SUSHI AND CHOCOLATE IN THE PARK

I’ve got my Revels and I’m in the park, sitting on a damp bench in the soppy grass.

I got barked at by a tiny dog.

“It’s okay,” said the owner, hobbling towards me, “It’s just she doesn’t like hats.”

“Hats?” I said, surprised, though my throat had got a bit stuck from the shock of actual interaction with strangers, and I was certain I’d accidentally said, “cats?” There was no time to think about that.

“We don’t know why,” replied the lady. The little terrier scampered round me, growling and snapping like a furry crocodile. I thought briefly about taking off my hat, but I decided it might make for further awkwardness.

So I’m out here thinking, and eating Revels. A couple of benches along, a girl in Lycra is doing her exercises as though she were in a gym. The contrast couldn’t be clearer. Over there, pep-talk and lunges; here, a little guy scoffing a huge bag of Revels.

The other day I came out here with sushi. I like sushi, though I’ve never understood it. It was a plastic box of assorted bits, nigiri, those tightly wrapped up bits of rice and salmon, and a couple of sweet-tasting cakes that look like mini-swiss-rolls.

I sliced it open and all the bits went everywhere. Some on the bench, some on the floor, some rolling into the grass. I salvaged what was left.

What are you supposed to do with the condiments? There are three normally: a tiny fish-shaped bottle of soy sauce, a packet of flakes of ginger, and a sachet of wasabi. I’ve never known! I squeeze drops of soy sauce onto some of the rice-wrap things, but are you supposed to pour it all out into the plastic tray and dip them in it? They’re not really a dippable shape.

I tried the same with the wasabi once but honestly, it nearly came straight out of my nostrils. You really don’t need a scoop of that stuff. And then the ginger? Do you sort of gather it up with your fingers and then squish it into things? I can’t help feeling they ought to provide a tiny fork or something. Or some instructions.

It does turn out though, that dogs love sushi. Every single dog in the park came sniffling over, nosing through the grass, looking for something that might have once scattered from the bench and the plastic tray next to me.

Well they’re not having any of my Revels. For one thing, they’re chocolate, which is famously poisonous, and for another, they’re mine, and I’m enjoying them.

THE LOOP OF IMAGINARY CRITICAL FEEDBACK

I’m trying to write something for a book, but I’m going through a really weird loop of imaginary critical feedback.

I think this might be a modern phenomenon, a result of everyone’s ability to self-publish on the Internet. As I said once before, we’re all experts on everything these days.

That isn’t a problem. Having a voice is a good thing, and expressing an opinion ought to be a right that we all have access to. The problem, at least for me today, is that I am a nobody shouting into a void of nobodies, and there’s entirely no reason why anyone should read my attempts at vaguely pointing out the obvious.

Enter the loop of imaginary critical feedback. I have a fresh, original thought; I write it down; you read it and wonder how I didn’t know that already, or you totally disagree with me and argue your case; I realise my thoughts aren’t always that fresh or original, and even when they are, the best I can hope is that nobody says anything; I think twice before writing. Then, add in to that the need for gratification (likes, favourites, retweets, whatever) and it looks like I’m so insecure that I need the Internet to validate me.

That’s the loop, and I believe it’s partly the reason that flumpbook will eventually evolve into a huge network of isolated individuals pretending to be connected by sharing videos of nuns falling into swimming pools.

But it’s also making me hesitate to write for this book. I need something else, new, fresh, and really different.

You know what sparked this off? Jeff Goldblum releasing an album of jazz piano music. It almost doesn’t matter if it’s good or not, it’s Jeff Goldblum, the Hollywood actor, playing jazz. It’s uh tiny ripples uh, imperfections in the skin, it’s uh chaos theory, uh, you know what that means uh... checkmate.

I will probably still write my anyone-could-have-thought-of-this chapters. But I’m trying to do so for the love of writing, not for the love of people reading it. And I will sprinkle my own anecdotes between the not-so-deep stuff, just to keep it light. Hey, that’s how I write these blogs anyway, so it’s no different, right?

I think probably, ultimately though, I just need to stop caring what other people think. That might be far and away the best exit from of the loop.

THE TRAVELLERS RETURN, AGAIN

One of the problems with being an out-of-town business park with nice green spaces, is that we often get visited by travellers.

I'm choosing my words carefully. And I'm going to have to today, as I'm about to tread a very fine line along quite a subtle, nuanced, and cultural issue.

The business park are professional about it. They see the infringement of several caravans as an illegal invasion, and their emails always follow that line. The goal for them is to 'evict' the travellers as quickly as possible while providing 'extra security' and even 'bailiffs' to help enforce the law - which I imagine is quite clear about who can park on your property.

This seems to happen every summer I've been here. And every summer, I feel slightly sorry for the travelling community, as well as the weight of collective annoyance that hounds them out of town, everywhere they go. It's a weird mixture, because I also feel that same dismay at the mess they create, the way they treat their animals, and the lack of social responsibility they display towards their environment and their children. They really could help themselves, and everybody knows it.

However, all of that is balanced and in the middle of the road, compared to the views of one colleague I overheard yesterday.

"I wish them [perjorative term] would drive into a forest, that a tree would collapse across the entrance, and they'd all starve to death trying to get out."

... which is offensive, horrific, and quite possibly racist. And if it's you, and you know who you are, and you're reading this: you sir, should be ashamed of yourself.

Told you it was a fine line. I was disappointed that I didn't say anything. I just sat here, open-mouthed, gawping at my screen in disbelief. I ought to have stood up and said something stern.

I've seen this kind of thing before, levelled at the travellers. It bubbles under the surface for a lot of people, and as it did yesterday, sometimes it oozes out. It is true that the travelling community can be a nuisance, yes, but the very moment we use language that dehumanizes a people group, or we start to think of them as an 'infestation' that needs to be 'exterminated', we're already two short clicks away from evil.

Anyway, the travellers have been moved on now, apparently. I wish I knew more about the culture, whether they roam because nimby farmers push them from field to field, to business park, to grass verge, or whether that's what they choose regardless. I'd like to know how they feel about the rest of society, and whether education could help them (and the rest of us) be more responsible. I'd love to find out what the roots are, and whether the idea of being 'settled' itself is a fabrication, not just for them, but perhaps for everyone.

