THE STANDARD TANDOORI

"Oakford?" said Ant, slipping his coat on. I downed my glass of tap water while everyone filed slowly out of the Standard Tandoori.

The Standard Tandoori indeed. Why not the Slightly Better Than Average Tandoori or the Not-Quite-Outstanding-Tandoori. Actually, what even is a tandoori?

Anyway, we emptied the Standard Tandoori, shaking the hands of the little Nepalese man who owns the place. Well I did, anyway.

It was raining. Hoods went up and we spilled out onto the shiny pavement. It reminded me suddenly of  a melancholy impressionist painting. There was no time to dwell on that. Out, across the road, under the bridge and on to The Oakford.

The Oakford Social Club is a town-centre pub which is reasonable at 6pm on a Friday night and is unbearable (for people like me) at say, 10:29pm after a spicy curry. It's a noisy, dingy, darkened warehouse of young people and thumping beats. The bouncer gave me a wry smile as if to say, 'Not for you this, eh?' before waving me through without need for identification.

I elbowed my way through the sea of trendy youngsters, each out at what seemed way past their bed time. The air was full and the noise was unbearable. The bar was sprawling, seething almost. My friends were somewhere near the back of the room, standing round a table with no seats, trying to hear each other. I made my apologies and left, slaloming through a thousand conversations, pint glasses and hipsters, until I was out into the fresh air and the drizzle, half an hour early for the train. It says something when I'd rather spend half an hour in the waiting room at the station than in a place that was designed for my evening entertainiment.

The whole thing had been more civilised than I'd expected. Granted, at the curry house, I'd sat once again at the Sensible End of the table, and though it was drizzling outside the Oakford, I was sure I had left at the right moment. As is tradition, everyone had pretended it was Joe's birthday, and as is tradition, Joe had wildly hated it and had scowled furiously around the room.

The food was bounteous. I had the lamb chilli, forgetting that in a Nepalese tandoori, the definition of spicy would be notched up a few scovilles. I gulped as the room span and the paintings of the Himalayas swam before my eyes. Nobody noticed.

And I think that might be my observation on these things. Nobody notices. The air is blue, the culture gap is wide, the post bill-split number is high and the beer is addling. The bar is packed, the night is loud, the world is blind and nobody notices. Did I have a good time? Sort of. Would I rather have a roaring fire and a glass of port? Yes with bells on. Was I sociable in the end? I tried my best and it was actually OK. Is anyone else bothered? No, not really. It was just... all rather standard. And I think I'd like a little more than that.

STORM IN A TEACUP

Friday again. There's a fraught feeling in the air today, a sort of swirling paranoia. Actually, I think it's because it's the Curry Night tonight and that always brings a few mixed emotions. Maybe it's just me then.

I said I'd go. I'm still not sure how wise a decision that is - I've seen things degenerate and felt like a fish out of water before at these shindigs. Yet, I do really want to be sociable - I feel like it could really help me not look like a hermit!

Anyway, seeing as I'm suffering from the 'swirling paranoia' I thought I'd post another poem. This one is from a while ago, but it captures something relevant.


Storm in a Teacup

Between the walls of china
Upon the boiling sea
we sailed upon a sugar-cube
Across the waves of tea

Across the torrid ocean
Beneath the scented sky
From bow to brown horizon
The nectar bubbled by

It bubbled and it troubled
And it slopped against the side
and the steam began to beam
upon on the overheating tide
And the ocean in a motion
Turned about the troubled crew
As it whipped about the ship
Like a storm about to brew

Then rain began to tumble
Like arrows on the sea
It lashed against the sugar-cube
And spiked into the tea.

The sea grew hot and angry
And the waves were high and steep
As the ocean pushed us skyward
And then dropped us to the deep

It grumbled and it rumbled
And it twisted and it turned
And it growled and then it howled
Till the raging waters burned
And the crew upon the brew
Looked to heaven as we cried
should we sink upon the brink
Of the effervescent tide!

Then somehow in the distance
A ray of light broke through
And suddenly the brightened sky
was shining on the crew

And limping on the ocean
We raised the tattered sail
and all across the raging tea
the storm began to fail

Between the walls of china
Upon the boiling sea
We'd known a storm no finer
Than in that cup of tea

HOLDING PATTERN

I'm on hold with Scottish and Southern Electric. Actually I'm

Thank you for your patience, your call will be answered as soon as possible.

lucky I'm here at all. I just spoke to Susan, a lady with an Edinburgh accent who also sounded like she was halfway up a mountain. The line crackled and swooshed and I could barely here her above the...

All of our advisors are busy at the moment. Please hold.

...wind whistling down the slopes of the cairngorms.

Here's the thing. I've got two electricity meters and no-one can figure out why. One looks like it crash-landed out of the 1960s, the other is all spinning dials and numbers.

