FORGOTTEN

I forgot to go to a 40th birthday party today.

I am such a loser. I just completely forgot about it. It was the party of a friend of mine from church. He exists on the fringes, coming to various things and quietly getting on in a diffident sort of way. He leads quite a solitary life, living on his own and sometimes finding friendships difficult. We go to the pub sometimes to catch up - he bashfully tells me about his fishing, model-making and ongoing love of carnivorous plants. I waffle on about music. He takes it all in politely.

This makes it much worse - I found myself wondering who would have been there to wish him a happy birthday. I felt dreadful.

Unfortunately, it was too late to do anything about it. I'd gone on an evening walk, trying to think through some stuff and take in the sunset. All of that was going swimmingly actually: the golden strips of sunlight were just catching the tops of the trees and a bank of pendulous clouds rolled across the sky. A cool breeze ruffled my hair. My mind was alive with possibility and excitement.

Perhaps not quite alive enough. A train of thought led me to choir, to church and to the party and my mouth dropped open with horror in the middle of a country lane.

It's OK I think. I mean I hope I can sort it. I had got him a little gift and a card which I'll drop round tomorrow. I feel bad though. Gulp.

LAST NIGHT AT THE MUSEUM

It's time to leave behind the Museum of Someone Else's Life. They get back from holiday today and I get to go back to the Intrepids and Lady Jane Grey, the Nine Day Queen (my sister is staying with us at the moment).

So, I've cleaned the bathroom, scrubbed down the kitchen, piled up the mail and stashed all my things back into the bags I brought with me. Once again the kitchen clock ticks loudly through the silence. It's been fun - I haven't felt quite as lonely as I thought I might and yet it has given me the opportunity to think and pray and reflect. I've gone a bit crazy at times - allowing my thoughts to run away with me, but it has been alright.

I think, when I do get a place of my own, I will have to make sure I'm spending enough social time with other people. Introverted I may be, but for the sake of my own sanity I probably need not to be throwing teabags at miniature cereal boxes.

HOW TO BLOW UP A MEETING

I forgot I had a meeting at 9:15. When 9:35 rolled around and I happened to look up at the conference room, I realised that the door was shut and that the meeting was happening behind it.

"Sorry," I whispered as I closed the door. I slipped into the nearest available seat and tried to figure out what was going on.

Oh boy do I love a subtext. The room was already politely seething but not, I should add, with me. I flicked my eyes around the room, watching out for those little microexpressions that tell a story all of their own. It quickly turned out that the microexpressions weren't necessary.

"How would you all feel about working extra hours then?" asked the Team Leader with an air of exasperation. It was like removing the pin from a hand grenade and listening to it clatter to the floor.

Kerboom. It doesn't affect me, thankfully; my work is slightly different, which meant that I was shielded from the blast. I did feel a little sorry for the Team Leader though. It's the unavoidable curse of middle management - pressure from above and criticism from below. It must be really rather lonely.

I've sat through quite a few explosive meetings actually. I remember one where a person quickly descended into a quick-fire volley of furious F words and left in a thundrous whirlwind, slamming the door and shaking the lintels behind him. In another, a friend of mine crawled underneath the tables and banged the floor in frustration, claiming in no uncertain terms that sales people are all obsessed with the size of their appendages.

It wasn't the best, considering it was a meeting... with sales people.

Perhaps the key to blowing up a meeting is to have all three elements of the fire triangle - fuel, ignition and oxygen:

The fuel is easy to come by. It bubbles away at most people's desks as they tap away at their emails with their furrowed brows and hidden agendas. It's that unspoken frustration we all get when things aren't well communicated or our toes get trodden on. Actually, if we let it build up, it'll spontaneously combust eventually I reckon. Nevertheless we take it to the kitchen, to the bathrooms, to the corridors, and of course right into the middle of the meeting room.

The ignition is usually a trigger word or phrase, much like the weary Team Leader used this morning. Without anything to light, it would just be a harmless thing to say, perhaps even a bit of kitchen-chit-chat.

The oxygen would be our attitudes, which billow up and create the flammable atmosphere. Fill a room with bad attitude, carry in a little bubbling frustration of your own and light the fuse. Boom.

Meanwhile in other news, it looks like my problem with the computers has been resolved and I'm not on a collision course with my P45. Plus, the meeting I narrowly avoided last week happened and I had much more time to collect up my golden tickets before the final whistle. Result!

It feels like a proper Friday. Just hope I don't blow it up.

TEMPORARY PARESIS

I woke up with cramp shooting through my leg. I rolled around for a while, gasping with pain, clutching the petrified calf muscle. It felt like rock.

What causes cramp? Is it just random or is it down to some physiological thing? I have no idea. Perhaps it's caused by stress - although the most stressful thing I've had to do this week is watering plant pots.

Maybe it's to do with sleeping in strange circumstances. I'm still house sitting in the Museum of Someone Else's Life but you'd think my body would be used to it by now. After all, this is the fourth week in a row where I've been staying somewhere different - there was no stress-related cramping-up in the tardis tent, nor back home nor in the Peak District.

