UNBALANCED

I'm working from home again today. What that actually means is drinking tea, listening to the washing machine and watching the spinning circle on my laptop while it tries to connect to the network.

The Intrepids have gone to Newbury on a sort of charity shop adventure. I think they've been inspired by Bargain Hunt.

I'm feeling very unbalanced today. You know that feeling when you've tied one shoelace much tighter than the other, or you've gone out with lopsided hair or something? That's about the size of it; not sure why. The imbalance must be deep within the things I'm thinking about. It's producing a sort of nervous energy which I don't like at all. It usually precedes a thunderstorm.

One of the things I think I could do better is listening. I want to be much better - rather than finishing off people's sentences in my head, I want to listen deeply between the lines, find the subtext and understand what's really going on without making assumptions. That might sound like a bit of a contradiction in terms, but I don't think it is - not if you're really listening. I want to have the time and the patience to shut up when I feel like interjecting and all I can think about is what I'm going to say next.

It might help with balance. I think I'm partly at sea because I haven't really been listening.

The other thing I'd like to get better at is plain speaking. I want to be much better at just saying what I mean instead of trying to be clever about it. It's exhausting trying to figure it out, for a start, when everything is hidden behind secret coded wording and cloaks and daggers. It's worse when you know it's a puzzle but that you'll never figure it out. I don't want to do that to people and I think talking plainly will really make things easier. If I don't want you to know how I feel about something, I won't mention it. That's how it should work.

The spinning circle has figured out my connection issues, it seems. My inbox is suddenly full. What an excellent opportunity to read, listen, reply and be plain-speaking. 

Right after I finish this cup of tea.

FELIS DOMESTICUS

I went round to see Paul and Heather last night. It wasn't long before the conversation turned to cats.

"Don't get a farm cat," said Paul, "They're just wild." He went on to tell me a story of someone who got a farm kitten that turned out to be some sort of mini leopard cub, shooting round the house like a furry cannonball, leaving unfathomable devestation in its tiny trail.

I've had lots of advice about what type of cat to get, once I move in to my new place. It's not even a certainty that I will get one - I just thought it would give me some company.

"Oh Matt! You've got to get one of these!" said Paul, laughing at his phone. He showed me a picture of an Exotic Shorthair cat, which, if you can imagine it, looks like it's been drawn by a Manga artist. It had massive eyes, a tiny little nose and cute little ears.

"You will be popular, with one of those!" he said. I'll say! He showed it to Heather and she melted into that sighing sound all* girls make when they see something adorable. It's a cute cat, the Exotic Shorthair.

We looked it up. They're a pedigree breed that cost between £400 and £700 and there's a 50% chance that they'll get a terrible disease of the kidneys.

"Hmmm, decisions, decisions..." said Paul, laughing.

It isn't a certainty, the cat thing. The thing is though, I keep telling people I'd like to get a cat and they keep giving me advice about it. I've only got myself to blame.


*OK, most, not all. You know the sound I mean though.

PUSHY NOTIFICATIONS AND JAPANESE TEA

Junko brought in some Japanese Green Tea today. I've never had it before, other than matcha, which is like drinking green dynamite.

This tea though, and I can't read the packet - it's in Japanese - is really delicious. It floats on the tongue and tickles the taste buds, whispering to you through the blossom like an eastern sea breeze through the mountains.

I only wish I could have made it in a proper cast iron teapot instead of pouring it through an old tea-strainer I found in a drawer.

Meanwhile, I'm getting pestered by Amazon again. Imagine someone who continually comes up to you and tells you what you were looking at, and does this mean you'd like to buy something similar, or not similar, oh and how was that other thing you bought? Do you want to write a review? Other people who bought that also looked at this, ever thought about this? Or one of these? Have you? Have you?

Go away.

Mind you, the whole Internet's a bit like that. The Linkedin Pixies keep telling me: Matt, people are looking at your Linkedin profile. I thought that that was what it was for. Even fluffbook insists updating me by email, about other people's statuses. There's no detail, only, "So-and-so updated their status" and "Him and her and 5 others liked it..."

Good for them.

Sammy told me the other day that I can turn those things off - a handy alternative to moaning about them, you'll all agree.

I thought I could try logging into flim-flam-book with my eyes closed, change my settings and log out again as quickly as possible. However, it's been so long, I've forgotten my password and I humphed at that so didn't even bother to go through the 'Forgotten your password?' thing. So the whining notifications continue then.

I wonder where I can get one of those cast iron Japanese teapots?

Amazon, maybe?

NO NEWS

"Any news?" I asked my Mum. Daniel, my brother-in-law, has hit upon the very clever idea of texting everyone who needs to know, all at the same time so that there can be no question of who found out first. My Mum has been hovering by her phone.

"Nope, no news," she said, filling the teapot, "Not even from Jean." Jean texts her all the time - usually about trivia. The phone remains silent.

I don't know whether it was genuine interest, or whether I just lost the use of all my rational senses, but what happened next will go down in my notebook next to the words 'Should have known better'. The whole pregnancy thing is a minefield of difficulty for me for oh so many reasons and I often have to remind myself to step across it extremely carefully. It was with the sound of crunching, clicking sand and metal then, that I heard myself ask casually:

"So, um, how do you actually know when it starts?"

My Mum told me, and for some reason she told me in detail. I think at least twice I said, "Actually, I'm not sure I w..." but you know some things are like runaway trains. For a moment I considered sending her a text message, but I thought better of it.

"Aw," she said eventually, patting me gently, "It'll be different when it's your turn." She left me there, staring at my reflection in the kitchen window.

EVERYTHING THE LIGHT TOUCHES

My pedometer and I decided to take the long walk into work this morning.

