For some reason, Sammy and Emmie and I were talking about Escape Rooms last night over a cup of tea and cheese and crackers.
Have you heard of this? It's a new craze: you pay someone to lock you and your friends in a room and then you all have to figure a way out of it.
"I'd just ask them where the emergency exit is," said Emmie matter-of-factly, "And then I'd push the button."
It's hard to fault her logic. It made me chuckle. I'm exactly the kind of person to get stuck into finding clues, figuring out puzzles and solving riddles; Emmie is brilliantly practical. I imagined myself scrabbling around in the dark for a key, or a piece of jigsaw puzzle, while she flung open the fire door in a blaze of glorious sunlight.
Megan and Adam have done them. They really enjoyed the Escape Room.
"You should do one for your birthday!" said Megan some time ago. I said it sounded a bit stressful, but mostly because all the people I can think of inviting would probably find it annoying rather than fun - and I have more friends than you can lock into a small room anyway.
I think the appeal is that you get to pit your wits against a system that's gently trying to outwit you. When you emerge into daylight, you can say it was all worth it because now you know that you're clever enough to figure out how to solve the puzzle, work hard and eventually escape from that claustrophobic little box.
I'd like to argue at this point that I do, in fact, still work in an office.
Monday, 30 January 2017
SHUT THAT DOOR
I stood at the top of the stairs in my pyjamas and I gazed open-mouthed for a while. The front door was swinging in the breeze.
I hadn't just slept with it unlocked again; this time, for the whole night, I had slept with the door actually open, and I mean wide open!
Who does that?
I checked that my work laptop was still here (it was). I counted my shoes (even number) and then sat on the bottom step, slapping my head with the palm of my hand.
How in the world did I get this absent-minded? I mean anything could have happened last night: axe-murderers, thieves and local cats could have wandered in, randomly stolen my stuff, murdered me in my sleep and defecated all over my carpet.
Well, obviously local cats could only have done one of those things. And even that doesn't bear thinking about.
Do you think angels make up for our stupidity? I mean, I'd like to think that maybe a seven-foot seraphim stood in my doorway last night and looked after my shoe-rack and laptop bag, but it wasn't exactly not my fault. The angels would have been quite within their duty to have said:
"You're not going to believe what this bozo's done again. I mean we keep finding his keys for him, sorting out parking spaces and clearing the traffic. Now he expects us to guard his poxy hallway? I mean, really! Right next time, click the door shut behind you and get back to harp practice."
Tonight I have double-locked the door and hidden my laptop bag. I think I need a post-it note somewhere reminding me that there are some things I just can't leave to the angels.
Saturday, 28 January 2017
THE ADVENTURES OF CARTOON ABRAHAM LINCOLN
Cartoon Abraham Lincoln looks up from his cosy armchair and adjusts his hat.
"Four score and seven minutes ago, " he begins, turning to Mrs Lincoln, "You said you'd fetch me a cup of tea."
Mrs Lincoln peers up from her cross stitch and raises a familiar eyebrow.
"It's tea now is it then, Mr Pres-i-dent?" She pulls a piece of red yarn through the hoop. "Well I sure hope you can do for your country what your country's all prepared to do for you."
"My dear I'd make tea for all the Cartoon Americans with the gumption to just stroll on up here to the Cartoon White House but right now I'm sittin' here contemplating the situation and I think I heard the First Lady say she'd make the President a cup of the Earl Grey."
Mrs Lincoln sighs and puts down her threads on the star spangled occasional table. She moves into the Cartoon White House Kitchen and fills the kettle with ice cold water from the pale, muttering to herself about emancipation and him bringing home work with him.
"Yes sir," says Cartoon Abe, scratching his considerable beard, "I sure do need to contemplate the situation."
"Confederates?" she asks, rattling a teaspoon in a cup.
"Confederates," he nods from his chair, "Always on the other side of the page."
"Maybe you need a break, sir."
"Maybe I do."
"A little rest and relaxation."
"Sure."
"Maybe a treat."
"How bout that tea? That'll do it. And some of them old stovepipe cookies."
"Oh hang the tea. Stuff the cookies. How about a show?"
"A show! Why, Cartoon Mrs Lincoln, that's a swell idea."
"The theater then!"
"The theater, sure. A show at the theater!"
Cartoon Abraham Lincoln looks at the clock, ticking beneath a portrait of Cartoon Thomas Jefferson. Without warning, a speech bubble appears, ballooning out from the painting. Jefferson winks.
"Probably best stick to the tea party, Abe," he says in an old-fashioned British accent.
"On second thoughts," calls the President to his wife, "I feel a real draw to stay right here with a china cup and some cartoon cookies."
The Cartoon First Lady hands him his tea on a floral saucer and sighs.
"Whatever you say, Mr Pres-i-dent. But you are so boring."
Friday, 27 January 2017
NOODLES
Well it's almost Chinese New Year, and the beginning of the Year of the Rooster, as I understand it.
What better way to celebrate then, than to go to a series of meetings where people crow like they've just been woken up by the dawn and want to blame everybody around the table for it!
I sit there drawing trees, and boxes, and (weirdly) Cartoon Abraham Lincoln in my notebook.
There's a story around Chinese New Year about an old man who frightened off a dragon with red paper and fireworks. The dragon stayed away. The villagers assumed that the dragon was afraid of red paper and fireworks so they did it every year, teaching their children and their children's children to do the same. As far as I know, China is still successfully dragon-free.
True enough, our very own Tower of London is still standing for the same traditional reason: the Beefeaters clip the wings of the ravens quite deliberately, so that the walls of our most famous Tudor prison don't cave in. Because obviously, the presence of disabled ravens is the only thing preventing the imminent collapse of one of our oldest tourist attractions.
Time for another daft poem then. Oh I do love the way words fit together! This is Noodles.
Noodles
I like noodles
And poodles
And doodles
But oodles
of noodles
And troodles
Of poodles
And yoodles
Of doodles
Is a bit much
I wonder whether I could wave red paper and set off firecrackers in my next meeting? Would it head-off trouble, or would it bring it my way?
What better way to celebrate then, than to go to a series of meetings where people crow like they've just been woken up by the dawn and want to blame everybody around the table for it!
I sit there drawing trees, and boxes, and (weirdly) Cartoon Abraham Lincoln in my notebook.
There's a story around Chinese New Year about an old man who frightened off a dragon with red paper and fireworks. The dragon stayed away. The villagers assumed that the dragon was afraid of red paper and fireworks so they did it every year, teaching their children and their children's children to do the same. As far as I know, China is still successfully dragon-free.
True enough, our very own Tower of London is still standing for the same traditional reason: the Beefeaters clip the wings of the ravens quite deliberately, so that the walls of our most famous Tudor prison don't cave in. Because obviously, the presence of disabled ravens is the only thing preventing the imminent collapse of one of our oldest tourist attractions.
Time for another daft poem then. Oh I do love the way words fit together! This is Noodles.
Noodles
I like noodles
And poodles
And doodles
But oodles
of noodles
And troodles
Of poodles
And yoodles
Of doodles
Is a bit much
I wonder whether I could wave red paper and set off firecrackers in my next meeting? Would it head-off trouble, or would it bring it my way?
Wednesday, 25 January 2017
TEA & SYMPHONY
I'm fasting today, and simultaneously running a food quiz. That is not a symptom of the best kind of planning.
What's more, all day the office has been full of cakes and the smell of delicious pastries. In fact even now there's a pile of tasty-looking doughnuts stacked up in the kitchen.
Then, as if that weren't enough, I also had to look up a recipe, as I'm cooking for someone tomorrow. When fasting, more succulent ingredients are harder to imagine than a list of the things you throw into your basic slow cook chilli.
As part of the food quiz, I had to research how menus are put together. You would not believe the psychology that goes into it! I thought it was just the words that mattered but it's everything - word spacing, colour-balances of fonts, cases and justification of text - it's a proper science, and there are hundreds of papers devoted to the topic.
If ever I open a restaurant (and there are fewer less likely things I suppose) I will think about this in great detail.
I'd call it The Purple Piano or Tea & Symphony, or something like that.
