I read an entertaining article in the _Observer_ the other Sunday,
which set me to the unusual task of making a calculation. Figures
are not my strong point, and sums I abhor. But this article launched
me on the unfamiliar task of making a sum. I hope I have done it
correctly, but any schoolboy who cares to audit the account will be
able to convict me if I am wrong. The article was the record of a
gentleman who had, in the course of the past twelve years, played
twenty thousand rubbers of auction bridge, and had kept a careful
account of his experiences, the proportions of games he had won and
lost, the average of "hundred aces" and "yarboroughs" he had had, how
he had fared with "honours," with many curious points which had
arisen, and which were no doubt illuminating to the student of the
game.
But it was not these things which set me adding, subtracting,
multiplying and dividing. My knowledge of bridge is as contemptible
as my handicap at golf. The author of the article would not sit down
at the same table, probably not in the same room, with such a
'prentice hand as I am at the game. Nor was it the financial aspect
of the matter that interested me. That side of the story was not
without its attractions. The player, on the analysis of his own and
his opponents' "hands" over the twelve years showed, had had
distinctly the worse of the luck, but he was obviously a good player,
for he had won at fifty-five per cent. of his sittings and, playing
generally for half-crown rubbers, had won in the twelve years £2750
of the £5000 that had changed hands in the games, each year having
shown a profit on his labours.
There was, however, one item which was missing from this elaborate
stocktaking, and it was this item that started my sum. I began to be
interested in this gentleman from the point of view of the time he
had devoted to the game over a period of years, which had not been
without their anxieties. This consideration touched a wider question
about which I have often thought vaguely and idly--the question, that
is, of how the average man passes his time. Here was an average man
of a certain class who had incidentally given me a hint to build up
his time-sheet form. Taking an hour as the average time occupied by
a rubber--which, with intervals and interruptions, seems a moderate
estimate--I found that during the twelve years he had spent twenty
thousand hours at the card-table--that is, two years and rather more
than three months, day and night.
That was a substantial chunk of the twelve years to start with. I
came next to the item of sleep, and assuming that, having made up his
nightly account of the day's play, our author indulged in the normal
eight hours of repose, I found that in the twelve years he had
accounted for 34,840 hours in this way, and my schoolboy will, I
hope, agree with me that this amounts in sum to approximately four
years of sleep, day and night. I came next to meals. A man who can
spend five hours a day at cards as an amusement will, I am sure, not
hurry over his meals. He will take his lunch at his club, and his
coffee and gossip after lunch, and he will dine well and leisurely
before turning to the solid work of the card-table, for no doubt most
of his card-playing will be done after dinner. Three hours a day is
a reasonable allowance for the meal intervals, which, on this basis,
account for 12,140 hours, or one year and three-eighths, during the
twelve years. Holidays and Sundays (with due deduction on items
already accounted for, cards, sleep, meals) account for a further
half-year over the twelve years. For all the odds and ends of
things, the outdoor recreations, golf, motoring, the daily journeys
to and from town, theatres, visits to church, the occasional day at
Lord's, the reading of newspapers, parties, public meetings,
novel-reading, and so on, an average of two hours a day must be
allowed, giving 8760 hours in the twelve years, or, roughly, a year
of time. These items make up 75,680 hours out of the 105,120 hours
into which the twelve years are divided. There remain 25,060 hours,
or two years and seven-eighths, which I will charitably assume are
devoted to work. On this basis my sum is as follows:
Sleep 4 years
Work 2 7/8 years
Cards 2 1/3 years
Meals 1 3/8 years
Odds and ends 1 year
Holidays 1/2 year
______
Approximately 12 years
I present the result to the _Observer_ gentleman as a footnote to his
entertaining article. Far be it from me to moralise about it. If
the misuse of time were a hanging matter, few of us would escape the
scaffold. I daresay I have wasted as much time in the twelve years
as our bridge-player has done, though in different ways. But I think
he will agree that the sum is worth doing and worth thinking about,
and that when next he says that he has not time for this, that, or
the other, he will know he is not telling the truth.
And while he is thinking about it, I will venture to recall for him
an old story which he may have heard, but which is worth telling on
the chance that he has not. Herbert Spencer was once staying at an
hotel and, being fond of billiards, strolled into the billiard-room
where he saw a young man who invited him to play a game. Spencer
agreed and "broke," unfortunately leaving his ball on the baulk line,
but playable. It was in the days when the "feather" stroke was
allowed (I fancy it is now barred) and the young man took his cue and
ran out by means of that delicate device. When he had reached his
"100," the philosopher, putting up his cue with which he had not
scored a point, addressed him thus: "A certain degree of facility in
games of skill is a pleasant and desirable accomplishment; but, young
man, such facility as you have displayed this evening is evidence of
a misspent youth."