That means going round by the station, past the book-selling Jehovah's Witnesses, through the abandoned Pepsico car park and out on the far side of the lake.

Why I haven't gone that way before, I don't know. There's something bleak and beautiful about the abandoned Pepsico car park. My boots clacked across the concrete as I walked around the building - where hundreds of people once would have been streaming in with their rucksacks and briefcases, there was nobody. No shiny cars, no high heels, no umbrellas - just a mothballed building and an empty car park.

And me walking through the middle of it thinking about I Am Legend.

Anyway, as I rounded the Pepsico Building, I was stopped in my tracks - by Autumn.

There was a carpet of leaves, crunchy, yellow, crispy and brown, shaken from the shivering trees. The whole scene was lit up by the morning sunlight, and it was breathtaking. I felt as though I was walking through a painting.

It was then that I heard, or rather felt a voice say,

"Everything the light touches."

That'll be Mufasa again, reaching out through my memory of The Lion King. I looked it up on IMDb.

'Everything the light touches... is our kingdom,' says the Great Lion to Simba, surveying the morning sunlight. It's a powerful message.

As I bent down to take the photograph, it suddenly occurred to me that this is exactly how I want to think about this time of year. Whatever the light touches...

In a few days it will be Halloween and the rest of the office will be dressing up as ghouls and zombies and carving pumpkins in the training room. There are nights out and competitions and spooky, fun events planned which are hard to get out of. There's a lot of pressure...

"Oh come on, it's only harmless fun," they say. I don't think it is. I don't think it's touched by light, and I don't want to have anything to do with it.

Somehow, a carpet of leaves and the golden paintbrush of the early morning sunshine had reminded me of the Great Lion and the kingdom that belongs to me.

Simba: Dad?
Mufasa: Hmmm?
Simba: We're pals, right?
Mufasa: Right.
Simba: And we'll always be together, right?
Mufasa: Simba, let me tell you something my father told me. Look at the stars. The great kings of the past look down on us from those stars.
Simba: Really?
Mufasa: Yes. So whenever you feel alone, just remember that those kings will always be there to guide you. And so I will I.

I do love The Lion King.

THE OVERFRIENDLY BARISTA

No Screen-Free Saturday this week as I'm technically working. I'm playing at a church conference, which has so far been great but also quite confusing. I'm currently taking a break and sitting in Starbucks with a whole load of people in various stages of child-rearing.

I got the overfriendly barista again. I don't know how he has the time to dance about between the cups and the coffee machines, yet still maintain what he thinks is a cheery conversation. It trips off his tongue as though he's spent hours at home, practising in front of the mirror. I don't mind it - it's just that he clearly hasn't left any gaps for listening. We had the usual discussion about what constitutes a medium-sized cup of tea and what a medium cup actually looks like.

"Any room for milk?" he said. I said no. He gave me a three-quarter-filled cup with a teabag swimming about in it, label fully submerged. I started wondering about what would happen if androids took over running coffee shops.

How many pregnant people are there at any one time? I think they're all here, queueing up for Americanos and a tuna panini. The queue is at least 50% bump.

I bit into a Lemsip capsule today. I popped it out of the packet, and automatically threw it into my mouth before checking I had something to wash it down with. While I hunted about for my water bottle, I accidentally clamped down on the plastic coating and the capsule burst in the corner of my mouth.

My advice is - never bite a Lemsip capsule. It is vile. A hideous mess of bitter powder exploded across my tongue, igniting it into a ball of fire. I was in company so I couldn't spit it out; the plasticky gloop rolled around between my teeth while I tried hard not to screw my face up in disgust. 

I don't have a cold, I just don't want one, so I'm trying to help myself not to burn out. Hence also, taking a break here in Starbucks with all the pregnant people in the northern hemisphere. And the overfriendly barista, eyeing up my tea mug as though wondering when I'll be finished.

TINY MOMENTS

"There's no hot water," said my Mum as I emerged from my room.

That'll be the power cut then. It's blown out the fuse in the boiler.

Last night, in the middle of music-arranging, the lights went out and the house fell silent. There was a tiny moment when nothing happened at all - we all sat there in the dark, and then my Mum said, "Oh."

I really love those tiny moments. They happen all the time, and I often miss them as they're usually shorter than half a second. But in that half-second, you feel like the world has stopped.

In the end, we found the torch, lit the oil lamp and yanked open the fuse box. We got everything back on except the hot water it seems.

I sometimes catch myself trying to process the tiny moments. The other day during a difficult presentation, one of the managers winked at me as if to say 'keep going, it'll all be alright'. As it happened, the managers pulled my presentation apart as though I'd presented a zebra to some hungry lions. The tiny moment and that microscopic and ludicrous wink had made me smile and helped me through.

There was another tiny moment this week, when I thought I saw something flash across somebody's face - a kind of recognition of a thing unspoken. I thought about it for ages afterwards, trying to work out whether I'd imagined it, or what it could mean.

Then there are those tiny moments of decision - when the balance is tipped one way or the other. I quite like those moments of indecision because the anxiety of them usually forces me to pick a route. I don't want to be a ditherer.

And what about the tiny moments right there in-between cause and effect? An electron jumps between energy levels and out pops a photon. The rest of the world doesn't have a clue what's happened yet. That's a really tiny moment. Then there's a chain reaction, a fuse gets overloaded with power and self-destructs, breaking an electrical circuit. The lights go out. The Intrepids and I sit in darkness for at least a half a second, processing what's happened.

Then just as my brain gets there, the tiny moment ends and my Mum says:

"Oh."

Treasure the tiny moments.

SHARP RAIN AND A SWANSONG

"Take a brolly," said my Dad, predictably, as I zipped up my coat this morning, "It's raining quite sharply."

