COMPARE THE MEERKATS

Right. I'm trying to work out what I need to do to control the output of a frame so that it opens in a new window when (and only when) you ctrl+click a hyperlink.

What a life. Yep, it's another rip-roaring day in the world of technical authoring and cascading style sheets and javascript. You know, it might not even be a CSS problem, it might be much more deeply entrenched in the way our windows talk to the browser and the deep, twisted code that makes that look so easy.

Frustratingly, I can make it work in Internet Explorer, but not in Firefox.

While I mull over that conundrum, the sales guys who are doing some sort of corporate training event today, just brought a whole load of sandwiches out of the training room.

As ever, a roomful of meerkats popped their heads above their partitions and sniffed the air.

"You can finish these off if you want," said someone from marketing.

Fifty chairs rolled backwards and the air rippled past me as the engineers thumped towards the sandwiches in a converging cloud of t-shirts.

This can't do our image any good, I thought - the Upstairs People need no excuse to look on us like we're ducks on the riverbank.

The Internet tells me it's because I'm trying to open a frame inside a tripane frame. A particular forum also tells me that Louise, who used to work here, asked the exact same question over a year ago.

I might not be able to crack it today. I feel like it might be time for a bit of a break. Tell you what I really need...

a sandwich.

FORGETTING HOW TO DRIVE

I think I've forgotten how to drive.

Well. What I mean is: the mechanics of it are all there, and I haven't forgotten which pedal does what, or what the road-signs mean, or how to change gear. What I mean is that I feel like I'm forgetting some of the things you're supposed to do.

Like roundabouts. I had to go to Winchester last night for a rehearsal for a carol thing. On the way home, I circled a particular roundabout three times, looking for the exit. Then, I came close to zooming down one of the on-ramps instead of nipping off at the exit. I've never done that before.

The other day too, on the way to work, I drove straight over a mini-roundabout and only checked my right while I was sailing over it. The jeep behind me, which had been pulling out and had had to stop, wheels on the paint, kept its distance.

I take the wrong lane, I don't think about where I'm going, I swerve late (sometimes) and I fail to concentrate.

Meanwhile, the work car park continues to be a game of angles, in which I stressfully find the ramps too narrow to swing into.

I wonder how the cars behind feel when I have to back-up, lower my wing mirrors, then gently angle my car round the concrete bumpers without scraping my tyres. And let's not mention the contortions required to actually get out without scraping the door of the car in the next parking bay.

Oh and then there are those early mornings when the likes of 'Dean' at the gym see me bleary-eyed as I tumble out of the driver's seat. He shouts things like: "Sort it out. That's terrible parking!" and I look back and see my car is sticking a foot into the road and a tyre is eclisping a white line.

Cheers 'Dean'.

Anyway, it's probably tiredness. It could be that my head is simply too full of things, squashy, flexy facts and worries that push the 'how to drive' section somewhere to the back, along with 'Cooking for beginners' and 'Particle physics'. Or of course, I could simply be losing my marbles.

But if that were true, surely I'd be constantly forgetting other things too, like house keys, coats, a left glove, and the fact that I've slipped my mobile phone to the bottom of my rucksack.

Surely not.

THE FIFTH DESK MOVE

I stood up and pointed at locations around the office, reminding myself of something, and counting.

"Six," I said out loud. "This will be my sixth desk here."

And so it is. We've moved desks, me for the fifth occasion. This time, to what feels like a bit more of a pokier location, facing the other way, and surrounded by people. My manager's manager, who now sits directly opposite me, has got up and left, hopefully to a meeting, and hopefully not out of horror.

I'm not sure I like a desk move. I had to hobble up and down the office with my stuff, clambering under tables and plugging things into the right ports. There are floor ports with ethernet cables, power cables for docking stations, power cables for monitors, data cables, adaptors, mouse cables, keyboard cables, USBs which aren't plugged into anything, a power bank trailing some ancient network cables like two long grey tails, and the usual collection of pen lids and old biros to find a home (or a bin) for.

At one point I was lying on the floor under the desk, hidden from my colleagues and the rest of the world, tightening the bolts on a power bank that clips to the back of the desk. It was warm, not uncomfortable and the lights in the ceiling twinkled above the wood. Plus, for a brief moment, there was no weight at all on my injured foot. I could quite easily have gone to sleep there and then.

I do wonder how it long it would have taken for anyone to notice.

Well, anyway, I emerged, switched on the power bank and carried on setting up my stuff.

-

"Matt!" said Marie, holding the kitchen door open as I went through it. "I had a dream about you!"

"Okay," I said, a little terrified. I mean, what is the proper response to that? I went with:

"That's weird, but go on."

She told me that she'd dreamed that we were all whisked off on a company jolly, and her and Junko and I were seated in front of several plates of caviar. She amused herself by being absolutely certain that I wouldn't know what caviar was.

I said that that wasn't very funny. Oh and also, I'd have a hard time identifying one type of caviar from the next. It has always seemed to me like one of those things wealthy people eat as a status symbol, rather than it having any intrinsic niceness to it. I may be wrong of course - they might all be being completely sincere about its flavour tickling the palate and delighting the tongue. On the other hand, they might be saying that to fit in.

"I obviously don't move in those social circles," I said.

"I didn't think you did," replied she. I don't think it was a joke.

I raised an eyebrow and wandered into the kitchen.

-

I think it's just the newness of the desk that makes it feel small and uncomfortable. I reckon I'll be alright in a few days. It'll become familiar to me, eventually carrying a sort of acquired niceness that just becomes part of normality.

