The 2084 Precept (10 page)

My name is Peter O'Donoghue, 'POD' to my few
friends—a word I do not confuse with acquaintances by the way,
whether good, casual or undesired—for reasons you don't have to
think much about. I am thirty eight years of age and therefore I
statistically have another 520 months to go. Well over two thousand
weeks, not too bad.

I look younger according to what most women
tell me and they tend to know about such things. Fairly dark brown
hair, blue eyes, decent body, a bit on the lean side if you will,
but more than acceptable. In other words I am pretty happy with the
luck of the draw except for being too tall, close to two meters
high. But such is the world, you can't have everything, it doesn't
trouble me.

The surname comes from my great grandfather
and I am one-eighth Irish, a matter of utter insignificance, we are
all a mixture of something or other, I only mention it in case you
are interested in such things. I was a single child and both
parents ended up under the turf while I was still a teenager. Or,
if you are that way inclined, ended up in the sky. Actually, to be
more accurate, only my mother was buried. My father was
incinerated, and my only surviving relation, an uncle, proceeded
down the same path soon thereafter. Sad you might say and indeed it
is and indeed it was, but then time heals everything you might also
say, and indeed it does and indeed it did.

I do not pretend to be one of the masses. My
type is a minority type.

First of all, I am an honest person in all
things that matter. None of us are totally honest of course, even
if it's because you lie to your children about Father Christmas.
Children are very trusting, they believe anything we tell
them—which is why the religions like to catch them young, a fact,
oh yes—but the moment children learn the truth about Father
Christmas is the very moment in their small, brief lives when they
realize for the first time that you can't trust the grown-ups.
Because, if it suits their purpose, even your own mother and father
will lie to you and mislead you. What's more, for a prolonged
period of time if they feel like it.

And yes, I admit it; in things that don't
matter, I can also, on occasion, be significantly dishonest.

Secondly, I am a cynic, something you may of
course have already decided for yourself.

Someone once described a cynic as a person
who, when he smells flowers, looks around to see where the coffin
is. But I am not that kind of cynic. We (my type) are simply cynics
of the kind who are censorious of all things that we do not
understand or with which we disagree, and for which there is no
available proof to the contrary. This type of cynic is not
something the vast majority of people appreciate and that is why
cynics of this kind tend to prefer the company of other, similar,
cynics. We are indeed a minority slice of the social pie.

Furthermore, the word cynic itself has a
somewhat derogatory connotation attached to it, one implying a
certain churlishness, a certain derisory attitude on the part of
the person to whom the word is being applied. But a cynic is merely
a sceptic, as normal as any non-cynic, and perhaps, as a result, a
more honest person into the bargain. So we need to be careful. If
you are of the inclination to categorize all negative persons as
cynics, I would not necessarily disagree with you. But if you were
wishing to categorize all cynics as negative persons, you and I
would have to disagree. A false assumption, if ever there was
one.

I am also an agnostic. Ah hah, I hear you
asking, and what else would one possibly expect of a cynic? Well, I
wouldn't know, but hopefully you are not confusing the term with
the word atheist. An atheist does not believe in the existence of
God, or of any god from the wide variety available to us on this
planet to choose from. Statistically, if you don’t mind my saying
so, you are quite likely to be worshipping one of them
yourself.

An agnostic, on the other hand, merely holds
that nothing is provably known, nor is likely to be provably known,
of the existence of a God or gods and as a consequence he neither
accepts nor rejects these concepts. This philosophy has absolutely
no negative or depressing effects on the agnostic's life. Quite the
contrary, he is more often than not an affable, contented and
relaxed fellow, swimming serenely, sedately and imperturbably
through life's ocean with his lifebelt of 'don't know, don't
believe, don't disbelieve' firmly attached.

That's me alright. I enjoy life. Even in
unpleasant and troublesome times I apply the motto
'If life were
not so great, it could be difficult sometimes'
.

