If Life were a database, you would currently find me under "Vicissitudes of life, activities pertaining to".
In law, which I studied in order to understand the ways in which the world doesn't quite work no matter how hard people try, the word "vicissitudes" is used to describe the unquantifiable, unpredictable events that occur in life by chance. In a budget, they'd be called contingencies. It's a way of trying to quantify the unquantifiable. Like, how much should we compensate this woman for her injury? Well, how much does she earn? Wow, that's quite a lot. So she's a highly-paid business executive then, is she? Good for her. Now, she's still young enough to have a child, so let's factor in five years of her not earning any money whatsoever. There you go lady, have a nice life!
There are many presumptions made, as you can imagine, about how your life is likely to pan out. I often wondered what a court of law would decide the vicissiitudes of my life would be. Personally, I find them quite hard to predict.
The other day, for instance, I was in a parked car, waiting for someone. It's interesting how people don't look into parked cars. They walk past picking their noses or having loud conversations, and nobody looks at the huge chunk of metal with the person sitting inside it. Some of them even slide their fingers along the bonnet.
One guy, in Adidas tracksuit pants and a long-sleeved top, walked briskly past my car towards the rubbish bin I had parked in front of. I waited to see what he was putting in the bin. He was carrying a plastic bag full of shopping. He put it on the ground. He took out a litre of no frills long-life skim milk. He opened it. He put the tab from under the lid in the rubbish bin. He reached back into the bag and produced a white bread sandwich wrapped in gladwrap. Had he bought it? Had he prepared it earlier? Had someone else prepared it for him?
He put the sandwich on the plastic, on the rubbish bin, next to the milk. He didn't notice me. He noticed other people, peered at them through his thick glasses. Hungry, organised, pedantic, he alternated the drink and the sandwich, the drink, the sandwich, all the time watching the people crossing the street, walking past the bin, chatting in the shopfront. Having a private moment, lunch on the rubbish bin, right in the middle of a thoroughfare. He touched his glasses at odd intervals, a gesture I associated with a professor, a smart kid, somebody Trying His Best.
When he finished, he folded the gladwrap and posted it into the bin. He finished the litre of skim milk and posted that too. He cleared his throat, touched his glasses in the direction of a man walking a rather large dog, and walked in the opposite direction.
If the court ever needed to, I daresay it would be fair enough of them to factor in great chunks of time during which I would be well expected to sit around in parked cars watching people watching other people, thus detracting from my life's value.
Interesting set of priorities we live to, isn't it.
