PEDOMETERS AND A BIT OF HEALTHY COMPETITION

Deskercise 7: The Leaning Tower of Cheer. Smiling is mandatory.

So, September rolls into the fading sunset and October looms through the cool breeze and golden glow of another Autumn day.

We've all been given pedometers. It's the latest incentive from the Health and Wellbeing Team, who seem curiously keen for employees not to get fat, lazy and inactive behind their brightly lit computer screens. We had fruit of the week, we even had positive thoughts emailed to us to cheer us all up on a Monday morning...

So, what's this latest scheme?

Competition.

In teams of four, we've to count how many steps we take, how many times we take the stairs rather than the lift, how much exercise we do - and especially (wait for it...) how many times we adhere to the officially sanctioned 'Desk Exercise Regime'.

Yes folks, the officially sanctioned Desk Exercise Regime.

You know, years ago, I had a colleague who did office gymnastics. I'd turn around to ask him a question and he'd be doing a handstand or a forward roll or something. Now, to be honest, he was probably doing it to be subversive, rather than to keep fit. I only know this because he also used to drive home at 120mph smoking 'something or other' out of the car window - self preservation wasn't really his thing. Anyway, his deliberately odd behaviour seems like cutting-edge forward thinking now, in the light of the officially sanctioned Desk Exercise Regime. Instead of a difficult conversation with HR, he'd be seen as some sort of prescient guru these days.

Here's what we're supposed to do:

First there's The Daydream.

'Gently pull each elbow to the opposite side overhead and hold for 5 seconds.'

Yep, not so much a daydream if you sit next to someone who's yet to discover deodorant.

Next is the Carpet Gazer.

'Remaining seated, extend your legs and reach towards your toes, hold for 10 seconds.'

It's open to mischief this one. Why not sneak up behind someone doing the Carpet Gazer and launch their wheelie chair across the office? Good exercise all round I'd say.

Meanwhile, the Half Bear Hug is simply fraught with danger.

'Hug one knee at a time, pulling it toward your chest, hold for 5 seconds each side.'

Warning. Do not eat anything indigestible or combustible before attempting the Half Bear Hug. You have been warned.

The Olympic Diver

'Clasp your hands in front of you and lower your head in line with your arms. Hold for 10 seconds. Pretend you actually know how to dive correctly.'

This is going to look weird, isn't it? Move your monitor back first.

When you've done all these of course, there's always the Almost Aerobics Reach.

'Extend each arm overhead and to the opposite side, hold for 5 seconds each side.'

Why not wave at your colleagues while your arm is up there. They'll think you're ever so friendly. You could even keep on typing with the other hand, if you're really worried about missing out on that all important piece of work you have to do by 5pm.

Now the next one, the Freedom Search, I think you could get away with, provided you combine it with a sort of frustrated howl.

'Clasp hands behind your back, push your chest outwards and raise your chin. Hold for 10 seconds.'

I have definitely seen this one happen naturally. It's especially effective at full moon.

And so it goes on: the Robot Dance (swiveling your head), the Leaning Tower of Cheer, the Happy Wave (don't ask) and so forth - all exercises that you can do... sitting down.

Doesn't seem like the best way to do exercise at all does it?

Anyway, I suppose it is better than sitting here scoffing doughnuts.

The pedometers are supposed to track our steps through the month of October by the way, co-inciding cleverly with the exact time of year the old hibernation instinct kicks in.

At the end of the month, the winning team each get £50 Amazon vouchers. Some of the engineers are already trying to work out how they can hack their pedometers, or strap them to the dog or something. I rather think they're missing the spirit of the thing.

"Nothing wrong with a bit of healthy competition!" exclaimed someone, cheerily.

Well, quite.

SUPERMOON

I pulled on a jumper and a pair of jeans. The house was silent, save for the gently ticking clock in the dark corner of the living room and the low hum of the fridge.

I turned the key in the back door, and crept out into the garden. The grass was silver with dew and the air was refreshingly cold. Above, in the deep night sky, the Moon was bulging white, dazzling behind the wispy painted clouds that swirled around its halo. It was beautiful.

I was up to see the SuperMoon Eclipse. You heard about this, I guess - a number of people got it into their heads that for some reason the combination of a lunar eclipse and a perigee moon somehow meant the actual end of the world.

If it was all going to end, I wanted to be up, ready and waiting. I also wanted to see the Eclipse anyway, as it goes - because I like things like that. So I stood in the garden in the middle of the night, gazing up at the Moon as it slipped into the rusty circle of the Earth's shadow.

It didn't all end, obviously. At least, it hasn't yet. I woke up as normal, to the Monday morning alarm and the dawn filtering in through the curtains. If I had died and woken up in Heaven, it was remarkably similar to the world I'd left behind. That would be something of a disappointment, I thought to myself. I knew for sure though, moments later, when I stood on the upturned plug of my iPad charger.

SUNDAY AFTERNOON

Sunday afternoon. Round here it's as though we're trying to tick off as many stereotypes as possible. I've had a sleep, we've got cake and teacakes on fancy plates and two pots of tea on the go.

In addition, the Intrepids are watching Songs of Praise. My Dad likes to sing along with the hymns and point out where they've changed the words by singing the 'right ones' really loudly; my Mum likes to point out people she thinks she recognises as the camera scans the congregation.

"There's Jean, holding the music upside down," she'll say.

"In Leicester Cathedral with the Salvation Army?" says my Dad, breaking out of Great is Thy Faithfulness for a bar or two to interject. It turns out not to be Jean of course.

We've also had two rounds of the Dustbin Conversation. My Mum has figured out that the Dustbin Conversation is Dad's way of remembering to do it.

"Are you going out Matthew?"

"Yes, I think so."

"What time?"

"About seven, I think."

"OK, I'll do the dustbins when you get back and the car's in. It's the grey bin tonight."

"OK."

"Oh."

"Oh?"

"What time are you back?"

"About nine-ish."

"Right, I'll get my shoes on."

The thing is, I can drive round the bins. It actually doesn't matter. Yet it's as much a feature of a Sunday as the tea and cake and the Countryfile 5 Day Weather Forecast.

