STARLIT LULLABY

I had a thought the other night. I was walking across the field, back to my tent when I found myself looking up at the clouds and the stars.

You know, stars burn hydrogen by smashing atoms together and releasing the energy. Light particles called photons are emitted and they shoot off in all directions. That's the only reason we can see stars: those photons reach us and our eyes and our telescopes detect them.

That means that whenever I look at a star, the photons entering my eyes have travelled billions and billions of miles to be with me. For thousands of years those light particles have zipped across the universe to end their journey by being absorbed by me, processed into a signal and triggering my brain into appreciating a twinkling image of their origin.

As you know, I often go on about being an astronomer who longs to be an astronaut, so stars have a special place with me. And this lovely connection between me and a distant dream inspired some poetry...

Starlit Lullaby

Through polished glass

And copper bright

He watches on the velvet night

Where tiny points

Of distant light

Come streaming from above

In frozen air

With cloudy eye

He scans across the starry sky

Where planets spin

And comets fly,

His heart to find its love:

Beyond the clouds

Behind the sun

One star is bright and free

And I am chosen by the one

Who lit that star for me

Then floating through

The galaxies

Came all the usual memories

A name he whispered on the breeze

One summer long ago

She'd fallen fast

She'd fallen fair

With silver cheek and gold-spun hair

And love had fallen

To their care

As he alone would know

With polished glass

And copper bright

He stands there almost every night

And in his heart the firelight

Still flickers as he burns

In frozen air

With cloudy eye

He searches out the diamond sky

To sing her starlit lullaby

And hope like stars will twinkle by

Until his love returns

Beyond the clouds

Behind the sun

One star is bright and free

And I am chosen by the one

Who lit that star for me

EARLY ELTON AND ME

Yes it's that time of year again: the time of year when I drink awful tea in Morrison's cafe while my car goes through its MOT.

It's not that bad. They're playing Your Song by Elton John. I quite like Early Elton; he has a little youthful wobble in his voice and it's kind of real and authentic. The older, Outrageous Elton I can leave to jump about on a purple piano, but Early Elton I can sing along with.

I also like the idea of writing a song for just one person, just to say that I hope they 'don't mind me putting down in words how wonderful life is because they're in the world.'

I'm not sure that continually stirring this tea is going to improve its flavour. I'd better go and see how my car is.

THE MIDDLE-OF-THE-ROAD MONK

I remember one year, just before camp, I went and sat on the roundabout at the bottom of my road for the evening. The air was stuffy, the night was warm and I was under-prepared. So I took myself to a place where no-one could find me, in the middle of a grassy roundabout, and I tried hard to focus while the traffic swarmed around me.

That was 2009. It turned out to be a great camp (though the rest of the year wasn't). I was thinking about that night tonight as I walked to my car. Again, the air was warm, the traffic flashed down the road and a light drizzle filled the night. Now that it's all team, it's a bit different these days. Worship no longer depends on one person, the kudos (if ever there was any) no longer matters, the pressure of choosing songs and creating packs is gone and everything is a lot more fluid and a lot more fun. I actually don't think I care as much about the details, which, is actually a beautiful thing. I've let it go.

I sat on that roundabout for hours that night in 2009, feeling stressed and afraid. I pulled my hoodie over my head and prayed like a kind of middle-of-the-road monk.

That's kind of the point though isn't it? You can't be a middle-of-the-road monk with a roundabout for a monastery. It's always either all or it's nothing. You can't go in with the idea that your preparation is to make you look great, and then stand in front of loads of people and sing 'All to Jesus I surrender' - because you don't. You're on a roundabout, hiding away from the world where practically everyone who drives down the road can see you looking oh so holy.

It's much better to be honest about where you're really at. I'm expecting this week to be a bit difficult, a bit fun, a bit emotional and a bit exhausting, but I genuinely don't care whether I'm behind a piano or on my face in the mud. In fact, it makes very little difference, once you stop caring what people think of you.

TICKER TAPE PARADE

You know that thing when you get an idea in your head and it's crazy? At least, it starts out crazy. There are all sorts of reasons why it would never work; you start counting them on your fingers. You reason with yourself and tell yourself you need some psychiatric help or a good old reality check.

Then after a while, it doesn't seem that impossible after all. In fact, you start to think it might well be achievable, with the wind in the right direction and the stars aligned, maybe. And if it works? Wow, if it works. It'll be the best thing you've ever done!

The idea is intoxicating. Surely it's worth the risk, the investment, the adventure? Surely it's worth going for?

