"It's that time of year," said my colleague, Paul as I gazed forlornly into the vending machine.
"Sorry?" I asked.
"Oh, the time of year when we all need a bit more sugar."
I'd not heard of this, but I reasoned that I could quite happily go along with it. It is, after all, freezing. And for me at least, the colder it gets the more I feel like stuffing my face with energising snacks.
The world was white this morning - deadly beautiful, sparkling and cold. Cars, windscreens, windows and wheelie bins were painted with frost and the bright sun cast icy shadows over the street.
I slung my rucksack over my back and pulled the front door to with a click. My stomach rumbled as I crunched across the grass to my car. Too late for breakfast again. I have to fix that.
"I'd say it's alright then," said Paul, "You know, for a bit more energy."
I pushed the buttons and selected #62: All Butter Shortbread. The machine whirred round and hooked the shortbread half-on the spiral and half-dangling over the precipice above the out-tray. Credit 00.00 said the machine.
"Brilliant." I said. Paul had already gone. I didn't have the energy to thump the machine, so I left it.
Wednesday, 30 November 2016
FLOWERS AND CHAMPERS
I had to buy flowers and champagne today.
I felt really odd carrying them through Sainsbury's on my way to the exit. A lady looked at me with a kind of knowing smile and I smiled meekly back, looking for all the world like a man on an elaborate mission to say sorry for something awful.
That wasn't why I was carrying a massive bunch of colourful flowers and a bottle of bubbly, by the way; just to make it absolutely clear - I haven't upset any ladies, as far as I know! At least, not this week.
No, this was my attempt to do something nice for Louise, who became engaged-to-be-married, over the weekend.
Ah love, that most excellent of things, striking at the heartstrings and shimmering through the air as Cupid plies his softened bow with delicate arrows. How sweet. I scanned the aisles and checkouts for anyone I know from church, just to make sure no-one saw me clutching a massive bunch of flowers and an expensive bottle of champagne and accidentally got the wrong idea.
"I didn't really expect it to be such a nice feeling, thinking about getting married," said Louise, later. It turned out that she had orchestrated the entire engagement process, leaving her boyfriend little room for imaginative romance or surprising creativity in the procedure. I got the feeling that her excellent organisational skills suited both of them in that regard. Nonetheless, it was interesting to me that she hadn't planned on feeling quite so warm and fuzzy once it had happened.
"I think that's how it's supposed to be," I said, doing my best to offer what must have been strange appreciation from an ageing singleton. And I do mean it. While it might not quite have worked itself out for me, I believe wholeheartedly in marriage and I will continue to champion it wherever I can. And that is the real reason I bought flowers and champers today.
The event did also mean though that I was forced into sending round The Card of Many Signatures. You might have heard me lament this thing before - cards go round the office sometimes, requiring signatures and witty remarks on big birthdays, house-moves or most commonly, people leaving. I don't like the Card of Many Signatures, but I knew it had to be done, and so a little reluctantly, I printed out the list of names, crossed off my own (I normally forget to do this), stapled it onto an A4 envelope and slotted Louise's card inside, ready for sending round the room like a hot potato.
She was pleased to see all the names I think. A few people had (predictably) sent in their deepest condolences to her fiancé, and there was a scattering of all-the-bests and fabulous-newses, as you might expect. I had written congratulations in massive letters. I think that's how you celebrate things like this: massive letters. Oh, and with flowers and champagne of course.
Tuesday, 29 November 2016
THE VALLEY OF THE FOUR GIANTS: THUNDER
He's breathing. At least, his enormous chest is slowly moving up and down. Rain is pouring across his gigantic body and pooling beneath him. I don't have long.
It was in his right hand. I carefully make my way around his enormous fallen head. His eyes are closed but his eyelids are flickering. I don't have long. His breath rattles through his beard and steam twirls from his mouth.
Thunder still rumbles above.
His right hand is a fist, thumped into the mud where he landed. I move around it. It's like a cage of fingers, locked by a huge, hairy thumb. But there, white and tiny between those massive fingers is the corner of something I recognise.
---
The sunlight flickers through the French windows. She looks up from a canvas and smiles. An old-fashioned telephone rings. She carefully sets down her paint brush and moves to the writing desk. She picks up the receiver and holds it to her ear.
---
The giant's fingers are slippery with rainwater. I pull at the corner of the photograph but it's still wedged tightly in his fist. I'm conscious that I could easily rip the corner if I pull too hard. Meanwhile, the rain continues to tumble through the leaves and trickle across his enormous knuckles. I am soaked. And Hopelessness is stirring.
---
The telephone clicks neatly as she replaces the shiny black receiver. She knows what she has to do next, but how? She raps her fingers on the writing desk. How will she make it happen? She pulls back the wooden chair and picks up a quill. There may be a way. There must be a way to help him, otherwise... She looks up to the window. Something is catching the light.
---
Thunder. Breathing. Hopelessness moves. His body shudders noisily and his eyes flick open. I freeze. The fingers move. I grab the photograph again. It slips between his fingers, easily this time! But he is awake. His head moves. His knee rises into the air and his boots scrape the earth. Quickly I slip the photograph into my bag. He flattens his palms into the soil with a squelch and for the first time since being struck by lightning, the giant sits up and looks around him.
I'm already into the trees.
---
It's a phonograph, a gramophone if you will! It has been in the corner of the room for a long time, but she hasn't ever really paid it any attention. Now she does. She knows what it means when a thing catches the light.
A curling golden tube spirals from the wooden box, expanding into an open-mouthed trumpet. On top of the ornate box, a circular turntable gathers dust beneath a single bronze-coloured arm and needle.
She looks at it thoughtfully.
---
Hopelessness roars with anger. I watch from the tree. Rain patters from the leaves. He shouts into the sky. My heart pulses and I breathe long and heavy with relief. The giant stomps noisily into the forest in the opposite direction.
It was in his right hand. I carefully make my way around his enormous fallen head. His eyes are closed but his eyelids are flickering. I don't have long. His breath rattles through his beard and steam twirls from his mouth.
Thunder still rumbles above.
His right hand is a fist, thumped into the mud where he landed. I move around it. It's like a cage of fingers, locked by a huge, hairy thumb. But there, white and tiny between those massive fingers is the corner of something I recognise.
---
The sunlight flickers through the French windows. She looks up from a canvas and smiles. An old-fashioned telephone rings. She carefully sets down her paint brush and moves to the writing desk. She picks up the receiver and holds it to her ear.
---
The giant's fingers are slippery with rainwater. I pull at the corner of the photograph but it's still wedged tightly in his fist. I'm conscious that I could easily rip the corner if I pull too hard. Meanwhile, the rain continues to tumble through the leaves and trickle across his enormous knuckles. I am soaked. And Hopelessness is stirring.
---
The telephone clicks neatly as she replaces the shiny black receiver. She knows what she has to do next, but how? She raps her fingers on the writing desk. How will she make it happen? She pulls back the wooden chair and picks up a quill. There may be a way. There must be a way to help him, otherwise... She looks up to the window. Something is catching the light.
---
Thunder. Breathing. Hopelessness moves. His body shudders noisily and his eyes flick open. I freeze. The fingers move. I grab the photograph again. It slips between his fingers, easily this time! But he is awake. His head moves. His knee rises into the air and his boots scrape the earth. Quickly I slip the photograph into my bag. He flattens his palms into the soil with a squelch and for the first time since being struck by lightning, the giant sits up and looks around him.
I'm already into the trees.
---
It's a phonograph, a gramophone if you will! It has been in the corner of the room for a long time, but she hasn't ever really paid it any attention. Now she does. She knows what it means when a thing catches the light.
A curling golden tube spirals from the wooden box, expanding into an open-mouthed trumpet. On top of the ornate box, a circular turntable gathers dust beneath a single bronze-coloured arm and needle.
She looks at it thoughtfully.
---
Hopelessness roars with anger. I watch from the tree. Rain patters from the leaves. He shouts into the sky. My heart pulses and I breathe long and heavy with relief. The giant stomps noisily into the forest in the opposite direction.
Monday, 28 November 2016
SLOW COOKER
There are few better inventions than the slow cooker.
What a thing! While you go off and enjoy yourself (for example, at an intense band rehearsal for a carol event in Winchester, an hour's drive away) the slow cooker chugs away in your kitchen, gently warming up your chicken, ready for you to dish up hot and scoff at 10:30pm when you get back.
I have a recipe book. You should see it. It's called 200 Slow Cooker Recipes and it's like a flick-book of glossy dishes.
Exotic titles leap from the page: beer barley beef, gourmet bolognese, stuffed monkfish with coriander and chilli, spiced ginger cake and mulled cranberry jam.
Don't be fooled though. The truth is that everything that goes into the slow cooker comes out like slop.
I've used it a few times. I made lasagne first. All the ingredients went in... cheesy slop came out.
Then bolognese. All the ingredients went in... beef and tomato slop came out.
So last night I made lemon chicken. The picture in the book was a perfectly lit pile of gleaming white chicken breasts on a bed of brilliant basmati rice, glistening in a lemony sauce that made your mouth water.
Slop.
It dolloped off the ladel like wallpaper paste. For some reason (and I genuinely don't understand how) it had turned green, a colour which hardly ever adds anything to the appetising score.
However, it tasted okay. And the chicken did emerge from the gloop as I forked it out of the murky depths. It fell apart in that succulent way that tender meat often does.
I can't help feeling deceived by 200 Slow Cooker Recipes. I'd like a more realistic representation of the product of slow cooking, namely that it reduces your choices to a kind of slurpy stew, regardless of what you carefully spoon into the slow cooker.