The Intrepids are planning their trips out while they're in New Zealand next February. They've got a trip on a sailing ship round Queen Charlotte Sound and my Mum wants to go white water rafting. My Dad isn't fussed by planning that kind of adventure it seems.

He's putting the bins out.

WHY I WANT TO BE WRONG

It is late and my brain is off. It's like the train of thought derailed some time ago and has chuffed off somehow under its own steam to wherever it likes.

This can happen.

Do you know what I'd like to see? I'd like to see a debate, an actual live debate or TV debate or something, where one side is clearly convinced and persuaded by the other and graciously accepts it.

I'm not saying that they should suddenly reverse everything and switch complete allegiances - nope, I'm just saying that I'd like to see a debate where someone goes through such an arc of persuasion that you can tell they've been won over on a point by their adversary - and more so, that they start to admit it.

Of course, what actually happens is that persuasion is a much slower and more difficult process - and there's so much weight and pressure behind the gladiatorial contests we see on the box. If persuasion happens, it happens slowly and it happens outside. 

Everyone who's ever had an argument knows this. It's when you leave the door slammed behind you and you sit out in the cold, stewing and muttering to yourself, that the persuasion might really kick in - it's never in the heat of the debate itself. In fact in a lot of cases (and sadly so) it takes years before the exile can return to the warmth with a melted heart and a mouth that crumples uneasily into 'I am sorry - you were right; I was wrong...'

It can be a long time before persuasion reaches your heart and your head. For some it never happens.

That's why I don't think I'm likely to see it. I'd like to though. I'd like to see a brave politician suddenly realise something and admit that they were wrong in the face of logical questioning, instead of weaselling out of the truth with carefully prepared phrases.

It takes some vulnerability to do it, right? Because we all like to be correct. We derive a great deal of power and identity from our correctness. When those things are challenged, we defend ourselves, we return fire and we protect everything we stand for. We just can't help taking it just a bit too personally sometimes.

But do we need to? After all, we're all learning how to be in this world together. It's pointless pretending I have all the answers, and it's arrogant beyond belief to assume I'm right about everything I've got lodged in my head. If anything, progress happens when we debate, discuss, and argue together. So let's argue, let's talk, let's push each other further!

Here's my goal then: I want to be thoroughly wrong about stuff. I want to be shot down in flames, especially when I'm the most determined to be right. I want to argue my case and believe in myself, right up to the point where I realise I was wrong. Then I want to be strong enough for two things; I want to be able to apologise and I want to be teachable enough to learn from my mistakes. In addition, I want to be able to be graciously right when it turns out that others were wrong. I'm not there yet. I get smug and self-satisfied. I don't want to be like that any more.

I know it's late and I know I'm letting my brain go freewheeling, but this feels like a great way to change the world, one argument at a time, don't you think? So, how about it, this revolution of the incorrect, this awakening of the obviously persuaded... Are you fed up with having to pretend to be right? Are you with me?

You can disagree if you like. I'd actually really like that.

HENRY IS GREEN

It's time for an apology.

Yesterday, when talking about my inaugural trainspotting trip, I mentioned that I had almost shouted, "Oh, it's Gordon!" while the glimmering green 60163 Tornado steam engine rattled by. I was pleased that I hadn't blurted it out, as Chris (a real trainspotter) would probably have despised me for it. There's another reason too.

Had I thought about it (or had any small children myself) I would probably have realised that it's actually Henry who is green - green with red stripes in fact, while it was pompous old Gordon who was blue in the stories. I was wrong.

So, to all you Rev. W Awdry fans out there, I offer my sincere apologies for getting Gordon and Henry mixed up. It won't happen again.

How did he do it, the Rev. W Awdry? What did he tap into that has captured children's imaginations for all these decades? Is it the simple personification of engines as easily recognisable characters? Is it a little nostalgia trapped in a sort of post-war bubble? Is it the plucky little tank engine at the heart of the stories, who reflects childhood so well?

I don't know. Like all the best stories, there's some indefinable magic going on; you can't bottle it.

I actually think there's a lot to be said for the simplicity of the Reverend's writing as well - short sentences are so effective. It's almost as though the lack of detail leaves oceans of room for the reader, or the listener, to insert their own imagination. There are no comma-bound clauses, no lists or side-winding parentheses or rhythmic alliterations. The Reverend leaves all that to the likes of Hardy and Dickens. It's all about using simple, adequate, concise sentences that do the job. Short sentences eh?

I could do with learning that lesson.

END OF THE WORLD SAINSBURY'S

Few things suggest that the apocalypse might have happened, better than a late night trip round our local Sainsbury's. I went tonight, just to pick up a new folder and some plastic sleeves to put all my house documents in.

For some reason, they've arranged this lonesome group of survivors in the entrance lobby. This forlorn collection of stragglers could only have come together in a desperate attempt to stay alive, to throw on whatever warm clothes they could find from the back of the store. Now they stand there ominously like frozen aliens from a chilly, faceless planet.

It's a cold and desperate world, the late night supermarket. Televisions blare down the aisles at nobody and sleepwalking shelf-stackers push trolleys full of empty boxes across the squeaky floor. The deli counter, normally a hub of activity, is dark and foreboding; the bakery section, by day so rich with the smell of freshly baked pastries, is stripped of all but a few stale doughnuts and sorry-looking finger rolls. I start imagining myself ripping open the cellophane and wolfing down the hunks of dry bread as the acid rain tumbles onto the corrugated roof of my fallout shelter.

Man, I really need to tone down the imagination sometimes.

Anyway, there were other customers in there tonight, besides me and the uniformed box-pushing zombies. I think I saw some students, messing about with a trolley. A guy with spiky hair was being loud and 'hilarious' while a pretty girl looked embarrassed, which he seemed to actually be interpreting as 'impressed'. His other friend was scowling at him, while the spiky-haired buffoon horsed around the tea and coffee aisle in the trolley.

I stood there examining the boxes of Assam and Earl Grey and 'herbal infusions' feeling old and wise, rather like an owl listening to a chattering of starlings, remembering something distant, untouchable and from another time in another city... I expect older people feel the same about us sometimes.