Thank you for your patience, your call will be answered as soon as possible.

I've been on hold a lot. Even the tinny jazz music's starting to get on my nerves.

Just remember what your old pal said, yeah, you've got a friend in me.

A lot.

It's like having a conversation with someone who occasionally goes out of the room, talks about you with the door closed and then sends the other person in. Only the little whispered conversation in the corridor wasn't quite detailed enough so you have to go over it all again.

Ye, oh yes, hello!.

Two meters.

Yes.

No.

Three three one eight zero two...

Oh.

OK. Well what does it look like?

Really? Little numbers? Why is this so confusing?

OK. Day and night.

Yes.

Yes, but, oh wait a sec...

Unforgettable... that's what you are.

Funny stuff, Nat King Cole, funny stuff.

BEING RADICAL WITH AN UMBRELLA

I lent someone my umbrella today. They were struggling to fix their broken spokes and the fabric was flapping around in the rain.

"Do you want to borrow mine?" I said, "I don't need it while I'm inside."

"I might have to," he replied, grumpily.

I sighed. You don't have to do anything, I thought, and neither do I, but that isn't really the point. He took it without a thank you and headed off into the rain.

So out went my umbrella on loan. I was wondering what would happen if it came back inside-out, or in tatters, looking like a raincoat had had a fight with a washing line. I quickly decided that none of this would matter.

As it happened, it did come back to me, neatly wrapped and in perfect working order.

It occurred to me a little later, that I had done something that was probably a bit counter-cultural. Oh, not that I wouldn't do that again, it's just that according to the 'rules' I should have...

... nodded and grinned, said something like 'Good luck,' while he faffed about with the spokes, collapsed my own umbrella and marched in through the revolving doors, forgetting all about it.

The rules kind of suck don't they? What would you have done?

But there is a part of me that absolutely loves doing the unexpected thing, breaking the rules wherever I see them.

Oh, not just at work, I mean all over the place. Could I ask the daring question, or suggest something so radical it makes you think in a whole new way? Could I be a catalyst for something good happening in a world of unbearable predictability?

It does take two things I often lack though: bravery and the ability to take criticism well. There is always a bit of risk.

But life's more fun when you risk it, isn't it? Who knows what could happen?

Well, I suppose I could have been walking home in the rain later, carrying the remains of a broken umbrella.

CURTAINS

Hey there. Do you like to hear people whinging about curtains? Would you like to know how expensive they are, or simply experience the sheer bafflement of someone trying to get to grips with the astronomical cost of drapery?

Well, have I got an opportunity for you!

Yes folks, for one time only, you get the chance to hear me, wide-eyed with astonishment, question why decent material is £25 per metre and yet mysteriously not encrusted with jewels or precious stones. Listen to my confused, sesquipedalian rants as I use words like 'preposterous' and 'outrage' to describe the extortionate trading of material and how it corresponds to my suddenly enormous windows. Gaze with wonder, as I go on and on about how unbelievable it is and how the world exploits basic human needs like privacy and the ability to go to sleep in the dark for a quick buck.

You'll be shocked as you realise my extraordinary lack of perspective on the matter, maybe even bamboozled by my inability to see beyond the end of my own nose to the cold world that lies beyond my windows.

Watch with wonder as I completely forget that millions of people live and die hungry outside, every day while those suited slimeballs run velvetine fabric through industrial sewing machines, ready to sell to rich westerners who will thoughtlessly draw them every single day, just to hide the darkness and the danger of the real world on the other side of the glass.

This limited opportunity will only be available for a short time, so if you'd like to hear someone shortsightedly whinge with pointless perspicacity, I'm available for a spectacularly small fee... unlike the nearest pair of curtains.

TOWN HALLS

We called them 'town halls' when I worked for an American company. A town hall happened when, once a quarter, the entire organisation would crowd together into the largest meeting room available and listen to the CEO explain very diplomatically, where we were as a company.

I've always treated them as opportunities for analysing presentation skills.

As well as being fascinated by graphs that go 'up and to the right', slides that bounce in as though they've been designed by sixth-formers in ICT, and toe-curling typos, I'm interested in how each presenter engages their audience, how they get their point across, and how it's received. I often find myself peering around, taking notes on all the wrong things.

Generally, there's a single point behind all the detail of these talks: we're doing badly, we've sold loads of stuff but not enough, Tim's awesome isn't he, our shareholders are in for a rough ride if you lot don't buck your ideas up, except you, Tim; you're the best; three cheers for Tim. Did I mention Tim?

A lot of people abandon the idea of being themselves altogether. They throw that idea out of the window and start with a joke. Only, they're not used to telling the kind of joke they found on the Internet twenty minutes ago, so they have to push through the tumbleweed, awkwardly, like a JCB arriving at a cocktail party.

