THE ATHENS OF THE NORTH

They say the best time to be on Arthur's Seat is at sunrise. I'd made my mind up that that was how I'd start the day - clambering up the rock face to watch the golden rays of the morning sun fall across Edinburgh as the city wakes up.

So, amazingly, that is what I did. And there was a lot about that adventure that I really ought to have realised, long before I set out. We'll come to that. First a little context...

Arthur's Seat is a rock, a mountain if you will, formed by prehistoric volcanic activity, and carved out of the landscape by the same glacier that slowly eroded its way across southern Scotland two million years ago. It's massive. 900ft tall, I found out later from a tour guide on a bus. It sits to the South East of the city, overlooking Holyrood Palace and the Scottish Parliament, like a permanent reminder of the difference between geological power and political debate. And it's a mountain. Did I mention that? It is definitely a mountain.

"What am I doing?" I panted, half-way up. The path was steep and craggy and my feet were already tired. It was cold and dawn was just breaking on the other side of the dark rock ahead of me. The sky was laced with early-morning clouds, criss-crossing across the purple and gold sunrise. I tightened my backpack and scrambled on.

I later learned that there's a much easier route up. Wikipedia describes it as a 'simple ascent from the east, where a grassy slope rises above the loch...' - a walk in the park compared to the steep climb up the south side.

However, I did make it and I did sit there for a while, watching buildings sparkle and street-lamps flicker off. You can see it all from up there - the entire city stretches out before you like a medieval map. It was really quite wonderful. A man in a yellow jogging top, puffed up behind me and put his hands on his hips. I think he'd run all the way.

You know, sometimes I think nature is out to get me lost. If the difficult climb up Arthur's Seat had been exhausting, it was nowhere near as dangerous as my aimless scrabble down through the gorse and the thistles. There was one point when I crouched with a low centre-of-gravity and wondered just how close I was to falling off the edge. Nature had dragged me off the path, and almost (I realised) dragged me off the cliff altogether.

"This is really dangerous," I said to myself, marvelling at how these moments in real life aren't accompanied by dramatic music or sound-effects. I very carefully crawled back round the mountain to where I thought the main path might be. Thankfully, I was right. I emerged onto it as a young man dressed like a romantic poet looked up from the book he was reading on the way down.

-

I remembered from somewhere that they call this city The Athens of the North. I've not been to Athens, but I strongly suspect that they ought to rename it The Edinburgh of the South. When people choke through the smog and stand in front of the ruins of the Parthenon, they ought to say, "Well, it's impressive in a way, aye, but it's no exactly Edinburgh Castle."

I got on one of those open-top bus tours and decided to use it to get the best overview of the city. I'm glad I did. It was one of those that you could get off wherever you liked around the city. I was unimpressed to learn though that the first stop was Arthur's Seat!

"If you're going up," said the tour guide in an elegant brogue, "Make sure ye wrap up warm and wear sensible shoes." Noted.

First disembarkment for me though was Greyfriars Bobby and the National Museum of Scotland. Greyfriars Bobby was a dog who faithfully guarded his master's grave every day for fourteen years. When Bobby died, the church gave him his own gravestone (which is almost permanently surrounded by a crowd of Spanish people it seems) and a small bronze statue of a terrier.

I eavesdropped on the Spanish tour guide's very fluid and eloquent presentation. I say 'eavesdropped' but in truth I don't know any Spanish so the whole thing looked like a one-man performance of Hamlet, camped up to the point where the Spaniards were almost in tears with laughter... in front of the grave of a dead dog.

The National Museum of Scotland is well worth a visit. As soon as I walked in I felt as though as I was right in the middle of one of Prince Albert's Great Exhibitions. There is so much to see there, in the galleries that fan out from the central atrium. I learned about hot air balloons, the eye of the giant squid, James Hutton's unequalled geological discoveries and Egyptian mummification. And I was only there for fifteen minutes. I do like a museum.

I stopped next at the Castle. I specifically wanted to be there to hear the one-o-clock cannon. Edinburgh Castle is a fully operational military barracks, as well as Scotland's biggest tourist attraction, and every day (except Sundays, Christmas Day and Easter) they fire a cannon at exactly one o'clock in the afternoon.

I don't know why.

I sat under a statue of Frederick, Duke of York and watched the tourists. As my phone ticked over from 12:59 to 13:00, the cannon exploded, reverberated across the valley and a hundred people jumped out of their skin. I didn't go in the Castle as the queue was too long, but I might go back tomorrow.

After a brief exploration of the business end of the Royal Mile (bagpipers, selfie-sticks, whisky shops, get your tartan here) I picked up a weird sandwich and then went for a wander.