That of course, must be what happens with every acquired taste. Initially, the instinct is to hate it, because it's actually foul. Then later, with a little perseverance, it becomes familiar: homely, a treat, or perhaps a gentle reminder of all that's good in the world. Its flavour changes and to your surprise, you find yourself growing to like it.

Plus everyone else in your circle tells you that they do too - and then the new desks feel like the old desks and it would suddenly be weird to go back.

Maybe I do know something about caviar.

HOME FROM PLATFORM 14

Made it! Platform 14, the slow train home. It's not too full. Two teenagers are trying to do their makeup in the window reflection. A lady behind me is having trouble with her landlord, and a packet of crisps is being opened and crunched somewhere. It smells like Monster Munch.

The engine rumbles. It's dark outside, but Paddington Station is brightly lit. The platform is empty. We are off.

I woke up this morning to the sound of rain. A quick flick of the hotel curtains showed me the rooftops and chimneys glistening under heavy grey skies. Someone shouted. Then a bin lorry swept down the road, splashing through the puddles outside the hotel. I realised I'd have to change my plan.

In fact, the rain wasn't the only persuader. I put a little weight on my foot. Pain shot through it and halfway up my leg. There would have to be little walking today.

After packing my things, and slinging my enormous rucksack over my shoulder, I shuffled out of the little hotel and started west. With the rain, I reasoned, my best bet was to spend the morning in a museum and then head home when I was ready.

So that's what I did. I went to the British Museum (by tube) and I put all my stuff in the cloakroom. Then I wobbled around Assyrian, Egyptian, Persian and Japanese history. I saw the Elgin Marbles (though they don't call them that any more) and I read the pamphlet about the statues 'transcending culture' and being in 'a place where the world could now see them.' While I'm not certain that they'd have survived if the Brits had left them in the Parthenon, I wasn't sure that the Greeks would see it the same way.

The British Museum is another of my favourites. I'd not been for a while, so it was a bit daunting to see that they had erected a search-point security tent outside. You'll find this everywhere in London these days. Unlike Edinburgh and Dublin, where you could wander in with a rucksack and a friendly guard would shine a torch inside it, in London now, everything is thoroughly searched in almost military fashion.

After the Museum, I went to a little Portuguese/Angolan restaurant round the corner for some 'fine' dining. I did a little work while I ate, emailing Rory and thinking through a couple of problems. I absent-mindedly squirted peri-peri sauce over my chicken and macho peas and had to get an extra refill of 7up from the machine to cool my mouth down. I don't know why I go to Nando's sometimes.

Then I came here. To the train, to home.

On the Circle Line from King's Cross, I was standing, holding a yellow pole on the packed train. At Baker Street, a seat near me became free but I was reluctant to sit in it because it was the priority seat for the disabled, pregnant and elderly. You always have to look after those people. So I stood still, just in case anyone thought the less of me.

A boy got on, about sixteen I suppose, curly-haired with the first sprouts of facial hair poking through his skin. He looked me in the eye (which is odd enough for the tube) and motioned towards the empty seat. I shook my head silently. He looked puzzled.

"Go on," he said, "You can sit there."

"Um. You carry on," I replied, firmly. He reluctantly sat down while I mulled over what had just happened. It was almost certainly just politeness, but I did wonder just how old he thought I was.

We've reached West Drayton. It's dark and wet out there. I wonder what kind of place West Drayton is. And Iver, that's next. What goes on in Iver? Probably not as much as goes on in London.

What goes on in London. This might be a good time to reflect on my trip.

It seems to fit into two halves - the bit before I thought I'd lost my phone, and the bit after it. I'm trying hard to give London a fair hearing without that event though, and also without me damaging my feet while walking round it. And actually, despite me moaning, I think it does okay. The first half was great; the second half, was not.

I've talked about it being famously overcrowded. I've hinted that things are a little too far apart to walk between, and I've given clues about how self-conscious it seems in the light of this year's awful terrorist attacks. All of those things are true - but crucially, not really London's fault.

I could have found a different way to get around. There are lots of options. I could have checked my       bag more thoroughly for my phone outside Buckingham Palace. I could have gone to places to see the city from higher up (climbing St Paul's, flying on the London Eye for example, and maybe a couple of other things that would have killed my feet). I did remark once that it seems more beautiful the higher up you are. Even the overcrowded feeling is the result of London being almost too good at everything, and attracting attention because of it. It's where things are, naturally, and so it's where everybody who enjoys things, finds themselves. It's a kind of enormous magnet, bending the rest of the country around it, or perhaps away from it.

I enjoyed it mostly. The Tower was great - it whispered of an old London, one that was very different but just as real. The river was awesome - it reminded me of the sense of permanency of nature, pulsing and flowing right through one of the world's greatest cities. The tourist bits were fun and well thought out, and I especially liked improving my geography of the streets. For all its illuminations, I actually appreciated the buzz of Oxford Street and the general hum of humanity that swarms along it. Had I been born more of an extrovert, I think I would have got a thrill from that.

With all that in mind then, the usual question surfaces. Would I go back there and do it all again? Well. I will be back yes, of course; it's London - it seems inevitable almost. A training course here, a day out at another museum there. Would I want to do the sight-seeing again? Probably not. Well not for a while. And certainly not on my own.

Could I live there? Absolutely not.