I don't know anyone else who describes rain like this. 'Sharp rain' in his world is somewhere between light and thunderous. I always imagine daggers being thrown from the clouds, glinting on their way down and shimmering into the earth.

My boots squelched through the puddles and rain trickled from the umbrella onto my knees. I normally don't mind the rain too much, but for some reason this morning, it was just annoying.

I'm also annoyed by my shirt today. I feel like I'm trapped inside the collars. Funny isn't it, how what you wear can affect your mood? I arrived at the office and peeled off the layers, suddenly wishing for automatic lace-up shoes and a self-drying jacket.

-

"Did you see the email about the Christmas lunch?" asked Peter. "Would you be up for a repeat performance?"

The first year we played carols at the Christmas lunch, we raised over £300. Granted it was because someone got drunk and emptied the finance director's wallet into the bucket, but nonetheless, it was a roaring success. Ever since, there's been a mixed amount of enthusiasm for this little tradition.

"I guess so," I said, cautiously. I was thinking back to last year's empty marquee, strewn with paper aeroplanes, upset plastic glasses and crumpled party hats.

It had been an anticlimax, packing away my keyboard on my own. It seemed as though we had performed for people who were more interested in amateur origami. As soon as the coach arrived, they were off.

So, it looks like we're doing the same again this year. Maybe it will be different. For a start, it's somewhere in the town centre.

Peter and I went over to Geoff's desk to see if he'd be up for playing trumpet. Geoff was surprisingly enthusiastic - though it might be because after Christmas he's retiring and going on a grand tour of South America, Thailand and Australia.

"It'll be my swansong!" he beamed.

Good for you, Geoff, I thought. My shirt collars were scraping my cheeks, my feet were still soaking and I was suddenly imagining lugging a heavy keyboard through the middle of Reading.

I caught a glimpse through the window, of the trees being thrown about by the wind, and the rain tumbling out of the darkened sky. I do hope it doesn't rain that day.

EVENING SUNSHINE

The sun burst across the landscape. Long shadows fell across the hills and the warm evening sun painted the trees in brilliant gold. I watched the road ahead as windscreens caught the last beams of fading sunlight. A cloud of seagulls flew up and over the A34 as I drove underneath them. It was the perfect autumn evening.

This was sunset on the second ever Screen-Free Saturday. I will stop going on about this, I promise, but so far, I feel like I'm almost duty bound to tell you that I'm wholly converted. It's like stretching out a Saturday so that it's twice as long! It doesn't tick slowly by, five minutes at a time while I watch old quizzes on YouTube, and neither does the time whizz past before I've known it - mostly because I'm trying so hard to fill it with other stuff.

So, I got up and made a ginger cake. I would add it as item number three on the list of things I can bake, but unfortunately it didn't quite work out. With half an hour to go, I realised I had to go round to see Irene to measure a fridge freezer she has in her shed. She only lives round the corner so I wedged on my boots and walked over to her bungalow.

"I'll make it back in time," I said to myself, checking my watch.

Irene lost no time in talking to me about everything she could think of - all the news, all the things she thought about all the news and with barely a pause for me to interject an opinion. Plus, she wanted me to see her swanky new hot water machine. It looked like a coffee machine.

"It saves you having to boil the kettle," she said, proudly.

"Wow," I replied, smiling to myself as though thinking of a private joke. I genuinely didn't know what else to say.

The fridge freezer (142cm x 54cm x 52cm) was covered in cobwebs, so I dusted it off and stretched out the tape measure. It suddenly struck me as odd that I might actually own my own fridge, so I tried not to think about that while I scribbled down the measurements.

"I'm going to have to go, Irene," I said eventually, setting down my unfinished mug of tea. 

I got back to the house to find it filled with the warm Christmassy aroma of ginger cake. And something else. I opened the oven, wafted away the smoke and pulled out a blackened lump bulging out of a loaf tin. In the end, I shook it out of the tin to let it cool on the side, and went to Starbucks with a book about chimps.

-

Some time ago, Gareth asked me if I would play the piano at a wedding blessing. It turned out to be yesterday so in the afternoon, I got suited up and went to the church.

I must have heard the wedding vows hundreds of times now. There was one line that got to me yesterday: all that I am, I give to you. That's a tough promise. It gives permission for another person to confront and challenge anything about you - you have given yourself to them and you belong to them just as much as they belong to you. I hoped it was more than just words for the couple standing at the front. Then I started thinking I should probably find a girl who can make a decent ginger cake, and I got the giggles during the serious bit.

I thought about that, driving up the A34 through the golden sunshine. I was on my way to another barn dance gig, this time in a little village hall somewhere near Wantage. I don't really know all that I am; there's a lot of discovery still to come. Marriage seems like a massive risk, giving away not only all that you are but also all that you will ever be. There must be lots of unknowns on the road ahead for this couple. But also, hopefully, a whole lot of beautiful evening sunshine.

This gig was for proper ceilidh enthusiasts - the folky types who already know their motorcycle weaves from their strip the willows. Normally, these things are sixtieth birthday parties and nobody really has much idea about what they're doing. Not this time. This troupe of whirling experts danced almost solidly from 8pm to 11:30pm, under the watchful eye of the Queen, who was smiling and waving approvingly from a photograph at the end of the hall.

By the end, my fingers were hurting and my wrists were sore. I got home at a cool 1am, thanks to Irn Bru and some late night radio.

BETWEEN THE LINES

I've just written the weirdest poem I think I can remember writing. Actually, I think it's three poems - and none of them make much sense.

Well, see if you can work out what I mean...

