My political career is over.  I’m a washed-up politician even before I’ve started.  Three months ago I succumbed to the encouragement of valued friends to run for election to municipal council.  That was nice of them to draw my attention to the opportunity but it was precipitous of me to have embraced it.   I had just retired and I suppose I fashioned that I needed something to keep me busy.  Recently however I came to my senses and withdrew my nomination.  The venture seriously conflicted with my initial retirement plans, specifically spending the winter on Hilton Head Island, SC.  And I discovered there were far more council, committee and sub-committee meetings than I had expected.  Through research I discovered the cost of flying back to attend those meetings was prohibitive.

I have of course known politicians throughout my life.  I recall having met Lester  B. Pearson on the Village Green in Rockcliffe Park many years ago when John Turner (whom I also met at the same gathering) was a rising star. As a first-year law student in Ottawa I worked closely with Jeffrey Lyman DeWitt King when he was elected as President of the Liberal Party of Ontario.  More recently two of my cronies  who became federal members of Parliament visited me in Almonte.  Naturally I have known most of the local municipal politicians during the past thirty-nine years.

I always admired politicians for endurance of what I imagined to be a rough road.  For that reason alone I was wary of politics.  Occasionally when I amused myself to contemplate the possibility of public office I hastened to remind myself that one’s life is subject to scrutiny.  I am generally not up to the task of defending my character.  Certainly I knew that everyone else might suffer the same risk but I hadn’t the arrogance to presume I could rise above it.  I was a back-room boy if anything, not a front-line guy.  Nonetheless I eventually hardened myself to that reality.

During my three-month career as a candidate for election I made an effort to acquaint myself with local issues and prominent personalities (people who carried social weight or who governed important organizations in town). Meeting people in my political capacity put a new light on them.  Many of them I  knew personally yet their character changed notably in this new context.  All of them had an agenda (as one might reasonably expect).  Some were far more socialist than I ever imagined.  Some were very clear about their expectations to the point of being uncompromising. It didn’t take me long to recognize that I risked losing my independence.

Luckily for me I didn’t become submerged in the election process.  The election was still a long ways off (October 27, 2014) and coincidentally there had been a provincial election in June so the electorate wasn’t up to much additional canvassing at the time.  Even though I had already arranged to print 2,000 election brochures for myself I discovered two typos and therefore did not distribute them. I planned to have the brochures re-printed but decided out of an abundance of caution to wait until nominations were closed (September 12, 2014) in the event that the current candidates were acclaimed without a contest. Of course I ended dumping the original brochures in the recycle bin.

Although it had no direct bearing on my decision to withdraw my nomination, recent events in Almonte had the appearance of influencing what I did.  A proposed hydro-electric development on the Mississippi River in the heart of Almonte had run into vocal opposition and the local Council was being blamed in large part for it.  While the Mayor (Jack Levi) was the brunt of most of the invective, Council as a whole was taking a palpable hit.  Council was being portrayed as having abandoned the interests of the public in favour of the proponent (Jeff Cavanagh).  All in all it was not a good time to be a Councillor and anything which derogated from the current popular sentiment was seen as political suicide.  I suspect that the scuttlebutt which attends my withdrawal will connect it with this issue though like everything else in politics its significance will hold sway only temporarily before being forgotten entirely.

It is of course the privilege of the masses to mock their betters.  Being on the outside looking in is by far the more comfortable view but I confess I have considerable sympathy for the Councillors.  If the events leading to the approval of any decision were re-enacted it is questionable in my mind whether anything would ever change.  Imperceptibly circumstances alter and each small event triggers its own modification.  I will however be spared the embarrassment of having to rewind or reconsider any political decisions (other than the one to quit).  Certainly I will miss not having the opportunity to include public office in my obituary.

We’d all like to improve.  The general rule that practice makes perfect is counterbalanced by the principle that one should not repeat bad habits.  Mere repetition does not qualify as practice.  I know from my childhood days of piano scales and arpeggios that practice and repetition go hand in hand. Practice must however capture some elemental purpose before its repetition pays dividends.

