My ear is still pounding. That's more than a week now, so it's off to the doctor's for me.
It sounds like someone playing the timpani underwater - like a boom and a swoosh combined, thumping along with every heartbeat. Swoom, boosh, swoom, boosh, swoom, boosh...
You don't often get to hear your own heartbeat like this. I can confirm that I am still alive I guess, which is a bonus. At the moment it's playing at about 70 bpm, which I suppose is about right for a sedentary person trying to listen to their own heartbeat.
I expect the doctor will prescribe antibiotics. That's how this normally goes: he looks in with his cold, bright, angled lamp, makes a comment about how much gunk there is in there and then scribbles out a ticket for amoxicillin.
"Thank you doctor," will say I, spinning for the door.
It's like the drums of Mordor, or maybe the foundry at Isengard or something - distant muffled thumping, a kind of warning of far away danger.
The thing is I'm fed up with being ill. It's been about two weeks now. I could really do without it.
I'm making the call.
---
"All of our receptionists are still busy. You are still in the queue and your queue position is number... 3."
---
I saw a video today of idiots behaving badly on a train. It made me feel sad for their parents.
What really struck me though was the way that alcohol had curled their faces into spiteful, angular shapes while they shouted obscenities at each other. Girls who grew up wanting to be Disney princesses (no doubt) were flashing lightning bolts and narrowed eyes around the carriage like Ursula and Maleficent. That was a sad thought to me. I thought about that old Roald Dahl quote so I looked it up:
“If a person has ugly thoughts, it begins to show on the face. And when that person has ugly thoughts every day, every week, every year, the face gets uglier and uglier until you can hardly bear to look at it.
A person who has good thoughts cannot ever be ugly. You can have a wonky nose and a crooked mouth and a double chin and stick-out teeth, but if you have good thoughts it will shine out of your face like sunbeams and you will always look lovely.”
Roald Dahl - The Twits
---
"All of our receptionists are still busy. You are still in the queue and your queue position is number... 2."
---
I tell you what, I'd take an ear infection for the rest of my days if it were a choice between that and being on that train. At the end of the video, the noise cuts to silence and two police officers are standing by the luggage rack. The children are sheepishly silent, eyes darting between them. I sighed with a kind of weariness with the world and closed the clip.
---
"Yes! hello! Can I make an appointment please?"
"Yes, what's your date of birth?"
I told her.
"And is it with the doctor or nurse?"
"Um... doctor I think."
"Will any doctor do?"
"I suppose so."
"Right. I can do 4:30pm on March 8th."
I rolled my eyes a bit. Pleasant thoughts though Matt, pleasant thoughts.
"Okay, can the nurse help? It's just that I think I have an ear infection and it'll just get worse if I leave..."
"Sure, how about 9:30 tomorrow morning?"
"Perfect. Thanks."
I clicked the phone off and sat here for a while, listening to the pulsating drums of my inner ear. It could be a lot worse.
Tuesday, 28 February 2017
THE TOAST ADVENTURE
I just tried cooking toast under the grill. I have an electric oven, complete with a 1970s-style see-through window, four fully functional hobs and a classic flap-down-slide-out grill with retractable grill-pan.
Let's get the obvious questions out of the way first. I don't have a toaster. When I moved in (a year ago) I decided I didn't want to eat toast, or in fact bread at all! Bread, like a claggy mess, has a habit of getting stuck inside me as I digest it, making me feel fatter than a riverside duck on a Sunday afternoon.
It's become something of a treat then, the old crusty loaf. I go to Sainsbury's sometimes and find a nice lump of tiger bread, that one with rosemary on it, or a good old focaccia. If you're going to jam your insides with sticky carbohydrate, I say to myself, you may as well enjoy it as it gloops its way down.
As it happens, I don't have room for a toaster. I don't have room for anything in my kitchen actually, not even me, most of the time. Washing up is like plate-spinning with soapy fingers; unpacking the shopping turns into a sort of artful one-man Jenga, while the eggs wobble on top of the box of tea bags and the fridge swings open.
I decided on Marmite on toast tonight. I clutched the loaf in one hand, and rather as I imagine a surgeon would, I brandished the glistening bread knife in the other. Then firmly I began sawing. Back and forth, back and forth. I wiped the sweat from my brow with my arm and carried on, tiny crumbs of sawdust flying in all directions. Why do they make it so difficult to cut? It was as though the bread itself was resisting me. Eventually I decided to pick it up and, examining the last bit of precision slicing required, I started hacking through it in mid-air.
That wasn't sensible.
Moments later (after a trip to the cold tap) I returned, the forefinger of my left hand throbbing inside its makeshift turban of tissue-paper, held together with an elastic band. Not for the first time, I made a mental note to get myself a proper first-aid-kit.
I'm undeterred though by misadventure. I'm an explorer, a pioneer of my generation! Would Captain Scott have turned the ship around when it first got a bit nippy? Did Columbus get cold feet halfway across the Atlantic? No sir! Injury? Adversity? Ha! I laugh in the face of such things!
And so, having machetéd my way through the loaf, I was not going to give in and let the bread defeat me. I switched on the grill and carefully sawed myself a second slice of delicious white (and slightly red) bread.
"I'm eating Marmite on toast," I messaged my friends. I felt certain they'd want to know what I was up to.
Toast is remarkable in my opinion. It's very different to bread and it's amazing how that simple act of heating it up seems to change its molecular structure. It's one of nature's most wonderful transformations; that, and milk becoming cheese, water fermenting through a grape and a short phone call turning into a self-delivering pizza. Just a little heat, a little fire, enough to gently burn the top and crystallise the middle into a soft, crunchy, crumbly breadcake, and you have a thing so powerfully, deliciously and irreversibly cooked that it can melt butter in an instant, and be dribbling with lovely Marmite before you know it.
And so simple to make too! Just switch on and slide it in! What could be easier?
I pulled out the tray after a few minutes, using the detachable handle. Two pieces of cold, lifeless bread sat on the grill pan, as white as clean sheets.
It turned out that I had switched on the oven by mistake.
Friday, 24 February 2017
THE GRAND PLAN
"Well, how are you feeling? Emotional? Excited?" I asked.
"Kind of strange," said Louise with a hint of sadness.
"Okay. How so?"
"I was clearing out my drawer and I found the starter letter which wished me a 'long and happy career' here..." she said, "And I dunno, I just thought it would be... longer."
Once again, I wasn't sure what to say. Today is Louise's last day of course, and her plan for 5 years had turned into 2.
She would have planned those 5 years meticulously as well. Unlike me, she's very driven towards the next step in her Grand Plan. If the road veers in an unexpected direction, she course-corrects at all expense, and gets it back on track.
I sat there wondering for a while why it is I don't have a Grand Plan.
I did once, but I kept changing it. I was going to be an architect, then a science journalist, then a song writer... Now that I'm older, it feels like my only real plan (and I am a song writer by the way, it just isn't my job) is to do something, anything, that makes me happy.
It doesn't feel very grand that plan; surely that's all anybody is doing! To make it a Grand Plan, I'd have to answer the 'how' question and make it more specific. And that isn't very easy, because the how question is quite painful.
Anyway, Grand Plan or not, today is about someone else's journey to future happiness and the steps they've taken to get there. And that is worth celebrating.
And so, the Card of Many Signatures has been round, the requisite gifts are waiting in a drawer and all that remains is the leaving presentation, which I've organised for 3pm and at which I'll do a little speech, Louise will do a little speech, everyone will clap politely and then we'll all disperse and that will be that.
On to the Grand Plan, I suppose.
If you have one.
"Kind of strange," said Louise with a hint of sadness.
"Okay. How so?"
"I was clearing out my drawer and I found the starter letter which wished me a 'long and happy career' here..." she said, "And I dunno, I just thought it would be... longer."
Once again, I wasn't sure what to say. Today is Louise's last day of course, and her plan for 5 years had turned into 2.
She would have planned those 5 years meticulously as well. Unlike me, she's very driven towards the next step in her Grand Plan. If the road veers in an unexpected direction, she course-corrects at all expense, and gets it back on track.
I sat there wondering for a while why it is I don't have a Grand Plan.
I did once, but I kept changing it. I was going to be an architect, then a science journalist, then a song writer... Now that I'm older, it feels like my only real plan (and I am a song writer by the way, it just isn't my job) is to do something, anything, that makes me happy.
It doesn't feel very grand that plan; surely that's all anybody is doing! To make it a Grand Plan, I'd have to answer the 'how' question and make it more specific. And that isn't very easy, because the how question is quite painful.
Anyway, Grand Plan or not, today is about someone else's journey to future happiness and the steps they've taken to get there. And that is worth celebrating.
And so, the Card of Many Signatures has been round, the requisite gifts are waiting in a drawer and all that remains is the leaving presentation, which I've organised for 3pm and at which I'll do a little speech, Louise will do a little speech, everyone will clap politely and then we'll all disperse and that will be that.
On to the Grand Plan, I suppose.
If you have one.
Thursday, 23 February 2017
REMOTELY CONNECTED
I'm still ill. I coughed through the night, muscles pounding with pain with each spasm, and sweat and tears dripping from my face.
I thought of the neighbours. There's little doubt I've kept them all awake this week, hacking and rasping through the walls. Still, there's not much I can do. While I'm sure they'd be in favour of anything from decapitation downwards, I'm not so sure that works for me.