Then there are the sales guys who clasp their fingers together, point and beam as they 'work the room'. No script, just eye contact and seamless confidence. They bat away hecklers with charm and they sparkle through slides with a wink and a winsome smile.

"Thanks, Tim," says the CEO, re-taking the floor, "Great guy," he almost says, pretending to shoot Tim with his index finger.

I used to think of The Simpsons whenever I was invited to a town hall. All the characters are called together (usually by Mayor Quimby) to decide whether Springfield should get a monorail, or should march Bart Simpson out of town with pitchforks or something.

In the show, the 'town hall' was the great hub of a small community, deciding together, what is what. I genuinely think that that's what the big cheeses of the world want to create too - a kind of corporate togetherness where we all feel really cosy about our organisation.

Cosy's not the word. It's sometimes as swelteringly claustrophobic as the 17:56 from London Paddington.

It is good to have an opportunity to ask questions though. I had one picked and read out this time, which made me smile, anonymously from my seat.

In some ways, a town hall doesn't seem like the most efficient way to present information. It's expensive and often difficult - public speaking is in the list of our top ten fears.

Plus, as time moves forwards and technology speeds everything up, our collective concentration span is getting shorter. Content, even well-presented content has to adapt, refresh, change and be smarter, or none of us will ever get to the end of it.

Speaking of which...

CAN'T SEE STRAIGHT

I've got that whole 'so-tired-I-can't-see-straight' thing again. It's no good this. I can't seem to focus on the screen in front of me.

You're going to tell me that that's not normal in a moment, aren't you? Like they did when I mentioned about the coloured fringe I sometimes see in the dark. Oh you know the one: the thing that looks a bit like a patterned carpet but all different colours in the corner of your eye when the lights go out...

Anyway, back to today's malady. The words are there on the page; I just can't fix them down, as though my eyes are trying to look through them while they jump about.

You know what this means? It means it's definitely time for a Screen-Free Saturday. Seriously, I can't recommend it highly enough. Switch off your devices, go outside, stand in the rain, sit in a coffee shop and listen to people talking. Then on Sunday morning, switch everything back on if you have to, and be glad you missed the drama.

That's what social media is - a drama, where all the characters are people you know and all the story lines intertwine in the messy bulletin of your newsfeed. It's hard work scrolling through it all, figuring out how you feel, how you want to feel and what you should do in response. And every bit of hard work needs a bit of sabbath at the end of it.

By the way, I got an email today which started with...

Hi, %%FIRST_NAME%%, Your views are important to us...

Clearly.

Switch it all off! Worry about it some other time; enjoy life without it for a while, at least for a day.

Oh and look after your eyesight. That's what I need to do too.

THE MOST FUN THING I DO

I often hear myself telling people that choir is the 'most fun thing that I do.'

I don't always think of it like that though. Ask me at 2am the next time I'm up moving crotchets around a computer screen while every muscle in my body is yearning for me to go to bed. Or maybe when I'm in the middle of recording the parts for a training CD and my laptop crashes or I accidentally send the mic flying or something. Yeah, ask me then.

However, on nights like tonight, if you were to ask me, you'd hear me say that running a choir is irrepressibly, wonderfully and inescapably enjoyable. I can't explain why - maybe the collective excitement at singing in harmony and sounding great together, maybe the unexpected buzz of achievement or maybe the sense of fun and freedom that just flows through that particular group of people. Whatever it is, it turned out tonight to be just what I needed.

It could possibly be the contrast with work, which has been challenging this week, with decorating, which has been boring, and with other things that have left me... despairing.

However I still can't get away from the fact that being in, directing, leading and sometimes teasing out the best from a community choir remains after four years and by a long margin, the most fun thing I do.

INSPIRATION RADIO

Just as a point of clarification, I did actually write at least two songs last year with my friend, Sammy. We were pretty pleased with them as well!

I guess what I meant yesterday was that it's been a long time since I felt that constant flow of ever-improving inspiration. Ten years ago, I was writing songs every month and I felt alive because of it. I'd sit at the piano and they'd tumble out of my heart.

In fact, I'm wondering whether I should set myself that challenge again - write a song every month that I'd be happy performing (or better, giving to someone else to perform) and see what happens.

Meanwhile, it's extra cold today. I walked to work through the frozen white of the morning frost. The low sunlight streamed through the mist and glinted from windscreens as commuters whizzed past me.

"Wrap up warm," my Dad had said as I did up my boots in the hallway. I stood up and pulled my coat on over a thick jumper and scarf.

"I may be some time," I said. He laughed.

It is beautiful though. The world sparkles on mornings like this. Even the bare and brittle trees seem artful against the wintry sun, as though posing for Klimt, sort of golden and ethereal.