That elemental purpose is the vein of gold.  There is an inclination that one must dig deep to find it, a belief that the inescapable forces of our nature are somehow hidden.  They are not.  They are obvious.   It only compounds the search for gold to suggest that there is a secret to its discovery, a preposterous thesis because we already know what we are made of.  We sometimes disguise our primary features because we imagine them improved if we do so.

 Capitalizing upon our essence requires more bravery than intelligence; it is a fairly mundane occupation and far more visceral than cerebral.  But because we so often feel the need to decorate the product we dilute its original strength.  We haven’t the courage to speak from the heart as it were.  Tapping into one’s voice is of course the object.  Even if one doesn’t immediately recognize how to get down the river it may help to recall there are two ways of doing so:  either you know where to go or where not to go.

It is human nature to protect ourselves.  This unfortunately sometimes translates into a concealment which like so many other pretences in life succeeds in fooling ourselves and no one else.  Here again a bit of daring is required.  This  doesn’t mean that we must simply be audacious.  It means we have to be bold enough to see that our constitution is made of diverse features and it is their blend which produces the ultimate result.  Alloys are not contaminants.

The search for gold becomes confused if one tries to predict its source before finding it.  The process of self-discovery is one which unfolds naturally and not artificially.  It isn’t a tedious process, just methodical.  Like learning to play the piano.  One cannot jump into a Sonata before learning to read the notes.  The same applies to any talent.

Everyone likes a robust flavour.  Unplugging ourselves goes a long way to enhancing our reception.  Part of the revelation is not only what others see in us but also what we see in others.  Admission of inherent prejudices and preferences isn’t failure, it’s natural.  And besides, it’s you!  We all know when someone is speaking out of the side of their mouth; it does nothing to advance the truth of the matter.

I have a vague memory of having been served an egg-in-the-hole when I was very young.  It was not a meal I repeated often if at all.  However my interest in the subject was particularly excited later in life after I saw the movie “Moonstruck” with Cher and Nicolas Cage.  It was Olympia Dukakis (who portrayed the crusty Italian mother in the film) who was preparing an egg-in-the-hole in a now famous breakfast scene.  There was something compelling about watching a classy Italian woman casually preparing a solitary and unique breakfast for herself while engaging her daughter in an important conversation.  She may have added red peppers out of a jar to the meal.

For most of my life I taken my breakfast out of the house.  When I was at boarding school we naturally went to the Great Hall every morning.  During my working career I religiously attended the Superior Restaurant every morning exactly at 8:30 a.m. There I sat (until I had my open-heart surgery) for thirty-two years in the same booth in the same place usually with same five other guys and I always had the identical breakfast (two fried eggs, bacon, whole wheat toast and peanut butter).  So you can see that egg-in-the-hole was neither topical nor especially popular.

Last year we visited Sardinia where we nestled in a villa atop a mountain overlooking the Mediterranean.  Because we were so remote (at least beyond easy walking distance from any café) we cultivated the habit of making our own breakfast.  Very early in our stay I discovered that I could fry large slices of Italian bread with local olive oil, sea salt and butter in pan with an egg in a hole of the bread slice. Immediately outside the door of the kitchen was a Rosemary bush from which I plucked shards of the fragrant herb and liberally sprinkled them over the olive oil soaked fried bread.  Perfection!  The cool morning air which wafted over the stone kitchen floor heightened the early morning smells and magically blended with the distant sea and blazing sunshine.  I believe the recollection of that matutinal ceremony constitutes one of my fondest memories of Sardinia.