My ear's a little better. It's still oozing. I can't hear out of it, which makes playing the piano difficult. I can hear my breathing inside my head, I can hear me sniffing and chomping, but everything beyond that, sounds muffled and bassy.
The worst of it is that I have to struggle on with work, thanks to a complicated situation I can't ignore.
"You sound healthy," said someone yesterday. No-one does sarcasm like British people, I thought inside my reverberating head.
That muffled disconnection makes me feel as though I'm not really here. I'm looking at the world through a watery lens and I'm hearing everything as though it's being transmitted along a yoghurt pot telephone. It's all very remote. And I'm not sure I'm really here.
I'm going home I think. Maybe I'll get on better if I'm connected remotely to the office... instead of not being remotely connected.
I thought of the neighbours. There's little doubt I've kept them all awake this week, hacking and rasping through the walls. Still, there's not much I can do. While I'm sure they'd be in favour of anything from decapitation downwards, I'm not so sure that works for me.
My ear's a little better. It's still oozing. I can't hear out of it, which makes playing the piano difficult. I can hear my breathing inside my head, I can hear me sniffing and chomping, but everything beyond that, sounds muffled and bassy.
The worst of it is that I have to struggle on with work, thanks to a complicated situation I can't ignore.
"You sound healthy," said someone yesterday. No-one does sarcasm like British people, I thought inside my reverberating head.
That muffled disconnection makes me feel as though I'm not really here. I'm looking at the world through a watery lens and I'm hearing everything as though it's being transmitted along a yoghurt pot telephone. It's all very remote. And I'm not sure I'm really here.
I'm going home I think. Maybe I'll get on better if I'm connected remotely to the office... instead of not being remotely connected.
Tuesday, 21 February 2017
ENGINEERS AND SYMPATHISERS
Are you naturally an engineer, or a sympathiser? I'm not saying one is better than the other, or even that they are mutually exclusive things. I'm just interested to know which you tend to be.
You need some context. Here you go: someone comes to you with a problem. You have a choice: be an engineer and start fixing it straight away, or be a sympathiser and provide some comfort first.
Now, I'm being a little simplistic I suspect. It of course depends on a whole bunch of other things. I'm also aware that I'm subtly revealing which of the two approaches I take, although I kind of wish it weren't quite so obvious.
So, let's break it down a bit. Imagine somebody phones you and tells you that they're in a lot of financial trouble and they just don't know what to do. They are crying on the other end of the phone. Sympathy or engineering? Which approach is best?
Here's another one: a good friend is struggling to communicate with their partner. They know the problem and they tell you the symptoms over a tea in town. Do you naturally feel like fixing it for them, or providing a listening ear?
The chances are that if you're an engineer... you actually see both approaches as a slightly different type of fix. The only difference is timing.
Of course (though it's easy to sweep it under the carpet) your first micro-reaction is probably an inner sense of responsibility that's suddenly been heaped upon you by the other person. After all, they trust you! They've come to you! That brings the pressure to be wise, clever, kind, honest, or just the friend they're expecting, and you don't have long to decide how you're going to respond to reciprocate and preserve the trust. Engineers delight in a problem to be solved and you can't hold them back.
If you're a sympathiser of course, you might tend to see much further than fixing the problem. You see a person in a mess. You might say nothing at all, wrap your arms around your friend and let them cry until there are no more tears left.
Sympathisers are good at this. They're brilliant at guiding the conversation so that the other person reaches some positive step of their own without being told what to do.
It's possible that we need both. We need a balance of straight-talking problem-solving honest advisers, and those silent listening ears who let us rant without trying to help and fix everything for us.
Of course, as much as we're engineers and sympathisers, we're also (more likely) in a mess ourselves from time-to-time. I wonder, do engineers need sympathisers? Do sympathisers need engineers? Who needs whom?
It might be a little simplistic to imagine that our subconsciouses already know how we would solve a problem and so always need the other type of friend in that situation. What certainly is true is that big situations always seem much bigger from the inside, and emotion will always affect our judgement. There is nothing like a cool head, outside the bubble to view the whole thing from a different angle. That's why, "Plans fail for lack of counsel, but with many advisers they succeed."*
So, which are you? What are your thought processes in the middle of someone else's mess? How about your own? Would you like to be more of an engineer? Would you like to be better at sympathising? Have you ever expected one of these responses from someone, and been given the other? Or is this just all over-simplified and undefinable?
Probably. But I'm definitely going to think very carefully the next time it happens to me.
*Proverbs 15:22
You need some context. Here you go: someone comes to you with a problem. You have a choice: be an engineer and start fixing it straight away, or be a sympathiser and provide some comfort first.
Now, I'm being a little simplistic I suspect. It of course depends on a whole bunch of other things. I'm also aware that I'm subtly revealing which of the two approaches I take, although I kind of wish it weren't quite so obvious.
So, let's break it down a bit. Imagine somebody phones you and tells you that they're in a lot of financial trouble and they just don't know what to do. They are crying on the other end of the phone. Sympathy or engineering? Which approach is best?
Here's another one: a good friend is struggling to communicate with their partner. They know the problem and they tell you the symptoms over a tea in town. Do you naturally feel like fixing it for them, or providing a listening ear?
The chances are that if you're an engineer... you actually see both approaches as a slightly different type of fix. The only difference is timing.
Of course (though it's easy to sweep it under the carpet) your first micro-reaction is probably an inner sense of responsibility that's suddenly been heaped upon you by the other person. After all, they trust you! They've come to you! That brings the pressure to be wise, clever, kind, honest, or just the friend they're expecting, and you don't have long to decide how you're going to respond to reciprocate and preserve the trust. Engineers delight in a problem to be solved and you can't hold them back.
If you're a sympathiser of course, you might tend to see much further than fixing the problem. You see a person in a mess. You might say nothing at all, wrap your arms around your friend and let them cry until there are no more tears left.
Sympathisers are good at this. They're brilliant at guiding the conversation so that the other person reaches some positive step of their own without being told what to do.
It's possible that we need both. We need a balance of straight-talking problem-solving honest advisers, and those silent listening ears who let us rant without trying to help and fix everything for us.
Of course, as much as we're engineers and sympathisers, we're also (more likely) in a mess ourselves from time-to-time. I wonder, do engineers need sympathisers? Do sympathisers need engineers? Who needs whom?
It might be a little simplistic to imagine that our subconsciouses already know how we would solve a problem and so always need the other type of friend in that situation. What certainly is true is that big situations always seem much bigger from the inside, and emotion will always affect our judgement. There is nothing like a cool head, outside the bubble to view the whole thing from a different angle. That's why, "Plans fail for lack of counsel, but with many advisers they succeed."*
So, which are you? What are your thought processes in the middle of someone else's mess? How about your own? Would you like to be more of an engineer? Would you like to be better at sympathising? Have you ever expected one of these responses from someone, and been given the other? Or is this just all over-simplified and undefinable?
Probably. But I'm definitely going to think very carefully the next time it happens to me.
*Proverbs 15:22
NOT IN ONE PIECE
I made it home but I don't really feel like I'm in one piece.
Before you ask, I have to go to work tomorrow. Even if I go in and my line manager sends me straight home again, I have to go. That's how it is.
I arrived back and instantly collapsed into bed. Yes, my nice cold bedroom, where the air is delicious with frost and the icicles hang cheerily from the inside of the windows. They don't really of course, before you wonder whether that might have had something to do with me catching a cold in the first place. It is easier to sleep in an ice-box though than it is in the blistering heat of a small hotel guest room with a broken thermostat.
I haven't used my voice at all in the last two days. There's been no-one to speak to. As a result, when I tried, all that squeaked out was a kind of rasping sound. Thanks to my ear being blocked, the bass frequencies of my voice reverberated inside my head as though I were wearing a bucket.
"Sorry?" said the barista, looking straight at me. I repeated what I'd said in the middle of Costa. As someone with a quiet voice anyway, I've always hated this. Even before I've reached the end of what I'm saying, I know I'm not saying it loudly enough. Stopping and restarting adds confusion, so on we go to the end of the sentence when this person will look puzzled (look they're already starting to look puzzled) and then say, "Sorry?" as though I've just said something very very offensive and I will no doubt sigh internally and repeat as best as I can. It happens a lot. Yes, I could speak louder.
It occurs to me, now that I'm back home, that I ought to ask the question about whether I would like to go back to any of these capital cities any time soon. That might give me an instinctive feel about how I actually got on. I'm conscious that this weekend I've been coughing and spluttering and sneezing and wedging tissue in my ear while trying to enjoy Cardiff - and I may treat it unfairly in my memory.
I think I would go back to Edinburgh, maybe not for a while, but I would definitely go back. To return to Cardiff though, I would need a definite reason - a thing to be focused on while I'm there. It's not exactly a tourist city, though by golly it wants to be - and there is no shortage of things to do. However, to go there as a tourist on your own feels strange. Between the hen dos and the homeless, the city was quite empty really. The thing which made it for me, was of course, the castle, which was excellent.
And that's interesting isn't it, because actually it's the castle that made it what it was in the first place.
What worries me is that Belfast is next, and I'm not sure what kind of city that is at all. In fact, other than the Titanic dockyard, I'm not really sure what is there to see. Some research is required. Plus hopefully I won't be wandering around with bags under my eyes, sneezing into a handkerchief with tissue paper sticking out of my ear.
