks for the duration of most of our visit here.  Having assured ourselves that the place still exists we directed ourselves to South Beach where we currently hang our respective hats.  We timed the distance between the two places because we must arrange to relocate the bikes when we change accommodations.  It took us about 35 minutes to travel the distance.  The Island is of course at sea level and the paths are generally flat. Our rental bikes, having only one gear, are quite unsuited to an incline of  any degree.  The traffic along the paths was about what it normally is at this time of year; that is, not at all congested.  There were about as many people walking as there were bicycling.  There weren’t many children, mostly people who looked as though they might qualify for retirement.  The exception was the gaggle of young Japanese tourists who announced their presence by their distinct language.

We arrived back at Beachside Tennis around 4:30 p.m.  I confess my joints felt the effort of the previous two hours bicycling.  Before taking the elevator to the fifth floor we wandered into the back of the property where we saw a deer casually meandering about.  We were drawn momentarily to the beach where we stood upon a wooden deck and stared at the water.  I have yet to take myself to the beach for a detailed view of it.  I will leave that for a sunnier day.

On Thursday, November 13, 2014 we pointed the nose of the black Lincoln MKS out of the underground parking lot at 100 Jamieson Street, Almonte and began our journey to Hilton Head Island for the winter. We have booked three different places for the next four months, the first and the last being each of two-weeks duration, the middle resort being for three months.  The first and the middle are in Sea Pines on Hilton Head Island.  The last stay is on Jekyll Island, GA.

The first leg of our trip was a seven-hour drive to Mechanicsburg, PA where we have stayed before.  We wasted no time in the late afternoon upon our arrival getting ourselves into the Hotel then to the Centre Street Grill where we hunkered down to a very satisfactory meal which within an hour afterwards secured the most pleasant dreams.  The next morning we were up very early, sometime around 3:30 a.m. and on the road by no later than 5:00 a.m.  By 6:00 a.m. we were revitalizing ourselves with a hearty breakfast at a Cracker Barrel restaurant (a chain which qualifies as our usual haunt) somewhere on Interstate 81.  Our early departure ensured that we were in Charlotte, NC by early afternoon.  We repeated another satisfactory late lunch at a local BBQ joint and would have also repeated an early night in bed were it not for the jarring disturbance of a fire alarm evacuation in the Hotel.  We walked down fifteen flights of stairs only to witness the speedy arrival (and almost equally hasty retreat) of the fire truck.  It must have been a false alarm.  We amused ourselves afterwards by watching some television but it wasn’t long before we succumbed to sleep once again.  This morning (Saturday, November 15th) we arose after five o’clock and then repeated our customary breakfast at another Cracker Barrel restaurant.  This third day of travel was as usual our shortest so we were approaching Hilton Head Island just before noon.

On the drive here I discovered that my windshield wipers were chattering and I had determined to replace the blades.  I knew of a Lincoln dealership en route to Hilton Head Island and we had no trouble locating it shortly after we turned off Interstate 95 towards the Island.  When I arrived at the Service office the gentleman there advised that if, as I had also suggested, I wanted the oil changed, he could do that immediately as there were no prior bookings.  We decided to capitalize upon this unexpected opportunity.  The oil was changed, the windshield wipers replaced and the car washed, altogether a perfect way to commence our introduction to Hilton Head Island!  It also helped that the weather though cool was perfectly clear, not a cloud in the sky.  The palm trees which I so adore were displayed to especial advantage in the brilliant sunshine!  I was as always captivated by the sight of the sounds as we drove across the causeway to the Island, the sailing yachts, the sea grasses, the glistening water of the sea.

Our detour to the office of the estate agent to collect the key for the condominium could not have gone more smoothly.  The agent advised that the lock on the condominium may not operate until 2:00 p.m. so we decided to kill the next hour by arranging the delivery of our rental bikes.  When we were on Hilton Head Island last January the manager of the bike rental shop gave us his business card with a very competitive quotation for bike rentals for the three months upon our return.  We were happily able to take advantage of that offer today.

Once we arrived at the condominium we were very gratified to learn that it suited us admirably!  In fact we even suggested that we might try to secure the place next year for a longer stay (though I am quite certain we’ll appreciate the advantage of the other place being a freehold unit at sea level, not on the fifth floor of a large building with an elevator).  What however particularly endears the condominium is that it has a delightful view of the Ocean inlet or sound and the place is clearly remote from any exterior disturbance.

