I'm a first-class fence-sitter sometimes. In the interest of diplomacy, I find myself carefully counterbalancing arguments, asking questions of either side, and yes, even playing Cecil's Advocate from time-to-time, but crucially, not revealing what I actually think - like a BBC journalist without the job. Or skill. Or platform.
The problem is that the world is rapidly turning into a place where you are no longer able to do this. There's no space for the central ground between Leavers and Remainers, between Conservatives and Liberals or between President Business's Cheerleaders, and those who think he's a Mountainous Glob of Gelatinous Hair.
Social Media doesn't help. The further right the right go, the further left Twitter seems to veer into outrage. The further left the left go, the more the Daily Mail and Fox News spin out to the right. I can only assume that flimflambook is the same, with everyone's echo-chamber pushing them further and further into a more militant version of what they already think.
There's no-one left in the middle of this trench war.
In fact, everyone hanging around that centre-ground is under pressure to decide where to go, while the others fight over the fence.
Nobody asked for this divergence. It just started happening.
I don't like it. Oh and not just because I outraged some Belgian football fans on Twitter the other week. And not just because I got told to 'shut my ******* mouth' by someone who didn't understand irony, but mainly because I don't think this division of ideas helps anybody.
I don't like it. I don't like the divergence, because somewhere, somehow, a lot of us forget that People are More Important Than Stuff. And whether we're passionate or not, our ideas, ideals, political sermons or religious leanings are all just stuff.
So, do I have opinions about President Business? Oh yes. Did I vote in the Brexit Referendum? Yes I did. Do I have a view about whether Scotland should be an independent country? Yes. Am I somewhere between the two vast extremes of Liberal Outrage and Far Right Nationalism? I certainly hope so. Am I going to Tweet about it?
Nope. But ask me face-to-face and maybe we'll have an impassioned discussion in which I hope we'll both listen and be prepared to change our minds without getting all defensive. There's no room for trenches out here in no-man's land.
Just people like us, in a lost-looking world looking for a bit of hope.
Friday, 31 March 2017
BACON
I skipped the smoothie today because it was too early to blend this morning (it's noisy) and I had to be at work for a special presentation from the big boss's underground secret volcano base in some exotic time zone.
There were bacon sandwiches provided anyway so I thought I'd go along for that option.
Can someone remind me next time please, that bacon is packed packed packed with salt? I drank about a gallon of water and still my throat was dry.
"I think I'm craving fruit or something," I croaked to Junko on our regular Skype call. She told me that the body adapts quickly to routine.
Don't misunderstand me; I love bacon! It's the wonderstuff of carnivores, wafting its appetising aroma about the place and sizzling happily in the pan like hot rain.
Few can resist its call, and even vegetarians feel duty-bound (I imagine) to tell you it's the 'one thing' they 'miss' even when (as I suspect) they don't miss it quite as much as they think we need them to, in order to apparently justify our eating of part of a farmyard animal between two buttery slices of bread.
But it does sometimes leave me drier than a Saharan cracker. And I keep forgetting.
So tomorrow it's back to the succulent mulch of cool apple, banana and lovely spinach, globbing down the back of my throat as I check my emails.
You can't beat a smoothie. Well, you can't beat it at all in the early hours of the morning when your neighbours are still asleep, or at 11pm the night before. It's really noisy.
There were bacon sandwiches provided anyway so I thought I'd go along for that option.
Can someone remind me next time please, that bacon is packed packed packed with salt? I drank about a gallon of water and still my throat was dry.
"I think I'm craving fruit or something," I croaked to Junko on our regular Skype call. She told me that the body adapts quickly to routine.
Don't misunderstand me; I love bacon! It's the wonderstuff of carnivores, wafting its appetising aroma about the place and sizzling happily in the pan like hot rain.
Few can resist its call, and even vegetarians feel duty-bound (I imagine) to tell you it's the 'one thing' they 'miss' even when (as I suspect) they don't miss it quite as much as they think we need them to, in order to apparently justify our eating of part of a farmyard animal between two buttery slices of bread.
But it does sometimes leave me drier than a Saharan cracker. And I keep forgetting.
So tomorrow it's back to the succulent mulch of cool apple, banana and lovely spinach, globbing down the back of my throat as I check my emails.
You can't beat a smoothie. Well, you can't beat it at all in the early hours of the morning when your neighbours are still asleep, or at 11pm the night before. It's really noisy.
Thursday, 30 March 2017
DYSTOPIAN FUTURE
I was walking through town tonight. It's never looked more like it belonged in a time-travel novel, as though it were some dystopian, lamplit future.
All the shops have changed. The Tapas place is a BBQ smoky ribs joint, the old video store is a poky tanning salon, and the outdoor adventure camping shop is now just called 'Sally' in pink writing. The shutters were down so I've no idea what Sally sells, but never has a name been any less 'outdoor adventure' in my opinion.
I don't go into Reading that often anymore it seems. They've even knocked down the Civic Centre! There's a gaping hole in the skyline next to the Hexagon theatre.
Most outrageously of all though, they have actually renamed Pavlov's Dog to The Pavlov's Dog.
"Well that doesn't make any sense!" I proclaimed suddenly, in the middle of the street. I think I frightened a homeless person.
Pavlov was a man! A real human being with a surname, who had real dogs he'd conditioned to salivate at the ringing of a bell. He was a he, not a the! To rename this poxy bar seems utterly pretentious, as though someone had sat around a sticky table and said, "Well look, we're famous in this town and there's only one Pavs, so let's make a song and dance about it eh?"
"Er, scuse me boss, don't you mean, there's only one The Pavs, eh eh, nudge nudge wink wink?"
"You'll go far lad. Fetch the Yellow Pages and look up S for signwriters."
I only ever went in there once. I had a substandard burger and someone was sick on my shoes. I was never drawn magnetically to associate it with 'having a good time' as some people seemed to be, and I certainly never salivated at the thought of sampling its range of slightly luminous drinks.
Things change fast. I grew up here, waiting for my pals outside Virgin Megastore (now a Metro bank), nipping into Woolworth's (Clas Ohlson) for pick 'n' mix, and queuing up for a movie at the Odeon (an Ibis hotel). Now it's mostly coffee shops and bistros it seems.
I got back to the car and drove home through the night-drizzle and headlamps. I think the trick with any dystopian future is to realise that you've changed too, perhaps more so than the world around you, and that that's not a bad thing.
A few moments later, as I sped through my childhood, I noticed that they'd put a fence around Prospect Park where we used to ride our bikes and play tennis-ball golf. Tsk.
All the shops have changed. The Tapas place is a BBQ smoky ribs joint, the old video store is a poky tanning salon, and the outdoor adventure camping shop is now just called 'Sally' in pink writing. The shutters were down so I've no idea what Sally sells, but never has a name been any less 'outdoor adventure' in my opinion.
I don't go into Reading that often anymore it seems. They've even knocked down the Civic Centre! There's a gaping hole in the skyline next to the Hexagon theatre.
Most outrageously of all though, they have actually renamed Pavlov's Dog to The Pavlov's Dog.
"Well that doesn't make any sense!" I proclaimed suddenly, in the middle of the street. I think I frightened a homeless person.
Pavlov was a man! A real human being with a surname, who had real dogs he'd conditioned to salivate at the ringing of a bell. He was a he, not a the! To rename this poxy bar seems utterly pretentious, as though someone had sat around a sticky table and said, "Well look, we're famous in this town and there's only one Pavs, so let's make a song and dance about it eh?"
"Er, scuse me boss, don't you mean, there's only one The Pavs, eh eh, nudge nudge wink wink?"
"You'll go far lad. Fetch the Yellow Pages and look up S for signwriters."
I only ever went in there once. I had a substandard burger and someone was sick on my shoes. I was never drawn magnetically to associate it with 'having a good time' as some people seemed to be, and I certainly never salivated at the thought of sampling its range of slightly luminous drinks.
Things change fast. I grew up here, waiting for my pals outside Virgin Megastore (now a Metro bank), nipping into Woolworth's (Clas Ohlson) for pick 'n' mix, and queuing up for a movie at the Odeon (an Ibis hotel). Now it's mostly coffee shops and bistros it seems.
I got back to the car and drove home through the night-drizzle and headlamps. I think the trick with any dystopian future is to realise that you've changed too, perhaps more so than the world around you, and that that's not a bad thing.
A few moments later, as I sped through my childhood, I noticed that they'd put a fence around Prospect Park where we used to ride our bikes and play tennis-ball golf. Tsk.
Wednesday, 29 March 2017
EURO DISNEY L'OUVERTURE
"Yeah so it turned out that we were there in Disneyland Paris at the same time they were celebrating their opening, 25 years ago!" said Rory, excitedly.