Sunday, 19 February 2017
DON'T LOOK BACK IN ANGER
 |
| The National Museum of Wales |
It started last night: a kind of pounding in my head. Then everything went loud, and now my hearing is out of balance. Oh plus, the coughing has turned into me losing my voice. Thankfully I haven't had much cause to use it today.
In fact all I really did today was a bit of writing in Costa and then a slow wander around the National Museum of Wales. There were one or two surprising finds: some works by Degas, Monet and Sisley; a fascinating section on rocks and minerals, and a woolly mammoth. There were Welsh ceramics, galleries of modern art and photographs, and some sculptures of Greek heroes and Welsh miners. For a small museum, they have packed a lot in.
I was feeling ropey after that, so I made the decision to find food and then go to sleep. I chose Nando's for the first bit, and my hotel room for the second, which seemed (and still seems) like the sensible way round.
 |
| "Oh I've so had enough of this" - Adam shortly before suggesting a 'Cheeky Nando's' to Eve. |
A roomful of young eyes looked at me.
This hotel room is baking. Trying to go to sleep is like wrestling with a hot blanket while your mind is fighting Lego villains. There's no-one here to ask about it - I haven't seen a soul here since I checked in.
Anyway, this afternoon, weary with cold and the sound of my own eardrum, I collapsed into the narrow bed, watched a bit of Columbo and then went to sleep. By the way, I don't have a TV and the Intrepids always skip through the adverts so I'm out-of-touch when it comes to who's selling what and to whom, but wow, when did Kevin Bacon sell his soul to the mobile phone people? What is he doing?
 |
| This baby's costing us a fortune. |
I woke up in the dark. It seemed about the right time to go for a walk so I ambled out into the city centre. It's much quieter on a Sunday night, as I'm sure you can imagine, but I thought it telling that there were two burly bouncers whistling outside McDonald's.
I passed one pub where a young man was crooning Angels in a key that seemed a little high for him. Is Robbie Williams going through a resurgence? Who's responsible for that happening? Anyway, the Robbie-tribute-boy strummed along and the crowd swilled their pints and helped him out in the high bits.
I peered through the window when I got close enough. In massive 90-point font he'd printed on a sheet of A4 paper the words:
OASIS - DON'T LOOK BACK IN ANGER - C - CAPO ON 4.
That told a story, that enormous reminder. We've all been there though. I once started a Christmas carol in the wrong key altogether and the lead singer glared at me when he realised halfway through the first verse. You only do that kind of thing once. Well, it's either that or you print yourself massive reminders.
The rest of the streets were quite quiet tonight. There was a little drizzle in the air, flicking past the orange lampposts. The sky was a greenish colour above the stadium, then black and cloudy over the rest of the city. The wind rippled against my hood.
I go home tomorrow. I'm actually quite looking forward to that.
THE OLD OBSERVER
After all, the only thing that links these places is the fact that at some arbitrary point in the past, somebody (usually a king or a warlord) chose to live there, built a massive castle, and everyone else knew that that was the place to be.
Due to the way the United Kingdom came together, Cardiff was the last of these established capital cities. In fact, up until 1905 it wasn't even a city at all! Which means of course, that it's only had just over a hundred years to figure out what kind of a city it truly is.
That doesn't mean it doesn't have history, of course. The Romans built a fort here to fend off the Celts (Silures) and hundreds of years after the Empire had abandoned Britannia, the Normans built a castle over the top of the ruins. Ever since, Cardiff has been growing along the river Taff.
The sun came out for a moment as I was standing on the top of the keep. The green below glimmered with shadow and the light caught the turreted walls. Beyond, the city glinted in the haze. I peered through the long slits in the stone and imagined myself firing arrows at invaders. It went misty again when I climbed back down to the green.
Next, after a very pleasant cup of tea, the open-top bus took me winding through the grand bits of the city I hadn't yet seen. The tour guide seemed intent on pointing out that all the buildings had dragons on the roof. Domes and pillars, porticos and engravings lined the route. Then, mysteriously, we were bouncing along by a grim-looking steelworks, black with smoke and age. Vehicle tracks had left huge puddles in the mud and grim-faced men in orange protective clothing stood pointing at something.
Beyond the steelworks, the bay spread out into the sea-mist. The fog was hiding the horizon, so docks turned into bay turned into cloud turned into grey. A vast boat, the Bro Deliverer was arriving. The tour guide said it was probably importing coal, after which she paused in a melancholy sort of way.
I can imagine that in the summer, this is a really great place to be. I ate some fruit and waited for the bus.
I think I'm gradually getting more familiar with the city. There certainly is a lot going on, and clearly it's doing its best to transform and reinvent. It was interesting to me that I felt completely at home wandering around the castle green listening to Huw Edwards talk about the history of the place. Yet at the docks, the place that ought to be the shiny new hub of coolness, I was kind of stuck for something to do.
On this ongoing tour of capital cities, I'm dropping in like an outsider for just a few days each time, trying to pick up a flavour of the place. But it occurs to me that it's very different when you're in a strange city by yourself. Given a set of friends, and the flexibility of being young, I think I would have enjoyed university here back in the day.
As an old observer though, I'm not so sure.
Saturday, 18 February 2017
THE CONFUSED CAPITAL
I am in Cardiff then. The sun shone brightly over the fluffy clouds and the train whistled by the smooth green hills of South Oxfordshire. Tunnel followed tunnel, and forgotten rail-side houses and gardens sped by until the tall concrete of the Welsh capital came into view.
There are a lot of young people here. One sat in the corner, applying a contraption to her eyebrows; some others flipped open MacBooks and giggled into their lattes. Outside, hundreds more wandered by, the boys with short shaved hair, thin leather and shiny white trainers; the girls, slim, blonde, with meticulously applied make-up. Cardiff instantly struck me as a university town, a hub of coolness for people with fresh-skin and no council tax.
Wikipedia maintains that Cardiff has a 'complex and often conflicting cultural identity' as the Capital of Wales. While I'm hoping to find out more about its specific history tomorrow, it struck me that this could be a very good description - a Capital City that hasn't quite made its mind up in the 60 years it's been one.
I haven't seen enough yet, true.
I found my hotel (literally opposite the Millennium Stadium), relaxed for a bit (I am still coughing like a smoker) and then made a plan for the evening. Whatever it would be, it would have to involve me not being in the room - it is unbelievably warm.
Well, Madame Butterfly was on at the Wales Millennium Centre. I like a bit of culture, as you know, and I'm not averse to a highbrow evening. And so it was for that exact reason that I went to see The Lego Batman Movie instead.
Puccini doesn't need me coughing through his arias does he? And anyway, the only tickets left required a small mortgage for their purchasement. You can't beat a fun movie for four pounds.
Then it was on to sample some of this famous night-life that people talk about. Now I'm as much of a party animal as you could hope to find of course, having once stayed out until the decadent hour of 11:30pm on the Ribena-and-Cokes! Oh yes, quite the reputation, me, and so it would be interesting (I thought) to see whether Cardiff would meet my oh-so-high expectations.
Well. I can see it, I really can. But you'd have to be two things to enjoy it I reckon: drunk, and in your twenties. There's very little evidence that I was ever either of those things, so walking up the Main Street between the overflowing bins and the stiletto-wearing, arm-clutching, uninhibited huddles of inebriated students, was always going to be more intimidating than 'a great night out' for me.
It is true that there are many easily accessible clubs, bars, pubs and establishments pouring noise into the street, flashing neon 'cocktails' signs between their heavily guarded entrances. Like most British cities these days though, the 'party town' vibe that younger people go on about is only really visible through beer goggles.
I went past O'Neill's, the Irish pub, on the way up. They were playing Wham's Wake Me Up at a thousand decibels. On the way back, some twenty minutes later, they had moved on to Smokey Robinson's Tears of a Clown. I don't even think they were playing ancient music ironically you know.
The river shimmered peacefully beneath the lights of the stadium. There is great beauty to an old river by night. I like the way that light wobbles on the surface like an impressionist painting. My reverie was cut short though, by the distinct sound of someone being sick.
It's okay though; I'll give it a chance tomorrow.
Thursday, 16 February 2017
BRAVE
I'm not very well today. It came on yesterday: a kind of weak, sore throat and it hasn't left me since. I had the shivers overnight, I didn't sleep too well, and I had to call in sick this morning.
So today I've been lying in bed, over-thinking everything. I'm supposed to be going to Cardiff tomorrow. Hope I'm well enough to get moving. I have been praying, though I do find it much easier to pray for healing for other people than I do for myself. There might be all sorts of reasons why that should be.
I did finish another poem though. It's about being brave.
The great writer, Osbert Sitwell once said: "Poetry is like fish: if it's fresh, it's good; if it's stale, it's bad; and if you're not certain, try it on the cat."
I don't have a cat, so on this occasion (and if you don't mind) you will have to do. Meow.
Brave
I'm scared God
Really scared
About this journey
That I'm on
About the path
That stretches long
Into the great
Unknown
I'm scared God
Unprepared but
Not because
You won't be there because
I know that you'll be there
And I won't be
Alone
I'm scared God
Really scared, that
I am not the best of me, that
I might miss
What you can see
And I won't make it
Home
I am scared God
Yes I'm scared
But the storm must
Understand
Who it is that holds my hand
Who will whisper in the deep
And defend me as I sleep
Who will rescue
Who will save
When my heart is
Far from brave, who
Shall not fail nor let me go
Yes the wind
Yes the water
Yes my soul
Yes I know
Wednesday, 15 February 2017
SIDEWAYS RAIN
I keep asking myself how I'm feeling, and never being sure of the answer.