I sipped my glass of Jamaica Fruit Punch (with a slice of left-over lemon) and sat back in my chair. If it tastes okay, that's all that really matters, I suppose.
I would like to make something that doesn't look like it got fished out of a puddle though.
Maybe I could even invent a few dishes and bind the recipes together, complete with pictures of gelatinous gloop, glimmering in the pot.
I think it'll be a while before I release a cookbook.
What a thing! While you go off and enjoy yourself (for example, at an intense band rehearsal for a carol event in Winchester, an hour's drive away) the slow cooker chugs away in your kitchen, gently warming up your chicken, ready for you to dish up hot and scoff at 10:30pm when you get back.
I have a recipe book. You should see it. It's called 200 Slow Cooker Recipes and it's like a flick-book of glossy dishes.
Exotic titles leap from the page: beer barley beef, gourmet bolognese, stuffed monkfish with coriander and chilli, spiced ginger cake and mulled cranberry jam.
Don't be fooled though. The truth is that everything that goes into the slow cooker comes out like slop.
I've used it a few times. I made lasagne first. All the ingredients went in... cheesy slop came out.
Then bolognese. All the ingredients went in... beef and tomato slop came out.
So last night I made lemon chicken. The picture in the book was a perfectly lit pile of gleaming white chicken breasts on a bed of brilliant basmati rice, glistening in a lemony sauce that made your mouth water.
Slop.
It dolloped off the ladel like wallpaper paste. For some reason (and I genuinely don't understand how) it had turned green, a colour which hardly ever adds anything to the appetising score.
However, it tasted okay. And the chicken did emerge from the gloop as I forked it out of the murky depths. It fell apart in that succulent way that tender meat often does.
I can't help feeling deceived by 200 Slow Cooker Recipes. I'd like a more realistic representation of the product of slow cooking, namely that it reduces your choices to a kind of slurpy stew, regardless of what you carefully spoon into the slow cooker.
I sipped my glass of Jamaica Fruit Punch (with a slice of left-over lemon) and sat back in my chair. If it tastes okay, that's all that really matters, I suppose.
I would like to make something that doesn't look like it got fished out of a puddle though.
Maybe I could even invent a few dishes and bind the recipes together, complete with pictures of gelatinous gloop, glimmering in the pot.
I think it'll be a while before I release a cookbook.
Friday, 25 November 2016
THE VALLEY OF THE FOUR GIANTS: RETURN
"Am I...?"
"No, of course you aren't," laughs the Photographer, gently, "But you must lie still."
The room is a studio. There is an easel in the corner with an old cloth draped over it. A red leather chair is angled towards the French windows where sunlight streams in in sharp straight beams that catch the dust. All around the room, canvases are angled against the wall, some dotted with paint, some with pencil marks. Across the walls, between the white wood, there are sepia photographs; small oval shaped images in frames of white. Stern-looking families stare back at me. There's a wooden desk, mahogany I think, next to a wooden chair which the Photographer has pulled towards the bed. She sits primly in it, looking at me.
"What happened?" I ask.
"You were lucky," she says. "The lightning hit one of them, the tall one. The Maker said he couldn't be entirely... accurate... but nonetheless, he did fall into the forest. The other one ran away, I think."
"What? But why? I was... and... and how did I get... here?"
"Ah too many questions for now, dear. It is worth saying though, that in many ways, you aren't really... here... at all."
"I know, it is confusing, but it will make sense one day. As for the why? Why that was down to you, Matt!"
She laughs.
"I know, it is confusing, but it will make sense one day. As for the why? Why that was down to you, Matt!"
She laughs.
"What?"
"See, it's confusing already," she smiles in the sunshine. "You said the Maker's name and he heard you. Even when hope is lost, when you'd given it up instead of giving it in... The Maker still heard you. Now close your eyes. It is time, after all."
"Time for what?"
But she doesn't answer. Everything is black again, as though a blanket has fallen softly over me, and she is gone. I feel the rain trickling down my face and the soft mud of the forest floor. Slowly I sink deep into the darkness of sleep.
Wednesday, 23 November 2016
IN SAINSBURY'S CAR PARK
Paul phoned me last night while I was in Sainsbury's car park.
I spend a lot of time in Sainsbury's car park, when I work it out. About 70% of it is spent with me scratching my head, wondering where I left my car.
During the other 20-30%, I drive round a few times, trying to figure out which space I can actually fit into.
Should I reverse into this one? Should I drive into that one? Will the oncoming car think I'm an idiot for swinging in at that angle? Will the other driver (from the other direction) get impatient and start tooting? Will I get hot under the collar trying to avoid scraping that people-carrier on one side or the shiny Porsche on the other? And why can't people park inside the lines?
These are all valid questions which my mind flicks through in the half-second of decision.
I drive round a lot, and sometimes several times over.
When I'm not trying to park or locate my car, I'm sitting in it, usually at night, and usually thinking about life.
And that's exactly what I was doing yesterday, when Paul phoned me after work.
"Oh no, don't worry," I said, "I'm just in Sainsbury's car park."
We chatted for a while. He was on his way up the A34, I was trying to work out the best thing to do with my evening.
Decisions are hard aren't they? I'm still having dizzy spells - little moments when the blood swooshes around my head and the world spins like a top. They don't help with the decision-making process.
I wonder what would happen if, rather than agonising over a decision, I just did the very first thing that came into my head. If my brain were operating in departments, I'd cut-out the middle-man with all his neural paperwork, and just do whatever pops into the in-tray of the Situation Analysis Room.
Before I go fully 'Inside Out' though, I should point out that I do know that this has the potential to be a really terrible idea. Some filters (don't jump, don't say that, oh think about it before you mention it) are quite essential to my well-being and frankly, the brainiacs in the Situation Analysis Room have no idea.
What's more, I'm trying to live my life by the finest filter of all, the words of the Bible. Let's be honest, it tells me that left to its own devices, my heart (the real me) would get up to all kinds of dangerous mischief I'd regret later on. I kind of need that filter.
But beyond that, what might happen? What risks would I thoughtlessly take and win? What gambles are out there to be rolled or avoided?
I arranged to meet up with Paul and then we ended the call in the same way we always do, with a cheers and a bye.
The stars twinkled cheerfully above the Sainsbury's logo, and the warm, bright lights glimmered beneath it in the real world.
Life is a bit like zooming round the car park, figuring out what the best parking space might be. Sometimes you get it right, sometimes you don't. Sometimes you have to be an Olympic gymnast to contort yourself out of your car, sometimes you can fling wide the door and leap out with the joys of Spring.
What you probably ought not to do though, is spend hours indecisively racing around wondering where to park when you could be inside doing what you went there for.
I smiled to myself and started the engine.
I spend a lot of time in Sainsbury's car park, when I work it out. About 70% of it is spent with me scratching my head, wondering where I left my car.
During the other 20-30%, I drive round a few times, trying to figure out which space I can actually fit into.
Should I reverse into this one? Should I drive into that one? Will the oncoming car think I'm an idiot for swinging in at that angle? Will the other driver (from the other direction) get impatient and start tooting? Will I get hot under the collar trying to avoid scraping that people-carrier on one side or the shiny Porsche on the other? And why can't people park inside the lines?
These are all valid questions which my mind flicks through in the half-second of decision.
I drive round a lot, and sometimes several times over.
When I'm not trying to park or locate my car, I'm sitting in it, usually at night, and usually thinking about life.
And that's exactly what I was doing yesterday, when Paul phoned me after work.
"Oh no, don't worry," I said, "I'm just in Sainsbury's car park."
We chatted for a while. He was on his way up the A34, I was trying to work out the best thing to do with my evening.
Decisions are hard aren't they? I'm still having dizzy spells - little moments when the blood swooshes around my head and the world spins like a top. They don't help with the decision-making process.
I wonder what would happen if, rather than agonising over a decision, I just did the very first thing that came into my head. If my brain were operating in departments, I'd cut-out the middle-man with all his neural paperwork, and just do whatever pops into the in-tray of the Situation Analysis Room.
Before I go fully 'Inside Out' though, I should point out that I do know that this has the potential to be a really terrible idea. Some filters (don't jump, don't say that, oh think about it before you mention it) are quite essential to my well-being and frankly, the brainiacs in the Situation Analysis Room have no idea.
What's more, I'm trying to live my life by the finest filter of all, the words of the Bible. Let's be honest, it tells me that left to its own devices, my heart (the real me) would get up to all kinds of dangerous mischief I'd regret later on. I kind of need that filter.
But beyond that, what might happen? What risks would I thoughtlessly take and win? What gambles are out there to be rolled or avoided?
I arranged to meet up with Paul and then we ended the call in the same way we always do, with a cheers and a bye.
The stars twinkled cheerfully above the Sainsbury's logo, and the warm, bright lights glimmered beneath it in the real world.
Life is a bit like zooming round the car park, figuring out what the best parking space might be. Sometimes you get it right, sometimes you don't. Sometimes you have to be an Olympic gymnast to contort yourself out of your car, sometimes you can fling wide the door and leap out with the joys of Spring.
What you probably ought not to do though, is spend hours indecisively racing around wondering where to park when you could be inside doing what you went there for.
I smiled to myself and started the engine.
Monday, 21 November 2016
SLEEP CYCLONE
I woke up this morning feeling rested, for the first time in a long time.
It's that feeling you get when your sleep has been worth it and you've woken up at the moment your body thinks is the exact optimum.
The only trouble was, as I was soon to discover, that my body had clearly calculated that optimum to be 8:50am... and I had been asleep for 12 hours, making me totally late for work.