BETWEEN THE LINES

Between the lines
I'm fed up with working
And working and shirking
It all out today
I'm finding the time
Discerning the truth
In my fast-failing youth
Though there's stuff in the way

To think at the moment
I'm tired of the effort
Remember the times 
It takes to see through
The sky so much clearer
The cloudy excuses
And all is the truth
I'm getting from you

Behind the facade 
I'm fed up evading
Where life is invading
The elephant's glare
I'm finding it hard
While he stands in the room
In this crumbling tomb
We pretend he's not there

To know that I'm loved
So, if anyone asks me
Remember I'm here and
If I'm doing fine
When all will be clearer
I hope that they read it
I'll make it to you
Right here in the lines

HOME HUNTING PART 15: THE WHEN AND THE HOW

So, the mortgage offer is in, the survey's come back and the searches are under way.

I'm pleased to report that despite my house being 269 feet above sea level and miles away from any water, not to mention being a first floor maisonette, there is I'm told, 'minimal' risk of flooding. That's a relief.

I thought that this part of the process - the back and forth of documents, the read-this-sign-that-return-whatever, would be stressful. It's actually turning out to be weirdly empowering - and thanks to some highly organised solicitors, very straightforward.

What I still don't have though, is an idea of a completion date. It's now the number one question I get asked. We've moved on from the where and on to the when.

"Here he is, the homeowner!" my Dad has taken to saying whenever I get home. Few people are more excited about me moving than he is. The Intrepids have already found me a stack of heavy duty crates and some empty cardboard boxes.

"I don't think I've got this much stuff," I said, as my Mum passed another green crate up the loft ladder. I carefully stacked them by the tub of boardgames and my sister's old rocking horse.

It's strange how the emotional bit of home hunting - finding a place without feeling like a failure, doing battle with thoughts of being old and lonely and all of that - have sort of given way to the hard-headed, practical side of actually getting it done. Just as the where has moved onto the when, the why has moved on quite beautifully to the how... and for now, I couldn't be happier to get on with it.

VIVERE SENZA RIMPIANTI

I stopped off at the baguette shop on the way to work this morning. I think it's called La Baguette - from the French for 'The Baguette'.

I know - it's a wonder I haven't been recruited as a translator at the UN, with those kind of skills.

Anyway, speaking of translation, I happened to notice this morning, that one of the girls who works there has a tattoo, inked in Italian.

'Vivere Senza Rimpianti' it said in cursive writing across her shoulders. It means 'Live without regrets'.

Yeah man, don't spend your time wallowing in the past with those mistakes that got you down, live for the moment and don't take no nonsense from no-one innit.

I thought about it though, as I stood there cradling a five pound note. I think I need my regrets! Life without them? They're like milestones in my history that point me towards something better in the future. Without them, how will I know what went wrong or why?

Living without regrets would be like blunderbussing your way through every relationship, not really caring about who gets hurt or why, not understanding or perhaps even believing that you're capable of making a mistake! Who wants that? Seems like a fast-track to a lonely life to me.

Vivere Senza Rimpianti, indeed. And anyway, is it even possible? I mean even if you could live a perfect life, free of regret, remorse or disappointment, there are still things that happen outside of your control that are horribly regretful.

What's more there are also things that happen that actually could have been prevented... by you.

I gulped. That's the truth for me. There are things happening that I could have done something about. If I were living a life free from regret, it'd be easy for me to shrug them off, say 'oh well' and move on to the next thing. I may well have learned entirely nothing.

I think regret is designed to do something - to make you change, to help you see that there might be a better way. I agree that you can go too far and spend your whole time living in the past and getting depressed about the things that you regret. But you don't have to. You don't have to stay there.

Well, anyway I didn't say any of that in the middle of La Baguette. I did wonder though if the girl would wake up in thirty or forty years time and regret having those words imprinted into her skin. But there are more important things to regret than tattoos.

A few moments later, another girl breezed in. She strode past me, silently and walked through to the back without a word. Then, she emerged wearing an apron and started to pull on a couple of plastic gloves. None of the girls working there said anything to her - they just stood there in the corner, chatting by the blackboards under their breath. I looked at the girl who'd just come in. Her expression told me that she would rather be anywhere else and her eyes glistened with tears.

I looked back at the girl with the tattoo and wondered whether even she, lei vive senza rimpianti, would make it to the end of the day without a regret or two.

SCARF DAY AND A STORY FROM HARVARD

It was Scarf Day today: the first day of the season when a scarf is not just acceptable but actually essential to keep that chilly wind at bay.

It's turned cold. The sun is later up, the fog seeps across the morning and there's the hint of a sparkling frost in the air. It is winter's fingers stretching icily back from the future and clutching the cool blue skies of Autumn.

I spent most of Scarf Day today in a warm office talking about processes and plans. The Project Manager told me a story about a Harvard professor who demonstrated 'prioritisation' to his students by taking a glass and filling it with large rocks.

'Now each of these rocks represents a big task you have to complete. See how they quickly fill up your life?" said the professor, apparently, holding the glass aloft. "Now, is the glass full?"

"Yessir," said the students.

"Ah, not quite," he replied, and proceeded to pour a handful of smaller stones into the glass. The stones rattled into the gaps. "How about now?" he said.

"Well it's full-er!" said someone.

"Indeed, but there's room for more!" cried the professor as he dumped a bag of sand on the desk. Gently, he started pouring the sand over the stones in the glass until every last gap was filled with the tiniest grains.

"Get the big tasks out of the way first," he said, "and then the smaller tasks will take care of themselves in the time available."

At that point, one particular student got up and left the room. After a few minutes he returned clutching a bottle of Budweiser. He cranked off the lid and started pouring it into the sand-covered stone-filled glass on the professor's desk.