Anyway, I made it to the checkout and had the usual one way conversation with the till. The news is that tonight I did not 'use any of my own bags' thank you very much, and yes I did swipe my nectar card (the wrong way round at first, then upside down and then finally at the correct orientation) and it was eventually 'accepted' which is always reassuring.

As I got back to the car, I realised that once again, I'd gone through the whole experience without actually speaking to, smiling at, or connecting with a single real person. I threw the folder onto the passenger seat and climbed in. Maybe this is the end of the world, after all? I thought to myself, When we all stop talking to each other...

I drove home and gave my Mum a hug.

TRAINSPOTTING

Hello, what's this? Sunshine? Well, tickle me sideways! It's stopped raining, the sky is blue and the sun is having a last hurrah.

It was a figure of speech by the way, please don't tickle me sideways. Or any ways actually; I'm 37 years old and I have to pretend not to like it.

Actually, speaking of being 37, I thought of a writing idea this morning - Advice for 29 Year-Olds. I might revisit that.

So, what do you do when the sun's shining and you're suddenly glad you're not being tickled? Why, a bit of trainspotting of course!

"If you have only ever seen a steam engine pottering along a heritage line trying to make a trip of a few miles last half an hour then I recommend walking out to watch one travelling at speed," said Chris in his email.

Fair enough. So out we trudged on the five minute walk through the business park and off to the railway line to wait for the 60163 Tornado.

With a puff of pure white steam it emerged from under the bridge and raced towards us. It was magnificent, pounding its way past with its glimmering green engine and tender. Clattering coaches came glistening by and the billowing steam bubbled up to the sky. Don't fall into believing the lazy stereotype that trainspotting is for losers and anoraks. Actually, on days like this, I can totally understand it; it awakens something very young in you. And trains are awesome.

You may be pleased to know that I resisted the urge to shout, "Oh, it's Gordon!" as it sped past. I had a feeling that Chris (who is a serious trainspotter) would have frowned at that. Plus, he was busy enjoying the sound of the engine, the sight of the train, and that truly Victorian smell of the steam.

And so was I.

ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE AND BIMBLEBOP THEORY

I'm waiting for someone to fix something so that I can get on with some work. This is the way of things: reboots take time, systems run out of space, then they go down, then they have to reconfigure themselves while they wake up and we all wonder whether everything will come on-line again. It's basically Jurassic Park.

Well, without the velociraptors, anyway.

So, I've been chatting to Winners via Skype about how to make a cup of tea. He's just asked me whether I would use a teacosy. I've gone on about not stirring the pot. He's sent me a picture of himself clutching a teapot in one hand and doing a cheesy thumbs up with the other. It's that kind of day.

Do you think there'll ever be a day when systems like these can reboot in nanoseconds, rather than the time it takes to have a whole conversation about teapots? I mean, I remember when I was a kid, you had to wait ages for a computer to boot up. These days, it is faster, I agree - but it still takes ages. Even Smartphones take seconds - and they don't have an obvious way to failover when they run out of battery. Surely technology should have moved on a little faster by now?

Come to think of it, why didn't Jurassic Park have an immediate backup system? It seems crazy for Nedry to be the single point of failure - and tropical storms must have featured somewhere in their initial disaster recovery plan... even in the 90s?

I think one day, things like this should be controlled by artificial intelligence. Once we've worked out how to stop them taking over the world, robots can start calculating the probablity of failures and use their massive intellects to avoid or mitigate disastrous events. Sure, it'd be a bit like asking Gary Kasparov to a game of Snap, but it might eventually mean people like me can get on with stuff.

I think part of the problem is that we tend to expand the possibility of something whenever it gets more complex. I mean if your widgeridoo is suddenly able to defumbulate twice as many bimblebops, then why would you keep it running at half its capacity? Especially if you can sell a whole load more bimblebops... Ever since the Industrial Revolution, this has been the Capitalist Way aboard the Enterprise - sell more bimblebops.

The engines cannae take it, Cap'n.

Hmm.

Winners knows someone who makes tea with hot water from the tap.

Bring on the velociraptors.

SUPER MUG DYNAMICS

I once tried to calculate the exact moment that summer ended. There I was, sitting on a bench by the river in Pangbourne, watching the clouds and waiting for them to hide the sun.

There was a much easier definition this year. I think it was the moment that Emmie and Nick flew back to Toronto - something which happened this morning.

Sure enough the rain is fizzling out of the greyest of skies and the trees are turning. Soon the leaves will burst into gold and yellow and purple and bronze and the air will carry that famous chill as the nights draw in.

It seemed appropriate then, that today I should start using the mug that Emmie painted for me about a month ago. Isn't it awesome? There's nothing better than a thing that could only have come from one person, and could only have been given to one person. I love it.

When I first unwrapped it, I suspected that this super mug would go a long way to solving the mug-related troubles I've had for the past few months.

To recap, if I may: the company changed all the corporate mugs in the kitchen and replaced them with swanky new ones, complete with transfers of the new company logo stuck to them. Only, these new mugs have turned out to be 26% less efficient than the old ones, thanks to their ultra-thin walls and greater surface area.  Plus the logos are peeling off.

Much to the tedium of my colleagues, I've been going on about this travesty for quite some time.

'Well why don't you just bring in your own one?' asked someone once.

And so, in a stroke of creative brilliance, my friend Emmie made me the Super Mug.

And do you know what? It's turning out to be amazing.

First of all, the walls are 4mm thick and made of proper porcelain. There was hardly any heat transfer at all as I carried it back from the kitchen.

Secondly, the surface area is smaller, even smaller than the old mugs, by about 11%. This is brilliant because it means less tea can evaporate in a unit time.

Overall the capacity has gone down too. The Super Mug holds 66% of the amount of tea that the swanky new mugs can, making it much faster to drink.

In fact the whole tea-drinking experience is immeasurably better, thanks to the proportion and thermodynamic superiority of... the Super Mug.

However, all of that (though undoubtedly brilliant) is secondary to the fact that it was dreamt up and created by my friend, and is a mug that's just for me.

As the Autumn rolls in and summer drifts away; as the crispy leaves start to blow through soggy streets, and puddles reflect the dim glow of the orange streetlamps, I know I can take a sip of hot tea from my very favourite mug, and smile as I remember the summertime.