But what would everyone else think? They'd think it's crazy of course, because actually, it sort of is. They'd try to persuade you out of it with interventions and sit-downs and coffees. But think of it! Just think of it!

Then you start dreaming. It fills your dreams with wonder, like the Wright Brothers dreamed of flying or Neil Armstrong dreamed of the Moon. The more you dream, the more achievable it seems; you can't not succeed. And your friends and your family will one day look at you, wide-eyed with disbelief as you sail to the Moon or you come back waving through your ticker tape parade.

Know that feeling?

Nope, me neither.

EARLY THINKING

I think I've reached the point where it's pointless trying to go to sleep. The curtains are light, the birds are chirpy and there's only an hour left before the alarm clock goes off.

I tried my usual tricks. I remembered capital cities beginning with letters of the alphabet (except I and X) and I had a glass of milk at around 3:30. I remain awake.

It's my mind again. One thousand miles an hour. I've often thought that the faster you think, the slower you appear to be. That probably explains my blank-confused look in meetings. I'm not saying I'm super-clever by the way; if I were I would have figured out how to slow it down and control it, rather than letting my thoughts race off into hyperspace.

What I mean is that we're limited by how quickly we can express things. And in meetings particularly, my mouth never catches up with my head. In fact, it lags behind others because I can't think at that speed and listen at the same time. So I am inarticulate and slow sometimes, due to the phase delay. My brain is at n+5, my words are coming out at n-1.

None of this explains why I've been awake all night though. That's to do with the volume of thoughts to be analysed, if anything. And there are a few worries and unlikely dreams thrown there too.

Today is going to be a long, tough day. Maybe though my brain will conk out long enough and the world will be kind enough to leave me in my headphones, where I don't have to think too much or do too much stuff.

I sighed when I wrote that. You know how this works out, don't you?

I think the sun is up. Perhaps things will be clearer for me by the time it goes down again. Maybe my dreams will take flight today.

Well, I'll have to sleep before I can have them I suppose.

RABBIT OUT OF NOWHERE

I had a meeting today, which went a bit like this (I was taking notes):

Right, first up on the agenda, Item 1, the agenda for another meeting. Here's the plan: we need to talk about this, that, these, those and the other. Any objections? Okay then, maybe not that, maybe about them, right, no, strike that out, let's make sure we talk about this instead. Action? Prep the agenda.

Item 2... no, this meeting not that one, Item 2 is you Matt, what do you want to ask?

I asked my question. Twelve pairs of eyes looked at me as though I'd wandered in from this year's Village-Idiot Competition. I carried on anyway.

So Matt's asking this but isn't it obvious what people should do? There's no process, Matt, you're just going to have to work it out yourself.

Work it out yourself, I carved into my notebook, red-faced.

Okay, Item 3. Hmm. This question again. So-and-so, your soapbox, over to you.

Okay, thanks, So-and-so, any thoughts anyone?

Everyone had lots of thoughts. So-and-so didn't look altogether pleased. I made a point which I thought was completely valid. A few moments later, someone made exactly the same point and mystifyingly, everyone agreed that it was a good one. I looked puzzled, so I drew a rabbit in a top hat in my notebook and shook my head in wonder.

And that was it. Other than someone saying:

"Matt will distribute the notes."

Consider it done.

I do sometimes wonder how I got here. It occurred to me suddenly, that a rabbit materialising out of a top hat must be as equally confused about what it's doing.

I went back to my desk.

GREAT MATTERS CONCERN ME AT 04:50

"Morning Matt," said Tracy the receptionist, buzzing about the kitchen.

"Hey," I replied.

"Get any sleep?"

"Me? Not really."

In truth it had been tough to drop off to sleep, even into the small hours, and then I had woken up at 4:50am to the sound of a door slamming in the breeze.

I don't put my insomnia down to the heat though. Mine's more to do with my mind whirring at a thousand miles an hour.

Nonetheless, the Nestle 3000 is in overdrive and a small collection of zombies in t-shirts  are wandering around with mugs, looking for their desks. I overheard another conversation, while waiting for the kettle to boil.

"Have you thought about air conditioning?"

"What, for one day a year?"

"Fair point."

The world's pretty sweet at 4:50am. I stood by the open window and let the cool early morning wind sweep over me. The sun was already throwing shadows over the park.

Why is my mind such a blur? I asked myself. I so want things to be simple. And why is there such a massive gap between the things I end up doing and the things I want to do? Is that normal?

That was when I remembered a bit of ancient wisdom given to me the day before I started secondary school. I don't know why it popped into my head, but there it was, larger than life. Psalm 131:

My heart is not proud, Lord,
my eyes are not haughty;
I do not concern myself with great matters
or things too wonderful for me.
But I have calmed and quieted myself,
I am like a weaned child with its mother;
like a weaned child I am content.