Maybe I'm wrong about inspiration; maybe it doesn't come magically towards you, but you simply have to tune into it. Perhaps, like a radio signal, it's just there: invisible, inaudible and intangible until you learn how to adjust your frequency and translate it into the beautiful thing it could be.

And it could be really beautiful, couldn't it?

THE SLEEPING SONG WRITER

Someone I've not seen in a while asked me for an old song I wrote a long time ago. There are so many forgotten things from my life that were so real and so powerful long ago. They seem a little faded now, as though I've kept them gathering dust in the loft.

I haven't written a song in a long time, yet deep within me, beyond the technical writing and the choir arranging and the pretending to write poetry, there is the core of a song writer who has somehow fallen asleep.

It all sounds the same, you see. There aren't many new ideas, there isn't much inspiration floating around. The process is hard labour in a world where time has been squeezed out of my life like toothpaste in a vice. The thoughts, the novel ways of thinking about things, the fascination with odd phrases or curious words are all still there somewhere, they just can't seem to find a way out.

It was nice to be reminded though. I will revisit that song and send it. Maybe as the tune and the lyrics ring my memory, something will remind me who I'm supposed to be. Perhaps that burning desire to be a song writer has a purpose that will lead me somewhere good again? Who can say?

Maybe there's a way that I can be

Lost again within the melody

Maybe there's a song that I can find

To leave the aching silences behind

You know I would do it all day and every day if I could. As it is, I can't. It turns out that sending firm but polite emails about Japanese translation of content that isn't quite right and that barely anyone will read... is the thing I've chosen. What a way to spiral.

OUTWITTED BY FURNITURE

It's clever, IKEA furniture. There are little screws that twist and lock-in other little screws, there are dowling rods that slip tightly into neatly fashioned holes, and there clever interlocking grooves that just fit precisely together.

Then there are the instructions. For those of us who grew up with Lego, the wordless picture books are very familiar. They tell a tale of perfect construction in outlined black and white, where ticks and crosses tell you exactly which bits you need and which bits you ought not to climb on.

You'd think then, that with all the impeccable machinery and the simplified but detailed depiction of how to put it together, it would be quite straightforward to build, say, a chest of drawers you bought a few weeks ago from an epic trip to Southampton IKEA.

I twisted the knobs of the final drawer and then slotted it into the empty frame. It rolled out towards me. That can't be right. Then I noticed that the spacing was all wrong. There was a gap at the top.

It didn't take long to realise that I'd built the side bits with the runners... upside down.

Upside down! How could that even be possible to do? I'd followed it so closely! Nonetheless, upside down they were.

I grabbed my screwdriver and started dismantling the runners, turning them round so that they were the other way up.

The drawers still didn't sit right.

A glance at the instructions showed me my second error. I'd attached the other runners, all six of them, to the drawers upside-down as well! Out came the screwdriver with a bit of a sigh.

How could I have got it so wrong?

I did get there in the end but the late-night hammering probably didn't bode well for the neighbours. At least it's done. Though I do get the feeling I've been outwitted by some Swedish furniture.

THE CAT BURGLAR

Another day battling depression. I thought I'd try writing another short story - just to see if that helps. It's more an exercise for me, but here it is anyway. It's called The Cat Burglar.


The Cat Burglar

He sneaks in like a thief. Silent, like silk he skims across the window-sill and slings a foot first, and then a leg into the dark empty room.

His silhouette is caught by the moon, gilt with silver as he slides in and softly drops to the carpet.

Eyes bright, he pauses, poised on tiptoes while the room swims into focus. The hairs on his neck stand on end, electric with the scent of danger. Somewhere an owl hoots and a cool breeze swoops in through the open window. He is motionless, still, as the wind ripples over him.

I watch him. Like a shadow he creeps, the long fingers of shade skimming the walls and angling against the ceiling. He is silent and sleek, a panther of the night, stalking his prey, moving ever closer to the painting. I grip the armrest of the chair I'm sitting in. I feel the beading under my nails and I hear the leather as it gives an almost imperceptible squeak.

He pauses.

I don't breathe. My sweat beads.

He moves. I watch. Closer and closer he comes to the painting, half-lit by the moonlight. With a gentle swift motion, he stretches a hand behind him as if to reach for something.

"Don't move," I say. He freezes.

I cock the revolver and rest an elbow on the leather arm of the chair. The gun faces the intruder. The intruder faces me, one hand still behind his back.

"If you move," I say, "I will kill you." I keep it simple. He says nothing.

"Cut the painting, and hand it to me," I say. "You have no further options."

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a standard-issue knife. It catches the light. Slowly, he begins to slice the edges of the canvas. It tears as the knife rips through. Soon, he is rolling the painting.