Then I'd serve seventeen kinds of slow-cooker slop, including my specialties, Spicy Stew, Dollop o'Lasagne, and Chicken and Lemon Mulch... or the recent addition to my culinary repertoire, Bacon and Ham Sandwich with a Crescent of Crisps.
Don't ask; the meat needed eating.
Meanwhile, I'm trying not to think about food at all.
What's more, all day the office has been full of cakes and the smell of delicious pastries. In fact even now there's a pile of tasty-looking doughnuts stacked up in the kitchen.
Then, as if that weren't enough, I also had to look up a recipe, as I'm cooking for someone tomorrow. When fasting, more succulent ingredients are harder to imagine than a list of the things you throw into your basic slow cook chilli.
As part of the food quiz, I had to research how menus are put together. You would not believe the psychology that goes into it! I thought it was just the words that mattered but it's everything - word spacing, colour-balances of fonts, cases and justification of text - it's a proper science, and there are hundreds of papers devoted to the topic.
If ever I open a restaurant (and there are fewer less likely things I suppose) I will think about this in great detail.
I'd call it The Purple Piano or Tea & Symphony, or something like that.
Then I'd serve seventeen kinds of slow-cooker slop, including my specialties, Spicy Stew, Dollop o'Lasagne, and Chicken and Lemon Mulch... or the recent addition to my culinary repertoire, Bacon and Ham Sandwich with a Crescent of Crisps.
Don't ask; the meat needed eating.
Meanwhile, I'm trying not to think about food at all.
Mmm.... doughnuts.
Tuesday, 24 January 2017
THINGS I OUGHT TO REALISE
I think I might make a list of 'Things I Ought to Realise'.
The trouble is, even making the list is actually redundant, as each item would no longer be a thing I ought to realise because I would have realised it enough to put it on a list, and therefore the list would be perpetually empty.
And you can't have an empty list. That's just a title.
I could ask someone else to do it for me? Things Matt Ought to Realise...
Dangerous. That could be a longer list than I imagine, and, by the way, several versions of that list probably do already exist in the minds of... well, pretty much everyone who knows me. One or two people would probably relish the chance of filling it in. Um... no names mentioned.
High on my unwritten list of Things I Ought to Realise though, would be that: "My need to eat always supercedes my need to meet."
That's a nifty way of saying it.
I got a text today telling me that "tonight's meeting is at 7pm." I will have no time to have dinner. So the Thing I Ought to Realise is that it really is okay to say:
"Fine but I'll be there at 7:30."
instead of what I actually said, which was:
"Rock 'n' roll. See you there."
... without even thinking about it.
So that's one item for the list.
Another great realisation which ought to be sinking through the thickness of my skull is the fact that "Earl Grey is okay."
I wonder whether everything on this list has to rhyme.
I accidentally made a cup of Earl Grey tea, and it turned out not to be as bad as I remember it. I dislike that it's top of the default 'posh' teas for most people when there are far posher blends out there, but actually... it's not terrible, especially when the bergamot is subtle.
That's two things on the list then.
And now that I have mentioned them, I will quickly add:
Things I realise are things I ought to realise, have been already realised by default
and
Not everyone is as interested in Things I Ought to Realise as they are in either Things They Ought to Realise or Things They've Already Realised about Me so I should probably stop going on about it.
... and then cross all four things off the list as quickly as possible.
The trouble is, even making the list is actually redundant, as each item would no longer be a thing I ought to realise because I would have realised it enough to put it on a list, and therefore the list would be perpetually empty.
And you can't have an empty list. That's just a title.
I could ask someone else to do it for me? Things Matt Ought to Realise...
Dangerous. That could be a longer list than I imagine, and, by the way, several versions of that list probably do already exist in the minds of... well, pretty much everyone who knows me. One or two people would probably relish the chance of filling it in. Um... no names mentioned.
High on my unwritten list of Things I Ought to Realise though, would be that: "My need to eat always supercedes my need to meet."
That's a nifty way of saying it.
I got a text today telling me that "tonight's meeting is at 7pm." I will have no time to have dinner. So the Thing I Ought to Realise is that it really is okay to say:
"Fine but I'll be there at 7:30."
instead of what I actually said, which was:
"Rock 'n' roll. See you there."
... without even thinking about it.
So that's one item for the list.
Another great realisation which ought to be sinking through the thickness of my skull is the fact that "Earl Grey is okay."
I wonder whether everything on this list has to rhyme.
I accidentally made a cup of Earl Grey tea, and it turned out not to be as bad as I remember it. I dislike that it's top of the default 'posh' teas for most people when there are far posher blends out there, but actually... it's not terrible, especially when the bergamot is subtle.
That's two things on the list then.
And now that I have mentioned them, I will quickly add:
Things I realise are things I ought to realise, have been already realised by default
and
Not everyone is as interested in Things I Ought to Realise as they are in either Things They Ought to Realise or Things They've Already Realised about Me so I should probably stop going on about it.
... and then cross all four things off the list as quickly as possible.
MAKE IT GREAT
I wrote a whole blog post yesterday about how I wanted to make my flat 'great' again but also couldn't figure out what that meant as greatness suddenly occurred to me as a kind of subjective quantity, the achievement of which could have involved anything and everything from tidying up to knocking a wall down and replacing it with a revolving bookcase or something, an act which might not, in itself, recapture that spurious greatness I referred to in the statement of my initial desire, as the goal was neither specific, measurable, realistic, achievable or time-framed and therefore means almost entirely nothing, notwithstanding a collection of words strung together in a way that sort of sound like it's the right thing to do in order to recapture an undefinable time on the edge of my failing memory, when my flat was indeed 'great', which could have been (depending on your viewpoint) at any point between this morning when I was very much enjoying being in it, last week when it was tidy, last year when it was empty, or a long time ago when it had nothing to do with me whatsoever.
I'm glad I didn't post it.
I'm glad I didn't post it.
Saturday, 21 January 2017
WHITE VAN MAN
I've been driving a white van around tonight.
I'm borrowing it so that we can take a band to Didcot tomorrow; the kind of road trip I feel like I might enjoy. Another pleasant consequence is that there's now half a drum kit in my flat, spread about the hall. Hopefully I'll remember it's there if I need to get up, otherwise my neighbours will think it's the end of Eastenders when I stumble into it.
A strange thing happened in the white van though. I started to enjoy driving it. Sure, the brakes are soft and the gears are crunchy, but I felt quite powerful up there above the road, flicking the indicator on and swinging the van round corners. The whole thing creaked and rattled and I smiled, remembering that the other day I said I'd like to drive a tank.
Then, no word of a lie, tonight, people started giving way to me! Weird innit? Some geezer flashed his lights to let me through, even though it's probably his right of way and I'm like 'cheers guv' as I flash a sneaky thanks back, on the way. I try to pull out and judge me width between two sides of parked cars and the lady behind me's not even stressing out about it. Genius. Don't know what's got into people tonight. Probably the political situation. Don't get me started.
Ahem...
So it's no tank. I'm not gone completely mad; though I do think smashing through the world in an armour-plated vehicle would be unstoppable fun. Tomorrow I can make do with flying up the A34 with some great musicians, ready to lead some worship. I might not be a regular white van man but I can definitely do that bit of the journey. Innit.
Friday, 20 January 2017
SMARTPHONE DOWNGRADE
I don't want to be paranoid about it.
I don't want to imagine that somehow Apple have a sneaky algorithm that monitors my searches on Google, works out I'm looking for a new phone and then deliberately sends my existing phone into a sort of electronic meltdown.
I don't want to imagine any of that.
Co-incidence then, that this morning my phone told me that it was 3:17am at 8:30?
Co-incidence then, that it now takes about a whole second to display the screen after pushing the power button?
Co-incidence then, that some of my apps are suddenly no longer supported and 'might slow [my] iPhone down'?
This kind of thing never happened with the old Nokia 3210 did it? It was quick, responsive and simple. And you could charge it up on a Friday, go away for a week without a phone charger and come back with more than half your battery!
There was nothing more distracting about it either, other than a sneaky game of Snake on the bus! You couldn't dream of checking flumpbook with your 'mobile' or taking a photo with it.