HOME HUNTING PART 14: TOP TRUMPS

It is a beautiful September day. I've been playing Star Wars Top Trumps in the garden, under the dappled shade.

Not by myself, I must rush to add. The Niblings are the real champions of Star Wars Top Trumps. They know what to do with the likes of Lama Su, Poggle the Lesser and Chancellor Palpatine. I'm merely there to prevent the cheating.

The sky really is blue today. There's one wispy cloud steadily drifting through it, and a couple of vapour trails. Birds are singing happily in the trees and the sun is painting the leaves with golden splendour. It is September at its best.

It looks like I might have a garden soon. 

While the estate agent didn't quite back to me, he did get back to my finance guy, who happily told me that they've found the paperwork and it is all systems go! My mortgage application is in.

It's strange how quickly things get turned around. The rain and drizzle of the other day is suddenly bright blue hope, and that natural old pessimism has just become, well, thankfulness and clear skies - at least for the moment.

It's actually a lot like Top Trumps. In a sense, it doesn't matter too much which cards you end up with, it's a game of skill and knowledge, where understanding the system is sort of enough to get going, but a bit of luck (or destiny I suppose) is always helpful. Plus you gradually learn which cards to play when. There's a way to go yet though.

Still, when it's done, the kettle will be on and there'll be a game or two waiting. Who knows, maybe even Star Wars Top Trumps!

HIGH-SPEED HOMEWARD

It was always going to be a thing. At some point or other I was bound to have to stand squished between commuters in the bendy bit between train carriages.

They say this trip, the journey between London and Reading, is the most crowded train journey in the country. It's hard to see at the moment, how this train could be any fuller - every carriage has people standing through the middle, and I presume, every connecting section is just as claustrophobic as this one is. You couldn't squeeze another person in here unless their feet were wedged out through the sliding window.

"We're sorry to announce that this train will be delayed by ten minutes as we're currently waiting for a replacement driver."

I'd volunteer myself - it's just pushing a lever forwards and braking whenever you see a red light isn't it?

There are twenty three people here between coaches E and F. No driver yet.

I guess it's a good opportunity to reflect on the course. Two days of useful experience and knowledge, or a brief opportunity to stick post-its to the wall with strangers? Both, I suppose. I was sleepier today, so at least until I'd munched my way through a handful of Skittles, I was drifting off like an enchanted balloon.

Not to say I didn't get a lot out of it; it was actually pretty good in the end. And as promised, there were no PowerPoint related deaths.

We're off. It's amazing how twenty three people can stand so close together and yet still somehow avoid eye-contact with anybody. I've counted four iPhones, two Samsung Galaxy Notes, a Kindle and a hardback copy of a book by Michael Calvin. The wind rushes past the open window as we all bounce around to the motion of the train. It feels much faster than it does in the carriages. Perhaps its momentum has been increased by the village-sized population currently aboard.

One highlight of the course was that I have proven to myself that I can actually interact with people I don't know very well. I'm not a forward-thinking networker who boldly asks for contact details or assumes the reigns before anyone else has a chance, but I can be confident enough to lead a team if the situation requires it. OK, sitting in a room with software developers and project managers is pretty much my job anyway, but it's reassuring to know that in a survival situation there would be enough of me to do something, to be something useful.

I don't particularly want to think about survival situations though, while sandwiched between twenty three commuters in the bendy bit between two carriages on a high-speed train. To be honest, I'd just like to get home.

CAPITAL BLUFFERY

Well I didn't swoop in like the Milk Tray Man. Neither did I blend into the background like a kind of out-of-town chameleon. I simply threw open the heavy glass door, walked straight in, picked the nearest person I could find (a girl with a cup of hot coffee in a cardboard cup) and asked her whether I was in the right place.

"I hope so," she said, half-smiling, "Otherwise I'm in the wrong place too."

I smiled back, then peeled off my rucksack and coat as though I'd just arrived at a friend's house. Pretend you've got it, said my brain, repeating it like a mantra, and you've got it.

The whole day's been like that. Task one, as hideous as it sounds, was to line ourselves up in order of experience - most experienced at this end, least experienced at the other. Naturally, the group of strangers crowded into the middle of the room, desperately trying not to be at either end. Nobody wants to stand out at these things. I interrogated the people around me and they quickly and unanimously decided that I should be at the experienced end. And so there I ended up, apparently the most experienced person in the room! After that hilarious eventuality, the confidence act was easy.

As for London, well a bit of comfortable bluffery seems like enough to get you through it. Everywhere I've been today has felt as though I've been rubbing elbows with strangers. At Costa in Paddington Station, a lady kindly pulled a chair out next to her for me to sit down. I smiled and said thank you and then joined a table of people who clearly didn't know each other. On the train this morning, I squished next to a guy writing an email with long and unnecessary words in it. I know, I know, forgive me, I couldn't help it, but it's a bit tricky not to eavesdrop when everyone's so close together.

Maybe everybody is forced to pretend, to fit in, to be part of this massive, sparkling, heaving city - from the headphone-wearing students with trendy shoes, guitars strapped to their backs, and colourful hair, to the balding suit-wearers on the phone to their stockbroker. Is it all a game of close-quartered bluffery? Everything moves so quickly and everyone is everywhere - perhaps there's no time to be anything other than carried along with the crowd of pretenders.

So, that's Day 1 of the course done with anyway. I'm on my way back now, yet again on a packed  train. East Berkshire is flying past the window and the sun sinks low behind layers of horizontal cloud. I guess it hasn't been so bad. Sometimes you have to overcome your fears, bite the bullet and be the best you can be, even though deep down you don't feel anything but small, insignificant and worthless.

And anyway, you very quickly realise that you weren't any of those things in the first place.

HOW BEAUTIFUL IS THE RAIN?

Golly. I feel like I've been a bit negative recently. Whatever happened to that summery optimism and wide-eyed hope?

"The worst thing," said Louise, looking out of the window, "is when you're wearing glasses."

The rain was streaming down outside and the sky was so grim, it may as well have been actual night time.

"You can't wipe them on anything because everything is soaking. You end up more blind than you are without them; then when you arrive wherever you're going, they steam up and you still can't see anything."

