Rush

I never like to rush when I’m blogging, for I have noticed that when my fingers on the keyboard get ahead of my brain, it becomes ever harder to follow the story because what I am typing is absolute gobbledegoop.

Perhaps I should at this stage, slow down and wait for my brain to catch up, this I’m afraid, may take some time as I’m currently suffering from the ill effects of the strange chest infection which is currently going round and am in a minor state of shock as I had to replace my computer, both very traumatic events for any man to have to cope with.

On the subject of the former I was coughing up so much gunge I was forced to inquire from my wife who in her youth was a nurse, whether she thought I was suffering from pneumonia, but she just laughed and left the room, which left me with two possible conclusions. Either she was a hard faced woman who had no feeling for my well-being and I was indeed at death’s door, or there was nothing major wrong with me and I was just being a hypochondriac, I plumped for the more optimistic diagnosis.

However with the scenario of the computer I knew I was definitely in a genuine state of shock, for I had paid for all my files to be retrieved from my old computer and placed on the new one together with new security and other clever stuff and to my utter amazement, having rushed home and set the thing up, it worked. It all worked, straight away, I just had to put in the passwords it didn’t know and away I went without the need for any shouting on my behalf whatsoever, quite extraordinary.

I love to drive fast but I hate to rush, for there is a distinct difference between travelling quickly with plenty of time available for the completion of your journey and rushing like a mad person with no hope whatsoever of meeting your expected time of arrival. I always allow too much time to get anywhere, unlike much of the youth of today who never allow enough time and always seem to have to rush, then when they are late they blame anyone bar themselves for their late arrival.

It’s an age thing, another of which is the realisation that your grandparents have died and your parents have died and when looking round to see, who’s next it is your generations names that are appearing in the frame. I am lucky that I am in good health, contrary to my little jest earlier about pneumonia and am in no way ready to rush to meet my maker, which reminded me of the splendid poem by Dylan Thomas, Do not go gentle into that good night, which I shall leave you with.

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on that sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.