My eyes widened. For a brief moment I was back in a GCSE French class writing an essay on Euro Disney: L'ouverture, for Madame Wallis. Lisa was whispering next to me about how expensive Coca Cola was on the resort and how that shows the advance of capitalism in western society. Chris was doing a line drawing of Mickey Mouse.
It was 1992 and I was in Year 10. Two statements that are both true, but don't feel like they ought to be, now that I look at them out here, a quarter of a century into the future.
Lisa went on to be a director at a massive company. She owns horses and lives in a house with a table that's bigger than my kitchen. Chris fixes computers, I think. I just kept writing.
"So, we had a really good time," said Rory, dragging me back to the present.
"I'm glad," I smiled weakly. I don't think he was born when I handed that essay in.
My eyes widened. For a brief moment I was back in a GCSE French class writing an essay on Euro Disney: L'ouverture, for Madame Wallis. Lisa was whispering next to me about how expensive Coca Cola was on the resort and how that shows the advance of capitalism in western society. Chris was doing a line drawing of Mickey Mouse.
It was 1992 and I was in Year 10. Two statements that are both true, but don't feel like they ought to be, now that I look at them out here, a quarter of a century into the future.
Lisa went on to be a director at a massive company. She owns horses and lives in a house with a table that's bigger than my kitchen. Chris fixes computers, I think. I just kept writing.
"So, we had a really good time," said Rory, dragging me back to the present.
"I'm glad," I smiled weakly. I don't think he was born when I handed that essay in.
Tuesday, 28 March 2017
MUSHROOMS
The other day the Intrepids were conducting a straw poll over dinner, about whether or not anyone would eat an uncooked mushroom.
It turns out that my sister would. She'd pop one in straight from the packet and chew it until its rubbery goodness slipped out of sight with a fungal burp of satisfaction.
When did we start eating these things? I said I'd rather dip my toes in acid while being serenaded by twenty hungry foxes, than scoff a raw mushroom. The smell alone! It'd be like eating a veruca, or a bunion off a tree root.
My Mum said I should stop being so dramatic. I just think nature gives us warnings about what not to eat, by making it look unappealing and yes, occasionally poisonous. And for me, right at the top of the tree (or the bottom I suppose) are those little white, mouldy-looking toadstools that my sister seems to love, and which I think are the spores of Beelzebub.
"Get on with your pie," said my Mum, ending the drama. She's good at that. She's good at pie too. It was really tasty.
"What's in it?" I asked.
My Dad chipped in, "Chicken and m..."
"You don't want to know," interrupted my Mum. Wise lady.
It turns out that my sister would. She'd pop one in straight from the packet and chew it until its rubbery goodness slipped out of sight with a fungal burp of satisfaction.
When did we start eating these things? I said I'd rather dip my toes in acid while being serenaded by twenty hungry foxes, than scoff a raw mushroom. The smell alone! It'd be like eating a veruca, or a bunion off a tree root.
My Mum said I should stop being so dramatic. I just think nature gives us warnings about what not to eat, by making it look unappealing and yes, occasionally poisonous. And for me, right at the top of the tree (or the bottom I suppose) are those little white, mouldy-looking toadstools that my sister seems to love, and which I think are the spores of Beelzebub.
"Get on with your pie," said my Mum, ending the drama. She's good at that. She's good at pie too. It was really tasty.
"What's in it?" I asked.
My Dad chipped in, "Chicken and m..."
"You don't want to know," interrupted my Mum. Wise lady.
Sunday, 26 March 2017
CELERY
Today's smoothie has celery in it. I have an odd relationship with celery; I keep forgetting that I don't like it.
People say, "Oh, it doesn't taste of anything! How can you not like it?"
But it does. It has a strong, almost bitter taste. In fact, I can't quite understand how people can't detect it.
The other thing they say is that it has negative calorific content - as in, you use up more calories eating it than it gives you.
Well that's not true either is it? And anyway, even if it had neither nutritional benefit nor flavour... why in the world would anybody eat it at all?
Anyway, it's chopped up, blended, and swimming about in the green gloop of spinach, kale, apple, banana, and a teaspoon of honey. And the whole thing tastes of celery.
People say, "Oh, it doesn't taste of anything! How can you not like it?"
But it does. It has a strong, almost bitter taste. In fact, I can't quite understand how people can't detect it.
The other thing they say is that it has negative calorific content - as in, you use up more calories eating it than it gives you.
Well that's not true either is it? And anyway, even if it had neither nutritional benefit nor flavour... why in the world would anybody eat it at all?
Anyway, it's chopped up, blended, and swimming about in the green gloop of spinach, kale, apple, banana, and a teaspoon of honey. And the whole thing tastes of celery.
Thursday, 23 March 2017
PLAYING CECIL'S ADVOCATE
I don't know who Cecil is. A few weeks ago I had a conversation with someone when I tried to argue the opposite of what I actually think, in order to draw out a reasoned, well-rounded response.
Unfortunately, auto-correct got a bit carried away and I ended up texting:
"Don't worry. I'm just playing Cecil's Advocate."
I feel sorry for Cecil - he clearly has horrendous opinions, and by arbitrarily sticking up for them in order to generate conversation, I may have passed them off as my own. Don't judge Cecil though - technically, auto-correct made him up.
Anyway, I found myself again playing Cecil's Advocate today. It ended with me suggesting I should eat lots of pizza, get fat and spotty and not be bothered, because 'Man looks on the outward appearance; the Lord looks on the heart.'
It didn't work. That person thinks I'm letting myself go because I've misunderstood the Bible. I very nearly sent back a picture of yesterday's green smoothie just to prove I'm not actually on Cecil's side.
Speaking of smoothies, I went Yellow today - banana and melon. I know, I know, the nutritionist says 3 out of the 5-a-day should be vegetables but I had loads of melon left over and the bananas were starting to go brown.
And in fact, blending them to a pulp didn't exactly stop that process! Today's smoothie started out yellow but was browny-grey by the time I got to work. Junko said I should add some lemon zest to prevent that happening next time.
Pizza never changes colour, says the unhelpful part of my brain. It sort of does though.
About an hour after the conversation, it occurred to me that my friend might well have also been playing Cecil's Advocate and might just have been deliberately goading me into a response. Clever! They didn't say so though.
I wonder whether Cecil really needs advocates sometimes. It would be courteous of them to (at least) wear a label, otherwise none of us will have any idea where we are.
Unfortunately, auto-correct got a bit carried away and I ended up texting:
"Don't worry. I'm just playing Cecil's Advocate."
I feel sorry for Cecil - he clearly has horrendous opinions, and by arbitrarily sticking up for them in order to generate conversation, I may have passed them off as my own. Don't judge Cecil though - technically, auto-correct made him up.
Anyway, I found myself again playing Cecil's Advocate today. It ended with me suggesting I should eat lots of pizza, get fat and spotty and not be bothered, because 'Man looks on the outward appearance; the Lord looks on the heart.'
It didn't work. That person thinks I'm letting myself go because I've misunderstood the Bible. I very nearly sent back a picture of yesterday's green smoothie just to prove I'm not actually on Cecil's side.
Speaking of smoothies, I went Yellow today - banana and melon. I know, I know, the nutritionist says 3 out of the 5-a-day should be vegetables but I had loads of melon left over and the bananas were starting to go brown.
And in fact, blending them to a pulp didn't exactly stop that process! Today's smoothie started out yellow but was browny-grey by the time I got to work. Junko said I should add some lemon zest to prevent that happening next time.
Pizza never changes colour, says the unhelpful part of my brain. It sort of does though.
About an hour after the conversation, it occurred to me that my friend might well have also been playing Cecil's Advocate and might just have been deliberately goading me into a response. Clever! They didn't say so though.
I wonder whether Cecil really needs advocates sometimes. It would be courteous of them to (at least) wear a label, otherwise none of us will have any idea where we are.
Wednesday, 22 March 2017
GREEN SMOOTHIE
"It's kale, spinach and melon," I said, calmly. I explained how I need to eat more vegetables and putting green stuff in a smoothie seemed like the best way to do it.
He raised an eyebrow.
"And how is it?" he asked.
"I think it might be an acquired taste," I said, truthfully.
This is part of my attempt to get my health back.
I'm growing tired of my face peeling like sawdust, and I'm absolutely fed up with eating the wrong things out of hunger (I'm looking at you, pizza), leading to shame and bloating, not to mention the constant dreary tiredness that has pervaded me since July.
It's easy to do too. Chop stuff up, stick it in the blender. That's pretty much it.
What it's not so easy to do, is drink it. I haven't got the viscosity right yet and so at the moment it's lumpy green gloop. Plus there's a niggling thought that a spoonful of sugar might help the 'medicine' go down. Go on, spoon in some of the sweet stuff, says a helpful part of my brain.
I'm resisting that, thank you, Mary Poppins.
"Well, I hope it works out for you," said my manager, sceptically. "It doesn't look healthy," he added.
Neither do I, I thought. That's kind of the point.