You could message someone for 10p, sure, while you sat there watching the world fly past the windows of the Number 17. But you only had 120 characters per text, and there was never any guarantee that it would get through to the other person.
If they managed to get a message to you though, your phone would pulse like a radar in your pocket, loud enough to cause the bus driver to tut. And if you'd left your Nokia on vibrate, your entire leg would wobble with radioactivity.
It would hardly seem worth it either, once you'd fished inside your pocket, wedged the brick out of your jeans and pushed the clunky button, only to read:
WUU2?
I think I'm going to have to give in then. Some day soon my iPhone is just going to run out of memory, grind to a clunking halt and refuse to switch itself on altogether. And I will fold my arms stubbornly and tell everyone that I beat the shiny shinies in the glass-windowed world of glistening corporate greed.
Although I'll have to tell you all by smoke signals or yoghurt pots or something, I suppose.
I don't want to imagine that somehow Apple have a sneaky algorithm that monitors my searches on Google, works out I'm looking for a new phone and then deliberately sends my existing phone into a sort of electronic meltdown.
I don't want to imagine any of that.
Co-incidence then, that this morning my phone told me that it was 3:17am at 8:30?
Co-incidence then, that it now takes about a whole second to display the screen after pushing the power button?
Co-incidence then, that some of my apps are suddenly no longer supported and 'might slow [my] iPhone down'?
This kind of thing never happened with the old Nokia 3210 did it? It was quick, responsive and simple. And you could charge it up on a Friday, go away for a week without a phone charger and come back with more than half your battery!
There was nothing more distracting about it either, other than a sneaky game of Snake on the bus! You couldn't dream of checking flumpbook with your 'mobile' or taking a photo with it.
You could message someone for 10p, sure, while you sat there watching the world fly past the windows of the Number 17. But you only had 120 characters per text, and there was never any guarantee that it would get through to the other person.
If they managed to get a message to you though, your phone would pulse like a radar in your pocket, loud enough to cause the bus driver to tut. And if you'd left your Nokia on vibrate, your entire leg would wobble with radioactivity.
It would hardly seem worth it either, once you'd fished inside your pocket, wedged the brick out of your jeans and pushed the clunky button, only to read:
WUU2?
I think I'm going to have to give in then. Some day soon my iPhone is just going to run out of memory, grind to a clunking halt and refuse to switch itself on altogether. And I will fold my arms stubbornly and tell everyone that I beat the shiny shinies in the glass-windowed world of glistening corporate greed.
Although I'll have to tell you all by smoke signals or yoghurt pots or something, I suppose.
Thursday, 19 January 2017
THE LAST DAY OF CIVILISATION?
So some say. As President Business stands there tomorrow with one hand in the air, taking the Oath of Office, a lot of people will be seriously hoping his other hand isn't hovering over the nuclear button. I'm no fan of his, but that is ridiculous.
But of course, you don't have to be President Business to bring about the end of one era and kick off the next. You could be me for example, explaining to the choir you've run for five years, why you're closing it. I sat there, around the table, hearing myself repeat what I wrote in the letter, although a lot less eloquently.
I was amazed by the response.
"It's the right time," said Gary, kindly, putting an arm round my shoulder.
"Well done, Matt, you've got to look after yourself," said Theresa and Maureen, encouragingly afterwards. Even Robert, who I thought would be quite disappointed, was far more concerned about me, than he was about it.
Shirley and Wai Kwong had brought me a lovely little gift - an ornate, Korean mother-of-pearl box with a pad of exquisite Chinese art inside it! I was deeply moved by that. And every single one of them gave me a hug to say thank you. I don't know why I was so surprised; it is obvious when I think about it: this is the choir we all built together. It could only ever have been about love expressed through community.
I climbed into the car and shut the door. Silence fell. I cried a little bit. Love expressed through community. If civilisation is anything, it's surely that - the point where we pour out so much love between us that all we can do is be together, all we can think of is how to bring the best out of each other and all we know is (to quote the Beatles) love, love, love.
What a hippie, said a hidden part of my brain. Well, maybe they were on to something, the hippies of the Sixties, I don't know. Sometimes there are glimmers of Heaven in history and it would be easy to miss them. I do know though, that whatever President Business decides to do once he's painted the White House gold, it won't be the end of civilisation.
It won't, because there are people like us left. People like my friends in Calcot Choir who somehow discovered a voice when no-one believed they could sing. People like Betty, who muddled through in her twilight years and beyond her failing memory; people like Robert who make community their own and invite everyone they know to be part of it; people like Simon and Jan and Philippa who give their everything to it, even when they know we don't always sound that great. These are the people who show love through community! And that's all it's ever been about. That is civilisation. People like you. People like me. And yes, even President Business if he wants to be.
Let's show the world how it's done.
SMARTPHONE UPGRADE
I've yet to figure out how that works.
What it has done, is it's made me think carefully about how I use my phone and what for.
Not as a phone, I can tell you. I made one call today at 10:34am. I had one incoming call yesterday and then the next two entries in my log are over a week ago.
Hardly as a text machine either! My last few texts are a combination of offers from a local gym, reminders from my dentist and an ongoing argument with a friend about how many exclamation marks are acceptable at the end of a sentence.
WhatsApp has replaced text messages for me, almost entirely.
Then there are apps. I use a few all the time: Tweetbot, Notes, Blogger, Birdbrain, YouTube and Google Maps. I also use the voice recorder for song ideas a lot. But that really is about it. I see I've downloaded a lot more. I can't think I'm going to use Spirit Level, Learn Japanese or Text to Speech any time soon.
Why have I even got a smartphone? What do I need it for? Just to fit in with the cool gang? Or have the marketeers at shiny glass-windowed companies simply persuaded me that there is no difference at all between 'wanting' something and actually needing it?
I could go on about that difference a lot. Thankfully I don't have a TV so I'm not often subjected to garish adverts that blur the line so persistently you can't see it through all the stuff you've bought.
These devices are so expensive. I'm starting to wonder whether I'd be better off without one altogether.
But of course, I wouldn't. I do actually use those few apps I mentioned to great effect. I don't wish to get lost on the way back from a late-night folk gig any more than I want to send messages to my friends by carrier pigeon and record my croaky singing voice on a wax cylinder.
So I'm stuck really, unless I just shell out and let those t-shirt wearing geniuses at Apple win. And I'm starting to think that they planned it this way all along, didn't they?
And before you ask, yes I do check my emails! < see, one really is enough.
Wednesday, 18 January 2017
THE VALLEY OF THE FOUR GIANTS: SURRENDER
I fumble with the knot. She stares at me over the gag. My fingers slip as I try digging into the fabric.
The wind rushes from the trees. The pile shudders. Then, again, the same racing, whooshing sound. I've heard it before somewhere. There's no time. Something else though. A cracking noise underneath.
The knot loosens. The gag falls around her neck.
"It was a trap!" she says, suddenly, gasping for breath. I'm confused. Then... another whoosh. Another arrow jabs into the pile, now spitting with fire.
Wisps of smoke rise up through the shuddering wood pile. The truth hits me.
"Quick!" she cries. I loosen the rope around her arms and feet and she slips away from the pole. Whoosh. The arrows come thick and fast, thudding into the pyre. The flames lick the base, smoke now billowing into our eyes.
"We have to jump!" I say, over the noise. Another fiery arrow. The air is hot and unbearable.
"It's too late," she coughs, "We can't make it."
Through the smoke, dark figures are emerging from the trees, tall and menacing. She looks at me, astonished. I look at her. These silhouettes are familiar to me, standing high against the sun. They are my giants.
One. Two. Three. Four.
They tower over us, their features peering through the sparks, glowering over the pyre as it leaps into life. I can see their glistening eyes:
Hopelessness, Lustfulness, Loneliness and Uselessness, back from the dead.
My head rages.
How? How did they? I? I don't understand.
Hopelessness laughs. His voice crackles like the flames, dancing with the glee of victory.
"You then!" he sings. He's roaring with delight, like the fire in front of him.
"You lost!"
The Photographer watches me. I look back at her for a moment.