Our journey’s work was beginning to wear upon us and we wisely thought to get ourselves somewhere for a bite to eat before venturing to the grocery store to collect provisions for the larder for tomorrow morning.  Although we had thoughts of going to some place quite distant from our present location we fortunately fell upon a restaurant which was not only nearby but also overlooking a lovely view of the setting sun over a yacht harbour.

Our subsequent trip to Harris Teeter fulfilled its objective and we are now comfortably ensconced in our digs, fully connected to our various tech-toys, awaiting the final allure of the cotton sheets.

Throughout the day, while driving here, we spoke with my mother and sister by telephone.  That at least expiates any familial guilt I may have had and I am sure it pacifies my elderly mother’s perpetual anxiety about some unexpected dilemma befalling us.

There is no question in my mind that this experience is destined to be one of the most favourable in my entire life.  In one respect it continues to astound me that I even have the privilege of being here, that I have miraculously been able to extricate myself from the practice of law and any other mundane obligation or commitment, not to mention the numerous other accomplishments of the past year (selling the office building and house, auctioning our surplus personal effects and arranging the new apartment). Of course I know precisely how it is that this dream-like situation has arisen (in essence thanks to His Lordship) and as always I have only my lucky stars to thank that our confederacy has been to our mutual advantage.  The prospect of spending the next four months on this idyllic Island, the thought of being removed from snow, the opportunity to dwell upon whatever it is that enables such fortune, is for me an indescribable luxury and fortune.  I am well aware that this enclave is miles from the reality of many others upon the face of the earth, but I am also alive to my own capacity to see the very best in this opportunity.  I have every intention of seeing nothing but providence and treasure in this chance which has been afforded me.

The transition to winter in Canada is discretely incremental but nonetheless unmistakeable. After the autumnal cleaning of the gardens, the appearance of driveway markers is among the first indicia of upcoming winter.  There are some terribly handsome markers, reflectors which are multi-coloured, multi-faceted, telescopic and even solar.  For the less discriminating homeowner who is not so concerned with the artistic performance of the hardware a mere stake will suffice, frequently recycled and wound in adhesive tape.  There are those whose property borders a curve in the road and who therefore feel compelled to decorate the perimeter with a parade of cautionary standards to assist the hardworking early-morning plough operators.  One has to wonder how responsive the plough operators are or can be to such carefully positioned warnings in the midst of a snowstorm and mountains of ever-increasing urban snow piles.  It is wise to recall that the municipality likely owns the first several feet alongside the road and may thus snap its collective fingers at such muted intimidation.

The mania for winter tyres on automobiles is ascending though fairly recent. Only in the past several years has the topical debate graduated from statistical analysis to what is now considered socially unacceptable behaviour to avoid putting on winter tyres. No doubt even republican Ontario will soon adopt the mandatory legislative directive which now persists in Quebec. Winter tyres are generally acknowledged to be unattractive, a fashion foible nonetheless thought to be well-deserved and mollified by the indisputable repugnance of black ice, road salt and slush.  Winter tyres are still a hard sell to dedicated automobile aficionados who’ll likely succumb to forking out thousands for matching rims to preserve the shiny package on those rare, cold days which afford a window of dry pavement.

The harshness of adjustment to the winter vernacular is at least softened by the sight of a dedicated young father building the wooden perimeter of a backyard skating rink for his children and perhaps their neighbours.  What a family hero he is destined to be!  Some of our rural brethren are fortunate enough to have a pond on their sprawling acreage for like purpose but without the attendant architectural exigencies.  Visions abound of muffled skaters, red sleighs and frosted breath, a truly Canadian picture reminiscent of Cornelius Krieghoff!

No sooner have the corn sheaves of Thanksgiving and the pumpkins of Hallowe’en exhausted their favour than the wreaths, garlands and boughs of Christmas decorations make their seasonal appearance.  It is a well-organized householder who plans to put up the exterior Christmas lights before the first snow.  A cool, clear day in November and the prospect of a cozy fire and wassail is all the stimulus required to awaken the radiance of the Christmas spirit.  Equally intoxicating are the Gregorian chants of Arvo Pärt and almost any refrain from Handel’s Messiah, sacred music which suddenly figures in one’s personal library and on almost any radio station. The once latent winter catharsis is galloping onward!