Tuesday, 21 March 2017
UNUSUAL TENSION
I feel a weird sort of anticipation tonight. I'm not sure what it means yet; it's the electricity in the air that tells you a storm is coming, or that weird tension you feel just before an argument.
I have decided to be peaceful about it. When there's nothing you can do and nothing you're personally responsible for (as far as you know) I guess that's a good time to choose peace over anxiety. If I need to be refined by storm or fire, or if there's something coming my way, I'll find out in good time.
Refined. Ah yes, The Crucible. Paul and I had our first match today. We lost, but not dreadfully. I potted the white ball in such spectacular fashion that it should have been broadcast live on ESPN. I've always thought pool to be a ridiculous game.
The thing that annoys me most about feeling that weird tension, is that I'm never quite sure what to do with it. Imagine if your mutant superpower happened to be sensing danger before it happened but it wasn't fine-tuned enough for you to know exactly what danger to look out for. Spider-senses or super-hearing are good, but it's not much use if you don't know which way to leap, block, fly, swipe, sling, throw, twist, duck.
There aren't any storm clouds anyway. Just stars tonight, hanging cold and bright in the deep, dark sky. The silhouetted trees in the park remind me of Van Gogh as they block out the starry night. Locked away in an asylum, he saw the stars burst into life in spheres of glorious colour above the French cypresses and farmhouses. They at least were free.
Neither is there an argument I know of. I probably should chill out and go to sleep and not worry so much.
I have decided to be peaceful about it. When there's nothing you can do and nothing you're personally responsible for (as far as you know) I guess that's a good time to choose peace over anxiety. If I need to be refined by storm or fire, or if there's something coming my way, I'll find out in good time.
Refined. Ah yes, The Crucible. Paul and I had our first match today. We lost, but not dreadfully. I potted the white ball in such spectacular fashion that it should have been broadcast live on ESPN. I've always thought pool to be a ridiculous game.
The thing that annoys me most about feeling that weird tension, is that I'm never quite sure what to do with it. Imagine if your mutant superpower happened to be sensing danger before it happened but it wasn't fine-tuned enough for you to know exactly what danger to look out for. Spider-senses or super-hearing are good, but it's not much use if you don't know which way to leap, block, fly, swipe, sling, throw, twist, duck.
There aren't any storm clouds anyway. Just stars tonight, hanging cold and bright in the deep, dark sky. The silhouetted trees in the park remind me of Van Gogh as they block out the starry night. Locked away in an asylum, he saw the stars burst into life in spheres of glorious colour above the French cypresses and farmhouses. They at least were free.
Neither is there an argument I know of. I probably should chill out and go to sleep and not worry so much.
THE FIRST DAY OF SPRING
I got up early to go the weekly 6:30 am prayer meeting. I had to scrape ice off the car with my frozen fingers.
It's warmed up now though. The cherry blossom finally looks right in the sunshine.
In the spirit of thoughtful springtime consideration (and the fact that it's also World Poetry Day), I decided to look up a few proverbs about cherry blossom.
I found this by the Fourteenth Century Japanese poet, Ikkyu:
Break open
A cherry tree
And there are no flowers;
But the spring breeze
Brings forth myriad blossoms
There is something very gentle about the warmth of spring after the harshness of winter. I've started to wonder whether I'm affected by the seasons a little more than I'd like to admit.
Ikkyu gives me a little hope here that what the winter failed to do by breaking me, the spring can do very gently, by bringing out the cherry blossom in my life. It feels like the right time for that, after a winter of cracked skin and sleeplessness.
By the way, I arrived at the prayer meeting to the sound of Martin Smith (via Spotify) singing, "Even though you're gone and I'm cracked and dry..."
I had a little chuckle at the timing of that. The door closed behind me with a soft click.
"Find me in the River," Martin sang. Good advice. I reckon even the cherry tree needs a little refreshing if it's hoping to bloom.
Monday, 20 March 2017
FIXING THE NESTLE 3000
"Do you know how to... wrestle this...off..." asked Paul, a colleague (and now pool partner as it happens) of mine. He was grappling with the Nestle 3000.
The Nestle 3000 is the clunking, whirling coffee machine that sits in the kitchen making grating noises and plopping out espressos and cappuccinos and frothy-sloppy-skinny-whinny- cino-beano-mocha-locca-chocca-lattes at the click of a button. It combines brown slop with white slop to do this.
"I don't, sorry Paul," said I. We then set about figuring out how to change the waste container. The Nestle 3000 does not make this easy.
First you have to turn a green key to swing open the console. Then, you have to yank out the panel with the drip-tray, which is naturally a pool of cold brown stewy liquid that drips everywhere. Paul artfully carried it over to the sink while I pulled out the coffee-waste-tub from the bowels of the machine.
It felt like I was ripping its heart out. Pretty soon it occurred to me that it was actually more like removing its kidneys, but nonethless I unclipped it and angled the tub carefully out of the Nestle 3000.
It's exactly what you might imagine - a blue tub full of crumbling coffee-waste. I rumbled it into the bin.
Then, like every team of highly skilled-surgeons, we put the whole thing back together.
"What's this?" said Paul, pointing at a laminated poster. It was a set of instructions on using a second yellow plastic key to change the waste-container without accidentally switching the Nestle 3000 off and disrupting its cycle.
"Oops," I said, closing the console.
Nothing. The screen was blank. I sighed.
I just can't understand why people don't drink tea.
It took ages for Paul and me to figure it out and then switch the thing on again. Then it had to boot up, which it did by beeping like a reversing truck, and happily spraying coffee everywhere.
Teabag, teapot, milk, kettle, cup. Done. Not this awful effluent that comes slurping down those plastic tubes to the sound of internal plastic cogs and motors.
"Thanks Matt," said Paul, sliding his cup underneath the nozzle. "I guess now I've got something else to put on my CV."
I smiled weakly. Then I made myself a cup of Twinings Afternoon blend and went back to my desk.
The Nestle 3000 is the clunking, whirling coffee machine that sits in the kitchen making grating noises and plopping out espressos and cappuccinos and frothy-sloppy-skinny-whinny- cino-beano-mocha-locca-chocca-lattes at the click of a button. It combines brown slop with white slop to do this.
"I don't, sorry Paul," said I. We then set about figuring out how to change the waste container. The Nestle 3000 does not make this easy.
First you have to turn a green key to swing open the console. Then, you have to yank out the panel with the drip-tray, which is naturally a pool of cold brown stewy liquid that drips everywhere. Paul artfully carried it over to the sink while I pulled out the coffee-waste-tub from the bowels of the machine.
It felt like I was ripping its heart out. Pretty soon it occurred to me that it was actually more like removing its kidneys, but nonethless I unclipped it and angled the tub carefully out of the Nestle 3000.
It's exactly what you might imagine - a blue tub full of crumbling coffee-waste. I rumbled it into the bin.
Then, like every team of highly skilled-surgeons, we put the whole thing back together.
"What's this?" said Paul, pointing at a laminated poster. It was a set of instructions on using a second yellow plastic key to change the waste-container without accidentally switching the Nestle 3000 off and disrupting its cycle.
"Oops," I said, closing the console.
Nothing. The screen was blank. I sighed.
I just can't understand why people don't drink tea.
It took ages for Paul and me to figure it out and then switch the thing on again. Then it had to boot up, which it did by beeping like a reversing truck, and happily spraying coffee everywhere.
Teabag, teapot, milk, kettle, cup. Done. Not this awful effluent that comes slurping down those plastic tubes to the sound of internal plastic cogs and motors.
"Thanks Matt," said Paul, sliding his cup underneath the nozzle. "I guess now I've got something else to put on my CV."
I smiled weakly. Then I made myself a cup of Twinings Afternoon blend and went back to my desk.
LEVEL 1.5 PATIENCE
There might be a third type of patience: the type required to wait for your computer to install Windows updates.
This is my own fault, this one. I forgot to switch off on Friday (as requested by the IT elves) and so I rebooted this morning. I'm currently watching it install update 61 of 214.
This Level 1.5 Patience is a kind of mezzanine between waiting for something that will definitely happen and waiting for something that might not. There is every chance that Windows will make it to update 214 and install the lot properly; there's equal chance it will fail. What there's no predicting, is how long this digital ballet will take.
There is one small certainty with Level 1.5 Patience though: I can't do anything at all about it. I have no choice but to wait until it's finished, whether I do that here, watching the blue screen, or in the kitchen with a cup of Darjeeling and a ginger biscuit. It'll take however long it takes.
It's made it to update 85 in the time it took to think of all that. Everyone around me is busily tapping away, shuffling into the meeting room or chatting about the weekend. I'm sitting here, tapping into my phone.
Come to think of it, Level 1.5 Patience is the patience you need in a restaurant, or while waiting for your car to be fixed. It's not the ongoing patience you need to be polite to someone unbearable, and it's not the cool, calm patience you need when you're waiting for the on-time train.