That reminds me. I heard someone say the other day that yes, they definitely wanted to settle down, absolutely, but one place at a time, and not for long. I've never heard anyone agree by stating the exact opposite before: it was quite extraordinary. I made a face and moved on.

And maybe sometimes, that's the best thing to do.

REVELS, RAIN, AND RAVIOLI

I’m stuck in the car again, while the thunderous rain hammers the darling buds of May into the ground. I know, I do this a lot.

It is chucking it down. It’s as though a thousand tiny soldiers are pelting the roof and the windscreen. And it’s relentless.

I bought a packet of Revels to enjoy in the park. They’re sitting here next to me, next to a tin of ravioli, and half-a-dozen eggs. This is my survival ration then, should the torrent continue: ravioli, Revels, and six raw eggs, just metres from my front door.

I wonder what would happen if it keeps raining like this? Would it eventually start to seep up over the tyres, into the footwell, up to the seats? I wonder if my last few moments here would be spent wishing I’d brought a tin opener, and then lamenting the number of coffee flavoured ones they put in a bag of Revels when they distribute them in the factory. It’s an outr...glug, glug.

The rain is sweeping now. It splashes in giant circles across the glass and roars against the metal roof of my car. It’s deafening. It reminds of camps, long ago, when the downpour pummelled the canvas of our tents, and we all sat inside, feeling both warm and cold all at the same time.

“The flavourings used in this product are sourced from natural sources,” I find myself reading aloud from the side of the can. ‘Sourced from natural sources’ indeed; can you source from anywhere other than a source? That would have failed my technical writing proof reading test before the label had reached the printer, I’d wager. But I don’t document cans of ravioli. It’s probably just as well.

I don’t think those Revels will make it to the park tonight. It’ll be super-soggy out there. Some other sunset for the Revels, I reckon. Meanwhile, my own choice is, as always, either to make a courageous dash for it, and get wetter than a clumsy Noah, or, to stay here and wait it out - which so far is only delaying the obvious. Say what you like, that is quite the metaphor, isn’t it?

“Ingredients: 7% cheese filling.” That’s ominous. Why not just ‘cheese’?

I don’t want to over-think that question.

I reckon it’s time to grab my things and make a mad run for it.

KENDAL MINT CAKE

One of my colleagues is back from hols and has brought in some lovely Kendal Mint Cake.

Now, halfway up a mountain when you're feeling like all your energy has been sapped by nature, a little nibble on some Kendal Mint Cake is a pickup that gives your body everything it thinks it needs. Freezing? Feeling like your red-raw fingers are going to drop-off at any minute - a square of this stuff'll soon get the blood flowing and the adrenaline coursing around your system!

In a stuffy office though, on a Tuesday morning, after a half-decent breakfast, eating a chunk of genuine, straight-from-the-lakes, original-and-best KMC... is like chomping your way through a slice of solid toothpaste.

It is so minty. In fact, it's almost all mint and sugar - enough to tingle the nostrils and sting the eyes like that teatree flavour of 'Original' shower gel.

I looked it up on Wikipedia. Apparently, Sir Edmund Hillary took some up Everest with him, in 1953.

"We sat on the snow and looked at the country far below us... we nibbled Kendal Mint Cake... It was easily the most popular item on our high altitude ration - our only criticism was that we did not have enough of it."

Shackleton too, carried it on his 1914 Endurance Expedition across Antarctica.

Endurance, the ship, was eventually sunk in pack-ice in 1915, while Shackleton and his men escaped to Elephant Island. That's quite a story of adventure, and human spirit, and who knows, maybe it wouldn't have been possible without good old Kendal Mint Cake.

Funnily enough though, the triumph of the human spirit against the elements, on a polar adventure in a brave new world, doesn't precisely map itself to a drizzly Tuesday morning in the documentation department.

And the Kendal Mint Cake, which was excellent when I was in the Lake District, suddenly seems a little sickly, a little bit unusual, and very-much out-of-place. Not that I'm not grateful for people bringing cakes in! Far from it - it's actually a really sweet tradition, and I would have done the same, probably. It's just interesting how odd a thing can seem in the wrong environment.

Of course, that might just be me.

EMERGENCY TEA BAGS

So, it turns out that there’s nothing wrong with my washing machine, and I should probably start checking my shirt pockets for ‘emergency tea bags’ from now on.

It’s a bank holiday today and I’ve been sneezing my way through the pile of washing in (and, let’s be honest, out of) the laundry basket. And I do mean sneezing; hay fever’s bad today. My nose is itchy and twitchy, and occasionally explosive.

So, as a treat (and to find some antihistamine nostril spray) I have taken myself to Waitrose for soup and a middle-class mingle. I’m not sure whether this is what you’re supposed to do on a bank holiday, but this is where I am, hiding from the pollen.

It’s my own fault for sitting out in the park last night, I suppose.

I had to though: the clouds were flashing and the sky looked like a Turner painting. I can’t ignore that kind of drama. I sat there for an hour, watching lightning silently leap between the clouds over the Chilterns and South Oxfordshire. No thunder, too far away; just the noiseless streaks of jagged brilliant white in the electric sky.

The park was empty. Just me, the summer wind, the whispering grass, and the silent lightning. I should have taken a flask of tea.

Who in the world carries ‘emergency’ tea bags? What kind of emergency was I expecting to solve by whipping out a tea bag from a shirt pocket? And where would I be that there would be piping hot water... but also no access to tea? This is England, after all.

I hope that shirt gets clean in the next wash. 

WRONG WITH STYLE

How do you get to be so cool that you can actually be wrong with style?

Do you know what I mean? I'm frequently wrong, and I don't much care for it. It's much nicer being right - you feel smart, respected, wise, looked-up-to. But whenever you turn out to be wrong about something, especially if you were adamant, your pride pops like a balloon and your brain goes into auto-pilot trying to work out either how to pretend that you never cared in the first place, or that there's a precise logic to exactly why you were wrong, which means you can sort of claim to be right after all. Dissonance resolved. And breathe out.

Sometimes we see it coming. We preface our thoughts with, "Now correct me if I'm wrong..." or, "I could be mistaken but..." which is a nifty get-out-of-jail-free card, isn't it? But, like a get-out-of-jail-free card, you can only really use it once per conversation.