You know the melodrama that unfolds next. To an observer it looks like a small tornado is breezing through your house, picking up clothes, toothbrush, work passes and keys as it spins furiously from bedroom to bathroom wreaking its own unique trail of devastation before finally passing out of the hall, slamming the front door behind it.
I got to work at 9:20, dishevelled and looking less than professional.
This then, is the result of taking sleeping tablets. They have reduced my world to daylight only, making me drowsy in the evenings and late in the mornings. As a thrilling side-effect, the medication (mirtazapine) has also made me subject to waves of wooziness, which add that extra bit of unpredictability to the day.
That's the feeling you get when you step off a roller-coaster, or out of a really hot bath - a kind of dizzy cyclone that lasts for a few seconds and makes you feel sick.
I walked into a hedge yesterday. I'm not altogether convinced I ought to be in charge of a motor vehicle at the moment.
Anyway, here I am, at work, dishevelled and not particularly ready for the week. It's a busy one too - I'm not sure how I'm going to get through the evenings without falling over.
Still, at least I'll sleep well.
It's that feeling you get when your sleep has been worth it and you've woken up at the moment your body thinks is the exact optimum.
The only trouble was, as I was soon to discover, that my body had clearly calculated that optimum to be 8:50am... and I had been asleep for 12 hours, making me totally late for work.
You know the melodrama that unfolds next. To an observer it looks like a small tornado is breezing through your house, picking up clothes, toothbrush, work passes and keys as it spins furiously from bedroom to bathroom wreaking its own unique trail of devastation before finally passing out of the hall, slamming the front door behind it.
I got to work at 9:20, dishevelled and looking less than professional.
This then, is the result of taking sleeping tablets. They have reduced my world to daylight only, making me drowsy in the evenings and late in the mornings. As a thrilling side-effect, the medication (mirtazapine) has also made me subject to waves of wooziness, which add that extra bit of unpredictability to the day.
That's the feeling you get when you step off a roller-coaster, or out of a really hot bath - a kind of dizzy cyclone that lasts for a few seconds and makes you feel sick.
I walked into a hedge yesterday. I'm not altogether convinced I ought to be in charge of a motor vehicle at the moment.
Anyway, here I am, at work, dishevelled and not particularly ready for the week. It's a busy one too - I'm not sure how I'm going to get through the evenings without falling over.
Still, at least I'll sleep well.
THE VALLEY OF THE FOUR GIANTS: IVY
I see.
We don't know how it happened sir.
And you're sure...
Yes.
Collapsed. Like a tree in the forest.
Very well then.
So is he...
Uselessness... is dead. Four are three. Our quarry still lurks in the shadows. Loneliness?
Yes sir?
This is your fault.
My f...
Yes.
But I... I mean... How...
You should be guarding against all this! Where were you? Where were you when he decided to go sneaking off? We have lost our comrade. And the blame lies at your door because you failed to stop him disobeying orders.
Sir...
Loneliness. It would be wise not to fall foul of the snare a second time. Lustfulness, pay attention. This time, the three of us will do this together - Hopelessness, Loneliness and Lustfulness. We will crush our enemy and end this. And we will do so, my friends... like this...
---
It occurs to me that I must fight. If I run, they will find me. They have been chasing me long enough through the hours of my life. I have no choice. I must face them, or be faced by them. I cannot hide in these woods forever.
The Maker had sent me courage, and in the form of an old typewriter. He'd told me what to do to bring down Uselessness and I had figured it out. I am loved. The words resonate even now through the trees as I wander through the forest. But would that be enough to bring down the other three? They'll be ready for that. I need to be on my guard.
There's a clearing up ahead. I see a glimmer of light through the trees and decide to head towards it. As I get nearer, I hear something, something familiar. It sounds like... singing. I edge closer. It's a woman's voice, but it's sweet and clear, like the sound of a tiny stream sparkling on a summer's afternoon. This is sort of beautiful...
Land of the silver birch
Home of the beaver
Blue lake and rocky shore
I will return once more...
Who is that? I peer through the leaves. My senses are tingling with electricity. Something deep inside of me is calling, but somehow I'm already captivated. At the centre of the clearing, there is a large black rock, jagging out of the ground. It glimmers with light as the sun gently moves across it. Behind it, the song, the singer and the woman... continues. I have to see.
High on a rocky ledge
I'll build my wigwam
Close to the water's edge
Silent and still...
She emerges. She looks at me, and my heart stops. She stops singing and the sky grows dark somehow. She has long golden hair, cascading down over her shoulders. She wears white, which has been untouched by the forest and is glittering in the sun. Her eyes, blue and piercing are looking directly into mine and her red lips smile nervously as my heart melts. Our eyes connect for a moment too long. She smiles. She sings.
Blue lake and rocky shore
I will return once more
Boom-diddy ah da, boom diddy-ah da
Boom.
I am lost.
"Who are you?" I tremble. "What are you doing here?"
"My name is Ivy," says she, curling her lips elegantly around each syllable. "Who are you?"
"I'm Matt," I reply, without thinking.
"Hello Matt. And what are you doing in the woods, might I ask?" She almost sings the words.
"I'm figh...I'm run... Um... I can't tell you."
"Oh I'm sure you can," she continues, raising an eyebrow. "You just don't want to."
"You didn't answer my question,"
"Oh?"
"Why are you in the forest, Ivy?"
She suddenly looks sad.
"It's a long story Matt," she sighs. "Look at my foot."
I hadn't noticed it before. From under her white dress, an ugly chain wraps itself around her foot and pins her to the rock. She is a prisoner.
"I was chained here," she says... "by giants."
The words hang in the air like the moment before a thunderstorm.
"By giants?" I say.
"Yes. Four of them. I don't want to talk about it."
"But I..."
"I don't want to."
We pause. She waits. I wrestle with myself.
We pause. She waits. I wrestle with myself.
"I... killed one of them," I say, eventually.
"What?"
"I did. I knocked him dead. They were chasing me and I hid and I ran but then I fought one and I... Just well, sort of killed him."
"You? You killed a giant?"
"Yes."
"You broke a giant's enchantment?" she smiles.
"Yes, well, yes I suppose I did." Courage is surging through me now, "And I reckon I can break this one too."
I grab hold of the chain.
"No!" She cries. It's too late though. The chain explodes into sparks as my fingers touch it and I'm thrown backwards into the forest.
"It's enchanted too," she says, sorrowfully. "It can't be broken, Matt."
"But I can't leave you here! Those giants will find me and they'll crush us both. I have to do something to save you!"
"I don't think there's anything anyone can do. I was hoping that singing that song would help loosen the chain but even that kind of magic isn't strong enough. Only hope will set me free, and I lost that a long time ago."
The trees shake. I suddenly notice black clouds over the treetops.
"Oh Matt!" cries Ivy, following my gaze, "They're back. Run!"
The ground thunders, the trees part. One beat, two beats. I have to try something and I have to try it fast.
"Hope!" It suddenly clicks. "Ivy, I have hope," I cry, "It was given to me a long time ago and it might work if I give it to you."
"What? What... Hope? Do you?"
"There's no time to explain. Quick, hide yourself round the other side. We only have a few seconds." I fling my bag open. The trees snap and birds soar into the air in a sudden flutter.
"Here, Ivy, take this. It's my only... It's your only... Hope." I hold out the photograph. The air sings with delight, magic and intensity as the ground spins.
"Are you sure?" she asks, biting her lip, nervously.
"Take it!" I cry, "Hurry! Let's go!"
She reaches out and carefully grasps the photograph between her fingers.
Lightning splits the sky.
Thunder rolls, the heavens open and huge drops of rain begin to fall in the clearing. I stumble backwards, blinded by the light. Ivy looks at the photograph. Then she looks at me.
"You are so stupid," she says. The chain snaps open. Rain falls on her face, melting her cruel smile into a hideous grin. She snaps her fingers. Her body balloons, her head shoots upwards into the sky and her arms and hands grow absurdly into the air. In a moment, her face contorts and twists and she shakes her hair, turning every feature into the grim visage of Lustfulness, clutching in one hand the tiny photograph, and in the other the vial of poison, which has ensnared me.
Through the trees emerges Hopelessness, laughing.
"Mine I think," he says, taking the photograph. "And no longer... yours," turning to me.
He looks down and laughs. She looks at me and shakes her head with a strange mixture of pity and derision and glee.
"Too too easy," she says. "Always the same with you, always the same. Your head is turned till you can no longer see the wood from the trees."
"Finish it," says Hopelessness. "We have what we need."
I'm frozen with fear. The rain falls as I turn to try to run, but an enormous boot blocks my path. I slip on the wet grass. Lightning flashes. The sky grows black. A distant rumble courses through the forest. I roll into the mud, shouting something indiscernible. My heart pumps faster. The world plunges into darkness and I know: I know it is all over.
Friday, 18 November 2016
SHOES, SHIPS AND SEALING WAX
I've been writing this blog for three years. How about that. Three years today.
If you recall, it was always supposed to be based on the kind of Lewis Carroll nonsense triangle that exists between being "not to serious, not too whimsical, and not too self-absorbed"... but somehow still whimsical enough to be funny, self-absorbed enough to be real and serious enough to be deep.
Or, if you like - in the vicinity of shoes, ships and sealing wax... while being absolutely nowhere near it.
For example, going on about how the Pontipines next door have started a turf war over parking spaces and wheelie-bins that has resulted in me parking half-way down the street working out how to love my neighbours while carrying my shopping through the rain. You won't catch me mentioning that.
Nor should I be railing about how little sleep I get and the impact of that on my ability to stay sane at my desk, awake in Sainsbury's or a hundred percent sure about where my car is in the car park. No, that would be too deep and too silly a thing to tell you.