A dinner party is serious business, as serious that is as anything else I do, which is to say quite so.  When once I have committed to the affair I go full hog; the details are important.  Everything I do in preparation for the evening must be done to my highest personal standards.  For example, when shopping for the provisions I make a distinct point of getting all the constituent elements including the spices even if I already have the same spices in the cupboard.  To my thinking I may as well get everything from the ground up because I entertain so seldom that it wouldn’t hurt to refresh any stock I already have.  And if there is a repetition of goods in jars, that is not a bad thing as they will eventually need to be replenished anyway.  Meanwhile for the dinner party I’ll have the benefit of the new stuff.  As for fruits, vegetables and bread, they of course must be absolutely fresh.  My culinary repertoire is very limited by any estimate and therefore I must do my utmost to put my best foot forward.  Compromise is a needless and false economy in these matters (which now that I think of it is pretty much true about everything I do).

The talent of a good dinner party is only partly – though admittedly importantly – the food.  What matters as much if not indeed more is the reception one gives one’s guests.  If nothing else that means getting them talking about themselves.  True, a bit of sharing of one’s own recent exploits is imperative as well, but the preference is always to give the guests plenty of free rein.  As calculating as it may sound, knowing how to make a good cocktail also helps.  My latest rage is the once popular Side Car (Cognac, Cointreau and lemon juice):

The exact origin of the Sidecar is unclear, but it is thought to have been invented around the end of World War I in either London or Paris. The drink was directly named for the motorcycle attachment, the drink appears in literature as early as 1907.

The Ritz Hotel in Paris claims origin of the drink. The first recipes for the Sidecar appear in 1922, in Harry MacElhone’s Harry’s ABC of Mixing Cocktails and Robert Vermeire’s Cocktails and How to Mix Them. It is one of six basic drinks listed in David A. Embury’s The Fine Art of Mixing Drinks (1948).

It is equally important to get the guests to the dinner table without too much delay (which means not too much preprandial booze especially if there is to be wine and Porto subsequently).  I also recommend keeping the hors d’oeuvres to a minimum (on the theory that the best sauce for any meal is an appetite).

I prefer to keep the guests out of the kitchen although many feel compelled to do what they can to “help” (things like removing dishes from the table).  Normally this is superfluous for the small dinner parties I arrange (foursome); the service work can easily be handled by one person while the other host lingers with the guests.

Although I have always cherished the weight of sterling silver I have discovered that it is really unnecessary.  Much better to have flatware that can be put into the dishwasher.  No one will thank you for the expensive stuff when all is said and done. Quality porcelain on the other hand is not unappreciated.  The same goes for the stemware (Tiffany if you have the choice) and placemats (Bartlett prints being my favourite).

The astute host will be aware of the state of one’s guests as the evening progresses.  Even if the host has timed the drinks and the provision of food correctly a guest may nonetheless succumb to the soporific effect of nourishment.  This is easily handled by inviting the retiring party to recline on a nearby bed or – if that is considered too forward and perhaps embarrassing – then to ensure the prompt conclusion of the event.

While I have heard it said that if you are well enough to write a thank-you note the next day you didn’t enjoy the party, this adage is not of universal application and certainly won’t apply in all instances to the host (who should largely remain sober and in control of the proceedings).

Having recently retired from the practice of law after enduring it for thirty-nine years, I am regularly asked how I am adjusting to the new experience. Oddly it required some time before I was able to formulate a response but generally the blanket answer I now give is that retirement is very satisfactory indeed.  In fact I have accommodated the change of pace and occupation so well that I can’t imagine a more superlative state of being at this stage of my life.

Naturally this desirable adventure is entirely unique and it has therefore regularly given me pause for thought.  I have reflected upon my fortune many times and from many perspectives.  For one thing retirement encompasses more than my working career; I have retired from a former theatre of life.  The geography has entirely changed.  From the time I entered high school I have been perpetually preoccupied with performance; it insinuated every aspect of my being. The engrossment was so obsessive that it was nothing for me to have forfeited any number of normal human considerations for the cause of my profitable investment.  I thought nothing of working deep into the middle of the night and subsequently surviving on a mere several hours of sleep for the rest of the day; or forgoing the pleasure of social interaction (whether with family or friends) if it interfered with what I knew to be necessary study or work time; or driving myself for seven days of the week, fifty-two weeks of the year, year after year with never a holiday.  I fully accept that the force behind the devotion was more than a passion for success; probably it was a fear of being overtaken by failure for I likewise acknowledge that anything I have accomplished is very much the product of perseverance and has less to do with talent.  Less this sounds puffed-up  let me add that while I have always been happy with what I have achieved in life I am the first to admit that at best I am a big fish in a little pond.  No matter, the effort in getting there was for me no less demanding and I can assure you I’m in no rush to repeat it.  I am quite happy to let it go.

