Has it ever occurred to you how amazing it is that we all look different? You’d think there would have to be a limit to the number of permutations possible, given the raw material available: pair of eyes, ears, a nose, a mouth, hair colour/style, skin colour/complexion type. But no, the plausible combinations seem endless. What’s surprising is how few people look strange. You’d think that many of us would have to look pretty weird to ensure that the endless variety of human appearance is maintained. But that isn’t the case: apart from “tragic boffin” Dr David Kelly, who has a replica on every train I’ve ever travelled on, virtually every new face I see, and there must be hundreds each day, seems rational and unsurprising.
That said, the assumption is that we are unique, but how can we be sure? The possibility must be that somewhere in the world there is someone who looks just like us — an unsettling but not totally unrealistic idea. In some ways, let’s face it, it would be pretty handy if there were. Think how much money we’d save on passport photos for instance. We always end up with redundant ones, whose only purpose seems to be to provoke social difficulties when they are discovered between the pages of borrowed books, years later.
I was thinking this yesterday in the queue for lunch at the canteen of [a world-famous broadcasting organisation], when I found myself standing behind someone who looked identical to a woman I worked with in another job. The likeness was extraordinary. Eventually, I said to her: “Excuse me, I’m sorry, but you’re the spitting image of someone I used to know”. She replied: “Oh hello Andy, haven’t seen you in ages”.
Which blew my theory a bit.
It was great to see her again. When we first worked together, she was a temp, a data-entry clerk. Like most dreamy twenty-somethings, she said she wanted to get into television. To make programmes, no less. Not just any programmes; they had to be history programmes. Yeah right, I thought at the time.
“So, what are you doing here?” I asked her yesterday.
“Oh, I’ve just finished producing a series of history documentaries.”
[awe-struck silence]
“Wow, you did it! That’s fantastic! You must be really happy.”
She sighed deeply. “Never been more miserable”, she said. And meant it.
Which gave me much to think about. First the good news, that apparently we really can achieve our goals, no matter how outlandish they may seem. But second, the bad news: it doesn’t necessarily satisfy us, or guarantee happiness.
The morning was frozen. Literally. The front garden white; the grass brittle, and crunchy with frost. It was still dark at 6:30, but there was something bizarrely inviting about the swirling cloud of freezing mist. The fog seemed sort of clammy – but it was cold clammy rather than hot clammy. Which doesn’t make much sense, but what does at that time in the morning?
I even wore my Tyvek jacket — its first outing of the season. I bought this remarkable garment for five dollars at the Chicago marathon expo, a year ago last weekend. It’s made of that papery material, and designed to be disposable. The idea was that I’d wear it for a couple of miles to keep out the freezing blasts coming in off Lake Michigan. Once I’d warmed up I’d chuck it in the gutter. But I liked it too much, and instead gave it to M to keep when I first passed her after 9 miles or so. And I’ve used it many times since. It’s not exactly a warming jacket, but windproof enough to make a real difference on cold days.
The conditions made the run a bit laboured, but still enjoyable. There’s something kind of surreal about running in weather like this, and I’m seriously beginning to think I prefer it. There were a couple of great moments in the park. As I turned down the gravel path that runs along by the lake I became aware of a sudden rushing, rustling sound. It took a few moments to work out what this was, as it was still fairly dark, but eventually I realised there were a few dozen deer, who’d heard my footsteps, and begun to scatter in panic. The sound was them moving at speed through the deep layer of fallen autumnal leaves.
Then a few minutes later I came across a sight that belonged in National Geographic magazine, or one of those coffee-table books that the critics always describe as containing “sumptuous photography”. A deer with a large crown of antlers, standing motionless on a mound, silhouetted by the lake. The killer touch was the sun rising through the mist, as it rolled towards me across the water.
(Note: Later, I realised that the “deer with a large crown of antlers” may have been a large dog on its way home from a fancy dress party. In that light, quite frankly, I couldn’t be certain.)