Similarly, I sometimes find myself adding "... in my opinion" to the end of a thing I could be wrong about. Again, that's a neat defence-mechanism against anyone with contrary views who might be about to demolish what I've said with their own thoughts. No-one can dismantle my opinion, surely? And even if they could, stating it as an opinion makes it more flexible when the new information I’m about to learn, suddenly deconstructs my opinion for a pile of poo.

So, how do you get to be so cool that you know how to surf in the contentedness of actually being wrong about things, without resorting to these tactics?

Here's another interesting angle. Would you be pleased if someone took your advice but didn't realise that you had advised them to do it, and had subsequently wrestled the solution into being their own idea in the first place? There's a part of me that finds that tough, but the outcome for them is exactly the same, so what does it matter?

Mike asked me a question the other day. He asked me whether it was better to matter to other people, or for what you do for others to matter. I was annoyed because I knew the answer. Imagine that!

Anyway, if what I do for others matters more, then I have got to stop worrying about being wrong, because that's all in the realm of 'wanting to matter' or 'wanting to be important'. And ironically that doesn't matter at all. Not really. Oh! And you know why: because the people who really matter in your life will probably not be bothered anyway, about whether you're wrong. Attitude speaks louder than words sometimes.

So, how do you do it? How do you get so cool that you can handle being wrong when people correct you? That's what I want to be like, instead of arguing about grammar, or theology, or science, or the length of the Amazon, and then having to eating humble pie like a red-faced buffoon?

Anyway, a thing to learn is that being wrong actually has the power to be tremendous. While it might feel like a big old cross-mark printed across your face, it actually means there might be something to learn by listening a bit better. I'm not surprised that I've ended up back there. That is definitely a skill I want to get better at. I'm not a brilliant listener at all.

Then, I could be wrong about that, I suppose.

A PIECE OF CAKE

While my metaphor engine coughs and splutters into a sort of marmalade jelly, the rest of my brain has spent the afternoon leading me quite astray.

“You need cake!” it whispered to me at about three o’clock. Cakey, cakey, cakey, cake.

“You know what I think I need?” I said whimsically reflecting out-loud in Erica’s direction.

“Cake.”

Hmm.

I looked blankly at my monitor, and imagined that sweet, fluffy interior, a gooey, sticky chocolate filling, and the soft crunch of sugary icing on top. I pictured a succulent glacé cherry, glistening in the light, red and juicy against the delicate white frosting.

I licked my lips.

“It’s not anyone’s birthday, is it?” I asked hopefully. Erica shook her head and then sent me to the café, presumably to stop me from complaining.

So I went. The sun was still hot, and just at that angle where it danced colourfully in the fountain. The lake was silvery blue and the air was warm with flowers and bees and dragonflies.

But the café was empty. Not even Nathalie was there to not-remember my name and ask me whether I would go for a San Pellegrino like she usually does. Empty. And especially empty of cake.

I walked back.

“You’ll never guess what they had in the café!” I said to Erica, pretending to be excited while I flumped into my chair and unlocked my computer.

“Nothing?” she said, laughing.

“Nothing,” said I, doubly disappointed. “Not a thing. Even Old Mother Hubbard would have given up.”

I thought that was clever. Of course, it wasn’t; Erica thought I was being rude about Nathalie! I dug myself out of that hole in an all-too familiar fashion.

Still craving cake, I went to Stockholmhaven after work. I should have known better. Slicing into their chocolate fudge cake was like trying to cut up some bread with a fork. It was alright but it was more kids’-birthday-party-cake than homemade-bakery-wonder. I think it’s given me a headache.

It turns out my brain was more fussy than I realised. Thanks a lot, brain. And I didn’t even have the self-control to resist! I’m sure this is supposed to be easier.

Oh well.

NOT A SALES GUY

I'm quite grateful I don't work in sales. Sales people seem to just disappear without warning.

One minute, they're sending round 'win notifications' with big numbers in euros, or dollars or yen, or whatever; the next, poof! What happened to so-and-so?

When they are here, the professional sales executives also seem to skirt around on the edges of stress in a way that's somehow both confident and tetchy. They enter the kitchen, swinging a mug on a finger and then exhale slowly, deflating tanned cheeks.

Then they remember why they're there and start punching numbers into the Borg Assimilator Coffee Machine.

It's high pressure, anyway, isn't it, that job? You have to pretend to be confident (or actually convince yourself anyway, in which case, what's the difference?) that the thing you're outrageously-enthusiastic about is going to solve all your customers' problems, end world-hunger and solve the crisis in the Middle East if they use it properly, and not accidentally let slip that it's been patched together with the equivalent of gaffa-tape, that morning. That cognitive dichotomy must fragment the soul.

Then, presumably, you wander into the kitchen, pondering ways to avoid thinking about the stuff you're selling, when you're confronted with one of the people who built it for you.

Breathe out. Punch numbers. Drink coffee.

I couldn't fragment my soul like that, I think. My face would give me away. A perceptive client would take one look at my red cheeks, ballooning above an uncomfortable looking shirt and tie, and ask me for an honest answer. I'd have to give it, or flee the building like Joseph on the way out of Potiphar's. Well, with more clothes on, but an equal sense of impending consequence.

Either way, I'd be sacked, probably - another so-and-so who was here one day, and vanished the next, without so much as a sniff at the Card of Many Signatures or a leaving do, clutching car keys and a P45.

Nope. I'll stick to writing about stuff I don't really understand, in documents that no-one pays much attention to. It's worked for me so far.

POLLEN DIARIES: PART 12

Oh brilliant. The old hay fever's back. With clockwork regularity, the season began and I drove to work today, sneezing loudly, and interrupting the radio.

My eyes are itchy too. They have been for a few days, I just didn't realise it was that time of year already. It's as though someone has rubbed chilli powder into my eyelashes. Rubbing, blinking, crying, sleeping, all seem like very effective ways to make it a whole lot worse.

So, strap yourselves in, people: it's time for my annual moan at how the nicest time of year coincides with the most annoying, how flowers are making it look like I've been punched in the face, and how expensive and feeble, medication is. Oh, and how for the nth year in a row, I've forgotten to eat locally produced honey (£7 a pot from the farm shop) or matcha (Junko's recommendation) other than in terrible tasting smoothies.