Retirement is as much a convenient accident of my life as everything else has been.  I wouldn’t for example have had the wherewithal to retire if it were not for my serendipitous alliance with my partner in crime for the past twenty years.  As unpropitious as it sounds even my former profligacy affords many of the material benefits which are collateral to our companionship.  As such I continue to ride the wave.  Certainly I am aware that planning and restraint are part of the current scene but once again these apparent compromises have been accomplished effortlessly and often more speedily than imaginable.

I regularly remind myself of what my physician said following my open-heart surgery seven years ago, “We didn’t think you’d get off the table!”  That has the salubrious effect of repelling any hesitancy I might have about making a career of inactivity.  Of course I’m joking; I haven’t any intention of becoming or inclination to be inactive.  While I am open to the possibility of employment on almost any level (my former ambition was to be a chain-smoking dishwasher in Key West while living in a concrete condo to keep the terminates at bay) I suspect the reality is that working for a living will never happen again.  What is more likely is that I shall become absorbed in reading and writing, not an altogether uncommon experience for those who have retired.  Until then I continue to relish the privilege of retirement.  I have even sought to purify this rarefied atmosphere by abandoning any other undertakings which might qualify or taint it.  In some instances the retractions have been elective (because they no longer advance my purpose) and in others mandatory (because I plan to be out of the country fairly extensively).

The removal of additives and impurities from my life has undoubtedly been helped along by the recent renovation on almost every front of my existence. Virtually everything has changed.  The office building was sold; my law practice was sold; I retired from employment; the house was sold; we moved into a small apartment; many of our valuable personal effects were auctioned and sold; I bought a new car; we’ve arranged to winter in South Carolina. Even my father has died, his estate has been settled and my mother’s financial affairs have been entrusted to a professional advisor.

Now I delight in snapping my fingers at suit coats and polished leather shoes!  Instead each morning I happily don whatever bit of commodious cotton I prefer.  If I fashion a bit of glitter, so be it!  And I can’t recall the last time I felt compelled to drive to the car wash at four o’clock in the morning to furnish myself the pleasure of driving my car.

Quite by accident I have learned there is a remarkably simple way to be dismissive without being contemptuous or scornful (assuming of course one applauds that talent in one’s conversational arsenal).  It is the mark of a skilled socialite that he or she is capable of lathering the subject with sufficient balm to obfuscate the true intention. No one likes a complainer and it defeats the purpose of idle chatter to engage in protracted and potentially disapproving analysis.  While most people are reluctant to admit it, they are by and large uninterested in the trivialities of another’s existence.  I suspect that apart from a mother’s love of her child there are few instances when human beings feel driven to comprehend another’s affairs especially when couched in mere street jabbering.

To call this interactional discovery of mine an epiphany would be to attribute to it an unintended blessing. It was far more insidious than a sudden revelation or insight.  Awakening would be nearer the mark, at least with the addition of an abrupt and uncomfortable feature.  You see, the sword was turned on me and I took it in the neck.  What is extraordinary however is that so deft was the inflicted wound that I hadn’t a clue of the injury until afterwards. I would be giving myself far more credit than I deserve to suggest that it was any power of reasoning which ultimately enlightened me.  It was only when I unintentionally practiced the identical deceit that I fully appreciated the import of the device.  I caught myself echoing the very vapid words which had been previously directed to me.

