How gratifying it must be to be useful. As functional as a fork, for instance, or merely pleasingly decorative like a fish knife, which can nevertheless claim its specific purpose in a dinner service, if only seldom utilized.
Me? I'm not sure I have a purpose anymore and I'm probably too old to be repurposed. Much renovation and refitting of my working parts is required. There is not enough oil in all the world to stop that incessant squeaking whenever I rise from my desk. No-one would reissue a lifetime warranty for me now. Behold the obsolete man. He still has a blog, even. How far past his sell-by-date is that?
The lamplighter, the chimney sweep and me, creeping down the street into a sunset obscured by newly built but as yet untenanted office blocks. Soon everyone will join our lugubrious conga line of irrelevance. I am reminded of the Dance of Death scene that ends Ingmar Bergman's The Seventh Seal, except our characters are dwarfed by a digital cloud of Artificial Intelligence. Downloadable doomsday for the common man.
You can't teach an old dog new tricks, so the saying goes. But the old dog doesn't want to be taught your stupid tricks anyway. He was born to chase rabbits and herd sheep as was quite happy with that role. He's sick of straining at the leash in this open-plan dog pound. He's tired of growling at the printer-repair man. He's just so fed up of being fed client scraps from the conference room table. Frankly, he would rather bite your hand off when you give him a patronizing pat on the head. Beware of the dog.
Meanwhile, maybe I can eke out a living as a designer of artisanal fish knifes. Sensuous silver-plated blades ideal for flaking slivers of flesh from branzino, rainbow trout, and sea bream. Perhaps not the most useful late career path I could explore but better than slaving away in the so-called gig economy.
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