I looked up info online about hay fever. Sure, it's grass, not flowers, that's beating me up, and yes, there's a strong chance it might be genetic. Though I don't see the Intrepids spluttering through the garden while they sip earl grey and talk about how jolly nice the weather is.

Also, I was oh so deeply cheered to read this:

"The symptoms themselves do not come from the pollen, they come from you."

Thanks.

"Histamine is a chemical reaction produced by the body when it mistakenly thinks the immune system is under threat. When pollen enters the body of an allergy sufferer, it triggers the production of histamine, which then creates an inflammation of the nose and throat, along with all other symptoms."

Source: Who can cut it?

Thanks a lot, histamine. You're a bit like the US army, destroying a city while trying to stop Godzilla destroying a city. Is there any way at all, that my brain could convince you that I'm not actually under attack and you can stop inflaming my nostrils and my throat, or turning my eyes red?

But you can't exactly control your own chemistry can you? All you can do is trick it into believing that Godzilla is a feature, rather than a defect, and it would be better if we left him alone to get bored and jump back into the Pacific.

You know - I'm not entirely certain that the hay fever hasn't corrupted my metaphor engine. What in the world am I talking about?

If you need me, I'm on the way to the pharmacy.

THE SEASON OF SINGING

Have you ever been in a situation where everyone else is utterly relaxed and cool, but you feel as though there’s a knot, a tangle, a tense mess, going on inside of you?

That’s where I’m at. I’m winched to safety, rescued by the helicopter, and maybe on my way to freedom, but somehow my heart is still lost at sea.

The service to celebrate Heather’s life was beautiful. Her sister told stories of when they were young, her brother continued with a mix of typical Heather - surrounded by nature, kind, generous, sensible and disciplined. Then Paul himself brilliantly recounted some of the stories of their lovely marriage: some I knew; some I didn’t. Rory and I led the worship, holding it together on the edge of tears throughout. There was a message about Heaven, and then, in the most arresting of segments, a photo-tribute, over an acoustic version of ‘Oceans’ by Brooke Fraser.

The reservoir for me, and many others, burst.

Smiling from the past, Heather, in all her beauty beamed radiantly at the camera. A baby, a toddler, a little girl gathering flowers on Cornish rocks, a teenager in school uniform holding a puppy, a beautiful young lady gazing at us with translucent green eyes. Then a wife, peering up at the spiky-haired Paul on a day we all remembered, or years later on holidays long gone, on bikes, in the sea, holding hands, together. It was too much for me. As the final shot of my friend Heather, short-haired, beautiful, bursting with faith, love, hope and confidence, faded into brilliant white, I collapsed into my hands and cried. I was not alone.

Perhaps the toughest part is the moving on. The when, the how, the next, the normal. The new normal. I texted Paul today and suggested a catch up. It’s tough sometimes to know what the right moment is - I guess I’m trying to be him, if it were me, if ever I could be.

And so to tonight. As the world celebrates a royal wedding and love, that most delicate and beautiful of things, is almost tangible in the air, I can’t relax in this atmosphere. My heart is tense, and my body exhausted. The sunset is calm and the birds are singing as they always do while the sky turns from day to night. Lazy barbecue smoke drifts from the valley, and an owl hoots somewhere. Gently in the pale pink sky, the thin crescent moon hangs between the first few brave stars of night. Birdsong.

‘The season of singing’ I whisper to myself. It’s from a verse that was read out at Windsor today, as well as being part of Heather’s service this week. It’s from Song of Songs 2. Perhaps, I wonder, this is how it is to be: after the winter rains, when suffering is done and loneliness is ended forever, perhaps when the sun rises and all creation bursts into life in the fresh cool light of the day, perhaps then singing is to be heard once again in our land as the bridegroom calls us to come away with him.

I hope so, I think to myself, out here in the sunset park. I lift my eyes to the horizon and slowly breathe in, ready to sing, to softly enchant the valley with the quietest and most heartfelt of melodies.

My eyes sting, once again with tears and I swallow the lump in my throat.

SMOOTHIE BALANCE

Today's smoothie contains: spinach, kale, apple, lime, coconut water, matcha, cucumber. I can indeed confirm, with very little tolerance for error, that this combination is vile.

I suppose it stands less chance of fermenting or exploding. It's green sludge, but it's stable green sludge.

I've definitely got the balance wrong; it tastes as though I've scooped it out of a waste-disposal unit.

The nutritionist said I should up the number of vegetables and lower the number of fruits, to reduce all those natural sugars. But it turns out it was the natural sugars that made it tasty, of course. And the tang of the lime just doesn't go with the leafy green of the spinach, without something soft and pulpy to smooth it out. And so I have ended up imbibing neither.

In other news, there's something wrong with my car. Shortly after I discovered that today's smoothie tasted like rotting socks, my car somehow swerved itself into the McDonald's Drive-Thru, and made me order an Egg McMuffin. I scratched my head for a while, wondering what had happened. I think it might be to do with the steering.

So, too fruity and it blows up in the office; too veggie and it's undrinkable stodge. Too dry and it's impossible to blend; too watery and it's insipid, like mouldy rainwater. It's hard to get it right sometimes. Maybe I should take Sammy's advice and get frozen smoothie packs instead of all that chopping and blending.

And I really should get my car fixed.

ALL THE DOGS IN THE UNIVERSE

There are lots of different types of dog, aren’t there? In the known universe, in all the reaches of the cosmos, within thousands of millions of light years, there are hundreds of different types of dog. And yet they’re all on Earth. And mostly in this park. What are the odds?

The usual sunset rigmarole then. I sit here, the wind gets chilly as the light fades, and I suddenly hear panting behind me. Then a person, either a lady with hands in her back pockets, or a gent on a ramble down the hill, walks by with a dangling lead, or one of those tennis ball chuckers. Moments later their dog appears, pants toward me, and then sniffs my trainers.

“Chester!” (or whatever) calls the walker, first in a sing-song voice.

“Hello!” I say to the dog in a friendly, surprised way. Chester ignores his master, and has a go at my shoelaces instead.