People with whom one casually discusses their health and the weather are entitled to common courtesy.  It would for example be the height of presumption to openly challenge them on the propriety of what they say or do unless of course invited to do so and even then I would likely be both cautious and disinclined. Yet this isn’t to suggest that one should compromise for the sake of suavity.  Token civility tarnishes an otherwise polished advocate.  The trick is to convey a sense of interest while virtually saying nothing at all or at least without overtly diluting your real thoughts.

It is a small complement to humanity that each of us tends to put the most desirable spin possible on anything said to us approaching flattery.  Not only are we gullible to do so but more importantly we are proof of the adage that flattery is a net before another man’s feet.  Even the more sharp-witted among us are susceptible to the honeyed words of fawning.  Indeed I have found that the more one is entitled to approbation the more one seeks it though you’d think it were otherwise.  The weakness is understandable in that one assumes there is already a degree of conviction about what one is doing.  Hearing a bit of encouragement about the project can however cause one to hurtle forward rather more quickly than merited.  If the act of approval is repeated by others, even along the same lines of tentative or insipid commentary, the affair gathers steam and may quickly become out of control.  So this is just a reminder that the next time you share with someone the details of your life’s agenda, be wary of the retort, “Good for you!”  It may not mean what you first think.

‘Bertrand Russell: One of the advantages of living in Great Court, Trinity, I seem to recall, was the fact that one could pop across at any time of the day or night and trap the then young G.E. Moore into a logical falsehood by means of a cunning semantic subterfuge. I recall one occasion with particular vividness. I had popped across and had knocked upon his door. “Come in”, he said. I decided to wait awhile in order to test the validity of his proposition. “Come in”, he said once again. “Very well”, I replied, “if that is in fact truly what you wish”.

I opened the door accordingly and went in, and there was Moore seated by the fire with a basket upon his knees. “Moore”, I said, “do you have any apples in that basket?” “No”, he replied, and smiled seraphically, as was his wont. I decided to try a different logical tack. “Moore”, I said, “do you then have some apples in that basket?” “No”, he replied, leaving me in a logical cleft stick from which I had but one way out. “Moore”, I said, “do you then have apples in that basket?” “Yes”, he replied. And from that day forth, we remained the very closest of friends.’

From Jonathan Miller [St John’s], ‘Portrait from Memory’, on the LP Beyond the Fringe (1962)

At almost any time of the day or night, whether sitting in front of my computer or driving my car or lying awake in bed, I recapitulate.  The strategy of summarizing the main points of something is as you know normally reserved for the presentation of an argument; that is, there is customarily an objective goal.  What distinguishes my particular game plan is that I recapitulate not for the benefit of any other person or cause but rather for myself.  I am recapitulating my life.  I constantly need to be reminded whence I’ve come, wither I’m going and where I am.

The reiteration is designed to  assess my development and growth.  This sounds to be a fairly defensible project aligned as it is with the creditable platitudes and warnings about the unexamined life. Yet the policy is materially flawed because while it imitates time lapse photography (a repetitive snapshot) it occurs so regularly as to provide almost indiscernible progress except over the longest periods by which time I will have forgotten where I started. It ends up that my effort produces little more than an inventory of events and things which have lately caught my attention but without much profitable analysis or assessment. The cultivated habit of recapitulation quickly degenerates into little more than tiresome repetition or regurgitation. The obsession also speaks to my need to calculate the productivity of virtually every undertaking, the genetic imperfection of Protestantism generally.

It is meaningless for me to consider the alternatives to recapitulation or even the frequency of it.  One may as well tell me to stop breathing so regularly.  It is for whatever reason in my nature to recapitulate.  If my memory is at all reliable I believe that collecting my thoughts most often takes place when I have had a particularly busy time.  Given my penchant for immediate attention to each and every issue which pops up, it doesn’t take long for me to become horribly dizzy from all the activity.  In the result I need to stop and take account of things.  Admittedly part of the pleasure of doing so is to indulge myself in the satisfaction of what has transpired.  On the whole I remain unconvinced of the propriety of what I do except when I am personally in accord; no amount of third party approbation will otherwise alter my view. Hence introspective thought is required.

