Recall that time you thought you would be great—or at least really good—at something. My thing was science—chemistry, to be precise. I dreamt of a great career in some laboratory, imagining myself in a white lab coat amongst the fancy glassware doing experiments, maybe even a bit like in the pictures of mediaeval alchemists (at that time I was still very young and my idea of a scientist was closer to fiction than reality). So I chose an educational path that would enable me to do this. But just as I turned eighteen, somewhere between redox reactions and the Avogadro constant, I realised that I’m going to be mediocre at best. Coincidentally, about that time I discovered poetry, so the fall was softened by the cushion of verse. But now I’m in my late forties, and I know that poetry is not going to fly for me either—I simply switched between chimaeras three decades ago. Who would have thought?

But sarcasm aside, this time there is no cushion to land on, just the bare, hard rock surface of reality. On the other hand, when I think about it, maybe passion is the domain of youth, and I should simply be grateful that I can still move between the table, desk, and bed on my own. At my age, the most important thing might be to learn the principles of energy conservation. I know, I know, I’m approaching fifty—not eighty—but learning is a long, time-consuming process, so it’s probably best to give yourself a little head start. At least this time the mythical character has changed—it’s time to stock up on the obol.