So, I'm left contemplating how to be as wise and as selfless as my friends, or as adventurous and well-travelled as the Intrepids. Or perhaps as honest as my colleagues, and as spiritual as my pastor.
Three years eh? 869 posts, something like 380,000 words, and a whole lot of silly bother.
Here's to next year, more unsweepable beaches and plenty of sunshine in the middle of the night.
If you recall, it was always supposed to be based on the kind of Lewis Carroll nonsense triangle that exists between being "not to serious, not too whimsical, and not too self-absorbed"... but somehow still whimsical enough to be funny, self-absorbed enough to be real and serious enough to be deep.
Or, if you like - in the vicinity of shoes, ships and sealing wax... while being absolutely nowhere near it.
For example, going on about how the Pontipines next door have started a turf war over parking spaces and wheelie-bins that has resulted in me parking half-way down the street working out how to love my neighbours while carrying my shopping through the rain. You won't catch me mentioning that.
Nor should I be railing about how little sleep I get and the impact of that on my ability to stay sane at my desk, awake in Sainsbury's or a hundred percent sure about where my car is in the car park. No, that would be too deep and too silly a thing to tell you.
So, I'm left contemplating how to be as wise and as selfless as my friends, or as adventurous and well-travelled as the Intrepids. Or perhaps as honest as my colleagues, and as spiritual as my pastor.
Three years eh? 869 posts, something like 380,000 words, and a whole lot of silly bother.
Here's to next year, more unsweepable beaches and plenty of sunshine in the middle of the night.
Monday, 14 November 2016
CHAT MAGAZINE
Back to the doctor's this morning. I picked up a copy of Chat magazine in the waiting room.
Stabbed with a stilletto... over a bag of chips
Hunger pangs? No, it was a baby!
Every article in Chat starts the same way too.
"It was a completely ordinary day..."
"I thought my life was perfect.."
"I was picking up the kids from preschool as usual..."
Then something outright awful happens. She discovers he's cheating on her. A child collapses. The babysitter robs the house, aliens attack, or the ground opens and swallows her or something... I barely got to the end of any of them. I suspect each one ends with them learning how to cope with being socked in the eye by a high-heel in the chip shop... or whatever it was that happened.
There was one article in Chat magazine though that made me raise an eyebrow.
"It had started raining on our wedding day and so he ran down the steps to meet me halfway with an umbrella..."
Apparently, one in seven newlyweds is unfaithful in the first year of marriage. He was good with an umbrella, but six months later he was "sheltering someone else from the rain."
Reading through the stories, I realised something extraordinary: none of the couples in the article had talked about monogamy at all before the wedding. I mean, in one sense, I understand - it's kind of taken for granted. But if you have no strong faith to hang your marriage on, surely it would come up at some point? The article was suggesting that talking about your marriage before your wedding would be a 'good idea'. I'll say.
I rested Chat magazine on my knees and thought about it. Maybe I'm a bit naive.
Another extraordinary thing was that women were more likely (8% to 4%) to be unfaithful, and that the probability of infidelity was again, much higher if the couple had lived together before getting married.
I flicked over to the crossword.
It had clues in it like: "Paid attention (8)" and "Small rivers (6)" I did the top corner of it in my head before getting bored and flicking through the rest of the glossy pages.
I was just chuckling at the sarcastic horoscope, when two elderly men came and sat down beside me. They weren't together. One was with his wife, but they all seemed to know each other.
I looked up and smiled. The gentleman folded his hands on his lap. His wife shuffled into a chair on the other side of the room.
"You're on the seniors bench then," she said to him, loudly. He laughed.
I dipped out of Chat for a moment, back into the reality of the waiting room, and raised my eyebrows as though I'd just heard something utterly unbelievable.
The screen flashed up with my name, so I folded up Chat magazine and went in to see my doctor.
"How is your mood?" he asked.
I told him.
Stabbed with a stilletto... over a bag of chips
Hunger pangs? No, it was a baby!
Every article in Chat starts the same way too.
"It was a completely ordinary day..."
"I thought my life was perfect.."
"I was picking up the kids from preschool as usual..."
Then something outright awful happens. She discovers he's cheating on her. A child collapses. The babysitter robs the house, aliens attack, or the ground opens and swallows her or something... I barely got to the end of any of them. I suspect each one ends with them learning how to cope with being socked in the eye by a high-heel in the chip shop... or whatever it was that happened.
There was one article in Chat magazine though that made me raise an eyebrow.
"It had started raining on our wedding day and so he ran down the steps to meet me halfway with an umbrella..."
Apparently, one in seven newlyweds is unfaithful in the first year of marriage. He was good with an umbrella, but six months later he was "sheltering someone else from the rain."
Reading through the stories, I realised something extraordinary: none of the couples in the article had talked about monogamy at all before the wedding. I mean, in one sense, I understand - it's kind of taken for granted. But if you have no strong faith to hang your marriage on, surely it would come up at some point? The article was suggesting that talking about your marriage before your wedding would be a 'good idea'. I'll say.
I rested Chat magazine on my knees and thought about it. Maybe I'm a bit naive.
Another extraordinary thing was that women were more likely (8% to 4%) to be unfaithful, and that the probability of infidelity was again, much higher if the couple had lived together before getting married.
I flicked over to the crossword.
It had clues in it like: "Paid attention (8)" and "Small rivers (6)" I did the top corner of it in my head before getting bored and flicking through the rest of the glossy pages.
I was just chuckling at the sarcastic horoscope, when two elderly men came and sat down beside me. They weren't together. One was with his wife, but they all seemed to know each other.
I looked up and smiled. The gentleman folded his hands on his lap. His wife shuffled into a chair on the other side of the room.
"You're on the seniors bench then," she said to him, loudly. He laughed.
I dipped out of Chat for a moment, back into the reality of the waiting room, and raised my eyebrows as though I'd just heard something utterly unbelievable.
The screen flashed up with my name, so I folded up Chat magazine and went in to see my doctor.
"How is your mood?" he asked.
I told him.
Sunday, 13 November 2016
OUTDOORS ME GETS RESTLESS
So another Sunday comes whimpering to a halt, and with it, the weekend.
I had an odd desire today to go out into the woods and chop firewood, or build a treehouse, or make a massive bonfire or something. It happens every now and again. When you work in an office all the time, the outdoors version of you gets restless. Then one day he has a little moment to himself when he roars at the sky declaring silence no longer.
I'm not exactly Bear Grylls, as you know. I'm neither strong nor level-headed in a survival situation. Sure, I scrambled down Arthur's Seat in Edinburgh the other week to avoid tumbling over a hundred foot cliff face, and yes, the adrenaline was pumping. But I was in a major city with full mobile phone signal. I wasn't exactly lost.
Not like that time in Wales, when I spent the night on a flooded mountain and had to be rescued. That was exhilarating, and, a long time ago.
No, the outdoors version of me is quiet a lot of the time. I'm a musician and a technical writer, an indoor dreamer mostly, who gets lost in Sainsbury's and struggles to survive in his own flat. By the way, the other day I ate a bacon sandwich in the bath. For reference, it was a terrible idea.
I'd quite like to connect up more with Outdoors Me though. I like the big sky and the headwind. I like the hazy mountains and the silent forest, not to mention the waterfalls, coursing rivers and tall pines of a real adventure. I like the idea of completely switching off the timid indoors me and letting myself go wild, taking a tent and a dinghy, a penkife and a billy can and a bivvy bag into the woods.
I like the idea of coming back with a massive beard, ripped clothes and a clutch of scratches, like the return of Grizzly Adams. I like the thought of limping home with a fire lit behind my eyes and a load of stories told from under the stars.
Still, work tomorrow eh. A place where the most exciting things that happen are usually personal dramas that are magnified to the size of world-changing disasters when really they're just trivialities in the grand scheme of things. Someone eats more than their fair share of cake. Another person puts a smiley in an email and whispers of unprofessionality ripple around the room.
Get a life, grumbles Outdoors Me from somewhere deep beneath my neatly pressed shirt.
I have to admit, he has a point.
RETURN TO STOCKHOLMHAVEN
I found myself in Stockholmhaven again yesterday. I don't feel I had the best time.
It's such a peculiar shop. In fact, it almost feels odd to call it that; it is more of a 'store' than a shop (although I appreciate that Americans use the terms interchangeably I think). But of course, when I think about it, it's also more than a store too, even in the transatlantic sense - it is a city.
I had been given some vouchers, so I thought I would use them to buy Christmas decorations.
"Sir, what are you doing? You're going the wrong way," said the irritated parking attendant. I had just accidentally driven into a traffic cone. He seemed annoyed as his yellow vest flashed past the passenger window.
"The thing said there were spaces this way!" I protested. He called me something under his breath while I reversed. I drove round the damp car park, looking for an unlikely parking space. I was getting hot and bothered.
How do older people get in and out of their cars? Sometimes I find myself contorting my body like a gymnast, just to squeeze out between my car and the next. One foot out, spin, arms arched while holding the door from scratching the paintwork of the other vehicle. Breathe in, shuffle out and shut the door. It takes some doing sometimes. Are parking spaces getting smaller?
I got into Stockholmhaven through the gigantic revolving door. A blast of hot air hit me in the face and nearly knocked my cap off. The place was packed. I joined the queue for the escalator and slowly found my way into the city.