In fact I don't think I could survive a month in all that conglomeration of stuff, noise, people and traffic. It's fun once in a while, but even after three days, I just miss home. I miss the park and the stars above it. I miss the gentle ticking clock and the distant sound of the odd train across the valley. I miss the green you see when you drive down Langley Hill, and I miss the smooth clean air of Pincent's Lane, where you can walk to work while the sunshine trickles silently from the dappled leaves of the tree tunnel overhead.

Though, the way my feet feel, walking to work seems like it might be a long way off.

The train rattles over the rails, through the darkness of East Berkshire. Perhaps with every second, home gets a little closer.

DON'T BLAME IT ON THE ROMANS

If you didn't read the last post (and I'll admit, it was long and rambling, much like my day), then let me summarise:

• I got on an open-top bus and toured the sights of London - an experience which reminded me that this city has been overcrowded for most of its history.

• I got off the open-top bus and visited the Tower of London, which was freezing, and amazing. The Crown Jewels were sparkly, the Tower Green (where Catherine Howard and Anne Boleyn. among others, were publicly separated from their heads) was moving, and I, squeamish to the core, had to pop in to a medieval torture chamber to keep warm.

• Then I got on a boat with a thousand other people and their loud children, and took photos of the sunset over the Thames while one of the crew made terrible jokes.

• After that I walked back from Westminster, through London, via Piccadilly Circus, Regent Street, Oxford Street, the Bayswater Road and a very poorly lit Hyde Park.

Then my feet ached.

I also alluded to something that happened today that made me feel scared, alone and upset with this famous old city. In a few minutes, you'll see that it wasn't the city's fault at all, but at that particular moment, with a troubled face and feet that felt like they were on fire, I was ready to blame the blessed Romans themselves for settling here in 50-odd AD, and causing the whole thing to have happened to me. But happen it did. And it happened like this...

Because my feet ached, I decided this morning that I would go round the bit of the bus route that I hadn't seen the day before, having alighted at The Tower. So I did. I got on the freezing bus again and listened to the commentary teach me about the architecture of John Nash, the heroism of Admiral Nelson and the foresight of Florence Nightingale. I decided I would get off the bus at a point where I could walk back if I had to, without it feeling like it was too far.

So, when we finally reached that point, I excused myself past the row of ladies who were busy humming the tune of Land of Hope and Glory into their headphones, and I stumbled off the bus at Buckingham Palace.

There was an argument taking place between some Americans about what it means when the Union Jack is flying above the palace. I decided not to get involved. Instead I quietly unzipped my bag to get my phone out and take a picture.

But my phone wasn't in my bag.

And it wasn't in my pockets.

And it wasn't in my coat pockets either.

Panic set in. I quickly swung my rucksack onto the ground outside the black iron railings and started rifling through it. Charger, yes; iPad, yes; bottle of water, yes; house-keys, yes; paracetamol, yes; empty pack of jelly babies, yes; one Maryland cookie of an uncertain vintage, yes. There was even a street-map of Dublin! But what there definitely didn't seem to be... was my phone.

I quickly made three plans. One, go back to the bus stop and find a tour guide. Two, find a phone box (if such a thing still exists) to actually ring the phone, and three, find a shop and get my network to block it. I tried hard not to think about the photos, contacts and hundreds of notes I might have lost. I hurried back to the bus stop.

Pain shot through my feet and into my knee. I ignored it.

"I'll radio through and see if anyone's found it," said the tour operator, thankfully standing at the bus stop. Nobody had. He recommended getting on the next bus, which arrived within a minute and getting back to Marble Arch as quickly as I could to search the bus that would have got there first.

I didn't argue. Adrenaline makes me compliant to authority. I climbed on, sat in the disabled seat and searched my bag one more fruitless time.

Nothing. And nothing at Marble Arch either. I searched the first bus I'd been on, as soon as I arrived.

"Have you tried ringing it?" asked another tour guide. I reminded her that I'm here on my own and that the device required to apply her solution had caused the problem in the first place by way of its mysterious absence. She reminded me that we were standing next to a bank of red telephone boxes.

The next few minutes are a bit hazy. I can say this though - red telephone boxes in London are 95% for display and 5% for vandals. I found one that worked - it wouldn't take the new pound coins. I hobbled to the next one - it was smashed up. I limped across the road, getting more and more teary about the whole situation - it turns out the waistcoated staff members in Patisserie Valerie don't understand the universal hand gesture for telephone and thought I was looking for bananas.

Eventually, I found 60p, a telephone box that actually made a dialling tone when you picked up the handset, and I punched in my own number. I was still expecting my bag to start to vibrating as I held my ear against it. But if it didn't, I had a plan of exactly what I would say to anyone who answered - the exact words to placate a thief, or connect with a kind stranger who'd found my phone on a London tour bus.

It wasn't needed though. Nobody answered my phone. It rang for a bit and then went into voicemail. I breathed out slowly, hung up, and then sighed sadly as I realised the trail had gone cold. It could only be irretrievably lost, or stolen.

So much for plans one and two then. Only three remained.

And so it was, instead of doing all the things I'd planned today, I ended up sitting in an uncomfortably cold EE shop while a teenager sorted out my phone situation for two hours.

I'm not going to go into all the detail of that. It was dark when I came out of there with a brand new phone, and I was hungry and annoyed and sad, so I headed for the brighter lights of Oxford Street in the hope of finding somewhere to rest my exploding feet and get a cup of tea.