Neither is it the type you need while waiting to throttle Bill Gates or at least blow a big raspberry in the direction of Seattle. It's the measured self-control required to watch a ticking clock, to long for the numbers to speed up and to hope that your computer might just hurry through updates 134 to 214 like there's no tomorrow.
Actually I think a cup of Darjeeling and a ginger nut might be just the thing.
Friday, 17 March 2017
ACCIDENTAL NEWBURY
For some reason, day dreaming or just not concentrating properly, I approached the roundabout I cross over every day, flicked on my indicator and went left onto the M4 motorway towards South Wales, when actually what I really wanted to do... was go home.
Oh brilliant. I thumped the steering wheel as I rolled down the slip road, knowing I would have to go all the way to Newbury and then back again - a round trip of 22 pointless miles.
I turned on the radio. They were talking about football; thankfully not the treatment of Eden Hazard, about which I now consider myself something of an expert. This time, they were talking about the questionable behaviour of some other multi-millionaire with co-ordinated feet and a disconnection to actual reality. I need no convincing that this sport is ridiculous.
The other day, Emmie told me that it's most efficient to drive at about 60 mph behind a tall lorry. So I thought I'd give it a go. I've got no idea whether it's true (though Emmie is often quite right about these things). I spent the whole time working out a more accurate way of saying 'if you can't see my mirrors, I can't see you!' which was emblazoned on a sticker on the rear doors. I think it is possible to see me if I can't see your mirrors, but what is true is that it's impossible for you to see my eyes.
Then, I thought, I'm pretty sure it's more useful to see at least some of my vehicle in a lorry driver's mirror. And while accurate, my version is not quite as snappy a bumper sticker.
I did have an accident once where a lorry driver didn't see me at all. 26th October, 2003, M4 Junction 18a. I'll tell you about it sometime.
Anyway, any more day dreaming and I'd be there at Junction 18a again, and 13 (Newbury) was far enough. I successfully exited the motorway, went round the interchange and got back on, making a careful note to head East and not further West.
Did I tell you about the time I drove up the A34 in the fog after a gig, missed the exit I needed until I was somewhere in the Midlands, so turned around, headed South and then missed it again? No? Phew; that would have been embarrassing.
So tonight I drove the uneventful 11 miles back to Junction 12 and successfully exited the motorway, wondering what it would have been like to have been a Premier League footballer. I think on the whole, I'm glad I'm me.
Though I'd have made it back a lot faster in a supercar.
Oh brilliant. I thumped the steering wheel as I rolled down the slip road, knowing I would have to go all the way to Newbury and then back again - a round trip of 22 pointless miles.
I turned on the radio. They were talking about football; thankfully not the treatment of Eden Hazard, about which I now consider myself something of an expert. This time, they were talking about the questionable behaviour of some other multi-millionaire with co-ordinated feet and a disconnection to actual reality. I need no convincing that this sport is ridiculous.
The other day, Emmie told me that it's most efficient to drive at about 60 mph behind a tall lorry. So I thought I'd give it a go. I've got no idea whether it's true (though Emmie is often quite right about these things). I spent the whole time working out a more accurate way of saying 'if you can't see my mirrors, I can't see you!' which was emblazoned on a sticker on the rear doors. I think it is possible to see me if I can't see your mirrors, but what is true is that it's impossible for you to see my eyes.
Then, I thought, I'm pretty sure it's more useful to see at least some of my vehicle in a lorry driver's mirror. And while accurate, my version is not quite as snappy a bumper sticker.
I did have an accident once where a lorry driver didn't see me at all. 26th October, 2003, M4 Junction 18a. I'll tell you about it sometime.
Anyway, any more day dreaming and I'd be there at Junction 18a again, and 13 (Newbury) was far enough. I successfully exited the motorway, went round the interchange and got back on, making a careful note to head East and not further West.
Did I tell you about the time I drove up the A34 in the fog after a gig, missed the exit I needed until I was somewhere in the Midlands, so turned around, headed South and then missed it again? No? Phew; that would have been embarrassing.
So tonight I drove the uneventful 11 miles back to Junction 12 and successfully exited the motorway, wondering what it would have been like to have been a Premier League footballer. I think on the whole, I'm glad I'm me.
Though I'd have made it back a lot faster in a supercar.
THE CRUCIBLE
I've somehow got myself involved in a pool competition.
I think it might have been the point when I said, 'yes I'll get involved in that pool competition' to somebody some time ago.
Well now I'm playing. And it's the table football thing all over again. The Finance Guys are back, and would you believe it, they're even better at pool than they are at table football.
You should see them, smashing balls into the corner pocket, rippling back with a cannon and a bounce off the cushion, walking around the table, one hand on the chin, eyes keenly mapping the layout. It's like being at The Crucible.
I've always thought that an odd name for a theatre. The Crucible. It normally means a container where you heat metal up in a furnace, just to find out how pure it is - like a test, or a trial or a... refinement. That doesn't sound like a place of great entertainment.
I will probably adopt the strategy of hitting everything I can as hard as I can, and hoping for the best. And as red and yellow balls spin and collide across the blue baize, maybe something wonderful will happen that will leave the Finance Guys open-mouthed in astonishment.
I'll find it amusing anyway, or character-building or something.
Ha! Maybe it is The Crucible after all!
I think it might have been the point when I said, 'yes I'll get involved in that pool competition' to somebody some time ago.
Well now I'm playing. And it's the table football thing all over again. The Finance Guys are back, and would you believe it, they're even better at pool than they are at table football.
You should see them, smashing balls into the corner pocket, rippling back with a cannon and a bounce off the cushion, walking around the table, one hand on the chin, eyes keenly mapping the layout. It's like being at The Crucible.
I've always thought that an odd name for a theatre. The Crucible. It normally means a container where you heat metal up in a furnace, just to find out how pure it is - like a test, or a trial or a... refinement. That doesn't sound like a place of great entertainment.
I will probably adopt the strategy of hitting everything I can as hard as I can, and hoping for the best. And as red and yellow balls spin and collide across the blue baize, maybe something wonderful will happen that will leave the Finance Guys open-mouthed in astonishment.
I'll find it amusing anyway, or character-building or something.
Ha! Maybe it is The Crucible after all!
Wednesday, 15 March 2017
MULTI-LAYERED PATIENCE
"I'll be a couple of minutes, mate," said the orange-vested man, standing by the side of his enormous truck.
I was blocked; blocked and late back to my desk. I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel while he unloaded his wagon with a giant mechanical crane. I couldn't drive around him (his vehicle was blocking the entire width of the road) and there was no other way out. I would have to be patient.
Do you think there might be two types of patience?
The reason I'm asking is that it suddenly occurred to me that I'm very good at waiting for something that I know will definitely happen.
In 'a couple of minutes', I thought to myself, this mustachioed workman will nod at me, climb into the cab and move out of the way. I can definitely cope with waiting. That's Level 1 Patience, right there. And it's only two minutes.
What I'm not so good at though is that waiting for the undefined 'hope' of a thing. That's where I get really impatient, when I've got no idea whether the thing is coming or not. Will the traffic light always be red? Will the bus ever turn up, or should I give up and find something else to do? Will that waiter ever come back with the bill? Will it ever happen? How long have I got to wait? This is Level 2 Patience.
I find it much easier to wait if a screen says the bus will be there in two (or twenty, or even forty) minutes, or if (as happened to me recently) the lady behind you in the queue gets out and tells you that this particular traffic light is stuck and you should just drive round it; it's the not-knowing for sure that drives me crazy. Level 2 Patience gets right under my skin and plays with my deepest fears.
But is the first example (it'll be two minutes mate) actually patience at all? Or is it just waiting, expecting, queuing? And is it complete madness to wait so patiently for a thing that might never be coming your way?
And if it isn't, how do you find out whether you're just wasting your life?
Also, if you're from Planet Go-Getter instead of being a Ketchup person (waiting for the best, which is yet to come) you're much more likely to do something about that Level 2 situation aren't you? So, is it sometimes okay to be... well, im-patient? By all means call it something else, like being 'proactive' or 'determined' or something, but it's essentially impatience with the interminable status quo. Is that alright?
I guess if you don't succeed anyway, it'll look exactly like impatience, but if you do, it'll look brilliant! Go-getters are wonderful at calculating the risk in those sorts of situations. I wish I were.
He whistled and smiled, jumped in and started the engine. Five minutes it had taken. I can cope with that, I thought to myself. I'm good with Level 1 Patience.
I was blocked; blocked and late back to my desk. I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel while he unloaded his wagon with a giant mechanical crane. I couldn't drive around him (his vehicle was blocking the entire width of the road) and there was no other way out. I would have to be patient.
Do you think there might be two types of patience?
The reason I'm asking is that it suddenly occurred to me that I'm very good at waiting for something that I know will definitely happen.
