LACK OF CONFIDENCE

I'm having one of those days when I feel like I can't do anything right. There's no-one pointing it out, just me constantly analysing, reflecting, calculating and predicting. It started with a text message from my downstairs neighbour, which actually woke me up:

Hi Matt sorry to bother you but you need to check your flat as there is something banging upstairs which had gone on all night probably the wind has something to do with it - it kept me awake most of the night at first I thought there was someone up there! As mentioned there is no sound proofing and I can hear every footstep.

I raced over there. I'd left the bathroom window half-open and the wind was gently tugging at the door. It had been shut but the wind was pulling it to-and-fro in the doorframe, and it was softly thudding against the wood. It was barely noticeable really - I could have slept through it, but somehow the floor must have amplified that sound through the downstairs ceiling. I don't know how to tell her I'll be brining a piano with me.

Then there was the ivory paint. It looked great in the tin, looked perfectly creamy and delicious on the brush, but when it met the wall, for some reason... it was brown - a murky kind of brown, like builder's tea. I carried on with it, hoping that by the time it was dry it would lighten up a bit, or that somehow it was an optical illusion. I can't work out what's happened there. Unfortunately my inability to see colours properly makes this whole exercise a bit nervy. For all I know, it could be purple.

I hate feeling so unconfident. I imagined sitting there in the lounge one day while people inevitably ask why I'd gone for brown walls and a green carpet. Any idea how foolish it feels to say you thought it was ivory? The thought of all of that made me feel a little bit sick.

I've got a cold too, I think. I've been sneezing and spluttering again. I suppose I should get a little sleep before tackling those ugly walls again tomorrow. Also, I can't help worrying that I've left a window open again.

Oh, the sixth day of Christmas

Was when the geese arrived!

I found them munching grass

And laying eggs all up the drive

And as I stood there gawping,

The geese came honking in

All six of them a-squawking

In the squabble and the din

Now history remembers

The things which went before

But no-one ever mentions

There's a Goose and Chicken War

For centuries this conflict

Has rumbled without words

The battle fought in layers

Between these noble birds

So the hens were madly shrieking

The geese were hissing back

I pushed them to the garden

To stop the French attack

On the sixth day of Christmas

My true love sent me geese

But what she'd really given

Was a total lack of peace

PAINTY DREAMS

I feel like my dreams are being haunted by a giant paint roller. It chases me over a hill made out of carpet, squelching and slurping as it towers over me, dripping. Strands of white emulsion fly into the air and splodge unceremoniously around me as I run to safety.

Two of the rooms in my flat were bright, early-morning-sunshine yellow. It looked rather like the colour of custard under the faded glare of the electric lightbulb. Today, I made it round one of those rooms with white emulsion, and I covered it up.

It's powerful though, that yellow. Like the sun behind the clouds on a warm day in June, or an upturned fried egg, the custardy, sunshine goodness is still poking through the white. Clearly I will need to go round again. And that means more paint.

"Is it possible to order-in some more paint?" I asked a teenager in a red t-shirt. He looked afraid, eyes wide open as though I'd asked to see the manager's accounts or the combination to the safe.

"I... I don't know..." he trembled.

This is another thing about Betwixtmas: all the grown-ups who work in DIY stores are at home with their families... leaving the sixteen year olds to hold the fort. Now I really don't mind this - teenagers keep the economy moving at times like this and it teaches them things that will stick for the rest of their lives. It just wasn't helpful for getting to the bottom of my question. 

There was one grumpy-looking manager (35ish) who seemed to have lost at straw-picking and was in charge today. He wore a short sleeved shirt with a tie - a combo that is highly lauded at Retail Outlet Deputy Manager Training School, I understand. However it wasn't long before even he was distracted by a more important customer question in the bathroom section.

"I think it's out of stock," said the teenager, glaring at a coloured screen.

"Really?" I said, knowing that it almost certainly wasn't.

"It says 'discontinued' but... there are two in the warehouse." He scratched his head.

"Right..." I said.

"So... Do you want us to go and check?"

Yes. Of course, yes.

"Um, yes please."

He sent his friend (also 16, presumably working hard so that he can pass his driving test... not judging, we've all been there (World Turned Upisde Down Harvester, 1996)). His friend then disappeared for about thirty minutes, presumably, checking the warehouse in Ulaan Bator.

"I'd go and see where he is, but I'm not allowed to leave the tills," said the first petrified adolescent.

In the end it turned out that they didn't have it in the warehouse. I asked about the system but realised that the part-time teenagers probably wouldn't have considered how the database works or how it could have been infused with erroneous data so disappointingly.

I said thank you to both of them for their time, but I did wonder whether I'd allowed my frustration out into a situation again. I can't bear it when that happens - I feel like I've infected a tiny part of the world, every time. And it's only paint - it doesn't matter.

Though having said that, seriously, I think the paint might be giving me nightmares.

More tomorrow.

On the fifth day of Christmas

The quails began to speak!

In tiny high-pitched voices

From their tiny high-pitched beaks

I listened very closely

To the language that they used

And quickly ascertained

That quails are really rather rude

They flapped around the kitchen

And they fluttered round the hall

Using words to turn a sailor blue

And insults to appall

The partridge got embarrassed

And he nested in the roof

The hens just shrugged their wings

And simply kept themselves aloof

And I was contemplating

Whether it would be alright

To trap them in the cupboard

If only for the night

But getting all four in there

Required a lot of hope

And as I tried, my eye espied

A small white envelope

"Hello, what's this?" I questioned

And I moved towards the door

The calling birds were off again

Insulting me once more

But Christmas is a season

For miracles to grow

I opened up the envelope

And saw a golden glow

On the fifth day of Christmas

She'd sent me golden rings

And one went on each finger

Which is the way of things

"Maybe she loves me after all!"

I closed the door and said

The partridge flew right over me

And pooped upon my head

BETWIXTMAS WITH FRANK

Do they normally play music in Sainsbury's? I walked round this morning and they were piping in some sort of crooning mixtape. Clearly the Christmas playlist has been shelved until next November, so all that's left is Sainsbury's Sinatra, who presumably 'lived well for less'.

But as I stood there in the tea aisle, I did wonder whether they play music throughout the year, and even more, I wondered how it was that I just couldn't remember.

This is what Betwixtmas does to you. Nobody has much idea about what day it is. I logged on to Skype this morning, half-expecting Louise to ask me a question from the office. I had no concept that it was a bank holiday. Then I spent the rest of the day wobbling about with a paint roller and a step-ladder.

I guess I understand Sainsbury's Sinatra in some ways. It was mellow, sort of Christmassy but definitely not as jingly as the music that's been playing everywhere for the last few weeks. That kind of thing is definitely like mince pies - warm and festive at first, but as soon as you've had too many, the thought of one more is just enough to make you sick. Somewhere in a Midlands home for elderly pop stars, Shakin' Stevens and Noddy are Holder chuckling into their cocoa, but the rest of us are quite happy to go without it for the next eleven months.

And yet before we all link arms and sing Auld Lang Syne to the sound of a thousand fireworks, the whole thing is not quite over. Into that gap goes Ol' (Slightly) Blue Eyes with his fireside strings and swelling vocals, reminding us that in Betwixtmas, even he hasn't got a clue what day it is.