"And what was that all about?" asked the professor with a raised eyebrow.

"Wellsir," replied the student, "It just goes to show that no matter how busy you are... there's always time for a beer."

I think the Project Manager was trying to get a point across to me about contingency time - that bit of the week which inevitably gets filled with the sandy small stuff that you can't anticipate. For me though, the sandy stuff is the bits of the rest of my life that get stuck in the glass whether I like it or not, filling my thoughts and nibbling my time.

These are things that I grind down, from misshapen rocks to tiny, beautiful grains that flow and pour like liquid. At least, that's what I tell myself, wandering along the road thinking them all through.

As I walked home, I buried my nose in the scarf, the same scarf I had had at university fifteen years ago, gently eroding some difficult thoughts as I went.

What did the professor do with that glass afterwards? It must have been a nightmare to clean out.

ESCAPING YOURSELF

Well we've got the replacement pedometers. These ones are supposed to be super accurate, so without further ado, the great competition we've all been waiting for... begins on Monday.

I thought it was for a month but apparently it finishes at the end of December! Can you believe it? I've got to monitor my steps until the end of the year!

Junko's already set up a daily reminder for the Deskercises. At 3pm every day, my computer is going to tell me to do some of the officially sanctioned Desk Exercises (all done sitting down, remember). I think she really wants to win.

Louise, currently in the Canary Islands, is going to have a shock when she gets back on Monday.

Golly, I wish I were in the Canary Islands. And I normally have no desire to go there at all. It's all rocky and volcanic, isn't it? Black sands and moonscapes, I've heard.

Nonetheless, escapism anywhere would be a wonderful thing right now. Sometimes getting away is much more about what you're getting away from than about what you're getting away to. I've often thought it would be nice if you could just switch yourself off and be someone else for a week.

This week I'll be fishing in the Amazon. Knee-deep in the cool mud and cold water, I'll swing the sopping collection of eels over my shoulder and trek back barefoot through the glistening rainforest.

The week after, I'll be hanging out with my buddies in New York, taking a root beer in a sports bar and watching the game. And after that, I'll be piping in the haggis at my windswept Scottish Castle while the rain lashes the ancient stones and the fire crackles happily in the hearth.

See, this is one of the things I don't like about technology - actually, taking your phone everywhere with you makes escapism much harder. Mostly because the thing bleeps at you all the time, reminding you that you're not somewhere else, you're not in the Amazon, or Manhattan, or escaping anywhere, even when you are. Hey, you know that thing you're worried about, that thing you're trying to get away from, that thing that winds you up... it's right here in your pocket. Switch it off, that's what I say.

I think I need a holiday, or maybe just a long walk to clear my head and get a bit of that adventuring escapism back.

"Don't forget your pedometer," said Junko.

THE DAY I NEARLY LOST AN ARM

I walked back to work (after lunch) today in such a way that my rucksack cut off the circulation to my right arm. I could feel my hand tingling.

I was about to stop and have a breather when Eloi, a colleague of mine, spotted me by the lake. It was only polite to rush across the road (he was waiting for me) and walk back with him, chatting about the Autumns in Catalonia, while my arm grew dizzy. I waggled my fingers and my shoulder twitched. As Eloi told me how the summer overtakes the Spring, and the Winter sometimes arrives all at once on a single day, I looked at my palm and saw that my skin was slowly turning a sort of mottled blue.

There wasn't far to go. I was sure I'd make it. Part of the reason I was in survival mode, was that my rucksack was carrying two laptops, two power cables, a folder full of house-related paperwork and an empty plastic tub. I need all of these items today and they had made my bag quite heavy.

Now that I'm back, my coat is draped over the chair, the bag is dumped under my desk and my arm has pins and needles. Blood is coursing through each vein, pulsating and pumping its way to my fingers, and the adrenaline is flowing through my system. It's quite a relief - I thought my piano-playing days might be in jeopardy for a while there.

I bet Bear Grylls has never done this. The one-arm-two-laptop challenge ought to be part of the SAS training syllabus, I reckon.

SCREEN-FREE SATURDAY

I threw my hands into my coat pockets and walked up the tree-lined street to my car. The air was cold, after the warmth and the fun of Paul and Heather's house. I watched my breath expand into the night and disappear in a thin wispy vapour.

It's fair to say that the first ever Screen-Free Saturday had been a resounding success. My phone, like a shiny brick, had been in my pocket all day, and it had remained gloriously silent for almost twenty four hours, in my attempt to enjoy a life less connected.

The day started with me driving to the Toby Carvery for breakfast. Almost everything on the road was trying to stop me arriving on time, including confused articulated lorries and roads that had moved since the last time I drove down them. I really don't like it when roads do that. I arrived at the carvery eventually and drove around looking for a parking space.

It was Paul's birthday, and to celebrate, he'd invited a few guys to the Toby Carvery for what he described as a 'cheap and plentiful' full english breakfast, followed by a couple of hours on the driving range, thwacking some golf balls around. I got there to find everyone else tucking into platefuls of sausages, eggs, beans and mushrooms, chatting about football.

"Gents, it's the one and only Matt Stubbs!" cheered Paul as I arrived. The atmosphere was immediately blokey. In fact, as I looked around, it seemed the entire carvery was packed with burly bearded men, wolfing down breakfasts and slurping tea in that enthusiastic way that men free of their wives and bolstered by the indifference of the rest of the lads, will always revert to. I half-expected to see a mountain of bright yellow hard-hats stacked up by the door. Not for Paul's party though - I counted one insurance salesman, an accountant, a networking engineer and a youth pastor, among others.