Any summary of evolving hibernation would be incomplete without noting the dwindling daylight hours, an assault conducted at both ends of the spectrum.  More evocative clues that winter is coming are those regularly touted in the Farmers’ Almanac:

Thicker than normal corn husks
Woodpeckers sharing a tree
Early arrival of the Snowy owl
Early departure of geese and ducks
Early migration of the Monarch butterfly
Thick hair on the nape (back) of the cow’s neck
Heavy and numerous fogs during August
Raccoons with thick tails and bright bands
Mice eating ravenously into the home
Early arrival of crickets on the hearth
Spiders spinning larger than usual webs and entering the house in great numbers
Pigs gathering sticks
Insects marching a bee line rather than meandering
Early seclusion of bees within the hive
Unusual abundance of acorns
Muskrats burrowing holes high on the river bank
“See how high the hornet’s nest, ‘twill tell how high the snow will rest”
Narrow orange band in the middle of the Woollybear caterpillar warns of heavy snow; fat and fuzzy caterpillars presage bitter cold
The squirrel gathers nuts early to fortify against a hard winter
Frequent halos or rings around sun or moon forecast numerous snow falls.

It’s 2:00 o’clock in the morning and it’s raining. The sound of the rain in the gutters on the balcony woke me.  All the windows in the apartment are open more than a crack because the air is uncommonly warm.  I imagine there have been a lot of romantic things written about the early morning rain including no doubt some fairly sentimental rubbish provoked by booze.  Those days of agitated nerves and spiritual guilt are ones I can live without.

I’ve heard that Howard Hughes conducted business in the middle of the night when nobody could say they were otherwise engaged.  I try not to make a habit of stomping about in the middle of the night but I’m certainly not a stranger to it. Being awake in the middle of the night is often a capitulation, an acknowledgement that one may as well get up as toss and turn worrying about something.  It is of course a reliable method of battening down a flourishing issue.  It can however be a luxury, the privilege afforded those who are not for some physical or psychical reason chained to their bed.  It is normally a small compliment to recount anything I might accomplish in the middle of the night.  Some people might like to read.  I prefer to write.  Writing isn’t for me merely a knee-jerk undertaking; I try for example to capitalize upon the sterility of the early morning hours to promote austerity in my accounts.  Prolixity is among my failings.  Additionally I subscribe to what I understand was Hemingway’s thesis that practice is a good thing whether for athletes or writers; there’s nothing supernatural about it.  It’s all about using that muscle, keeping it fit and toned.

The goal of “finding one’s voice” is I think related to unrestrained communication. The success in doing so seems to entail writing as one talks, not as simple a task as one might imagine.  The written word obviously inspires reconsideration of what one thinks even though the spoken word can be as powerful.  The trick is to translate the narrative as though it were a conversation.  Too often fluidity is confused with stupidity; there is however no need to diminish the literary quality of one’s thoughts merely because they are natural.  I won’t suggest that some people think in thirty-dollar words but there are those who actually have a vocabulary.

At 2:30 a.m. this morning I was sitting alone in the living room in the dark in my smalls staring at my iPhone, reading something, I cannot recall what, email or the local on-line newspaper.  Doesn’t matter, I was just killing time hoping I’d somehow put myself to sleep.

By six o’clock, back in bed for over three hours, I was awakening to another day, cursing the damaged tendons of my left shoulder.  I must have slept on it the wrong way.  Again.  There apparently isn’t a right way to sleep on that blasted shoulder! I could tell, though barely, from the light seeping through the curtains that it was likely to be a nice day.  And it turned out that it was.  More than nice in fact, very nice, bright, clear and warm, a high of 13ºC. Energized by black coffee and a substantial (now ritual) breakfast, we got ourselves together and went for a bike ride. It was an undeniable pleasure on a day like this!

