SURVIVING JANUARY

For some reason, everyone's congratulating me for getting to the end of January alive.

True, New Year's Eve does feel like it was about a calendar year ago, and certainly, this month has been long and strange - but it's definitely been... survivable... hasn't it?

Even The Trainline wanted me to breathe a big old sigh of relief.

"Congrats, you made it through January (Dry or not)! Why not treat yourself this February to a trip away? Here are some places to visit with loved ones, friends, or family..."

Thanks The Trainline. But your first two suggestions were Paris (which my family would hate) and then Cambridge (which is a weird place to take anybody, and also, where I once had a horrible experience... oh yeah, I remember... on a train)...

And anyway, what you really mean, under the cheery guise of relief... is that now we've all been paid, and the long dry and cold month of dreadful sparsity is over, we can blow a load of cash on expensive train journeys to places you suspect we might think are romantic. But we're not falling it for it, are we? Because the best way to celebrate having no money for several weeks... is definitely not... to spend a whole load of money.

February is shorter, yes. But you can only pull this trick once a year, The Trainline. And we'll be onto you in March. Or perhaps you mean that because millions of us (not many of us) took up "dry veganuary", we're ready to chuff away to Paris on the Eurostar and fill our flaky faces with red wine and le bifteck? But what would be the point of that? That's like fasting chocolate for a month and then suddenly hitting the chocs like Augustus Gloop.

Well. In any case, for me, February just feels like it's jam-packed with birthdays - including mine, and so there'll be no jaunting off to Cambridge or York on a spree, thanks. If anything, navigating my way through the multiple social occasions of February seems like more of a survival-run. Like Gladiators from the 90s:

"Introverts ready!" (Scottish accent)

Anyway, I'll be alright. I will survive, just like I survived my way through January (apparently). It is okay though if I don't get a round of applause for it at the end of the month though. 

FACTS AND FIGURES

Then, looming out of the atmosphere in a way that might have been fully expected but was also still somehow a shock, came the R word.

"Redundancies may be necessary... efficient operating model... go-forward position... future collaboration... consultation period..."

Funny how words jump out, isn't it? The careful phrasing, the legally crafted tone, the critical balance between compassion and ruthlessness, the turning point where 'my door is always open' turns out to have been the platitude it always was. An almost audible sigh of resignation flooded the room as the email landed, followed by the sound of anxious keyboard tapping.

That's what that 'facts and figures' day was about in Borg HQ then - the raw numbers that float between columns on spreadsheets: jobs, salaries, lengths of service, and 'synergies'.

But there are more than just figures on a spreadsheet aren't there? Behind the one hundred and forty jobs here, are one hundred and forty figures. And behind them are thousands of other figures and facts: husbands, wives, children, families, homes, pensions, hopes, worries, marriages, futures - all affected in one way or the other while the R word ripples out of the fog.

I sat at my computer, thinking it through in the silence. What did I want? What would I choose for me? What will happen to my job, and am I okay with it, either way? There was no doubt at all that the storm was sharpening my mind.

I closed my eyes. Deep green waves, a tiny boat, white foam, deafening wind, and dark night. Rain-lashed wood, the drenched faces of fear, lit by the momentary bursts of lightning. Torn sails. Splintered mast. And there, nestled in the bow: a man, curled up, fast asleep, oblivious to the terror around him. One figure, one unassailable fact. He knew.

I smiled at my screen. I can be that peace, even if everything is about to change. I don't think I am at risk actually (nor any of my team so far), but it's not true to say I'm not affected - we're all affected; we're all figures in the drama. I just hope I can be the best I can be in the middle of the storm.

THE ATMOSPHERE OF THE TRAVELLING BIGWIGS

Sometimes I don’t like being sensitive to atmospheres. It makes it much more difficult to know what to do.

A few of the bigwigs at work flew over to Borg HQ last week and they’re all back in the country today. They must have been anticipating the questions they'd be asked in the office. What will the collective decide to do with us? What’s our future? What do you know that you’re not allowed to share?

I felt that tension. It swirled around like a maelstrom as one person swept in this morning.