The second shout is always imperious. It takes me by surprise how little it has to do with me, the only other human in the equation. It should be no surprise that dog-owners value their dogs more than they do strangers, but it is, somehow still alarming, every time. For a moment I wonder which of us they would rescue first, if the dog and I were somehow trapped in ice. I know though.

“Chester! Come on!”

The crossness works, and Chester scuttles off after his owner, tail wagging happily in the fresh air as he disappears into the long grass. Soon the dog-walker is gone too, and I can listen to the birds again, until the next pug, spaniel, or terrier comes panting up behind me.

All the dogs on one planet. Amazing. I’ve not seen an Afghan Hound or a St Bernard here though. Maybe if I stayed long enough in the park, I would. I think an Afghan Hound would be too posh to sniff my manky old shoelaces. A St Bernard would slobber all over them probably, and that experience alone would be unpleasant enough for me to crack open the little keg of brandy it carries. Then the owner would have to talk to me.

It must have its moments, owning a dog. They say dogs are always pleased to see you. They forget quickly, and forgive easily - as though they were genetically programmed to be the opposite of cats. I like that. I don’t much like the idea of the maintenance though. I’ll happily sit here of an evening and have my trainers examined by curious canines but the thought of turning a squelchy plastic bag inside out, and scooping it into a waste bin... makes me heave a bit.

I like the park though. And the dogs of the universe do too, it seems. And they are welcome.

THE BUTTERCUP TEST

I’m back in the park with the cool kids. Actually I think it’s a different group of cool kids this week, with better taste in music and an understanding of the concept of volume control.

The buttercups are out. The green grass is swathed in bright gold. Seas of flowers stretch down the hill and round the corner out of sight. It’s really sweet.

I reckon butter was a brighter yellow back in the old days when they got their name. Cows ate proper grass I suppose. These flowers, at least, the ones closest to me here by the bench, are a rich yellow ochre, almost an orange. The butter in my fridge is white by comparison. But colours have never been my strong point.

They’re definitely cups though. I thought about holding one under my chin to find out whether I like butter (as the old saying goes) but three immediate things occurred to me: you can’t see under your own chin, I have a beard anyway, and I already know I do like it, because I’m me.

But wait a mo. Even if that were a true thing, surely the ‘buttercup test’ was only ever useful for people who had an important reason to hide their butter-liking-preferences from you (I don’t know, something to do with floral espionage, I bet Agatha Christie worked it into a Miss Marple or something) yet you still somehow had managed to tie them down and wave petals under their face against their will, or a completely mute person suffering from a bout of amnesia while contemplating eating one of two differently made sandwiches on a picnic.

These really are the cool kids. They’re listening to Whitney Houston’s I Wanna Dance with Somebody, circa 1987. They’re talking about their upcoming prom - which seems to be a sort of political method for figuring out who likes whom, and who therefore shall dance with whom, before they all finish their exams and (dramatically) never see each other again.

It was easier in the old days I reckon. You just worked out whether you both liked butter.

THE RESERVOIR

I’ve got to be honest, I feel like I’m holding back a reservoir, and it’s only a matter of time before it breaks.

I don’t know what will happen at that moment. I might just crumble, collapse, be useless for a while, while I sob it out. The waters, the massive, heavy waters of this reservoir will swallow me in a roar and sweep me out of sight.

I don’t think there’s any shame in being emotional; a lot of men are, though most of us try to hide it. We say to ourselves that the man-thing to do is to control it, to channel it, tame it, hold it back, like a lion, like a storm, like a reservoir.

We are wrong, I think. But, here I am, muscles twitching as I hold myself just the acceptable side of tears. There are three reasons why, and it’s occurring to me that I haven’t yet dealt with any of them.

There’s a helplessness to real crying. It’s not like the delicate moment of a movie. No piano twinkles in a minor key, no strings swell through the octaves. The light is bright or the music loud. And then your face collapses into a mess, that of an uncontrollably distorted, red-cheeked, blubbering baby. And that’s embarrassing, because we can’t help it.

But it’s also good. And it’s good because it’s real. And nothing brings people together like being real. We’re designed for honesty, for openness and for the joy of connection. It might take me a while, as I figure out how, but I think it might be time to stop holding on, to let go, and to let those waves and breakers finally crash over me.

IF I CLOSE MY EYES, I’M IN THE WOODS

If I close my eyes, I’m in the woods. I can see the tall, silent trees, and the sunlight that winks through the green-leaf canopy. I can smell the fresh, damp earth. I can hear the birds chirruping above. I can feel the peace.

Beeches and elms, slender silver birch and pine - the dryads and the ancient Ents whisper their secrets to each other upon the breeze. I stretch out a hand to to touch the cracked bark and the soft, dry moss that clothes their twisting arms.

Underfoot, my boots crunch cones and twigs, and settle on the springy soil. Insects scurry on rocks and roots, and the bracken rustles with life.

A wood pigeon hoots, calling happily through the trees, and somewhere distant, another answers. Above, below; below, above. The woods are alive. Perhaps more alive than I am.

I open my eyes. A lampshade. The ceiling. The electric glow of my bedside light, the soft sound of late night music, muffled through the walls. Sadness returns as I remember that wood. Perhaps it only exists in my dreams. Perhaps it’s more than that. Perhaps one day I will get to stay, and all those I love will be there, calling each other through the trees as we meet, laughing at the wonder, the absurdity, the long-forgotten pain of all we endured in that other place.

I blink away a tear. Then I close my eyes once again, hoping for just one glimpse through the trees, one voice, just one voice of many, calling me up and in to the greater and the deeper. The birds sing. The wind rustles the leaves. The ceiling fades to sky and the glorious sun beams from the bedside lamp as the song begins and the world ends.

If I close my eyes, I’m in the woods. And one day, I’ll get to stay.

HOLIDAYS IN CHERNOBYL

Had a good old moan today. You know the kind of thing: a therapeutic vent, a whinge, a classic expulsion of old-fashioned rantery.