In 'a couple of minutes', I thought to myself, this mustachioed workman will nod at me, climb into the cab and move out of the way. I can definitely cope with waiting. That's Level 1 Patience, right there. And it's only two minutes.
What I'm not so good at though is that waiting for the undefined 'hope' of a thing. That's where I get really impatient, when I've got no idea whether the thing is coming or not. Will the traffic light always be red? Will the bus ever turn up, or should I give up and find something else to do? Will that waiter ever come back with the bill? Will it ever happen? How long have I got to wait? This is Level 2 Patience.
I find it much easier to wait if a screen says the bus will be there in two (or twenty, or even forty) minutes, or if (as happened to me recently) the lady behind you in the queue gets out and tells you that this particular traffic light is stuck and you should just drive round it; it's the not-knowing for sure that drives me crazy. Level 2 Patience gets right under my skin and plays with my deepest fears.
But is the first example (it'll be two minutes mate) actually patience at all? Or is it just waiting, expecting, queuing? And is it complete madness to wait so patiently for a thing that might never be coming your way?
And if it isn't, how do you find out whether you're just wasting your life?
Also, if you're from Planet Go-Getter instead of being a Ketchup person (waiting for the best, which is yet to come) you're much more likely to do something about that Level 2 situation aren't you? So, is it sometimes okay to be... well, im-patient? By all means call it something else, like being 'proactive' or 'determined' or something, but it's essentially impatience with the interminable status quo. Is that alright?
I guess if you don't succeed anyway, it'll look exactly like impatience, but if you do, it'll look brilliant! Go-getters are wonderful at calculating the risk in those sorts of situations. I wish I were.
He whistled and smiled, jumped in and started the engine. Five minutes it had taken. I can cope with that, I thought to myself. I'm good with Level 1 Patience.
Tuesday, 14 March 2017
THE MELODRAMA OF A TUESDAY
It's been a peculiar day today. I almost lost my hand, thanks to a newspaper; I angered some Belgian football fans on Twitter, I drew a cartoon elephant for no reason and I accidentally ate a wasabi crisp, thinking it was Ready Salted.
I coughed and spluttered through the kitchen like a parched man through the desert. There is something psychological about expecting one flavour and encountering another. Wasabi! I mean who's making Wasabi-flavoured crisps?
Turns out Junko had brought them back from Japan. Makes sense.
As for the man-eating newspaper, it's that vacuous irrelevance that calls itself the Midweek Chronicle that I'm lambasting this week.
Oh this week, and yes, every week! Every Tuesday it gets wedged into my letterbox, half-in, half-out, acting like a kind of sluice gate for all the heat in my house to help warm up the street.
I get back and see it there, poking through, taunting me. Go on, try to get me out, I dare you, it teases me.
Tonight I gave it a stern yank and the letterbox clinked and sliced straight into my finger. I hopped around for a bit, making a noise like a chimp.
I wouldn't mind so much if the thing actually contained any useful information. Nope. Every week the front page headline is something like: 'Divorce and separation can be a civilised affair'...
... which annoys me on so many levels that I can't even bring myself to scoff at the deliberate use of the word 'affair' in this parasitic solicitation of the broken-hearted.
I had a flick-through tonight for some actual news. The first big headline that wasn't a thinly-veiled advert (on about page 6) was about some swans who got stuck in a lock. I sighed and then stuffed the whole thing in the recycling sack with the others. Maybe I should write in and tell them about how I nearly lost the use of my fingers.
The football thing? Well I thought it was ridiculous. I don't know anything about football, and suddenly I was embroiled in an argument about Eden Hazard. The BBC Sport twitter feed ran an article about how the manager of Chelsea (for whom Eden Hazard plays) complained that the opposing team had 'targeted' him throughout the course of the match last night.
"He's one of the world's best players," I said, "What were they supposed to do, pass him the ball and show him to the net?"
I ought to have learned a long time ago not to comment on things I don't understand.
I drew an elephant. Then I drew a picture of an elephant drawing a picture of me. Then I thought about drawing a picture of me drawing a picture of an elephant drawing a picture of me but at that point I thought I probably should get on with some actual work. As far as I know, the company hasn't yet diversified into selling weird recursive pictures of technical authors and elephants.
Some good stuff happened today too! I realised a thing in my head wasn't as big a thing as I had been making it, we had a productive and fun worship practice, and I found a way to contribute to a work meeting that usually reduces me to a sulky silence.
Other than that I nearly died eating Japanese crisps. Oh, and would you believe it: someone had the nerve to say I was being 'melodramatic'!
Unbelievable.
I coughed and spluttered through the kitchen like a parched man through the desert. There is something psychological about expecting one flavour and encountering another. Wasabi! I mean who's making Wasabi-flavoured crisps?
Turns out Junko had brought them back from Japan. Makes sense.
As for the man-eating newspaper, it's that vacuous irrelevance that calls itself the Midweek Chronicle that I'm lambasting this week.
Oh this week, and yes, every week! Every Tuesday it gets wedged into my letterbox, half-in, half-out, acting like a kind of sluice gate for all the heat in my house to help warm up the street.
I get back and see it there, poking through, taunting me. Go on, try to get me out, I dare you, it teases me.
Tonight I gave it a stern yank and the letterbox clinked and sliced straight into my finger. I hopped around for a bit, making a noise like a chimp.
I wouldn't mind so much if the thing actually contained any useful information. Nope. Every week the front page headline is something like: 'Divorce and separation can be a civilised affair'...
... which annoys me on so many levels that I can't even bring myself to scoff at the deliberate use of the word 'affair' in this parasitic solicitation of the broken-hearted.
I had a flick-through tonight for some actual news. The first big headline that wasn't a thinly-veiled advert (on about page 6) was about some swans who got stuck in a lock. I sighed and then stuffed the whole thing in the recycling sack with the others. Maybe I should write in and tell them about how I nearly lost the use of my fingers.
The football thing? Well I thought it was ridiculous. I don't know anything about football, and suddenly I was embroiled in an argument about Eden Hazard. The BBC Sport twitter feed ran an article about how the manager of Chelsea (for whom Eden Hazard plays) complained that the opposing team had 'targeted' him throughout the course of the match last night.
"He's one of the world's best players," I said, "What were they supposed to do, pass him the ball and show him to the net?"
I ought to have learned a long time ago not to comment on things I don't understand.
I drew an elephant. Then I drew a picture of an elephant drawing a picture of me. Then I thought about drawing a picture of me drawing a picture of an elephant drawing a picture of me but at that point I thought I probably should get on with some actual work. As far as I know, the company hasn't yet diversified into selling weird recursive pictures of technical authors and elephants.
Some good stuff happened today too! I realised a thing in my head wasn't as big a thing as I had been making it, we had a productive and fun worship practice, and I found a way to contribute to a work meeting that usually reduces me to a sulky silence.
Other than that I nearly died eating Japanese crisps. Oh, and would you believe it: someone had the nerve to say I was being 'melodramatic'!
Unbelievable.
CHERRY BLOSSOM
The cherry blossom is out. It feels too early for it. When Junko pointed it out, just outside a meeting room, I very nearly exclaimed: 'But it's the wrong time of year!'
It isn't of course. It's Spring. Though, looking at the grey sky and feeling the dots of rain while the wind ruffles your scarf won't do anything to persuade you.
It's a beautiful thing, cherry blossom. It hangs so gently from the trees, almost out of place on those bare wintry branches. The breeze makes it sway a little, each cluster like a tiny Chinese lantern, beaming as it bobs along.
I need Spring. The freshness that it brings is long overdue, and I am fed up with the cold, empty winter. I can't wait for the warm blue sky and the soft summery breeze, not to mention the sunlight filtering through those bright green leaves.
I can wait; I'm just impatient. It's something I've noticed about myself - frustration makes me much less patient than I used to be. I am trying to work on that. After all, the cherry blossom appears when the season is changing. Only then and not before.
And that does give me some hope.
It isn't of course. It's Spring. Though, looking at the grey sky and feeling the dots of rain while the wind ruffles your scarf won't do anything to persuade you.
It's a beautiful thing, cherry blossom. It hangs so gently from the trees, almost out of place on those bare wintry branches. The breeze makes it sway a little, each cluster like a tiny Chinese lantern, beaming as it bobs along.
I need Spring. The freshness that it brings is long overdue, and I am fed up with the cold, empty winter. I can't wait for the warm blue sky and the soft summery breeze, not to mention the sunlight filtering through those bright green leaves.
I can wait; I'm just impatient. It's something I've noticed about myself - frustration makes me much less patient than I used to be. I am trying to work on that. After all, the cherry blossom appears when the season is changing. Only then and not before.
And that does give me some hope.
Sunday, 12 March 2017
DODGY KOREAN BURGER FROM THE POP-UP TRUCK
I ate a Korean burger the other day from the pop-up truck.