My type is also what you would call
opinionated. We have opinions on just about everything, including
on matters with which we are not necessarily adequately acquainted.
We are consequently not always right. You have occasionally come
across our type, I'm sure. Possibly you consider us to be
insufferable assholes. Fair enough I say—but hopefully you have no
appreciation for those creatures who have no opinions at all, or
who
do
have opinions but rarely express them, which in
effect has the same result. These types are far worse. The former
are stupid and the latter are reptilian. They are death on a
plate.

I have already indicated that I am a fairly
honest type and it would therefore be remiss of me to leave you
with these few autobiographical fragments without referring to a
defect of mine. As a matter of fact, I have many defects,
commencing with the admittedly dismal and disgusting one of being a
smoker, but the defect I wish to refer to here is a specific
characteristic of my type. I am a pessimist.

Optimists and pessimists have been described
in various ways over the centuries. The optimist, as someone once
said, is a person who believes that we live in the best of all
possible worlds; whereas pessimist is a person who
fears
that this is so. A pessimist, as someone else once said, is best
described as a person who has been forced to live for a prolonged
period of time together with an optimist. An optimist commences the
Sunday Times
crossword with a pen, the pessimist with a
pencil. And so on and so forth.

A pessimist is not to be confused with a
negative person. I, like most of my type, am a notably positive
person. A positive pessimist, that is the best way to describe me.
There is nothing depressing about that. I just look at the current
facts pertaining to our planet, sufficient on their own, in my
view, to turn any thinking person into a pessimist, and then I
envisage the future, the evolution to come, decide there is nothing
to be done about it, least of all by me, and I am therefore
pessimistic about that also.

And, having arrived at this conclusion, I
decided that the only intelligent thing to do about it is to ignore
it all. Forget about it, immerse yourself in life, get on with it,
swim with the ocean waves, enjoy the whole thing for the amount of
time allotted to you. Which isn't much, a miserly amount in my
opinion, but there is nothing to be done about that either, is
there? As I see it, a logical and positive way of embracing the
whole situation.

So being a cynic with regard to many things,
including Mr. Jeremy Parker's current fascinating fables, by no
means signifies that I am a cynic with regard to life itself. I
will go so far as to say that optimists have not the slightest idea
of how many wonderful and pleasant surprises the average positive
pessimist or cynic experiences during the course of his or her
lifetime.

I have been frank. I do not believe I need
to add more. I have provided you with a miniature and blotchy
sketch of my physiological landscape. Not a particularly congenial
chap, you might say; an unacceptably opinionated fellow with an air
of provocation about him, not one that I would especially single
out for my dinner table. And I wouldn't disagree with you. That is
the impression we (my type) tend to portray. But impressions are
only impressions and hopefully you will forgive me if I make the
suggestion that one day you invite me to dinner. I make quite a
pleasant guest.

* * * * *

It was an English day. Overcast. But it
wasn't raining and so I went for a walk, having found a copy of
Friday's F.T. in the lobby to take with me. Yes, I agree with you,
a hotel of this category should not have a two-day old newspaper
lying around, Sunday staffing or not.

I had my coffee and croissants in Shepherds
Market and checked the financials. Annoying, the optimists have
been at work again, the big players, the investment funds, the
pension funds and all the others have been betting—for that is all
it is—that next week's U.S. and European economic indicators will
prove positive and that, for a few days at least, some money can be
earned. Everything has moved up, which at the present point in time
means I lose money, my main investment currently being a leveraged
bear certificate on the Eurostoxx 50. I have lost about €10,000
this week, not a problem, roughly ten days work if you take into
account the tax offsets and the income tax, but needless to say the
other way round would have been preferable.

Timing is the constant issue on the stock
markets, when to buy what and when to sell what. Sometimes you get
it right and sometimes you get it wrong, just like the experts. A
war breaks out here, an oil drilling platform develops a leak
there, a country defaults on its debt, a tsunami hits a nuclear
power station, or whatever. As for my bear certificate, I will just
keep it of course, things will start collapsing again soon. That is
what I say at least, but who knows how stocks will move over the
next twelve months, it's just one vast, contrived casino at the
best of times. The golden rule is that if you can't afford to lose
any of your money, stick it into a savings account—although
nowadays you would also have to be careful about which bank you
choose and you wouldn't get much interest either.

