LIFE is much too short and time is of the essence if we are to achieve all those things we need to do, want to do or simply decide we have to do before our bodies and minds decide that our ambitions have finally outstripped our abilities.
Some desires are on a grand scale such as climbing Everest, running a marathon, sailing the Atlantic, walking to the North Pole, or swimming the Channel. Others are more modest such as climbing a Munro, running a 10k, sailing the Minch, walking the Speyside Way, or swimming a few lengths of a local pool. Those in local-authority areas where swimming pools are deemed to be less affordable than councillor’s subsidised lunches might have to improvise.
For many the aims are even simpler, involving just climbing out of the armchair, running a bath, walking to the fridge and swimming through a calorie-laden takeaway in front of the X Factor. That’s on a par with lemmings leaping over a cliff believing they can fly.
On this Armistice Day morning spare a thought for those whose only desire is to turn the clock back to the happy days before their loved ones were killed or severely wounded in wars begun but rarely fought by politicians. Some people’s wishes will never come true, tragically.
I have ambitions, too. Among them is to fly in space, drive an F1 car, win the Euro Millions lottery and be marooned on a desert island with only a bikini-clad Raquel Welch for company. Flying in space, driving a racing car and winning the lottery seem somewhat more likely than Ms Welch choosing me as her Man Friday, and her every other day, sadly. She’s pushing 70 now, though, so you never know.
My ultimate ambition, however, is to discover a permanent cure for an ailment that is absorbing more of my time than I can afford and one that seems to be worsening as the years pass. I’m not sure if it has a formal medical name but I call it putdownitis.
At best putdownitis can be a nuisance and at its worst it can be totally debilitating. You have almost certainly suffered from it at some stage, too. It strikes when least expected and before you can say “dammit” it can lead to minutes, hours or days of all-consuming frustration.
The symptoms are simple. You are going about your daily business when you put down something, such as a pen, a spoon, a screwdriver, a sock or your spectacles. Seconds later when you reach for that item again it has disappeared, departed, vanished, vamoosed. It’s harder to find than a council worker on a flooded road. Putdownitis has struck.
I’m not alone. I worked with a splendid clerk who once suffered a severe attack. After a brisk cycle to the office he arrived to find the phone ringing. It was a man calling in sick and so Davie, the clerk, duly noted the details in the man’s file and then settled down to work.
Come lunchtime Davie noticed his tuna sandwiches and bicycle pump were missing. He searched in vain and finally cycled home that evening hungry and praying to avoid a puncture. Four days later, when the sick man returned to work, Davie reached for the file again to update it and there, among the paperwork, were the missing sandwiches and pump. That file reeked of fish and rubber forever thereafter.
Many jobs in my workshop require a plethora of tools, rulers, pencils and knick-knacks of all shapes and sizes. Putdownitis usually strikes me when I have just painfully manoeuvred myself into a foetal position in some particularly inaccessible nook or cranny to undertake an especially tricky task. I reach for the item I was using a moment ago and it has gone.
I can’t prove that things I have put down actually move elsewhere of their own accord but equally I can never work out how they got to where I eventually locate them. Missing items are always found in the last place you look, of course.
It could be that there is no cure for putdownitis, but there must be solutions that help make it less time-consuming and frustrating. One such remedy suggested to me is a tool belt, a set of handy kangaroo-style pouches worn round the waist. Put things not down but in the belt where they can’t go missing and it’s problem solved. Simple.
I bought one. Later, in desperation at misplacing chisels, planes, pencils and screws one day, I turned to it to solve my difficulties. What a shame I couldn’t remember where I’d put it. If you’re a fellow suffer who’s found a permanent cure for putdownitis, do write and let me know. If you can find your pen, that is.