It's a fair point. Then again, how beautiful is the rain? Tiny spherical droplets of water, coalescing thousands of feet in the air and silently falling into our world, ready to trickle down into the sea and be carried back into the unending circle of life once again.

I sat in the conservatory yesterday as it hammered down on the roof. I threw my head back and looked up at the grey sky and the shimmering water cascading across the glass. It was rippling with beauty and elegance, a transparent work of art that only I could see.

Then there was the thundering sound of the rain bouncing and flicking and marching and pounding, as melodious and as relaxing as ever it was, drenching the garden plants and trickling into the water butt. And there I was, sitting in a wicker chair in a warm house with a cup of tea.

I've got lots to be thankful for. I can moan and complain about how outrageously difficult it's proving to be able to buy a home of my own, yet the truth is it's already a miracle that I've got this far. So many people in this world don't even have a place to shelter, let alone a sturdy building with walls and a roof. Then there are a whole load of other people who would love to have the opportunity to buy a place but probably feel like it won't ever be a possibility for them.

That's why I don't mind the rain so much today. Sure, I've forgotten my umbrella again - and my car is at home. Yes, I'll probably be drenched and it'll be unpleasant but it's not worth getting grumpy about. And anyway, when you really think about it, rain is quite a beautiful thing.

HOME HUNTING PART 13: WAIT FOR IT

'Hi, you're through to the voicemail of your estate agent on [today's date]. Unfortunately I'm out of the office on viewings and other appointments and won't be returning until approximately the year 2017. If you'd like to talk to a colleague, please press 1 and someone who doesn't know anything about your situation or indeed much at all about the dark and somewhat mysterious art of buying and selling houses and will therefore be about as much use as a handbrake on a canoe... will be happy to help.'

Believe it or not it's been three weeks now since I made an offer and had it accepted. Not a lot has happened, thanks to a tedious problem which has threatened to scupper the whole thing. What is most frustrating about it, is that I reckon it could be solved in five minutes by two, maybe three, well-chosen telephone calls between various people.

At this rate, the miracle might be just getting an answer to a straightforward question.

The problem is this: the property is a shared freehold. That means that some time ago, the owners clubbed together with the people who live underneath and bought the freehold. Normally, this means that both are sort of responsible for the building and own the land upon which it sits. You'd expect then that there'd be some legal agreement between the owners, wouldn't you?

Well so would the mortgage company. And without it, I'm back to Square 1, kicked off the merry-go-round and flung into the woods. Only it's worse than Square 1, it's Square -1. It's counters back in the box, dice in the tub and board folded up.

While that would be depressing, it might just be better than waiting. I've often thought that there is nothing worse than not knowing the outcome. Those moments between taking the test and getting the results, or asking a big question and not receiving an answer, they're awful aren't they? It doesn't take long before you long for news, even bad news, just so that you can get a bit of closure and stop panicking about the whole thing.

On the other hand, you could argue that these sleepless nights are excellent for building patience.

While the smooth-talking estate agents are out selling houses of course, houses, flats and maisonettes are still getting more and more expensive. If this does turn out to be the end of the road for this attempt, I'm not sure I've got enough energy, finance or willpower to keep going.

Maybe that will be the miracle - just getting enough strength together to keep moving.

Either that or an estate agent actually gets back to me with an answer.

AT THE EDGE OF A FLAT EARTH

I don't know what it is at the moment but everything feels like it's right on the edge.

It might be to do with the fact that I was up until 1am trying to finish recording a track for the latest choir practice CD. I'm pretty tired and that always affects the way I see things. Annoyingly, it's one of the things my Mum has always been right about.

"You're just tired," she'd say to Teenage Me.

"It's not tiredness!" Teenage Me would argue, "It's much more serious than that."

It was tiredness. And it might be tiredness now. Nonetheless, things do seem to be a bit, edgy.

Edgy eh, like all the world has spun itself right to the edges.

It's an urban myth that people in the Middle Ages believed that the Earth was flat. Actually, the Greeks had already calculated the circumference of the Earth and most educated people, even in medieval times had grasped the concept of a spherical planet. When Columbus set sail, he definitely wasn't expecting to find the ocean tumbling into infinity. He was as round an earther as the rest of them.

Funny then how I feel like my world is flat and edgy - as though everything is about to fall off the rim or topple out of the planet. And after I've sailed so far as well.

My senses tell me that it's probably a good idea to hold on, grab the ship's wheel and hope for the best. The chances are that my tired brain is imagining what's over the horizon - and actually, the journey will smooth itself out, regardless of how edgy it feels right now.

After all, if this ship is driven by anything it's the wind filling the sails by day and the fiery stars that lead the way by night. And I have immovable trust in those things.

I'm still going to hold on to something.

DEATH BY POWERPOINT

I've been thinking about the training course I'm going on later this week. Yes, the one in London. Yes, the one I've not been looking forward to, and yes - the one I've been going on about for far too long. That one.

The course notes state that it's designed to 'avoid Death by PowerPoint'. That's reassuring, however, it does make me wonder in what other ways the course will try to kill me.

Now I always thought that PowerPoint was supposed to liven up an otherwise dull set of slides. After all, you can use text that flies in, nifty animations and slide transitions, funky images and multimedia files and all manner of gadgets to keep your audience interested. Oh you can overdo it too - I reckon that's how Michael Bay started when pitching the idea for the Transformers movies. Anyway...

I do agree that none of that matters if the thing you're talking about is as dry as old biscuits. Content is everything when it comes to making a presentation. Plus, there's a lot resting on the person with the clicker and the witty repartee. In the end, getting the message across is really all about entertainment. I think PowerPoint opens up a world of entertainment and possibility - whether or not it will throw your audience into a coma is almost entirely down to how you use it.

So, anyway, we're promised indemnity from death at the hands of Microsoft this Thursday and Friday. To which I say 'bravo!' but not without a certain level of trepidation.

Here's what's taking its place:

"The course incorporates the latest 'training from the back of the room' learning techniques"

Interactive innit? Teamwork, breakout, working with other people, group learning. My social skills will have to be set to maximum or I'll just blend in to the wall like I usually do until accidentally saying something outlandishly stupid... or worse, brilliant.

