Explorers’ stories, like Sir Shackleton’s 1914-17 Antarctic Expedition (the Imperial-Antarctic Expedition), fascinate me. The enigmatic mystery of exploring became part of my psyche early on when, like the other boys, I’d spend time rustling river monsters and storming the heights out of the stream (aka crayfish and climbing the hillsides) (OK, I’m a simpleton, what did you expect, heady prose?!).
Eddies and rapids were the stuff adventures were made of. Spool forward to adulthood and I guess the terms ‘wanderlust’ or even ‘mid-life crisis’ make more sense. I’m not too vain to think the mirror lies and I’m not this side of 40 & a foot in the dirt. I’ve not been afflicted by the latter, I think/hope, and anyone knowing TMM knows I’m foot-loose; the only certainty over time isn’t state-of-residence nor career but instead knowing in whose bed I’m supposed to be sleeping (that’s a softball easy one)!
Editorial pause here as TMM’s attention shifts to the mental pygmy’s decisional ineptitude (aka dim-bulb bus driver whose lane choices suck and whose braking skills would impress a waterboarder). While I’m diverted, tell me -- is there a correlation between poor driving and poor football teams in the District? I do not suffer fools gladly, nor wack jobs in over-powered CUVs.
12% laptop battery power left – now I’m worried, a modern day adventurer whose rudder has broken and I’m adrift near Xanadu. Tough life, being a wonk whose day terrors are the loss of Internet connectivity and the horrific traffic that occurs when the pavement gets damp!
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