GEORGE AND ARTHUR

Now look here, Wilson...

Sometimes I feel like I've got two settings: brusque and diplomatic. There's no in-between, no middle ground - just a toggle switch which flips me from get on with it to would you mind awfully. It's like Captain Mainwaring and Sergeant Wilson have somehow fused together in the body of a greying, gentle, pompous, chilled-out stress-bucket.

I don't like it very much. Today, I was Mainwaring, stressing out and rushing through work only to get stressed out and rush through band practice.

"Matt I don't think we're going to get through three songs - this one'll take half an hour at least," said Rory in the melée of sound of everyone else chatting and slowly tuning their instruments. Fire rose inside.

"Well we've been here twenty five minutes and we haven't done anything yet!" I barked unhelpfully. This isn't me, I thought to myself. I switched back to Wilson and apologised afterwards.

A while ago, in a different context, a friend of mine told me I was 'too nice'. I smiled and said thank you before realising that this was not particularly a compliment. Nice! Who wants to be nice? Nice is pink wafer biscuits, it's a sensible pair of shoes and a cup of PG tips on a cloudy afternoon watching an old man mow a cricket pitch.

I don't want to be nice. I want to be wild, unpredictable, exciting, explosive and dangerous. I want to be hanging off a rock-face with a sixty foot drop below me, laughing my head off; I want to be fair, wise, harsh and kind and to always have a story. I want to be halfway up a mountain, hacking through ice, rowing across a glimmering lake with a crazy song in my heart and an untamed artistic passion in my soul...

... I said I wouldn't moan about this again, didn't I? I'm going to have to do better than this.

Anyway, what I mean is: I don't want to be nice.

I don't want to be unkind either though. And if I switch off Sergeant Wilson, I'm worried that Mainwaring will rule the roost like a little Napoleon, pompously ordering those around him to sort out stuff while he cracks the whip and makes a fool of himself. No-one likes a little Napoleon. Well, except maybe a little Josephine but there aren't many of them around.

So it's about balance then. I think it's also about having room in your life to slow things down a bit; to stop and get a little perspective on your impact. At the moment, I feel a bit like everything is moving so rapidly, so heavily and so unstoppably that there's no time to refresh and recharge - something which is critical to finding that assertive balance between Jekyll and Hyde, between good old Arthur and George.

This is now priority number one I think: build in a little margin, a guard rail to stop me living right up to the edge. Do you know what I mean? The rumble strip isn't dangerous but ignore it at your peril. The yellow line, one foot away from the edge of the platform, is just paint on concrete, but it's there for a reason. What's more, the sirens went off long before the planes spluttered into view.

As it is, I'm now completely busy between now (Tuesday night) and Friday after work. I'm way over the yellow line aren't I? Over the line and far from the Anderson shelter.

Ah. I'm still not quite sure how that's happened. I really am most terribly sorry, you see.

Oh do be quiet, Wilson. There's a war on.

Yes sir, I understand. Sometimes though, I can't help wondering... what it is we're fighting for.

Fade to black.