That of course, is how I found myself in the world's busiest Starbucks, perched on a stool between a young girl who wouldn't like me elbowing her coffee cup, and a little boy in a furry hood. I still had my iPad with me, so I wrote, and I drank the tea, and then packed up, ready to head to the next thing - the Barbican, for the concert I'd booked tickets for weeks ago.

I hope you won't think me a turncoat on my original principles, but as I hobbled out of Starbucks and into the swarm of Christmas shoppers, I decided categorically that I would take the tube. And so the tube from Oxford Circus, I indeed took.

-

"You missed a wonderful first half!" chimed the couple next to me in seats J41 and J42. "The pianist was simply incredible. She combined such elegance and strength in her hands, and was out-of-this-world!"

Urgh. My thoughts let me down. My mouth said I was glad that they had enjoyed it.

I explained that I had had to limp from the tube station and had been six minutes late - too late to be let in. I didn't tell them that I'd happily stuffed in a chocolate muffin in the entrance foyer, waiting for the interval. It somehow didn't seem 'classical', and I was already dishevelled enough.

As it turned out, however good the first half was (and part of me really doesn't want to know, thank you) the second half, Liszt's Faust Symphony 108 as played by the LSO, was marvellous. For a brief moment, I was able to close my eyes and be somewhere else altogether.

I of course, took the tube back. It would have taken an hour and a half to walk it from there. Soon, I was ripping off my coat, unwrapping my scarf and collapsing onto my hotel bed. But not before... tipping out my rucksack.

You know what's coming. I don't even need to tell you, do I?

WHEN A MAN GROWS TIRED

"When a man grows tired of London, he grows tired of life," wrote Doctor Johnson once. It must have been a wonder then, to the old wag, why anyone lived anywhere else at all. Well, Doctor, I might have a few reasons.

I'll get to those.

First a little context. I'm in the world's busiest Starbucks, I'm a little bit fed up, and my feet really hurt.

I set out with great intentions yesterday, ambling through the park as the morning sun painted the trees. It was lovely - long shadows across the grass, joggers and dog-walkers, bobble hats and breath condensing in the cold air. Breathe - that's what I needed to do: breathe in the gap, in the open space, where introverts thrive and thinkers walk at their own pace.

I was on my way to get on-board an open-top bus. I've done this in all the cities I've visited - it seems such a sensible way to see everything, and then go back later. And certainly, in London, there is everything to see.

From Marble Arch, the bus rumbles through Georgian streets of wide doors and fanlight windows, to Marylebone, Madame Tussaud's, Regent's Park, past the BBC and on into the city of Westminster. The commentary is interspersed with charming bursts of Holst, Elgar, Greensleeves and Jerusalem. I'll admit - they do grow less charming with repetition.

However, the open-top bus certainly reinforced my theory that London is not a single city. It divided it neatly into two. 

To the East, the real City of London, the Square Mile, is a clutter of skyscrapers, St Paul's Cathedral, the Bank of England and Fleet Street. This, the commentary said, was where Claudius's troops had forded the Thames and founded Londinium. This, was the medieval city which was first ravaged by the plague, and second burned to cinders by the Great Fire of 1666. The bus quickly trundled over Southwark Bridge.

Meanwhile, to the West of the City, the Houses of Parliament rise, silhouetted against the sky, and the London Eye glimmers in the November sunshine. This side, beyond the silver dragons, is called the City of Westminster - where rulers and kings have lived in wide avenued streets and tall Regency palaces.

There is no doubt in anyone's mind that London is insanely overcrowded. I honestly don't think I've been more than fifty feet away from at least one person in the last two days. Right now, if I were to extend my elbows so that I looked like I was impersonating a chicken, I'd have one elbow in the hood of a little boy's jacket, and the other nudging over a girl's coffee cup. It's uncomfortable and claustrophobic... much as it is for actual chickens I suppose.

Here, everywhere seems to be this way, all of the time. The street is a swarm of people to slalom through; life goes by in snippets of languages and stories and all at a hundred miles an hour. Every coffee house is a queue between some tables, and the noise of it all is frighteningly loud. The morning walk through the park seems a long time ago.

After the bus looped around Southwark and Bermondsey, the commentary told us to both 'have our cameras ready' and 'sit back and enjoy the view' - something I found hard to do simultaneously. Nonetheless, we zoomed over Tower Bridge (a 'masterpiece of Victorian engineering') and caught a glimpse of what would be the highlight of the day for me, the Tower of London.

It seems strange to see it from the bridge. It looks small and unimposing, next to the enormous and shiny buildings around it. Stone walls, those familiar turrets of the White Tower, the Norman battlements and the crossbow windows - dwarfed by sunlit glass and concrete.

I got off at the Tower and went in.

It was freezing. I don't know whether it's the wind whipping up along the Thames, whether it's just the fact that it's November, or whether I was feeling the cold from sitting on the top of a bus for most of the morning... or something else, but I don't know if I've ever been so cold. I had to nip into a torture chamber just to get warm.

The Tower of London is an incredible attraction to visit. At every turn though, it was hard to forget that this walled castle on the bank of the Thames was a great and terrible prison, and perhaps the last place any sane person five hundred years ago would ever have wanted to visit. I have never been so fascinated. I found myself wishing I could have frozen time, just to take it all in. Death certainly swells there. I stood behind a latticed window in the Beauchamp Tower overlooking Tower Green, perhaps the same window as many of the prisoners condemned there. The execution site, the block and the axe would not have been far away.

Famously of course, the Tower is also home to the Crown Jewels. I wasn't going to go in at first - I didn't think it would appeal to me. Then, just as I was deciding what to do, a gust of freezing wind made me shudder and I dove into the Waterloo Barracks on a whim.