I'm alright, I guess. A couple of sleepless nights this week, and all the usual battles and fears.
I dislike that they are 'usual', those battles and fears. Nonetheless, I stared once again at the cracks in the pavement as I walked along, swiping away thought after thought.
"You're old," bosh.
"It's all about young people now and you missed it." thwack.
"Just look at yourself in the m..." boom.
Every step was heavy, every decision not to listen was hard. And harder still, knowing that I've been here before.
It's raining today. It's raining kind-of sideways, which is about right. Sideways rain doesn't have the decency to tap you on the shoulder; it just blows drizzle into your face.
So, anyway. Positive news.
I'm drinking a peppermint ... um... 'herbal infusion'...
Yes. I have a sore throat and I thought it might help. So far it's made my lips taste of toothpaste.
What else? The Intrepids are planning a World Cruise. That's nice. Although my Mum is convinced that President Business will either try blowing up the planet or will be impeached by April the 1st. They're not the wagering type so I left it there.
The Niblings are round for Half-Term. We had the obligatory quiz:
"Star Wars but no planets."
"Entertainment!"
"Doctor Who!"
I drummed up some questions from somewhere in the back of my mind. True, Star Wars but no Planets was much easier to make a quiz out of than the other two subjects.
Ben stood up in his chair at one point and told us all he was floating off into space.
My Mum looked exhausted.
I told him that the anti-gravity engine had failed and the chair was pulling him back to earth. It worked for about twenty six seconds.
-
I don't think those things have to be 'usual'. I don't think that they should be. Yet there are a few of us out there, fending off our enemies in silence, pushing through the sideways rain and hoping for sunshine.
It's thoughts like that that keep me going, I guess. And we need that don't we?
I'm alright, I guess. A couple of sleepless nights this week, and all the usual battles and fears.
I dislike that they are 'usual', those battles and fears. Nonetheless, I stared once again at the cracks in the pavement as I walked along, swiping away thought after thought.
"You're old," bosh.
"It's all about young people now and you missed it." thwack.
"Just look at yourself in the m..." boom.
Every step was heavy, every decision not to listen was hard. And harder still, knowing that I've been here before.
It's raining today. It's raining kind-of sideways, which is about right. Sideways rain doesn't have the decency to tap you on the shoulder; it just blows drizzle into your face.
So, anyway. Positive news.
I'm drinking a peppermint ... um... 'herbal infusion'...
Yes. I have a sore throat and I thought it might help. So far it's made my lips taste of toothpaste.
What else? The Intrepids are planning a World Cruise. That's nice. Although my Mum is convinced that President Business will either try blowing up the planet or will be impeached by April the 1st. They're not the wagering type so I left it there.
The Niblings are round for Half-Term. We had the obligatory quiz:
"Star Wars but no planets."
"Entertainment!"
"Doctor Who!"
I drummed up some questions from somewhere in the back of my mind. True, Star Wars but no Planets was much easier to make a quiz out of than the other two subjects.
Ben stood up in his chair at one point and told us all he was floating off into space.
My Mum looked exhausted.
I told him that the anti-gravity engine had failed and the chair was pulling him back to earth. It worked for about twenty six seconds.
-
I don't think those things have to be 'usual'. I don't think that they should be. Yet there are a few of us out there, fending off our enemies in silence, pushing through the sideways rain and hoping for sunshine.
It's thoughts like that that keep me going, I guess. And we need that don't we?
Tuesday, 14 February 2017
THE VALLEY OF THE FOUR GIANTS: FLICKER
I feel like everything inside me is crumbling.
Hopelessness grins. The other giants stand stationary, tall against the sun.
She looks at me, a mixture of pity and derision creeping across her face.
No Maker. Just her, part of them, all along. Then everything, the Hope, the battle, the fight, all of it has suddenly been reduced to one simple, effective trap - a trick of the light almost, formed in the heart of my great enemy - she who had pretended to be my friend.
I know that no-one is coming to rescue me. There is no-one to call, and no-one to help. The game is over and I have lost.
-
Somewhere far off, the telephone rings. Sunlight dances through the open window and the breeze ripples the curtains.
A voice crackles on the end of the line. She clasps a hand suddenly to her mouth and nods silently as the voice continues.
Then carefully, she replaces the receiver and sighs to herself. Her eyes flick around the room.
There it is. There in the corner - the picture. She clasps the frame and lifts it gently from the wall.
--
"Tie him up."
"Aren't we going to kill him?"
"Not yet. I want him to suffer," says the Photographer.
The three giants shuffle on their feet.
"I'll squash him," says Uselessness.
"No. Not yet," she continues. "Hopelessness, bind him."
"I shall." There is a sort of grudgingness to his voice as it hisses through his teeth.
The ground thuds as Hopelessness drops to his knees. A thick strip of coarse fabric is wrapped around my body. He beams garishly as the final piece coils tightly around my head, finally blocking the sun. Everything is darkness.
--
"I say, really?" says a voice.
"Really."
"Then we must move at once. Are the others ready?"
"They are. Do you still have the device?"
"Of course. And you're certain that this is the message?"
"Absolutely. But time is short."
"I understand my dear. I do understand."
--
I'm being carried. From what I can work out, the giants seem to be taking me uphill. I can hear Uselessness grunting. It occurs to me that I can no longer hear the trees burning. I can still smell the smoke though. Its acrid stench surrounds me. Even the giants are coughing as they climb.
--
"Fire it up!" he cries.
The flames roar into the air. Fabric flutters open.
"That's the ticket, by jolly!" he says, "Tell the others to do the same."
--
"This is the place!" says Loneliness, loudly. Uselessness coughs and splutters as he fishes me from his pocket. I'm still blindfolded. My head rushes with blood as he tosses me around.
"Yes!" says a smaller voice, the Photographer's from below. "Here will do."
"Time to meet the real Power behind it all," says Hopelessness laughing. The ground hits me hard and I roll, still bound in the rough fabric.
The giants laugh above my head.
--
"Now!" she says.
"Aye captain!" says the Balloonist. He cranks a lever and the basket shudders into the air. A cheer from below.
"It has to be now!"
She picks up a small metal cone and places it to her lips; she begins to whisper, carefully and slowly into the end.
The balloon gently rises into the blue sky. But it's not an empty, cloudless sky; soon it's dotted with the bulbous shapes of hot air balloons silently rising into the sunshine. There are hundreds, floating delicately above the city.
The air carries a thousand whoops and hollers as the gentlemen fire their burners. One waves a top hat, another flutters an oversized handkerchief. The balloonists are away.
--
"Shall we untie him now?"
"Not yet," says the Photographer. "Place him on the tree. These things must be done on the tree!"
Uselessness grabs me, roughly. My ribs ache. Then squarely he shoves me into what can only be the nook of a great oak. I smell the bark and hear the leaves. There's a soft thundering sound too, coming from somewhere.
"We don't have long!" cries Hopelessness. "Soon the fire will be upon us. How long must we pre..."
"We will be gone by then," interjects the Photographer.
"Yes," says Loneliness gleefully.
"Let's prepare!"
I'm left in silence. Silence and darkness. I can hear my breathing, intertwining with my thoughts as the truth collides. She had seemed so genuine, so real. And she was so confident about the Maker. How could none of that be real? And me? I had felt hope. I had felt hope whenever she was around. But between them the giants had stripped me of all of that. I am resigned to my fate. Tears sting in my eyes and I blink them away.
I can't see anything through the fabric, blindfolding me from the world. It's as black as the night, as dark as my soul.
And yet, somewhere deep inside there is still a flicker of something. Back in the woods, when I'd heard that music and my friends had sung through the trees - I had felt it then too. The trap, the pretence, perhaps, but there had definitely been something... well, real about it.
And when I stood in the trees and shouted that message given to me, shouted that I am loved, that had felt real too. And when Uselessness had fallen. It did feel... like... something.
But with no Maker then what? What had made me feel that rush of... hope?
Something flickers. The air is silent. I can hear the forest burning now - the crackling leaves sound like water, a great sea of flame rushing towards me. It is coming closer.
I can see it too. At least, I can see something through the blindfold. It's like an orange glow in front of me, indistinct at first but slowly pulsing and growing brighter. Heat swells over me. I blink. The glow is still there.
Then I see it. I see it behind the blindfold. The glow is a fire, a fire of intricate flames. I see them dancing and twisting into shapes, great and terrible, intertwining and licking and turning. The leaves whisper. The flames glow red and white and yellow as they spin and they twirl. Then suddenly, as though emerging from the dark fabric, each flame begins to spin, deliberately burning into the shape of letters. Another, flicks into shape, angled and burning, until the fire shows me... four... words... I know. Four Words.
I stare at them noiselessly as they shimmer there in the darkness for a moment. Then as though extinguished into nothing, the fire vanishes and once again I am left alone.
Hopelessness grins. The other giants stand stationary, tall against the sun.
She looks at me, a mixture of pity and derision creeping across her face.