Clive had got me started on tourism. I said I didn’t like it when a tourist attraction (The Eiffel Tower, the Grand Canyon, the Isle of Capri, etc) was spoiled by actually being a massive tourist attraction. Take a weekend break to Paris, I wagered, and any day of the year, several hours of your trip will be consumed by queuing up, with other tourists. I don’t believe anyone goes to a tourist attraction for the other tourists; neither do I think you get an authentic experience of a place which is famously beautiful, serene, grand... when it’s continually surrounded by people on holiday. They never show the crowd in the brochures, do they? Yet 365 days per year, in daylight hours... there they are, blocking the light.

But of course, as I went on, I realised the inbuilt hypocrisy of trying to be a tourist without being a tourist. I am the crowd; the crowd is me. Perhaps some things you just have to live with. Like me, moaning over-dramatically to comic effect in the office. Clive chuckled at that.

Marie, who’d been eavesdropping a few desks away, sent me a link to holidaysinchernobyl.com, or whatever it was; some enterprising scheme offering holidays in unexpected places - including Chernobyl, the radioactive Ukrainian wasteland, devastated by a nuclear reactor explosion in 1986.

“Physics, history, protected wildlife. And no crowds!” she said, pointedly.

The link showed pictures of plants strangling crumbled soviet brickwork, empty shells of houses, and decaying concrete chimneys jabbing into a dull grey sky.

I have got to stop complaining at work.

MICRO-BREWERY

There's a sweetness to the light today - just that sort of once-a-year thing when the angle of the sun is just right, and the clement weather and that post-bank-holiday-weekend-feel-good-factor combine to light the office in a sort of ethereal, bright, morning hope. Probably.

It's also because by sheer coincidence, all the managers have gone on an off-site jolly and are not here. As I'm sure you know, managers generate meetings like mass generates gravity, so when they're off at some hotel or other, having the heaviest meeting of meetings and bouncing their planet-sized egos around, it means the rest of us are deliciously meeting-free, unshackled from the constraints of the conference room, the dim projector, the drawn blinds, and the exhausting dynamics.

What a perfect time then, to start your own micro-brewery at your desk.

"You can do whatever you like," said someone, "As long as we don't have to call the police."

Brilliant.

I'm going to point out then, that the whole thing was an accident. I didn't mean to do it. I was sitting here, minding my own business in fact, when it happened.

Something popped. Loudly, like a balloon, or a champagne cork, but deafening, and right next to my ear. It was enough to stop the office. The usual sound of tapping keyboards dropped to a deathly silence.

"What was that?" asked a colleague.

"I have no... idea," I said, checking to see whether a computer had blown up. There was no smoke - always a good sign, and no flaming wreckage. I was alright, just surrounded by a sea of peering faces. Had there been any managers here, those faces would have been joined of course, by what we can only describe as 'helpful suggestions'.

It reminded me of one time when an alarm was going off. Offices are highly susceptible to the annoyance of uncancelled alarms, chiming phones or repetitive ringtones. Whenever something beeps, there is a grand inquisition, followed by a swift, muttering, group-castigation of the offender.

"It's definitely not me!" I protested that time, while the alarm was still resounding. I had my new phone on my desk, on silent. It couldn't be anything to do with me and I was adamant.

Hilarity (of sorts) ensued moments later, when Tim wandered around cocking his ear to find the source of his irritation, and I suddenly realised that it was my old phone (the one I had 'lost' in London), in my bag, under my desk.

This time, after today's loud popping sound, I was wary, and less inclined to disavow all knowledge of it - just in case.

However, today, I did quickly become aware of the brew bubbling up and out of my blender cup, where today's smoothie was slowly turning into alcohol. The lid had popped off like a jack-in-the-box.

"Er. What was in that thing?"

"Oh, um, plum, raspberry, apple, kale, blueberries, matcha, banana, pear," I said, reeling off the list from yesterday's chopping board while holding it up like a chemical experiment.

Well, whatever combo it was, it was fizzing like acid, and I had to take it to the kitchen to prevent it from bubbling over my desk and eating its way through the wood.

My next problem was disposing of the fruity mulch. You can't pour thick chunky gloop down the drain, so I decided to decant it into a paper cup and then put the whole lot in the bin.

Easier said than done. I held it upside down over the cup and waited. The bottom was still fizzing, but the top, a viscous mass of glump, stayed stuck. I shook it. Nothing happened. So I tapped it.

Still nothing.

So I hit it again.

All at once, the fermenting mass of fruit burst out into the cup, knocked it over and plopped everywhere, and in all directions.

I don't know why these things happen to me.

I cleared that up with kitchen roll, wiped down my glasses, rinsed out the empty blender cup, and washed my hands. Then I found an old Krispy Kreme plastic bag in a cupboard, tightly wrapped the paper cup in the plastic and slipped the whole lot into the bin, as planned.

"Tightly wrapped?" asked someone, when I recounted the tale. "Do you not think you should maybe have popped a couple of air holes in the bag?"

I sighed.

Yeah maybe.

Still, the light is nice today, and the sun is at just the right angle. Right?

HAT IN THE RIVER

It’s been a very hot day today. And also, unusually at the same time, a bank holiday.

I thought it might be nice to cook a little pasta meal and eat it in the sunset in the park. I like it when the deep shadows fall across the long grass, when the lowering sun turns the leaves golden and the heat fades as the birds sing goodnight.

What I’ve ended up with is: 

sharing the sunset, the silence, and the beauty of the end of the baking day... with two guys booming loud, homophobic, profanity-laced rap across the valley. It seems too, that the best way for them to cope with this ridiculous music, is to surround themselves in clouds of green-looking smoke.

There are kids in this park.

What’s the point of this stuff? These two jokers are cycling through tracks which sound pretty much identical. Samples repeat over heavy, thudding beats and headache-inducing sirens and beeps. Then a voice that sounds like it wants to beat you up, riffs over the top of all of that, about crack, blacked-out windows and all manner of other things that don’t belong in a suburban park.

They’ve angled the speaker towards me. What a treat.

I won’t be intimidated though, not even by this antisocial irresponsibility. But what is the right thing to do? I imagined phoning the police for a moment. A quick calculation of outcomes though and I decided against it.

What would happen, I wonder (and I’m obviously not going to do it) if I brought out my own Bluetooth speakers and boomed out some Beethoven, or some Verdi from just a couple of park benches along.