Psalm 131:1-2

This is how I want to be: not proud, not haughty, not overthinking(!) but calm, quiet and content, maybe content enough to walk through the fire or stay asleep in the boat in the middle of the thunderstorm.

I could definitely go to sleep, actually. I've been up since 4:50am.

THE MOON IS MASSIVE

The Moon is massive tonight. Alright, it isn't really, it's an optical illusion. But when it's near the horizon it looks enormous.

And okay, it is massive. It's 10 (followed by twenty two zeroes) kilograms.* That's a lot of mass.

So it looks huge. The refraction through the atmosphere has turned it a bit red too, which gives it the appearance of an enormous lantern.

... which I suppose it is in a way.

Anyway, it's come out to sign off the hottest day of the year, and in turn, the hottest day of the year has given the Moon a balmy evening to shine through.

We had a great practice tonight. Everyone on top form, arranging some of the songs for The Gathering next week. When it works, there's nothing better.

Meanwhile my house is a tip and I'm out here watching the giant Moon and the fading sunlight. I'm happy though, resolutely happy and ready for whatever tomorrow has.

Though, it doesn't take me long to remember that I have a load of washing up to do. Ah, it can wait.

*I looked it up.

DELIBERATELY COOL

Here we are then. Hottest day of the year. In typical style, most people seem to be suggesting that it's 'too hot' and are fanning red faces, despite the office being air conditioned.

I am deliberately cool. I have a fan, a tall glass of water and I'm nowhere near the window. What's more, no-one has wound me up... or rather, I have not let myself be wound up, and everything is calm, under control and thoroughly sorted.

So the conditions are perfect for a belting storm then.

Maybe. I do get a sense that one might be on the way but it hasn't arrived yet.

There was almost a thunderstorm this morning when I discovered my shower is broken. Water was trickling out of the head and the unit was crunching away like a 1950s coffee machine. I decided not to be grumpy and ran a bath.

It's great being deliberately cool. I'm not taking any nonsense today but I'm doing it in a kind of relaxed way. Maybe there's a lot to learn from the hottest day of the year.

OLD FATHER THAMES

You'd think I'd be able to explain it. I love words, poetry, music and expression but I can't use any of those things to describe how I feel.

Maybe a chord would do it - a flat second or a jazzy ninth or something. But no, it wouldn't tell the whole story.

And neither can I. My insides are like foam; frothy sea spray or the top of a cappuccino. I don't know what to think or how to feel about that.

I went to the river at Pangbourne tonight to see if that helped. The warm sun fell behind the trees and Whitchurch Bridge. Some teenagers dripped out of the river where they'd been hollering and splashing. I sat on a bench (where else) and gazed into the thick green water.

Rivers begin with the smallest of streams. Away to my left, somewhere in the Cotswolds, tiny tributaries poured into the water that would eventually be the Thames, flowing left to right past me, on to Reading, Sonning, Kingston and London before winding its way out into the great ocean. The famous River Thames, the old father himself. Everything gets bigger if you let it flow.

I stood on the bank. Where am I flowing? What am I doing? Will this river reach the sea?

I get like this, on the edge of things. I suspect that that's where I am, and that that is what the foam-feeling is about. Time floated by, dark and mysterious.

"Sometimes the simple words are the best," said an echo of a friend in my mind. I agree. I think it's time.

It is time.

SILVER TURNS GOLD

The clouds are moving like the ocean tonight - a sort of huge mass of grey, gently rising and falling as the world beneath sighs itself to sleep.

I'm in my usual spot, out in the twilit park with the rustling leaves and the cool, still air. I really do love the way the breeze shakes the leaves inside out, turning them silver. They ripple like the sound of a waterfall.

Lots of positives today. My Mum's found a use for my old room, which means I can't go back, and that didn't bother me even half as much as I thought it would. In the process, she found some of my old diaries which are hilarious. I might post a few entries some day.

I also bought a tea strainer and put it to good use with a pot of Whittard's Darjeeling. I can stop using the sieve, and my rice will stop tasting of tea, with any luck.

Paul and Heather gave me a brilliant picture so I hung it up today. It's a map of the world filled in with music scores and notes. It reminds me of what I'm called to do. Even when that seems unlikely or unpopular, it is still there, calling out to me. It's hanging above the piano.

It's properly dark now. All the hand-holding, dog-walking couples have gone home and their dogs have scampered after them, having sniffed my shoes. There are moths flapping about and I'm sure I saw a bat a few moments ago.