"She can't help you," says Uselessness. "Not this time. No words will save you now. You fell right in!"
"No words! Ha! What was it he said Uselessness? I am loved!"
The giants squeal with delight.
"I am loved!" mocks Useleness, "He thought that would be it! It was not though was it! It was not enough! And you had no idea that I was not done. Love. Ha! Where has that got anyone? No words is right."
"No words and no music!" cries Loneliness. "You thought you'd won against me! Imagine. But where are your friends now, little spider?"
The Photographer reaches out a hand, as if to make a final point. I take hers, trembling. The smoke piles higher around us. It is becoming clear to me.
"No love indeed, my friends." Hopelessness is pacing now. "And no hope either. You see, there never was any ... hope, was there? Not against us. Did you really think you'd win? Did you really think you'd beat us?"
She grips my hand a little tighter.
"It was all a waste of time! And where did that false hope take you? Only ever here. To the end. To your end. You see! Hope is useless to you, just as your friends have proved to be, and as cold and useless as your empty shouting in the woods. Even the Maker has left you. Trusting in Hope was your undoing. It was your trap and your downfall."
Squeeze. My mind is racing. Hope had led me here. I had always thought it would be protection; a tiny photograph given to me, my great weapon against these four giants. Yet Hopelessness was right. They had won. And I had lost.
"You never got it," says Uselessness.
"You never understood!"
"What a loser."
My thoughts leap quickly. The flames lick higher.
But if not hope then what? Why had the Maker given it to me at all? What did it all mean? I could never have beaten these enemies. I should never have taken them on. And yet, I thought I had, I thought I had done it.
"Let's watch them burn!" cries Lustfulness. Her voice is high and sweet again, like Ivy's. The smoke billows around us.
"Burn! Burn! Burn!" cry the other giants. They circle the fire. Hopelessness's sword catches the light. Uselessness thumps his staff into the earth and Loneliness, reunited with her bow screws an arrow head to a shaft.
"Matt," whispers a voice next to me. "I can't hold on much longer. You have to..."
"What?" I ask. She bites her lower lip and looks away.
"I can't. You have to...do... something."
Everything is racing. The flames grow higher and my skin is burning with the heat.
Her. The Maker. The Hope. It had always been the Hope that Hopelessness wanted. That was what this was all about. Hope. The Photograph. It couldn't protect me, but maybe... maybe that wasn't what it was... for... Maybe it was more about... her.
I glance sideways. Her eyes are closed. The giants sing as they circle. Quickly, I reach into my bag. My hand slips past the piece of broken record, past the slip of paper and reaches for the Photograph, the Hope I had clung to all along. Its texture has changed. It feels new.
"Quick," I whisper. "I have to give you this."
She looks at me, suddenly smiling. She lets go of my hand and reaches for the Photograph with the other.
"But!" I say, "It's not for you." She nods. "I'm giving it the Maker, I'm surrendering it. That is where my Hope belongs. With him. And you came from him. So..."
She blinks and looks down at the small square of photographic paper fluttering in her hand.
"I know," she says, now confidently in the moment. "Now, Matt," she leans in and kisses me once on the cheek. "Use what you have."
In an instant she's gone, vanished through the smoke into nothing.
The giants fall silent, staring. The flames leap towards my feet.
And in that moment I stand there, trapped on top of a burning bonfire, with no hope left and no friends, surrounded by giants. My hand reaches into my bag once again.
"Use what you have", says a voice, resonating inside my head.
My fingers clasp around the broken record. I know what to do.
The wind rushes from the trees. The pile shudders. Then, again, the same racing, whooshing sound. I've heard it before somewhere. There's no time. Something else though. A cracking noise underneath.
The knot loosens. The gag falls around her neck.
"It was a trap!" she says, suddenly, gasping for breath. I'm confused. Then... another whoosh. Another arrow jabs into the pile, now spitting with fire.
Wisps of smoke rise up through the shuddering wood pile. The truth hits me.
"Quick!" she cries. I loosen the rope around her arms and feet and she slips away from the pole. Whoosh. The arrows come thick and fast, thudding into the pyre. The flames lick the base, smoke now billowing into our eyes.
"We have to jump!" I say, over the noise. Another fiery arrow. The air is hot and unbearable.
"It's too late," she coughs, "We can't make it."
Through the smoke, dark figures are emerging from the trees, tall and menacing. She looks at me, astonished. I look at her. These silhouettes are familiar to me, standing high against the sun. They are my giants.
One. Two. Three. Four.
They tower over us, their features peering through the sparks, glowering over the pyre as it leaps into life. I can see their glistening eyes:
Hopelessness, Lustfulness, Loneliness and Uselessness, back from the dead.
My head rages.
How? How did they? I? I don't understand.
Hopelessness laughs. His voice crackles like the flames, dancing with the glee of victory.
"You then!" he sings. He's roaring with delight, like the fire in front of him.
"You lost!"
The Photographer watches me. I look back at her for a moment.
"She can't help you," says Uselessness. "Not this time. No words will save you now. You fell right in!"
"No words! Ha! What was it he said Uselessness? I am loved!"
The giants squeal with delight.
"I am loved!" mocks Useleness, "He thought that would be it! It was not though was it! It was not enough! And you had no idea that I was not done. Love. Ha! Where has that got anyone? No words is right."
"No words and no music!" cries Loneliness. "You thought you'd won against me! Imagine. But where are your friends now, little spider?"
The Photographer reaches out a hand, as if to make a final point. I take hers, trembling. The smoke piles higher around us. It is becoming clear to me.
"No love indeed, my friends." Hopelessness is pacing now. "And no hope either. You see, there never was any ... hope, was there? Not against us. Did you really think you'd win? Did you really think you'd beat us?"
She grips my hand a little tighter.
"It was all a waste of time! And where did that false hope take you? Only ever here. To the end. To your end. You see! Hope is useless to you, just as your friends have proved to be, and as cold and useless as your empty shouting in the woods. Even the Maker has left you. Trusting in Hope was your undoing. It was your trap and your downfall."
Squeeze. My mind is racing. Hope had led me here. I had always thought it would be protection; a tiny photograph given to me, my great weapon against these four giants. Yet Hopelessness was right. They had won. And I had lost.
"You never got it," says Uselessness.
"You never understood!"
"What a loser."
My thoughts leap quickly. The flames lick higher.
But if not hope then what? Why had the Maker given it to me at all? What did it all mean? I could never have beaten these enemies. I should never have taken them on. And yet, I thought I had, I thought I had done it.
"Let's watch them burn!" cries Lustfulness. Her voice is high and sweet again, like Ivy's. The smoke billows around us.
"Burn! Burn! Burn!" cry the other giants. They circle the fire. Hopelessness's sword catches the light. Uselessness thumps his staff into the earth and Loneliness, reunited with her bow screws an arrow head to a shaft.
"Matt," whispers a voice next to me. "I can't hold on much longer. You have to..."
"What?" I ask. She bites her lower lip and looks away.
"I can't. You have to...do... something."
Everything is racing. The flames grow higher and my skin is burning with the heat.
Her. The Maker. The Hope. It had always been the Hope that Hopelessness wanted. That was what this was all about. Hope. The Photograph. It couldn't protect me, but maybe... maybe that wasn't what it was... for... Maybe it was more about... her.
I glance sideways. Her eyes are closed. The giants sing as they circle. Quickly, I reach into my bag. My hand slips past the piece of broken record, past the slip of paper and reaches for the Photograph, the Hope I had clung to all along. Its texture has changed. It feels new.
"Quick," I whisper. "I have to give you this."
She looks at me, suddenly smiling. She lets go of my hand and reaches for the Photograph with the other.
"But!" I say, "It's not for you." She nods. "I'm giving it the Maker, I'm surrendering it. That is where my Hope belongs. With him. And you came from him. So..."
She blinks and looks down at the small square of photographic paper fluttering in her hand.
"I know," she says, now confidently in the moment. "Now, Matt," she leans in and kisses me once on the cheek. "Use what you have."
In an instant she's gone, vanished through the smoke into nothing.