Two wrongs rarely make it right. And teenagers aren’t typically brilliant at working out a point about the nature of responsibility, however subtly it is made.

All I can do, I think, is sit it out for a while. It won’t stay this warm, this light, this pleasant.

However, I’m not going to win this battle of wits. Some foul-mouthed girls have just turned up with chinking plastic bags, and the boys are settling into an age-old pattern of escalating bravado. Up goes the music. Soon they’ll light a fire and be out here with the Moon.

I put too much chilli in my pasta-conglomerate. Veggie mince, tomatoes, red and yellow peppers, a spoonful of marmite, a handful of cheese, and too much chilli powder.

The boys have turned the music down so that they can talk to the girls without shouting over it. Romance saves me again. Although, this a very loose sort of romance indeed, and mostly, the girls are trying to impress the boys by bragging about how much they drink. 

My mind is lost in 1995 for a while. A sunny evening by the river, trying hard to work out the dynamics of the circle of friends, spread across the grass and talking in a way they never usually talk. Was there booming music? Eminem? The Fugees? I can’t remember. Clinking bags of bottles and cans? Probably. All I really remember is that a girl threw my Reebok hat into the Thames, and I went home, thinking about the choices I would need to make. Purity or friends, compromise or... loneliness.

But everything is so short-sighted when you’re seventeen. There is no way to imagine, to see, to forecast what the world is like, or why a temporary choice looks painful, but is ultimately the wisest thing to do. Worst of all, the people who know what you don’t, and even things you don’t yet know that you don’t know, are exactly the kind of sad-looking figures who sit a couple of park benches away, looking whimsically at the trees, and eating spicy pasta.

Turn up the volume. Angle the speaker. Be angry and hard and cool if you like. Maybe the grown-ups will get the message and leave you in peace.

THE LAST FEW DAYS

I’ve been writing a lot these last few days, just not posting. I think I’m ready though. It’s been quite difficult. Here’s my diary, as it unfolded. I apologise if it is overly personal. I guess, you don’t have to read it, but if you do and you think I’ve said too much or broken a confidence then you can tell me.

May 2: Frozen

I don’t know how you talk about somebody dying. It’s ultimately a personal and private thing - one person goes through it at a time, those closest to them go through it in the moments and the weeks that follow, and the rest of us go through it in waves, freshly sweeping over us each time as the news gets sent further and further afield and we remember.

Eight years ago, a friend of mine died in a terrible car accident. She was 20, and as always with these things, ‘full of life’ as the newspapers reported. Except Keziah really was - she was bursting with the stuff, as though she had had pure joy hard-coded into her DNA. To lose her, for all of us, felt like a fuse had blown, and the party had suddenly been plunged into darkness. Nobody knew what to say.

I remembered that today. Because this morning, my friend Heather slipped into Heaven after a two year battle with cancer.

I walked around the lake.

Rain spotted out of the thick grey sky and the wind bustled through the tall trees in their early summer plume. It felt cold for May. And I needed to process it all as it swirled and massed and swilled around me.

I know the answer to my question. I know what you’re supposed to say: focus on the joy they brought, the love they gave, the difference they made. You remind yourself of how you laughed, the fervour of their prayers and the kindnesses they shared with you. And as I’m sure the coming weeks will prove, with Heather, those things were all super-abundant, wrapped together in her extraordinary, unstoppable faith and determination. She was, is and always will be, lovely.

And that isn’t even the half of it.

But it’s too soon for eulogising. It’s too soon for any of it. That’s why I’m not posting this yet, or perhaps even ever. Today is just numb, frozen like anaesthetic. Nothing seems real. The eulogies fit much later in the path of grief, when shock has given way to acceptance and thankfulness.

For now, today, my job is to be what I can be for Paul (Heather’s husband), my best friend; right at this minute, that means giving him maximum space for his family, but also being in a drop-everything state at the other end of a phone call, if and when it should come.

True then. I don’t know how to talk about it. It feels like a weird dream that isn’t really happening. Perhaps, day-by-day it will get easier, and the tears will dry and the sun will shine. For Heather of course, that’s already happened. But the rest of us are still just this side of the pain of losing her, in a world which diverges from the path, which spins us into this unspoken direction, and which will never be quite the same again. And that hurts a lot.

May 3: Distraction

Today I seem to be doing everything I can to put it out of my mind. Work hard, fast, diligently concentrate, bury myself deep in the screen of Excel spreadsheets and pinging emails. Problems I can solve are replacing the problems I cannot, and my purpose and ability are reassuring themselves, while I type furiously in the art of distraction. My job feels... useful.

Someone says something funny; I laugh, and my face reminds me that I haven’t used those muscles since my face grew tight with sorrow. Guilt follows, swiftly, predictably and silently. I remind myself that this will happen a lot, this sweep of pain. It’s like spring rain clouds on the horizon.

Do I tell my colleagues what has happened? Will I break down if I do that? I have a feeling that they will send me home, and right now, I need to be anywhere else, and around people. I decide to say nothing, and bite my lip to ease the pain.

More guilt. The getting-on-with-life, while necessary and unexpected by no-one, suddenly seems like a huge betrayal of my friend. So soon? Not everyone even knows yet. As far as I know it’s not even public knowledge.

-

Gareth phoned me. He said there was something he needed to tell me.

I had to tell him I already knew. Then I wondered suddenly whether it should have been my responsibility to tell him, instead of the other way round! Paul had not specified yesterday what to do with the news when he first told me what had happened. I quickly reasoned that that was not a thing to feel guilty about. I was grateful that Gareth had taken the time anyway. Then, moments later, Paul emailed everybody to let them know, and told the world on social media. And so.

Shockwaves.

May 3: Shockwaves

Shockwaves is right. You hold your breath when the lightning flashes. You count, each calm and silent second, ticking off a finger of one hand in the darkness, ready for... thunder... booms! It cracks open the sky.

I need to cry.

I’ve been okay so far: calm, pragmatic, rational, getting on with it. Now suddenly my eyes sting and my heart pounds. My face burns and my eyes cloud over. I’m losing control. It’s okay, I think.

Like the thunder after the lightning, I knew it would come, this moment. The unbearable shockwave has been rippling and rolling towards me. And now It’s here.