No Maker. Just her, part of them, all along. Then everything, the Hope, the battle, the fight, all of it has suddenly been reduced to one simple, effective trap - a trick of the light almost, formed in the heart of my great enemy - she who had pretended to be my friend.
I know that no-one is coming to rescue me. There is no-one to call, and no-one to help. The game is over and I have lost.
-
Somewhere far off, the telephone rings. Sunlight dances through the open window and the breeze ripples the curtains.
A voice crackles on the end of the line. She clasps a hand suddenly to her mouth and nods silently as the voice continues.
Then carefully, she replaces the receiver and sighs to herself. Her eyes flick around the room.
There it is. There in the corner - the picture. She clasps the frame and lifts it gently from the wall.
--
"Tie him up."
"Aren't we going to kill him?"
"Not yet. I want him to suffer," says the Photographer.
The three giants shuffle on their feet.
"I'll squash him," says Uselessness.
"No. Not yet," she continues. "Hopelessness, bind him."
"I shall." There is a sort of grudgingness to his voice as it hisses through his teeth.
The ground thuds as Hopelessness drops to his knees. A thick strip of coarse fabric is wrapped around my body. He beams garishly as the final piece coils tightly around my head, finally blocking the sun. Everything is darkness.
--
"I say, really?" says a voice.
"Really."
"Then we must move at once. Are the others ready?"
"They are. Do you still have the device?"
"Of course. And you're certain that this is the message?"
"Absolutely. But time is short."
"I understand my dear. I do understand."
--
I'm being carried. From what I can work out, the giants seem to be taking me uphill. I can hear Uselessness grunting. It occurs to me that I can no longer hear the trees burning. I can still smell the smoke though. Its acrid stench surrounds me. Even the giants are coughing as they climb.
--
"Fire it up!" he cries.
The flames roar into the air. Fabric flutters open.
"That's the ticket, by jolly!" he says, "Tell the others to do the same."
--
"This is the place!" says Loneliness, loudly. Uselessness coughs and splutters as he fishes me from his pocket. I'm still blindfolded. My head rushes with blood as he tosses me around.
"Yes!" says a smaller voice, the Photographer's from below. "Here will do."
"Time to meet the real Power behind it all," says Hopelessness laughing. The ground hits me hard and I roll, still bound in the rough fabric.
The giants laugh above my head.
--
"Now!" she says.
"Aye captain!" says the Balloonist. He cranks a lever and the basket shudders into the air. A cheer from below.
"It has to be now!"
She picks up a small metal cone and places it to her lips; she begins to whisper, carefully and slowly into the end.
The balloon gently rises into the blue sky. But it's not an empty, cloudless sky; soon it's dotted with the bulbous shapes of hot air balloons silently rising into the sunshine. There are hundreds, floating delicately above the city.
The air carries a thousand whoops and hollers as the gentlemen fire their burners. One waves a top hat, another flutters an oversized handkerchief. The balloonists are away.
--
"Shall we untie him now?"
"Not yet," says the Photographer. "Place him on the tree. These things must be done on the tree!"
Uselessness grabs me, roughly. My ribs ache. Then squarely he shoves me into what can only be the nook of a great oak. I smell the bark and hear the leaves. There's a soft thundering sound too, coming from somewhere.
"We don't have long!" cries Hopelessness. "Soon the fire will be upon us. How long must we pre..."
"We will be gone by then," interjects the Photographer.
"Yes," says Loneliness gleefully.
"Let's prepare!"
I'm left in silence. Silence and darkness. I can hear my breathing, intertwining with my thoughts as the truth collides. She had seemed so genuine, so real. And she was so confident about the Maker. How could none of that be real? And me? I had felt hope. I had felt hope whenever she was around. But between them the giants had stripped me of all of that. I am resigned to my fate. Tears sting in my eyes and I blink them away.
I can't see anything through the fabric, blindfolding me from the world. It's as black as the night, as dark as my soul.
And yet, somewhere deep inside there is still a flicker of something. Back in the woods, when I'd heard that music and my friends had sung through the trees - I had felt it then too. The trap, the pretence, perhaps, but there had definitely been something... well, real about it.
And when I stood in the trees and shouted that message given to me, shouted that I am loved, that had felt real too. And when Uselessness had fallen. It did feel... like... something.
But with no Maker then what? What had made me feel that rush of... hope?
Something flickers. The air is silent. I can hear the forest burning now - the crackling leaves sound like water, a great sea of flame rushing towards me. It is coming closer.
I can see it too. At least, I can see something through the blindfold. It's like an orange glow in front of me, indistinct at first but slowly pulsing and growing brighter. Heat swells over me. I blink. The glow is still there.
Then I see it. I see it behind the blindfold. The glow is a fire, a fire of intricate flames. I see them dancing and twisting into shapes, great and terrible, intertwining and licking and turning. The leaves whisper. The flames glow red and white and yellow as they spin and they twirl. Then suddenly, as though emerging from the dark fabric, each flame begins to spin, deliberately burning into the shape of letters. Another, flicks into shape, angled and burning, until the fire shows me... four... words... I know. Four Words.
I stare at them noiselessly as they shimmer there in the darkness for a moment. Then as though extinguished into nothing, the fire vanishes and once again I am left alone.
SOAPBOX
What's that scraping sound?
Oh don't worry about that; it's just Matt.
What's he doing?
He's dragging his soapbox over.
Ah, I see. What, again?
Well it is that time of year...
Oh goody. What'll it be this time? Valentinus was beaten with sticks and decapitated? Commercial hogwash that nobody really likes but we all feel we have to go along with? Singling out a day for romance as detriment to healthy relationships?
Yes, probably all of that. I reckon he'll go on about how there should be a day for single people, this year.
Most likely. It's been a few years since he went on about that.
It wouldn't work though, would it?
What?
A day for single people. I mean it'd be like sending cards to the people whom society considers losers. There'd be all sorts of ironic greetings like 'Sorry you haven't found happiness yet' and 'Another year, still half-a-person...' I mean that kind of thing would just make people angry, wouldn't it?
It won't stop him going on about it.
Well he hasn't thought it through, that's all I'm saying. After all, that idea just exacerbates the existing problem of dividing the world into the romantically coupled and the misfortunate singletons. And the world isn't as... pink and white as that, is it? After all, it is quite possible to be single and happy. Creating a day to celebrate singleness would be an awful way to make people feel even more lonely than they are already, splitting humanity into two simple groups and proclaiming from the rooftops that each is better than the other. Unless they're not lonely, or unhappy of course, in which case, what on earth would be the point? And therefore what's the point of the day in the first place, other than to refresh the frankly bizarre view that being in a relationship actually equates to some sort of ethereal happiness? Get on with your life, that's what I say - married, single, happy, unhappy, in love, out of love, can't be bothered, whatever. Life's more than all that.
I don't think he'll be needing that soapbox.
Fair enough.
Oh don't worry about that; it's just Matt.
What's he doing?
He's dragging his soapbox over.
Ah, I see. What, again?
Well it is that time of year...
Oh goody. What'll it be this time? Valentinus was beaten with sticks and decapitated? Commercial hogwash that nobody really likes but we all feel we have to go along with? Singling out a day for romance as detriment to healthy relationships?
Yes, probably all of that. I reckon he'll go on about how there should be a day for single people, this year.
Most likely. It's been a few years since he went on about that.
It wouldn't work though, would it?
What?
A day for single people. I mean it'd be like sending cards to the people whom society considers losers. There'd be all sorts of ironic greetings like 'Sorry you haven't found happiness yet' and 'Another year, still half-a-person...' I mean that kind of thing would just make people angry, wouldn't it?
It won't stop him going on about it.
Well he hasn't thought it through, that's all I'm saying. After all, that idea just exacerbates the existing problem of dividing the world into the romantically coupled and the misfortunate singletons. And the world isn't as... pink and white as that, is it? After all, it is quite possible to be single and happy. Creating a day to celebrate singleness would be an awful way to make people feel even more lonely than they are already, splitting humanity into two simple groups and proclaiming from the rooftops that each is better than the other. Unless they're not lonely, or unhappy of course, in which case, what on earth would be the point? And therefore what's the point of the day in the first place, other than to refresh the frankly bizarre view that being in a relationship actually equates to some sort of ethereal happiness? Get on with your life, that's what I say - married, single, happy, unhappy, in love, out of love, can't be bothered, whatever. Life's more than all that.
I don't think he'll be needing that soapbox.
Fair enough.
Saturday, 11 February 2017
SUSHI AND THE PASSAGE OF TIME
It's my birthday today. One of the things I always look forward to is my annual greeting from the people at Yo! Sushi! who somehow never forget to email me every year.
"It's your birthday!"
They cry at the top of the message. Thanks Yo! Sushi! Not only great memory from the sushi people, but also the prescience to assume that I've forgotten what day it is.
I'm not complaining too loudly. After all, they've given me a third off my next visit, which, if statistics continue at the current rate will be the year 2023. As long as inflation doesn't push the price of sushi up by a third, I'll be tucking into discounted nigiri and sashimi long into my mid-forties.
Forties. The word looms now, less than a year away. It doesn't feel right somehow; I remember when my Mum turned 40 - she got a load of cards about how 'life begins at forty' and I (aged about eight I suppose) piped up precociously and said that someone had made up the phrase so that they could feel better about being old.
That does not seem that long ago really.