You know, JK Rowling must have really liked writing in coffee shops. I counted at least three where apparently "Harry Potter was born" while she scribbled away in the corner. She can't have come up with the idea in all of them, can she?

I went to the National Gallery of Scotland next. It's a lot like the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square, only smaller, and more Scottish.

"Ye'll have to carry yer rucksack in yer hands," said the security guard as I swung through the entrance doors. I complied, but I still don't really know why.

"And Lo, I give you the plasma ball."

"Call me Mary Poppins again, I dare you."

I invented a game in the National Gallery of Scotland. Without reading the plaque, try and figure out what's going on in the painting. I don't know what to call it - maybe Gallery Guess, or Classical Captions. I amused myself quietly with that as I wandered round the quiet halls of fine art.

It was a weird sandwich you know. They served it on a chalkboard. That's just odd. Use a plate. Or are the chefs busy conjugating Latin verbs on them in the kitchen I wonder?

After all that, I wandered back past the Scott Monument (£5 entry fee to see something you can see for miles anyway as it's 200 feet tall, clever). Sir Walter Scott was looking equally unimpressed today. Apparently, when he died he told people he didn't want a fuss made over him. At 200ft tall, the monument is the biggest memorial to a writer, anywhere in the world. Good job they didn't make a fuss I suppose.

I realised on my way back to the hotel that I've injured my knee a bit. I think I've probably done a bit too much walking today. Or maybe it was the artful way I nearly fell off Arthur's Seat this morning. Anyway, I decided to give it a bit of a rest before dinner, so I had a short nap. It still hurts a bit.

I will definitely sleep tonight. It's raining now, which somehow only adds to the elegance of this gentle city. There really is something quite uniquely pleasant but undefinable about it.

It's like London, but it's nothing like it. It's like Bath, but not really. It has history, like Liverpool or Bristol, say, and yet happily it doesn't have the busy buzz of any of those places, or the pressure-cooker of our own capital. It reminds me of all of them, and yet none of them at all. That's a great thing, because in the future when I look back on this city break, I will be in no doubt at all that the only place it's really like is Edinburgh, the 'Edinburgh of the South' of the North.

A GLEAMING WELCOME

The setting sun winked over the Forth Bridge as the plane banked right. Purple clouds hugged the horizon, and swirled round the dark mountains beyond the Firth. The cabin was momentarily bright with late-evening sunshine, before the scene rotated left and the plane began its shuddering descent.

Scotland. I've been here before. I remember my sister poking fun at me because I had written something in my diary about a 'gleaming sign' welcoming us to Scotland as we drove over the border in the camper van our parents had hired for the trip. She thought it was a funny thing to notice, and an even funnier thing for me to have written down in my diary.

There is a kind of gleaming welcome though here - something young, bright and fresh that's hard to put your finger on. It feels like Bath a bit, somehow, long ago.

I persuaded myself out of getting the taxi from the airport, and voted my committee of one firmly in favour of the tram instead. It wasn't much of a decision. £5 takes you the 6.6 miles into the heart of Edinburgh, and right along Princes Street. I got the feeling I was within walking distance of pretty much everywhere - the Scott Monument, the Castle, The Royal Mile, Holyrood, Haymarket... the whole place, it seemed. I peered carefully through the window as the city went by in a bright blur of sights and shops.

It was dark by the time I reached my hotel. Buses with odd-sounding destinations hurried by. Penicuik, Riccarton, Gogar and Craigmillar, all emblazoned like strange orange words. Some of the brightly lit establishments were still open, selling high-end shoes, and tartan whisky to tourists. Above the modern, wide-fronted shops, the old facades still loomed over, deep and dark. A yellowing clock-face hung like the moon in a blackened old building. The Scott Monument, illuminated at the end of the street, looked gothic and imposing as it presided over it all. Scott himself was sat in white marble at the bottom, looking dour and unimpressed.

I thought I was in the wrong place at first. White Corinthian pillars, exquisite wooden detailing, a cavernous parquet floor in an art-deco style. Leather armchairs were positioned carefully in the bar and fine art cluttered the walls between the gold-fronted elevators and grand sweeping staircases.

It would appear that I am staying in 1926 for the next few days. Instinctively, I changed my accent to BBC RP-super-posh and checked in. I think I even threw in a 'splendid' when it was all done. I chuckled to myself as I wandered the plush corridors in search of my room.

A short shower, some Beethoven, and a cup of green tea later, I was ready to hit the streets and find some dinner. Now, being a naturally classy culture-vulture, I decided I would go Italian for the first night. I had already discovered that this magnificent city is replete with interesting food places - Mexican, Spanish, Peruvian I think I saw, as well as the usual range of Korean, Thai, Indian and Nepalese palaces.