It's been good, Positivity Week. I have the best garden imaginable to collect my thoughts in at the end of each day, and sitting out here most evenings has been brilliant. Who wouldn't want to live next to a park?

As for the positivity, well I've learned a lot. It starts out to be difficult, then it gets easier. Then it becomes a sort of culture, where your eyes are trained on the silver linings and everything else goes out of focus. At least I hope so. That's why it doesn't really end, Positivity Week, it sort of seeps into next week and then the week after that.

Night clouds are beautiful; blanketing the valley of scattered lights and whispering trees, shifting and moving across the horizon with the last few rays of sunlight painting their curled edges.

I think sometimes, when you search for silver linings, you really do discover that they were golden all along.

THE FT PARADOX

Is there anything that you find fascinating but don't really want to know about?

I know that sounds like a bit of a contradiction, but I have something that falls into that pot and it bothers me a bit. What's more, this particular thing is actually supposed to be a mystery, so the more I find out about it, the more I feel I shouldn't, and don't want to.

"It's quite normal at the moment," said Megan, "No different really." Adam was beaming.

"I don't think it's as difficult as writing an accounts sheet or a systems manual," he said. I smiled. I have absolutely no idea.

I'm talking about growing a baby of course. Megan and Adam are expecting and I'm caught in that fascinated-terrified paradox again.

My problem is detail. There are some things I just don't want to know, in fact I don't even want to think about them. Yet at the heart of the mystery, it's all about the detail isn't it? And listen to women talking about it, and detail will leap into the conversation faster than you can sheepishly say, 'Excuse me ladies, I seem to have mislaid my power tools...'

It happens everyday, all over the world, this extraordinary, wonderful process. A woman carries another person... actually inside her, wrapped in the dark mystery of the womb. What does that feel like? (I will never know) How does it happen? (I have a rough idea) and what changes happen when? (and we're back in the paradox; I genuinely don't want to know).

Except I sort of do. So I asked the usual questions. Megan said, "No, thankfully, but everyone's been asking me that," and then she held her fingers a few inches apart and said, "Um... maybe an avocado."

Which surprised me. Normally it's a peanut or a jelly baby. Incidentally, why is it always compared to food?

So this is the fascinated-terrified paradox. I hope it doesn't come across as being weirdly intrigued by a mystery that's much better kept a mystery. Similarly, I hope it doesn't look like I'm squeamish and distant about the details.

In that regard then, I'm a bit like a moth, flitting about in the candlelight: interested but wary, distant but not remote. Maybe one day I'll figure out the flame and it'll all make more sense.

Until then I'll probably be looking for my power tools.

THE OPENING OF STOCKHOLMHAVEN

So a new shop has opened. You can go to it, park there, buy stuff and take it home with you. Isn't that exciting?

A lot of people seem to think so. Marie went at lunchtime and came back with a plastic Swedish flag which is now poking up above her monitor.

I'm not complaining. If you remember, Walty and I went to the Southampton version at Christmas, and I came back with a carful of furniture.

I expect when the initial rush has died down, I'll be there myself, strolling through the perfectly aligned streets of Stockholmhaven, looking for a floor lamp and a bookcase.

Ah Stockholmhaven, where the roller blinds are neatly peeled over fake windows and the chandeliers hang above kitchen units and foldable dining room tables. Where plastic footprints guide you around scores of beds, cabinets, wardrobes and cupboards, and the windowless warehouse removes you of all sense of direction. Where the countless little yellow Stockholmhaven-elves ferry you about with cardboard boxes and industrial trolleys.

It is just a shop though, right?

CALIFORNIA

Maybe it's because I was thinking about the Eagles earlier. There's a sort of link, I suppose, but honestly, the idea for this poem just came out of nowhere. It's supposed to capture a mood and a culture I think.

California

String up the fairy lights
Rush to the beach
Feet in the sand where
The waves can't reach

Strum a ukulele
Or a mandolin
Play them as the surf
Comes rolling in 

Sing to the Pacific
In the twilight hue
Watch the clouds descending
On the endless blue

Listen to the rhythm
Of the young and free
Carelessly abandoned
To the roaring sea

Feel the summer breeze let
Guitars take you away
Arms around your knees as
night eclipses day

String up the fairy lights
Over the sand
Sing while you are young
In a carefree land

THE MAGIC BPM

There was a musician on the radio this morning who said that we all live at a natural bpm of 137.

I don't believe it.

I tried setting my metronome app to click at 137 beats per minute and then walked along the High Street. It felt like my legs were about to snap.

