Deadlines can be missed, much unlike death, which tends not to care for excuses.
Such thoughts have been pretty dominant these last few days in the bunker, what with the sudden, though not unexpected, death of Our Woman's old man two weeks ago this Friday. There's much Our Man would like to say about the whole absurd thing, but right now, right here, is perhaps not the time or place for such thoughts. However, while my wife has been grieving, I have been structuring my observations of the old man's life and death into an essay, that I would call "Final Fare" (the father-in-law was a taxi driver, you see, that makes the title oh so clever) but it might never see the light of day if the boss nixes the idea.
And I wouldn't blame her. Some things ought to remain personal, even in this connected age in which there is nothing new under the cctv eye, or anti-social in the social media world, and certainly nothing sacred when Our Man is around. That was kind of the idea of his keeping a fig leaf of anonymity, by the way, so that he could flit in and out of the real world and observe without engaging, or keep some level of honesty above and beyond the political that becomes inevitable when personal, real identities are used.
But of course, the earthquake changed all that. Our Man became as real as the identity of the person he was protecting and now he's just another brand like Softbank, Snickers or the Rolling Stones. Maintaining anonymity has become as meaningless as keeping a brand identity.
However, what can you do? And ultimately, what does it matter? Probably not a lot. And so it is that Our Man may well be featured in an upcoming issue of Metropolis magazine with a picture of himself that he supplied. And he has made some other decisions too. He's got a whole heap of ideas for essays and books that means he can't spend as much time as he'd like on this blog. But he will check back in when he can. We'll see how often that is.
Deadlines, you know?