"Happy birfday, mate!" I said in a way that surprised me a little. I sat down before I realised that there wasn't really room for me. It had already occurred to me that I would push through any issues of awkwardness and self-confidence should they arise, so I brushed that aside, stood up and headed over to the sloppy tea urns.

If I'd imagined breakfast would be a battle for self-confidence, then I hadn't quite anticipated the driving range. I secretly don't understand the point of a driving range. I didn't say anything. Gareth slipped on his white golfing glove and started swinging an imaginary 9-iron. He knows what he's doing at the driving range. I, however, was an absolute master at missing the ball altogether.

"Do you want the tee a bit higher?" asked Paul at one point. I guessed I did.

Golf must be one of the most frustrating things I've ever tried. Before you can get anywhere, you have to have a set of complicated techniques down - including interlocking the little finger of one hand with the index of finger of the other round the handle, standing straight but not straight, swinging a heavy metal pole in a perfect arc, judging the height of the ball from the ground and crucially, hitting it towards a tiny hole several hundred yards away - though on the driving range, the hole is replaced by yellow markers telling you how far away they are. Who invented this nonsense? My back was aching and my fingers felt like they had been on the rack and my best shot, my absolute best, nudged the ball about 20 yards onto the range where it rolled to a miserable stop. 

From the driving range, I went to Starbucks, had a cup of tea and read through the survey report on the maisonette. I found myself circling a few things. There's so much about buildings that I don't know about. At one point, I got my phone out of my pocket to Google something about how moss affects roof tiles, and then remembered that it was Screen-Free Saturday. The mossy tiles would have to wait.

The day certainly did seem to stretch out. I had time to make a vegetable curry in the afternoon - something that the people running the parenting course at church had asked for. I'd volunteered, thinking it would be fun to learn (I have never made a curry before). I put on some music and started chopping onions. It really was fun, though I think the recipe I found might have got tablespoons and teaspoons round the wrong way. I scooped out some to taste, while it bubbled away on the stove, and nearly lost the use of my tongue; my whole head felt like it was on fire. I hope the parents are in the mood for something with a little kick tomorrow night.

Soon it was time for dinner at Paul and Heather's. They'd invited a few of us round for a meal and a birthday board game. That was much more my style than the driving range - simple, phone-free fun with friends. I walked into the kitchen while Paul stirred something on the stove.

"Mmm, what's for dinner, Paul?" I asked.

"It's a red thai curry," he replied. Of course it was.

So that's how the first Screen-Free Saturday went. No faffing around on Twitter, no constantly checking emails, no sneaky battles on QuizUp. It was the longest, most enjoyable Saturday I've had in a long time. 

As I walked up the road and back to my car after a long game of Sherlock Holmes, 221B Baker Street and a few cups of glorious tea, I felt really rather satisfied with my Screen-Free Saturday. I hadn't planned to fill it with so much enjoyable stuff - it had just sort of happened.

And that's the way I think it should be.

THE KETTLE-BASED REVOLUTION

"The hot water boiler's broken... again!" said Louise, slumping into her chair with an empty mug.

"Wasn't it only just fixed?" I asked.

"Wednesday," she replied.

I laughed, then realised it wasn't funny.

"Sorry," I apologised, "It's not that funny. Maybe though, everyone will see the light and join my kettle-boiling revolution..."

I admit, it's not really a revolutionary idea, boiling water in the kettle. In fact, some might argue that it is in fact the traditional way, and has been since the invention of the electric kettle at the end of the Nineteenth Century. If anything, it's the hot water boiler, permanently attached to pipes in the wall and supplying a constant flow of readily available boiling H₂0, who is the revolutionary here.

However, even after the engineer ripped it apart and fixed it the other day, this permanent plastic revolutionary is broken for the second time in a week.

And everyone's using the kettle.

"It's a great way to take a few moments, to sit back and take stock, remember where you are and build a little patience... it's all about those chillout minutes," I said, rolling up my sleeves.

As you know, I use the kettle even when the hot water boiler is working. Not only do you get a few minutes to breathe, or chat to someone about Islam in the middle ages or a forthcoming trip around South America with fellow birdwatchers, but you also get actual boiling water for your tea, instead of the tepid, limescale-filled, bubbling effluent that gushes out of the plastic tap on the front of that new-fangled machine.

The truth is of course, that the kettle-based revolution is only part of a much larger idea that runs throughout my thoughts this week.

That is that it's OK not to be dependent on technology, to switch it off sometimes and remind yourself who you are and the great big world you live in. True, it might be a message just for me. That's OK - I don't mind being taught that lesson and I'm not suggesting that we all ought to throw away our phones and our computers and join the Amish.

I think it's all about balance, and I think sometimes it's quite easy to get out of balance without realising.

And in fact, that's what a revolution is for, isn't it? It's supposed to restore some balance - whether it's returning power to the people after years of oppression, or disempowering a plastic perma-boiler on the wall of an office kitchen.

"Thank God the coffee machine is still working," said someone, emerging from the kitchen.

I shook my head and smiled.

PLANNING TO AVOID PHUBBERY

I learned a new word today: phubbing.

This little shipped-together transitive verb, to 'phub' is what happens when the word 'phone' and 'snub' collide in a kind of portmanteau train-crash. You can hear the buffers thud together: phub, phub, phub...

It's the act of ignoring someone while they're talking to you because you're looking at your phone.

Yep, you and I live in a world where there's now a word, a unique word, for that exact thing.

I hope I don't do that.

Now that I've got my iPhone back, I've been thinking about ways I can be less dependent on having it with me. As I queued up in the Apple Store to collect it, I found my fingers automatically reaching for my pocket, reaching for a phone which quite obviously wasn't there.