Thinking about it though, there was a bit of a thing last night. As I lay drifting off to sleep, listening to the wind, I heard the stairs creak and a cupboard opening. It sort of sounded like footsteps. I rolled my eyes from side to side and pursed my lips. The cupboard slammed shut and I bolted upright.

It turned out to be the breeze; I'd left the bathroom window open.

Do you think that would be enough to send my body into shock overnight? I'm not so sure. It wasn't like the time I got jumped on by a strange cat in the middle of the night.

That was dreadful. I was house sitting in Caversham for someone who lived in a ground floor flat. They told me to leave the bedroom window open so that Mr Percival could find his way in. I did that. The first thing that happened was that the heat found its way out and I was freezing but I stuck to instructions. Meanwhile, Mr Percival had disappeared for a few days, squealing and scratching his machiavellian way through the neighbourhood, I suppose.

Eventually one night, he remembered where he lived and flew in through the window like a tiny furry bullet, landing squarely on my nose, which had been poking out of the top of the tightly wrapped duvet.

Mr Percival and I didn't really get on. When my friends got back from South Africa I suggested they got a cat flap.

I digress. As I pushed my foot against the carpet and arched my back until my pulsating leg was straight, I felt the pain gradually subside until it was merely pins and needles. I looked at the clock. 5:35am. I was wide awake. Brilliant.

THE SADNESS OF ASTRONOMERS

I tweeted this this morning:

Twinkle twinkle little star
I can't ever fly that far
Time and space will always be
Between your burning heart and me

... and then deleted it. I thought maybe it didn't convey the sadness I'm feeling at the moment. Then I realised that even if it did, I probably ought to be a bit more positive about it.

This is how it is with astronomers. We carry the sadness of observing the beauty of the stars from far away, examining the craters of the Moon and the rings of Saturn, or the great eye of Jupiter, knowing that we might not ever get a chance to go and be astronauts. It never quite works out for us, it seems.

Ah but come on Matt, positivity! Being an astronomer is great isn't it? Well let's push the metaphor open...

1. No space travel

Space travel is expensive and dangerous. There are asteroids, freezing temperatures, pressureless vacuums and blood-boiling sunlight. Plus you have to navigate your way through the void while sitting on a tank of rocket fuel which could explode at any moment.

2. You can see a lot with a telescope

I don't know whether astronauts appreciate this fully, but there is a lot of stuff you can see and calculate from the telescope. You get a much bigger picture from further away.

3. Not all astronauts make it

I guess climbing aboard a rocket is a big decision and once those engines fire up and the earth speeds away, there is no turning back. Some astronauts regret the day they reached for the stars, the time it took and the miserable loneliness and tedium of interstellar travel. I bet they wish they stayed in the observatory rather than getting on the rocket. Astronomers still have their options open, plus they can see the stars with a cup of tea, a slice of cake and good old Newtonian gravity.

4. Astronauts need astronomers

Heading off into the unknown is risky at the best of times, let alone without an idea of what's ahead. Astronauts could use the perspective of an astronomer who's charted the constellations, who studied the reaches of space and can give expert guidance about the journey. Astronauts and astronomers ought to be the best of friends if they're sharing the adventure.

Yeah! How's that for positivity? Now, where's that telescope?

Down below the velvet sky
Where I look up at you and sigh
Twinkle twinkle beauty bright
For I will always love your light

KELLOGG'S VARIETY PACKS

I invented a game when I was on holiday. I forgot to mention it, but I just had a go here so I thought I'd write about it. I don't know what to call it, but it involves Kellogg's Variety Packs and a tea bag.

When we were children, the only time we saw a Kellogg's Variety Pack was on holiday. It consists of eight fun-size cereal boxes, each just enough for one portion of different types of Kellogg's cereal: Rice Krispies, Honey Nut Loops, Corn Flakes, Ricicles, that kind of thing.

We loved the variety packs back in the day. From Swanage to Swansea, from Ryde to Rydal we holidayed across England, chomping through packets of cereal while Mum made up a flask of tea for the day and Dad tutted behind the newspaper. Those were the days.

As I recall though, there was almost always a fight for the Coco Pops. I'd love to say I let my little sister win from time-to-time but alas, that would not be the truth. The Coco Pops were definitely the highlight of the Variety Pack. Rice Krispies? Nah... Frosties? Corn Flakes with sugar! Special K? Special cardboard! It was all about the Coco Pops. I think once, on a caravan holiday, my Mum even had to hide the little yellow packet on top of one of the cupboards.

I still get that same buzz whenever I see a Kellogg's Variety Pack. I note with a raised eyebrow in the supermarket, that it now seems to include two packets of Coco Pops - which proves I guess, that we weren't the only ones.

So the other week in the Peak District, I bought a variety pack at the Buxton branch of Sainsbury's and was faced with the tricky prospect of how to decide which cereal to have every morning - and which one (the eighth box) would be left at the end of the week. Here's what to do:

1. Line up all the boxes along the kitchen counter
2. Take an ordinary tea bag - I use a traditional round one but any shape will do
3. Step back four steps from the counter and turn so that you're facing with your back to the cereal
4. Throw the tea bag over your shoulder
5. Pick whichever cereal to which the tea bag has landed nearest

Simple, right? No fuss. Although I have to say, I did spend a little while one morning trying to fish out a tea bag from behind the kitchen cupboards.