There's snow dribbling out of the grey sky. It's not settling, just slowly and silently falling onto the cold, damp concrete and roof tiles, where it disappears imperceptibly. I don't believe it's ever snowed on my birthday. It's quite nice to sit here and watch it flurry across the street.
Yesterday, I took my yearly trip into London. It snowed there too. I was going to go to the Natural History Museum this time, particularly to see the Wildlife Photography of the Year exhibit, but when I got out of the subway, I realised that the front entrance was closed and only the side was open.
A long queue of shivering tourists stretched back along Exhibition Road, shuffling slowly towards the tiny single-door-entrance. I didn't feel like standing there with them so I ducked across the road and swooshed into the Victoria & Albert Museum instead.
"Just need to search your bag sir," said a man in a yellow jacket. I unzipped it.
"Only junk in there, really," I said.
"Same with everyone, sir," he said, cheerily. I chuckled.
"Any exhibitions on today?" I asked.
"Yes there's a really good one," he said, looking at me, "A Brief History of Underwear."
I made an embarrassed kind of face, swung my security-checked rucksack over my shoulder, said something like "Ah," and then made my way into the sculpture hall.
I don't think I care enough about the history of underwear to go round a special exhibit on the subject. I'm sure the Victorians and the Elizabethans and the Edwardians had all kinds of ways to... and... with their... well, I didn't think it was for me.
As ever, the museum was full of beautiful art, fashion, design and invention. I reminded myself of the scale of the Crystal Palace and the grandeur of Victorian triumphalism. I stood open mouthed in front of the Raphael Cartoons and tapestries, I wandered through corridors of shiny glass cabinets and looked deep into the marble faces of the ancient ones, who occupy that world where they're both long forgotten and yet still here with us, as lifelike as ever.
I stood motionless as tiny herds of schoolchildren breezed past, led by pretty teachers and weary teaching assistants. Some of the little ones were wearing wigs and top hats and clutched pencils and sketch pads. I should have taken a sketch pad.
I always think museums are wonderful places to sketch the past. But it's a past of artefacts and ornaments. The quiet reverence of a museum hall seems like the strangest place to see a Tudor fireplace, around which noblemen would have laughed and roasted and drunk. The once normal things of life, the bashed-into, the crackable, ordinary objects of life are now revered behind velvet rope and must not be touched. I think that's quite a sad side-effect of the passage of time.
Much like being eight years old one minute and never comprehending that you'll ever be as old as your Mum, and then waking up one snowy morning on your thirty-ninth birthday, wondering how on earth that happened.
But this is not a time to be prosaic or melancholy. No no! This is a time to celebrate! After all, it's a special occasion! I should go out for a nice lunch somewhere, I suppose.
I wonder if Yo! Sushi! is open.
"It's your birthday!"
They cry at the top of the message. Thanks Yo! Sushi! Not only great memory from the sushi people, but also the prescience to assume that I've forgotten what day it is.
I'm not complaining too loudly. After all, they've given me a third off my next visit, which, if statistics continue at the current rate will be the year 2023. As long as inflation doesn't push the price of sushi up by a third, I'll be tucking into discounted nigiri and sashimi long into my mid-forties.
Forties. The word looms now, less than a year away. It doesn't feel right somehow; I remember when my Mum turned 40 - she got a load of cards about how 'life begins at forty' and I (aged about eight I suppose) piped up precociously and said that someone had made up the phrase so that they could feel better about being old.
That does not seem that long ago really.
There's snow dribbling out of the grey sky. It's not settling, just slowly and silently falling onto the cold, damp concrete and roof tiles, where it disappears imperceptibly. I don't believe it's ever snowed on my birthday. It's quite nice to sit here and watch it flurry across the street.
Yesterday, I took my yearly trip into London. It snowed there too. I was going to go to the Natural History Museum this time, particularly to see the Wildlife Photography of the Year exhibit, but when I got out of the subway, I realised that the front entrance was closed and only the side was open.
A long queue of shivering tourists stretched back along Exhibition Road, shuffling slowly towards the tiny single-door-entrance. I didn't feel like standing there with them so I ducked across the road and swooshed into the Victoria & Albert Museum instead.
"Just need to search your bag sir," said a man in a yellow jacket. I unzipped it.
"Only junk in there, really," I said.
"Same with everyone, sir," he said, cheerily. I chuckled.
"Any exhibitions on today?" I asked.
"Yes there's a really good one," he said, looking at me, "A Brief History of Underwear."
I made an embarrassed kind of face, swung my security-checked rucksack over my shoulder, said something like "Ah," and then made my way into the sculpture hall.
I don't think I care enough about the history of underwear to go round a special exhibit on the subject. I'm sure the Victorians and the Elizabethans and the Edwardians had all kinds of ways to... and... with their... well, I didn't think it was for me.
As ever, the museum was full of beautiful art, fashion, design and invention. I reminded myself of the scale of the Crystal Palace and the grandeur of Victorian triumphalism. I stood open mouthed in front of the Raphael Cartoons and tapestries, I wandered through corridors of shiny glass cabinets and looked deep into the marble faces of the ancient ones, who occupy that world where they're both long forgotten and yet still here with us, as lifelike as ever.
I stood motionless as tiny herds of schoolchildren breezed past, led by pretty teachers and weary teaching assistants. Some of the little ones were wearing wigs and top hats and clutched pencils and sketch pads. I should have taken a sketch pad.
I always think museums are wonderful places to sketch the past. But it's a past of artefacts and ornaments. The quiet reverence of a museum hall seems like the strangest place to see a Tudor fireplace, around which noblemen would have laughed and roasted and drunk. The once normal things of life, the bashed-into, the crackable, ordinary objects of life are now revered behind velvet rope and must not be touched. I think that's quite a sad side-effect of the passage of time.
Much like being eight years old one minute and never comprehending that you'll ever be as old as your Mum, and then waking up one snowy morning on your thirty-ninth birthday, wondering how on earth that happened.
But this is not a time to be prosaic or melancholy. No no! This is a time to celebrate! After all, it's a special occasion! I should go out for a nice lunch somewhere, I suppose.
I wonder if Yo! Sushi! is open.
Wednesday, 8 February 2017
COLD-WAR TOMBSTONES
Do you know the kind of email you write, where your fingers are shaking with anger?
My Dad once told me I should always write these, but never send them. He said it would be good to just leave that kind of thing there in the drafts folder, come back to it the next day, and then decide whether to send it or not.
As a result, my drafts folder is bulging with angry essays. Some are funny, and some are just irrelevant. Some are absolutely nuclear. If my email client ever got confused and accidentally sent them all from the server, I'd be in a lot of trouble.
Anyway, I added another to it today.
Trembling fury punched its way across my keyboard as I gritted my teeth and narrowed my eyes, my heart pounding with frustration.
"This is the most important thing I've ever written," said my head, shaking.
It wasn't. Of course it wasn't, but in the heat of the moment, that thing, that passion, that issue, is all consuming, isn't it? The red-mist seems to block out a lot of the detail and context that a level head would spot a mile away.
There should be a name for these kind of furious emails. I can't think of a good one. Rantymails? Vent Messages? Fury-drafts?
Well, whatever, these angrymails, these time-capsules of digital road rage are swelling inside my unsent folders, rattling with explosive phrases like...
"I thought we had agreed..."
and
"If you're going to..."
and
"This is totally unacceptable."
Totally. Ha. Really, Matt, really? I mean 'acceptability' (if that's even an objective quantity) doesn't have shades, does it? Either something's acceptable or it's not, you angry old goat.
It did occur to me today that I have collected a lot more of these outbound Draft-Ragers than I've ever received. And if I have received them, I get the feeling that I've expunged them from both my inbox and my memory, in equal measure.
It would be no surprise then to know that there are few out there that could have been intended for me but never made it this far.
Who knows? Perhaps on servers all over the world, there are billions of unsent declarations of disapproval, sitting there like cold-war tombstones from a forgotten era - dead and never sent. Imagine the damage they could have done.
My Dad was right. He is a wise man indeed.
My Dad once told me I should always write these, but never send them. He said it would be good to just leave that kind of thing there in the drafts folder, come back to it the next day, and then decide whether to send it or not.
As a result, my drafts folder is bulging with angry essays. Some are funny, and some are just irrelevant. Some are absolutely nuclear. If my email client ever got confused and accidentally sent them all from the server, I'd be in a lot of trouble.
Anyway, I added another to it today.
Trembling fury punched its way across my keyboard as I gritted my teeth and narrowed my eyes, my heart pounding with frustration.
"This is the most important thing I've ever written," said my head, shaking.
It wasn't. Of course it wasn't, but in the heat of the moment, that thing, that passion, that issue, is all consuming, isn't it? The red-mist seems to block out a lot of the detail and context that a level head would spot a mile away.
There should be a name for these kind of furious emails. I can't think of a good one. Rantymails? Vent Messages? Fury-drafts?
Well, whatever, these angrymails, these time-capsules of digital road rage are swelling inside my unsent folders, rattling with explosive phrases like...
"I thought we had agreed..."
and
"If you're going to..."
and
"This is totally unacceptable."
Totally. Ha. Really, Matt, really? I mean 'acceptability' (if that's even an objective quantity) doesn't have shades, does it? Either something's acceptable or it's not, you angry old goat.
It did occur to me today that I have collected a lot more of these outbound Draft-Ragers than I've ever received. And if I have received them, I get the feeling that I've expunged them from both my inbox and my memory, in equal measure.