I wish I hadn't. It was sort of putrid, spicy chicken in crunchy breadcrumbs with deep-fried red cabbage. The bun fell apart and the loosely arranged contents slid about between the bread until bits started squeezing themselves out of the bottom and dropping into the cardboard box the whole ghastly arrangement had come in.
In the end I had to use a knife and fork. I've been laughed at before for eating a burger with cutlery. However, until someone figures out how to make a burger that doesn't fall apart when you try to eat it, I will revert to the traditional implements for transferring food to my mouth and you can all laugh... while lettuce and chicken and mayo slips out of your hands and all over the table.
I just can't believe they eat that in Korea. It was so awful it made me feel depressed when I'd finished it. And yes, I finished it; I was starving. I actually felt so unimpressed with myself that I sat there tapping away at my computer for the whole afternoon, thinking about how disgusting it was.
I wished I'd gone to Sainsbury's. Sometimes I get a craving for vegetables - I'd have gladly gnawed on some broccoli or chomped down a few crispy carrots or something.
I think the worst part of it was that halfway through, I couldn't help thinking that the poor chicken I was eating had lived something of a life in vain. I'm not saying I want to be a vegetarian or anything (although sometimes I do wonder). I'm just saying that a living creature had lived, breathed, pecked and clucked, only to be slaughtered, covered in tangy juice and breadcrumbs, fried and sandwiched between glossy bread with tasteless red cabbage, and then... definitely not enjoyed by the unhappy technical author slicing away at it in the office kitchen.
I won't be going back to the pop-up truck. The developers had raved about how good the food there was. I can only assume that for the rest of the time they all live off pot noodles.
While we're here, I should point out that last week, my friends Sarah and Martin made the best vegetarian roast I have ever tasted. It always amazes me how well my friends can cook, especially when I'm just so time-poor and unadventurous. I will revisit this theme because they will all read this and tell me that I can do a lot better.
I tell you what, I can certainly do a lot better than a dodgy Korean burger from the pop-up truck.
Saturday, 11 March 2017
THE PROBLEM WITH SATURDAYS
I don't like Saturdays. There! It's said; I said it.
Sorry if you find that a bit sacrilegious. After all, a lot of people look forward to the weekend with misty-eyed hope and longing. From the first coffee-soaked blur of a Monday morning to the weary triumph of 4:30pm on a Friday afternoon, the prospect of the end of the week glimmers and grows like the shimmering freedom at the end of the dreary tunnel.
Here's my beef: I don't talk to anyone on Saturdays. Mostly I just wander around shops (Stockholmhaven, for example) getting depressed about how disorganised my kitchen is while I look for shelving units that are 11cm deep.
Either that or I listen to the radio, put some washing on and do the washing up. There are things I need to do, after all. It hardly seems like the thing to long for at the end of the week.
Oh and it isn't anyone's fault! I do understand that; Saturdays are family days and travelling days and shopping days and football days and all the rest of it. I get it. I guess I'm just saying that living alone is loneliest on days that stretch out in silence, from first light to weary end.
What I need I think, is some plan and some structure. Perhaps I could do some voluntary work, or go out of my way to find people to hang out with, chat to and do life together with, on these miserably lonely Saturdays.
At the moment I get to the end of it, feeling tired and a bit like I've wasted half the weekend. And then Sunday blinks into view.
If being an introvert means you derive energy from being alone, and being an extrovert means you thrive on the energy of people around you, then weekends dissect the difference in me like a sharp knife.
Sundays are a whirlwind of people, conversation, church, family, church meetings, playing in worship, playing with the Niblings and answering every difficult question that my Mum and my sisters can think of about my health, my relationships, my house and my job.
Perhaps I should make the most of my Saturday solitude. I should definitely stop wandering hopelessly around Stockholmhaven anyway.
Sorry if you find that a bit sacrilegious. After all, a lot of people look forward to the weekend with misty-eyed hope and longing. From the first coffee-soaked blur of a Monday morning to the weary triumph of 4:30pm on a Friday afternoon, the prospect of the end of the week glimmers and grows like the shimmering freedom at the end of the dreary tunnel.
Here's my beef: I don't talk to anyone on Saturdays. Mostly I just wander around shops (Stockholmhaven, for example) getting depressed about how disorganised my kitchen is while I look for shelving units that are 11cm deep.
Either that or I listen to the radio, put some washing on and do the washing up. There are things I need to do, after all. It hardly seems like the thing to long for at the end of the week.
Oh and it isn't anyone's fault! I do understand that; Saturdays are family days and travelling days and shopping days and football days and all the rest of it. I get it. I guess I'm just saying that living alone is loneliest on days that stretch out in silence, from first light to weary end.
What I need I think, is some plan and some structure. Perhaps I could do some voluntary work, or go out of my way to find people to hang out with, chat to and do life together with, on these miserably lonely Saturdays.
At the moment I get to the end of it, feeling tired and a bit like I've wasted half the weekend. And then Sunday blinks into view.
If being an introvert means you derive energy from being alone, and being an extrovert means you thrive on the energy of people around you, then weekends dissect the difference in me like a sharp knife.
Sundays are a whirlwind of people, conversation, church, family, church meetings, playing in worship, playing with the Niblings and answering every difficult question that my Mum and my sisters can think of about my health, my relationships, my house and my job.
Perhaps I should make the most of my Saturday solitude. I should definitely stop wandering hopelessly around Stockholmhaven anyway.
Friday, 10 March 2017
UNAFRAID TO FAIL
Okay, I'm learning. Keeping it simple, not going too deep too quickly. Nice, easy, deep breath and...
Be unafraid to fail.
What?
I heard it on the radio this morning. A lady phoned in in the middle of a discussion about teaching creative subjects. She said that kids need to learn how to be 'unafraid to fail.'
The car buzzed with resonance. Not just schoolkids, lady, not just them! All of us! Actually, me; I can speak for me.
I started wondering whether this might be God showing me the next key principle in unlocking and channelling my frustrations.
Be unafraid to fail.
Success is brilliant isn't it? People tell us all kinds of things when we succeed. They say:
"You're so good at that, well done!"
"Oh you were awesome."
"What would we have done without you?"
... and that's very nice, confidence-boosting esteem isn't it?
I think though, all of that gets wrapped up in our identity sometimes. And there's nothing wrong with that, particularly if our own unique genius has been responsible for some trailblazing achievement.
But the flip-side is the fear of failure, and it's there thanks to a subconscious world of opposites. It's logical, look:
Success = you're awesome!
Failure = you're not awesome.
Success = you should be proud of yourself!
Failure = you should be ... ashamed of yourself.
Success = you're really good at that!
Failure = you're not very good at that.
The real truth is though that we're deceiving ourselves with this logical switch. It isn't actually true. Here's what I think:
Failure is awesome.
Why? Because it shows us some truth, and truth always leads to a bit of freedom. It points to areas where we could improve and it shows us with the clarity of a mirror, how things really are.
You are not linked to your failure.
What I mean is: what made you awesome before you succeeded still makes you awesome after you failed. The outcome of your activity has nothing to do with your actual identity and you shouldn't believe that it does.
That's why I think the result of failing shouldn't be the opposite of the result of succeeding. I think failure helps to channel us in better directions and reminds us of who we are, and who we aren't. We should embrace it!
How does all this link back to my frustration problem?
Well, my failure has consistently frustrated me. In response to my poor performance (and my perception of my poor performance, which let's face it, is sometimes a different thing), I've heaped more coal into the firebox of my life and created a skyfull of steam that has taken me nowhere and has blinded the track.
I think if I can channel failure, not be afraid of it, embrace it and, hey, maybe even celebrate it, perhaps I can start moving things.
But one thing I absolutely need to remind myself of is that if I do fail at something, it doesn't actually change who I am.
In fact, if I agree with the principle of dissociating failure and identity, then calling myself a failure makes very little sense at all. Actually, what I'm technically doing there is suggesting that God himself failed when he designed and built me.
And I can't tell you how little I believe that.
Be unafraid to fail.
What?
I heard it on the radio this morning. A lady phoned in in the middle of a discussion about teaching creative subjects. She said that kids need to learn how to be 'unafraid to fail.'
The car buzzed with resonance. Not just schoolkids, lady, not just them! All of us! Actually, me; I can speak for me.
I started wondering whether this might be God showing me the next key principle in unlocking and channelling my frustrations.
Be unafraid to fail.
Success is brilliant isn't it? People tell us all kinds of things when we succeed. They say:
"You're so good at that, well done!"
"Oh you were awesome."
"What would we have done without you?"
... and that's very nice, confidence-boosting esteem isn't it?
I think though, all of that gets wrapped up in our identity sometimes. And there's nothing wrong with that, particularly if our own unique genius has been responsible for some trailblazing achievement.