I think I'd make a great dad.


I suddenly feel rather sad about that.

THE MUSEUM OF SOMEONE ELSE'S LIFE

Well whaddya know? I'm in another room with a ticking clock.

I'm not on holiday this time; I'm house-sitting for my friends while they're away. It gives me another opportunity to be reflective (lonely) and do a lot of writing (eating biscuits). Actually, it is quite useful - the Intrepids are busy planning their trip to Ireland and they don't want me making flippant comments about the Guinness factory. Plus, next week, my sister is coming to stay with us - it'll be nice for them to have a week of calm before the storm. Sometimes it's good to be away, not just for your own benefit.

It's an odd existence, living in someone else's house. I found myself very quickly adapting, making use of the space and turning it into something familiar. It's quiet. The life that makes this house a home is not here, though its hallmarks are: the trampoline, the open TV guide, the rack of sprawling shoes and trainers, the pile of DVDs and children's books, the drawings lovingly pinned to the fridge... and the quietly ticking clock. I am very much a stranger in a kind of Museum of Someone Else's Life. It's easy to get philosophical in the quiet gallery of a strange house, but I do wonder whether I feel like that more often than not.

I spread out a tea towel on the dining table and set up my laptop.

I wish I had a house.

I had to go to the music shop this morning for guitar strings. I always try to find a piano to play when I'm there too. There was a beautiful Yamaha baby grand, perched by the shop window. I pulled the velvet stool towards me and sat down, running my finger along the lid. Then I gently angled it open, revealing the pristine white and black keys, their polished edges just catching the sun. It's always an exciting moment. I formed a kind of A flat major seventh chord with my fingers and played, pressing the golden sustain pedal with my right foot. Beautiful. Thirteen thousand pounds worth of piano sang through the shop.

I wish I had a house.

... and £12,999.99

THE VENDING MACHINE GAINS SENTIENCE

"Matt!" said a voice from round the corner. I put my cup down on the kitchen counter and peered around, inquisitively.

There was nobody there. Just the vending machine, humming away to itself. That's a bit weird, I thought. Actually, the more I think about it, this happens a lot. Maybe I've just got one of those names that sounds like a lot of other stuff and I'm mishearing it. There was a time after all, when the local bus driver would say:

"Cheers Matt!" as I hopped off at the bus stop.

I wondered for weeks how he'd got to know my name before it dawned on me that he was actually saying 'mate'. The delusion that I might be famous enough to be recognised on sight was suddenly replaced with a more familiar feeling of anonymity. Plus, I was not the bus driver's 'mate', whatever he seemed to think.

It's a little bit onomatopoeic as well. Sometimes the sound of a notebook slapping against a desk or a book closing suddenly sounds a little bit like my name - OK not much, but it carries the short vowel sound and closing consonant - in a hurry it could sound like it. Mattt...

There was no-one slamming books shut in the kitchen.

I puzzled for a while in front of the vending machine. The Lion Bars and Bountys and Mars Bars and NikNaks were staring back at me. In went two shiny coins, out dropped a KitKat Chunky. Well, what can you do?

Have I been tricked by a sentient vending machine?

THE DAY I THOUGHT ABOUT THE CRYSTAL MAZE

Do you remember The Crystal Maze? It was a show where teams of people had to complete puzzles and tasks while making their way through a series of themed studio sets. Each member took it in turns to take on a task and if they failed, they got 'locked in' for the rest of the show. At the end, the remaining team members had to scramble to collect pieces of gold paper while inside a glass case, with the bits of paper being blown about by a massive fan.

The host and captain of the show, was a theatrical oddball - imagine a kind of fancy-dress Patrick Stewart somehow being possessed by the spirit of Russell Brand... in the 1990s.

Anyway, it was strange - but it was sort of compelling. I thought about The Crystal Maze today - at 5:24pm. I know because I looked at the clock when my manager popped over to my desk and said this:

"Maybe I could arrange a meeting where we could go over your ideas for the installation guide?"

Gulp. The fans whirred into action, the golden tickets flurried into the air, flapping against the glass and around my head.

"Um, yes, OK." I said, internally scrabbling.

"Probably towards the end of next week. I'm out on training Tuesday and Wednesday so..."

Phew.

"... although tomorrow might work. Yes, let's go for tomorrow."

Double gulp. The whistle pipped inside my head and I was frantically jumping and clutching for ideas about this installation guide. Here's what I've come up with so far:

1. It's a good idea
2. It will involve some instructions about installation
3. It will be useful
4. Screenshots will help make it look longer than it is

Some days I think I'm a terrible technical author. I bluff my way through, using words to blag and bluster, generating ideas about usability and commenting on user experience. I'm not really that great when it comes down to the technical side of things. I suddenly feel like the guy in The Crystal Maze who got dragged along on the team because he liked solving number puzzles, but turned out to be useless at balancing across a beam over some gunge in the Jungle Zone.

I'm going in early tomorrow. Really early.