The giants fall silent, staring. The flames leap towards my feet.
And in that moment I stand there, trapped on top of a burning bonfire, with no hope left and no friends, surrounded by giants. My hand reaches into my bag once again.
"Use what you have", says a voice, resonating inside my head.
My fingers clasp around the broken record. I know what to do.
Tuesday, 17 January 2017
I IMAGINE MYSELF DRIVING A TANK
I was lying awake last night, trying to prove to myself that a capital L was the right way around.
I have these moments sometimes - especially when tired. Lower case Qs look weird and other-wordly, the number 3 switches places with an epsilon character and I can't figure out whether it's 'occasion' or 'ocassion' - which now that I write it down in the cold light of day, looks ridiculous.
It was getting on for 3am. I've not a had night that bad for a while, but yesterday, worry was seeping in like the thick black darkness in my room.
Looks like I need that invisible armour. Come to think of it, I could do with some real armour too. And maybe a tank. Oh I'd love a tank. I could slide in, unseen, clank shut the hatch and crunch everything in my way.
I'd growl and whoop and holler inside that cockpit. Like a wild-man I'd fling levers around and swivel the gun, shouting and growling madly. Then I'd grind the gears and ram stuff into rubble with an insane grin.
Except.
I wouldn't do any of that would I. Not really. It troubled me in the small hours that I'd thought of that.
I'm much more of a hand-to-hand combat fighter. Clearly my thoughts get the better of me and when everyone I know is asleep, the whispers start inside my head.
But those moments are my battlefields - and in truth, I have everything I need without going crazy in a tank.
L faces right, obviously.
I have these moments sometimes - especially when tired. Lower case Qs look weird and other-wordly, the number 3 switches places with an epsilon character and I can't figure out whether it's 'occasion' or 'ocassion' - which now that I write it down in the cold light of day, looks ridiculous.
It was getting on for 3am. I've not a had night that bad for a while, but yesterday, worry was seeping in like the thick black darkness in my room.
Looks like I need that invisible armour. Come to think of it, I could do with some real armour too. And maybe a tank. Oh I'd love a tank. I could slide in, unseen, clank shut the hatch and crunch everything in my way.
I'd growl and whoop and holler inside that cockpit. Like a wild-man I'd fling levers around and swivel the gun, shouting and growling madly. Then I'd grind the gears and ram stuff into rubble with an insane grin.
Except.
I wouldn't do any of that would I. Not really. It troubled me in the small hours that I'd thought of that.
I'm much more of a hand-to-hand combat fighter. Clearly my thoughts get the better of me and when everyone I know is asleep, the whispers start inside my head.
But those moments are my battlefields - and in truth, I have everything I need without going crazy in a tank.
L faces right, obviously.
Sunday, 15 January 2017
INVISIBLE ARMOUR
Left arm. Locked. Right arm locked. I felt it, clasping to me like invisible armour. Torso, in place. Shield, ready. I looked up with eyes of steel. Mabel was praying from the front. There was a sea of heads between her and I: men's heads, the heads of warriors.
I closed my eyes. I think the idea was for all the women in the church to pray for the men so that they would rise up and step in to the things they're called to... that we are called to.
My feet were firm against the carpet, my back straight. There was a pounding, thumping rhythm deep inside my head: feet striking the earth, the sound of war coming closer, the sound of battle. An unheard shout went up, I heard the flutter of a banner and the tightening of the grip. I heard the clicking of weapons and the shimmer of a sword. Behind us, the women and the children were praying, hoping for something greater to rise up in us, something to match the fight, a strength to protect the community, to protect them, as the warriors we were always called to be.
I flicked open my eyes and looked around. One man looked at me and nodded back, knowingly. Where the flames are fiercest, where the fight is hardest, where the darkness reaches in, that is where we will be, us men of old, us fighters for freedom.
I made fists with my hands, the armour creaking around me. Someone else was praying now, about not being afraid to look foolish. I stood there under an invisible helmet, with weapons that no-one can see, feeling a fresh determination to step into my identity as a warrior, and I smiled.
I closed my eyes. I think the idea was for all the women in the church to pray for the men so that they would rise up and step in to the things they're called to... that we are called to.
My feet were firm against the carpet, my back straight. There was a pounding, thumping rhythm deep inside my head: feet striking the earth, the sound of war coming closer, the sound of battle. An unheard shout went up, I heard the flutter of a banner and the tightening of the grip. I heard the clicking of weapons and the shimmer of a sword. Behind us, the women and the children were praying, hoping for something greater to rise up in us, something to match the fight, a strength to protect the community, to protect them, as the warriors we were always called to be.
I flicked open my eyes and looked around. One man looked at me and nodded back, knowingly. Where the flames are fiercest, where the fight is hardest, where the darkness reaches in, that is where we will be, us men of old, us fighters for freedom.
I made fists with my hands, the armour creaking around me. Someone else was praying now, about not being afraid to look foolish. I stood there under an invisible helmet, with weapons that no-one can see, feeling a fresh determination to step into my identity as a warrior, and I smiled.
A LETTER TO THE CHOIR
Dear all,
You might find it hard to believe, but the Calcot Community Choir started almost five years ago in 2012! Back then, Lindsay and Simon and I thought it would be a great project to bring people in the Calcot area together to do something fun and create some great music.
We didn’t have much of an idea of where it would go. I certainly had no clue how much fun it would be either - from staying up into the small hours writing music, to laughing together on our practice nights - it’s been the most rewarding and enjoyable thing I think I’ve ever done, and I’m so proud and thankful for what we’ve achieved together.
Recently, in 2016, I’ve been finding life very difficult. Some of you know already that I don’t sleep too well, and there have been other stresses on me too. My skin started peeling and I’ve been suffering from depression. I talked about it with a lot of people, and my friends and family all advised me to do less stuff - less work stuff, less church stuff and a few things I’d said yes to without thinking them through.
I am a follower of Jesus, and as a Bible-believing Christian, I decided that the best thing for me to do would be to focus everything down to the things I believe God has asked me to do. These things have always been leading the music team at church and song writing, first.
As a result, this means letting go of a few things, and I’m writing to you to let you know that in 2017, this means Calcot Choir too.
I chatted with the team (Lynn, Lindsay and Simon) and with Rob and Lesley who look after us, and we all felt that rather than struggle through trying to make it happen without a musical director, the choir in its current form should come to an end.
I know this will be a shock and a disappointment to you, as it is for all of us, and I’m really sorry about that. The choir has been brilliant for so many people, and it genuinely has been the one thing I’ve been involved in that I’ve enjoyed the most. This has been a really difficult decision to have had to make.
We’re going to have one last opportunity to meet together on Thursday, and we’d love you to come along if you can make it. I’m really happy to talk in a bit more detail about this and to share some great memories with you all... oh and of course, to answer any questions you might have.
In the meantime, I’d like to say thank you to everyone for helping create such a wonderful community, for singing your hearts out every time, from a mobile trailer in the park, to an icy garden centre with a Santa on a motorbike! From a too-small stage in the village hall to the crowded corner of the St Birinus building, you’ve been excellent, and we can’t thank you enough.
Please do stay in touch. It’s not our intention to keep silent and we really do love the friendship and passion you’ve shown over the years.
Yours with a song, always,
Matt
Friday, 13 January 2017
THE VALLEY OF THE FOUR GIANTS: RESCUE
"Of course he will!" says Hopelessness. "Thanks to her, he has renewed courage and hope... Plus..."
"He needs to be a hero!" laughs Lustfulness.
Hopelessness scratches his leather face.
"Yes. He won't be able to resist it - the adventure, the rescue. He will come."
"You won't win," says the Photographer from the corner. Lustfulness raises an ugly hand as Hopelessness grabs her wrist.
"No. We must not give the Maker any cause to... intervene, remember. We have come so far because that little imbecile has decided it. We must let him finish his journey here. Then we can ignite our rage. Meanwhile... gag her."
Lustfulness stares at the Photographer. The Photographer smiles back.
"Now then," continues the taller giant, ripping a strip of fabric. "Are you feeling cold?"
"Oh awfully chilly!" replies Lustfulness, cackling behind him.