And therefore, I think it might have been my highly-refined sensibility that led me, almost inexorably, to Pizza Express.

Alright. I was tired and I suddenly quite liked the idea of a pizza. I had forgotten that their pizzas are a bit more like 12-inch spicy biscuits, but hey, I had a glass of Merlot and all was well with the world. It wasn't pizza a legno, cooked over the wooden fire of a Neopolitan farmhouse, but that's ok - I'm in Edinburgh. And sure, you'd never show the bruschetta to an actual Italian, but again, it filled a hole after all that travelling.

So, here I am. I've not seen much yet (it's dark) but I'm already feeling relaxed. I've taken the extraordinary leap of planning out tomorrow, figuring out a flexible framework for fun and freedom. Plus, I've begun the journey of the Great Rebalancing, hoping that I can get my emotions, my mind, my heart and my sleep back into line.

THE VALLEY OF THE FOUR GIANTS: TRUMPET

It is that day. Hopelessness rolls his enormous fingers around the hilt of his sword. The air bristles with electricity. The valley is silent, waiting. I close my eyes.

It starts sweetly and quietly, like a breeze. In one long, growing sustained note, the trumpet calls me as though it's from a dream. Then the awful note grows louder until it fills every recess in my head. It blasts and resonates through me as I stand with my eyes closed. It stops, hangs in the air for a moment and echoes away.

Eyes open. The world is suddenly bright and alive. The sword catches the sun as it glides into the air. I move quickly as an enormous foot crashes in my direction. There's another. Uselessness's staff is whirring through the air toward me. I duck and run as a fist smashes into the earth. The sky passes into shade, the air is filled with their terrible shouting and jeering. Another pounding into the earth. I have nowhere to run. The sword jags into the soil, sending a shower of mud and grass over me. I clutch my bag tightly to myself and run aimlessly.

Hopelessness rips the sword from the earth and growls. The others laugh. Loneliness pulls the bow from behind her back and attaches an arrow. Uselessness spins the staff around his head and waits. I run toward Hopelessness, who is now thundering toward me. I somehow keep my balance and dart between his legs. A massive leather boot swings. I instinctively jump and grab hold of a strap. Hopelessness roars, thirty feet above me. An arrow comes skimming from nowhere and jams into the ground.

"Stop!" Cries Hopelessness.

"I've got him!" Uselessness shouts.

"No!"

The staff spins through the air like a javelin. It misses me by a whisker and thunders into the ankle of the giant with a crunch. I drop to the ground as Hopelessness screams with pain.

I run, heading for the forest. Arrows like spears fly past me as I race to the safety of the trees.

Soon, I am catching my breath in the branches of an old oak. I'm safe, at least for now. But the giants wait at the edge of the forest. They know that I cannot hide forever.

POWERLESSNESS

There are a few things going on at the moment which don't seem right to me.

In fact, I look at them and it's obvious. But what's equally obvious is the sinking realisation that I can do nothing about them - nothing at all. Well, actually, I could, I could make them all much worse, go in and mess about with people's feelings until the wires are all short-circuiting and the buttons don't work at all and there are sparks and angry faces... but that isn't really a favourable choice, and so it's no option at all.

It's humiliating to be so powerless. These things reduce all your strength, your desire, passion and inbuilt sense of justice, all to the bleachers, where you sit spectating. You have not been chosen. You are not playing. You are watching, and that has to be okay.

I have a cold. It's one of those nose-streaming, uncomfortable, ticklish throat colds; a virus which has especially mutated itself in the freezing wind, just for me. It's annoying and it's making me grumpy. And sneezy. And... well, you can work that joke out for yourselves can't you?

I snuffled round Sainsbury's after work. I am definitely getting faster at my snaking route down all the aisles, one at a time (except one). I think I did the whole thing in thirty minutes today. Though I did nearly crash into a very pretty girl. She stopped, looked at me and smiled as I jammed my trolley to a halt. It was a tiny moment of connection, but like so many things, the moment flicked away in three quarters of one single second.

Like so many things. I do understand you know; I do understand the life of the stargazer and his astronaut dreams. But I am a fixer who has to learn how to be a coper at the moment. And while I can't do anything at all to fix, to intervene, to change a heart or reverse a decision, I can learn how to trust the Maker of all those things.

ALL THE WORLD'S A STAGE

Tum te-tum, tum te-tum tum.

I'm happier today. No idea why. I'm back in the office after having two days working from home, sniffling my way through a box of Celebrations.

I'm not the only one who's been ill. I overheard two of the product managers in the kitchen:

"Are you dying?" said one to the other.

"Not quite."

"If you are, then ****** off and stop infecting the rest of us."