"Now, into the tube," I say, rolling the perspex cylinder across the carpet. He quietly complies, his cold eyes scanning the gun, staring the chair, at me, for any signs of weakness or distraction. He has been trained. But I am in the shadows.

I stand up. The leather breathes relief as I softly move around the room. I stick to the dark. The four poster bed first, then the chaise longue. Always the gun fixed, always watching him, standing there in the middle of the room. I pick up the tube and back my way towards the window. He looks at me, his eyes visible now in the moonlight.

"Where will you go?" he asks. I hear his voice for the first time. It's not quite what I expected. It's kinder somehow; it reminds me of something. A long time ago, the voice of a father. I say nothing. The wind is cold on my back as I swing myself out and onto the window ledge. I grip the tube and watch the intruder, the gun trained carefully on him as he looks back at me. The ladder meets my foot, cold and hard. He stares at me. 

"You won't get far," he says. I laugh. I'll get far enough.

"Turn around," I say, gesturing with the gun. "Turn around!"

Slowly, he turns on his heels. His radio crackles as the moon picks out the bold white letters on the back of his jacket. The gun shakes.

Suddenly, the night air explodes in blue and white.

COLD SPIRAL

Well, I guess I got my wish. There was a dusting of snow today, like icing sugar on the top of a Victoria Sponge cake. Plus, the air has been icily cold, not sharp and biting, but pervasive, through jeans and socks and scarf and gloves, right into my bones. Unfortunately, I can't seem to get the heaters in my flat to work properly.

I was just chatting to my Dad about it. He's obsessed with the weather.

"Of course February is statistically the coldest month in the Northern Hemisphere, so you never know, there might be more winter still to come."

I love how he slips little quiz facts into normal conversation. I think that's how he remembers them, by integrating snippets into daily life. We had about twenty minutes the other day on the hymn, Jerusalem, by William Blake. It had only started because somebody mentioned Glastonbury.

Wait a minute, I do that, don't I? Golly, some things are properly genetic aren't they?

I know I kind of asked for it, and therefore I shouldn't grumble, but the cold weather today sent me into a spiral. I sat in Starbucks after church with a pot of tea and some fruit toast. I'd hoped it would warm me up, but the air rushing in from the doors, the sound of kids skidding around the tiled floor, and the hard, wonky table made it feel more like the side of an ice rink. I cradled the mug in my fingerless gloves and sipped the lukewarm tea. I probably should avoid being alone with my thoughts, I thought to myself, pointlessly.

I don't think I have much choice though. I'm about to go and live on my own, after all. What will happen? Will I go cuckoo like some couped-up POW in solitary confinement? Will the silence ring in my ears like a tolling bell, reminding me of my failure, night and day? Will I get a cat to worry about and talk to? The jury is out as to whether or not that's a good idea. Or will I just get used to it and find the creative mojo I need, in a quiet world without distraction?

One thing's for sure. I'd better fix my heating.

STAIRS AND CARPETS

"Ooh, steady mate," he said at the other end of a large cardboard box.

I'd just fallen up my own stairs. I wasn't in the mood to be called 'mate' by someone I'd been acquainted with for 37 seconds.

Anyway, regardless of all that, I now have a perfectly serviceable bed. Well, I should say: I have three boxes and an enormous mattress stacked up in the room that hasn't had its carpet cleaned.

Yes, the room that hasn't had its carpet cleaned.

At around 9:15 last night, having swept and vacuumed, I plugged in the enormous carpet cleaner I'd borrowed, filled it up with the requisite combination of solutions, and switched it on.

The walls started shaking, the floor jumped up and down and the flat was suddenly filled with the clunking, whirring sound of a small locomotive engine. I quickly switched the cacophanous machine off. There are a limited number of times you can annoy your neighbours.

Why are these things so noisy? I'd rather get down on my hands and knees and scrub until the sun comes up than annoy the people who live around me.

So anyway, the bed had to be delivered first in the end, which gives me an interesting weekend.

Actually, provided I can find a good time to quickly roll the leviathan across the carpets without causing earth tremors or giving myself an ASBO, I reckon the weekend will mostly be going into battle with my furniture, armed only with a set of allen keys.

I can do this, right? I can do practical stuff without doing myself an injury?

Mind you, I did fall up the stairs today.

PERFUNCTORY

Every now and then I get words or phrases popping into my head. These are obviously things I've heard and subconsciously registered. I've not always known what they are - mostly because I didn't pay attention to the News bulletins that my Dad was glued to.

Keir Starmer, Director of Public Prosecutions

The conciliation service ACAS

Boutros Boutros Ghali

It's not always names and phrases though. Sometimes it's just single words that my subconscious mind likes the sound of. It must yoink them out of the ether and file them away somewhere in my dusty old brain.