Stockholmhaven amazes me. I moved through the perfect-looking little studies and bedrooms, along with everyone else. It's an ideas factory, a place where imaginations get sparked. Tables and chairs, neat place settings, nifty storage solutions and clever seating; multicoloured cabinets of glass and pine, fancy mirrors and elegant light fittings dangling from the warehouse ceiling. It suddenly occurred to me that Stockholmhaven is Santa's grotto for grown-ups... without a Santa.
I stumbled into the kitchens area. My heart sank a little bit. Some of them were enormous! I imagined myself dancing effortlessly round a shiny kitchen, frying and baking and chopping to the sound of salsa. A central island? Wine storage underneath? Fancy cupboards and an enormous freezer? Yes please.
But my kitchen is too small for any of that. I can barely turn around without knocking the bin over.
Anyway, I wandered through the bathrooms, bedrooms, utility rooms and galleries of empty frames and Persian rugs. Eventually, I found the Christmas stuff.
I should say 'Winter stuff' really, because in Stockholmhaven, no-one calls it Christmas. Everything is labelled 'winter' - even the very obvious plastic Christmas trees. In fact, the word Christmas is deliberately missing from the city. I overheard a conversation between one customer and a yellow-clad Stockholmhaven Elf. The customer was looking for cookie cutters shaped like Father Christmas. The elf pointed her in the direction of the 'Winter figures' in the display of cookware, all convolutedly, without using the forbidden word.
So. I got loads of red and gold winter baubles, some nifty folding boxes and a couple of picture frames. I also got a bit overloaded with meatballs. I have nothing further to add about the food in Stockholmhaven, other than that I still don't understand how everything tastes as though it's kind of forgotten what flavour it's supposed to be. I didn't have Daim cake this time. My teeth were thankful.
Wearily, I pushed the trolley over the rough paving that leads from the lift to the car park. It had gone dark while I'd been inside. However, there were no cars either side of mine, which seemed like a relief. The trolley rattled over the concrete. I popped open the boot, loaded my stuff into it and realised that I'd parked in a giant puddle.
Carefully, on tip-toes, clutching my car key in one hand, I balanced myself artfully into the driving seat as though performing for an invisible circus. Before long, I was on my way home, out of Stockholmhaven and hoping beyond hope that I had chosen the correct exit ramp.
THE VALLEY OF THE FOUR GIANTS: PHOTOGRAPH
It was a long time ago. I was in the park, reading, when she sat next to me. It was a glorious Sunday afternoon.
Out of the corner of my eye I could see her, flipping open a tiny diary and scribbling in it with a pencil. I looked up.
"Is there a fair on?" I asked. She looked at me blankly.
"No, I don't think so," she said. It suddenly occurred to me that that had been a very rude question so I immediately apologised.
"I am sorry," I said, "It's just, well, the costume. I thought..."
"But you aren't wearing a costume."
"No, I mean... Wait, what?"
"Matt..."
"How do you know my name?"
"I have known you for a long time," she said, collapsing her parasol. "I've been sent here to give you this." She held out a small piece of paper. It was curling and cracked like an ancient papyrus. I took it.
"Careful," she whispered. "You must be careful. It is delicate. And keep it with you. It will bring you hope."
I turned it over in my fingers. It looked like it was an old photograph. There was a hint of a sepia image on one side but the paper seemed to be thin and cracked. It must have been taken a hundred years ago. I could see faces swimming through the faint picture, but I couldn't make them out - the film had worn thin as though it had been out in the sun.
"Wait, what is..."
The bench was empty. She had disappeared.
---
Friday, 11 November 2016
WHY THREE?
I walked around the lake at lunchtime. The sun was hanging in the same place it does on early Summer mornings, throwing long shadows across the bright grass. It does not feel like Summer.
For some reason, everyone I passed today was walking in a group of three. Everyone.
What's more, each trio consisted of two men on the outside and a woman in the middle - all walking round together, chatting about forthcoming business trips, absent managers and from the snippets I picked up as I overtook them, the current state of US politics.
Don't worry. I'm not going there.
Why three, I wonder? And why did the lady always end up in the middle? Is it a complicated combination of a person suggesting a walk but not wanting to go on their own, or with one other person (of either gender) on such a cold day? Is there some hidden dynamic going on where one man feels he ought to protect the lady in the middle from the other? That seems a bit over the top, even if it's subconscious.
Still, it would be a bit sad and lonely to go round the lake on your own on such a cold day, wouldn't it?
Anyway, I stopped on the little bridge and peered into the stream at my reflection. An upside down man in gloves waved back at me. Then a swan skimmed over and hissed.
I suddenly remembered that this is the spot where the lady who feeds them stands, scooping bird-feed out of a sack and showering it into the lake.
I went back inside.
It could just be that three is a good number - the strongest, smallest group in some ways.
Plus, it occurred to me later, that three people walking side-by-side is exactly the right width for the path.
For some reason, everyone I passed today was walking in a group of three. Everyone.
What's more, each trio consisted of two men on the outside and a woman in the middle - all walking round together, chatting about forthcoming business trips, absent managers and from the snippets I picked up as I overtook them, the current state of US politics.
Don't worry. I'm not going there.
Why three, I wonder? And why did the lady always end up in the middle? Is it a complicated combination of a person suggesting a walk but not wanting to go on their own, or with one other person (of either gender) on such a cold day? Is there some hidden dynamic going on where one man feels he ought to protect the lady in the middle from the other? That seems a bit over the top, even if it's subconscious.
Still, it would be a bit sad and lonely to go round the lake on your own on such a cold day, wouldn't it?
Anyway, I stopped on the little bridge and peered into the stream at my reflection. An upside down man in gloves waved back at me. Then a swan skimmed over and hissed.
I suddenly remembered that this is the spot where the lady who feeds them stands, scooping bird-feed out of a sack and showering it into the lake.
I went back inside.
It could just be that three is a good number - the strongest, smallest group in some ways.
Plus, it occurred to me later, that three people walking side-by-side is exactly the right width for the path.
THE VALLEY OF THE FOUR GIANTS: COURAGE
The sunlight pours through the canopy of leaves as I wake. The forest is painted green by the sun. I can hear birds, and the sound of my own breathing. I'm rattling and my heart is suddenly thumping in my chest.
I check for my bag. It's lying a few feet away, half-buried in leaves and mulch. Nothing is broken. My Hope is safe, as well as the mysterious piece of paper. MALEDIVO. I still don't know who or what Maledivo is. Everything aches. I must have been dropped.
---
Idiot.
It's not my fault.
You dropped him.
I tripped.
Yes. And now he's lost. And on to us.
I can fix it.
How?
I can find him.
---
What's that? There's something shining, just catching the sun by a tree trunk. It's a black, painted corner, jagging out of the soft earth, glimmering hopefully as though it's been half-sunk into the soil and can't wait to be found.
---
He can't hide. I can find him. Here some where.
---
The ground is soft. I find myself digging with my finger nails until the buly corner is loose. It moves a little in the ground and rattles. Whatever it is, it's heavy. And it's been here a while. How is it still so shiny?
---
"I AM LOVED!" I shout finally into the trees. Return. The typewriter clicks and the platen slides clunkily but firmly into place with an old-fashioned ping.
The roar echoes. Slowly it fades like a whistling breeze until finally it whimpers into the air with a pop. The giant is still. The forest is quiet. Uselessness is dead.
I collapse, exhausted to the floor, holding my bag close to me and staring up at the swirling green canopy of leaves above my head.
I check for my bag. It's lying a few feet away, half-buried in leaves and mulch. Nothing is broken. My Hope is safe, as well as the mysterious piece of paper. MALEDIVO. I still don't know who or what Maledivo is. Everything aches. I must have been dropped.
---
Idiot.
It's not my fault.
You dropped him.
I tripped.
Yes. And now he's lost. And on to us.
I can fix it.
How?
I can find him.
---
What's that? There's something shining, just catching the sun by a tree trunk. It's a black, painted corner, jagging out of the soft earth, glimmering hopefully as though it's been half-sunk into the soil and can't wait to be found.
---
He can't hide. I can find him. Here some where.
---
The ground is soft. I find myself digging with my finger nails until the buly corner is loose. It moves a little in the ground and rattles. Whatever it is, it's heavy. And it's been here a while. How is it still so shiny?
---
I dropped him near here. Yes. I can find him. He won't last long.
---
It's some sort of machine, I think. I pull it carefully and it comes loose, cracking the earth around it. There's a mechanism. I dig some more and try to pull it up.
There's a sound I recognise in the distance. A thumping, crunching sound. Someone has found me. My heart pulses. But where to hide? And what is this thing?
Thud.
---
Yes. Close.
---
Thud. I wipe the sweat from my brow and give it one last yank. It pulls up in a shower of roots and earth. It is a typewriter, a very old typewriter.
---
I smell you.
---
What is a typewriter doing in a forest?
---
I see you.
---
It's Victorian I think. Courage 1883 is etched in bronze on a plate on the back. I brush the dirt from the keys. Most have faded, but there are a few left, still painted on, that I can make out. A, D, E... V... M... L... O... I... What? WHAT?
---
It's some sort of machine, I think. I pull it carefully and it comes loose, cracking the earth around it. There's a mechanism. I dig some more and try to pull it up.
There's a sound I recognise in the distance. A thumping, crunching sound. Someone has found me. My heart pulses. But where to hide? And what is this thing?
Thud.
---
Yes. Close.
---
Thud. I wipe the sweat from my brow and give it one last yank. It pulls up in a shower of roots and earth. It is a typewriter, a very old typewriter.
---
I smell you.
---
What is a typewriter doing in a forest?
---
I see you.
---
It's Victorian I think. Courage 1883 is etched in bronze on a plate on the back. I brush the dirt from the keys. Most have faded, but there are a few left, still painted on, that I can make out. A, D, E... V... M... L... O... I... What? WHAT?