Who walks at 137bpm? The musician said that it fits your heartbeat too, she called it a 'magic bpm'. Well, I would suggest that if your heart is beating at 137bpm then you might have a bit of a problem.

I took my pulse. 79. It seemed to slow down the more I thought about it though, which is weird. I can't possibly be too relaxed can I?

Just for the record, a little research tells me that Money for Nothing by Dire Straits, Michael Jackson's Beat It and Take it Easy by the Eagles, are all around the 137bpm mark.

Take it Easy. That's ironic. No-one's taking it easy at that speed. In fact, the whole song seems to be about the need to slow down (and somehow deal with 'seven women on my mind', which is not a problem I'm familiar with).

So I'm not intending to give myself tachycardia by racing around at the magic bpm, thanks. I'm taking the advice of Glenn Frey and not letting the sound of my own wheels drive me crazy.

A BOMBASTIC SOUNDTRACK

Back in Starbucks (inside Sainsbury's). This week's bombastic soundtrack seems to be Kung Fu Panda 3 which is 'Perfect Family Fun on DVD'.

The music is grand and adventurous, rather like the tunes they pipe in over the queues at Alton Towers. Round and round it loops, constantly reminding you that you're about to experience (what they regard as) the most exciting few moments of your life.

There they are, the horns, the thumping timpani and the hollywood strings! There are the violins thudding out the rhythm of horses as the camera sweeps above the trail. The clash of cymbals, the flutes soaring like the stars around Jupiter in Holst's Planets, the riff modulates, the brass builds and climbs and the orchestra swells up into a single burst of crescendo...

And then it starts again. It's all adding a rather dramatic backdrop to my post-work book-reading and cup of tea. I feel like a conquering hero. While it's not relaxing it is weirdly complementing chapter 4 of Successful People Skills, Reinforce strengths, eliminate weaknesses...

Actually this soundtrack would be great at the other end of the day, when I'm actually between the car park and the office. Swing the rucksack over both shoulders, tie your laces purposefully and tightly, do a little clenched fist and march in as though you just defeated Medusa or diverted the Styx with your bare hands or something.

It all seems rather dramatic for a cartoon panda. When are Dreamworks bringing out a film about fearless and feisty technical authors who save the world with punctuation and bullet lists?

TINY VICTORIES

So Positivity Week continues with me completing an early morning obstacle course in my slippers. Funny, I was only saying to my friend Emmie the other day, how I needed to do more exercise.

I hadn't anticipated chasing the bin lorry down the street.

It is true that I need more physical exertion. Sometimes my mind is so unfocused and gloopy that I can't concentrate, and I'm convinced it's because I spend most of my life sitting down. There is something appealing about getting up early and running through the shadows in the park as the sun cascades through the trees.

I may be romanticizing the idea as though I'm in a Nike advert. I may well be hauling myself out of bed and blinking through the rain, but that's okay. I think a large part of positivity is feeling good about yourself and championing the tiny victories.

Like getting a parking space when you're late due to wheelie-bin-related activities, for example. This morning I swung in, between a shiny Mercedes and Scott's ice-white BMW. That was a very welcome silver lining.

There have been others too: I dodged the rain at lunchtime, I did something clever in source control and I ran a couple of feel-good meetings. Nothing much you say, and you'd be sort of right. But the little things add up don't they? And I think they're worth recording.

Next week though, I am definitely putting the bins out on Monday night.

CLOUD WATCHING

I was lying on the grass, gazing up at the clouds through my sunglasses. A thumping remix of Adele's Hello was filling the air.

We'd done well. The choir had almost buzzed off the stage, beaming with pride at what they'd achieved. And rightly so! I was there, fist-bumping and back-patting with the rest of them at the end. It must have looked odd to the crowd of scattered picnickers across the grass, but none of us cared.

We'd performed at a mini-festival, organised for someone's 50th birthday. And now, in the warmth of the afternoon sun, I was lying watching the clouds, feeling totally relaxed and proud of myself.

The sky was a deep rich blue and the clouds were wispy white. The sun was warm and the music was young and fresh. My toes were moving independently to the rest of me, in time with the beat. It was a glorious moment of summer freedom.

You can look up at clouds anywhere in the world. You can't always see mountains, lakes, rivers, waterfalls, cities, parks, gardens or people, but you can always see the sky. It belongs to all of us. It was a great reminder, at the start of Positivity Week, that all you have to do is look up sometimes.

A little later on, some of the choir members were chatting in the sunshine.

"I just leave them out there on the line," said Lynn.

"What? In the rain?" I said.

"Yeah. It's only water."