So, time to get some practice in, I thought as I walked to lunch today. It was raining.

It all comes down to self-confidence, something I have always lacked and which has come to shape my destiny. To acquire it, you have to pretend you've got it, and then you've got it.

Weirdly, this is also the antidote to Death by PowerPoint - you have to present as though you've got something you haven't, and nine times out of ten, you'll have it - that elusive little bit of bluffed self-confidence that carries you through.

There were two girls approaching me, one carrying a newspaper above her head to protect herself from the rain as she walked back to work. Here we go. I looked right at her and smiled as if to say 'it's raining, I came out without an umbrella as well, but oh well!'...

She looked at me like a frightened rabbit and then hurried by.

I shook my head and laughed to myself, wearily. I've got something, I thought to myself.

Oh well. Bring on the PowerPoint slides.

Ugh.

RED, WHITE, BLUE AND GOLDEN

So the Intrepids were back for a day and have disappeared again, this time, back up the M6 to Cheshire for a golden wedding. I'm on my own again until Monday.

It was odd watching the Last Night of the Proms on my own. I've always thought that if ever I lived abroad, every night would feel like Last Night of the Proms. A surge of patriotic, Queen-saluting, Union-Flag-waving pride ripples through me to the strain of Rule Britannia or Jerusalem. Once again as God makes 'mightier' this 'land of hope and glory' I find myself irrepressibly proud to be British. Cut me open and my blood flows not only red, but white and blue with the nobility of this sceptred isle. So I'd like to think anyway.

Normally, the Intrepids are here to watch it and comment on the crowd: who looks like whom and how much bigger the Royal Albert Hall is in real life and what those mushroom things are for (though we all know what those mushrooms things are for). Tonight it was just me and a bottle of elderflower cordial and lemonade.

I don't know whose golden wedding it is. Whenever I hear about such things I feel like asking a million personal questions; I'd be the same if I met someone who had climbed Everest or had been chosen to go into space. I'd want to know everything: how you got there, how hard were the really difficult bits, did you ever feel overwhelmed, how did you get through without killing each other, that kind of thing - but it's tough to ask older people such questions without it coming across as impertinent or disrespectful, especially at the event celebrating such a magnificent achievement. You've got to respect older people, I think.

I'd like to go one day, stand there with a plastic flag and bob up and down with the rest of them. Actually, I think I'd prefer a box - and we did sit in a box for that Christmas singalong last year - that way there'd be a shelf for the elderflower cordial and comfortable chairs to relax into while the oboist is playing There's No Place Like Home and everyone is humming along. Plus I could sit there for some time while everyone else races for the tube.

As it was, I sitting on my own in the conservatory with the iPad, reflecting on the fact that I quite like being on my own. I don't know that I could do it for fifty years though - I would definitely want some sort of party if I managed it. Plus, I'd want all the young people to ask me how I managed all those years alone without going crazy. Though I'm not convinced anyone would believe it, even now.

HOW TO PLAY K545

Well, mystery solved - it was Mozart's Piano Sonata no.16 in C major (K545). I found someone else whinging about it on a thread about ice cream vans.

It's a pretty little tune - typical Mozart, starts off sounding rather straightforward, rather like he's lifted it from a nursery rhyme, and then quickly, before you realise, it's turned into some fiendish finger work and flowing scale patterns and trilling counter melodies in the left hand. That'll be the diddle diddle diddle diddle diddle de diddle diddle diddles I mentioned.

He does this - he goes a bit showy with the diddles. Then, just when all that reaches a grand flourish and the left hand stretches down to the lower end of the keyboard to round it all up, he introduces the next section and it's even more prissy and floral and the audience gasps at the growing skill and precision of the pianist.

Back to the first section, round again, throw in a similar sounding section in a minor variant, back to the motif and end with a firmer left hand flourish to show that it is definitely over this time, and that is it. Mozart's Piano Sonata no.16 in C major, K545, first movement... done.

I'll have a 99 please and a can of Fanta.

FIVE HUNDRED POSTS AND A BIT OF MOZART

So, this is my 500th post. I thought I'd celebrate it by talking about ice cream vans.

Actually maybe you can help me. You see, round our way, when the sky is at its bluest and the sun beams happily through the late summer afternoon, our local ice cream van comes out and plays a tune that I just can't figure out.

I've never actually seen this ice cream van - I've only ever heard it. It goes like this:

Dum da da daah da-da-da. Deee dum da da dum dadada dum. Dum diddle diddle diddle diddle diddle um, dum diddle diddle diddle de diddle d.

And then it always stops. Right there. It's something classical, probably Mozart, and I've definitely heard it before. I've just got no idea what it is. Or even how to find out.

I could Shazam it. Thing is, I feel a bit self-conscious about singing into my phone (weirdly - I'm apparently OK with singing 'I've Got a Cornish Pasty' half way down the High Street). Plus there's no predicting when I'll hear that tune next, echoing melodiously between the houses.

It's not Greensleeves, it's not O Sole Mio and it's not the themetune to Match of the Day. It's... well, it's annoying. And why does it have to stop there, right in the middle of a phrase? If I were a kid, that'd be enough to put me right off ice creams altogether.

Actually, now that I think about it, there's always been something slightly sinister about ice cream vans anyway - like the Pied Piper of Hamelin.

I bet it is Mozart. That'd be about right.

WALK TO WORK

I locked the front door, slipped into my coat and threw my rucksack over one shoulder.

The sky was lightly overcast and there was a gentle breeze - perfect for walking to work.

I've been walking to work a lot less over the last few months, particularly when needing the car for viewing houses with estate agents. I walked up the drive and felt the wind waking me up. It sometimes takes little moments like that to remind me that I am still alive.

It's autumnal today - not cold, and not leafy, not misty and not mellow - just Septemberish - the kind of day when you do your first big shop after going back to uni, or when you think about wearing a coat to school.

There was the smell of grass in the air, reminding me of something I couldn't quite place, a time when everything was a bit simpler. I crossed the A4 and walked onto the business park, just at the moment the bus deposited a whole load of workers. Some pulled cases, some were glued to their smartphones, none were smiling and no-one seemed particularly happy.

