Excuse me but I think you’ve mistaken me for someone who cares!

Throughout the past four years of Donald J. Trump’s performance as cartoon-President of the United States of America I regularly expressed the native curiosity to discover what shenanigans Trump had been up to on that particular day. His distortions and absurdities have however since taken a nose-dive following the election of Joseph Robinette Biden Jr. In plain terms Trump is no longer funny or amusing; rather he is singularly puerile and innately threatening to good government. His perversions and psychotic behaviour are manifest. Giving Trump the benefit of the doubt – and to acknowledge his entitlement to dispute the election results – we shall endure a further period of anxiety as he fulfills his investigations and piteous law suits. Meanwhile I am not impressed!

Like a Shakespearean play the world stage plays out while we subalterns enact our own private routines in a less public orbit. If indeed the purpose of government is to assist the public in its livelihood and sustenance I am sad to say that at this juncture I can bear the deprivation! My withdrawal from Trump’s repeated “What now!” ejaculations is spirited unequivocally by the narrowing effect of the pandemic. By degrees we have grown to accept the perils of life and have as well adjusted our horizons accordingly.

It was a mark of my vagabond resolve this morning that we directed our constitutional cycle southward along the former railway line towards the Town of Carleton Place – basically the opposite direction we normally follow. I turned back when we reached 5 kms (my historic half-way limit). That too is another distillation of activity, this time reflecting my admitted declension. After 54 years of ambitious cycling – usually on a Garlatti 21-speed racing bike – it requires but a similar hesitancy as avoiding Trump to avoid unnecessarily prolonging my exercise bouts which honestly have done little to erode my protuberant belly. Recently I have resigned myself to believing that my nominal exercise routine is more a catharsis than a drilling. No matter. As a proud septuagenarian it decorates the otherwise bland mien of my day to capitalize upon the mystic of exertion. Mine – though patently mediocre – will unquestionably precede the erstwhile allure of Trump’s antics.

When we lived in much larger quarters it always intrigued me that the portion actually inhabited by us was confined to only certain rooms while others were effectively abandoned except for infrequent social events. Commensurate with my diminishing interest in real estate generally has been an abridgement of the former hunt for acquisitions. Granted it requires a peculiar delicacy of thought for me to convince myself that neither more nor other is better. The logical consequence is what was perhaps the unintended amplification of what we already own. I have grown to like the philosophic flavour of the graduation. I won’t say I’ve smothered my materialism but for the time being it’s a passion for the next life! Embarrassingly for me I’ve further unveiled a rational jerk-of-mind when merely contemplating enlargement of my pantry! It’s all part of Nature’s plot to drift us shabbily and destitute into the Better Life Hereafter. A bit like that quip about the estate lawyer who mischievously observed, “Don’t fritter the assets away on the beneficiaries!