By the fourth day of Christmas

I was going up the wall

I was thinking that my true love

Didn't love me much at all

The partridge that she'd sent me

Did its business everywhere

And the turtle doves were wilting

From the stench of rotting pear

The hens were eating croissants

In a continental daze 

And whenever came the moment

They would sing La Marseillaise

So, sitting in the kitchen

With the door shut tight and locked

I was staring at the oven

When I heard the postman's knock

"'Ere take these blighters off me,"

He said, handing me a box

And I'd never hoped more truly

That a gift were Christmas socks

But buried in the packing

(For my true love never fails)

Were one, two, three, four tiny birds

A small quartet of quails

On the fourth day of Christmas

My six became a ten

I looked the postman in the eye:

"Please don't come back again."

THREE FRENCH HENS

On the third day of Christmas

The doorbell rang again

And this time on the doorstep

Was a continental hen

The turtle doves were on it

And both flew round the door

As the chicken clucked and strutted in

I noticed there were more!

'Un, deux, trois' I counted

As the the Three French Hens walked in

The partridge squawked approvingly

From somewhere deep within

So six birds now were living

Near the toppled-over tree

A defecating partridge plus

Two doves and chickens three

On the third day of Christmas

It seemed I was the host

To a feathery menagerie

A six bird roast.

STOCKHOLMHAVEN

"They say you should come here with someone who's been before, at least for the first time," said my cousin, Walty, sheltering by the lifts. I can understand why she thinks it. IKEA is a confusing way to go shopping. In a normal shop, you pick what you want, take it to the checkout, pay for it and then go home. What the Swedes have done, is they've turned that whole idea into much more of an adventure.

We're having an IKEA built near us soon, so I expect this Jungly Jim warehouse approach to furniture purchasery will become a bit more familiar. If you've never been before (like me before today) you might appreciate a few tips on how it works.

First of all, everything is there, looking irrepressibly perfect. In neatly lit corners, with arty lamps dangling over immaculate dining tables and clean wooden bookcases, the Swedish Utopia is displayed for all to see. There are glittery worktops and shimmering kitchens, impossibly tidy bunk beds and beanbags and floating shelves and bathroom accessories. My first tip is: don't be swayed by this dream world, into thinking that you too could live in Stockholmhaven. Have a plan and stick to it. Stockholmhaven is an expensive myth, my friends.

The idea is that you follow the floor-printed arrows around and lose all concept of which way you're facing. This is ingenious as you're quite likely to see the same fancy things several times, and their persuasive coolness might get under your skin. However, what's even more likely is that you'll continue to get lost and start using the display of whisks with baubles wedged in them as a curious reference point.

"That's a bit weird," said Walty.

"I just feel sorry for the person who had to put them in."

"Or the person who has to get them out!"

If you like something, you note down its particulars on a receipt-shaped ticket with a tiny pencil. Now this is marketing brilliance, and it leads me to my next tip: don't write anything down unless you're more than halfway convinced you want to buy it. There is something about writing it down that firms up your likelihood of making a purchase. I'll bet they've studied it very carefully. And careful, you should be with the tiny IKEA pencils. Though they are useful.

I forgot to bring one home.

The most important thing to write down of course, is the item's location in the warehouse - usually an aisle number and a position in the aisle. This enables you to go and collect it from the warehouse later. Yep, this is a shop which doesn't employ people to go out back, find what you're looking for and bring it to your car. This is a shop which makes you do that yourself, and actually convinces you that this makes the whole the experience a lot more fun!

My next tip is to choose your trolley wisely. There are four types: a normal looking one, a little one with hooks on it, a flimsy set of yellow sack trucks and a huge pallet shifting flatbed which can carry up to 130kg. Choose really wisely. I accidentally upended a small boy today by dragging my trolley behind me. I felt it snag, there was a muffled thud and then the next thing I knew, I seemed to have bought a toddler. 

His mum was OK about it. She apologised and then told him off for running.

In a normal shop, you go in at ground level, maybe go upstairs for a bit of a browse, but typically you'd emerge where you went in. Not IKEA. Here, you go in at the top, work your way through the spotless perfection of the showrooms, ticking off the things that inspired you, and gradually you move down to the warehouse, which is at the bottom.

I had the most fun in the warehouse. I suppose by that point, I knew we were close to the end of our five-hours in the shop and only a small location-mission remained. Be careful with the aisle numbering system though - I very nearly bought a high chair instead of some shelves. The evens are one side, the odds are the other.

Once your trolley is loaded, you're on your way to the checkouts. You might find though, that those flatbed trolleys are pretty tough to steer. I did. I was careening all over the place - given the general busyness of that final hall, it's a wonder I didn't mow down the line of people queuing up for returns. One of them looked like Lewis Hamilton, which made me chortle as I skilfully avoided his toes.

Someone had told me that it was always worth checking out Bargain Corner too, so we did that. Bargain Corner is usually full of cheap things you don't really want but could easily be persuaded that you do. You'll need Jedi focus to navigate round Bargain Corner. Once that's done, you can queue up, scan your barcodes (make sure they're all visible), pay and go home.

This bit is exactly like being at an airport. I mean it's spookily similar - the lighting, the warehouse feel, the acoustics, the crowd of people with heavily-loaded luggage trolleys, the sense of excitement. However, we got through all that, emerged neatly from the sliding doors and out into the cool fresh air of the car park.

I bought a chest of drawers, a bedside cabinet, a sofa bed, some shelving and a welcome mat. It's not exactly Stockholmhaven, but it'll do for now.

BOXING DAY

I fell off a ladder today.

I was brushing dust from the ceiling, when the step-ladder wobbled and I lost my balance. In a sort of slow-motion stumble, I found myself toppling sideways and into an upturned table. I lay there for a while, making noises like a steam train.

This is what comes of decorating on my own when I'm not very well... on Boxing Day. I didn't feel much like carrying on with the painting after that so I just went home. My sides are still a bit sore.

It's been an OK Christmas so far. Someone sent my Dad something so weird that we got a wonderful afternoon listening to his reaction to it. I wish I could tell you what it was but obviously I can't. It was brilliantly random. Just the thought of that person wrapping it up made me chuckle for twenty minutes.

In fact, it sort of inspired me to write a kind of epic (I mean long, not excellent) poem. If I can keep up with it, I might post a little bit for the next few days.

Meanwhile, I was reminded again of how much love means between family and friends. That to me is at the heart of it - the overflow of how we feel about each other means we want to spend time playing games, winding each other up and giving thoughtful gifts to each other. And eating food - which we have done like champions over the last couple of days. It's been great.

Well, until I caught a cough and fell off a step-ladder, anyway.

Here's part one of the poem:

THE TWELVE DAYS OF CHRISTMAS

On the second day of Christmas

The partridge looked at me

As he gathered up his feathers

In the branches of the tree

In the corner of the room

With a twinkle in his eye

The partridge in the pear tree

Had remembered he could fly

So he flapped and he fluttered

And he flew from wall to wall

While the pear tree shook and stuttered

In the prelude to its fall

Till it toppled from its bucket

Swishing leaves into the chairs

With the sound of creaking timber

And the thud of heavy pears

On the second day of Christmas

I had to fetch the broom

To sweep up all the partridge poo

That splattered round the room

Then suddenly, the doorbell rang

I stripped my hands of gloves

The postman laden with a box

said, "'Mate, are these your doves?"