I stood there, behind two gigantic rucksacks in the queue for an Apple Genius. Everybody had their head down and their fingers twitching across glimmering screens. It suddenly seemed quite a sorry sight - lots of people, all gathered together, none of them caring at all about the fact they were both the phubbers and the phubbed.

It's fixed by the way, my iPhone 5s - as clear and as shiny as ever it was.

So, I've reached what I think will be a decisive moment. I think it's time to restart 'Screen Free Saturdays'. Yup, Screen Free Saturdays - from Midnight to Midnight, no square-eyed LCD displays for me, no possibility of phubbing anybody - just good old cotton-bound books and some fresh air, incommunicado.

According to some scientists in a journal called Computers in Human Behavior, the 'ubiquitous nature of cell phones makes phubbing... a near inevitable occurrence.'

They cite some common behaviours which are familiar but are also lethal to good, healthy relationships:

• Checking your phone during dinner
• Angling your phone where you can see it when together with your partner
• Keeping your phone in your hand during an important conversation
• Pulling your phone out whenever it beeps or rings, even in the middle of something serious

The study goes on to make the extraordinary suggestion that there's a correlation between phubbing and depression. In other words, the more you perceive yourself to be phubbed, the more it leads to relational conflict, insecurity, tension, low satisfaction, and low self-esteem.

Yep, you and I live in a world where that's a thing.

Give me a Saturday night on a glassy lake under a starlit sky, a little wooden rowing boat, a blanket and a gas-powered lantern, I thought to myself as I read through the article.

Though how I'd blog about it, I haven't quite figured out.

IT'S TIME

"It's time!" said a voice in the darkness. Um, what? I was half-thinking I'd said it myself in my sleep, and had woken myself up in the process.

Time for what? The room was black and the air felt cold, the kind of chill you only get in the early hours of the morning when it does its absolute best to persuade you not to get out of a warm bed.

I reached for my phone and fumbled around for a bit before remembering that my phone was still in the Apple Store. I didn't have time to pick it up after work in the end, and so it spent the night in the soft-edged palace of glowing iMacs. I looked at my watch instead. You know, old school.

It's time, I thought to myself, wondering. It was as though a voice had reached into my dreams, into my core, and had somehow softly whispered those two words until they'd filled every part of me, reverberating through my bones and echoing against my skin.

The little glowing orb of my watch-face said it was 5am. That'd be about right. There'd be no going back to sleep.

What is it time for? If this is God speaking to me, I'm overawed but also not just a little bit helpless. Is there something I'm supposed to do? I lay there in the dark trying to remember what I'd been dreaming about. I've got no idea; the more you try to remember a dream, the further away it gets.

What I do know is that there's a sense of something in the air, and maybe it's the beginning of a new season. I don't quite understand it, but that's the feeling. That's not a bad thing - to be honest, change is the only remedy for boredom; it's just a pain if you don't like either.

I think there might be a new adventure coming up.

Anyway, I emerged from the duvet and got ready for work, trying to figure it all out. Whatever it might be time for, I want to be ready.

GENIUSES ARE FIXING MY PHONE

"Nah mate," said the guy in the tropical phone shop. "You're gonna have to go to the Apple Store, see if they can fix it."

I went to the Apple Store. What a place. It's like an airport terminal, bustling with people trying to escape the dreariness of the outside world with a new iPad or Apple Watch or whatever else is in there.

Carefully navigating between the large plain IKEA-style tables and the crowd of people gathered around the iMacs, are the Apple Geniuses - grey t-shirts, earpieces and smooth confident smiles. They carry iPads in the same way waiters carry trays through posh restaurants.

I pulled out my embarrassingly cracked phone. It looked like I'd been playing football with it. In the softly glowing palace of brand new iPhones and glittering MacBooks, my phone would have been forgiven for feeling as self-conscious as I did. I pushed the button and watched the screen flicker into life.

A large, black stain had spread across the display; behind the tartan grid of faulty colours I could just about make out the screen, glimmering like a faint unreachable world I used to know. There would be no sliding to unlock today. I have to go back later to pick it up.

What actually is a genius? Wikipedia says it's someone who displays 'exceptionally superior intellectual ability, creativity or originality, typically to a degree that is associated with the achievement of new advances in a domain of knowledge.'

In other words, someone who's so clever that they naturally invent things that no-one else has thought of. It's almost as though they can't help it; like Leonardo* they're wired up to be curious about how things work; like Einstein, they're somehow able to pursue a thought right the way through to its logical conclusion without letting their preconceived ideas of the solution get in the way. They're incredible thinkers, solution-finders and problem solvers who just can't help changing the world, wherever they go with their brilliant ideas and inventions.

So, how do they end up working in Apple Stores?



*Da Vinci, not Di Caprio.

VIRTUALLY UNREACHABLE

I've been thinking about writing an ode to my broken phone: a sweeping work of epic loss and tragedy; poetry poured from a heart which is as broken as the screen it carries. Woe! Woe to these fingers which once cradled the delicious curves of the iPhone5s and flicked happily through my Twitter feed; sorrow, all is sorrow, for these eyes which once did scan my inbox, which did skim-read Wikipedia and hath played Tetris on the bus.

You might have gathered from that that the screen is cracked. It's worse than that though, there's something leaking behind the scenes and the display is crisis-crossed with multicoloured horizontal and vertical lines. It grew gradually worse today, steadily slipping into a sort of tartan coma. I can't text anyone without it translating it into gibberish as the touch screen no longer recognises the gentle pressure of my fingertips. I very nearly sent a message about being a KKK ninja when autocorrect kicked in. Really not sure what one of those would be.

