Let it go

Life's too short to finish everything you start

(jorgelopa)

It is among my fondest sporting memories. The location was Lord’s, the year 2011 and the weather absolutely pitiful. England — still playing limited-overs cricket like it was 1987 — were facing India. Or Australia. I genuinely can’t remember. What I do recall is this: after about 12 overs, my Dad and I looked at each other, wordlessly stood up from our seats and moseyed on over to Harry Morgans, the Jewish-style¹ deli in St John’s Wood.

The food itself was unmemorable. I ordered the schnitzel, I think. But frankly, who cares? The point is we were warm, fed and not stuck watching Alastair Cook nudge and nurdle his way to 26 off 58 balls. This wasn’t a strictly cost-free operation. Lord’s refund policy covers rain, not tedium. But if the purpose of father-son outings is to manufacture happy memories, it was an outstanding investment.

It absolutely did not look like this (John Sutton)

Sadly, leaving early is not always feasible. Perhaps you are attending a school play, an intimate dinner party or a wedding on a boat (though we have all wondered just how cold the Thames really is in March). Indeed on one occasion, I was forced to sit through the entirety of what I still consider to be the single worst piece of art (including music, film, television, video games) ever produced by our species² because I was sat next to the friend-of-a-friend who had purchased the tickets and refused all offers of recompense.

Yet despite this wealth of experience, there remains one arena in which I consistently fail to push the eject button: books.

“Raise your hand if you have ever been personally victimised by Mao Zedong”

I spent an indecent portion of January reading a biography of Deng Xiaoping. My reasoning was that China is a big and important country, the CCP’s achievement in dragging hundreds of millions of people out of poverty is impressive (though it did plunge them into it in the first place) and I really could not justify reading yet another New Labour-era biography.

I have to tell you, it was not much fun. The book verged at times on hagiography, the constant purgings and self-criticisms felt very Mean Girls, and the knowledge that the whole thing was leading up to the Tiananmen Square massacre just made it all feel rather grim. And yet, I kept soldiering on.