It would be no surprise then to know that there are few out there that could have been intended for me but never made it this far.
Who knows? Perhaps on servers all over the world, there are billions of unsent declarations of disapproval, sitting there like cold-war tombstones from a forgotten era - dead and never sent. Imagine the damage they could have done.
My Dad was right. He is a wise man indeed.
Tuesday, 7 February 2017
RUSH HOUR RAMBLINGS
Do cement mixers speed up when the vehicle is in motion?
I got stuck in traffic this morning and I was counting the number of times the word Hanson revolved past the driver's cab. It was about once every five seconds and then, it seemed, much faster while the vehicle moved away from me. I wondered for a while whether it was some relativistic effect or whether it actually does speed up.
A politician on the radio was rambling about something awfully dull.
"One should probably know one's own mind on this issue..." he said, sprawling his vowels over the airwaves.
"Outrageous," I heard myself muttering at the steering wheel, "Surely only the Queen is entitled to talk in the third person!"
The cement mixer in front of me slowed down and, well... slowed down.
I think it must be the same thing that works for ice cream vans - the faster you drive, the faster goes the tempo... of Greensleeves or Pop Goes the Weasel... or cement.
I flicked over the radio to Classic FM. I've got a new game: guess the composer before the music ends.
Beethoven's Fifth pomped its way into my car as though it was announcing the obvious traffic. The game isn't quite as much fun when the most famous piece of classical music ever, gets played. To be fair though I think we're at one-all, Classic FM and I, as last time they tricked me into thinking Haydn was Mozart. Tsk. I'm not even sure Beethoven's Fifth is suitable for rush hour...
Aw you do know it. It's the one that goes Dah-dah-dah, Dah! dah-dah-dah, Dah!
Hanson. I imagined the cement inside it, wet and sticky getting thrown around in the darkness. I wondered for a while whether a five second revolution was 5Hz or 0.2Hz. I concluded it was 0.2Hz.
Then I remembered that Hanson were a pop trio from the 90s; a kind of saccharine one-hit wonder. I wonder how they got into cement mixing?
"Well, when one is the Speaker of the House, one should realise that one's impartiality is..."
Oh do be quiet.
I got stuck in traffic this morning and I was counting the number of times the word Hanson revolved past the driver's cab. It was about once every five seconds and then, it seemed, much faster while the vehicle moved away from me. I wondered for a while whether it was some relativistic effect or whether it actually does speed up.
A politician on the radio was rambling about something awfully dull.
"One should probably know one's own mind on this issue..." he said, sprawling his vowels over the airwaves.
"Outrageous," I heard myself muttering at the steering wheel, "Surely only the Queen is entitled to talk in the third person!"
The cement mixer in front of me slowed down and, well... slowed down.
I think it must be the same thing that works for ice cream vans - the faster you drive, the faster goes the tempo... of Greensleeves or Pop Goes the Weasel... or cement.
I flicked over the radio to Classic FM. I've got a new game: guess the composer before the music ends.
Beethoven's Fifth pomped its way into my car as though it was announcing the obvious traffic. The game isn't quite as much fun when the most famous piece of classical music ever, gets played. To be fair though I think we're at one-all, Classic FM and I, as last time they tricked me into thinking Haydn was Mozart. Tsk. I'm not even sure Beethoven's Fifth is suitable for rush hour...
Aw you do know it. It's the one that goes Dah-dah-dah, Dah! dah-dah-dah, Dah!
Hanson. I imagined the cement inside it, wet and sticky getting thrown around in the darkness. I wondered for a while whether a five second revolution was 5Hz or 0.2Hz. I concluded it was 0.2Hz.
Then I remembered that Hanson were a pop trio from the 90s; a kind of saccharine one-hit wonder. I wonder how they got into cement mixing?
"Well, when one is the Speaker of the House, one should realise that one's impartiality is..."
Oh do be quiet.
SLINGS AND ARROWS
About a year ago, I told my pastor what I thought about leadership.
I said it was:
"...like walking out alone onto a battlefield but never being really certain from which direction the next volley of arrows will come."
He laughed at that, though I'm not sure I had eloquently captured what I meant. Rather than being paranoid and insecure about the people behind you, I was trying to show that being a leader is really quite lonely.
And that's what I think he found amusing. He must know it too.
And it is - you're constantly caught between the world above and the world below, trying to shape direction, lift others up, keep accountable, pass on difficult information (in both directions), take responsibility, and to do all that with confidence and self-assurance rather than arrogance and independence. It is tricky. And it is lonely.
So why in the world then, would someone with a terrible fear of loneliness take it on?
That's a question I find myself asking a lot. The only answer I've got so far is that I actually just can't help it. I want to see change; I have ideas and visions and drive, and I'm fed up with the status quo. What's more, I like people and I like seeing them flourish. And in the world I grew up in, all of that adds up to make me a leader, whether it's a title or not.
The problem is that I'm not very good at it. And that means that I have to choose between being a leader with back-bench frustrations, or a leader with front-bench inadequacies.
I'm not being bashful; I genuinely don't think I'm very good at this. For reasons I don't fully understand, it never seems to quite work out as loftily as my ambitions. As ever with these things, disappointment seeps into the gap.
That isn't to say of course, that I'll always be this way. I'd like to get better. I'd like to manage my frustrations without them flashing across my face every five minutes. I'd like to be able to report upwards without fear of exploding a situation, and cascade downwards without being the constant face of bad news.
I'd like not to be whispered about in IMs and flunkbook messenger, or 'handled' as an agenda item in management meetings. I'd like to be completely able to say what I think without being afraid all the time, and I'd like it if I could light up the world with ideas and innovation, instead of always feeling as though those fledgling thoughts are about to get zipped out of the air with negative arrows.
I think I need a little self-confidence. I'm supposed to be a warrior after all; the battlefield ought to be where I feel the most alive. I guess I'm just not too well-practiced at standing out there, knowing who I am, confidently and graciously blocking those 'slings and arrows of outrageous fortune'.
And sometimes, I realise, they're not coming from any direction at all, other than inside my own head.
I said it was:
"...like walking out alone onto a battlefield but never being really certain from which direction the next volley of arrows will come."
He laughed at that, though I'm not sure I had eloquently captured what I meant. Rather than being paranoid and insecure about the people behind you, I was trying to show that being a leader is really quite lonely.
And that's what I think he found amusing. He must know it too.
And it is - you're constantly caught between the world above and the world below, trying to shape direction, lift others up, keep accountable, pass on difficult information (in both directions), take responsibility, and to do all that with confidence and self-assurance rather than arrogance and independence. It is tricky. And it is lonely.
So why in the world then, would someone with a terrible fear of loneliness take it on?
That's a question I find myself asking a lot. The only answer I've got so far is that I actually just can't help it. I want to see change; I have ideas and visions and drive, and I'm fed up with the status quo. What's more, I like people and I like seeing them flourish. And in the world I grew up in, all of that adds up to make me a leader, whether it's a title or not.
The problem is that I'm not very good at it. And that means that I have to choose between being a leader with back-bench frustrations, or a leader with front-bench inadequacies.
I'm not being bashful; I genuinely don't think I'm very good at this. For reasons I don't fully understand, it never seems to quite work out as loftily as my ambitions. As ever with these things, disappointment seeps into the gap.
That isn't to say of course, that I'll always be this way. I'd like to get better. I'd like to manage my frustrations without them flashing across my face every five minutes. I'd like to be able to report upwards without fear of exploding a situation, and cascade downwards without being the constant face of bad news.
I'd like not to be whispered about in IMs and flunkbook messenger, or 'handled' as an agenda item in management meetings. I'd like to be completely able to say what I think without being afraid all the time, and I'd like it if I could light up the world with ideas and innovation, instead of always feeling as though those fledgling thoughts are about to get zipped out of the air with negative arrows.
I think I need a little self-confidence. I'm supposed to be a warrior after all; the battlefield ought to be where I feel the most alive. I guess I'm just not too well-practiced at standing out there, knowing who I am, confidently and graciously blocking those 'slings and arrows of outrageous fortune'.
And sometimes, I realise, they're not coming from any direction at all, other than inside my own head.
Sunday, 5 February 2017
ITEMS IN THE QUEUE
I went to Sainsbury's tonight and bought four things: a baking tray, a jumper, a box set of Indiana Jones movies and a bottle of 60p washing-up-liquid.
"Those items tell a story, surely!" said the friendly Welshman in the queue behind me as l laid them onto the conveyor belt. I smiled politely and then tried to imagine what kind of story this avuncular customer might have been imagining. Perhaps he wondered whether I like a sense of adventure, but not before I've done the dishes. Or maybe, I live in a cold flat where the only way to survive the harsh winter is to wrap myself in lambs' wool and cashmere while simultaneously baking cookies.
In actuality, the only story it really tells is that I am horribly disorganised and end up hopping to the shop for things I really should have remembered the last time I was there with a trolley full of meat and pasta.
I didn't say anything witty to the Welshman in reply. I just said, "I suppose they do, yes!" and then refused to elaborate. He himself seemed to be stocking up on Strongbow and cereal, not to mention a copy of Heat magazine and a box of light bulbs. I decided quickly that it would have been rude to conjur up the image of him weeping into his cider-soaked cornflakes, alone in the dark.