I strolled through to Park Lane, turned left
and left again, and navigated my way back to the hotel. Having
decided to overnight in Slough in order to be up bright and early
for tomorrow's stint at the factory, I crossed over to reception to
ask if I could leave my things in the room, back tomorrow night and
off to Germany on the Tuesday. It was a man on duty, pale
complexion, red hair, one of your haughty, disdainful types despite
the training. These people should get themselves a job which keeps
them a long, long way away from any member of the public, in
particular the paying public. And certainly from a member of the
paying public whose good mood has been moderately diminished by
stock market events.

I looked at him. He looked at me. I looked
at him. I waited. He waited. Oh well. Some training was needed
here, a kind, well-meant and benevolent act to help him indulge in
some necessary self-improvement. "GOOD DAY TO YOU," I said in an
excessively loud voice, causing a stir among a group of elderly tea
drinkers on the other side of the lobby. He didn't blink an eyelid.
"Can I be of assistance?" he asked. Not even a 'sir', can you
imagine that? And so I looked at him again, an ice-cold look, a
piercing look, a look which lasted long enough for him to know that
there was a problem here. "GOOD DAY TO YOU," I repeated into his
face again and waited to see what would happen.

The face began a battle with itself and you
could virtually
see
his inadequate brain grappling with the
realization that this bastard of a customer was expecting a
courteous greeting from him, a greeting which his convoluted mass
of nervous tissue had no desire to supply, a major conflict
occurring among the poorly-wired neurons within his skull, a
serious paroxysm of cerebral disturbance. And this tortuous
activity eventually produced a mumbled syllable which I interpreted
to be '…
day'
. I knew of course in advance, when I put my
question to him about the room, that the answer would be no,
unfortunately not possible, not unless we bill for it, hotel policy
you understand sir. But, aha, I had achieved a 'sir' at least.

No point in calling the manager on this one,
he would probably say the same thing; but a small additional piece
of training for this incapable sod was called for. A piece of
'training by fear' in fact. Just to make it better for future hotel
clients.

"May I have your name please?" I demanded,
handing him my inquisition look, at which I swear he turned, if you
will forgive the unauthorized usage of a slice of musical text from
the sixties, a whiter shade of pale. He took hold of the name card
fixed to his jacket lapel and waited until I had read it. I made
sure he saw me writing it down on the F.T., and then I asked for
the bill and paid with the credit card. He will be suffering, no
doubt about that. He will be wondering what I intend doing. And he
will be more polite to me the next time he sees me, I would happily
bet on that. Also he will say good morning sir, or good day sir, or
good evening sir. But he really shouldn't be here at all, this is a
hotel where good rooms cost £450 per night. By no means unduly
expensive for the area, but a modicum of customer-friendly service
is nevertheless to be expected. And if I don't receive it, I often
opt for the application of remedial action.

My intentions in these cases are good ones.
It is a form of training. I intend no harm. I am merely attempting
to assist. And the fact that I often fail is unimportant; it is
those few occasions when I succeed that count. Thanks to me,
someone, somewhere, is improving him or herself right now.

I went up to my room, packed my suitcases
and called for a bellboy to take them down to my car in the garage.
More often than not, I drive over to England. The cost is the same
as flying if you take into account the taxi costs at both ends. The
trip itself is made up of four and a half hours driving time to
Calais, an hour and a half on the ferry to Dover—grab some sea air,
have something to eat, do some onboard shopping—and up to two hours
to reach London. It also means that I can travel at a time
convenient to myself and return whenever I decide to, sometimes in
the middle of the night. I can take more luggage, my suits stay
nicely pressed hanging in the car, and I have a vehicle with me
during my stay with no rental costs for my employer. The latter
goes down well, thanks to my lies about trying to save them money
on my expenses.