CHRISTMAS EVE

Well it's Christmas Eve. We've stacked the presents, put on the orchestral carols and supped the celebratory glass of ginger wine that signifies we can retire for the night, so all is well.

For some reason, the Intrepids are tracking Santa, who's currently zipping round Hamburg, delivering perfectly wrapped gifts to German children. He's going at some speed; he only left Forbury Gardens at lunchtime.

So, as John and Yoko once observed, this is Christmas.

"I'm not feeling very festive," said my Mum in the kitchen. "By the way, did you dilute your dad's ginger wine with lemonade?"

"Yes Mum," I said, thinking back to a very funny story I can never tell anybody.

In truth I'm not sure I'm feeling all that festive either. Sure enough we watched The Muppets Christmas Carol and It's a Wonderful Life. And yes, we burned down the stub of advent candle to a waxy puff of smoke. We listened to Sleigh Ride and we roasted the duck ready for tomorrow; we ate mince pies and we planned precisely how we would watch the Queen's Speech at 3pm. All the mechanics are there, just not quite the sheer sparkling excitement of it.

There is though, an enormous pile of presents with the Niblings' names on. We might not feel the excitement of it like we used to, but they certainly will. Perhaps that's exactly how this system is supposed to work.

"Maybe that's what's missing!" said my Dad, leaping to the same thought, "The children." 

He paused for a while... "Is this watered down?" he asked, holding his glass aloft.

WINTER WONDERLAND

So, my sister came round and told me that if I really want to see Father Christmas I should go to the Winter Wonderland in Forbury Gardens.

I drove past it the other day. They've turned the quiet site of the old abbey into a multicoloured funfair: spinning carousels and lasers beaming into the sky. It's not my kind of place, but if that's where Santa wants to hang out these days, then that's fair enough. I just hope the sound of the awful music doesn't startle the reindeer.

It occurs to me then that the reason I haven't seen any Santas is that they've relocated to the places where I'm not likely to go: the garden centres, the winter wonderlands, the out of town places where people in big cars take their children.

"Thanks," I said to my sister, "I'll be alright."

THE DISAPPEARANCE OF FATHER CHRISTMAS

Is Father Christmas disappearing? I've not seen so much of him this year. It wasn't so long ago, the old bloater was almost omnipresent. I got really worried once, when I wandered into Debenhams and the in-store Santa surprised me with, "Ho ho ho, Matt! And what would you like for Christmas?"

It turned out to be an out-of-work-actor friend of mine who'd been stuffed into a Santa suit and wedged onto a golden throne next to the escalators. Back in the day, you couldn't move for out-of-work actors, stuffed into Santa suits and wedged onto golden thrones in stuffy shops.

I've been round town a few times now this year. There are no Father Christmases, not even the charity ones who ring handbells outside the Pound Shop. There are no grottoes either, at least not that I've found. Usually the parents are lining up outside flashing plastic castles and polystyrene snowscapes! Where are they all? What's happened?

Now it could be that all the Santas are off on a jolly. And it would be a jolly! Hundreds of Father Christmases dancing in the snow, flinging mince pies, while a potion of milk and sherry trickles down their enormous beards.

"You'd better watch out!" they cry, uproariously. And laugh they do, for this year, Santa Claus is going nowhere; a few metres away, their sleighs are drunkenly skewed into the snow and a herd of reindeer are munching on wrapping paper.

Or... it could be that Christmas is changing, kids are growing up faster and parents (who were kids themselves not so long ago) much prefer queuing up at the German Christmas Market.

Poor old Santa then, kicked out of Christmas while it becomes ever more commercialised. Poor Father Christmas, slowly being forgotten and erased from the holiday that bears his name! Isn't he what Christmas is all about? How can we still call it 'Christmas' without him? Will the story of Kris Kringle be just a whispered rumour that all the grown-ups are too ashamed to remember, or talk about?

Well, Santa, maybe you know how it feels now when there's no room at the inn. 

Maybe, instead of getting drunk at the North Pole, you can join the rest of us at the only place that Christmas makes any sense: a tiny stable on a starlit night. You'd be really welcome, I just know it.

CAROLS ROUND THE PIANO

I was munching a mince pie on the only available chair, right next to the Christmas tree. The branches were tickling my shoulder and there was a Death Star bauble next to my ear, like a misplaced Star Wars earring.

There was lots going on around me. Some cool, tall people in Christmas jumpers were swilling mulled wine in hot glasses and chatting about a TV show I've never seen. The room was full of people who seemed to know each other, and were apparently having a great time. They'd certainly sung along with gusto to the other Matt's carol-playing.

This keeps happening to me. I wish I were a bit more gregarious; I float around rooms like Bruce Willis in The Sixth Sense. The truth was that the only people I knew had invited me, and they were busy being hosts to twenty two of their friends, and poking bits of orange into a gigantic saucepan.

"Charge your glasses, ladies and gentlemen!" cried somebody, trying to evoke the spirit of Fezziwig, "It's time for round two!"

I slalomed my way through the jumpers and sparklers, and found myself stuck by the piano.

"Your turn then, Matt! Do you know In The Bleak Midwinter?" said the host.

Perhaps not so invisible then.

IS GOING-OUT THE NEW GOLF?

There's very much a 'morning after' feel so far today.

I saw Joe slouching towards the car park as I arrived.

"I've not even reached the hangover stage," he said, looking at me through half-open eyes, "I'm just going to my car to get a jumper."

The Christmas Do. It was raining when I left the restaurant - raining hard and straight into the concrete like it does in the movies. We loaded the instruments into the taxi and crammed ourselves into the back seat.

It had been fun: cramped, but fun. As we launched into the first carol, I was pleasantly surprised to hear a chorus of raucous voices joining in with gusto. Applause and cheering followed, along with the customary chink of wine glasses and beer bottles.

As the taxi swung itself around the statue of King Edward VII, and the rain streamed across the windscreen, I had already decided not to come back to town for the after party. The thought of waiting for a train and then trudging through town with drunken colleagues was too much. It was outweighed by the thought of a cup of hot chocolate.

And from the sound of it it was just as well!

Louise steamed into the office at 9:30.

"Alright?" I said.

"Traumatised," she replied, flinging her stuff down.

The grizzly story emerged. I'm not even sure I can go into details. I was suddenly quite glad I'd gone home and fallen asleep.

Do you think 'going out' is the new golf? Back in the old days, young thrusting executives would do their best bit of company networking on the golf course - that utterly ridiculous game served as a perfect catalyst for business bonding: fresh air, little eye-contact-required, something mildly distracting yet still a test of your concentration, stamina and coolness under pressure.

What if 'going out' and getting a bit merry with colleagues is the same thing? I only float this as an idea, as it seems the stories from last night are drifing around the office in quiet cosy huddles.

Alcohol, the eternal catalyst of social bonding, seems to also be the fastest way to accelerate your workplace relationships.

But what does it mean for those of us who have to get off the bus early? Is it possible to find other catalysts? Will it happen but happen more slowly?

I've often wondered this. I've wondered it as I've sat clutching a coke in a crowded bar of lunatics. I've wondered it in the middle of a food-fight, and of course, during the now traditional paper aeroplane battle every Christmas. Is it possible that living right and well, could lead to longer lasting and stronger socio-workplace moments? I've always sort of believed this, but is it true?