I was glad I went in to the Jewel House. I can highly recommend it. Behind thick titanium doors with bolts the size of an arm, a small room glitters with these emblems of state. The jewels are of course, stunning - colours glimmer from diamonds, rubies and sapphires, and dance around the room. The crowns of state are there - heavy, velvet, interlaced with gold, silver, and sparkling diamond. The orb glistens as it has on every coronation since Charles II, and the sceptre, topped with the famous Koh-i-Noor diamond, is alive with light. It was a thrill to see it.

I left the Tower, just in time to catch the river cruise back to Westminster. The boat was predictably...  packed. Small children were whining, a sound which might just be the most irritating noise this world can produce, super-imposed upon an ocean of chatter, which just about swamped the on-board commentary...

"Michael Jackson has played the Royal Festival Hall," I just about heard him say while we sailed past the concrete building on the South Bank.... "... Michael's sadly no longer with us. Luciano Pavarotti too... who is sadly no longer with us. Not to mention John Lennon... also sadly no longer with us..."

'Don't ever feel like you're labouring the setup to a bad joke...' I whispered, rolling my eyes at the window. I had a feeling I knew what was coming.

"I just can't wait for Justin Bieber to play there next," he went on. He paused, expecting a snorting ripple of laughter. None came.

Doctor Johnson was right in some ways - all of life is certainly here, and if you can imagine it, you can probably get it. That must be so exciting if that's what floats your boat. But for me, an introvert, who loves the space of being far away from people sometimes, I'm confident that all this clutter and noise has a definite shelf-life. It all just feels exhausting.

And my feet are feeling it. I've done too much walking and my knee and feet have had enough. Certainly, as I walked back along the Bayswater Road last night, reflecting on the day, I wondered whether I should find a way to rest my joints a bit better today.

Well, I tried. But little did I know that that plan would work out with me feeling much worse, spending an afternoon doing something I had no intention of doing here, and becoming extremely annoyed, scared, and fed-up with this vast, uncomfortable and claustrophobic city.

But more of that later. I think perhaps Doctor Johnson's quote needs amending. How about - when a man grows tired of life, he's already grown tired of London. Well, my dodgy feet, after 52,000 steps would certainly agree.     

THE CITY OF STRANGERS

In many ways, I think London might be too big.

It was always going to be the hardest capital city to get to grips with. There are two reasons, and, yes, I knew them both before I hopped on the train to get here. They are: I've been coming here all my life, and, I'm still not sure I really like it.

So, I resolutely decided that I would try not to let either of those things influence me today. I would arrive, I thought, and treat it as a brand new experience. I'd be open-minded about this city, do things I wouldn't normally have done, go to places I've not really seen or thought about. And crucially, I reminded myself, I would not take the tube anywhere at all this weekend. Nope, none of that getting on at one subterranean tunnel and getting out at another. None of those long, postered escalators or that wind whistling from the squeaking of the London Underground trains flashing and rumbling out of the darkness. Instead I wanted to see how this fine city fits together, get a feel for its streets and atmosphere. I would walk, I decided, everywhere.

My legs are stiff, I've hurt my knee and I've done 29,000 steps in half a day.

See? Too big. Probably too big to be a city actually; it's much more like a small country, its component cultures flexing together in a mishmash of accents and ideas. It's old, yes. It's new too. It's scary (more on that in a bit) but it's also friendlier than expected. It's tightly packed, it's expensive and noisy - but it's also quiet, exciting and serene in places too. What it clearly is, in everyone's book, is enormous. And that makes it much tougher to describe.

I arrived, found my hotel, stood in the corridor, booking in while wondering about the flock wallpaper, and then headed out into the late afternoon sunset.

I'm instantly struck by the way this city hums. It has a background sound all of its own, and as I walked through it, listening to my phone give me directions, I heard that gentle pulse of chatter and traffic that is London's unspoken heartbeat.

"Turn right," said the voice in my ears.

"What? Into the park?"  I retorted out loud. Some Chinese girls looked at me suddenly and decided they'd prefer the other side of the road.

I did turn right though, and quickly found myself in Hyde Park. Okay I'll be honest, I have always loved the parks in London. In the Summer they're alive with happy lunchers and picnics and laughter. In the winter, they're fresh and cool and the wind convinces you you're far from the centre of a city. Wide paths cut off in all directions between leafy, tree-lined avenues and fountains bubble between statues of horses and war heroes not forgotten.

I stopped. Ahead, through the brittle arms of the trees I could see the Albert Memorial and the Royal Albert Hall glowing behind it. To my left, the Post Office Tower rose above the tree-line. To my right, almost silhouetted against the sunset, was Kensington Palace, with its distinctive gates and red bricks. I took some photos. It occurred to me suddenly, that I'm here at a really lovely time of year: piles of crispy leaves, the trees losing the last of their colour yet still looking magnificent, and the cold bright sun painting everything gold before it slips beneath the buildings in a fiery blaze of orange and yellow ochre at the end of the day. Beautiful, I thought, as I watched it go. The end of the day.

I looked at my watch. It was 3:30pm.

I was on my way to the V&A Museum, which is probably my favourite. It isn't that far from the Royal Albert Hall, so I kept walking until Google Maps pointed me down Exhibition Road. And there I was, in rooms of mahogany and tea, thinking about Peter Pan and Wendy, and Dickens and John Dunne, and St Paul's Cathedral and Christopher Wren and Queen Victoria and Paddington Bear.