"Then we must have a fire, my dear, right here in the valley."
"But whatever shall we use for firewood? The forest is dry?"
"I feel certain my friend, that we can... improvise. Tie her up."
-
There's only one place to finish this, I think to myself, pushing through the undergrowth. The valley must be this way, toward the East, toward the sun. That's where it began when they blew that trumpet, and that must be where the Maker intends me to finish.
I have Hope, I have courage and I have friends. I have defeated two giants and I can defeat two more, and I can rescue her.
-
Far away, on a writing desk in a quiet, sunlit studio apartment, a telephone is ringing. There is nobody there to answer it.
-
I must be close. I'm leaping over fallen tree trunks - they look familiar somehow but there's no time to stop and figure out why. I don't even see the bits of broken typewriter that have been scattered, or the enormous gouge of fresh earth where a giant once lay. I race through the forest, looking for the clearing, looking for the place where the trees let the sunlight in and the valley begins.
-
Ready.
Then we wait.
You're not worried?
Worried? We've got him. All of us.
-
I stop short of the open air. I need to see properly. There's some sort of structure, right there in the valley; it looks like a pyramid with a pole at the top. The sun is blinding. The pole is... moving... is it... it's... her. It's the Photographer.
And it's not a pyramid at all. It's an enormous pyre, a cone of sticks and branches, ready to be lit. I cover my mouth with my hand. She's right out in the open. No sign of giants.
-
There. In the trees.
Wait.
-
I scrabble up the sticks.
"He needs to be a hero!" laughs Lustfulness.
Hopelessness scratches his leather face.
"Yes. He won't be able to resist it - the adventure, the rescue. He will come."
"You won't win," says the Photographer from the corner. Lustfulness raises an ugly hand as Hopelessness grabs her wrist.
"No. We must not give the Maker any cause to... intervene, remember. We have come so far because that little imbecile has decided it. We must let him finish his journey here. Then we can ignite our rage. Meanwhile... gag her."
Lustfulness stares at the Photographer. The Photographer smiles back.
"Now then," continues the taller giant, ripping a strip of fabric. "Are you feeling cold?"
"Oh awfully chilly!" replies Lustfulness, cackling behind him.
"Then we must have a fire, my dear, right here in the valley."
"But whatever shall we use for firewood? The forest is dry?"
"I feel certain my friend, that we can... improvise. Tie her up."
-
There's only one place to finish this, I think to myself, pushing through the undergrowth. The valley must be this way, toward the East, toward the sun. That's where it began when they blew that trumpet, and that must be where the Maker intends me to finish.
I have Hope, I have courage and I have friends. I have defeated two giants and I can defeat two more, and I can rescue her.
-
Far away, on a writing desk in a quiet, sunlit studio apartment, a telephone is ringing. There is nobody there to answer it.
-
I must be close. I'm leaping over fallen tree trunks - they look familiar somehow but there's no time to stop and figure out why. I don't even see the bits of broken typewriter that have been scattered, or the enormous gouge of fresh earth where a giant once lay. I race through the forest, looking for the clearing, looking for the place where the trees let the sunlight in and the valley begins.
-
Ready.
Then we wait.
You're not worried?
Worried? We've got him. All of us.
-
I stop short of the open air. I need to see properly. There's some sort of structure, right there in the valley; it looks like a pyramid with a pole at the top. The sun is blinding. The pole is... moving... is it... it's... her. It's the Photographer.
And it's not a pyramid at all. It's an enormous pyre, a cone of sticks and branches, ready to be lit. I cover my mouth with my hand. She's right out in the open. No sign of giants.
-
There. In the trees.
Wait.
-
I scrabble up the sticks.
CRANBERRY JUICE
Take a glass of cranberry juice
Drain it as fast as you can
Whatever you think,
You'll finish the drink
More thirsty than when you began
Drain it as fast as you can
Whatever you think,
You'll finish the drink
More thirsty than when you began
Thursday, 12 January 2017
UNDER INVESTIGATION
I don't have a TV.
Most people are indifferent about this when it comes to a discussion. I explain carefully that I think that most of television is garbage cascading through a plastic window. I tell them about my constant attempts to watch more than 45 seconds of The One Show when I'm round at the Intrepids' and they sort of get it.
They tell me about all the great stuff I'm missing and the numerous ways I could escape my dull old life - by pretending I'm a gritty London detective, or suspending my disbelief for just long enough to imagine I live in a world where the Nazis have won, or where you soothe a dragon and try not to get massacred by feisty Vikings. I politely remind them about the ancient power of storytelling and imagination and the whole thing works itself into a nice symbiosis: I'm content with books and films, they're content with shows about cooking, decorating, antiques and singing. We're all okay with that equilibrium. You like a bit of telly? Knock yourself out. I think television is time-consuming mind-rot. You're not going to judge me and I'm not going to preach to you. We're all happy with the status quo.
Not the TV Licensing People. They're not happy with it in the slightest.
I'm now 'under investigation' for not having a TV Licence. Yes, they know. Yes, they're still sending me threatening letters telling me it's a criminal offence to watch television without a licence and that the 'Enforcement Division' will 'schedule a visit'.
Enforcement. You will watch, you will conform, you will fit in. Or we'll be round.
Well, the heavies are welcome. They can flick through my books and tickle the piano if they like. They can look at me pitifully and ask me what I do do in the evenings and I can tell them about writing and recording and poetry and music and stories and friends and food and prose and imagination and group and walking and laughter and trees and woods and the park and beauty and time and thought and wonder. All things for which no licence is required at all.
Anyway, I've told them again. I've registered again as a NoTV house and if Horace and Jasper want to pop round for some enforcement, I have all the proof I need that life is bigger, bolder and braver than anything I can be 'enforced' to absorb from a flashing sewage pipe in the corner of the room.
Most people are indifferent about this when it comes to a discussion. I explain carefully that I think that most of television is garbage cascading through a plastic window. I tell them about my constant attempts to watch more than 45 seconds of The One Show when I'm round at the Intrepids' and they sort of get it.
They tell me about all the great stuff I'm missing and the numerous ways I could escape my dull old life - by pretending I'm a gritty London detective, or suspending my disbelief for just long enough to imagine I live in a world where the Nazis have won, or where you soothe a dragon and try not to get massacred by feisty Vikings. I politely remind them about the ancient power of storytelling and imagination and the whole thing works itself into a nice symbiosis: I'm content with books and films, they're content with shows about cooking, decorating, antiques and singing. We're all okay with that equilibrium. You like a bit of telly? Knock yourself out. I think television is time-consuming mind-rot. You're not going to judge me and I'm not going to preach to you. We're all happy with the status quo.
Not the TV Licensing People. They're not happy with it in the slightest.
I'm now 'under investigation' for not having a TV Licence. Yes, they know. Yes, they're still sending me threatening letters telling me it's a criminal offence to watch television without a licence and that the 'Enforcement Division' will 'schedule a visit'.
Enforcement. You will watch, you will conform, you will fit in. Or we'll be round.
Well, the heavies are welcome. They can flick through my books and tickle the piano if they like. They can look at me pitifully and ask me what I do do in the evenings and I can tell them about writing and recording and poetry and music and stories and friends and food and prose and imagination and group and walking and laughter and trees and woods and the park and beauty and time and thought and wonder. All things for which no licence is required at all.
Anyway, I've told them again. I've registered again as a NoTV house and if Horace and Jasper want to pop round for some enforcement, I have all the proof I need that life is bigger, bolder and braver than anything I can be 'enforced' to absorb from a flashing sewage pipe in the corner of the room.
SNOW PROBLEM
"They'll be red-faced!" said my Dad emphatically for the fourteenth time.
He doesn't think it will snow later. Quite a lot of people seem to be taking precautions anyway, from my niece's school to Heathrow Airport. He thinks it's ridiculous. If it snows at all, he says, it'll be a disappointing flurry or two.
The trouble is, it's hard to predict. I made the same mistake in 2010.
"It'll be gone by Tuesday," I remember saying. Famously, that particular snow lasted for two long weeks.