NINE TILL FIVE

This has been bothering me for a while... so I wrote a poem about it.

Nine Till Five

It says a lot that Dolly Parton
Works a nine-till-five;
I guess she has to do it
So that she can stay alive
But over here in Blighty
Where we get our fingers dirty
It turns out we're expected here
From nine until five thirty

THE DB9

I saw an Aston Martin DB9 pull out of a side road on the business park today. I was walking back from lunch, swinging my umbrella and thinking up a word puzzle, when its sleek nose edged out past me.

I'm not a petrol-head. I don't much care about the shape of cars or the speeds they can reach. They're useful of course, and I have one - but sometimes I'd really rather walk.

However, I do appreciate the sheer beauty of a car like an Aston Martin DB9. Its shapely curves and smooth exterior almost shimmered as it glided by. It was black, polished to perfection and glistening in the afternoon sun. It had a personal number plate as well, T1 ROB. Good on you, Rob, I thought, smiling.

But it seemed that Rob wasn't all that happy in the driving seat of his shiny DB9. His eyes were sunk behind his glasses and his mouth had that miserable downturn of a man who's thoroughly fed up with life. I smiled at him through the driver's side window. He scowled back.

I ambled down the road, back to the office, while the trees rustled in the summer breeze and the fountain gently cascaded into the lake. I wonder which of us is the wealthier, I thought to myself.

DON'T SCROLL DOWN

You know that 'back-from-holiday' feeling you get when everything is a little worse than the way you left it and you have to come back down to earth with a thump?

I haven't got that.

Well, not exactly. Alright, I did have to move desks at work, having discovered all my stuff in a plastic crate, and OK yes, I did accidentally flood the kitchen with skimmed milk, much to the amusement of my colleagues who mocked me carrying a mop and bucket back and forth to the cleaners' cupboard...

However, when I'm not looking like a janitor, I'm actually quite glad to be plugged back into normal life. I don't think it's very healthy leaping from holiday to holiday, constantly wishing you were somewhere else. As difficult as it sometimes is, I've adopted a kind of 'make-the-most-of-today' attitude, and it's the best antidote to the holiday blues I can think of.

Having said all of that, it turns out that I do have a party's-over-get-back-to-work kind of feeling about something else - something else entirely. After eight months of blissful out-of-the-loop ignorance, I find myself having to log in to facebook.

Yup. My friend and I are organising a flash mob in December, and it turns out that facebook is the most sensible and efficient way of inviting people to it.

So it is then: grumpily returning to facebook - and essentially for the purposes of marketing - just one of the reasons I got fed up with it in the first place! I haven't missed it. I just hope I can avoid all the silliness - at least until December 13th anyway.

Perhaps I'll just avoid scrolling down.

SPILT MILK

I swung open the fridge door. A bottle of skimmed milk flew out and splattered onto the floor, its lightly screwed-on red lid shooting under the counter. Milk gushed out in a pool of glistening white effluent, seeping across the linoleum tiles and under the cupboards.

I'm not having the best day. I trudged through the office, fetched a mop and I trudged back, ready to clean up the mess. That's how it works - you make a mess, you're responsible for cleaning it up.

When I'd finished I wearily plodded my way through the office to return the mop and bucket and the Caution Wet Floor! notice I'd borrowed from the cleaners' cupboard, carrying the items in each hand.

"Been promoted?" said someone, raising a cheeky eyebrow.

Unbelievable.

GO HOME, OLD MAN OF THE WOODS

I'm back in the room with the ticking clock. It's funny how it doesn't seem quite so loud now at the end of the week. Tomorrow, I pack up the car and go home.

I wonder how I'll remember this week, what the standout moments will be. Perhaps trying to complete the crossword and failing miserably. Maybe getting stuck in a thunderstorm, finding the cross, or traipsing around Buxton in the rain with soggy shoes and a rumbling stomach. It's actually been quite a lot of fun and although I haven't really had much in the way of social interaction, I do feel kind of confident and cool in my own skin. Those moments on top of hills with the wind and the sun have been sublime for that.

I feel like I've seen quite a lot of stuff too. Yesterday, I drove to a place called Edale and did some sketching. Up there, the peaks soar a little higher and the road peels through the hills, offering some spectacular views. I stopped the car and tried a little sketching. There's something very special about the way the light moves across the peaks here. Where the almost-triangular fells of the Lake District rise rockily into the clouds, these hills are much gentler, greener and smoother somehow. The clouds roll over them. As ever, I sat on the stile, sketchbook across my knees, taken aback by the silence, thankful that I get to live in such a beautiful land.

Confident and cool. Yeah, man. Like the old man of the woods who stares at me in the bathroom mirror. My introvert side is thoroughly satisfied; the rest of me just wants to get home and party. It's deluded of course - I don't want that at all; I'd just like to see some people and try to remember how to be normal.

TABLE FOR ONE

I had two conversations with real people today. The first one went like this and it happened in the doorway of Pizza Express:

"Hello."

"Hello sir. Can I help you?"

"Oh yes. Do you have a table for one?"

"I'll just check."

-

"I'm sorry, it'll be about a forty minute wait."

"What?"

"Forty minutes. We have a big party of twelve coming in and we're..."

