Tag: Whodunnit

A Life Far Too Ordinary

I have led a life far too ordinary to ever write – or more truthfully, sell – an autobiography.  Whilst ordinary happens to me all the time, there is a distinct absence of the extraordinary in my day to day existence.  The sheer volume of humdrum in my story is probably the most notable thing about it.  I am deeply boring.  My peaks and troughs have all been firmly within normal bounds.

That doesn’t mean that my life hasn’t been enjoyable of course – I wouldn’t have been without it – just not the kind of life that anyone would pay to read.  Not the kind of life that would entice Michael Sheen into yet another biopic.  Anyone bright enough to read, would also be bright enough to know that they didn’t want to read that.  I was a child – a boy child – of the sixties.  I have broken more bones and lacerated a greater percentage of my outer casing than I would care to mention, but no more, I fear, than anyone else born at the death of the 1950’s.  I was too young for free love in the sixties.  By the time I was ready for it, it almost always cost money.  Cinema tickets did not come cheap.  Toffee Poppets did not grow on trees.  Marketing-wise I made the basic mistake of not being gay.  Gay child of the sixties would have had a much more saleable story to tell.

I did not ‘do’ drugs – largely because, by and large, I could barely be trusted with a Sherbet Fountain, and my musical talents ensured that I was not good enough to make it into a band even in the seventies.  I wrote a few funny lines – I feel sure that I did – but I never had the courage to stand up on a stage and tell them.  I was never confident enough in myself to be somebody else.  My fanciful mind believes that I would have made a great comedian or actor, but reality assures me that primary school teacher would probably have been beyond my aptitude.

I got married, stayed married, had children and now grandchildren.  I love my wife, my children and my grandchildren and they, in turn, tolerate me.  If I had a cat it might allow me to feed it.  I have almost studiously managed to avoid finding myself cast in the role of innocent bystander to any matter of great import.  If I was in an Agatha Christie plot, I would be the one who was killed in error, to put everybody off the scent.  I would be the butler who didn’t do it.

I have survived three lockdowns, six James Bonds, nine Star Wars and I have never had therapy, but no-one will ever remember it.  Honestly, I have no desire for notoriety, but a little notability wouldn’t go astray.  I can’t help but wonder how it must feel for the world to know your name.  I suppose it depend on what it knows it for.  Invent penicillin and history will smile upon your memory.  Accidentally tread on Judi Dench’s toes or knock Miriam Margolyes from her mobility scooter and you will not be looked upon with such favour.  Most of us are much more likely to be remembered for inadvertent mishap than for intentional philanthropy.

Will history remember my name?  Almost certainly not unless there is some kind of mistake at the DNA testing lab.  Will my eventual passing make the news?  Unless I am run over by a smashed David Attenborough in a stolen Porsche I fear not.  My worries are of infirmity rather than infamy.  I’ve done my best to make something of my life, but in truth, it’s really been nothing to write home about…

Speed Reading

Photo by John Michael Thomson on Unsplash

It is my considered opinion that there are two kinds of people: those who read fast and those who actually read, and that those who read fast, whilst undoubtedly able to get the ‘drift’ are far less adept at judging nuance.  It is to do, I think, with not leaving sufficient pause for full stop, comma and all other ancillary punctuation marks.  I am a proficient, but slow reader.  When I speed up to anything above my habitual lope, I cease to understand.  I read what the characters say – word perfectly I would say – but I do not hear them.  They talk, but do not speak.  As I ratchet up my words per minute, books become politicians: I hear almost every word they say, understand about fifty percent and believe none at all.

If I’m honest, I am yet to be convinced of the desirability of reading quickly anyway.  I know that there are lots of books out there waiting to be read and obviously you can’t get through them all without swallowing up the pages with the speed of a paper shredder, but a little perspective here, there are few good books and even fewer great books: most of what you read will be pants and there cannot be much justification in cramming more of that into the memory bank than you have to.  The ability to read, for instance, Ulysses in a super-quick time (in my case, anything under 64 years) would be welcome, but would it make the whole overblown ragbag any more understandable, more readable, more entertaining?  No, it would be none of the above, but it would, at least, be over quicker.

When I read a book that I like, I want to know what happens, but not too quickly.  I don’t want to reach the end before I understand the beginning.  I have more than enough problems in holding down the nuances of plot without ripping through them like Usain Bolt on a pogo stick.  I realise that I should be able to retain details of carefully drafted characters, but on a single read I find that quite often I cannot.  This is just me – it has always been so – but ‘scanning’ always makes it worse.  Without taking the time to read each word and punctuation mark correctly, I find myself grasping the wrong end of the stick more often than a fishing lake carp.  At least by reading at my own pace, I don’t have to keep going back to remind myself who people are and why they did whatever-it-was they did to whomever-it-was they did it.

I am definitely camped in the ‘slow’ school.  I might not find out whodunit first, but when I do work it out I will, at least, remember how, why and possibly – providing I didn’t miss one of those dratted nuances back in chapter two – wherefore…