Snow is formed when ice crystals stick together in clouds. It falls, melts and refreezes, all at the same time, something that can only happen between zero and two degrees. It's flimsy stuff.
Until it clumps up the roads and gets in the way of everyone, that is.
So who's right? Louise (who's gone home to avoid the snowbound rush hour) or my Dad (who thinks it'll be icy rain all evening and it'll all be fine)?
"Red-faced I tell you," he reasserted watching the weather forecast at lunchtime.
"Well at least their faces will stand out against the snow," I said, trying to be funny. That of course made no sense.
I'll get my coat.
If you need me, I'll be driving home.
He doesn't think it will snow later. Quite a lot of people seem to be taking precautions anyway, from my niece's school to Heathrow Airport. He thinks it's ridiculous. If it snows at all, he says, it'll be a disappointing flurry or two.
The trouble is, it's hard to predict. I made the same mistake in 2010.
"It'll be gone by Tuesday," I remember saying. Famously, that particular snow lasted for two long weeks.
Snow is formed when ice crystals stick together in clouds. It falls, melts and refreezes, all at the same time, something that can only happen between zero and two degrees. It's flimsy stuff.
Until it clumps up the roads and gets in the way of everyone, that is.
So who's right? Louise (who's gone home to avoid the snowbound rush hour) or my Dad (who thinks it'll be icy rain all evening and it'll all be fine)?
"Red-faced I tell you," he reasserted watching the weather forecast at lunchtime.
"Well at least their faces will stand out against the snow," I said, trying to be funny. That of course made no sense.
I'll get my coat.
If you need me, I'll be driving home.
Wednesday, 11 January 2017
ULTIMATE MUG DYNAMICS
Sorry about your cup. I broke it. The Cleaner George.
Louise says I should break something of theirs to get even. Well despite the fact that the cup was made for me by my friend Emmie and was uniquely personalised as a thermodynamically suitable receptacle for hot drinks, and is/was an item of which I am very fond, I'm not about to go about snapping mops in half or trashing the cleaning cupboard.
Neither will I be goaded by people quoting 'an eye for an eye' at me, thank you very much.
Actually, despite the fact that 'The Cleaner George' broke my favourite mug, I'm quite pleased that he left this note. Confession is good for the soul, after all.
It's written in an interesting fashion. He clearly started by writing...
Sorry about your cup
which is the central message. He didn't have to write anything at all. The Cleaner George could easily have remained anonymous and my cup could have simply 'disappeared' in a disappointing mystery. I'm glad I know what happened to it.
Then as a sort of afterthought, he must have written
I broke it
... by way of explanation. After all, until that point I would only have known that he was 'sorry about it' - which could have meant anything from selling it to some travelling cup-merchants to accidentally lobbing it into the lake. There's no mystery with the real explanation though. The Cleaner George explained its fate in three humble words.
What happened next was that he looked at this hastily scribbled note and realised that it looked a bit sheepish without revealing the culprit. So he signed it.
The Cleaner
And then thinking about it, his name:
George
Well done George. I might write back.
Tuesday, 10 January 2017
THINGS IN SPACE
"You're looking like you've got a bit more bounce..." said my Manager, observing the difference between me now and me before Christmas.
I'm not convinced today. My skin's flaky again and I slept badly.
It ought to be simple: lie down, close your eyes, wake up. I seem to find all of those things tricky.
I've tried breathing in, slowing my pulse, trying to be as still as possible. I get so uncomfortable though, I have to turn over. Then I'm too hot. Or too cold, or too scratchy or something.
Closing eyes is easier, but keeping them shut is tough. It's almost as though there's a switch that turns on my brain when I blink my eyelids. A million thoughts and worries and fears circle around the dark and my eyes flick open. Then I try to ignore all those thoughts by thinking about a maths puzzle, or naming things in space that begin with each letter of the alphabet.
Asteroid, Binary stars, Cephoid Variables, Dark Matter... Earth...
I wake up and it's still dark. My watch says it's only 2am and I groan and start the whole process again.
I think I need to go back to the doctor. He'll probably reset the medication and give me something that will turn me back into a zombie. So that'll be fun.
A bit more bounce then. I raised a crusty eyebrow. I think I'm just more determined this year, to fight this off and not let it affect the rest of my life. I hope I can make it.
I can't think of anything beginning with F.
I'm not convinced today. My skin's flaky again and I slept badly.
It ought to be simple: lie down, close your eyes, wake up. I seem to find all of those things tricky.
I've tried breathing in, slowing my pulse, trying to be as still as possible. I get so uncomfortable though, I have to turn over. Then I'm too hot. Or too cold, or too scratchy or something.
Closing eyes is easier, but keeping them shut is tough. It's almost as though there's a switch that turns on my brain when I blink my eyelids. A million thoughts and worries and fears circle around the dark and my eyes flick open. Then I try to ignore all those thoughts by thinking about a maths puzzle, or naming things in space that begin with each letter of the alphabet.
Asteroid, Binary stars, Cephoid Variables, Dark Matter... Earth...
I wake up and it's still dark. My watch says it's only 2am and I groan and start the whole process again.
I think I need to go back to the doctor. He'll probably reset the medication and give me something that will turn me back into a zombie. So that'll be fun.
A bit more bounce then. I raised a crusty eyebrow. I think I'm just more determined this year, to fight this off and not let it affect the rest of my life. I hope I can make it.
I can't think of anything beginning with F.
Sunday, 8 January 2017
THE HEART OF THE FLAMES
My head's spinning a bit. It's been a long day.
I think there's a situation I need to face by leaping right into the fire. It's not me, really, rooting out the heart of the matter like that. I'd rather be an ostrich, or maybe a distant observer hoping that the flames will die down and everything will be alright.
Sometimes though, you can't do that. There's no way around the fire; there's no way to extinguish it either. It burns hot and horrible in front of you, and instinctively you know what you have to do.
You might have heard the tale of Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego. It's an old, old story, from ancient Persia that's recounted in the Bible. The three young men take a principled stand in the face of authority and refuse to stick to the law of the land, worshipping God instead of worshipping the king. The king, furious with rage, throws Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego straight into the furnace to be incinerated.
They knew what was coming to them. They actually chose the fire, knowing that they would be burned alive.
This is not as serious as that. It's just hard. It is true though that sometimes we face situations where we know we might get hurt, rejected, challenged or abandoned. It's not only me either - there are a few people I know who are facing their fires, knowing that there isn't really a way around them.
Sometimes, you have to go right to the heart of the flames to sort it out.
Gulp. I don't know whether I can do that and survive. I don't know whether my friends can do that and make it through. I do know this though:
Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego came out of the furnace alive, and not even smelling of smoke. In fact, the tale tells of a fourth man in the fire, walking around with them. Even in the flames, God was with them. And that gives me courage too. All those times I've prayed and sung about wanting to be wherever He is, and in this, He's right in the heart of the flames where it burns the worst and looks so difficult.
Let's be brave and tackle the fire head-on. After all, He is with us. Go on, I dare you. Jump in.
Friday, 6 January 2017
DEMOTIVATIONAL FRIDAYS
Hi there, and thanks for tuning in for another exciting episode of Demotivational Fridays.
This week, we'll be asking: would you use an automated checkout in a shop, rather than talk to a bored person on the till? Do people with black hair go grey faster and is it okay to mention it to them? And if you're in your twenties, have you been asked for ID recently and how do you feel about sharing the news with people in their thirties? It'll be quite a phone-in.
Later on, we'll have expert opinion and in-depth analysis from someone browsing Amazon for shoes, and another person over there somewhere will be Swearing Loudly At a Computer For Comic Effect.
Don't forget our ongoing competition to find the Fastest Fingers Switching Screens With The Alt and Tab Keys When Managers Walk By, not to mention the Kitchen Chit-Chat Kit-Kat Quiz when we'll be awarding no less than a whole Kit-Kat Chunky (oooooh) to the lucky person with the dullest plans for the weekend! It's off-the-scale-crazy...
What a show! Lots to stay tuned for and you're literally not going to not want to be anywhere else. Don't touch that dial folks!