"But you have tables! Look, here, here, here... and here. They need to be cleared but these are all free! One, two, three... maybe even four if you count that one..."

"Sir, I've been told to say that there's a forty minute wait so..."

"But it doesn't make sense."

"We have a big party coming in and..."

"No, it doesn't make any logical sense. Look around. There's one of me - just one. It's raining outside, I'll sit and wait if..."

"I'm sorry..."

"Well I'm sorry too; I'm sorry for you guys - you clearly need a better system. I'll go somewhere else but to be honest you really need to think about what's happened here."

The second happened moments later, walking through the high street. It was raining, my feet were squelching and I was soaked to the bone... and hungry... and a bit annoyed.

"Excuse me, our kid?" said a man with no teeth.

"Ah mi dispiace, ma non posso comprendere Inglese." I heard myself say.

"I were only askin' for the time."

I am a terrible person. I've got absolutely no idea why I slipped into Italian in the middle of Buxton High Street and I'm ashamed of myself - I very much do understand English, despite my foreign-sounding protestation to the contrary. I must have switched into some southern-default-defence-mechanism to help deal with the awkwardness of strange people talking at you - yeah, pretend you're not English, that'll do it, no-one mugs a foreigner...

So it was that I splashed off feeling like a cold, wet, hungry, annoyed... liar. I wasn't having the best of evenings.

There's always Spoons, said my tired brain. I headed in the direction of the Wye Bridge House, a stoneclad building emblazoned with the universal emblem of JD Wetherspoon. 

I pushed open the heavy wooden door. The place was packed and oppressive - it felt damp somehow. I flipped down my hood and strode around the carpeted labyrinth of tables, almost as though I were looking for someone who was already there. The room was noisy - chinking glasses and plates and forks, a blipping arcade machine, the sound of a thousand conversations filling the air, punctuated with bursts of laughter. Finding a suitable table would be tricky, if not, impossible. I pushed the brass plate on the door, swung it open and headed back out into the rain.

The Railway Inn was next. From the outside it looked warm and inviting. From the inside it was anything but. A large bald man was working his way through ham, egg and chips and a pint of something putrid. The staff looked at me suspiciously. There was a family eating sheepishly in the corner - that was it. There was something about the atmosphere which I knew would make dining alone a very uncomfortable experience.

I hate that it has to be this way. It's as though life is arranged exclusively for people in groups of more than one, and ideally, multiples of two. Anything else is unsatisfactory, says society, and you are a failure if you haven't persuaded someone to go out with you. If you sit at a table in a restaurant, the waiter swipes away the cutlery and napkin opposite as if to remind you that there will be no-one joining you in the empty chair - and certainly to remind you that you've halved his tip, you miserable swine.

As I headed back up the high street, I wondered whether that was the real reason I'd been excluded from Pizza Express in the first place - had I been the victim of discrimination because I was on my own?

It wasn't much fun, walking through the puddles, getting drenched, trying to find a place where I thought I would be accepted as a lone diner. I remember I had had this same trouble in the Lake District two years ago. With a heavy heart, I started to wonder whether this would now be my experience for the rest of my days.

I wandered up the high street, looking at all the closed shop fronts and skipping over puddles. My feet were swimming in rainwater and I was feeling pretty low.

"Alright our kid?" said a familiar sounding voice.

"It's 7:30," I said with a smile.

In the end, I went to the supermarket, bought a nice-looking pizza and a fruitcake, and went back to the house I'm staying in. It was either that or the warm welcome of KFC and to be honest, I'm not a fan of eating out of a bucket.

I'm not sure I'm much a fan of 'eating out' at all to be honest - especially on my own.

THE DRAGON WITHIN

It's been a bit of a washout today. Right now it's raining the way it does on Autumn evenings, setting in for the night as the sky fades from grey to black. Cars swoosh past, the streetlamps flicker on and the world settles down in front of soap operas and half-baked documentaries.

I've got the duvet down and my woolly hat on, snuggled up on the sofa. The TV remains mercifully off. The other day I controversially said it was like a sewage pipe plumbed into the wall - switching it on seems vaguely hypocritical now, even for an episode of Columbo.

I went to Sainsbury's to pick up some Bakewell slices and a pot of custard. I am, I thought, in Derbyshire after all. When I got to the checkout, I realised with horror that my wallet was in my shorts, which I was wearing under my jeans for extra warmth. There was no easy way to get it out.

"Have you got a Nectar card?" said the young man behind the till.

"Er, yep, just one second," I said, glowing red and reaching awkwardly into my jeans. I thought for a minute I would have to unzip and disrobe in the middle of Sainsbury's. Thankfully, I was able to avoid the embarrassment. He raised his eyebrows. I don't live here. I might go to Morrisons for the rest of the week.

I also walked through the park today. It was rather nice to see the carefully mown lawns, the delightful little fountains and the shady trees. The park here has a little train that runs through it too, which looked fun. I sat on a bench, watching the flowers and thinking about life. I wrote a poem.

