Organised Dedication
Anyone who has followed me on my journey through retirement will know that early on I had an aspiration to become a Bohemian, develop scatty tendencies and experience life through the lens of glowing, disorganised chaos. This morning I imagine that I almost achieved nirvana when I succeeded in putting, not one but two, items of clothing on back to front whilst dressing. Frankly, it was not an experience I could enjoy and I quickly amended my error.
The truth is I like organisation too much and know now that I shall never be able to drop it. That doesn't mean I am a tidy person, well our home certainly isn't, but I do like things to be sorted and ordered, even if that does involve utilising floor space or piling things on work surfaces to achieve it. I was actually looking forward to watching a much heralded programme to be shown on BBC One this evening: "Sort Your Life Out," until it was suddenly pulled from the TV schedule to be aired on Easter Monday instead.
To be fair, I haven't waited until well into my seventh year of retirement to solve the mysteries of lifestyle administration. However, I take the view that, with an almost nerd-like fascination for well-managed structure, I can never afford to lose an opportunity to learn something new in that sphere. I'm not looking for a perfect home or life, just a simple one and if there's a way to cut down on the complexities of daily living that so easily entangle, then I'm always ready to embrace them. Let's just say that I love systems but hate unnecessary effort.
Fortunately my quest for satisfaction through analysis has been met in part this week by the power of the census. It's not like trekking to Bethlehem to be counted but I do get some gratification from completing this decennary questionnaire. Having become accustomed in looking at those from 1841 to 1911 in my ancestry trail, I couldn't help wondering what those who pore over this year's returns in a hundred years time might make of the answers given. I suspect they are going to come across any number of Jedi, Europeans and green-skinned people if the discussions taking place on Twitter can be taken as indicative.
Hopefully and unlike the censuses made public todate there are no references to Heads of Households or wives whose occupations are described as general domestic duties!
In the meantime I've been struggling to understand how one family in my ancestry manages to appear in the 1901 census twice at two different addresses as I visualise them running down the street a barrow of possessions ahead of them, timing a house-move to coincide with the enumerator's visits and greeting him for a second time in one day. Could my scale of census gratification actually be genetic?
Then there is the great, great grandfather who back in 1871 appears to have suffered a name change. Now dwelling on that has taken up far too much of my time this week. After all, speech impediments or not, how can the census enumerator have mistaken Nathan for Matthew? Naturally, it must definitely be him, as everybody else, together with occupations, ages and places of birth, fit. Then it clicked: the enumerator thought his name was Matt when in fact, like subsequent descendants, he must have been known as Nat!
However, the most infuriating experience is not to be able to find a family in a census record at all. Frustration really isn't a strong enough word to describe the utter futility of hours spent trawling for no gain. As I've already said, worthless endeavour is not my forte but dogged determination can make it seem so. At what point do I cut my losses, surrender and accept that in that particular year they were the ones that got away? Is that what sorting my life out means and is there a formula to calculate the time limit to be imposed on seeking to solve the insolveable?
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