But the flip-side is the fear of failure, and it's there thanks to a subconscious world of opposites. It's logical, look:
Success = you're awesome!
Failure = you're not awesome.
Success = you should be proud of yourself!
Failure = you should be ... ashamed of yourself.
Success = you're really good at that!
Failure = you're not very good at that.
The real truth is though that we're deceiving ourselves with this logical switch. It isn't actually true. Here's what I think:
Failure is awesome.
Why? Because it shows us some truth, and truth always leads to a bit of freedom. It points to areas where we could improve and it shows us with the clarity of a mirror, how things really are.
You are not linked to your failure.
What I mean is: what made you awesome before you succeeded still makes you awesome after you failed. The outcome of your activity has nothing to do with your actual identity and you shouldn't believe that it does.
That's why I think the result of failing shouldn't be the opposite of the result of succeeding. I think failure helps to channel us in better directions and reminds us of who we are, and who we aren't. We should embrace it!
How does all this link back to my frustration problem?
Well, my failure has consistently frustrated me. In response to my poor performance (and my perception of my poor performance, which let's face it, is sometimes a different thing), I've heaped more coal into the firebox of my life and created a skyfull of steam that has taken me nowhere and has blinded the track.
I think if I can channel failure, not be afraid of it, embrace it and, hey, maybe even celebrate it, perhaps I can start moving things.
But one thing I absolutely need to remind myself of is that if I do fail at something, it doesn't actually change who I am.
In fact, if I agree with the principle of dissociating failure and identity, then calling myself a failure makes very little sense at all. Actually, what I'm technically doing there is suggesting that God himself failed when he designed and built me.
And I can't tell you how little I believe that.
Thursday, 9 March 2017
THE SIMPLICITY MACHINE
I don't feel like being particularly deep today. I had a whole thing prepared about finding the optimum distance-away a person needs to be to make it inappropriate to hold the door open for them, but I've decided against it.
I was also wondering whether adventure could still be adventure if it was neither fun nor enjoyable. I got into a whole head-spin about the reason why we go on adventures in the first place and whether that motive itself shapes our journey and our experience - and whether it matters.
Too much for today though isn't it? I feel way simpler than that.
The older I get the more I like simplicity. It's turning out to be very powerful: in writing, in music, in thinking. And we over-complicate... Well I do... over-complicate almost everything! Does it need to be so difficult?
Tricky though, when you're naturally quite deep.
I don't know how yet, but it occurs to me that this might be part of my engineering solution to that boiling frustration I talked about the other day. Making things too complex and deep and clever might actually be working against me.
What if simplicity is a key to all of this? What if it really is quite easy - just say it how it is, don't be arty, intelligent or fancy. Don't worry about being cryptic or coded, or ultra-defensive or wary around people who actually do like you. Just be real. Be simple, and don't worry about it.
I don't know. Seems like there's lots to think about there - but for me, if building a kind of Heath-Robinson convoluted-machine out of your life just leads to that skin-flaking, head-spinning, volcano-producing frustration, well maybe keeping it simple is the answer after all.
If someone's behind you, hold the door open for them. If they're half a mile away, don't make them run, out of politeness. Keep it simple.
I was also wondering whether adventure could still be adventure if it was neither fun nor enjoyable. I got into a whole head-spin about the reason why we go on adventures in the first place and whether that motive itself shapes our journey and our experience - and whether it matters.
Too much for today though isn't it? I feel way simpler than that.
The older I get the more I like simplicity. It's turning out to be very powerful: in writing, in music, in thinking. And we over-complicate... Well I do... over-complicate almost everything! Does it need to be so difficult?
Tricky though, when you're naturally quite deep.
I don't know how yet, but it occurs to me that this might be part of my engineering solution to that boiling frustration I talked about the other day. Making things too complex and deep and clever might actually be working against me.
What if simplicity is a key to all of this? What if it really is quite easy - just say it how it is, don't be arty, intelligent or fancy. Don't worry about being cryptic or coded, or ultra-defensive or wary around people who actually do like you. Just be real. Be simple, and don't worry about it.
I don't know. Seems like there's lots to think about there - but for me, if building a kind of Heath-Robinson convoluted-machine out of your life just leads to that skin-flaking, head-spinning, volcano-producing frustration, well maybe keeping it simple is the answer after all.
If someone's behind you, hold the door open for them. If they're half a mile away, don't make them run, out of politeness. Keep it simple.
Wednesday, 8 March 2017
LOSS OF BALANCE
I went back to the nurse today. She was a little happier about my ear as she peered into it.
The perforation has healed anyway - it's just still oozing, though she didn't know why.
"These things can take a couple of weeks to clear up," she said, reassuringly.
"Um, how long before I get my hearing back?" I asked.
"Oh that could take up to six weeks, dear."
A little longer inside the invisible bucket then. Though I forgot to ask her about my lack of balance and spatial awareness.
I tried singing last night - I had no way at all of knowing whether what I was doing was in tune; I had to rely almost completely on the shape of my throat to tell. While I reckon I could play a silent piano and still hear the music in my head, I'm not quite good enough to control my voice without listening to it properly.
However, on the plus side of all that, I didn't collapse into a coughing fit, and what came reverberating through my head didn't sound too much like Kermit the Frog. At least if it did, Rory and Ruth didn't say anything.
They could have! When they sang together it sounded incredible. It has always amazed me how friendship impacts the way people sing. I reckon there are a number of reasons why we sound so much better when our friendships are stronger: there's a lovely equilibrium between wanting to be the best you can be and wanting the same for the other person. That floats across in the harmony. You make better eye-contact and you watch more closely and you don't compete for space. It just all works better when everything is balanced.
I bid the nurse goodbye and headed out into the rainy car park. I've got one amoxicillin left. The rain pattered out of the sky and I shoved my hands into my pockets.
Then I opened the car door and accidentally stumbled into it. I probably ought to have told the nurse about my lack of balance and spatial awareness.
The perforation has healed anyway - it's just still oozing, though she didn't know why.
"These things can take a couple of weeks to clear up," she said, reassuringly.
"Um, how long before I get my hearing back?" I asked.
"Oh that could take up to six weeks, dear."
A little longer inside the invisible bucket then. Though I forgot to ask her about my lack of balance and spatial awareness.
I tried singing last night - I had no way at all of knowing whether what I was doing was in tune; I had to rely almost completely on the shape of my throat to tell. While I reckon I could play a silent piano and still hear the music in my head, I'm not quite good enough to control my voice without listening to it properly.
However, on the plus side of all that, I didn't collapse into a coughing fit, and what came reverberating through my head didn't sound too much like Kermit the Frog. At least if it did, Rory and Ruth didn't say anything.
They could have! When they sang together it sounded incredible. It has always amazed me how friendship impacts the way people sing. I reckon there are a number of reasons why we sound so much better when our friendships are stronger: there's a lovely equilibrium between wanting to be the best you can be and wanting the same for the other person. That floats across in the harmony. You make better eye-contact and you watch more closely and you don't compete for space. It just all works better when everything is balanced.
I bid the nurse goodbye and headed out into the rainy car park. I've got one amoxicillin left. The rain pattered out of the sky and I shoved my hands into my pockets.
Then I opened the car door and accidentally stumbled into it. I probably ought to have told the nurse about my lack of balance and spatial awareness.
Tuesday, 7 March 2017
STEAM ENGINE
How do you deal with frustration?
I bottle mine up and let it bubble away on the inside like a steadily boiling kettle. Sometimes I find a person to vent to, and sometimes they understand that I'm just expelling hot air. I've chosen badly in the past though and accidentally persuaded a whole load of people that I'm an emotional hot-head.
My friend Paul is a master at calmness in the middle of frustration. I've known him for seventeen years and he's never once shown any sign of the explosive rage I get. Maybe he's just better at hiding it.
The trouble is that people like that can make people like me feel, a bit, well, inferior - as though that is the way to be and there's a valve missing in us if we're not quite as cool. I certainly feel as though I should have this under control by now.
Well. In 1781, a Scottish inventor called James Watt took an existing idea and figured out how to use steam to power a rotary engine. A whole world of possibility opened up to the eyes of the Eighteenth Century; a world which would lead directly to the Industrial Revolution, mechanically powered machines and eventually the railway and the steam engine.
I'm mentioning it because effectively, a steam engine is a device that manages venting under control. And that's exactly what I feel like I need: heat and pressure, channelled into power to get things moving, ready to change the world.
So I'm on a bit of a quest. Can I learn how to channel my emotions, to engineer my frustration into a positive, forward-thinking steam-engine that somehow makes a difference?
Watt had the SI unit of power named after him. That's where we get kilowatts from - power, from controlled and cleverly engineered pressure and frustration.
I'll get there, but in the meantime, if you see me with steam coming out of my ears, go easy on me won't you?