It's always words like eponymous or ineluctable - things I sort of know, I've sort of heard but I've not fully processed. My brain often stores them with an imprint of their context too, which is handy, because for reasons I can't explain I seem to learn how to use a particular word long before I've worked out its real definition.

But this is how vocabulary works isn't it? Words spread through the atmosphere, being stored by people who are hearing them for the first time, ready for use in their overlapping circles. Our vocabulary grows with the hearing and grows with the reading - but we don't always know it.

So today's word, shimmying its way out of the dusty brain cabinet, is the word perfunctory.

Perfunctory.

I think it's beautiful - look at the almost symmetrical way its middle consonants are stuck together - of the eleven letters, only three of them are vowels. Also the sound of those consonants skips along, emphasising that middle stress on 'func' and then leaping happily and neatly away to the clipped y sound. It's a very rhythmic sort of word. And no, not the kind of word that reminds you of caribou nibbling at the croquet hoops.

The trouble is, it means something rather disappointing. It means simply doing the minimum amount of work. I looked it up. Per- means according to and -func comes from the latin word for work or perform. So it's doing only what's expected and no more.

I don't want to live like that, as appealing as the word might sound. It's the opposite of excellent or diligent - a sort of careless that'll-do attitude to life. It's not for me, perfunctory, even though it's quite easy to spot and even though I do slip into perfunction quite often. It happens especially when I'm tired, juggling big stuff in my brain,or even just sitting at my desk on a Thursday morning, thinking about words that my brain has collected over the years in its own... ineluctable... way.

THE DAY I WOKE UP TO THE STARS

I woke up to the stars yesterday. Well, what I mean is I woke up, got dressed, went outside and it was still sort of night time. The stars were bright and twinkling and the air was frosty.

It's easy to forget sometimes how much of a miracle it is that we're here at all. Whether or not you believe in a Creator, you have to agree that our existence is a bit unlikely in the grand scheme of things.

Take the Solar System for example. If the Sun were the size of a beach ball, the Earth would be a pea about 65m (215ft) away. Meanwhile the outer edge of the Solar System, where Pluto floats out to the Kuiper Belt, would be over a mile and a half down the road.

The whole thing is enormous, and our little planet is spinning along in the only part of it that's temperate enough for life to have developed.

Not only that but despite there being billions of other solar systems in the galaxy, Earth-like planets are a bit of rarity. In the whole history of the Universe, there hasn't yet been a civilization that's found a way to replicate itself far enough across the stars to reach us. And in our scale where the Earth is the size of a pea, the galaxy itself would be 416 million kilometres wide. That's the scaled down model. Finding Earth in the middle of all that would be like trying to find a tiny needle in a haystack the size of the Russian Federation.

And for all we know, we're the only ones in this vast empty chasm - the most interesting planet there is.

You've been born into a world that might just be completely unique.

What's more, in the whole history of that tiny world, there has never been anyone, anywhere, quite like you. The seemingly random combination of genetics, personality and environment that's been steadily collecting through your ancestors has happened, to produce exactly you - unique, inexpressibly beautiful; a one-off piece of unmatchable art that will never be repeated.

The constellation Orion sparkled back at me - quiet, ancient and distant, the great hunter of the ages with his sword and bow. Generations of us must have stared up at those stars on mornings like this, wondering what it could all mean. For me, it means significance in the now and in the here, chosen and somehow loved despite being so small and unfindable and insignificant. Life is so precious.

I wrapped my coat around me, promised myself and the God who set me in motion that I'd make the most of the day.

I should get up early more often.

TOO MUCH STUFF

There are a few recurring themes in my life. Alongside the crippling lack of self confidence, the quiet dependence on others, and the umpteen reasons why I'm utterly, utterly terrified of loneliness... is the propensity for doing too much stuff.

I'm doing too much stuff. And when you're doing too much stuff, you really have one choice of two options: give something up or collapse into uselessness. 

That's what they tell me anyway. Every now and again they look at me with concern and then they very firmly say the thing that's blisteringly obvious but looks like it isn't:

"You're doing too much."

"You're heading for a burnout."

"You need to look after yourself."

"You do know you've got paint in your hair?"

And I nod my head and listen while thinking about what to give up and how disappointing it will be. Pretty soon I'm spiralling into my own long list of internal failures and the whole thing feels heavier than carrying it all did in the first place.

But the voices don't stop. They echo through the ages of my life, familiar and stern.

I wish I could just do one thing. I wish I could just be so focused on one particular area, that I could say 'no' to everything else and be alright about it. It's easier said than done though isn't it? I like to help, I like to contribute and I like to be good at lots of things. And I am rubbish at multitasking.

I told the choir team that I have four major projects going on outside of my full-time job. They all told me off. I asked them what I should give up. They said whatever I felt was right. I made a lousy metaphor about dishwashers and then Simon said he had to go home because it was a quarter to ten. I felt rotten.