Uncommonly numerous people were walking, running or cycling alongside the country roads, indulging themselves in what has become a national holiday, Remembrance Day.  I stopped to chat with one walker whom I knew, an acquaintance, a clever chap.  We swapped intelligence about a local corporation with which we are both connected, one of the dubious privileges of getting old. I drew upon historical professional knowledge, reminding myself of the exacting experience which had taught me so well.  It was such a long time ago that I wrestled with those esoteric details, now here I was sharing them as though they were second nature.  Which I suppose they are.  Eventually it’s all old hat no matter what you’ve done for forty years.

I returned home, leisurely absorbing the lovely air and sunshine.  Ablutions accomplished I directed myself to the City.  On the highway I passed one of those new signs powered by a solar panel.  On it was displayed “Lest We Forget”.  I was listening to lugubrious music and in an instant I was choking up and weeping.  Music can do that to me, I’m a sucker for music and sentimental stuff.  I thought briefly of my father, how young he was when the German submarine shot him and his men out of the sky over the North Atlantic.

Whew!  Stealing a look at my electronic calendar says it all!  It has been a busy several weeks!  Certainly one can expect a bit of hype surrounding an upcoming four-month sojourn but there were many other factors in the mix which had nothing whatever to do with packing, things we hadn’t anticipated, things we would have preferred to have by-passed.  It is too tedious to trot out the sometimes annoying details of all that has lately transpired. When however I drove home today from my early morning appointment in Ottawa I was decidedly relieved; at last my scheduled duties were behind me and an open calendar beckoned me.  As so often is the case everything seems to have magically dovetailed mere hours before our departure.  I can’t imagine that there is any design in that happy fortuity but there it is!  Just plain good luck.

It is further no small consolation for having endured the stressful urgencies of the past several weeks that my elderly mother and I had a very satisfactory rendezvous this morning.  One cannot always be assured of such a buoyant reception.  Because I had my MacBook Pro computer with me – I had just been to the Apple Store to collect it from the repair shop, that’s another story! – I decided to connect the thing to a “Personal Hot Spot” on my iPhone so I could review with her the details of her financial affairs and to show her how wonderful my amateur photos look on a large screen.  As you might imagine the wealth of information which I was able to lay before her within an instant was somewhat overwhelming but she generally grasped the gist of what was going on and appeared to appreciate the marvel of computers and the internet.  I titillated her by exemplifying the location of my iPhone through iCloud and sending an audible notification.  It bowled her over!  I tied up the whole package by reminding mother that we all have a great deal for which to be thankful and that we should as a result avoid any whining complaint (sadly not an uncommon refrain).  I told her that her only worry should be about how much to eat and drink on Christmas Eve when she stays overnight at my sister’s place.

It also helped that I brought along a number of compact discs which I no longer use (all my favourites have been added to a USB and the rest I get off my iPhone).  It is a sign of the times that my former tuner/CD player and miniature speakers are now virtually redundant having been replaced by Bluetooth technology.  My mother, being yet less advanced and having no Bluetooth enabled devices, has however a new little sound system to which she has happily adjusted very well. The extra CDs were therefore a perfect addition to her collection.  I put on a Christmas CD, the classics including Bing Crosby singing “White Christmas”.  Later as I returned home in the car I listened to a new USB, magnificent pieces by Arvo Pärt (reputedly the world’s most popular modern composer) as well as Handel’s Messiah performed by the Mormon Tabernacle Choir with the Philadelphia Philharmonic under the direction of Eugene Ormandy (my very favourite rendition).  It was Nirvana listening to the music in the car, streaming along the dry pavement, the undulating ribbon of highway from the City to the country, surrounded by tranquil landscape, grey trees and orange streaks of light in the late autumn sky.

There was a minor setback in the afternoon after I discovered that in the process of repairing my computer many of my bookmarks had been removed.  For the most part the replacement was easy but one in particular was not, of course the one I use most regularly and without which I am effectively locked out.  I finally got it.

We are now absorbed thinking about packing and the calculated depletion of our remaining food provisions.  Our new next door neighbour knocked on the apartment door to invite us to tea with his wife on the following day.  It is odd that we should cavort with people who are our very newest acquaintances as we have deliberately turned down other invitations from our closest friends. We decided weeks ago that we would not contaminate our last few hours on terra firma by socializing.  Our new neighbours are however irresistible; they are both charming and scintillating as we have discovered through the most casual brushes.  It always amuses me how certain people instantly connect. There must be so many indicia flying about apparently unobserved,  clues of things which mysteriously manifest themselves.