I held in a cough that had suddenly tickled its way up my throat, and then wandered back to my desk, holding my mug.

Happier, I note, carefully. I'm abandoning Sneezy and Grumpy because they're miserable company. But I'm not quite ready to embrace Happy yet. Give me time.

It might be because the sun is shining. The leaves are translucent and the lake is sparkling with silver, Autumn light today.

It might be because I've started to think about giving up caring about things that are a waste of time.

I think that happens sometimes - we get focused on detail, passionate about the way we'd do things and utterly annoyed by anyone with a better idea who threatens our security. Sometimes there's a bigger picture. I forget that.

So what if I went back to that basic idea I figured a while ago - that People Are More Important Than Stuff? Would that help?

Gosh, I don't know. After all, I am a person and I struggle to rebalance myself so that my stuff is less important than me. And by stuff, I of course mean, all the things that I love, all the things that I have, and all the things that really stress me out.

So, this might be a new way of thinking. Take a step backwards from the stage, the props and the script. Don't forget that this play is about people: our fears and frailties, as well as our infinite capacity for kindness and love. And that thing that's stressing me out is really just a trinket.

I'm off for a walk around the lake and some crisp, fresh air.

Don't worry, I'll wrap up warm.

THE GREAT REBALANCING

I went and sat in the park today for the first time in ages. I thought it might do me some good.

It was freezing and everything was different. The dragon tree has lost most of its leaves; the others, who had happily rustled in the late September sun a few weeks ago, have now turned rusty and orange. Leaves blustered untidily over the short grass and the wind whipped through my hair with icy fingers.

I did sit there for a while though, trying to let the air blow away the stuffiness of the indoors. I spend a lot of time indoors at the moment.

I had a dizzy spell yesterday. My whole body felt like it was a hundred degrees - clammy, sweaty, overheating and unbearable. Then my vision started to swim, as though I was looking at the world through translucent circles, or a close-up of one of those colourblindness charts. I was scared for a while. Then I had some water (seemed like the right thing to do) and a sit down, and I was okay.

It's another reminder that I must sort out my diet, along with my work-life balance, my sleep-patterns and everything else. It's all part of The Great Rebalancing.

I got a nice email today from someone who knows a lady who's just joined the choir. She said this:

I just thought I would let you know that [she] really loved coming to choir last week! She came dashing over to me ... to tell me how much she has enjoyed it and how great she thought you were, she appreciated your musical talent!

Good job! 

Thanks for making her welcome too.

I like emails like that. Making people feel welcome is something I've spent a long time working out how to do and I'm not always that great at it, so it's really splendid when it works. And somehow, at choir, it's kind of easy; it just feels natural and comfortable. Oh how in the world can I give that up?

Yet here I am, head-spinning on a Sunday night with an exhausted, stressed-out body that's now taken me near to fainting, just to get the message across that something is not right. I am out of balance, and everything in me knows it.

The grey clouds bumped across the Autumn sky. The coloured leaves blew in the wind and my scarf flapped around my neck. It's a season of change, of preparation for the long, cold winter. It's a time to be ready, to be hopeful and to be diligent.

And it's certainly a time to remember that everything that falls to the ground does so, so that one day soon, new life can spring up from it. Even in nature, things start to rebalance themselves in preparation for that moment of hope, of joy, and of warm, Spring sunshine.

It is coming.

OUTSTANDING FEATURES

"Will you be dressing up for Halloween?" asked Joe, stirring his tea.

"Probably not," I smiled.

It's that time of year again - the posters are up, and the annual fancy dress work night-out is booked. This year, as an added touch, even the boss is dressing up to present the sales figures... as Dracula, I assume.

"How about you?" I asked. I had no idea what I was going to say next, so out it tumbled...

"I guess it's easier for you," I went on, "You're more of a blank canvas."

Oh.

My.

Word.

What is wrong with me?

Don't worry though, I thought quickly, I've got this covered.

"Oh no, Joe, what I mean is," I went on, hopelessly, "you don't have many... outstanding features..."

Good grief.

He stood there, not knowing what to say. My mind raced through all the potential ways I could tell him his dressing up options were more flexible because he doesn't wear glasses, have a beard or unusual hair, and isn't limited to Short-Sighted Gandalf, Dumbledore or an Ageing Pirate.

He was alright about it. I was mortified! So much for having a way with words! I may as well have called him Mr Potato Head.

Anyway, as I explained, I won't be going out on Halloween because I disagree with it on a number of levels.

Just like Christmas, Halloween is an odd concoction of traditions and rituals that have evolved through the generations. Not all of them are innocent, and not all of them are awful, but unlike Christmas, at its raw and ancient heart, Halloween was always about evil, and I don't really want to have much to do with it.