I'll be alright. I mean I'll figure it out and then have a holiday where I can walk through the hills and read Winston Churchill or something. But that seems a long way down the road. And there's nothing to prove I won't be here again eventually.

NEEDING A WINTER

I really need a winter.

Today the sky is brilliantly blue, smudged with clouds that look like they've been painted on. The bare trees are lit by low sunlight and some of their gnarly branches are dotted with buds. It's as though Autumn is gently giving way to Spring, with no thought to their missing neighbour.

What we need is a good old cold snap, a frost-fall or a blizzard.

I'd like to go tobogganing or trudging through the crispy banks of ice-white snow. I'd like to rub my hands together in my fingerless gloves and feel my ears being pinched by the freezing wind. I'd like to wrap my scarf tightly around me, to fold in my coat, or stuff an extra pair of thick socks into my wellies.

I'd like to get home to the smell of hot soup and buttered toast. I'd like to see the smoke spiral up from an open fire or the steam condensing on my lenses.

Actually, that last one's annoying. Perhaps not that.

I just overheard the students chatting in the kitchen. One of them was annoyed because he wasn't feeling very well and he's got 'like five birthday parties to go to in the next week...'

You know those moments when you're suddenly aware of how old you are? I had a little smile to myself. My face creased into laughter lines.

Maybe, I reflected, I've already seen quite a few winters.

EVERYWHERE CLOSES AT EIGHT

"How would you like to pay, sir, cash or card?"

I rested the heavy tin of paint on the counter, reached into my pocket and unexpectedly pulled out a tape measure.

"Um probably not with this," I said, trying to be funny.

I need to remember that teenagers and I have different ideas about what is humourous.

"Yeah we close at eight," he said. Not a flicker.

I had left my wallet at home. There was no way I could get back in time. I left the paint, ambled out into the car park and sat in the darkness, watching people go into KFC.

While I was wondering why so many people like eating scraps out of a bucket, my phone buzzed. It was my friend, Mike.

Hi Matt. I called earlier to see if you were free for a coffee this evening. Maybe another time.

I must have missed the call. I rang him back.

"Yeah I'm in Starbucks in Sainsbury's," he said, "But they close at eight."

"Course they do," I said, "Everywhere does. I'll be there in ten."

No painting for me then last night. Mike bought me a tea in Starbucks, we wandered round Sainsbury's for a bit and then I went home.

"You're back early!" said my Mum.

"Yes," I replied. "I forgot my wallet, couldn't buy any paint, and it was just easier to come home."

It was probably a more enjoyable evening than I'd been expecting. I didn't have to fight with a broken paint roller. Neither did I have to sponge up flecks of paint that had splattered past the dust sheet and onto the carpet. It does mean though, that I've still got the same amount of painting left to do - one coat in the spare room, three on the hall and stairs. The task stretches out in a way that would make Hercules think twice.

Plus I'm going to have to go back and buy that paint from the youth club at my local DIY store. So long as I get there well before eight... and I don't try to pay for it with a tape measure.

BEING THANKFUL

Back to work then. I've been having a conversation with myself.

"So, what is it I do?"

"Check emails, I think."

"Right. What's my password?"

"No idea."

"I'll guess it."

"Fair enough."

"So, emails. Emails, emails, e...mails..."

"Any good'ns?"

"Just stuff that doesn't matter. Apparently there was a flood in the kitchen. I've been wished a Merry Christmas by some people (nice) and a whole train of things that have either already been fixed or are not relevant."

"Brilliant. Tea?"

"Capital idea."

One of my objectives this year is to be more thankful for things, particularly at work. I know that's not a smart objective - it's hardly measurable or specific, but it is a goal.

What tends to happen is that I end up swinging between being randomly thankful for silly things, or being sarcastic about it. For example, I'm currently very thankful that the atoms in my chair are holding themselves together and I'm simultaneously thankful that no-one has called me an idiot.

It seems unlikely that either of those things will change, so I'm going to try focusing my thankfulness towards things that lie in-between those two extremes.

Another problem with trying to be thankful is that it highlights things that other people might not have. I am thankful that I have a good job - it's near the top of the list actually, but I recognise that not everyone can say that. I have a great family and the most incredible friends in the world. Some people really long for those things and it can be painful to hear others going on about them.

However, I think it's a mistake to hide the things you're thankful for in the interest of protecting someone else. The reason is that everyone's story is different - and your thank-you list is bound to be really different to mine - there's no comparison. By being reticent to tell you what I'm thankful for, I actually make things worse for you because it encourages a culture of being less thankful all-round. And you have a unique set of things to be thankful for, yourself. And I'm thankful for that.