Another consequence of London's size is that it doesn't feel very safe either. It's a massive, sprawling city of strangers, all refusing to make eye contact, all scared to ask the time or for directions: headphones in - rest of the world out.

Even crossing the road is hazardous! A few times today, I wondered whether the green-man himself was really sure I could cross without getting beeped at.

Unfortunately, recent events in the city seem to have given it a jump of nervousness too. There was an episode today at Oxford Circus apparently, where a whole load of people ran out of the station because they thought they'd heard gun shots. It turned out to be nothing, but the panic was certainly real. An hour or so later, while helicopters were buzzing and sirens still wailing, I was walking along, when a lorry ran over an empty plastic bottle. It popped with a surprisingly loud crack and two girls near me screamed and started running. I don't think that would have happened in any of the other cities I've visited.

I went for dinner (walking past the luminous netherworld of neon UFOs and spinning wheels calling itself a 'winter wonderland') and then plugged in my headphones for the journey back to my hotel.

London is a big city, and I think I feel small and anonymous in the middle of it. I reminded myself of the music of Dublin, the friendly sports-fans who'd almost rugby-tackled me in the street there, and how I hadn't been in the least bit afraid that night. I remembered Edinburgh, and how classy and refined it had felt. I never once felt unsafe there either. Even Cardiff, with its young people hobbling through the streets and its inability to make up its mind what kind of city it was, had a compact, almost homely feel to it. This feels different, and maybe I'll get a better view tomorrow, but so far, London, this experience of London, is very much convincing me that it is indeed a city of strangers, and I'm just another one right in the middle of its vast glimmering metropolis.

A THREE-RUCKSACK DAY

I don't feel much like writing at the moment. I'm not sure why. If I push myself, maybe I can make something of it.

I'm ill - but it's an illness that's lost somewhere between 'too trivial to mention' and 'too serious not to go on about it'. I feel weak and I have a sniffly cold that feels like it started in my bones.

I think it might be because yesterday was a three-rucksack day.

I got home late and had to park halfway down the street. Through the lamplight I walked, my church rucksack on my back, my work rucksack on my front and my gym rucksack carefully balanced on top of the front one. Three rucksacks. I had my keys jangling in my left my coat pocket. In my right hand I carried a WeightWatchers lasagne and a tin of chilli-con-carne.

This is the essence of a three-rucksack day, a day so packed, so ludicrously busy with stuff that all the bits of it collide at the end of it, when you waddle home and the neighbours twitch at you through their curtains.

I just emptied a Lemsip Max cold and flu capsule into a cup of hot chocolate. It fizzed like acid. You're probably not supposed to take the capsules apart, are you? They're probably supposed to be for slow release.

That's what I need - slow release, instead of letting it all out at once. I'm not... unhappy... by the way; I'm doing okay today, it's just tiredness and fed-up-ness speaking - especially yesterday, especially on a three-rucksack day.

I guess that's why I don't feel much like writing. Who would want to expose their weaknessess or (almost) deliberately moan and complain all the time? Who would want to come across like that? In a quest for transparency, it seems I'm still strangely protective about my image.

But obviously not enough not to write anything at all.

I microwaved the lasagne and ate it with a fork, my socked feet warming on the radiator. I felt like Scrooge in 'A Christmas Carol' - only slightly less cheery.

It's a one-rucksack day today - a big, chunky work laptop bag. And it's chilli for tea.

I'll be alright.

OF CABBAGES AND KINGS

This blog is four years old. That feels weird - 1,141 posts span back across that time, chronicling little snapshots of my life. That's more chapters than there are in the Bible, though infinitely less wise or helpful, I propose.

Little snapshots. I get down a lot, you probably noticed. I also seem to have my moments. The snapshots are certainly varied.

Tonight, a friend reminded me about some of the songs I used to write. I looked vaguely out of the window at the cars sweeping by.

"I guess they're all a bit dated now," I said, wistfully, referring to the songs. It's a thought that's occurred to me before - my style is almost certainly old-fashioned, much like the rest of me. I can't seem to do simple refrains that soar over swelling pads and off-beat rhythms. I'm still in cheesy melody, deep-lyric town, and it's all very noughties. I have not evolved.

Even in the last four years, the social media explosion has fragmented us into individuality, all desperately trying to brand ourselves with an edge, with a persona that is uniquely us. There doesn't seem to be room for my obvious or pompously expressed thoughts. It's becoming harder to be gracefully deep.

But as I said, I also do have my moments. And I hope that I still somehow hit that window between the obvious and the pompous. As you know, this was always supposed to be a triangle of not too serious, not too whimsical, and not too self-absorbed, just like my favourite nonsense poetry. Yes, I can do better at that last one.

I never set an end goal for the blog either. I have visions of me perishing one day in my old age, having just written a silly post about jet packs or house robots or something, and that being the first thing that gets read by people trying to figure out what kind of person I was from my thousands of posts. There's no way, even now, that one person could read them all.

Or maybe, if I moved to another country, or got married, or went to jail or something, then that would be the end of it? Who knows. For now, as for the past four years, it's at least a bit of a therapy for me.

As always then, it is worth remembering that these things are only snapshots. They paint a picture, and you can work all that out for yourself, but they are still only snapshots - images of me at my best, and frequently, my worst, trying to be honest, open, funny and smart.

I might give that off-beat rhythm thing a go. Maybe I'll crack it. Or maybe, it simply doesn't matter.