---
Boo.
---
An enormous pole jabs into the soft earth next to me. I spin to face the giant. He grins at me, unpleasantly. He grips his staff and pulls it vertically from the ground. I am in trouble.
I run. Uselessness whacks the staff into my back and I collapse in agony. He laughs. I gasp. I struggle to my feet. He reaches out with that same ugly hand, in daylight this time, swiping for me. I dart behind a tree. The staff shatters into the trunk, cracking it like lightning.
I race for another. He grips this one by the trunk, wrapping his fingers around it as though it were a pencil. It cracks out of the ground, trailing roots and soil and stones as he lifts it and throws it toward me.
The tree splinters as it lands nearby. The world is shaking leaves again. I cover my head and then roll away into the undergrowth. The staff thumps into the ground as the giant roars between the trees. His voice is like thunder.
"You can't beat me!" he cries, "You. won't. win. Who are you? Who ARE you?"
He laughs again. The sky rolls. I peer through the bracken that's hiding me from him. He's right. I can't win. There is nothing I can do. If I run, he will see me. If I stay, he will find me. I reach for my bag and my hand moves towards the photograph.
"Courage," whispers a voice. It is the same voice. It's her voice, I think. "Take courage," it says again.
"Well?" he roars into the wood. "I'll tell ya. I'll say who you are. You are useless. No-one has a use for you. No-one likes you and no-one wants you. No-one. Hear me!"
Maledivo. The letters. My hand pulls out the piece of paper. I look at it. It isn't a person. It isn't a place. It's a code! Maledivo. M.A.L.E.D.I.V.O. It's...
"And soon you will be of use to no one, no-one at all! Not when I've done with you."
... It's an anagram.
I leap out. The giant turns. He twists his staff about him and looks me in the eye.
"Good. Now. Time to become really use-less."
I dart between the trees. He thunders toward me. Under the roots, over the splintered trunk, I leap. The earth shakes but there it is, still by the tree where I found it. The Courage 1883.
Uselessness approaches as the forest trembles. He's just a few feet away, holding his staff like a javelin.
"What is that?" he stops. A look flashes across his leathery face.
"This?" I say, trembling. "This is courage." I'm standing up now, standing to my full height. "I do have a use. I have a use because I'm... chosen. I have a use because I belong. I have a use because I am WHO I AM."
"You are no-one."
"Wrong."
"You are no-body."
"Wrong!"
"You are nothing."
"You're wrong!" I shout at his curdling, angry face. Then bending down to the typewriter, I push the I key. It clunks into motion with a metallic click. I look up and back into his eyes. He knows something.
"I" say I.
"Don't do that."
"AM" I push the A key forcefully, then the M. Click, click.
"No!" Uselessness drops his staff, "NO!"
"L" click.
He takes a step backwards.
"O" click.
He recoils as though struck by something I cannot see.
"V" click.
"E" click.
Uselessness drops to the ground, and lets out a roar.
"D" click.
He falls face down, thumping the earth with his fists. The ground shudders. I grip the corners of the typewriter, just holding my nerve and standing.
---
An enormous pole jabs into the soft earth next to me. I spin to face the giant. He grins at me, unpleasantly. He grips his staff and pulls it vertically from the ground. I am in trouble.
I run. Uselessness whacks the staff into my back and I collapse in agony. He laughs. I gasp. I struggle to my feet. He reaches out with that same ugly hand, in daylight this time, swiping for me. I dart behind a tree. The staff shatters into the trunk, cracking it like lightning.
I race for another. He grips this one by the trunk, wrapping his fingers around it as though it were a pencil. It cracks out of the ground, trailing roots and soil and stones as he lifts it and throws it toward me.
The tree splinters as it lands nearby. The world is shaking leaves again. I cover my head and then roll away into the undergrowth. The staff thumps into the ground as the giant roars between the trees. His voice is like thunder.
"You can't beat me!" he cries, "You. won't. win. Who are you? Who ARE you?"
He laughs again. The sky rolls. I peer through the bracken that's hiding me from him. He's right. I can't win. There is nothing I can do. If I run, he will see me. If I stay, he will find me. I reach for my bag and my hand moves towards the photograph.
"Courage," whispers a voice. It is the same voice. It's her voice, I think. "Take courage," it says again.
"Well?" he roars into the wood. "I'll tell ya. I'll say who you are. You are useless. No-one has a use for you. No-one likes you and no-one wants you. No-one. Hear me!"
Maledivo. The letters. My hand pulls out the piece of paper. I look at it. It isn't a person. It isn't a place. It's a code! Maledivo. M.A.L.E.D.I.V.O. It's...
"And soon you will be of use to no one, no-one at all! Not when I've done with you."
... It's an anagram.
I leap out. The giant turns. He twists his staff about him and looks me in the eye.
"Good. Now. Time to become really use-less."
I dart between the trees. He thunders toward me. Under the roots, over the splintered trunk, I leap. The earth shakes but there it is, still by the tree where I found it. The Courage 1883.
Uselessness approaches as the forest trembles. He's just a few feet away, holding his staff like a javelin.
"What is that?" he stops. A look flashes across his leathery face.
"This?" I say, trembling. "This is courage." I'm standing up now, standing to my full height. "I do have a use. I have a use because I'm... chosen. I have a use because I belong. I have a use because I am WHO I AM."
"You are no-one."
"Wrong."
"You are no-body."
"Wrong!"
"You are nothing."
"You're wrong!" I shout at his curdling, angry face. Then bending down to the typewriter, I push the I key. It clunks into motion with a metallic click. I look up and back into his eyes. He knows something.
"I" say I.
"Don't do that."
"AM" I push the A key forcefully, then the M. Click, click.
"No!" Uselessness drops his staff, "NO!"
"L" click.
He takes a step backwards.
"O" click.
He recoils as though struck by something I cannot see.
"V" click.
"E" click.
Uselessness drops to the ground, and lets out a roar.
"D" click.
He falls face down, thumping the earth with his fists. The ground shudders. I grip the corners of the typewriter, just holding my nerve and standing.
"I AM LOVED!" I shout finally into the trees. Return. The typewriter clicks and the platen slides clunkily but firmly into place with an old-fashioned ping.
The roar echoes. Slowly it fades like a whistling breeze until finally it whimpers into the air with a pop. The giant is still. The forest is quiet. Uselessness is dead.
I collapse, exhausted to the floor, holding my bag close to me and staring up at the swirling green canopy of leaves above my head.
Thursday, 10 November 2016
CONTROL ATTACHMENT
I think I've noticed another thing I don't like very much: I appear to be attached to control.
That's a strange way of saying I am a control freak, because I'm not quite ready to admit it. In other words, I don't even want my words to paint that picture for you; I am literally undermining my own argument.
So, what am I talking about then? Well, the people around me are starting to notice that I get stressed out at losing control. Occasionally, circumstances get really intense, everyone talks and advises me at once and the path disappears.
What I had thought through (and I think everything through) just vanishes in the fog and instead of clarity, there is suddenly a cloud of noisy voices telling me what to do.
It feels like the situation is careering all over the place and there is no way to wrestle it back to where it was. It is out of control like a runaway truck in a mine shaft.
This is how I feel when doing big group song writing. I can't express why the course the song is taking is not where I would have taken it - I only feel the sadness of not being able to do anything about it while it veers uncontrollably towards cheesy, mawkish or something we've all heard before.
This is how I feel in meetings where the conversation spins through rational tangents and somehow ends up with a group of people making an irrational decision. Worse, in that situation, groupthink sets in and the voices round the table are actually excited about the unwise thing they're planning (karaoke for developers, wheelbarrow wacky races, office olympics) without considering it at all.
This is how I feel when ideas get hijacked by well-meaning free-thinkers who have confused improvement with fixing-the-wheel.
I wish I were a bit more chilled out about it all. I don't like that uptight feeling, that internal reminder that I somehow think I know best. It has a name that feeling, and I don't like it.
What I hope to be is less attached to having to control everything. I'd like to be able to let go of all the things I care about, instead of clutching them so tightly. I don't really care about getting credit for good ideas, amazing decisions in meetings or incredible songs. I just care about not being so uptight about holding on to them.
And I specifically don't want to keep thinking that everything good that happens is because of me. No. I want to be wrong. I want to be corrected. I want to be told that I'm being rude, unfair, stressy or outrageous. At least then I can recognise it, appreciate it, and correct it.
Most of all I want to care much more about how I treat people, even when they wind me up. I want everyone around me to be brilliant, to have room to shine like the stars and to lift them up and encourage them to be the best versions of them that they can be. And to do that, I want to let go of control, to let go of stressfully caring about everything that goes on inside my creativity, and ultimately, to let go of me.
That's a strange way of saying I am a control freak, because I'm not quite ready to admit it. In other words, I don't even want my words to paint that picture for you; I am literally undermining my own argument.
So, what am I talking about then? Well, the people around me are starting to notice that I get stressed out at losing control. Occasionally, circumstances get really intense, everyone talks and advises me at once and the path disappears.
What I had thought through (and I think everything through) just vanishes in the fog and instead of clarity, there is suddenly a cloud of noisy voices telling me what to do.
It feels like the situation is careering all over the place and there is no way to wrestle it back to where it was. It is out of control like a runaway truck in a mine shaft.
This is how I feel when doing big group song writing. I can't express why the course the song is taking is not where I would have taken it - I only feel the sadness of not being able to do anything about it while it veers uncontrollably towards cheesy, mawkish or something we've all heard before.
