Decidedly Indecisive

It was brought painfully to my attention, via the medium of a dust-covered calendar that had spent several seasons attempting to camouflage itself as part of the wallpaper, that it was high time I produced a new column.

Now, I am a firm believer in the Sacred Duty of the Scribe. If a bloke goes about the place boasting of his status as a Columnist of Renown, yet neglects to actually write a column, certain narrow-minded busybodies begin to whisper. They say things like, “Who does he think he is?” and “Shouldn’t he be taking it easy?” (To which the answer to the latter is invariably yes, obviously, but that is quite beside the point.)

The initial mandate was straightforward enough: Andy must write.

Upon further reflection, however, I realised I’d made an elementary tactical blunder. Who on Earth was this uninvited lodger in my head, banging on the cranial radiator and demanding output? A lesser man might have experienced a brief spiritual crisis, but I am a seasoned veteran of internal disputes. I simply told the voice to bugger off and mind its own business.

Ah. But therein lies the rub.

The tragic truth is that I actually enjoy writing these little missives. It provides an ageing relic such as myself with an excuse to sit in a comfortable armchair, look out through the net curtains at the universe, and pronounce the whole damn thing to be stark-staring, brass-rubbing, cabbage-munching bonkers.

And so, filled with the sort of reckless, unearned confidence usually reserved for Victorian explorers walking into active volcanoes armed only with an umbrella, I prepared to create prose.

The cursor on the monitor pulsed like a miniature green beacon of doom. My fingers—ten agile pork sausages endowed with a brief and nervous sentience—hovered over the plastic keys. And my mind, realising it had no earthly idea what to write about, immediately descended into sheer, unadulterated panic.

Time for a tactical retreat into the Mists of Memory.

I leaned back, allowed my chin to rest majestically upon my chest, and cast my thoughts back to an epoch when I was actually capable of making a decision. I arrived at the grand, halcyon year of 2009. Outside, Spring was springing with unnecessary enthusiasm. Inside my skull, a youthful and dangerously optimistic brain-cell bounded around like a spaniel that had just discovered the existence of sausages.

“I know!” it barked. “Let’s start a blog!”

Upper Management, which is to say, the grumpy caretaker who nominally runs the Board of Directors behind my eyebrows, was skeptical. It sucked air through its teeth and made the sort of low, grumbling noises usually emitted by damp boilers. But my mind was young and foolish. “Sod it,” it declared. “We’re doing it anyway.”

And lo, it came to pass. The blog was born. Decision made. No fuss, no esoteric rituals, no blood sacrifices or brews left to go cold.

Compare that to the modern day, where the simple act of choosing a topic causes the sort of logistical nightmare usually associated with moving a piano up a spiral staircase. I suffer from the very same paralysis when confronting an assortment of biscuits. My waistline, a sprawling empire with its own microclimate, can strictly accommodate precisely one biscuit.

But which one?

Is it to be the humble Rich Tea (a biscuit designed by puritans to punish joy), or the dark, chocolate-coated temptation of a Hobnob? It is a theological dilemma of the highest order. Naturally, I resolve this using the Advanced Theory of Relative Hydration: if I employ my Massive Mug, a vessel slightly smaller than a baptismal font, it requires three times as long to consume the brew, thereby creating a localised time-distortion in which two biscuits are not only permissible, but scientifically mandatory.

Now, without wishing to blind you with the sheer brilliance of modern science, we must briefly peer into the biology of this wretched business.

Deep within the damp cellar of the human cranium lurks a miserable little organ known as the Amygdala. The Amygdala is the brain’s Threat Detection Officer. It wears a dirty mac, chain-smokes Capstan Full Strength, and views every waking moment as a potential ambush by hostile forces. The moment you attempt to make a choice, it taps you on the shoulder and hisses, “Hold your horses, mate. You pick the wrong one, and we’re all going down in flames.”

At which point the Prefrontal Cortex, a pompous fellow in a tweed waistcoat who considers himself the Head of Planning, chimes in: “Oh, do shut up, you paranoid little twonk, we can manage this with ease!”

And while these two squabble like old men over the last Custard Cream in the tin, nothing gets done. You’d have more luck trying to knit a cardigan out of early-morning fog.

Choice, you see, is a double-edged blade.

If you are standing before an ice cream van on a sunny pier, choice is magnificent. Vanilla? Rum & Raisin? A scoop of each with a flake shoved violently through the middle? Splendid. The Amygdala is placated by the sugar, the Prefrontal Cortex is dreaming of the seaside, and everyone is happy.

But sit me at a desk to write, and all hell breaks loose. What if the subject is dull? whispers the cynic. What if it has all the literary charm of wet plaster? What if it requires research, which, as history proves, leads directly to headache tablets and early bedtimes?

“Sod it,” whispers the voice of ultimate reason. “Let’s put the kettle on.”

I reached out a thumb to close the laptop. The Amygdala sighed with relief, extinguished its cigarette, and prepared for a nap. The crisis was averted. Peace was restored.

Except... damn it all. The itch remains. A Columnist must columnise. The universe is still profoundly ridiculous, and someone has to take notes.

So, here goes. I have a mug of coffee the size of a coal scuttle, my sausage fingers have re-engaged the keyboard, and the decision has been irrevocably made.

Probably.