I wanted to explain what it sometimes feels like to be a man. We are at war with ourselves sometimes, silently battling the forces which rage inside - not many people talk about it, but I suspect all of us are these quiet warriors. There are issues with this one - the odd rhyming scheme, the dangerous avenues. I think it's important though, at least to me and my battered old heart. So here it is:

The Dragon Within

The dragon burns with evil fire
This snarling beast of my desire

Within the embers of my heart

She practises her darkened art

She coils herself within the deep

To waken evil in my sleep

A flash of skin, a lock of hair

The treasure of the dragon’s lair

An open lidless roving eye

The scales that fall and wings that fly

Enchantment strong and magic, sweet

Where sin and beauty always meet

The dragon sings her song of old

So warm and low yet high and cold

And ancient men so brave, so bold

Lie crushed beneath her feet

The fire rages, fast and fierce

As punctured night is hotly pierced

The smoke, the flames, the agony

The terror washing over me

And who will rescue, who will see

The beast I fight inside of me?

Who will quench the dragon fire

The burning soul upon the pyre?

A trumpet sounds, a shout is heard

A single name, a single word

I see the glimmer of his blade

The sword of truth his father made

The dragon falls, the fire dies

He sees me fallen there and cries

Behind these bloodshot, tearstained eyes

The dragon-blood is paid

ON A HILL FAR AWAY

"There's a small chance I might be dead," I said to myself in the woods.

The dappled sunlight, warm and green flooded through the canopy above me. The tall birches and elm trees were like expertly spaced pillars, holding up the translucent roof - everything was perfect: the rough but warm breeze, the flickering sunshine, the applauding leaves. If heaven is anything, it's this, I thought. I formulated a theory: perhaps, without realising, I had tumbled down a bank in Corbar Woods, rolled into a ditch and broken every bone in my body, leaving the sorry old grey-skied world behind. Perhaps this at last, was the Wood Between the Worlds, where Aslan would appear through the trees to take me ... home.

It was about then that I saw it. I actually had to pinch myself. Between the trees, sticking out on top of a rocky looking hill, bold against the bluest of skies... was a wooden cross. It looked like it was about twenty-feet high, carved from a single piece of wood, strong against the wind and magnificently out-of-place.

I did what any follower of Jesus would have done. I raced along the path, scrambled over a stile and ran towards the cross, rucksack bouncing on my shoulders. The climb was steep. My boots slipped on the sharp-angled rocks, I clutched hold of tufts of grass and scrabbled up the side of the hill until I reached the top. I had to know what it was for, why it was there - and whether I was still alive I suppose. By this time I was considerably out of breath, which was an indication that I did still require oxygen - a key factor in determining whether or not you've died. I sank to my knees at the top and breathed in the air. It was real and it was still there.

It was very windy at the top of Corbar Hill. I stumbled towards the wooden edifice, catching a glimpse of the view. The valley sprawled below, lit by the glory of the sun, catching every golden rooftop and tower, flashing brilliantly from windscreens and shop windows. On the other side of Buxton to the South I could see the open hills: green, flat and high - with Solomon's Temple sticking up in silhouette against the horizon. Beautiful, I thought, that this little market town was somehow guarded by Solomon's Temple on one side and this Corbar Cross on the other. I looked up at the wooden beams, illuminated by the sun, wobbling gently in the wind. I knew what I had to do. In the grass, where the long thin shadow fell upon the ground, I found myself clutching my head in my hands, kneeling and worshipping. I would hope it's what any Christian would do under the circumstances.

I stayed up there a while, munching my lunch with my back against a nearby trigpoint. I do love a high place - it feels like the world of trouble is far below, far beneath, and far away, and all there is in the world is blue sky, wind and sunshine. Perhaps that's what being on holiday is supposed to feel like? A kind of reinvigoration of the spirit, soul and body - relaxing, refreshing and renewing all at the same time. I guess renewal, however you define it, has to start at the cross one way or the other.

I am alive.

THE HALF BIRTHDAY

So today is my half birthday. I celebrated by not getting stuck in a thunderstorm and by not completing The Times crossword.

Alright, I confess, I bought a copy of The Times so I could have a go at the crossword. Oh come on - some of my happiest memories at university were spent doing the crossword! Sunday nights, the Dairy Milk would come out, someone would find a bottle of something from somewhere and we'd be off. I remember vividly leaning out of the window of my room and shouting '9 across: unicycle!' to my friend in the room below me.

I completed three clues before I realised that The Times crossword was beyond me. Maybe I just don't think in the right way any more. Maybe I've convinced myself there are better things to do on my half birthday.

What I did do today was go for a good long walk around Monsal Head. It's quite the valley. At the bottom, an old stone viaduct stretches peacefully across the river. It must have been wide enough to fit two railway tracks back in the day. As I walked across its finely gravelled path, I imagined steam trains powering out of the Headstone Tunnel from Bakewell, billowing into the valley, clacking across the sleepers and hurtling along the viaduct towards Buxton and Manchester. I could almost hear the whistle and steam. Today, all was quiet.

The weather was different again today: no grey clouds, just fluffy white cumulus rolling through the blue and casting shapely shadows on the patchwork fields and hills below. There were a few odd showers, but nothing like yesterday's ferocity. It was perfect for walking and perfect for sketching.