Part of the reason for that of course is that I have to fight giants of my own, and those giants really have slunk out of the woodwork to torment me through the night.

I don't want to celebrate the same monstrous power that stacks itself against me at the moment. That would be like attaching an IS flag to my car and then telling everyone who stops me, that it's 'just a bit of fun' and that they shouldn't worry about it.

Joe wasn't offended - I think he knew that what I meant was supposed to be a compliment on his fresh-faced look.

Given that my own face looks like it's been kicked by tiny horses and left to dry in a sub-Saharan sirocco, I would have thought it would be obvious.

Oh well.

CARGO TRAIN

I feel a bit sick today. I think it's because I stayed up late, trying to fix Japanese review packs and simultaneously getting choir stuff ready for tonight.

Life's a bit like one of those cargo trains that fly through a station.

You try to count the trucks but they go by so quickly that they just turn into a worrying blur of motion, flicking past at a hundred miles an hour. And there are thousands of them - the train goes on forever, it seems.

I'm tired. Oh and my skin's flaky again. When I smile, my face feels tight and my forehead is thin, red and raw. My nose is dry and scabby and my cheeks feel like the cracked earth of a dried reservoir.

However, despite looking like a discarded walnut, I am trying to focus on things to look forward to. And the next thing is my trip to Edinburgh.

I'm going for a couple of days to visit Scotland's capital and hopefully de-stress a little bit. I had an idea a while ago, to visit the capital cities of the United Kingdom, so this seemed like as good a time as any.

However, to get there, I've got a bit of a journey to get through over the next few days - namely, trying to count the trucks as they fly through the station. And then to work out how to slow the whole thing down so I'm not left dizzy on the platform.

DOORFRAME

On Saturday I walked into a doorframe. I just went clunk, ahh! ahhhh, ow! and then rolled around on the carpet clutching my hand to my forehead for a while.

Oh it was properly melodramatic. I made all the pantomime noises, even the one where you take a sharp intake of breath through your teeth in a hiss, not to mention the kind of low-pitched growling cow impression that's two parts pain and one part unbelievable-stupidity.

Gah.

Anyway, I was alright. There was no blood gushing out of my cranium and the mirror showed just a reddened graze below the hairline. I immediately let my friends know, just in case I succumbed to concussion later on. They were very understanding, even when my phone ran out of battery while I ran a bath and I was unable to reply to the handful of 'Are you okay?' messages.

Anyway, as a result of my near-death experience, people have been asking me what I've done to myself.

"Oh it's okay," I say, casually, "I just walked into a door."

Now he's not alone in this response but my manager did raise an eyebrow. Then he asked me something weird:

"Is everything alright at home?" he said, warily.

"Yes it's fine," I replied, "The doors are all... still on their hinges."

"Okay," he said.

I'm not sure he was convinced.

UNDERWATER MUSIC

Is there some big popular band out there whose thing is that they sound like dogs let loose in a swimming pool?

It's just that my niece is currently listening to something that sounds like an underwater recording of a DJ fighting off some splashing canines, who have been drawn into the local leisure centre by the high-pitched squeals of his steadily sinking equipment.

If this is the new thing, it might make music-making easier for the rest of us, I suppose. We no longer have that ongoing pesky annoyance of actually practising instruments or arranging ourselves to be melodious! Get a life, Grandad! 

Nope, we can all abandon that useless talent stuff along with our old-fashioned sense of dedication, theory, lyrics, poetry and musicianship, and just plunge our waterproof iPhones (set to record) into the water butt, while shouting like angry lifeguards trying to round up the residents of the local kennels.

I don't think it's for me, this brave new world of underwater music. 

SORRENTO DIARIES: PART 8

I haven't spoken to anybody today, so it seems like a good moment to wrap up these excerpts from my old diary. After my uninspiring day on Capri, I had one final rainy day watching the sun loungers get soaked on the terrace, then I packed my things and started the long journey home. This is the last one of these...

September 13th, 2013

The rain streaked across the windows as the little train sped from Gatwick along a drab and weary route. I was loving it.

Home, well, the Surrey countryside anyway, smelled fresh and wet and, well, like England. If Elgar's cello concerto had filled the carriage I don't think I'd have felt any happier.

Apparently, there have been a few storms in teacups while I've been away. How glad am I that I didn't have access to facebook this week.

Being away does grant a peculiar perspective. I feel quite lucid, perhaps even untroubled. There's a new sense of passion alive in me and a determination to keep it alive.

It's good to be home.

BEAR IN THE OFFICE

Man, I'm grumpy today. So far at least. I feel like a bear that's been woken up in the middle of hibernation.