"But aren't you... essentially just re-washing your clothes in rainwater?"

"They're already clean," she said, "You should try it. Just wait for them to dry again and bring them in."

I was astounded. It has never occurred to me to leave washing out in the rain. In fact, if it rained, I would be more than likely to throw my hands in the air, sigh dramatically and then grump about having to 'wash it all again then'. Though, not in Positivity Week I guess. Annette chuckled at me, presumably for never having thought of it.

I adjusted my sunglasses and went back to watching the clouds.

THE BENCH FURTHER DOWN

Their voices carry in the still air. They're young; I can tell from the freedom in their laughter, maybe 16 or 17 years old. There are six, perhaps seven of them, faces flickering in the orange glow of cigarette lighters.

The girls proclaim 'I love you' to each other as though they are practising using those potent words in front of the boys for some future time. The boys don't understand. They can't. One runs through the long grass and starts rolling down the hill. He bellows for attention and a girl races after him, shrieking with laughter in the sunset.

The other boy sits on the bench with arms folded, considering his peacocking options. He unscrews the cap off a bottle and glugs back the acrid liquid, the great confidence boosting elixir he thinks he needs.

I am twice their age, maybe more. I sit on another bench, further down, close to the rustling trees and the steadily darkening woods. Twice: enough to have lived their lives two times over with change to spare.

I remember a Reebok baseball cap, floating in the river at Caversham. I remember my friend Sarah rolling with laughter on the sunlit grass as I stood there, running a hand through my thick, curly-black hair. The hat bobbled away, under the bridge and downstream out of sight. I did not fully understand what had happened. Or why. I see it now though.

These daughters and sons live in a different world. They're smarter, better connected and well-informed. Yet here they are, friends together, showing exactly the same behaviour as we, their parents did, twenty five years ago. There is a human need to be together and this group of teenagers is figuring it out perfectly.

There is an end to the story by the river, but I am not ready to tell it. In any case, there was no end really; the chapters changed and a long sequence of events led me exactly here, to the bench further down and the rustling trees. That moment and this are absolutely connected.

Their voices carry in the still air. They are young, yes. But I do not envy them.

THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT

When is the middle of the night? Halfway between sunset and sunrise? Around midnight? Anywhere between last orders and the clink of milk bottles?

They don't clink any more though do they? They're all plastic, and brought home from Sainsbury's. Gone are the days of the whirring milk float and the whistling milkman.

Anyway, if the middle of the night is somewhere in these few small hours when the world is quiet and dark, when sensible people are fast asleep and everyone else is wishing they were, then this must be it.

I am awake. My mind is alive with thoughts and worries.

Why do I get like this? Where is the silver lining? It won't be easy, Positivity Week if this trend continues.

I'm worried about a lot of things. The future mostly. I can't really elucidate but there seem to be patterns in my life that I'm afraid to break - things that need some sort of miraculous intervention if there's any hope of solving them. Imagine a world where the thing that belongs to you is millimetres out of reach but the people who want you to get there have also created the system that keeps you from it. Only bravery will do.

Now imagine a world where I promise myself I won't be cryptic because it is annoying, and then have to decide whether to delete a paragraph from a blog post or leave it in because it's honest.

It is quiet. The clock ticks, the fridge hums, the rest of the world is silent. I have a Bible and a need to read it. Then I will pray in the only way that makes any sense at this time of night. I'm not brave, I'm not all that confident and I'm certainly out-of-phase with almost the whole world, but at least, here in the middle of the night, I have what I need.

SEARCH FOR THE SILVER LININGS

I think next week might see a return to Positivity Week. In Positivity Week, I try to avoid saying, thinking or feeling anything negative at all, and simply choose to see the positive in everything.

Shouldn't every week be like that?

Well, yes, probably, but you already know that it isn't. And maybe focusing on it for a week will do some good. After all, the last few weeks haven't exactly carried the global feel-good factor have they?

In Positivity Week, you don't ignore all the clouds, you don't pretend that they're not there; you simply search for the silver linings.

Sure, your taps are dripping and there are holes in your favourite pair of boots because you walked to work in them one time too often. Of course your Mum's worried about you eating properly and secretly wants you to move back home while your Dad thinks the exact opposite. But hey, behind all that, you've got a brilliant life with a great family, a good job, healthy lungs and running water.

I don't know. Maybe Positivity Week makes me look like a 'naive simpleton' but I genuinely think there's at least something in it. Especially when a lot of people seem to be crushed by the thought that the world is going to hell in a handcart at the moment.

Actually, the bit of the world you're responsible for doesn't have to. You can change it; you can make a difference, change the atmosphere, make things better... and that starts with your attitude, esepcially over the small things.