Of course the other problem is that alcohol does lead to grizzly stories too, just as much as it leads to friendships. It reduces our inhibitions and reveals the children we spend our grown-up lives trying to keep hidden.

It would be much better if we just let out that side of ourselves more often, without the need for sickly drinks or a round of golf.

But then, I went home after the work Christmas Party and fell asleep with my cocoa, like an old-age pensioner.

HOME HUNTING PART 20: THE MIRACLE

I turned the key and pushed open the door. There was a mountain of junk mail behind it, which I squished out of the way. I shuffled in and stood in the quiet, empty hallway.

The door clicked behind me. I was home.

Granted, I was standing on a pile of old newspapers and flyers, takeaway menus and charity letters, but I was actually in my own home for the first time. I smiled to myself, right there at the bottom of the stairs.

I had expected the miracle to be something grand, something outrageous and something impossible. Paul had said to me, 'Don't settle for anything less than a miracle.'

Yet somehow, I had overcome my emotions: my loneliness, my sense of failure at admin, my inability to get things done, and my dreadful fear of change. Somehow, I had overcome the financial impossibility of five years ago, when it looked like this day would never come, not to mention getting gazumped and frustrated and worried about how it could ever happen! God in His wisdom had made a way for the impossible to burst into the realm of the possible. And in the quietness of that moment, I realised that the miracle had been in the journey all along.

I kicked off my shoes and sat down on the stairs, ready to pray and say thank you.

Something small and red caught my eye, resting on the sprawl of junk mail. I extracted it from the pile.

It was one of Sammy's designs she'd made for the Methodist Church's Christmas advertising - a little silhouetted papercut image of a wise man looking up at a star, all inside a bauble. On the front, in white writing were the words, 'The Journey'.

Of course! It was all about the journey! The wise men, the shepherds, even Mary and Joseph - the journey enabled the miracle to happen in exactly the right place and at exactly the right time! Just as He always does, God had burst out of the realm of the impossible to make His home in the possible. And now. here we are, alive with impossible made possible in us.

The Methodists must have pushed it through my door, not realising that it would be the first thing I would see - my friend's artwork, a reminder from Heaven, and a beautiful welcome at the end of my journey... home.

-------

Addendum. I thought I would add links to the whole Home Hunting story, just to remember what's happened since March 21st when this whole thing started...

Home Hunting

1. The In-Betweeners
2. The Merry-Go-Round
3. Green Light
4. Imagination
5. Planet Gogetter
6. Gazumpery
7. Prerequisites for a Miracle
8. Character
9. The Matrix
10. Unreachable Palaces
11. Too Low
12. Return to the Forbidden Planet
13. Wait For It
14. Top Trumps
15. The When and The How
16. Solicitors' World
17. Home Straight
18. Impatience Quotient
19. Exchange Day
20. The Miracle

WHAT ARE YOU WATCHING?

Twitter keeps sending emails asking me what I'm watching. You might have got them too; they sound a bit like your grandma walking in to find you in front of the TV when The Fifth Element is on.

"Matthew Stubbs, what are you watching?"

Well Twitter, this morning I was watching an arrangement of Silent Night to the backing of Gymnopedie No. 1 by Satie played by a string quartet and a flute.

It made me realise how important it is to have a musical idea and stick with it. Combining these two things seemed like trying to convey a crisp nativity night with a miserable walk in the rain. Musically it worked really well; thematically, it was just awful.

What Twitter really wants me to do of course, is to watch things it thinks I might be interested in...

One Direction belting their little hearts out, a Game of Thrones promo and a baby singing along to an Adele remix.

You know I'm not sure Twitter really knows me as much as it thinks it does.

HOME HUNTING PART 19: EXCHANGE DAY

I was standing there with my nose buried into my scarf. To the right, by the pen-on-a-chain, was my wallet, stacked neatly on top of my passport. To the left, my folder of all the housing stuff I've been sent by the triumvirate of estate agents, financial advisor and solicitors.

This was the moment, perhaps of all the other moments, I'd been thinking about the most. I peered through the glass. The cashier was studying her screen and tapping numbers into a keyboard with long painted fingernails.

I started wondering whether the glass was bulletproof, well, bullet-resistant I suppose - apparently there's no such thing as truly bullet-proof glass. The pane separating the money from the rest of us, was catching the reflections of the ceiling lamps behind me and there was a tiny wobble. Probably not then. I came scarily close to asking: "Is this glass bullet resistant?" but immediately thought better of it. Some questions you don't ask inside a bank.

"That's all done for you then, sir," she said, sliding a piece of photocopied paper into the tray. "That's one copy for you, and that will go out later today."

I was relieved. I'm not sure why. Probably because I'd just emptied my bank account. I had to close my eyes at the cashpoint the other day when it flashed up my balance, just in case I got scared by the numbers. There is no going back from this point.

The cashier's smiles helped me out. She seemed interested in where I'm moving to, and the address had been stamped all over my paperwork.

"Oh I know!" she said, beaming, "Right at the back of the park. Nice long garden then? And does it back on to the park?"

I smiled and imagined a comfy garden chair on a cool summer's day; the wind in the tall trees and the distant sound of children laughing on the other side of the fence. I imagined fairy lights and summer's evenings, glasses of something smooth and the smell of woodsmoke crackling and twirling into the stars.

"Yes, that's it," I said.

"You must be quite excited!" she said.

"I am!" I said before thanking her for her help. And I meant it. I actually am.

FAMILY DOS, TIREDNESS TYPOS AND THE ODD GNU

I can't seem to write anything decent at the moment. My fingers are all over the place. I actually wrote 'schedulued' today. I chalked it up as tiredness-typos and vowed to read everything I wrote very carefully indeed.

It's not that nothing interesting has happened. Our annual Family Christmas Do was on Saturday and that could have filled a couple of blog posts all by itself. My Dad still can't believe that the restaurant added a service charge to the bill after their languorous attitude to actual service. And that was after my Aunty Anne had annotated the bill with her neat handwriting, using the menus as reference for her world-class accounting. I don't think he's ever seen anything like it.

"Did you hear about the dyslexic who thought he was being taken hostage by a zookeeper with an antelope?" asked Uncle Arthur, peering inscrutably across the table. I was as wide-eyed as I was when I was five and he would sit me on his knee and tell me stories.

"Apparently he was heard saying, 'Look out! he's got a gnu!'"

Half the table erupted. The other half shook their heads woefully.

"Don't encourage him," said my second-cousin Tim, "It only makes it worse."

Among other interesting things that happened over the weekend were: me getting stressed on the inside and trying very hard not to show it on the outside at a carol service; an awkwardly intense game of Scrabble in which I nearly played a rude word by accident, and leading a choir while still only being able to hear out of one ear. They did really well.

Meanwhile at work this week I discovered that I've been calling someone the wrong name for six months... they never said... and I was unwittingly racist to Louise who graciously taught me that 'having a paddy' is a reinforcement of the stereotyping of the Irish as drunken louts... and not, as I had thought, a phrase that had slipped innocuously into the language. Thankfully she found it funny. When she said, "I can't believe you're being racist, Matt," I must admit, my heart did get stuck in my mouth a little bit.

That, and the house move getting delayed again, just about covers it. I was going to go off on a whimsical exploration of patience being much like a lens, focusing us on the detail of a better plan, but I thought better of it. That kind of thing can wait until I can write about it.