I would be flattering myself to suggest that collecting my thoughts is designed to afford myself time to comprehend or reconsider what I have done.  On the contrary the habit is strictly historical and not at all prospective (even though I may pretend that it is).  In a tiny empire such as my own it is easy to become distracted by the succession of details for which I am personally responsible. At times I think that if it were not for recapitulation I would entirely lose sight of myself.  There is also something to be said for pausing long enough to reconnoitre, that delightful combination of exploration and scrutiny.

Collecting one’s thoughts is really the privilege of the lucky few.  It hardly qualifies as compensable employment. There was a reason those brainy birds like Descartes and Hume expounded clever arguments about existence and tabula rasa.  They had nothing better to do! I mean, who in their right mind would doubt their very existence!  Under normal circumstances such a person would be certifiably insane.  It is for this reason that recapitulation in this context is well beyond the scope of reality.  Consider for example the plight of animals.  They haven’t the inclination for idle thought; they are occupied enough with response to one need or threat or another.  And when you think of it, it hardly matters what has transpired in one’s life and it is equally fictional to imagine what will transpire in one’s life.  All we can do is live in the moment.  Reminiscences of any description are either superfluous or redundant.

I don’t know about you but at times I find the world is an endless uproar, a whirlpool of agitation seemingly impossible to arrest. Just when you imagine you’ve brought one rogue element under command another pops up to replace it. And even if you’ve subdued the turmoil long enough to allow for one night’s good sleep you can be assured that the next day will provide the fodder for renewed upheaval; being temporarily spared the recognition is no assurance of its vaporization.

Acknowledging the hullabaloo of living is far more than a subtlety. It is virtually cast in stone that man’s fate is destined to unravel however the process is to be accomplished. In the face of such persistent disturbance it only makes sense to adopt a makeshift philosophy which will at once admit and accommodate such mercurial occurrences. Either that or go crazy.

I have often admired those who upon confronting an obstruction do not merely dissolve under the weight of it. I mean to say, after enough of this business of agitation one’s elasticity is more than a bit strained. And while taking the high road is all very well for the heroes of romantic novels and the like, it hardly seems appropriate when your plans are crushed by some unanticipated and unforeseen event. Certainly the spectrum of disappointment varies widely and I won’t corrupt the point by illustration. Sufficient to observe that quite apart from the really bad stuff, even the day-to-day blips and hiccups are annoying and one has to wonder, “Is nothing easy?”

In the result faced with such menacing odds one must either adapt or fold. Permitting oneself to ricochet from maelstrom to vortex is hardly a suitable response. Instead what’s required is pulling up one’s boot straps in preparation for a reciprocal assault (note the intentionally aggressive tone). This posture immediately identifies the need to approach the matter with the combined sense of logic (the cerebral) and determination (the visceral). There is absolutely no point in allowing oneself to be overwhelmed by apparent defeat. One must advance in spite of the hullabaloo. The thorny spikes of life cannot be countenanced to catch one up.

The gambit is the usual sacrifice for compensating advantage. In this case one must rise above the drubbing of the moment for the sake of manoeuvring forward. While this may hardly sound like swapping deprivation for gain the truth is that our human nature regularly suffers us to wallow in pity rather than to plan our redemption. Regrettably the mitigating scheme of action requires considerable wisdom or at the very least the ability to see the proverbial “larger picture” (not always easy when one is down). I have strangely discovered that when one is upon the threshold of capitulation it helps immeasurably to snap one’s fingers at the present course of one’s life in preference for a brazen decision to proceed at all costs, wounded or not. As unbecoming as they may be, our injuries along the way are our red badge of courage, proof of our invulnerable nature.

Naturally the whole affair has about the same verisimilitude as a staged play. But as the performance is largely for the benefit of ourselves the falsity of our assertions is at worst contrived and at best a catharsis. We merely risk witnessing our own tragedy and are thus cleansed, plus having the benefit of shining through the trial of it all. Who doesn’t admire a trooper! The hullabaloo of living is no competition for the best of us!