"Nice day for it," said a passer-by. I suddenly wished I were better at drawing as he glanced over at my smudgy cartoon trees and scribbled dry-stone walls. I'm not a great artist by any means. A few spots appeared on the page and I quickly stuffed my things back into my rucksack.

The other thing I discovered today is that I have a mild fear of cattle. I know cows aren't really about to charge into you or sink their teeth into your juicy flesh, but there is definitely something about the way they look at you. They can be menacing. As I creaked open a gate, a huge black cow stared at me, chewing silently, watching me like a school bully. Its lidless eyes tracked me as I walked gingerly by. I'm never quite sure about cows. I don't think they can be trusted.

Neither am I quite certain what the procedure is for a half-birthday. I bought some chocolate from Sainsbury's. The cashier was very friendly; the chocolate was very cheap. I wondered why it is that in the North, people are friendlier as stuff gets cheaper. I guess that's why Father Christmas is always so jolly anyway.

Half a cake? I did have a muffin in a Caffe Nero which looked smaller once it was released from its glass prison. I almost wish there had been somebody there with half a candle, ready to sing me half a happy birthday - a hap bir t'y if you will.

But don't let's be silly.

SOLOMON'S TEMPLE

I got caught up in Hurricane Bertha today. Well, the thing the newspapers are calling What Was Hurricane Bertha, anyway. As a tropical storm spins around the Americas and out across the Atlantic, it loses its power. Normally, by the time it reaches these shores it's no more than a good old raincloud.

I was at the top of Solomon's Temple.

Alright, not the Solomon, and obviously not the Temple - this is a sort of a folly constructed in the 1890s by a wealthy landowner - a small round tower on a hill, two floors and a castellated rooftop, overlooking the valley. It was built so that some workers had something to do, and it was apparently dedicated to a local tenant farmer whose delightfully Victorian name was of course, Mr Solomon Mycock.

I climbed the narrow stone staircase. The wind whipped about my head and threatened my hat as I emerged between the turrets. What a view. The sunlight flicked across the hills, shadows of clouds rolled gently and silently over the green slopes. Buxton spread gloriously beneath me: the round dome of the University building and the beautiful ornate towers of the Opera House. The roofs were glistening with this morning's rain.

There wasn't anyone else around up there so I had a little sing. The wind roared in my ears and I clutched my hat to stop it from being blown off completely. I enjoy a high place. My voice was lost on the breeze.

"Let it rain, let it rain. Open the floodgates of heaven..."

It's so cliché. I chuckled to myself when I felt a few spots of rain on my face and my arms. Then, looking out to the South, I could see huge swirling black clouds and the unmistakable sweep of rain cascading beneath them. The furthest hills were gone, shrouded in mist and cloud and the sky was dark and electric. I unhooked my rucksack from my shoulders and fished out my raincoat.

Moments later, I was crouched on the staircase, listening to the wind pounding against the stones. The sky was flashing with light and the thunder cracked above me. Rain cascaded in from all directions. I could feel it, cold and hard like tiny stones blown sideways and thumping into me. I was drenched. The wind growled, so fierce and hard that it was difficult to tell it apart from the thunder. The rain poured in, loud, merciless and unstoppable, running down my waterproofs and straight into my wellies.

I guess a situation can go from exciting to terrifying quite quickly. It occurred to me, hunched over on a narrow stone staircase, that this little building was probably the highest, tallest object for miles around. If lightning was going to find a way to earth itself, it would probably be through this odd little shelter and possibly straight through me. I had no desire to be electrocuted today. Nonetheless, the sky was erupting with light and thunder was cracking above my head, ripping open the heavens with deafening intensity. I decided to make a run for it.

I leapt out of the stone entrance and pelted across the uneven, slippery glass. Cows watched me from under their trees. Over the stones I went, trying to find the path back through the woods to the car park from which I had walked. The wind screamed and the rain pummelled me, sideways javelins of pattering arrows, hammering into my shiny wet coat.

Let it rain. This was the dismal remains of Hurricane Bertha and she was growling her way across Derbyshire, stumbling me sideways along the grassy banks and roaring in my ears. The trees bent over, the leaves fluttered at the ends of their branches. I clutched the slippery wooden posts of the stile and threw myself over into the safety of the woods.

Thunder rumbled above. The trees moaned. I doubled over, hands on my knees, catching my breath, soaked and now exhausted. It would be a short walk back from here, I supposed and I set off down the path into the tree tunnel.

A pretty young blonde woman in a smart raincoat appeared round the corner. She smiled at me and I took the opportunity to smile back, water dripping from my hood and onto my nose. I was soaked.

"I think there may be a touch of rain on the way," I said, trying to be funny.

"Ya but it is already raining quite badly," she replied in a bewildered German voice. She seemed to think I was some sort of English idiot. After getting stuck in a folly in the middle of a hurricane while singing songs about rain, it would be tough to disagree, I thought.

THE END OF ONE WEEK; THE START OF ANOTHER

I'm alone in a kitchen. There's a clock on the wall - a round face with an octagonal wooden frame. It's counting out the seconds with each deafening tick. I might go and take out the batteries.