THE POINT OF NO RETURN?

I was considering going back to flumpbook in January. It's been two years now. Perhaps naively, I imagined that the world would have grown up in that time.

Not if recent events are to be believed.

There are lots of reasons I abandoned it. One was that I saw two friends taking chunks out of each other and using all kinds of awful words to do so. The argument erupted as comment after comment appeared, each more bilious than the last.

I had had enough of weeping into my laptop so I shut the lid and quietly left the room while they slugged it out.

These things draw others in as well - peacemakers and stirrers alike, people who simply have to say something. I realised a long time ago that this was not the best medium for me to say anything at all, and resolved to keep as far out of the line of fire as I possibly could.

I began resisting: using all my willpower not to type something glib or something pompous, but to remain silent in the face of that hefty temptation. I channelled all my shock and outrage, all my hilarity and agreement into complete neutrality, where I could not be injured, applauded, or worse, 'liked' for my own gratification.

In any case, I reasoned, face-to-face friendship will always trump impenetrable and misleading snippets on a website. I quickly disengaged from being a silent observer and decided to spend my time on healthier pursuits.

I don't miss it. There have been a few events that I've been invited to and haven't known about, and one or two cryptic references I've not understood. But I very rarely feel left out of the world. I'm very happy to leave things I don't know about in the World of the Things I Don't Know About. Those things, if they're important enough, will come to me when the time is right.

Why would I want to go back then? As far as I gather, it's much the same: self-branding, politics, gossip, people's dinners, kids-do-the-funniest-things, stupid videos, hyper-intense religious debate, wordy criticism of just about everyone you can think of, and subversive advertising.

I suppose I just wanted to say hello to people I haven't seen in a while, who've probably concluded that I'm a hermit. However, even that beautiful reconnection with lovely people I miss would have to go hand-in-hand with the rest of the garbage.

I don't know what I will do in January. I might delete my profile, I might... um... what's the word... is it still... 'unfriend' a load of people I haven't talked to in two years? I might just do nothing at all. In some ways, flunkbook has always expected a kind of all-or-nothing allegiance, right from the beginning. I remember days when it was literally the first thing I looked at every morning.

Whatever I decide to do, I'm not going back to that. I really think I'm better off without it.

HAVE YOURSELF A MERRY LITTLE SURVEY

More shenanigans. The developers have put up a Christmas tree and have decorated it with network cables, old floppy disks, a Nortel Networks router and some blank CDs they found in a cupboard.

Because nothing says Merry Christmas like a pile of old junk.

Meanwhile, the owners of the business park have sent out a clear contender for the least-well thought through questionnaire award. I lost the ability to take it seriously half-way through and started trying to be funny. That's never a good sign.

"How long have you worked [on the park]?"

(radio buttons)

Less than a year
1-3 years
3-5 years

Presumably, once you've been here for 5 years, you explode with interminable joy and your remains are scattered into the lake like the happy, rainbow-coloured droplets of the water fountain. I selected 3-5 years, mostly because it's true.

"What do you think about the quality of the space you work in?"

(radio buttons again)

Excellent
Good
Satisfactory
Poor

I didn't know how to answer that as I didn't quite know whether it meant my desk, my office, the business park or the Universe. I quite like all of those spaces so I chose 'Excellent'.

"What do you find beneficial and what do you find a challenge about your journey?"

(free text)

How do you answer two questions in one box?

"Crossing the road - beneficial because I'm now able to identify a variety of different makes of car horn; not beneficial because it's like playing Russian Roulette with local tradsemen."

"Do you have any thoughts on how your journey could be made easier?"

"Jet pack"

"Would you use a shuttle bus if it was available? Are there are any bus route stops you would suggest?"

"Yes"

See, I've got annoyed by this point so I've chosen to answer closed questions with yes or no, just to be difficult. I am so childish.

"Are you aware of any activities that take place on the park?"

(radio buttons)

Yes
No

I chose 'Yes'. I saw a duck attacking a swan the other day. No text box to write about that in the survey though.

"How do your visitors usually arrive at [the park]?"

"I don't have any visitors but I guess they'd arrive at the entrance like anybody else."

"What are your visitors' comments when they visit you at [the park]?"

"Hello."

"How would you describe the park in 4 words?"

"Place where I work"

"Would you like to give us any overall/other feed back?"

"The lake is brilliant. Don't get rid of the lake."

You know what I was saying yesterday about working out when to be a grown up and when it's OK to let go and be a bit more child-like?

I think I might still need some practice.

I might go hang a shining disc upon the highest ethernet connector.

HOME HUNTING PART 18: IMPATIENCE QUOTIENT

So close now. I had always hoped it would complete within 100 days, but as today marks the 100th, it's looking unlikely.

The hold-up is a piece of A4 paper. I've seen it; I've signed it, even. However, it requires the signature of someone else before anything at all can happen.

I've taken to phoning the estate agent every morning and simply leaving the same daily message on her answer phone:

"Hi Estate Agent, Matt stubbs here. Same question as ever. Please let me know if there are any updates. Kbye"

It's sometimes hard to sound assertive and yet not impatient.

"Stubborness is great, Matt," said someone the other day, "So long as you're right."

I haven't had my patience tested quite like this before. I think the maddening thing is being so close, yet being unable to land.

Of course, the Impatience Quotient (IQ) goes up proportionally with the Importance (i) of the thing you're waiting for as well as the time taken to get there (t).

In other words, the amount of energy required (E) to overcome the Impatience Quotient also goes up - and energy is expensive. It's wildly easy then for your IQ to spiral out of control, especially when you're tired.

IQ = E+it

Anyway, there's no news, just circling with little contact from ground control.

Close though.

BEARDS AND T-SHIRTS

After my rambling through the Argos catalogue the other day, plus my realisation that I'm now more interested in things towards the front than towards back... I was taken by surprise today when a handful of NERF darts went whizzing over my head.

It seems that six-year olds are not the only target market for these plastic weapons; they're also popular with grown-up software developers.

A small understated war is currently going on between the Beards and the T-Shirts.

It's got me wondering: am I too serious? Last year, while packing away the keyboard at the Christmas lunch, it occurred to me that I just couldn't bring myself to join in with the paper aeroplane fight that broke out across the tables. It seemed so childish, almost pathetic really, and yet everybody was enjoying themselves - but I'm not sure I was.

Am I the voice of grown-up reason or just a sour old curmudgeon who sits in the corner muttering about what's appropriate?

I can't work that out. I want to be more fun - genuinely, I want to be able to sit on the swings or propel myself down the big slide without feeling judged, or even judging myself. I want to be crazy sometimes, to let go and be outrageous... but I also don't want to lose my dignity -  somewhere between being 7 and being 37 I've told myself that that's more important. Is it?

Juxtaposed with that question is the ongoing feeling that deep on the inside, I haven't really grown up at all - that this game of adulthood has gone on far too long and we all know we're all pretending anyway while we file our taxes and honk our car horns.

The conundrum is probably simpler than that though. I think I want to join in the fun, and I'm annoyed that I can't, or that I didn't think of it, or worse, that I let my dignity-seeking grown-up head stop me.

If it snows this winter, I hope I'll be straight out there without thinking about it, rolling up snowballs with the rest of them.