So now the unencumbered life unfolds.  I have only to attend upon my hair architect tomorrow, unplug the lamps, remove the batteries from the mantle clock and put out the money for our cleaning lady’s Christmas gift.  The onus of obligation and commitment slips away.  If a calendar can be trusted as a reliable source of direction then the way is clear from here to there.

My recent visit to the Apple store featured all too prominently the mocking quip “genius at work”. For those who don’t know, the term genius (which characteristically emphasizes creativity and eminent achievement) has been brazenly assumed by the technical clerks of the Apple store as their generic denomination.  It turns out the subscription is without merit. When I picked up my MacBook Pro which had been delivered a week earlier for repair I discovered within approximately 30 seconds that the device was not properly working notwithstanding the previous assurances of the “geniuses” of the Apple store that the computer had been repaired and tested. It further fed my disdain of these self-proclaimed geniuses that they were only able to discover the obvious problems associated with the computer by repeated and unforgivably protracted trial and error. By omission or ignorance they had overlooked things which should normally have formed part of any checklist such as whether the device is connected to the Internet or that the date and time are correct, not to mention the staggard and uncontrollable cursor and the complete absence of email service (surely one of the most basic functions of any household computer). I guess such trivialities are beneath the contemplation of geniuses.  What is more likely is that the 14-day intensive induction program for the geniuses is directed not to technical service requirements but rather the preservation of the sanctity of the Apple name and the perception of the superiority of its products.  The employee course clearly focuses upon a study of manipulative semantics designed to give the customer a sense of empowerment while at the same time deflecting or finessing legitimate and disparaging product complaint.

In spite of the rampant and inescapable haughtiness of the staff members of the Apple store, it is sadly apparent even to the casual observer that they have unwittingly submitted to the drudgery of modern technology when it comes to dealing with problems; namely, everything requiring intellectual capacity consists of plugging in a cord which is programmed to diagnose what is wrong.  What is noticeably removed from the genius process is the reasoning ability of the analyst to synthesize existing details.  The geniuses, like buffalo herding themselves to precipitous death, pathetically persist in magnifying their lack of acumen by trotting out what they have been programmed to say about what they do, for example blindly repeating what a delight it should be for the customer that the repair of the device is under warranty (a patent absurdity in view of the fact that the device is not working). More codswallop designed to obfuscate the elemental truth!

When after an hour and a half of fruitless fussing the geniuses (there was a graduated succession of them) at last conceded defeat and determined to reclaim the computer for a second time to investigate once again why it was not working and whether, as I suppose, they will simply replace the entire motherboard for a second time, I proposed that I buy a new computer on favorable terms to bypass what I sense is destined to be a hapless lemon situation.  This offer was received with the enthusiasm of a rebuttal of the Commandments handed down by God to Moses.  It did not sit well with either the original genius with whom I spoke nor with the subsequent, presumably more elevated, genius with whom I later spoke on the telephone after we had left the store.  This further lack of ingenuity bothers me especially because Apple spends so much time proclaiming to the world what a superlative product it has while obviously being intransigent about doing anything in the face of a contrary admission. One is left with the distinct feeling that Apple is more show than go, a common shopkeeper which like a servant in a grande home sucks it’s vicarious sense of superiority from the employer (in this case the customer). The dignity which the customer deigns to bestow upon these clerks by making on-line appointments and appearing in a timely manner is mistakenly interpreted as submission.

In the wider perspective it bothers me that these young people, by dusting themselves in the wake of such creative people as Steve Jobs, have appropriated to themselves an arrogance to which they have absolutely no entitlement. Certainly it is not a problem that a mechanical device should require repair. These clerks, however, in their fascination with perpetually unfolding and glittering technology, have lost sight of the fundamentals of running a business which for example, upon greeting a customer, include more than saying, “The name?” Such niceties could perhaps be excused and overlooked if the clerks were entirely absorbed in the avid prosecution of their technical duties but the evidence is otherwise.  It is part of the burgeoning mockery of the situation that the standard commercial vernacular has been turned on its head and the traditional sign “Customer Service” at the back of the store has been replaced with “Genius Bar”.