In essence then, the idea is to cultivate the attitude of being thankful all the time, instead of perpetuating ingratitude or worse, indifference, which is frighteningly easy to slip into.

So, in an effort to make my objective a bit 'smarter', here are my top ten thank-yous for today:

1. I have a good job I can do well
2. I sit next to a window
3. I can walk home (for the moment)
4. The people I work with are friendly and helpful
5. I can listen to music while I work
6. My work gets read by people around the world
7. The CEO knows my name
8. I don't have to take my work home with me
9. I haven't got backache or RSI
10. I can go home early today

Oh, and...

11. No-one judges me for talking to myself.

Right?

HISTORICAL WEATHER

I'll wager you don't want to hear me going on about paint again. However, there's very little else filling my days at the moment. I've been listening to British History while rollering and brushing and squelching and pouring. I'll wager you don't want to hear about the mystery of the ninth legion or the sacking of Colchester either.

Meanwhile, the Intrepids took down all the Christmas decorations today. We had the usual 'isn't it awful, doesn't it look sad' conversation, then the pictures went back on their hooks, the tree got squidged into its long box and the loft hatch was swung open. It wasn't long before my Dad was back to his website on historical weather. It's his new thing.

"Did you know, it's rained on this day, thirteen times out of the last thirty years!" he said, clicking his laptop. My Mum rolled her eyes. It was exactly like the time someone got him a Dictionary of English Placenames. He read them out to us one by one whether we appreciated it or not.

Historical weather is important, but only in the context of other things. Winners was telling me today about the storm over the English Channel in 1940 which prevented Hitler invading. I told him about the Romans being terrified of Oceanus and about Julius Ceaser's miserable attempts to land at Dover in 50-something BC. See, I'd been paying attention.

There was global warming back then as well. There were vineyards in Yorkshire in Roman times, not to mention Romanised Britons strolling about Calleva Atrebatum in togas.

The weather has always had an interesting impact on our history, but for most of the time it's not been noteworthy in and of itself. I certainly don't need to know that it's rained thirteen times on January 4th, since 1986.

Golly. 1986 was thirty years ago. We went on a school trip to the mayor's office in 1986. I signed my name in the book and wore the mayoral chain for a minute or two. Weirdly, one of my classmates is now the current Mayor of Reading, though I don't think she remembers me. It would have been difficult to imagine thirty years into the future when I was eight.

You know, they are right, it is quite a shame to see the decorations packed away for another year. I'm reminded though, that next year I will have my own Christmas decorations and my own tree nestling in an ivory corner. 

I think that's what history does for you: it helps you value the present and trust that the future will be OK, or at least stands a chance of working out for you. It says: look how far we've come, look what we made happen, incrementally through the years and through the storms and the sunshine. History is there for the making, and you can make it a good one.

And so I hope I shall. If I ever get this painting finished.

IVORY TOWERS

I tell you what: there's nothing quite like painting a room to get you thinking about random stuff; mostly, it has to be said, anything other than painting a room. I trailed a brush along the bit where the wall meets the ceiling, watching the paint squeeze out of the bristles and squelch along the wall. It is so boring; it's like watching... something or other.

I was trying to think up as many three-letter animals as I could. I got into a debate with myself about whether I could include nomenclature other than that of species, and why I allowed myself 'hen' but rejected 'jay' and 'cod' without thinking. Where's Linnaeus when you need him? I got nine in the end, well, eight if you don't count that dubious hen.

Paint's funny stuff isn't it? I feel like I've already seen too much of it, poured enough of it into the roller tray and walked my socks through more than enough of it. I reckon I'm just over half-way there.

Happy New Year by the way. I know I normally do a thing about how we all watched the fireworks and lit sparklers and wearily stacked the dishwasher, but decorating this week has really taken it out of me. We did do all that. As Big Ben chimed and the London sky was bright with celebration, I stood in front of the television wondering how 2016 might turn out. For lots of reasons, 2015 was a mixed-bag and I can't be alone in thinking the world, us, friends, me, you perhaps, we all deserve a bit better.

The thing is, it is actually up to us what we do with the year. I can't take on evil single-handedly but I can make my world a better place for people around me. I can't predict who will make terrible decisions and I can't get out of the way before they happen, but I'm sure there are microdecisions I can make that might prevent a few awful macro ones later down the line. I think it's up to us what we do with our little slice of 2016. And weirdly that makes me more hopeful.

It's a year of new arrangements for me too. Soon I will move properly into Ivory Towers and begin a different kind of life on my own. I'm nervous about it, but also secretly excited. I'm actually looking forward to putting my feet up, sipping a cup of Darjeeling and admiring the walls I painted.

'Soon,' I told myself, climbing down the step-ladder to reload the brush. I felt my sock land in a patch of something sticky, and I rolled my eyes. 

I'm definitely going to need new socks this year anyway.