BEING EARLY

Being Early

I think I prefer being early

Than turning up everywhere late

I don't like the feeling

That someone is reeling

At me, as I'm making them wait

I think I would like to be better

At leaving the house with an ease

But all my intentions

Get lost in the tension

Of searching for bunches of keys

I think I would love being early

Not flustered nor sorry nor stressed

Not constantly beating

Myself in a meeting

But cool, in advance of the rest

I think I would like to imagine

A coffee, a tea, while I wait!

But deep down, it's known

I'd grumble and moan

At everyone turning up late

THE DAY OUT AT THE TENNIS

My friend Luke and I went to the tennis today. It was great, but also an experience I've been reflecting on.

A little context. In October I won two tickets in a competition, to see the ATP tour finals - where the world's best players battle it out in an indoor arena (The O2) at doubles and singles. I took Luke, who likes tennis, so that I'd have some company, and someone would be able to tell me what was going on.

Melo and Kubot beat the Bryan Brothers, then Gregor Dimitrov obliterated David Goffin in a dazzling array of slices and powered returns of serve. That's what was going on. But oh so much more.

I loved the theatre of it - an element I wasn't expecting. The lights dim, the crowd of thousands hush, and the fine performers entertain and delight. The yellow ball rises clear against the dark and then gets thwocked around the immaculate blue court. Quicker than the eye it sails over the net, and dances as it bounces from racket to racket. Trainers squeak, the crowd gasp, the ball clips and flicks as the players dart and move majestically, impossibly. A line judge calls! The ball skips into the air and into the crowd, and the point is over with a colossal round of applause.

I loved it. I loved the story of it, not to mention the irrefutable feeling of actually being there, some 40 metres away from the fourth and seventh best tennis players on the planet, breathing the same air, feeling the same temperature, hearing the same Bulgarians chanting, live and in the room. It felt almost unreal.

Another thing I liked was how closely this difficult game resembles chess. I expanded my theory to Luke afterwards.

"In chess, you're always trying to push your opponent into a certain set of moves that end with you winning. The pattern of events is almost inevitable when you have control."

Of course, chess allows you time to think and flex and plan those moves. Tennis is like chess, but chess where you've got less than a second to plan your next move. It occurred to me that what I'd seen were players who made that look startlingly easy, and were probably doing it without thinking, as naturally as water flows downstream, or perhaps as smoothly as I might change key from G to B major without ever really thinking about it.

So we had a fabulous time, I think. Afterwards we went to the Natural History Museum and saw some dinosaurs. Then we ate pizza while Luke made me list Premier League teams, and I quizzed him about US Presidents of the Twentieth Century.

I thought about Dublin. Walking round that city had made all this possible - the Ha'penny Bridge, the O'Connell Monument, the GPO and Temple Bar. 75,000 steps and with no idea that my tired legs and worn-out old boots would lead to me having one of the most enjoyable days out I'd had in a long time. But of course, a lot of that was down to Luke, whose company for thirteen hours, never once wore thin. I was really grateful.

I should win more competitions!

AFTER WORK STARBUCKS

I don't want to go home so I've come to Starbucks. It's vaguely relaxing. And warmer, I suppose. No-one's going to bother me here.

So. Perfect timing then for a bit of good old-fashioned, whining hypocrisy. Yep. Not been hypocritical for a while - a bit of the old say-one-thing-and-do-another might at least humour me. Here it comes: 

I think Starbucks should pay taxes in the country in which they operate. Like this one, for example. Yet here I am, after work, with a cup of the old English breakfast. Steaming.

I sat here and wrote a quick poem. I think I'll call it: After Work Starbucks

After Work Starbucks

A rush of steam

A clash of cups

A baby howls

At waking up

A lady on

a mobile phone

To someone 

In a warmer home

A quiet couple

Stop and start

Yet share a table

Miles apart

A laptop screen

An open book

A spreadsheet

Needs a second look

Some quiet jazz

A wooden chair

A girl flicks out

Her auburn hair

A coffee cup

A stirring stick

A pot of whirling

Cream so thick

A sugar high

A tax-free till

The coffee fuels

Seattle's thrill

Yet somehow we

Seem further ground

Than beans or euros

Crushing round,

For in this cold of

Clashing cups

We fail to howl

On waking up

A COLD WEEKEND

I got stuck in traffic again this morning. That's the fifth time in two weeks.

Car horns beeped around me. A lady tapped her steering wheel in time to some music. A guy in a Volvo checked his rear view mirror where two uncomfortable toddlers were dressed up like polar-bears and had been strapped into car seats.

I flicked the radio over to the local station, just to see what was going on.

"There's heavy traffic this morning around the M4 at Junction 12," said the cheery presenter, "due to large volume of traffic, but do let us know if you spot any bumps or accidents on that one."

I sighed and switched it off. I really should check these things before I leave - it's no good being told you're in a traffic jam when you're in the traffic jam. That's not really news.

It was a good time to reflect on the weekend though.

My Mum's in hospital. I've been to visit a few times in the last few days - I find later in the evening is best, though I always find her tired and unsure how to tell me to go home. It's a common problem. Hopefully she won't be there too much longer.

There's a melancholy feeling about the late night hospital. Last night, I clacked out along the long blue corridors, finding my way back to the fresh air and the car. It's empty at that time - tired-looking doctors with clipboards stride in the other direction and nurses raise half a smile. The air lingers sterile with the smell of scented floor polish. Lights flicker; outside is dark and cold.