“How was it?”

“Cold.”

He deftly steered the conversation towards the environmental factors, the safe topics: air-conditioned malls that are interconnected with the hotel, the hugeness of everything, the sameness of everything, especially in America, and how the blindfolded traveller could probably find their way around if they had seen even one Stateside metropolis before. There was a ‘day of facts and figures’ of course, but that (and don’t forget, those facts and figures were the reason for the trip) was glossed over like a trivial extra.

I saw another travelling bigwig in the kitchen, while I waited for my porridge to finish in the microwave. There were colleagues there too, conversing in fast-talking French over coffees.

“How was it?” they asked him, switching to English.

“Interesting,” he said, filling a glass with water. I detected the atmosphere changing. Not ‘good’, not ‘okay’ or ‘fine’; not ‘not too bad’ either, just interesting. Then one of the French people said, perceptively:

“I love this English word, ‘interesting’! It means so much!”

He would not be drawn though. Someone else filled in the gap by saying, ‘Well, Americans are interesting,’ and then the bigwig smiled and carried his water back to his office, and that conversation was over.

The trouble is that these kind of atmospheres just multiply. You can’t ask what you want to ask straight out (that would be even more awkward) so you’re left to guess, to speculate, to wonder. Which is also awkward. Talking to others in the dark doesn’t help; in fact it just makes it worse. So what’s left?

Well. Isolation is left. Stewing at your computer, wondering to yourself what it all means. I don’t like an atmosphere sometimes.

Sparkly people have an advantage in these situations, I think. Either they don’t know what they’re sunbursting into, or they do, and they’re really not bothered about disrupting it. Hats off to them if that’s the case.

Meanwhile, the uncertain atmosphere continues. I guess knowing it makes it a bit easier to look out for other people. It seems like a poor second to being a burst of sun through the grey. It isn’t though. And I know that really.

AFTER THE SHOW

So the Peter Pan Panto went well. Three performances, each with a bit more ‘riotous improvisation’ from the cast. I’ll long remember it.

Wendy gave me a box of maltesers to say thanks for helping her with her solos. Then the whole cast gave me some lovely vouchers for my local music shop, and a card they’d all signed. Nana, the pantomime dame, gave me a cheeky wink.

It was a great experience, playing piano for a panto - even if it’s not exactly my favourite art form, or even a thing I’d been involved in before. But then - I saw the faces of the kids on stage; eyes sparkling with the buzz of performing for the first time. As shy as I had been, I found myself wishing I’d had that opportunity at that age. Something tells me I’d have liked it.

About a hundred people asked me whether I would do it again. I’m hesitant to say that I would, but only because I’m so aware of how much time it requires, and how precious that is.

I drove home happy, the tunes still rolling in my head. It was occurring to me how rare a thing that is these days, especially from work - driving home happy, I mean. I’m pretty sure life shouldn’t really be like that. But still, in a world of grown-ups, and bills, and managers, and reports, and meetings, and crumbling insecurities... it’s nice to have a few moments of wonder, of magic, and of sparkle. Isn’t it?

THE POMPOUS GRAMMAR HAT

My colleague asked me a question about the word 'criterion' and whether she should use it.

I smiled and invisibly slipped on the pompous grammar hat without realising. I do hate that hat, but there it was, making me look ridiculous again.

"It's technically right, the singular of criteria," I said, "But it's one of those words that doesn't get used very much."

The hat was fitting very nicely.

"Like datum" I went on, eyes half-closed, finger in the air (I imagined). I couldn't resist.

"No-one in their right mind would say 'datum' instead of 'data point'. Sometimes in technical writing we have to favour common use in order to make a thing clearer."

She knew all that. The hat was mansplaining.

"In fact," I said, pontificating, "Clarity is always going to win over grammatical correctness: though it pains me to say it."

It is true: the day we think of grammar and punctuation as rules to be followed rather than tools to make our sentences clear, we've lost our audience, whomever they are. My mind wandered to the Greeks, who'd used 'commas' to tell the actors where to pause in the dialogue - to the semicolons of Gertrude Stein, and the French lessons where we all learned the difference between the imperfect, the pluperfect and the future conditional tenses and wondered why we'd not learned it in English.

