Some days I wonder if I am up for this life anymore, as even the club can deliver a rabbit punch or two. The other morning brought a friend who is one of those expert types, in this case on the emergence of India as an economic giant. After I introduced Mr. “Sub” Continent to our group, he launched into his spiel about the billion-person market and its growing power. I found him and his topic riveting for what it could mean to our tiny economy here in Canada and how well placed we were to take advantage of the trading opportunity. After what seemed only a few minutes, the Brigadier suddenly stood up right in the middle of the topic and bellowed, “I think Kipling said all there is to be said about the Raj, don’t you?” and then left for an early lunch. And by gad, he was followed by the rest of our party. I was left gaping, not unlike a fish out of water. Kipling, a man who died in 1936! Oh, the shame I felt, but what could I do but stand the poor man to a slap-up lunch (unfortunately no martinis as the dear boy does not touch the stuff)?
The episode leads me to the inescapable conclusion that some of us are stuck in our ways, including, sadly, fellow mems who read the papers every day. Many simply weed out anything that is not local and immediate. I worry for those who choose not to look outward and beyond our little lives into the back gardens of the outside world. While my travel days now seem over or limited to the flight to Mexico every Christmas, I refuse to put the blinders on and turn my back on the au courant, to worry about, for instance, the closing of the nearby Craigflower Bridge. There are people up to no good in countries all over this planet.
Just the other day I discovered that my favourite mustard would no longer be made and steeped in England but rather hosed into bottles in Uzbekistan and zapped with artificial flavour near the New Jersey turnpike. I gripped the railing of the club staircase hard at that outrage I can tell you. It appears the touchstones of my life are to be removed in large dollops. I mentioned in an earlier column the fact that rice pudding with raisIns is no longer served at the club. But my point is that the mustard fiasco would not have come to my attention if I had not a cosmopolitan bent in my daily reading.
Perhaps the reason fewer people are interested in the international news is they feel helpless and unable to deal with things offshore, which might well be the case. However we cannot close our minds to faraway events because the grey matter must be kept in top-notch running order and stretched to the limit every day. Our contact with the outside world should not be limited to YouTube videos of amusing dogs, cats and infants but rather to the thoughts and deeds of people who may well change our lives on this shrinking planet. There are waves breaking upon our shores this very instant that bring ideas and not just Japanese tsunami flotsam.
On a completely different topic but one that is always with me, the cats are missing. The power of prayer is really something, eh? It would appear that late last week the chaps tore apart my wife Kitty’s sewing basket, which contained her new creation for our latest grandchild, Bosworth. My wife shrieked at the twin hounds of hell, which she has never done before, and so shocked them that they bolted. My heart sings, of course, but Kitty is rather down in the dumps about it. Tragically, I am sure they will return.
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