I sob into my hands and hot tears tumble down my cheeks. Flash goes the lightning, crack goes the thunder. For a brief moment, it seems, this storm has me crumbling to pieces.

Once, long ago, the Stormbreaker stood in the bow of our boat, spray crashing around him, his hair wild against the wind. The dark sky roared, the wind drowned our voices and shook us to the floor of our battered craft. Light flashed, rain spiked, and as one, we, men of soil and men of sea, we clutched wood and rope, with drenched, aching fingers, bound to the boat by little more than blind fear.

Not so, him. He shouted, the Stormbreaker. Some of us hadn’t heard him do that before. From a deep unspoken well of raw emotive force, his voice soared on the wind with a fierce and terrible song. I saw him lift his arms toward the clouds, hands balled into fists against the black angry sky.

“Peace!” he cried. “Be... still!”

Shockwaves is right. My face is a mess: part rain, part exhaustion, part tear-stain. I breathe out slowly. The storm will rumble again, but rain will refresh the earth. Grief is great and terrible, necessary and beautiful, devastating and disorientating. 

A shadow falls across the grass, long against the evening.

-

Mabel called to chat about something she’s doing for the worship team. I was just about to get out of the car and walk to the Co-Op. I stayed, sitting there in the driving seat.

At the end, she said:

“And how are you doing, Matt?”

And that was that. For a while I talked, breathing slowly, balancing on the edge of tears, trying to be okay. Then, almost effortlessly somehow, we found ourselves chatting about the lovely memories we had had with Heather and Paul.

“I met her when she was fifteen years old,” I heard myself say, remembering the beautiful summer of 2001. Paul and I were running youthwork at a conference in Portrush, Northern Ireland, along with a few others. We all stayed together in a big house, painted yellow, overlooking the Antrim coast.

There was a young girl there from Cornwall, who had volunteered to do her work experience with us, in Christian ministry, as she knew she didn’t want to end up doing anything other than serving God.

I remember being totally amazed by Heather - I’d not met a young person with quite so much fire and determination! She radiated beauty inside and out. Perhaps the only other teenager like that was Paul himself, who was eighteen, and already way more spiritually mature than I was in my early twenties. I had a feeling that I knew what would eventually happen, and three years later, sure enough, they got together in a miraculous way... but that is not my story to tell. That day, the day he told me they were together, I sat in the park and realised just how right a right thing could be.

The lights flickered on in the Co-Op car park.

Mabel told me a funny story about Heather’s hen night, when she didn’t know her all that well. I remarked on how Heather had always had an inbuilt drive, a pursuit, even a passion, for holiness.

Then there was the youth stuff we’d done in Reading, driving around in Paul’s yellow car; the camps, the conferences, the groups, the sessions, the times we had, the accident we were in, the people we’d counselled, the things we’d seen, the times we’d had.

I need a hug today. That’s a statement of fact, not a cry for help. I’d like a big brother, like a bear, to wrap me up and let me sob uncontrollably into his arms. It’s okay though - I’m sure there is time for that. I’m sure there is someone for that.

“Just be there for Paul,” texted my friend Mike, “That’s the best thing you can do.”

True. I texted him. He almost certainly won’t reply yet, but it’s okay. Journeys have stages and life has seasons. Right now, my walking boots are at the door and my rucksack is ready for whenever my friend of twenty years needs me the most.

May 4: Friends

“I don’t know whether you’re free tonight but I’d be up for watching a film...” he replied. And so it was that I did drop everything (housework, actually) and went to see Paul.

I believe that in some crazy way, the two of us did each other the world of good. Paul and Matt, oldest and best of friends, doing well to be as real as we could have been, under the circumstances. I went home, a pile of my DVDs under my arm, feeling a surging sense of something like hope. Paul, I think, had appreciated me there, and I had taken Mike’s advice and my friend Sarah’s advice, to be as myself as I could be.

I also found a WhatsApp message from Heather today. She had wished me a happy birthday and had sent me a song to listen to. Then she’d said this, as it turns out, the last thing she said to me:

“... I want you to know today that we consider it a real honour to have you as a friend. Thank you for everything that you have poured out and for enriching our lives...”

She went on to quote that famous speech about our ‘deepest fear not being that we are inadequate but that we are powerful beyond measure...”

Later on she says this: “Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”

We are all meant to shine. Heather spent her life unconsciously doing it, allowing others to ‘do the same’. She thanked me for enriching hers and Paul’s life. I stood in their kitchen opposite smiling photos of them together, misty-eyed, while Paul cooked a risotto. I ought to be thanking her for enriching mine!

Paul smiled at me, his clear eyes sparkling with peace. I hadn’t noticed how translucent his eyes were before - clear and sharp and fierce and kind. The truth is that all of us had enriched the other in lots of ways. That, is exactly what friends do.

May 5: Start Point

The Intrepids get back tomorrow. Right the way around the world they’ve been, through time zones, oceans and cultures. I’ve missed them - especially these last few days. Sure, I crashed their car. Absolutely I’ve failed to install the freezer they got me. Yes, I failed the test of being a good brother to my sisters, and most definitely I’ve quietly suffered from paralysing depression over the last few months, but it’s still telling them about Heather I fear, more than going into any of that.

They loved her too. They knew that she was ill, and they knew how serious a thing it was, and that I think will reduce the shock. But it was still dreadful for the rest of us, when the moment came. And so it will be all over again, on the M25 on the way home.

I feel more practical today, more short-term focused on the next thing. They’ve asked me to play at the service, although I don’t know when it is. I will do my best to get through it, but it will be very difficult. I will do it because she asked me to. At least though, that is something to focus on, an end point, perhaps a start point, just a point, a milestone in the road. We all need those.

-

So that was the last few days - a tumbling skyscape of hope, sorrow, joy, faith, sadness, and memory. It’s a privilege to go through it, and though it continues, we know that whenever God brings the morning after the longest and darkest of nights, there he also brings joy. With all my wobbly faith and grieving heart I believe it.

I don’t have theology to back it up, but I’ve always wondered whether Heaven is so incredible, so amazing, that even if you had the choice to return from it, you wouldn’t ever want to. It’s turned out to be a comforting thought, right here in the vale of tears.

One day of course, all of these tears will be wiped away and we will see the dawn.