Is it okay to want a peaceful, happy life, do you think? I know what my immediate reaction to that question is, and I can guess what most people would say. Yet sometimes it seems as though all the world is set up against it.

So I'm sitting here trying to be good-humoured and not to get into any arguments about grammar or sugar in breakfast cereals. But let's be honest, a few moments ago I was hibernating in my duvet and my mind was floating in the past like a happy ship in a sea of summer.

PERSONALITY TEST

I did one of those online personality tests: you know the kind of thing - it asks you whether you'd kill an annoying person in a lift, or how many chandeliers you've swung from at parties, and then it works out your personality type with an algorithm, reducing you to a number of carefully calculated categories.

It turns out that I'm so awesome I crashed the website.

Yep, clearly my blend of witty repartee and unshrinking charisma is so far off the chart that the computer program working behind the scenes just gave up trying to crunch the numbers.

I must be like Neo from the The Matrix. That'll explain why I don't get invited on work dos any more - too intidimating; my lightning fast humour and razor-sharp observations are like kung-fu in hyperspace, and no-one likes a show-off. No curry nights for Mr Anderson over there, I imagine my colleagues saying. He's just too cool for that kind of school.

Of course, having a system-crashing, Internet-dazzling, world-shattering personality comes with a downside. I'm so brilliant I've got nothing to measure it against. It would have been nice if the computer had just told me what was obviously the case - it could have flashed up a message: Oh it's you, we're not worthy, we're not worthy... or something. But computers don't think like that. It just said Please Wait... for about half an hour. Then it went blank.

Which is probably most people's reaction when they figure out how amazing I am.

THE BUTTERFLY EFFECT

At some time before 3am this morning, just as I was dropping into sleep, a pedestrian was struck by a lorry on the motorway.

We don't know the details. It could have been a moment's lapse in concentration, or a drunken dare, or just a terrible accident in the fog.

Whatever happened, the impact has rippled into the lives of thousands of people this morning, many of whom are still stuck in traffic.

Later, as I was walking along the High Street, I saw a lady in a Jeep pulling out into the traffic jam. She was trying to squeeze through a gap left by a truck and the car behind it. It was a tight angle and she miscalculated. As she reversed, I could see the fresh white scratches down her indented driver-side door. The truck driver swung out of the cab and started to walk around the back to see what had happened.

A little further along, by the train of stationary traffic, a girl crossed the road and skipped onto the pavement. She stumbled slightly on the kerb and let out a small embarrassed yelp. She was alright, but I bet she was thinking about it for ages.

And then there were the thousands of people in their cars, listening to the radio, drumming their fingers on the steering wheel, phoning their bosses to say they would be late and sipping hour-old coffees.

Even here, now, half of the office are still on their way - thousands of hours, stuck on the road. These are ripples from a single event, a single individual, a micro-moment in history, a person making maybe the tiniest of decisions.

I myself, parked at the Intrepids' and walked in, like old times.

Shiny cars stacked up through the village, pumping condensation into the chilly air with engines idling.

This is the famous butterfly effect - the idea that chaos can grow from tiny changes. Everything is connected; every one is connected. Small decisions can have big consequences, like a butterfly flapping its wings and eventually causing a hurricane.

This makes me think that time is really a complicated network of cause and effect... singularities - things that happen, things that happen as a result of other things that happen and things that are prevented from happening by other things that happen. The girl stumbling on the pavement would not have been there had the accident not happened - and neither would I have been there to see her. The lady who scratched her Jeep would not be cursing herself this morning and the truck driver wouldn't have any complicated paperwork to fill out.

And these are only a few of the stories that interwove themselves around the village this morning. There was gridlock across the entire town - a tangle of interconnected tales, histories, triumphs and disasters.

The cobweb doesn't last long for most of us though. I'll have soon forgotten I was late, that lady will repair her Jeep and the girl on the pavement has probably already cracked on with some work.

But it's not temporary for all of us. There's a lorry driver in shock, and a family somewhere with some devastating news.

I got to work, just as the coffee van was packing up. Never one to miss an opportunity, the lady who runs it smiled at me and said, "Morning. Bacon roll?"

I don't much like the butterfly effect, I thought later, as I chomped through the dry, tasteless bacon and crumbling bread.

EASY PEELERS

This week, I bought a bag of 'easy peelers'. They're mandarins apparently, though it only says so in small letters by the bar code.

In larger letters, the packet declares that 'easy peelers' are 'great for kids'.

I never once stopped to ask how you go about growing a fruit to be an easy peeler. The only thing I can think of is that these little orange bundles of fun have been genetically modified somehow to have weak binding between the flesh and the skin.

The only other clue to their origins and growth mechanism (other than that they were produced in South Africa) is written in even tinier letters:

Treated with imazalil, thiabendazole, 2-phenylphenol and  pyrimethanil.