The only question is... am I a Beard or a T-Shirt?

THE WAITING ROOM

I went back to the doctors' today. I'm always amazed at the warm smell of TCP.

I punched in my numbers on the check-in thing and then took a seat on the sickly green chairs.

They have a flatscreen TV now, displaying all sorts of medical information, and occasionally, which patient ought to go to which treatment room.

I still remember when a nurse would pop her head round the corner and call your name. As it is, there's very little human interaction in the waiting room these days. Just coughing and pushchairs. And (as A4 posters with too many exclamation marks decree) no mobile phones.

Just as I was thinking about the days when a nurse would pop her head around the corner and call you through, a nurse, dressed in pink, appeared, popped her head around the corner, and said:

"Anyone for an ultrasound scan?"

I was so bored I almost stuck a finger in the air with a cheery 'Ooh, yes please.'

I'm quite glad I resisted. I need to remember that not everybody in the world shares the same sense of humour as me. In fact it's probably even less likely in a doctor's waiting room.

A few minutes later, while I was contemplating the usefulness of antibiotics and the kind of situations when I might consider a chaperone, the screen flashed a gigantic word in wobbbly green letters.

'Chlamydia'

I'm not sure it's quite necessary to display that word as though it's the opening to an episode of Scooby Doo, I thought, silently.

I scanned the table for a copy of Heat Magazine or something; I guessed Astronomy Weekly was a bit too much to hope for. Nothing.

Thankfully, the informative slide on the side-effects of Chlamydia was interrupted by my own name flashing up and telling me to go to Treatment Room 12. Which I did.

The doctor has given me dexamethasone and neomycin sulphate. I have to spray it in my ear three times a day. It will be uncomfortable but I certainly haven't lost my gratitude to Heaven for showing medical people how to make antibiotics.

AN ODE TO CHEESE

My friend Sarah suggested today that all rhyming is a little bit cheesy. Now, she's a fabulous poet and often lands upon a kind of phrasing and flow that I can only admire. I'm yet to work out how she does that.

Anyway, I found myself thinking about it. Is Sarah right? Is there an inherent cheesiness to rhyming poetry? Do we overlook it when we grind though poems like Thomas Gray's Elegy in a Country Churchyard or Wilfred Owen or Kipling or Keats or any of those rather serious chaps?

Are the nonsense poems that I love so much, the Lears and the Carrolls and the Bellocs, actually an acknowledgment of the cheesiness of poetry, swinging wildly to the ridiculous to cover their cheesy tracks?

I don't know.

What I did think though, is that it might be fun to take the idea of cheesy poetry and write a poem about cheese itself - subverting the question of whether rhyming is cheesy altogether by contrasting it with about as serious a thing as I can think of.

So I did. This is it, and it's really short and really silly and hopefully...


AN ODE TO CHEESE

If the sun should ever stop
And all the world should freeze
You'll find me at my local shop
Devouring all the cheese

If the Earth should slow its pace
And gravity, despair
You'll find me floating out to space
With unwrapped Camembert

If a comet hurtled in
And life had ceased to be
I hope I'd make it long enough
To taste my final Brie

And if I make it through today
I'll be a lucky fella
So long as there is Wensleydale
And good old Mozzarella

CHRISTMAS LISTS

The older I get, the further left in the Argos catalogue I find myself getting stuck in. There was a time when I couldn't care less about towel rails and dining room chairs.

"Look at the back, Uncle Matthew," said Sam as I twiddled a Sharpie. I'd been trying to work out what to put on my Christmas list for the Secret Santa. He grabbed a whole load of pages and flapped the book to the toys section at the back.

"I want that one, and that one!" he said, poking the open catalogue with six year-old fingers. He was pointing at two massive NERF guns. One of them was £59.99! Seems like a lot for a plastic tube with darts that end up stuck up the hoover, wedged in a hedge, or lost down the sofa.

It occurred to me (perhaps for the first time) that the value of a thing like that might be those moments of joy and laughter when a NERF dart knocks off a party hat, or you roll about hilariously trying to be a ninja. He won't be getting one of those from me though; I think there are cheaper ways of creating memory-making fun.

In the end, like Sam, I put two things on my list. Whoever draws me out of the hat will have the thrilling choice of gifting me with a large wicker laundry basket or some kitchen scales.

And as old as I am, either of those things will make me beam with happiness.

BLACK FRIDAY

"I just don't understand," said Robert, sniffling, "How bad things can happen to good people."

I heard myself softly explaining what it means to live in a fallen world. Through some degree of heartache, my words came tumbling out like tears, uncontrollable and true. I felt as though I were holding on to everything I was saying, preaching it to myself, grasping it, trying to believe it. For I don't understand it either.

THE CASE OF THE FOOD THIEF

Holmes was in no mood for jollity as he tightened the clasp on his webcam.

"Ah Watson!" he cried, "You will no doubt be wondering precisely why I am engaged in the connection of this surveillance device to my writing desk! Unquestionably your finely tuned technical authoring eyes will have fixed on the semi-consumed pot of squeezable honey in the left pocket of my smoking jacket, the empty packet of Skittles and the trail of tiny biscuit crumbs leading inexorably to the kitchen, and you will have deduced the simple truth of the matter?"

"Actually Holmes," I replied, "I was wondering why Tracy the Receptionist is furiously pacing up and down outside as though the world is reaching impending peril."

"Ah," said the eminent detective. "That will be the Food Thief."

"The Food Thief?"

"Yes Watson, it's perfectly obvious. We have a food thief - and one with a sweet tooth if I'm not mistaken."

Holmes rested his chin upon his steepled fingers and tapped as he gazed from the window. He rarely was mistaken.

"It is a most intriguing case," he continued, "And clearly one in which the perpetrator is clever enough to cover his tracks. But he must be caught Watson, he must be... apprehended. We cannot have an office where Skittles go missing and receptionists are livid."

"And hence the webcam," I noted, observantly.

Holmes nodded with a wistful smile, then returned to his diligence. I noted a bottle of Frijj milkshake perched on the desk by his replica Persian envelope scimitar.

"And this?" I enquired, picking it up.

"Don't touch that Watson!" he exclaimed, spinning on his chair. It is three months out of date and positioned perfectly!"

I put it back.

"I probably ought to get back to the technical authoring," I said to no reply.

MORE ON TINY MOMENTS

I poured water over the Placement Student today. I didn't mean to - I was asking him a question about reports. I pointed to his screen then moved my index finger down quickly, catching a glass on the way. It wobbled and fell, glugging water everywhere.

Another tiny moment where nothing happens. It lasted maybe half a second. Half a second of disbelief, of silence and shock.

Water seeped along his desk as I instinctively righted the glass before I blurted out, "I am SO sorry."

It was OK though. Because we're British, we both said something like: "Good job it was only water, eh?" to ease the tension, then I went off to the kitchen to get paper towels and I returned knowing full well that we would say no more about it.

Lots of things happen in half a second. Soundwaves travel 115m through the air, electricty shoots round 700 miles of circuit and light can travel a whopping 150,000km. That's halfway to the Moon.

That ocean of time is all it takes for me to realise I've accidentally poured water over someone.

What is it with these tiny moments? Do most people just forget about them? I seem fascinated by what happens, what doesn't happen when you're in one, and how you resolve it.