So in Positivity Week, we search for the silver linings. And once we find them, it gets a whole lot easier to recognise the sunshine.

SMALL TALK

No lunch with the Intrepids today so I had to queue up at the coffee van with everyone else.

I can't do small talk. While the coffee machine in the back of the van whooshed and hissed like a steam engine, and the queue of toe-tappers waited for their skinny frothy double caramel macchiato lattes or whatever it was, I stared around the car park trying to think of something to say.

How do you get your shirts so neatly pressed? Er, no.

How about that recent football match, eh? Um, do you actually know anything about football?

So, who do you think'll be the next Prime Minister? Urgh.

This is why I hate parties where you have to mingle - feels like you have to break the ice when all you've been given is a cocktail stick.

At a work thing the other week I went all-out on the small talk and it turned into big talk way too quickly. A conversation with one of the placement students ended up with me asking:

"So you must have a plan then, you're surely not just going to play games for the rest of your life?"

Which turned out to be his actual plan - he's studying video game development, and wants to go to South Korea to take it further. I suggested that there might be an end of level boss waiting for him at Seoul airport, but he didn't find that particularly funny.

Then there was the conversation with Eloi about Catalonia. It was a nice awkward bit of small talk until I essentially and accidentally accused him of being a separatist and demanded that Gibraltar stays British. Not only had I mixed up political issues on the Iberian peninsula but I'd accidentally accused him of being Spanish in the process. Never, ever refer to someone from Barcelona as Spanish.

On another occasion, small talk with Marie in the kitchen turned into a massive lecture about the difference between being optimistic and being naive. I argued that it was much better to be optimistic about life because you spend more of it being happy; she maintained that a natural pessism left room for anything good that happens feeling like a bonus, and that instead of the cheery optimist I appeared to be, actually I'm more like a 'naive simpleton'. Small talk turns to big talk quickly, it seems.

And I don't mind big talk. I just resent the fact that sometimes you have to go through small talk to get there. I would much rather sit in a corner and watch the ice melt than actively poke it with a cocktail stick.

NO-NONSENSE PEOPLE

I'm in a no-nonsense mood tonight. I will tell you straight with no diplomacy, no beating around the bush and no sugar coating, what I think.

It's a rare and dangerous moment this; I'm not normally this blunt. Hopefully I was kind though, at band practice. It was metronome training, and I knew from the start that it would prove exactly how lazy we all are at keeping time.

I like no-nonsense people. You always know where you are. They call a spade a spade even when it feels like they're whacking you round the head with it. Most of the time I'm more of a manual-earth-removal-device kind of guy, but I'd like to be more straightforward if I can.

I've come to the park tonight. The sky is fading and the trees are shivering in the breeze. Purple strips of cloud stretch across the bright horizon and the midges spin and circle like tiny specks of dust.

Or, as a no-nonsense person might day, it is twilight.

There is something wonderful about coming out here on these summer evenings. I get home and wander into the silent, fading world of sunset and watch from a bench as night falls. The leaves rustle, a dog barks, lights glimmer through the trees, and I sit here, thinking, alone, quite happy in my solitude.

I will probably be back to normal tomorrow. There'll be a bit more nonsense, a bit less down-the-line, play-in-time-with-the-beat-why-can't-you talk when I'm not quite so tired. Kindness has to win in the end.

 

POLLEN DIARIES: PART 9

"I tell you what, she must be doing something dead right 'coz I don't get flowers like this," said the receptionist, squaring up the bunch on Louise's desk.

Louise's boyfriend is clearly one of those incurable romantics. Either that or he's done something that requires some serious atonement.

Louise is on a training course, which means that this sprawling floral tribute remains unappreciated on her desk until she emerges from the training room.

What's actually happening though, is that this assortment of lovely flowers is also bringing on an explosive bout of hay fever, all over again. Someone's romantic gesture has become a sort of pollen-bomb, carried in innocuously by reception in an unwitting act of chemical warfare.

My eyes are sore and itchy and I can feel my throat tightening.

Still, if it's in the interest of romance, I guess that's okay. I mean I'm all for that.

How do you work out the formula for how often flowers are appropriate? I mean, it must be so easy to get that wrong. Is it random? Do you have to wait until a special moment? If the frequency is too high, do flowers make less of an impact? If the frequency is too low, does the gesture smell more of suspicion?

Well these are certainly making an impact - just not on the person they were intended for, and not in the way that they were meant to. I might have to move desks.