This week, we'll be asking: would you use an automated checkout in a shop, rather than talk to a bored person on the till? Do people with black hair go grey faster and is it okay to mention it to them? And if you're in your twenties, have you been asked for ID recently and how do you feel about sharing the news with people in their thirties? It'll be quite a phone-in.
Later on, we'll have expert opinion and in-depth analysis from someone browsing Amazon for shoes, and another person over there somewhere will be Swearing Loudly At a Computer For Comic Effect.
Don't forget our ongoing competition to find the Fastest Fingers Switching Screens With The Alt and Tab Keys When Managers Walk By, not to mention the Kitchen Chit-Chat Kit-Kat Quiz when we'll be awarding no less than a whole Kit-Kat Chunky (oooooh) to the lucky person with the dullest plans for the weekend! It's off-the-scale-crazy...
What a show! Lots to stay tuned for and you're literally not going to not want to be anywhere else. Don't touch that dial folks!
Thursday, 5 January 2017
INDIANA JONES AND THE DAILY COMMUTE
Once the car had been defrosted and I'd pulled out into the road, I flicked on the radio.
"This is Classic FM," said a voice.
Before long, as I sped through golden tree tunnels on my way to work, the theme from Indiana Jones was pushing me along.
I gripped the wheel, smiling to myself. Then I whacked up the volume.
What a tune to drive to work to! John Williams is a genius. The bold brass theme swells confidently over those classic horse-hoof pounding strings, thumping timpani and semi-quavered french horns underneath. The rhythm and the fanfare oozes drama and adventure.
Also, it's interesting how he uses intervals of fourths and fifths which sort of modulate over ascending keys. The whole thing just carries that sense of escalating drama, but keeps it brave and positive.
And that's just the first section! Soon it links dramatically from bombastic to the smooth strings and floating harps of a grand sweep over mountains and forests. You can almost hear the engine of the biplane as it swoops and soars over the landscape.
This is one thing I really love about John Williams, although he does use this exact technique when ET and Eliot go cycling over the forest, and in Princess Leia's theme in Star Wars. These swooning strings add romance to the adventure. And they tell you everything you need to know about the tale.
John Williams is ultimately a storyteller, and he understands how to pace your emotions through the narrative perfectly.
Soon we're back to the main theme, this time with a military rattle of snares and the high twinkling xylophones and flutes adding scale to the music. I love this. It climbs to a crescendo, brass and strings and percussion pounding together and then it drops off to finish. You couldn't help but applaud in that sudden dramatic silence.
Well I could, I was driving, but I certainly felt that boyish rush of adventure as I swung the car down Sulham Hill.
I wish I could write music like John Williams. He just knows how to capture a story and retell it with an orchestra, while simultaneously inventing a tune that hooks itself to the essence of a film.
I got to work feeling like anything might be possible.
"This is Classic FM," said a voice.
Before long, as I sped through golden tree tunnels on my way to work, the theme from Indiana Jones was pushing me along.
I gripped the wheel, smiling to myself. Then I whacked up the volume.
What a tune to drive to work to! John Williams is a genius. The bold brass theme swells confidently over those classic horse-hoof pounding strings, thumping timpani and semi-quavered french horns underneath. The rhythm and the fanfare oozes drama and adventure.
Also, it's interesting how he uses intervals of fourths and fifths which sort of modulate over ascending keys. The whole thing just carries that sense of escalating drama, but keeps it brave and positive.
And that's just the first section! Soon it links dramatically from bombastic to the smooth strings and floating harps of a grand sweep over mountains and forests. You can almost hear the engine of the biplane as it swoops and soars over the landscape.
This is one thing I really love about John Williams, although he does use this exact technique when ET and Eliot go cycling over the forest, and in Princess Leia's theme in Star Wars. These swooning strings add romance to the adventure. And they tell you everything you need to know about the tale.
John Williams is ultimately a storyteller, and he understands how to pace your emotions through the narrative perfectly.
Soon we're back to the main theme, this time with a military rattle of snares and the high twinkling xylophones and flutes adding scale to the music. I love this. It climbs to a crescendo, brass and strings and percussion pounding together and then it drops off to finish. You couldn't help but applaud in that sudden dramatic silence.
Well I could, I was driving, but I certainly felt that boyish rush of adventure as I swung the car down Sulham Hill.
I wish I could write music like John Williams. He just knows how to capture a story and retell it with an orchestra, while simultaneously inventing a tune that hooks itself to the essence of a film.
I got to work feeling like anything might be possible.
Tuesday, 3 January 2017
TOP OF THE YEAR
It didn't take long to set. A few spoonfuls in and it was thick and leathery, with all the taste of rainwater. Mmm. Flavour and texture. Look out, Gordon Ramsay.
The decorations are still up; the Engineering Tree looks particularly ridiculous without viewing it through the rose-tinted spectacles of Advent. Tinsel lines some of the partitions, looking more tacky than festive now, in the cold light of January.
I think I need to be more positive.
It's the Top of the Year after all and a world of possibility lies ahead. For the first time in a long time, I woke up early and didn't fly into work like a scruffy tornado.
Plus there is an inkling of hope in the air: hope of change, hope of something different and new, and that's a good thing.
It's probably there to remind me that I have a choice - either to mope about things I can't change, or to get on with things I can. Only one of those options makes the world a better place, even if you have to smash through walls of disappointment and resignation to get there.
But you already know this. After all, I wonder, given the choice, what would you rather read about me doing?
It's a balance though isn't it, wobbling about here at the Top of the Year. I'd like to be very real too. For example, I don't like it when you ask someone how they are and they tell you they're 'blessed'; it feels like code from someone who doesn't trust you enough to be honest with you.
However, I do also see that speaking positively is always the best choice. I should do more of that.
So... look at this lovely porridge...
Oh would you believe, by the way, that Gordon Ramsay actually does have a porridge recipe? I looked it up. It's got hazelnuts, raisins, almonds... and a pear in it. See, there's a guy who knows how to keep it real.
Sunday, 1 January 2017
WHETHER I SINK OR SING
I was right. The telly went on. Robbie Williams appeared, looking self-satisfied behind a microphone. I have no clue what he was singing - every other line he got the audience to sing for him, which of course, being the kind of people who had paid through their noses to be there, they did, without even a hint of indignance. Then Robbie high-fived a corridor of worshippers as he sang his way out onto the BBC balcony that overlooks Westminster and the London Eye.
I unfurled the strip of paper which I had (1) just written on, and (2) curled up around a pencil. In bright capital letters I had printed my hopes for 2017. I had stapled it to a bauble, ready to go away with the Christmas decorations next week. I wondered whether I had set myself up for disappointment again.
Robbie Williams bragged to the nation that he had given up cigarettes. The other presenter congratulated him, wearily, as though he'd been hearing that since 2005, and then introduced the 'spectacular' fireworks and 'awesome' soundtrack.
And that was that. The gigantic seconds went down, the crowd proved as one that they had mastered counting backwards, and then fireworks filled the sky above the wheel for fifteen minutes. I clutched my bauble, thinking, praying and wondering why it felt so out-of-sync with the rest of the world. We talked about whether there were people on the London Eye, whether the tubes would be running, how much the fireworks were likely to have cost and who pays for them. Then, eventually, the camera swept across the crowd filling the embankment with their smartphones in the air, and cut back to Robbie, who started singing Angels as though he were being haunted by the ghost of 1997.
We switched off.
It's up to me, I suppose, whether that little strip of paper will make my heart sink next Christmas. I almost didn't want to do it, but as with most things like that, I quickly realised that I should. It focuses the heart and crystallises the mind, in theory leading to positive action. In reality though, I will forget the specifics of what I wrote, perhaps even that I wrote it at all, until a jolly Saturday in December. Whether I sink or sing probably depends on how much I really want to see it happen.
We packed away the dominoes, cleared up the silly string and spent-party-poppers, and we spirited the empty glasses away to the kitchen. Then I went home with cold hands in my pockets. It wasn't until later that I realised one finger was bleeding. The sight of the red blood, smudged down my hand made my head swoon. I carefully fished inside my coat pocket to try to figure out what had happened.
One by one I pulled out fragments of broken bauble.
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