"Each to their own eh," he said, laughing.
I couldn't have agreed more.
Friday, 3 February 2017
THE VALLEY OF THE FOUR GIANTS: BATTLE
My fingers clasp around the broken record.
I know what to do.
Uselessness bounds towards me, twisting his staff in his hand.
My bag slips from my shoulder, onto the smoking woodpile.
He shouts. I close my eyes. Use what you have.
One.
Two.
Three.
I hurl the disc. It wobbles through the air, whistling and purring. My eyes flash open, just in time to see it spinning unevenly towards the giant.
As if guided by the wind itself, the broken record splinters into his face, gouging his ugly cheek and scraping his eye.
He screams and stops, his face contorting.
The staff clatters beneath him, one end jabbing into the earth, the other towards me. I grab my bag as the wood strikes the fire. Everything happens quickly, but it suddenly occurs to me that this is my chance. Use what you have.
The flames lick around the staff and the heat is beginning to sear my skin. With one leap, I instinctively clutch the staff and slide down it, hitting the cool earth in the giant's shadow. Smoke billows around me.
Uselessness rolls and roars.
"There!" shouts Lustfulness.
An arrow whistles through the air and jams into the earth near me. I run.
Another arrow, sleek like the wind, then a shower of soil and mud and smoke. I can't see where I'm going.
Back to the woods?
Something huge glints like the sun above me. It's Hopelessness swinging his sword.
"No!" he yells, scything the grass.
Arrow.
Run.
I spin, quickly on my heels and pelt through the giant's legs. The sword shimmers past. A giant foot shakes the ground.
Uselessness is up. I can see him. With one hand over his eye, he stumbles towards the flames.
"Loneliness!" cries one of the others. "Do it!"
I don't have time to stop. I have to get to the forest. I turn and run.
Uselessness clutches his splintered staff. One half is black and burned. His face is fury. Hopelessness bellows behind me. His hand swipes the earth, the same giant fist I had wrestled my Hope from. I dart across the grass.
Loneliness slips a burning arrow into her bow. But this time she isn't aiming at me. She's aiming at the trees.
"Now!" cries Hopelessness behind me.
She fires. The arrow streaks through the air like a comet and arcs into the wood. She lights and loads another. I stop open-mouthed, gaping at the trees ahead.
They're starting a forest fire.
Arrow after arrow buries itself into the screaming canopy of leaves. The trees explode with fire, burning gold and yellow as the flames peel around the branches. Black smoke ripples into the sky.
There is nowhere to run. Hopelessness laughs behind me.
"It's over!" he shouts.
My heart pounds in my chest and I catch my breath. I run again, perhaps instinctively towards the burning trees. They roar with flame and the heat pours toward me. Fire ahead, giants behind.
I stop. I'm trapped. The giants know.
Uselessness thunders near, his face scarred with furious anger. Loneliness stands, bow in hand, grinning. Hopelessness holds up his left hand. I can't see Lustfulness.
"Stop!" he commands. The three giants circle me. "He has nowhere to go! This is it! This is what we came for."
"What we came for! What we came for!" sings Loneliness, laughing. Her voice rattles inside my head as it did between the trees and through the darkness.
"You lose!" bellows Uselessness, one hand over his face. "I'll kill him. I'll rip his tiny eyes out."
The three giants surround me.
"Stop it, Uselessness," says Hopelessness. "We will all do it. We will do it togeth... Where is?"
Uselessness shrugs.
"You know," continues Hopelessness undeterred, "He must taste his defeat and his failure - these things must be the last things he knows. That he has lost; that she... has lost. Yes, that the Maker himself has lost! Aha! The Maker!"
Loneliness and Uselessness exchange the smallest of furtive glances.
"The Maker! Ha! Didn't make it did he?" says Uselessness. "Funny how he never makes it! Where is he when you need him? Not in the woods now? Not in that little bag you carry with you? Ha!"
"Indeed not!" chimes Loneliness. "Not with you, not in you, oh... and not for you. Then where oh where oh... where? Oh haven't you figured it out?" Her words dance on the breeze as the forest blazes.
My heart trembles and my eyes sting. Smoke? Something else? I fall to my knees. Not with me, not in me, not for... me. Then where? I don't... understand.
"He doesn't understand," says a new voice suddenly from the trees. It's a voice I know. I look up. There, walking towards me, twisting a parasol between her fingers, is the Photographer. "He doesn't... get it," she repeats brushing the ash from her dress.
What?
She daintily puts one foot in front of the other as she moves, rustling with crinoline. One boot is missing. Of course, she lost it in the woods. But why... isn't she... The giants stand motionless for a moment. Then she glances at Hopelessness and smiles. He glances back at her and nods.
"He never understood it," she declares. She leans in closer and smiles, horribly.
"He never understood..." she whispers close to my ear... "That there is... no.. Maker."
I know what to do.
Uselessness bounds towards me, twisting his staff in his hand.
My bag slips from my shoulder, onto the smoking woodpile.
He shouts. I close my eyes. Use what you have.
One.
Two.
Three.
I hurl the disc. It wobbles through the air, whistling and purring. My eyes flash open, just in time to see it spinning unevenly towards the giant.
As if guided by the wind itself, the broken record splinters into his face, gouging his ugly cheek and scraping his eye.
He screams and stops, his face contorting.
The staff clatters beneath him, one end jabbing into the earth, the other towards me. I grab my bag as the wood strikes the fire. Everything happens quickly, but it suddenly occurs to me that this is my chance. Use what you have.
The flames lick around the staff and the heat is beginning to sear my skin. With one leap, I instinctively clutch the staff and slide down it, hitting the cool earth in the giant's shadow. Smoke billows around me.
Uselessness rolls and roars.
"There!" shouts Lustfulness.
An arrow whistles through the air and jams into the earth near me. I run.
Another arrow, sleek like the wind, then a shower of soil and mud and smoke. I can't see where I'm going.
Back to the woods?
Something huge glints like the sun above me. It's Hopelessness swinging his sword.
"No!" he yells, scything the grass.
Arrow.
Run.
I spin, quickly on my heels and pelt through the giant's legs. The sword shimmers past. A giant foot shakes the ground.
Uselessness is up. I can see him. With one hand over his eye, he stumbles towards the flames.
"Loneliness!" cries one of the others. "Do it!"
I don't have time to stop. I have to get to the forest. I turn and run.
Uselessness clutches his splintered staff. One half is black and burned. His face is fury. Hopelessness bellows behind me. His hand swipes the earth, the same giant fist I had wrestled my Hope from. I dart across the grass.
Loneliness slips a burning arrow into her bow. But this time she isn't aiming at me. She's aiming at the trees.
"Now!" cries Hopelessness behind me.
She fires. The arrow streaks through the air like a comet and arcs into the wood. She lights and loads another. I stop open-mouthed, gaping at the trees ahead.
They're starting a forest fire.
Arrow after arrow buries itself into the screaming canopy of leaves. The trees explode with fire, burning gold and yellow as the flames peel around the branches. Black smoke ripples into the sky.
There is nowhere to run. Hopelessness laughs behind me.
"It's over!" he shouts.
My heart pounds in my chest and I catch my breath. I run again, perhaps instinctively towards the burning trees. They roar with flame and the heat pours toward me. Fire ahead, giants behind.
I stop. I'm trapped. The giants know.
Uselessness thunders near, his face scarred with furious anger. Loneliness stands, bow in hand, grinning. Hopelessness holds up his left hand. I can't see Lustfulness.
"Stop!" he commands. The three giants circle me. "He has nowhere to go! This is it! This is what we came for."
"What we came for! What we came for!" sings Loneliness, laughing. Her voice rattles inside my head as it did between the trees and through the darkness.
"You lose!" bellows Uselessness, one hand over his face. "I'll kill him. I'll rip his tiny eyes out."
The three giants surround me.
"Stop it, Uselessness," says Hopelessness. "We will all do it. We will do it togeth... Where is?"
Uselessness shrugs.
"You know," continues Hopelessness undeterred, "He must taste his defeat and his failure - these things must be the last things he knows. That he has lost; that she... has lost. Yes, that the Maker himself has lost! Aha! The Maker!"
Loneliness and Uselessness exchange the smallest of furtive glances.
"The Maker! Ha! Didn't make it did he?" says Uselessness. "Funny how he never makes it! Where is he when you need him? Not in the woods now? Not in that little bag you carry with you? Ha!"
"Indeed not!" chimes Loneliness. "Not with you, not in you, oh... and not for you. Then where oh where oh... where? Oh haven't you figured it out?" Her words dance on the breeze as the forest blazes.
My heart trembles and my eyes sting. Smoke? Something else? I fall to my knees. Not with me, not in me, not for... me. Then where? I don't... understand.
"He doesn't understand," says a new voice suddenly from the trees. It's a voice I know. I look up. There, walking towards me, twisting a parasol between her fingers, is the Photographer. "He doesn't... get it," she repeats brushing the ash from her dress.
What?
She daintily puts one foot in front of the other as she moves, rustling with crinoline. One boot is missing. Of course, she lost it in the woods. But why... isn't she... The giants stand motionless for a moment. Then she glances at Hopelessness and smiles. He glances back at her and nods.
"He never understood it," she declares. She leans in closer and smiles, horribly.
"He never understood..." she whispers close to my ear... "That there is... no.. Maker."
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