Pointless

Resting, indeed. I might as well stop paying to host the meaningless thought I write down for no readers every six months or so, and accept that in 30 or 40 years, I shall be shuffling off this mortal coil, having achieved nothing more than paying off my mortgage.

It is hard to see the point of it all. In my early 30s, I discovered climbing, and those little moments of victory over visceral fear were so enlightening that I thought I had found a way of being happy and connecting more positively with all the negativity my parents instilled in me. They seemed keen to point out that there was always someone better than you, that competition for anything desirable was so fierce we probably wouldn’t make it (law, medicine), and even if we did, there was no money in it (writing, journalism), or it was a short and physically hard career (ballet). Those were all the things I wanted to do.

Instead, I mostly look at XML messages for post trade order allocation to middle offices. I also keep getting told to stay out of pretty much everything.

Sometimes, I have also looked at planning out the implementation of various operations projects, and implemented them quite successfully. A high point was all the work I did on a legacy corporate actions system, which needed rewriting to take a different set of source data, and it worked. I was happy about that.

These days my work only detracts from family time, but family time gives me even less time for any hobbies, as I can’t easily fit in gym time I need if I want to be able to pick up a good hike or climb or bike ride. So I work part time, and go to the work gym sometimes. It should be a great compromise, but it feels a bit like the withdrawal agreement must feel to a mad Leaver.

I still spend 16 hours a week commuting, and still don’t see the kids. The various people to whom I have outsourced cleaning and childcare fill me with resentment, because that’s what I want to be doing

Only if I was doing it, I’d probably still feel lonely and strange. I don’t really see the point of a world in which British politicians are willing to turn their backs on Beethoven, as if turning their backs on one of the defining strands of German culture.

Are we all really not part of Europe, just because they’re all a bit pushy in a queue and have less individualistic traditions and laws? I don’t like the EU, but why would I not like Europe’s greatest musicians as a result?

The future feels so bleak and from that it seems stupid not to be falling over myself with joy that there are no nuclear bombs falling out of the sky.

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