I bottle mine up and let it bubble away on the inside like a steadily boiling kettle. Sometimes I find a person to vent to, and sometimes they understand that I'm just expelling hot air. I've chosen badly in the past though and accidentally persuaded a whole load of people that I'm an emotional hot-head.
My friend Paul is a master at calmness in the middle of frustration. I've known him for seventeen years and he's never once shown any sign of the explosive rage I get. Maybe he's just better at hiding it.
The trouble is that people like that can make people like me feel, a bit, well, inferior - as though that is the way to be and there's a valve missing in us if we're not quite as cool. I certainly feel as though I should have this under control by now.
Well. In 1781, a Scottish inventor called James Watt took an existing idea and figured out how to use steam to power a rotary engine. A whole world of possibility opened up to the eyes of the Eighteenth Century; a world which would lead directly to the Industrial Revolution, mechanically powered machines and eventually the railway and the steam engine.
I'm mentioning it because effectively, a steam engine is a device that manages venting under control. And that's exactly what I feel like I need: heat and pressure, channelled into power to get things moving, ready to change the world.
So I'm on a bit of a quest. Can I learn how to channel my emotions, to engineer my frustration into a positive, forward-thinking steam-engine that somehow makes a difference?
Watt had the SI unit of power named after him. That's where we get kilowatts from - power, from controlled and cleverly engineered pressure and frustration.
I'll get there, but in the meantime, if you see me with steam coming out of my ears, go easy on me won't you?
Monday, 6 March 2017
INVISIBLE SWEDISH CHICKENS
"I'm going to make an invisible chicken," I said, pretending to roll some plasticine between my fingers.
"What colour?" asked Sam.
"Oh yellow, I think!" I said, "Like all chickens - yellow and blue."
I was expecting him to tell me firmly that chickens just aren't yellow and blue. Instead, and to my delight, this happened:
"A chicken from Sweden!" he beamed with a toothy smile. His eyes lit up.
I wondered whether he knew because of Stockholmhaven. So I pushed him a bit further.
"How do you know about Swedish chickens?" I said.
"I know lots!" he replied.
"Well, maybe I'll make an invisible... Italian chicken instead!" I raised an eyebrow.
"You need green and white."
"Or a Japanese chicken!"
"Um... white and red."
He's a lot like me, I think, this boy.
Mind you, they all sort of are. My Mum told me about their recent trip to the stream where the Niblings all played Pooh Sticks.
Ben got bored and decided to discover how deep the water was by finding the longest, straightest stick he could, and then poking it in from the bank, until it touched the riverbed.
"I thought he was going to topple in!" explained my Mum, "Leaning over the water there, doing his science experiment. Just like you!"
My Dad chipped in: "It turned out to be three feet deep! And the water was quite fast."
"Good job he didn't fall in then," I replied.
"Yes, he'd have been like a Pooh-stick all by himself, floating under the bridge," said my Mum. My Dad found that funny.
I do hope this thirst for knowledge continues. It's so much more appealing than the fighting and whinging and the not-listening-when-it's-time-to-put-your-shoes-on.
In fact, knowledge broadens the wonder of the world, hopefully to the degree where we all realise that we're not the centre of the universe we thought we were, that life isn't all that fair, and that kindness, honesty, hope and freedom are the things to fight for.
And who knows, maybe one day they'll make invisible Swedish chickens for their nephews too.
"What colour?" asked Sam.
"Oh yellow, I think!" I said, "Like all chickens - yellow and blue."
I was expecting him to tell me firmly that chickens just aren't yellow and blue. Instead, and to my delight, this happened:
"A chicken from Sweden!" he beamed with a toothy smile. His eyes lit up.
I wondered whether he knew because of Stockholmhaven. So I pushed him a bit further.
"How do you know about Swedish chickens?" I said.
"I know lots!" he replied.
"Well, maybe I'll make an invisible... Italian chicken instead!" I raised an eyebrow.
"You need green and white."
"Or a Japanese chicken!"
"Um... white and red."
He's a lot like me, I think, this boy.
Mind you, they all sort of are. My Mum told me about their recent trip to the stream where the Niblings all played Pooh Sticks.
Ben got bored and decided to discover how deep the water was by finding the longest, straightest stick he could, and then poking it in from the bank, until it touched the riverbed.
"I thought he was going to topple in!" explained my Mum, "Leaning over the water there, doing his science experiment. Just like you!"
My Dad chipped in: "It turned out to be three feet deep! And the water was quite fast."
"Good job he didn't fall in then," I replied.
"Yes, he'd have been like a Pooh-stick all by himself, floating under the bridge," said my Mum. My Dad found that funny.
I do hope this thirst for knowledge continues. It's so much more appealing than the fighting and whinging and the not-listening-when-it's-time-to-put-your-shoes-on.
In fact, knowledge broadens the wonder of the world, hopefully to the degree where we all realise that we're not the centre of the universe we thought we were, that life isn't all that fair, and that kindness, honesty, hope and freedom are the things to fight for.
And who knows, maybe one day they'll make invisible Swedish chickens for their nephews too.
Thursday, 2 March 2017
RELIEF AND INTEGRITY
I swept out through the revolving doors into the cold evening air. The sky was a deep blue, laced with a few night-time clouds and brooding with rain. I exhaled, wrapped my coat neatly around me and hurried toward the car park.
I haven't had long today to work out how I feel about it all. My manager had sat with me in the meeting room and had asked me again what my thoughts were. I was logical, composed and prosaic, weighing it up as carefully as I could as I spoke.
"It will be hard to explain it when people ask," I said, "You know, how to tell them without feeling like I've failed."
"We'll have to get the wording right," he said, sympathetically. For a moment I thought he meant he was going to email everyone to tell them. That would be awful; he didn't mean that of course. Somehow I will have to find those words myself, in the kitchen, on Skype, in the corridor - "I've been demoted. I found that team leading wasn't really the right fit for me. I found it difficult. I'm back to being just a technical author now. I wasn't very good at it." I'll figure it out.
The streetlamps were popping on as the wind ruffled the tops of the trees. Office windows glowed orange and yellow across the lake, reflections rippling over the surface, bouncing, fragmenting, disappearing into the inky water. Everything about life is light and shade it seems - even the beauty.
I am sad that I couldn't make it work. But as I said to my manager today, I'm also relieved to be relieved of the pressure. I liked the challenge, but there are a lot of things I just won't miss. And to have the opportunity to write and shape and be creative again, might just be the thing I need - even if, as it certainly will be, Louise's replacement will be my line manager and not (as I thought) my employee.
Rain spotted across the windscreen. I flicked on the wipers and they streaked messily across the glass. It won't be very easy this, I said to myself, but I can totally do this, and I can do it with integrity and with grace. Because those things always win, even when you feel like you've lost.
Wednesday, 1 March 2017
PERFORATION
"You've perfed your ear drum luvvie," said the nurse in her lilting Northern Irish way. I wasn't sure whether she was being sympathetic or disappointed - I think it's to do with the accent.
Given that her profession was nursing, I assumed the former and smiled back weakly.
So that's what I've done: I've perforated my ear drum. I don't know how - sitting on an open-top bus on a cold Cardiff day? Listening to the British History Podcast on my massive headphones? Poking a cotton bud all the way into my ear and pretending to be an alien in the mirror? Who knows?
"Are you allergic to anything?"
I said I didn't think so.
"So that'll be amoxicillin then, three times a day, finish the course, and don't get that ear wet. Wrap it in cotton wool and Vaseline in the shower."
"Okay," I said, gripping the prescription, imagining myself with an earful of sticky cotton wool.
"Your skin's very dry isn't it?" she suddenly said, looking me right in the eye. "Are you taking anything for that?"
I told her the doctor had said to use a moisturiser. She nodded.
"It's not any good in the bottle," she said loudly. Humour? A telling off? It was literally impossible to tell. "Make sure you come back in a week so we can check it's healed over okay."
I smiled, said thank you politely, stood up, and span towards the door.
Given that her profession was nursing, I assumed the former and smiled back weakly.
So that's what I've done: I've perforated my ear drum. I don't know how - sitting on an open-top bus on a cold Cardiff day? Listening to the British History Podcast on my massive headphones? Poking a cotton bud all the way into my ear and pretending to be an alien in the mirror? Who knows?
"Are you allergic to anything?"
I said I didn't think so.
"So that'll be amoxicillin then, three times a day, finish the course, and don't get that ear wet. Wrap it in cotton wool and Vaseline in the shower."
"Okay," I said, gripping the prescription, imagining myself with an earful of sticky cotton wool.
"Your skin's very dry isn't it?" she suddenly said, looking me right in the eye. "Are you taking anything for that?"
I told her the doctor had said to use a moisturiser. She nodded.
"It's not any good in the bottle," she said loudly. Humour? A telling off? It was literally impossible to tell. "Make sure you come back in a week so we can check it's healed over okay."
I smiled, said thank you politely, stood up, and span towards the door.
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