My flat's cold too. I can't seem to get warm unless I wrap myself in my duvet. It gets ever so difficult to do housework though, when you're shuffling about the kitchen like the sugar-puff monster.

Also this weekend, I met an old schoolmate at the gym. I didn't recognise him; he looked at me as though I had green skin.

"Matthew?" he said, curiously. I blankly said hi.

"You don't remember me do you?"

I apologised. Even looking straight at his face I had no clue.

He put me out of my misery and told me his name. I shook his hand, and very politely kept quiet about the incident that popped into my head. He asked me about the 'big 40'. I shivered.

-

Yesterday was also Remembrance Sunday - our opportunity to honour the fallen.

I thought a lot about honour yesterday - it's not a word that gets used often, but it seems quite key to a lot of the problems around us. I realised that I might be in the minority of people who still somehow believe that the President of the United States deserves honour, even though the present incumbent is probably unsuitable for the job. You can rant at me about that if you like.

I also believe that every man should honour every woman. Honour's really important. Why, I wonder, don't we talk about it more?

-

And that, I reflected, was my weekend, I suppose: hospital, remembrance, honour, an old connection in the gym and walking around like a blanketed snowman. I think the cold is really getting to me, into my bones.

The traffic eased a little, out beyond the roundabout. The car horns stopped and hundreds of people in shiny vehicles powered into the morning sunlight and headed for work. I rubbed my gloved hands together and shuddered. Then I did exactly the same thing.

THE LAST SMARTIE

"Where did you get your packet of Smarties from, Matt?"

"Oh. From the tub of sweets someone left in the kitchen."

"You must have got there early."

"I guess so. I can't even offer... oh wait, looks like there is one left..."

I rifle through the packet.

"Yes, I know."

A moment's silence while we both process what's just happened.

Then I casually toss the last smartie into my mouth and crunch it between my teeth.

We'll speak no more of it.

THE SILENT STARS

I was going to write about my experience unblocking my toilet today.

You should thank your lucky stars then, that I couldn't bring myself to describe... how I found myself kneeling on the bathroom floor with gigantic flappy yellow hands and a clothes peg on my nose, and oh what happened next! Well...

Not that I believe in 'lucky stars' of course - or in fact, luck at all for that matter. I do believe in real stars though, and last night the shimmering constellations in the cold November sky, were exquisitely beautiful and believable.

The Great Bear hung like lanterns over the valley. Above my head, Cassiopeia angled her splendid chair and the North Star gleamed with all the hope of a Christmas yet to come.

I was freezing.

Who goes to the park late at night? Yet there I was, lit silver by the full, round moon; shivering, and wondering about pretty much everything there is to wonder about.

I feel pretty helpless at the moment. There are so many situations to pray for, so many things where I just don't know how to be or what to say. I haven't lived a lot of years, but in a large number of them, I've nearly always had a framework for understanding a problem, something to say, something to do. But these days I'm overwhelmed by things that leave me motionless... and speechless.

And in any case, the last thing needed is a speech from me, even if I had the words. Sometimes I feel like all the choices are wrong.

I blinked. A remnant, late firework whizzed into the air and burst into coloured stars. Half a second. Bang. Then back to silence. Back to the wonderful quiet moon and the ancient pondering stars.

'Above the deep and dreamless sleep,' I whispered to myself.

GYM MUSIC PART 1: FLICKY FLICKY

They play a constant stream of high-octane 140bpm pumping tunes at the gym.

And by 'pumping' I mean consistently and rhythmically forcing a beat into your subconscious (to improve your workout I suppose), rather than 'good' - though even I have to admit that the two are not mutually exclusive.

Occasionally the nonsense of it makes me laugh. Particularly the lyrics. I first noticed it with the classic:

"Everybody wants money, money, to live in a location sunny, sunny."

(Riton)

Which is profoundly true, even though the song features a girl (Kah Loh) saying she also needs money to make herself look 'flicky, flicky'. I have no idea what that means.

Catchy though.

Then there's...

"I can swear, I can joke
I say what's on my mind
If I drink, if I smoke
I keep up with the guys
And you see me holding up my middle finger to the world
**** your ribbons and your pearls
'Cause I'm not just a pretty girl"

(Maggie Lindemann)

... which is probably the opposite of 'flicky, flicky' even though her hand gestures might be indicating otherwise. I don't know how happy Maggie is in herself, but I've got my suspicions. Oh by the way, the gym also bleeps out the asterisks.

Normally I let it pass me by, all that. I'm not there to analyse lyrics, meaningless or otherwise.

But this morning I heard a new one that makes even less sense than Kah Loh, Mister Easi or punky old Mags. Over and over and over...

"Where you is is where it's at and you can't beat that with a baseball bat.

Where you is is where it's at and you can't beat that with a bat."

(Fat Boy Slim)

What are you doing, Norman? You used to be better than this! Remember 'Praise You'? That was great in the 90s! What about 'Right Here, Right Now'? Classic. What does this new nonsense mean?

"Where you is." Well that's grammatically cute isn't it? Still wrong though. "Where you is is where it's at." Where what's at? And why do you want to beat that... with sports equipment? It makes no sense! You can't take a physical approach when you've already defined a metaphysical concept as your context! That's like saying "You're so funny, I could put up a shelf" or "Love is all around us, so I'm going to pin it to the village noticeboard."

I'll be honest though, the gym would be a lot harder without this barrage of silliness, even if most people wear headphones.

And I appreciate anything that helps me get a bit more 'flicky, flicky' I suppose.