INDEPENDENCE DAY

So it's July 4th, Independence Day, the day when we celebrate those brave Americans who blew up a spaceship full of telepathic aliens, twenty years ago.

Over here in Britain, July 4th goes largely unnoticed. Our king, George III went bonkers and thought he should punish the Americans for throwing a load of tea into Boston harbour. They ought to have known really, that that's not how you make it. Always the tea first, water second.

I rather like the Declaration of Independence. I like the idea of equality, I like the idea of having 'unalienable' rights - the right to punch an alien in the face and then smoke a cigar on top of its spacecraft, for example.

I like the 'pursuit of happiness' too. It encapsulates Jefferson's idea that happiness is a sort of elusive rainbow that independent Americans ought to run after, now that they are free from the terrible tyranny of Great Britain, not to mention those pesky aliens. I reckon Jefferson knew that it would be all about the pursuit.

I also wonder how similar that time was to our own. I know the circumstances are different, but there must have been chasms opening up between Englishmen who saw the colonies as the free, independent states of a new nation, and those who were utterly loyal to the British Crown. What must that have been like? We think our country is divided! Essentially, that split rumbled on way into the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries. In some ways, you could argue that the USA is still, even now, working out what kind of nation it really wants to be. Perhaps our problem is that we really ought to know by now too.

But I'm out of my depth, and I'm a flag-waving tea-drinking Brit whose closest tie to the States is the day I went ten pin bowling on a US Army Base in East Anglia.

Run free, Americans, and light a firework of thanks for me. Especially you, Will Smith.

WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?

It happened again yesterday. I ran into someone I haven't seen for years; an older lady I remember from church in days gone by.

Here's how she began:

"Matt! You've gone grey!"

My heart stopped a bit while that sank in. I smiled weakly, she covered her tracks in that embarrassed way we Brits sometimes do when we ramble ourselves out of awkward conversations.

"Well I mean, it's okay, after all, so have I and anyway, it happens to the..."

"She hides her greys," said her husband, trying to be helpful in one way and probably making it much worse in another. I was already too late to say it was 'just wisdom' and in any case my brain was checking my history and wouldn't let me use that excuse.

In a fluster, she carried on, asked about my parents and then went with, "So, are you married yet? Any kids?"

"Me? No," I said, with a shake of the head.

"Well what are you waiting for?"

My insides exploded like a supernova. What a question! I held it in. I smiled coolly and didn't know what to say while I swirled and boiled internally. She'd made it sound like you could just nip down to the shop and pick up a family while you're there; not only that but that that simple procurement was what was wholly expected of me, by her, by society, by everybody! And not only that but also, guess what, tick tick tick... I am running out of time and my silver highlights are indications that soon it will be too late and I'm already close to old and lonely so I'd better get a move on.

So it happened again. It won't be the last time. I smiled and loved her, blinking away the furious tears. She was well-intentioned after all, and I'm not in the habit of blowing up in people's faces. In any case, what her heart was asking was whether or not I was happy in my life. Her perception and conditioning had filtered that out, but that was genuinely what she meant, I think.

And that's a different question altogether, isn't it?

TWENTY-FIRST CENTURY COOL

I had to wait for a Genius in the Apple Store, so they made me sit up at a giant wooden table while cool-looking people milled around with shiny iPhones. It's like a hipsters' waiting room, the Apple Store. Though what everyone is waiting for seems to be a bit of a mystery.

What I was waiting for was a technician to tell me what was wrong with my phone. I had already queued up, been given an appointment, gone for a tea, and embarrassed myself in front of the girl from Starbucks, so I was feeling a bit self-conscious, gazing round the shop. It had also occurred to me that I was sitting there in the Apple Store, clutching an iPhone in one hand and a Starbucks cup in the other, like a scruffy advert for early Twenty-First Century branding.

"Hi I'm Charlie," said a twelve year old in an Apple t-shirt, eventually, bounding up to the wooden table, "I'll be your technician today; follow me."

Charlie took me to the Genius Bar, where he cleaned my phone's charging port and then plugged it in. It sprang to life, much to my surprise. Charlie beamed, and I laughed.

"Thanks Charlie!" I exclaimed, in much the same way I would if one of my nephews had done a painting for my fridge. I added an 'awesome' and then a customary 'cheers mate' just to balance it up.

So that was that. And I have my phone back, which is great. I made my way through the crowd of tattooed, spectacle-wearing young people and out into the shopping centre. The girl from Starbucks was still there, wiping down the coffee stall. I slipped my empty cardboard cup into the bin. She gave me a funny look and then went back to work. I think it will take more than early Twenty-First Century branding to make me look cool, somehow.