I was still enjoying the fresh air.

It would be horrible if I were housebound, I thought to myself. I'd last about a week before going crazy. Imagine being stuck indoors for hours on end, only able to stare out of the window and sit wondering where your life went. How very dull.

I got to work, hung my coat on the back of my chair and twizzled open the venetian blind. The outside flooded in as I sat there, knowing I'd be stuck indoors for hours on end, only able to stare out of the window.

Oh well.

ACTION SPEAKS LOUDER

There are a lot of petitions around at the moment. Have you noticed? I signed one about a year ago, to try to stop newspapers displaying topless models on Page 3 - something which I think has been anachronistic, disrespectful, disturbingly sexist, and ultimately harmful to society for far too long.

Ever since then, I've found myself on a number of mailing lists which have been trying to get me to add my voice to a growing collection of disgruntled signatories - from the furious people who wanted the BBC to reinstate Jeremy Clarkson (fat chance - he punched a colleague) to the incandescent masses who would now, it seems, quite like to swap Katie Hopkins for thousands of Syrian asylum seekers.

I'm not making a political point by the way, or even a personal one about she who should probably not be named - I'm just suggesting that whenever there's something unlikeable happening, these days the thing to do seems to be to sign a petition. If you ask me, the best thing to do is to stop talking about her if you want her to go away. Action speaks louder than words, and for her particularly, words, any kind of words, are like oxygen being poured onto a bonfire.

Anyway, there are a lot of petitions. The reason is of course, that if a petition receives over 100,000 signatures, the UK parliament has to consider it for debate at Westminster. In the age when signing a petition involves a few clicks on a website, it's not too difficult to get thousands of people riled up by something until the shiny-faced suits have to talk about it on Newsnight.

There's one going round at the moment which is designed to get the current Israeli Prime Minister, Benjamin Netanyahu arrested for war crimes. It seems quite under-researched and over-simplified to me, something which makes it either dangerous or completely pointless to sign. Again, I'm not making a political point about Israeli policy in 2014 or any other time; I'm just suggesting that you don't go around arresting the head of government of a particularly irascible nation. That would be like poking Vladimir Putin with a long stick.

So, a petition. It's a 'formal written request, typically one signed by many people, appealing to an authority in respect of a particular cause.' Thank you, Google. You may be a massive, bloated, tax-avoiding leviathan of a company, but you're pretty good at replying to my own written requests via your authoritative search engine.

I think sometimes, you've got to do more than just add your name to a list. If you want to see change in your world, you've got to get up and make it happen. We can't rely on petitions to change the world! They're good, and yes, public opinion can sway governments (we've even seen that happen this week) but I'm not sure we need petitions flying about for everything. Eventually, they lose their value. And anyway, there are things that we can do - join a movement, get out on the streets and start telling people what's going on if you must - but let's do something.

One way we can do something is by praying. You might laugh at that - but just like trying to make the world a cooler place by reducing carbon emissions, surely it's worth a go? What's the worst that could happen? The Bible says in fact, that we ought to 'present our requests' by 'prayer' and (guess what) 'petition'! But it's so much more than just adding your name to someone else's well-worded idea. It's presenting a formal request, your formal request, to the greatest authority of all, the most capable change-effector there is. And whether you believe it or you don't, he is actually listening.

So that's what I'm going to do. I'm going to write a few letters to the almighty and add my name to the bottom. And then I'm going to go one step further than the angry keyboard warriors; I'm going to listen very carefully for a response and then try my best to do something about it in my little corner of the world.

I think action speaks louder than words.

I REMEMBER THE HAWKSHEAD FERRY AND THEN PUT THE BINS OUT

The Intrepids are on holiday again. This time, the Lake District, to wander lonely as clouds and mull on Coniston Water I suppose. It's been three years now since I went walking in that lovely part of the world, and as I dropped them at the coach stop this morning, I found myself wishing I could go with them.

"It's not going to rain, so you'll need to do the watering," said my Dad. The morning sky was fresh and bright and criss-crossed with vapour trails. I pulled out of the drive and swung up the lane to the main road.

"No, you'll have a great time," I said, "Not like the day I waited for the Hawkshead Ferry, anyway." I suddenly found myself remembering the little wooden shelter at the end of a twenty mile walk. My feet were swimming and my skin was soaked beneath my waterproofs - in the twilight the misty rain bounced into the lake by the jetty and I sat alone, waiting for the little ferry to carry me across Lake Windermere. It was wonderful and awful, all at the same time. I was too tired to be miserable about it, as I remember.

I'm pretty tired today as it goes. I haven't walked twenty miles and I'm not waiting for a ferry in the rain. I've just had a busy weekend - basket teas and barn dance gigs, late nights and early mornings with suitcases and holidaying parents.

I tried the power nap technique today. I had an hour in between things so I threw myself into bed and tried to go to sleep. It doesn't work. After a while, I got up feeling groggy - actually worse than I had before. I thought the whole idea of power-napping was to get little bursts of refreshment, like hitting a thermal that lifts you a little further into the air for the next thing. Instead I've felt like I've been spiralling into the ground for most of the day.

The tunes from last night's gig are still echoing around in my head. Imagine a hornpipe being played on a tiny accordion inside your brain. It was fine for a short set of dances at a 60th birthday party, but it's not great in the middle of the night, or during a Sunday morning sermon when you're trying desperately to keep your eyes open. It's always the hornpipe as well isn't it, limping away like a pirate ship on a sunset ocean.

As is customary of course when the Intrepids are off intrepiding, it's my turn to put the bins out. I grabbed the recycling boxes and lugged them down the drive. The stars were really bright tonight - twinkling and beaming in their familiar old constellations. I saw Cassiopeia, the Plough and some other shapes I can't name. These stars, way above the tirednesses of the day and the weariness of the world, these immovable wonders of the heavens are like old friends, fixed in place and beautiful. I smiled to myself, stuck my hands in the pockets of my jeans and wandered back to the house, humming a hornpipe.

THE BASKET-TEA SOLUTION

"So what time is your gig then?" asked my Mum.

"I've got to be there at 7:30," I said, without really thinking.