So much is down to how you react in a tiny moment - so much history is affected by which way the drawing pin lands, how the coin tumbles or which direction the water runs. One tiny change and everything could be different.

The Placement Student didn't seem to be in the mood for discussing the philosophy of tiny moments. He was a bit distracted I think, by his wet trousers.

HOME HUNTING PART 17: HOME STRAIGHT

Nelson Mandela once said, "It always seems impossible until it is done." It's hard to argue with the man who took on apartheid and beat it firmly and gently into history. All I'm doing is buying a maisonette.

Still, nonetheless, that's how I feel, in this final week of the process. Me, disorganised, unable to make big decisions, frightened of legal documents and hopelessly awkward at talking to strangers on the phone - I have nearly done it! I have very nearly done something massive, which frightened me silly.

I don't want to pull the party poppers just yet though. There are a few days left to navigate, and this last stretch of water needs some focus. It is literally the home straight.

What Nelson Mandela knew was that sometimes fear gets right in the way of something that is wholly achievable. Like a fog, it clouds your judgement, convinces you of your inability to see it, to grasp it and to make it. Fear shrouds the mountaintop and whispers doubt upon the wind. And you always have a choice to make about whether you're going to listen to it, or like Mandela, hacking rocks in the blinding white sun of Robben Island, ignore it and believe that you can make a difference.

I'm not saying that buying a little flat compares to being in prison for twenty seven years. I'm just saying that a while ago, five years ago perhaps, this point would have seemed impossible to me, but somehow... miraculously, it is done. Well, almost done, anyway. I've got documents to scan and upload tomorrow and those unsociable solicitors have to do some chin-wagging. I'll let you know when you can pull those party poppers.

The result of all of this is that I feel much more confident in taking on bigger battles. There is a warrior in me who is waking up. If I can do this, if I can I overcome my terrible admin skills and irrational fears, what can I do next? What can't I do? What great impossible challenge is still on the old self-improvement to-do list? What's next on Planet Gogetter for this Ketchuppy old soul? What excitement lies round the corner? What's not possible? 

I almost can't wait to find out.

OUT IN THE COLD

Winter arrived overnight. Everything was cold and sparkly this morning, as though the Earth had been sprinkled with tiny diamonds.

So, some updates. The car's fixed. I had to watch an episode of Jeremy Kyle to get there, but the car is fixed nonetheless.

Talk about trash telly: a pretty young lady came out, convinced that her partner had been drugging her at night times so that he could cheat on her without her knowing.

Jeremy Kyle sat down in the empty chair and tried hard at not being patronising. Then, to the great boos of the audience, out lolloped the defendant, pulling up his trousers and running a hand nervously through his greasy black hair.

He kissed her once on the cheek and slumped into his seat. The jury had decided whether or not he was guilty, long before Jeremy Kyle ripped open the polygraph test results and called him a liar.

"Your car's ready sir," said a man in a white shirt and a coloured tie, jangling keys at me in the real world.

While my windscreen wipers now work better than ever, my ear does not. The doctor gave me drops but I'm not certain that they're working. I'm still going round with a bit of tissue wedged in my earhole, hearing the world as though my head is stuck in a bucket.

Secret Santa's back as well. I was thinking last night about how we always go through the same cycle organising the family secret santa: excitement, tears, confusion and relief. Excitement because Christmas is on its inexorable trajectory again; tears because someone doesn't want to be part of it; confusion because that person actually does want to be part of it after all, and relief because the kettle's on.

Meanwhile lots of phone conversations with people I've never met. I sorted contents and buildings insurance today and heard the guy on the other end of the phone say,

"Is that your card, or did you pinch it?"

I laughed and told him I wasn't in the habit of nicking cards, then marvelled at how he'd taken the awkwardness out of paying for a thing, using some well-calculated humour. It was all I could do but smile as I read out the long number imprinted on my bank card. Clever.

It is chilly. Winter really nibbles at you sometimes, biting your fingers and chewing your toes, whistling in your ears (which is painful, but I won't go on about it) and freezing your bones.

I wonder what happened to the greasy, unshaven cheater and his pretty girlfriend. Did she take him back? Did the audience boo him off, or has he learned how to choose respect and honour over selfishness? Are there things to learn when you're out in the cold?

I think so.

AND WHETHER PIGS HAVE WINGS

So, I'm working from home, unexpectedly. My car's in the garage getting its windscreen wipers fixed and I think I might have an ear infection.

"Is there any pain?" asked the doctors' receptionist, on the phone.

"Not really," I said.

"Alright. Well, it's probably not an infection then. We can do an appointment... some time next week?"

I tried to hide my disappointment, and resolved that I would call again later, despite being completely deaf in one ear.

Did I tell you I've gone deaf in one ear? I think I might have an ear infection.

I'm not going to go on about it.

So, I'm working from home. Unexpectedly. And after the blustering of the Barney Storm, the sky is a crisp wintry blue and the sun is shining. It's really quite pleasant.

What's more, today marks two years of writing this blog! Yep, two years, 556 posts and over 300,000 words. Thank you for sticking with it, if you have.

Like Lewis Carroll, I like the idea of not being too serious, not being too whimsical and not being too self-absorbed.

Stuck in the middle of that triangle is the world of Nonsense, where the sea might well be boiling hot, where the sun can shine brightly in the middle of the night on an unsweepable beach, and where a Walrus and a Carpenter can debate whether or not pigs have wings, thereby introducing the notion of flying pigs into the language as a construct of the impossible, thus making it, well, sort of possible.

Since when have doctors' receptionists been able to diagnose medical conditions on the phone? How long has that been going on?

I'm sure it's an ear infection.

I'm not going to go on about it.

STORM BARNEY

I don't know why, but I think they ought to name storms the other way round. Hurricanes are alright: Hurricane Bob is gathering pace over the Atlantic. Hurricane Iris is on the move... just sounds right.

This year, on this side of the ocean, the meteorologists have decided to give names to storms lashing the UK, using the same alphabetical system - only we don't get 'hurricanes', we get storms. And for that reason, Storm Barney is currently whistling through the trees and rumbling down the chimney.

Storm Barney. Like I say, I don't know why but I think it should be the other way around. I think it ought to be: Barney (the) Storm.

There is a chance I'm personalising a weather system a bit too much. In the Storm family, there's Abigail Storm, the feisty Scottish maelstrom who blustered through the Highlands and flooded Cumbria, and then there's Barney Storm, the raucous maverick who's throwing my Dad's wind chimes around. This is not a children's book though, I do understand.

On the other hand I sometimes feel quite like having a 'storm barney' of my own. That's where you breeze in, have a funny five minutes getting as mad as a tornado and then slump down exhausted and slightly disappointed that you stil have to tidy up. Thankfully, I can mostly control my personal storm barneys. And I'm way too tired for that kind of thing anyway.

I like the sound of the wind out there. It's wild and free, unfettered and strong. There is something raw and powerful about it, like the pounding of the sea or the booming of thunder. It's restless and discontent, and it can only thump and roar and throw things about. I find that quite relaxing.

A BOOK ABOUT TELESCOPES

More 'sharp rain' today as my Dad would say... and probably is saying right now, back home.

I forgot my umbrella (again) and didn't really fancy sploshing my way back across the A4 to the village. So it is that I've ended up eating my lunch in the kitchen, listening to the Finance Guys throwing themselves round the table football table. It's not exactly quiet.