"Hello Wikipedia," I said to myself as I clicked it open.

Imazalil (also called enilconazole) is a fungicide used to preserve citrus fruits in transit.

"In 1999, based on studies in rodents, enilconazole was identified as "likely to be carcinogenic in humans" under The Environmental Protection Agency's Draft Guidelines for Carcinogenic Assessment."

Thiabendazole?

"Effects on humans from use as a drug include nausea, vomiting, loss of appetite, diarrhea, dizziness, drowsiness, or headache; very rarely also ringing in the ears, vision changes, stomach pain, yellowing eyes and skin, dark urine, fever, fatigue, increased thirst and change in the amount of urine occur."

2-Phenylphenol - used in disinfectants and can cause eye damage.

Meanwhile Pyrimethanil is a pesticide which is possibly an eye-irritant, a respiratory tract irritant and an endocrine disrupter, which in high doses could be a liver, kidney, adrenals, bladder and thyroid toxicant.

You know what though: despite all of that, they're still really difficult to peel. My thumbnails have turned sticky and orange.

Great for kids, eh?

NOTHING RHYMES

Well it's National Poetry Day and I've got nothing.

I can't rhyme a sausage.

Flossage, drossage... hostage?

See? I think this depressing lack of creativity might be another side-effect of my current mood.

Anyway, as lethargic and as unenergetic as I feel today, it is time for the super-stressful, super-nervy choir concert tonight. Are they ready? No. Am I ready? Not in the least. Could I have done with an extra week? Yes. Am I fool for not planning things well? Probably.

Oh well. We'll give it our best shot. I'm going to be exhausted though. Straight from work, no dinner (second night in a row) and out, to set up lights, sound, chairs and piano. All the while, I'll be feeling like I've been slightly concussed and as though my heart is in free-fall. Sort of dizzy and disappointed.

Lossage?

I wanted to write a poem about how it just might be that the Earth is the most beautiful place in the Universe... and we're all messing it up. Kind of everything I've ever known, wandering the earth alone, waterfalls to mountain tops, rivers deep and waving crops...

Shudder. What am I doing?

Ah it'll come back to me, the creativity. Probably in the early hours of tomorrow morning when I'm worrying about how I could have done the concert better.

I have got to slow down.

THE VORTEX OF TROUBLE

"Leaving a trail of devastation, from the International Space Station, Matthew looks like a vortex of trouble..." said the newsreader, solemnly.

"Yes, he's not looking too good from down here either," I said. My Mum laughed, and then patted my forearm gently.

Imagine that. I got my Mum to laugh at a hurricane that's currently ripping Haiti to shreds. Hurricane Matthew, they've called it. I felt bad.

It does strike me as a good picture of where I'm at though - not ripping up the Caribbean but a cyclone of internal turmoil, I mean.

I went to the doctor yesterday and he confirmed that I'm suffering from stress, anxiety and probably some chemical depression.

"Is it all chemical?" I asked him.

"It largely is," he said.

It turns out that my skin flaking off like an overcooked stroodle, my inability to sleep at the right times and the ongoing sinking feeling, are all critically related. When he asked me which came first, I struggled to remember. The mood is cyclical, the skin is recent and the insomnia is hard to forget.

So this is how it is. The Four Giants are shrouded in the fog, like enormous stone pillars. It makes the fight a lot more difficult.

Meanwhile, down here on the ground, I'm trying to smile through what feels very much like a vortex of trouble.

But it will pass. And I wont be defeated.

KEATS'S FALL AND HOOD'S REAL AUTUMN

I woke up at 3:30 again. It was dark and cold. I think it's going to be a long winter.

But let's not get ahead of the seasons. The leaves are still clinging to the trees and the sun is genuinely warm through the clear blue sky.

I've been thinking for a while now that there are more than four seasons. Call it a result of global warming if you like, or perhaps just a noticeable transition as the year rolls on, but there are certainly at least two types of Autumn. And I think we're coming out of one and into the other.

First there is Keats's autumn - the "season of mists and mellow fruitfulness". This is the chilly breeze and the golden sun, the cloudless skies and the translucent, yellowing leaves.

I think if we were to call it anything, we ought to call Keats's autumn, the Fall. And to be honest, there is something rather North American about it. It's mostly dry and mostly bright and summer clings on and casts long shadows in the early afternoon. I like Fall. It's my favourite.

But Keats's Fall does give way to the Real Autumn. And the Real Autumn is Thomas Hood's Autumn. "No sun, no moon, no morn, no noon..."