So, it's back to the incredibly hot phone shop tomorrow for another round of tropical phone bingo. 5 points if I'm served by a teenager, 10 if they take a patronising sharp intake of breath and 20 if I get out of there without paying any more than I absolutely have to. I'm hoping I can wangle a half decent replacement and (ahem) a protective case.

Meanwhile, I will be virtually unreachable. Except by email. And by carrier pigeon.

Woe is me.

Not really.

VAGUE AND SOMEHOW SPECIFIC

The radiator men didn't show up. I sat there for ages, waiting, wondering whether I could risk going outside into the garden to warm up. There would always be the chance that I would miss the doorbell.

I don't understand delivery windows. The other day, my Mum told me that she was expecting the tumble-dryer repair man to arrive anywhere between 7:41am and 1:41pm. It was weirdly specific and yet, impossibly vague. Presumably that particular window was calculated by a computer algorithm - for which vagueness and precision are perfectly coexistent parameters.

It's a bit like announcing that you've discovered that the dinosaurs died out on a Thursday.

In the end I watched my sister's copy of Ocean's Eleven, packed up the blankets, washed up the mug and the teapot and headed home, cold, tired and hungry. I'd been there for six and a half hours and I was a bit fed up. I flicked on the radio and whacked up the heating in the car.

'Hi. I stayed until 3.25 but no delivery,' I texted, 'Sorry I can't stay any longer, hope it works out OK.'

No reply. The radiators were supposed to arrive before 1:30. I'm pretty sure I did more than my duty. They wouldn't have been that late surely? Plus I was going a bit crazy.

I wonder what my manager would say if I told him I'd definitely arrive at work between 8:17 and 10:17. Would he expect me at 8:17? Would he be OK if I rolled in at quarter past ten, cheerily waving good morning to everyone as I slumped down at my desk. I guess not. How do these companies get away with such a vague service? How many hours are wasted each week by people staying in, working from home, twiddling their thumbs between the specified hours, while a carpet fitter munches crisps in a Ford Transit, or a plumber is frantically bashing his sat nav with a 3/4 inch spanner? These systems could be so much better.

There was a trail of red lights glimmering up ahead as I approached the signs for Newbury. The motorway was closed and every car, van, bike and horse box was being directed along the A4, my only other route home. I knew then that I'd be stuck in that car for the next hour and a half, crawling home with everyone else.

As I sat there in the traffic, I thought about texting my Mum to let her know that I would be home late. I didn't. I think that might still be illegal, even in a traffic jam. Plus, I quickly realised that I couldn't be any more specific, or any less vague, about what time I'd get home. That made me laugh. Life is unpredictable sometimes.

THE COLDEST HOUSE IN LAMBOURN

OK, before I tell you why I'm currently sitting in someone else's house freezing my socks off, I should provide a little back-story.

My little sister is having a baby. Well, not right now, I mean in a few weeks' time - though to be honest, she is currently enormous, so it could actually be any moment. (You'll remember of course that I found myself awkwardly drinking tea at her baby shower.)

Anyway, while this is a brilliant ray of sunshine, bursting through an otherwise grizzly year for all of us, it has presented a few challenges. One such challenge (other than Ben predicting that his new cousin would be called 'Count Dooku') is that in the midst of expecting, my sister and her husband moved from Pangbourne (just down the road)... to a nice house in Lambourn (a lot further down the road). It's great -  a quiet village, lovely little church and a lot of horsey people driving around in jeeps. It's just quite far away.

"You've remembered?" asked my Mum.

"Remembered what?" I said, somewhat dangerously.

It turns out that they arranged for their radiators to be delivered on the same day as their Bring-Dads-Along antenatal course* and someone was required to sit in their house and wait for the delivery. My Mum couldn't do it because she's looking after the Niblings and so... I have got the job.

And that's how I've ended up sitting in someone else's living room on a very quiet Saturday morning. I'm in the coldest house in Lambourn, wrapped in a blanket, drinking tea and periodically breathing on my fingers to stop them getting frostbite. I did look for the thermostat, and even the boiler, but for some reason they don't seem to have one. They really ought to get central heating. It is freezing.

*I should point out, that that means the father of the child and not your dad. That would just be weird.

MAGNETIC DISCONNECT

"Um, I've been sitting here coding, and apparently I've done 580 steps," said Ant, checking his company pedometer.

It turns out there's a design flaw in the pedometers and they've all been recalled. The competition's delayed while they look for alternatives. Ah well.

-

Meanwhile, I feel like I'm not really here. I'm sure there must be a word for this, it happens quite a bit.

It's like I'm looking out through these eyes and tapping away with these fingers; I can feel myself connected to the desk, the chair, the floor, the keyboard, even the sunny day behind the venetian blinds... but somehow it isn't really me. I'm somewhere else, observing all this and steadily disconnecting myself from the world.

Louise has given me some neodymium magnets she ordered off Amazon. Apparently, she wanted magnets that she could use on a whiteboard, and ended up with a stack of ten high-power engineering magnets, for which she had no use at all! And indeed, it does take some considerable finger strength to prize them apart.

So far, the only use I've found for them is magically suspending paperclips. But they could be really helpful for an annoying cupboard door that won't close or hanging a thing up or something.

Plus, magnetism is amazing. As I sit here, pushing two magnets together and feeling the resistance as though it were an invisible bubble between them, I'm fascinated by it. Then, when one magnet flies across the desk and snaps together with another, it seems like wizardry.

What's more, to think that this same force is ultimately connected to the electric field that draws electrons around all the circuits in front of me, powers this computer and that phone and whatever else, it's extraordinary.

Maybe that's how I feel - as though me, the real me hasn't quite snapped into place like magnets. Instead, there's an invisible resistance that disconnects me from reality and I'm left here feeling a bit distant.

I hope things line up pretty soon.