This is how I feel in meetings where the conversation spins through rational tangents and somehow ends up with a group of people making an irrational decision. Worse, in that situation, groupthink sets in and the voices round the table are actually excited about the unwise thing they're planning (karaoke for developers, wheelbarrow wacky races, office olympics) without considering it at all.
This is how I feel when ideas get hijacked by well-meaning free-thinkers who have confused improvement with fixing-the-wheel.
I wish I were a bit more chilled out about it all. I don't like that uptight feeling, that internal reminder that I somehow think I know best. It has a name that feeling, and I don't like it.
What I hope to be is less attached to having to control everything. I'd like to be able to let go of all the things I care about, instead of clutching them so tightly. I don't really care about getting credit for good ideas, amazing decisions in meetings or incredible songs. I just care about not being so uptight about holding on to them.
And I specifically don't want to keep thinking that everything good that happens is because of me. No. I want to be wrong. I want to be corrected. I want to be told that I'm being rude, unfair, stressy or outrageous. At least then I can recognise it, appreciate it, and correct it.
Most of all I want to care much more about how I treat people, even when they wind me up. I want everyone around me to be brilliant, to have room to shine like the stars and to lift them up and encourage them to be the best versions of them that they can be. And to do that, I want to let go of control, to let go of stressfully caring about everything that goes on inside my creativity, and ultimately, to let go of me.
Tuesday, 8 November 2016
POLAR VORTEX
It's gone cold. I mean properly cold. According to some sources, we're caught in something called a 'polar vortex' which I assume spins around the Arctic Circle and throws out icy weather like a sprinkler over Northern Europe.
I sat in my car, watching the white windscreen slowly crack and melt as the blower roared in my ears. The car in front emerged, as well as the bright blue sky and the houses catching the early morning sun. I flicked on the windscreen wipers and wiped the day into motion.
Someone on the radio was lamenting the new shape of Toblerone. They'll get used to it like they got used to Snickers and Starburst I reckon. I don't like Toblerone anyway, so it makes no difference to me.
Meanwhile (in apparently less important news) America decides what kind of country it would like to be and the rest of the world cowers in trepidation. Oh and a sports person did something exceptional but ultimately irrelevant while another football team is either going to win the league or crumble into predictable disappointment - I can never keep up with which is which.
Oh and we're in a 'polar vortex' which some bright spark said 'would have no effect on our weather'... which then made me wonder why they were talking about it at all.
I sat in my car, watching the white windscreen slowly crack and melt as the blower roared in my ears. The car in front emerged, as well as the bright blue sky and the houses catching the early morning sun. I flicked on the windscreen wipers and wiped the day into motion.
Someone on the radio was lamenting the new shape of Toblerone. They'll get used to it like they got used to Snickers and Starburst I reckon. I don't like Toblerone anyway, so it makes no difference to me.
Meanwhile (in apparently less important news) America decides what kind of country it would like to be and the rest of the world cowers in trepidation. Oh and a sports person did something exceptional but ultimately irrelevant while another football team is either going to win the league or crumble into predictable disappointment - I can never keep up with which is which.
Oh and we're in a 'polar vortex' which some bright spark said 'would have no effect on our weather'... which then made me wonder why they were talking about it at all.
THE VALLEY OF THE FOUR GIANTS: STOLEN
So. We're waiting then?
That's what he said.
Just... waiting.
Yep.
He won't come out.
What? But Hopelessness said...
I know what Hopelessness said. Now I'm just saying. He won't come out.
We have to do what we're told.
Oh of course. Of course we do, Uselessness.
We wait.
We keep guard.
Right. We just keep guard.
We don't have to, though.
What?
We don't have to stay here, standing guard in the middle of the night.
What are you talking about?
Imagine how pleased the others will be if we end this.
But wait...
We sneak in, find him, destroy him while he sleeps. Imagine. Job done.
Wait though, Loneliness, we can't just...
Job done. And you could use your skills to find him. And I could crush him with barely a whisper. A silent arrow, snaking through the night and... Done. He won't know what happened.
---
Where I hide my hope? I don't understand why everything has to be so cryptic. Just tell me what to do! My Hope is quite safe with me, in this bag. In fact, I need it; I can't fight without it! Is that what she meant? Sometimes the Maker makes everything but sense.
It is still dark. The Moon is beaming through the canopy of leaves above me. There's a silver curtain of light, pooling onto the forest floor.
I reach into my bag and pull out the photograph. That's weird. There's something else attached to it. What is that?
A small piece of paper flutters out. It's post-card sized, parchment, kind of old. I don't remember it being in there. As I unfold it I see that someone has typed letters onto it with an old-fashioned printing press or typewriter. The letters are faded but in the moonlight I can see the word MALEDIVO. What is that? Who's Maledivo? And where did this come from? Was it her? in the dream? Was it a dream? Why? What does all this mean? I'm tired, and more than a little angry. And I still have to choose what to do. Soon the sun will be up.
Something cracks like a gunshot.
The leaves rustle. Electricity shivers through my body. The Moon flickers for a moment. What is that? I'm alert. But nothing is moving. Everything is still.
I can't see it in the dark. I shuffle back against the moss and the leaves that have collected in the nook of the tree. I breathe in. I close my eyes. I breathe out. I loosen my grip on the satchel. Whatever it is, it seems to have.
I can't breathe. I'm being squeezed from the middle. The air is collapsing in my lungs and my eyes bulge as my skin tightens. I gasp for a breath but the forest is spinning and there is no oxygen. Something powerful is coiling itself around my chest, great ugly fingers like snakes, squeezing me tighter. I smash them with fists but it's too late. Suddenly I'm thirty feet in the air, far above the hollow of the tree, through the leaves and above the forest.
The air is cold. I see stars, the horizon, trees and an enormous set of yellow teeth under a pair of glimmering eyes. It is Uselessness and he has me.
There's nothing I can do. The world spins through stars, moon and dawn, past leaves and trees, silver and dark, upside-down and tumbling. I scream but no-one can hear my whimpering voice. The world is a wood, filled with the sound of thundering footsteps, splintering branches and crackling leaves in the dark.
--
I don't know what happens next. I feel the air rush back into my lungs and at a thousand miles an hour, the forest swims into focus. I'm in a sea of branches, twigs, leaves and scratches, twisting and turning through them like a rag doll. There's a shout from somewhere. Then, with a thud, ripped and bleeding, I thump into the forest floor. Everything is black.
Sunday, 6 November 2016
FIREWORKS AND A BEAUTIFUL LENS
The fireworks were spectacular: rippling into the air and echoing into Ironbridge gorge; chrysanthemums of colour exploding into each other, sparkling and fizzing in gold, silver, blue and orange. I watched as they spiralled and tumbled and crackled between the gunshot-crack of each tiny detonation.
I've been very selfish at weddings in the past. Somehow, through the lenses of my own situation, I've made my impression of them all, weirdly, all about me. It isn't a very wise idea. As much as I don't like it, no wedding I've ever been to has ever been about me. At the last one, I stuffily refused to be social and sat in the bar talking to Luke for several hours. Tonight, as the sky lit up with colour, I realised that there had been a better way all along.
Speaking of Luke, today was of course, his turn. In his inimitable ease and with his indefatigable humour, he stood at the front of the church, stood at the top table and stood at the door as he married Rebecca. The whole thing was perfectly lovely. She of course, sailed on the sea of calm she lives her life in, and was a picture of delicate grace and beauty. He had never been happier, and it beamed from his face. They are suited so remarkably well.
Suited. It seems an odd concept, that a person could be designed to fit another person, tailor-made for them. Compatibility isn't a perfect idea, I still think you have to work at it, but it must be lovely to know that in your team of two, something you can't do, the other person can do, better. Like the finest pieces of joinery, there's a certain elegance to the way you fit together, the richness you bring to the world in the joy of two whole hearts completing and adding, and multiplying as one. It's rather a lovely idea.
But if I may say so, especially to my old self, it doesn't also follow that without that you're incomplete. I don't believe that a marriage is two halves becoming one. If anything, it's two wholes becoming one. And I think I'm still trying to understand the mystery of what it means to be a whole and not a half. One thing I'm absolutely refusing to do is to sit miserably in the corner and sulk about it.
And so that is why, today, I was determined to be more than that - to fight off any thought that would take me wandering into the car park while everyone else was dancing. I've had enough of being that guy.
I think, actually, I'm still learning how to be content to be myself - and for now, for me, that really is enough, whatever the future holds. So I tried. I stuck around people, I joined conversations, I sat through loud music and I laughed at jokes, even though I didn't much feel like it. I was happy - not for me especially, but for the two people I have watched intertwine their lives so beautifully before their friends, their family and our great God who had brought them together. Because if it was about anything or any one, it was about them.
Trails of smoke filled the cold night air as the fireworks gave way to warm applause. I smiled as I thrust my hands into my pockets and turned to go back inside. When you look at the world through the happiness of others, you start to see things very differently, I think. This was a beautiful lens, and it was showing me something of heaven, something of love, and something of the heart of God Himself. And for that I can only be thankful tonight.
Saturday, 5 November 2016
THE VALLEY OF THE FOUR GIANTS: HOPE
It's a photograph. I call it my Hope. There in the trees, I hold it, framing it gently with my fingers.
It has worn, curling edges and the image is fading. It was given to me a long time ago.
They say a photograph is like a frozen memory, a millisecond of truth captured from the past and propelled into every moment of the future, ageing and yet ageless.
Well, every other photograph is like that. But not this one. With every moment, the picture gets closer and clearer. It carries an image of a day that has yet to be. And this tiny square of worn, photographic paper might well be my last resort against the enemies who wait at the edge of the trees.