He's a grump, Thomas Hood. And why wouldn't he be? In the soggy, dank, Real Autumn, the crispy leaves get mulched at the side of the road as cars swish through puddles. Lamplight glistens in the early mornings and the freezing fog fills the streets. Condensation turns to ice on the windscreen and the pavements sparkle with cold under the twinkling stars.

In Real Autumn, you can see your breath and you can feel the cold pounding your heart and rifling through your coat and scarf. It's icy, damp and miserable. You go to school (or work) in the dark and you come home again... in the dark. It's Real Autumn because it's very British. And it's on its way.

I wrapped the duvet around me a little tighter, lying there in the cold. Insomnia is pretty awful in the searing heat of summer, but when it gets chilly in the small hours, getting up for a glass of milk, reading about sculptors, or inventing word puzzles in an attempt to get to sleep, could all get a bit tiresome a bit quickly.

I closed my eyes and thought of Keats.

SORRENTO DIARIES: PART 7

Don't worry. Nearly there. In today's episode of my holiday-diary from three years ago, I go to the Isle of Capri, inspiration for that awful Ford car from the 1980s and a brand of squishy drinks cartons which carried enough E numbers to make them basically radioactive.

I digress. I climbed aboard a questionable ferry in Sorrento harbour and chuntered across the Mediterranean to see what this infamous island was like...


September 11th, 2013

4.55pm. Capri. The sun hangs behind the island now but the air is still hot and sultry. I have a small table overlooking the harbour and a glass of lemon soda. This little glass of processed lemons is the highlight of this claustrophobic island. There are people walking round with carrier bags which say "I [heart] Capri". I want a t-shirt that says, "I can't bear Capri" or "I went to Capri and getting ripped off for this lousy t-shirt was the best bit."

What does it conjur in the mind, this island, 'Capri'? (stress on the first syllable). An exotic, mediterranean paradise of cocktails and white sandy beaches? Maybe fruit hanging from trees, ready to be squeezed by beautiful maidens who lovingly pour it into bottles on their way to the blue grotto caves.

It might have been that once. It is now a bustling tourist trap. I don't understand why this has to happen in poor but beautiful places: what you come to see is obscured by everyone else who's come to see it. In the end you end up wandering around with milling visitors, peering at paradise through a sea of hats, cameras, children and loud shirts and a series of commercialised distractions. And they're expensive distractions.

What's more, the dirty, smelly, awful ferry that brought me here doesn't leave again until 6:45, which even now as I glance at my watch, is an hour and twenty five minutes away. The waiter here at the Cafe Apreo said he'd let me know when it arrives but given a can of lemon soda is 5 Euros, I question his motives.

So, here on Capri, you can't leave for hours and there's nothing to do except wander about with your excess Euros and the seething hordes - and I mean, it's like Oxford Street - and spend, spend, spend.

I did attempt to climb into the island. I was half-hopeful that I'd stumble across a breathtaking view I could enjoy on my own. However, the Via Truglio went up and up and I got lost in the back streets.

They call it the 'island of love'. They, being the Capri Tourism Board I suppose.

I've finished my lemon soda and the helpful waiter is buzzing round, uncertainly. There's still a miserable hour to go before fume cupboard with funnels arrives. Tonight, when Sorrento comes into view across the smoke-filled water, I shall be glad to see the Gran Paradiso glimmering on the hill.

9:07pm. The dirty rustbcuket was late docking at Capri. I glanced at my watch as the engines shuddered into life and the cabin shook. It was nearly seven and I would be late for dinner at my hotel. Across the bay we chugged in a dusty golden glow.

The sunset flooded through the filthy windows. Capri looks much better as you sail away from it. It pokes out of the ocean, volcanic and jagged. As it gets smaller, those steep edges seem to smooth out and against the sunset, from a safe distance, the 'island of love' looks a bit like the top of a heart, half-sunk into the sea. Twinkling at its centre, were the lights of il Porto, which had made me feel stressed for the first time in about a week. I waved goodbye, hoping I might never have to return.

I'm in my traditional spot in the bar again tonight. The foot-tapping Germans are back but there's no all-round entertainer this evening with his blend of pan-European jazz classics.  I've noticed tonight that there are quite a few different faces scattered around the hotel. It does make sense, reminding me that someone's holiday is just beginning and others are coming to an end.

Tomorrow is my last full day here. I am quite ready to go home. My plan is to stay in the hotel, relax and prepare for travelling on Friday.

Maybe Capri was all about showing me how not to treat romance, how not to abuse it until it becomes just a selfish way to invite pleasure without the depth. There is no doubt that it is the kind of island where love could be fired and romance could be born. It was just that all the limoncello shops, overpriced bars, trattorias and t-shirt stalls had pushed all of that real romance to the top of a very steep and lonely climb.