To Ellen Back

As a life-long giver-up, a procrastinationista extraordinaire, the kind of person for whom tomorrow is an infinite resource ... and which is always between 1 second and 23 hours 59 minutes 59 seconds away, I freely confess that I shamed myself into writing. Doing this seemed to be the easiest option as all the alternatives are far too mundanely domestic. But even I am forced to question the logic of the decision. Writing. Well, typing, to be pedantic, requires firstly to be written and secondly to have at least the semblance of a hint that there is actually some purpose to it ... or failing that some originality.

Logic would dictate that I really ought to get around to making contact with some of my elderly relatives before paper and words cease to be a viable method of communication with them (as opposed to a ouija board or planchette!) My godfather, for example, lost his wife in January. Their Golden wedding anniversary would have been next week. Life's a bitch and no mistake. I really must write to him. He was nothing but kindness and generosity to me in my youth and I liked my aunt a lot too. She was a real motherly sort of person and it is a matter of sadness (mine, I suppose, in the form of unrequired and unlooked for empathy) that they never had children of their own. Aunt A___ was pretty much an enigma within the family; a family, it should be said, that has too often been torn apart by feuds and disputes over the stupidest things. Many such rancours remain smouldering in that sullen way that childish sulks always do.

I have not been immune to the disease. I was made a personna non grata by a cousin after a wedding nearly 20 years ago. I am still in the dark as to why, exactly. The old aphorism concerning relatives and friends and choice is pretty much on target as far as I am concerned. The concept of a wide and happy family circle is more or less dead on my branch of the human family tree. Sour? No contest, your honour!

All the same, I want to write to Uncle B___. To tell him of my sorrow that I have been too wrapped up in my own life to find time to visit him since he and A___ moved into their bungalow after they both reluctantly conceded that they could no longer manage their large house and garden. But it is hard to do. And here the reason is even harder to express ....

It's the damnedest and daftest reason I ever heard for one not writing a letter of condolence to a fondly loved elderly relative. I am ashamed to write. We have been out of touch for ages. Years. I dread to think when was the last time we exchanged letters. He never was much of a man for conversation on ther phone; he was -- still is -- a letter writer. Worse, he's one of those endearingly exasperating ones who reply by return of post answering every query you raised except, invariably, the one you really wanted the answer for. He's also very partial to what I call "literary condiments"; those quirky little clichéd phrases and hackneyed expressions that some writers use, either as a written version of umming or else as a gauche way of attempting to seem urbane. I alwasy found it charming and endearing ... although that is probabkly as patronising as it possible to get .... And I still haven't been honest enough to blurt out my reason for putting off writing.

Well ... it did not help that my mother, uncle's sister, reported to me that the cousin with whom I am an unwilling feudster had been reported as the first family member to get a condolence card on uncle's door mat. He is a crawling little creep, really! As a child he was the snivelling sneak who would rat on anyone who baulked him ... and years have done little to nurture his charisma rating. That isn't the reason ... but, like I said it doesn't help. The fact is I am just ashamed that I haven't written for a dogs age and now I feel that to write would merely give the impression that I am belatedly hoping to bolster my claim on a share of dear Uncle B___'s estate.

Yeah I know. It's gotta be the dumbest reason for not writing to someone ever thought up. But that's me. Dumb and dumber.

The title to this piece came to me from reading through this morning's news. Ellen MacArthur is on the last leg of her latest epic solo adventure. I am looking forward to the inevitable TV series made up from her video diary recorded en route. Nothing is quite as entertainingly inspiring as seeing the miniature heroine make her pitifully lonely and tearful pleas to the gods for respite from nature's vigour (or lack thereof) and the mortal and material frailty of flesh and boat. Why, one is forced to wonder, would anyone in their right mind do such a thing? Because! That's why. And I am so jealous.