‘Risky’ is one of those words that lends itself to deep philosophical rumination. You know the sort of thing: nothing ventured, nothing gained said in a million different ways by a million different people, in relation to everything from love, money and climbing mountains to eating peanuts (which is risky for a whole lot more people than it used to be, probably because their immune systems are chewing their own ankles out of sheer boredom, all those nice tasty bugs in household grime having been whisked from under their noses by antibacterial sprays).
But I’m not in the mood for deep and meaningful today. Or most other days, if I’m honest. Deep and meaningful is the province of the young, and I am not young. I no longer get a buzz from agonising over the meaning of life, having decided a long time ago that – assuming there is one – it won’t be revealed until The Last Day, rather like exam questions on the day of the exams when you discover you should have been studying ham radio instead of Hamlet.
Meanwhile there are whales cavorting out in the bay, stopping off for a play with their calves on their way south for the summer. Not much risk in that, you might have thought. But one of the locals just happened to be passing in his boat yesterday when two humpback whales and a calf flashed past, pursued by a pod of orcas. (Video on you tube, if you want it.)
See? Not even whales are safe, these days, and all because… I don’t know, but I’m sure I’ll think of something. Daylight saving? Putin? The moon in the twenty-third house?