I'm less upside-down today, which is a good thing, I suppose.

I had some thinking time on the way in. Well, I did... but it was slightly interrupted by Tom the IT Student who cycled up next to me and told me how he'd almost joined the Hells Angels by accident.

I've moved now. I left the hullabaloo of table football and wandered round to the sofas by the lending library. I don't want to read about tax, C# or 'The Right Way to Write Reports'. I've found a book about telescopes.

It recommends:

... Remember that the bigger the aperture the more you will see, so get the largest aperture you can afford.

No advice in here about what to do when it's raining though.

THE TRAIN DRIVER AND THE LITTLE BALL OF WORRY

I felt really sick this morning. I'm not ill, just feeling upside-down.

The meeting was a shambles. I lost the plot of what I was supposed to be doing, got flustered by an IT issue and couldn't calculate 29 x 0.75 even with a calculator staring up at me from the desktop. My mind was a chasm.

I've rarely felt so baffled. I'm learning a lot about myself though. Here's a thing:

I don't like it when my train of thought is interrupted.

I don't like it. The signals switch, the tracks change and I'm off at high speed in the wrong direction.

The worst of it is that it's always very helpful people who do the point-switching. They're not being malicious or trying to show me up, or anything devious at all; they're just trying to get to where I'm going. And I'm snapping at those nice people in the echoing chamber inside my head.

Unfortunately, the longer the meeting went on (and it overran by thirty minutes) the more hopeless at running it I was becoming. In the end I was just racing to get to the end, no matter how much of a disaster it was turning out to be to get there.

"Right, are we done?" said someone as I lost connection to the network for the fifth time. My heart sank with the corners of my mouth as everyone trooped dolefully out. I was left alone with a disconnected laptop, a notebook and a pile of unused post-its.

That's another thing I don't enjoy much - mechanical things that go wrong for no reason.

I can't drive at the moment because I found out the other day that my wiper blades don't work. I phoned up the garage this morning.

"Hang on I'll just check," said the pleasant-sounding lady at the other end. She was using cockney vowels but trying to hide it. There was a muffled silence while she asked someone, presumably a mechanic, about whether or not he wanted to fix my car. It turned out that he did - but not until Wednesday.

I think it's a case of control issues.

Somewhere deep within, I must believe myself to be a train-driver - in complete control of engine, carriages, steam-box and track; I can't bear the fact that sometimes there's a person about to switch the line up ahead, sending me swerving off-course.

Similarly, when little things go wrong, I'm utterly disappointed with myself for being unable to fix them. I look at my windscreen wipers stuck half-way up my windscreen and twiddle the lever, pointlessly. They taunt me by doing absolutely nothing other than collecting crunchy leaves along the blades. For some reason, this makes me disproportionately sad.

I need to learn how to let go of these things and take some positive action. After all, there are lots more things, bigger things, to get upset about.

It occurs to me then, that this is all part of the ongoing quest of learning how to rest. I spend a lot of time carrying around a little ball of worry deep inside me. The little ball of worry won't let me rest until it's fully untangled; it won't allow me to relax until it has unwound itself and all is just a long strand of simplicity. But computers go wrong, meetings disintegrate and there are always going to be leaves on the line and knots in the wool.

I flicked the laptop shut and shuffled the post-its into my rucksack, ready to head back to my desk and get on with some work.

There has to be a way to rest, ignoring the little ball of worry and ignoring the train track, and ignoring those mechanical faults I can't do anything about. Maybe I need to hand the driving over to Someone Else.

CAROLLING EVERYWHERE

So the Christmas ads are out. The Sainsbury's one is clever, but I watched it with the sound muted and got terrified.

The pressure is really on with the big stores isn't it? Every year they have to make it just that little bit more beautiful, that little bit more nostalgic and that little bit more likely to get you shedding a tear or two.

I constantly feel like adding the sub-heading: 'It's a shop' to the end credits of these things while I remember what it's like queuing up in those overheating department stores every December. They never show that, do they?

Anyhow, in the spirit of pre-advent-anticipation-excitement, Peter, Geoff and I started practising carols today: Peter on clarinet, Geoff (playing his swansong) on a trumpet, and me poking a piano app on my iPad.

As with anything like this, the simpler it is, the easier it is.

"When do you want to get people along to sing?" asked Geoff.

"As late as possible," I said, remembering how difficult it is to get your colleagues to take it seriously. I had a little smile to myself, remembering how last year, David from HR had modified the words of the carols to include famous dictators. Definitely as late as possible.

So, it really does feel like the annual wind-up to carolling everywhere, has begun. For the next six weeks, I'll be thinking of those tricky chord progressions and odd words I need to remember. Most of all though, I'll need to generate some of that magical Christmas spirit myself, and sustain it all the way through. That's always the hardest part.

Maybe I should watch the Sainsbury's ad with the sound turned up, as a starter? I probably ought not to poke holes in the astrophysics of the John Lewis tearjerker either.

Adeste Fideles, everybody, adeste fideles.

CHEAPO SUPERCOLA

Even the sky is gloomy today. Behind the clouds, the sun's sinking and the rolling grey is slowly fading into a purply black.

I'm a little bit at-sea because I got up and out of the house in seven minutes this morning.

My phone buzzed next to my head and woke me up:


Morning. Just checking you're still on for Breakfast? Can I order for you? Q


My friend Q and I meet for breakfast every now and again at the golden arches, just to catch up. He's changing the world; I'm muddling along changing spelling and punctuation.

Anyway, I'd forgotten that it was this morning. I leapt out of bed as though electrocuted, and bolted into the bathroom. Seven minutes later I was in the car, reminding myself what day it was and which arm goes in which coat-sleeve.

Life is busy. Q tells me he works fourteen or fifteen hour days, at which I raise my eyebrows.

"I just think that we should learn how to find rest," I heard myself saying, "Times when we're not thinking about doing any work at all."

I waited for the bolt of lightning, you know the type that's especially reserved for hypocrites. I was alright. I just stared into my porridge. Q nodded along, agreeing with me.

"What do you do when you rest?" he asked, "I can't lie in, I have to get up and go for a run."

I wish I knew what I liked to do for a rest. It suddenly feels like a long time since I had one of those. I guess there's always Screen-Free Saturdays - they're good, it's just that the last few seem to have been stacked with other stuff. They've been different, but I don't know about restful.

So, the challenge is on. How do you rest? How do you plan to rest? How do you ring-fence your resting moments and how do you deal with people who want to steal them away from you?

I think I need to learn. As I was setting up for choir last night, I felt as though all the energy I had, had been drained out through the top of my head and all that was left was a limping bag of bones and withering muscle.

In fact, it wasn't until I had a cup of Cheapo SuperCola that I felt like I could do anything at all.

I don't know what magic they put in that stuff but for a few minutes I was like the Hulk, lifting those chairs and setting up the 32kg piano in a flourish of unbridled strength.

It didn't last though. By the end I was back to Mr Wimpy.

But, you know what the Bible says: 'Man can not live on Cheapo SuperCola alone...'

Anyway, Q and I didn't reach any grand conclusions about what resting actually looks like. He went off to do whatever it is he does and I drove off to work.

I'll figure it out. So long as it's not too much hard work to do so, I'll figure it out.