The sky grows dark, not by giants blocking the sun this time, but by the night slowly covering the day like a blanket. My eyes feel heavy and the gentle hum of the forest sings to me in the half-light. I carefully open the flap of my satchel and return the Hope to its hiding place. It is hidden. I am hidden, at least for the night. I close my eyes and the world drifts into the melody of sleep.
---
We can starve him out.
Mhm.
What do you think?
Might work. He needs to feel like he can beat us.
Really?
Oh yes. He needs that.
Pathetic. We'll crush him when he crawls out of there, tired and hungry. Little idiot.
Crush. Squish, squash. Like an ant.
What ho?
No news, sir.
Squish, squash. Crush him to the ground.
Very good you two. Crush him to the ground and then I prize it from his dead, twitching fingers.
You will!
What happens if...
If what?
What happens if he... realises?
Realises what?
You know.
Oh man.
Don't say it, don't say the name.
Don't you dare say the name!
Well. I don't think he will remember.
Hmm. Uselessness is right. He is distracted. Distracted by this... 'battle'
Yes. Yes he is.
He needs to beat us. On his own.
Pride.
Forgotten.
Good as dead. Ha. Dead proud.
We can't lose then?
We cannot. Loneliness, Uselessness, stand guard through the night. Tomorrow we smoke and we starve him out. And then we crush him.
Squish squish.
Squish indeed.
Wednesday, 2 November 2016
THE BUBBLE HOME
So that's it for my first capital city adventure, in Edinburgh. I'm back home, where unbelievably, it is actually colder than it is 700 miles further north.
I wandered round the National Scottish Portrait Gallery this morning. Astonishing faces stared out from the canvases of the past. Charles and Henry Stuart, Mary of Modena, Walter Scott, William Dugdale, John Knox. There are so many stories I know so little about.
It's always interesting to read history from the other way around too. This is Mary Queen of Scots who sought solace and refuge with her cousin in England, Elizabeth. She didn't expect to be treated as a traitor to the crown and shunted around English castles as a prisoner. In Scotland, Elizabeth I is a side-note to Mary's story, and of course, to the narrative of Scotland. And that seems strangely as it should be.
Then, returning to the present, I checked out, grabbed my rucksack and headed for the tram. The tram took me to the airport, the airport took me to the plane, the plane took me to London and then two more trains carried me home.
I think time away gives you perspective. There's a bigger world out there, stretching far beyond the one you spend all your time locking yourself into. It's worth going to see it some time, to remind you of how little, or perhaps how much, your own bubble really matters.
Next up will probably be Cardiff. Do the Welsh have an equally strong and proud connection with their history? Is their capital the lively hub of arts, entertainment, culture and elegance that Edinburgh is? What will it teach me about Wales's role in the United Kingdom? What will I learn? Will there be high places to scramble up in the early hours of the morning? Will I like it? Will it pull on my ancestral roots and sing to my soul like a male voice choir on the hillside, calling me home? I guess I can only go and find out.
Not for a while though. For now, I have more rebalancing to do back here in England, and a lot of bubble to do it in.
THE VALLEY OF THE FOUR GIANTS: HER
Deep in the melody of sleep, she came to me. She was dressed as always in the bustle and crinoline of her time, together with tightly wound hair and folded parasol. As always, she carried her box camera and tripod. I saw her carefully picking her way through the trees. Then she was there, standing in front of me.
"Do you know why I am here?" she called up, as she slid a plate into the camera.
"To take my picture?" I asked, rubbing my eyes.
"No," she laughed. It was like sunlight glinting from water, strangely out of place and magical in the middle of the moonlit wood. "I'm here to take your picture, when you're ready of course." She disappeared behind the box, threw the cloth over her head and peered at me through the pinhole.
"I don't, I don't understand," I said.
"The Maker is with you," she replied, calmly and muffled. "And it is time to realise where you hide your hope."
"Where I hide my..."
Flash. I was blinded for a moment by a cloud of smoke. Then she was gone. The camera was gone. The forest was dark and silent and the stars were twinkling through the trees.
"Do you know why I am here?" she called up, as she slid a plate into the camera.
"To take my picture?" I asked, rubbing my eyes.
"No," she laughed. It was like sunlight glinting from water, strangely out of place and magical in the middle of the moonlit wood. "I'm here to take your picture, when you're ready of course." She disappeared behind the box, threw the cloth over her head and peered at me through the pinhole.
"I don't, I don't understand," I said.
"The Maker is with you," she replied, calmly and muffled. "And it is time to realise where you hide your hope."
"Where I hide my..."
Flash. I was blinded for a moment by a cloud of smoke. Then she was gone. The camera was gone. The forest was dark and silent and the stars were twinkling through the trees.
Tuesday, 1 November 2016
THE ELEPHANT HOUSE AND THE BAGPIPES
My legs hurt. I think it's to do with me walking 27km in the last two days. I'm not sure, but that could have something to do with it.
This is James Clerk Maxwell by the way. He worked out how to combine the four laws of electromagnetic radiation. He's one of my favourite scientists, and he's sitting here at the end of the road my hotel is on. He's looking down at me here as if my 2:1 in physics wouldn't be quite enough to cut the mustard. He's right. But also I don't have bird poo on my head.
So, today. I didn't feel like rushing around, so I spent the morning in some of the shops, and mooching around Princes Street Gardens. I don't know what it's like at other times of the year, but Autumn seemed like a magnificent choice to be there. The trees were lit up with colour - orange, flame-red, yellow and gold. It really is a stunning place. Edinburgh is essentially two towns connected together across a glacial valley. On one side, the old medieval city rises up along the Royal Mile between the Castle and Holyrood; on the other, the neat metric grid of elegant Georgian town houses stretches out toward the Firth. In between, where you'd fully expect a river, is this kaleidoscope of Autumnal colour.
More mooching. I walked along the Royal Mile, where I was serenaded by bagpipers. I've started wondering whether they ever get bored of playing the same old tunes. There's Amazing Grace and then there's Loch Lomond (You Take the High Road). If they're feeling adventurous they go for the March of the Gay Gordons or Mull of Kintyre or something, but that really is it, it seems. I think I'd get fed up of standing there after a while and I'd throw in the Star Wars theme or something. And they're a peculiar instrument anyway, the bagpipes! Who picked up a sheep's bladder and thought it would be a good idea to squeeze one end and blow down the other?
I wish I had somewhere high to go at home. I had Roundhill Mount in Bath, a well-kept secret escape where the wind would hide my tears and drown out my voice. Here in Edinburgh, there seem to be lots of places to run to, to see everything so small and far away and insignificant. I have the park I suppose, but it's not quite the same. It's hard to let go of yourself when dogs are constantly sniffing the bottom of your jeans.
I got up a little later this morning and had a well-composed breakfast. The sky was clear and blue, the sun was low and bright, and the city looked ready for more exploration. After a final cup of green tea and a chocolate Penguin, I threw my rucksack over my shoulder and headed out into Edinburgh.
It was 6 degrees. Yesterday, even up on Arthur's Seat at sunrise it was warm enough not to wear a coat. Today? Freezing.
My phone rang in my pocket. It was my friend Tim, who in a matter of minutes told me that he used to live in Scotland and loved it. I did not know that.
"There was this cafe," he said, "Oh you'd like it, Matt. It's called The Elephant House, I think. They do nice teas and they've got sofas and lots of books - go and find it if you can."
"Oh. I think I passed it yesterday," I said. "I'll go right there now while I'm talking to you."
Tim and I chatted while I confidently strode through the streets of a city I'd been in for less than 48-hours. Crispy leaves blustered around me in the sunshine and Tim told me about all kinds of things between the rectangular windows, the sandstone town-houses and Georgian fan-tailed frontages of posh Edinburgh.
Nature had taken over again. I had no idea where I was. Tim was talking about the EU when I realised that I was completely lost. In the end, I said I'd phone him back, sneaked some wi-fi from outside the nearest Starbucks and plotted a route to where my phone thought The Elephant House was.
Tim had to go before I got there, which was just as well because I think he'd have been just as disappointed as I was. Apparently... would you believe it... JK Rowling dreamed up Harry Potter in The Elephant House Cafe - what in the world are the odds? She did love a cafe, that lady.
Anyway, Tim had obviously lounged there long before they plastered that fact onto the window, and specifically before they'd done away with the sofas and books, and had turned it into a kind of bistro-shrine for students and Potterheads, most of whom were queuing out of the door with their selfie-sticks and wizard hats.
Well it adds atmosphere to the Royal Mile anyway.
After that, I climbed Calton Hill (I pulled myself up the steps using the railings while my legs wobbled beneath me) and took in the city from the Dugald Stewart monument and the old observatory. I was so glad I did that. There's a splendid view of Edinburgh from up there, and unlike Arthur's Seat, everything is lower and closer. It's great for that classic shot of the city you get in brochures. I stayed up there a while, trying to imagine what it's like on New Year's Eve. I'm not a fan of New Year's Eve, but if I could be anywhere to see it in, I think I'd like to be there.
Speaking of home, I go back tomorrow. This has been brilliant; I feel like I've been here for a week. I hope it's been what I've needed, even for the battle that's ahead. The Four Giants are waiting. I don't want to think about that too much. For now, I can take this far-away, loose feeling and try to hold on to it for as long as possible. If I close my eyes in the thick of it, if I can bring myself back to the place where I'm overlooking the city in the bright sun of a glorious Autumn day, maybe the tension will melt away again and I will be able to chill out at the moment I need to the most.
I suppose I could always listen to the doleful sound of the highland bagpipes...
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