"Oh! So you'll be able to come to the baby shower after all!" she beamed, "We'll be back here by half past five."

"Hooray," I said, with a little less beam.

"Your sister will be thrilled," smiled my Mum.

This then, was the basket-tea solution to the basket-tea problem - actually going. It occurred to me in the car, that the best strategy was probably not to try to be funny, clever or sweet, or in fact, anything, but to keep as quiet and as unmoved as possible - something which I planned to achieve with a cup of tea and a piece of cake.

My Mum was right - my sister was glad to have me there, I think. Her friends, probably not so much, but on this occasion, I didn't really care about that. Anything too 'detailed' was banned from conversation anyway, though I think things got pretty close.

"So I did go into Mothercare but I had to come out again. There are things in there I didn't want to think about," said someone.

Me neither, I thought, from the corner, though I couldn't help wonder what on Earth she meant. There was a lot of 'Aww cute' and someone had fashioned a towel-nappy-cake into an owl, but apart from that there was none of the silliness - no games, no talk of stitches, epidurals or mid-natal defecation. Even my Mum resisted telling stories of how we were all born. It really was more of a basket-tea than a hen-house cluck-fest.

There were things I didn't understand though. At one point, my sister opened a packet of Prosecco-flavoured wine gums and everybody laughed. Then, she opened a car air-freshener with the words 'Family Taxi' written on it and everybody roared again. I'm not going to say anything, I thought, but that's just not that funny.

"Let me know when things are moving and happening," said one of my sister's friends as she left, "We can pray and send... ooh... happy thoughts your way!"

A little later as my Mum got her coat on, I turned to my sister in the hallway and said,

"Hey, I'm fine with not knowing when things are moving and happening when the time comes. Moved and happened is fine with me."

She laughed.

"Come on then, Jimper," said my Mum, "Let's get you home in time for your gig."

Mums will always be mums, won't they?

THE SQUARE THAT MIGHT NOT EXIST

I had a dream last night about a place that might not exist. It's quite specific, which is why I suspect my brain is playing a trick.

It's a green square, on the way to somewhere else. On one side of the square is a bank with either a church or a large house at the top - it's sort of a wooded bank, tall elm trees and a dark canopy of leaves above, with a grave or a memorial of some sort about half way up. It's not an unpleasant place - kind of quiet and earthy. I definitely got the feeling that I was only passing through.

On the other side of the square is a bench, one that I must have sat on as the view is predominantly from that angle. To the left is a wooden shelter, again with a plaque to commemorate something or other - I don't know what, and then on the remaining side is the back of a large grey stone building.

I woke up absolutely convinced that I'd been there before and that the scene had woven its way out of my memory and into my dreams.

Yet when I thought about it in the cool light of day, I couldn't place it, or have any definite memory of actually being there. I tried to remember it in the shower, but I have no idea.

So, there are two possibilities I think. One is that I've dreamed it before and my subconscious memory has taken me back there; the other is that I have actually been there, that it's a real place and I've completely forgotten where it is.

The reason it's interesting is that I don't normally dream like this. The landscape of my dreams is almost always composite pictures of places from the past that I recognise - the school library that's somehow also our kitchen; an old workplace that doubles up as a swimming pool or something. It's always vague, nebulous, impossible.

This quiet little green seems too real for my brain to have invented in my sleep. Yet I can't place it.

There is a third possibility and that's that my brain has invented a place and has actually written it on to my memory. That'd be a bit like dejá-vu, where you're so tired that what you're seeing is actually being recorded as a memory in real-time. You aren't recalling it from a long time ago, your brain is tricking itself into thinking it's a memory when it's actually happening for the first time. Is it possible that my brain was doing that to me while I was asleep? Can brains do that? I had no idea mine was so clever.

Well, whatever it means, I guess it means I'm pretty tired.

A VERY SHORT, EMBARRASSING STORY

I was amusing myself today by singing "I've got a cornish pasty" to the tune of I've Got a Golden Ticket from the film, Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. Oh you know it: the one from the 70s with the scary tunnel.

Anyway, as I was singing gregariously to myself, walking along and throwing a cornish pasty between my hands like an excited schoolboy, I glanced behind me and saw a girl, barely able to contain herself with laughter, about three feet away.

Brilliant.

In a stroke of weird synchronicity around the ol' cornish pasties, Louise and some of the others have actually gone to Cornwall for the conference I went on last year. There are pasties and cider down there again, no doubt - and a whole sub-class of software developers in shorts and sports jackets. I'm quite glad not to have gone this time, as it goes. Though it does mean I get the added treat of going to London in a couple of weeks' time instead. That's my jolly, this September - a squished commute in a high velocity tin can. Maybe I'll take a pasty with me. Or start a sing-song - that'll brighten the journey up.

GETTING BETTER AT PRETENDING

I ordered drinks from the bar yesterday. I waited there, clutching my wallet and trying to stay cool.

You know what, every now and then, I feel like I'm a child again. It just sort of sweeps over me in a panic, even now. I pedal fast, grip the handlebars and look round to find that my Dad has let go of the bike and I'm flying. But he's let go. And suddenly I'm wobbling and falling.

Is it normal to still have micro-moments of feeling that way as an adult? I've long suspected that adulthood is just a game played by grown-up children. The feelings of tiny, out-of-place inadequacy are thinly veiled by learned smiles and phrases we've heard and repeated to ourselves a million times.

A million times. I've stood at bars and ordered drinks before. I know what to say, how to be, surely? I can take control of that anxious moment and it will all be fine... won't it?

It only lasted a handful of seconds. A very busy looking lady appeared and started poking the till, then looked at me and asked what I wanted. I snapped out of it and resumed normal behaviour.

I've not stopped thinking about it though. I thought about it today on the phone to the estate agent about something important but boring. Actually, it made me laugh because without being prompted, he launched into:

"Hi Matt, yeah, so I'm waiting for an answer about your question..."

and then went on...

"Just so I've got it absolutely right, what exactly was it you wanted to know?"

I reckon they learn that kind of conversational deftness at Estate Agent School. They're masters at grown-up talk.

Anyway, I'm not sure I like this feeling of littleness. I think I've got some growing up to do. Or maybe I just need to get better at pretending.