I wasn't able to write last week. I did have a go. I sat in the field, watching the sun punch through the clouds and sparkle through the dew. For some reason, camping seems to bring out the early riser in me; either that or I was subconsciously determined to make the most of each waking moment of The Gathering. I was up and about by 5:30 every day.

Now that I'm here in this strange ticking kitchen, hundreds of miles away, it seems like a good moment to reflect on last week - and to look forward to this one. The Gathering is our church network's camp - an opportunity to get together with people we don't see very often from all over the UK, to meet God together in a muddy field, to encourage each other and generally wander about like tired zombies in wellington boots and hoodies.

I'm being a little flippant; it was actually quite awesome but in ways that would render description far less sufficient than actual experience. In other words, you had to be there. I suspect I will remember it in short but beautiful flashbacks: the voles darting beneath my tent, me hanging out with my very best friends, being waved at by tiny princesses in paper crowns; the prophetic arrows that slammed with remarkable perception and accuracy into the cosy marquee, the view from the stage as my red raw fingers bounced across the keyboard, and the early morning sunrise chats with my friend, Winners.

One morning, Mike emerged bleary-eyed from his tent, clutching a towel and a plastic bag. He was in pyjamas and a long sleeved t-shirt.

"You two up early again?" he said, squinting in the morning sun. Winners chuckled. Mike trudged off to the showers.

I really love this chilling-out time with people. Winners and I talked about all sorts - camping in Afghanistan (he is a soldier), quantum physics, driving in Germany, fishing in Zimbabwe, what it means to 'man up' and whether real men drink tea or coffee. All before the sun had burned through the mist.

There were other chill-out times too: stargazing with Emmie (back from Toronto), Mike (of pyjama fame) and Kathie (his wife), 8am singing lessons, late-night hot chocolate and in-depth discussion, guitar-playing and awkward baby talk, not to mention the classic daily game of Pick a Shirt Any Shirt. As I said, you really did have to be there.

-

How then, have I found myself alone in a kitchen with a noisy clock?

I drove here. Back from camping, I unpacked the car, repacked the car (was reunited with my phone which had been lost in the dying embers of The Gathering - that was a story and a half, regretfully not one I have time to expand) and then drove the two-hundred-or-so miles to Buxton where I will be this week, adventuring and exploring the hills of the Peak District.

I admit, I don't really want to be alone here, stuck between two very different weeks. It's OK though - I'm a single person and I gain energy this way. I absorb it from the silence, I process it through free thinking and I consume it, recycle it and amplify it until I'm ready to go back into the real world... in about six days' time. That's how I roll, it seems.

AT THE STATION

I'm at the station, waiting. I've got a few minutes.

"The train approaching Platform 2 does not stop here. Stand back from the edge of Platform 2."

Here it comes, snaking round the corner, a leviathan of glass and metal, rattling along the track at a hundred miles per hour. It flashes past, click-clacking over the sleepers and roaring its unstoppable way through Theale and on to Newbury, Swindon, Bristol, Cardiff: the West Country that lies beyond the vanishing track and the dark grey clouds.

It's gone. The trees shiver and the birds start twittering again. A gigantic bumblebee flies into the shelter, buzzes around my bag, sniffs my umbrella, and buzzes out.

Another automatic disembodied voice, female this time: 

"We are sorry to announce that the... 13:32 service to... "

My train is delayed by eight minutes. I start wondering why the voice that warns you of a speeding train approaching the platform is male, while the voice that tells you you're late is female. 

Meanwhile another snaking train is about to whistle past like lightning; platform 1 this time. There's a high pitched whine, the engine screams as it speeds towards me. I see it get larger and larger, its yellow face snarling as it grows. A wave of roaring air pushes me backwards as the train flickers by - carriages, laptops, seats, coffee-cups, suitcases... whoosh and gone.

It's raining now; throwing it down. The rain is pounding the shelter and dripping melodiously onto the concrete. My train is still eight minutes late and First Great Western are still sorry to announce it.

I wonder whether I should have taken the bus.

THE NIGHT WALK

I went on a night walk last night. It's kind of thrilling, walking through the countryside at night time. Anything could happen. I was reasonably sure it would be safe - the village I live in is not exactly a hotbed of crime and the only other types of people who'd walk through the surrounding fields in the middle of the night are probably just a bit weird... rather than... er... dangerous... yes... point taken.

So I grabbed a torch, slipped on my boots and went walking.

There is such a quiet natural beauty about the night. At first, everything seems very still and deathly quiet. The clouds hang suspended in the air, the trees are frozen white and solid by the torch-beam and the world is silent.

Then after a while, you realise that it's not silent at all - far from it. I switched off my torch and listened. Something rustled in the bushes, a gust of wind rippled through the trees, the crickets were clicking in the hedgerow and a night bird called through the distance.

I love the way your eyes try to adjust too. Everything is sort of unknown and unobservable. I could see the white lines in the middle of Deadman's Lane, the high hedges which reminded me of Devon and the outline of the trees, silhouetted against the stars. That was all there was to see.

In the dark, all you've got is the step in front of you. You don't get to see the next one until you take it.