It wasn’t all that long ago that when the clocks began chiming midnight I began to think about calling it quits for the day and trundling to bed. As with so many other things in life, the routine has imperceptibly though noticeably changed. Now I find nine o’clock is the pressure point. Assuredly part of the reason for the shift is the quite legitimate excuse that I am now up earlier in the morning – often by no later than four o’clock. Occasionally however I succumb to an afternoon nap which means that I am not subsequently inclined to relax the postural muscles quite so early. Thus the evening elongates and I may unflatteringly find myself flipping through television channels at least until the customary late show hosts take a grip on the proceedings. I never fail to be impressed by the amortization of the hours of the day and the commensurate dissolution of intelligent media (and my crude attraction to it).

Years ago I read or heard somewhere that each hour of sleep before midnight is the equivalent of two or more after midnight. It is one of those silly aphorisms which haven’t any possible substantive support in fact or science but which is nonetheless persuasive. I reckon its plausibility arises from the not infrequent coincidence of the witching hour with excessiveness and indulgence, the corollary of which traditionally mitigates against inactivity of the nervous system and suspension of consciousness except in less than a healthful way.

Even if one isn’t treating one’s body as a toxic waste site after midnight, there are commonly demons associated with the temporal transition from one day to the next. If one is alone after midnight one’s resources for imagination are exponentially enlarged, many times in favour of malevolent fiends which characteristically haunt one’s spirit. In truth I cannot attribute to the hour any force; rather I believe it is merely waning strength which cultivates such disturbing rumination, nature’s way of alerting us to approaching exhaustion and telling us to go to bed. Meanwhile we dwell unforgivingly upon our personal and seemingly insurmountable challenges.

Because midnight marks the beginning and ending of each day in civil time throughout the world, it is therefore the dividing point between one day and another. Being awake after midnight is seldom however for the gratifying purpose of heralding the new day. More often than not the occasion is marred by some regret, either that one is unable to sleep in a general sense or that one is prevented from sleeping because of overwhelming preoccupation with some upsetting concern. I am reminded of the lyrics of Ella Fitzgerald’s “Black Coffee” written by Burke, J. Francis / Webster, Paul Francis:

I’m feeling mighty lonesome
 Haven’t slept a wink
 I walk the floor and watch the door
 And in between I drink Black coffee
 Love’s a hand me down brew
 I ‘ll never know a Sunday
 In this weekday room

I’m talking to the shadows
 One o’clock to four
 And Lord, how slow the moments go
 When all I do is pour Black coffee…

Life after midnight can be a dreary undertaking. Nonetheless there those who come alive after midnight. The low budget/freak show/cult classic “The Rocky Horror Picture Show” for example seldom turns its reels before midnight even to this day and remains the archetypal “midnight movie”. For nearly two decades its faithful fans have lined up in front of theatres in bizarre costumes and makeup. Now and again I encounter a singular personality who insists that he does his best thinking after midnight. I can only imagine that he is anti-social or easily disturbed by the white noise of modern living. And of course one mustn’t overlook the agenda of the common grave robber glamourized in another popular comedic film “Young Frankenstein”.

If you are one who merits the description of clean living, perhaps you view the early hours of the day as the opportunity to get the jump on things. To the more robust members of our community there is considerable advantage to the time after midnight as it affords peace and quiet, lack of conflicting traffic, a degree of anonymity to practice one’s private industry and a time to digest the full flavour of what is being said by the doyens of the British Broadcasting Corporation (who admittedly have their own jump of five hours already). While the tranquillity of the hours after midnight is undeniable this characteristic is nonetheless a fiction; the equanimity is easily jarred by the revival of daily activity.

Whatever it is that keeps you going after midnight, it is inevitable that the dawn shall break the spell and like any other creature of the night you shall be obliged to resume your former vernacular. All the mystery and drama of the midnight hour begins to lose its strength and is inexplicably absorbed into the new day.