"I know!" she said.

"Actually, the more I think about it, clarity is entirely the point of grammar, isn't it?" said I, wonderfully.

She smiled, and then reminded me of the time I got upset in a review meeting when someone chose something that wasn't grammatically correct but was undeniably a lot clearer. Oh yes. That did happen, didn't it.

The pompous grammar hat slipped off my head and went back to its imaginary drawer.

"Lesson learned, I guess," I said, gulping, and turning back to my work. Indeed.

BREAK A LEG

And just like that, after all these months, the panto I’m accompanying hit its dress rehearsal tonight.

I made lots of mistakes - some obvious, some not, but mistakes regardless.

“Enjoying it?” asked Lindsay, scooping up her glasses from the edge of the piano in the interval. She’d left them there while being a mermaid.

“This end of the rehearsing’s alright!” I said, looking over at the stage, the lights, and the glittery props. The chaos bit through November and December, perhaps not so much, but now when it all comes together, the buzz of the performance (tomorrow and the next day), and the thrill of the stage itself, is an unshakeable joy.

And if I don’t mess it up, it’ll be even better, I hope.

“Oh it’s always a good sign if the dress rehearsal has its hiccups,” said one of the directors, almost with a knowing wink. I did wonder whether that might be one of those old theatre superstitions, but then she added, “Good luck, oh, and break a leg!” so I’m not totally sure.

She does have a point though - there’s a sharpness that can come from the last and fullest run-through, that spills over into the performance itself. I know this from bands - though I tend to only ever play one gig at a time. Similarly, an excellent practice can lead to overconfidence. No-one wants that to happen either. At least with the pantomime we have three goes at the thing. And anyway... it’s a pantomime! No-one will be in the least bothered if the stage falls over, we all forget our lines and I fumble the piano! In fact, in many ways that might even make it funnier.

And then it’ll be all over. And that will be weird for a while. Ah well.

“Enjoy it, anyway!” said the director, recovering from her good-luck-and-break-a-leg combo. Actually, I thought, that might just be the best bit of direction yet.

OUT IN THE WOODS

One of the bits of The Wind in the Willows I really like is Mole getting lost in the wild woods. I don't know why - it's always just been a bit of a picture of something grand and scary and beautiful and lonesome, all at the same time.

Ratty finds him and they do eventually find Badger's hole, which is warm and cosy, in the end, and it's all quite lovely. For me though, there's something... what's the word... resonant about being lost in the woods. So I wrote a quick poem about it. It doesn't go anywhere, doesn't make a point, doesn't have anything particular to say - it's just a kind of a thought, a picture, really I suppose. Don't read anything into it.

Out In The Woods

Out in the woods
Where the west wind blows
And the gnarled old trees
In the darkness grow
With the rustled pines
And the creaking bark
In the shadowlands
Of the falling dark

Out in the woods
Where the monsters cry
And the dryads weep
At their lullaby
Where the silver moon
In her darkness weaves
Such a slender tale
Through the fallen leaves

Out in the woods
Where the tawny sings
And the west wind blows
Through the world of kings
Out in the woods
With the rough-cut breeze
And the shadowed bark
Of those gnarled old trees

SKY WRITING

You know, sometimes I think it’d all be much easier if God just did sky-writing. You know, angels in the jet stream, zipping about, making cloud shapes into letters.

“Matt,” would ballon the vapour trails, “That thing you want to do is... O...” and there go two more angels making a K and a lovely fluffy full stop.

That would be great. It would cut out the middle man. And by the middle man I of course mean everyone who’s had a message from the Almighty that somehow needs a few thousand words to decode, either in a dry podcast, a long post on social media, or a half-hour YouTube upload, live from the bookcase.

Now, don’t get me wrong: I love a prophet. I’m not having a go at the prophets. I just wonder sometimes whether we get carried away with a small thing and turn it into a larger more flowery one, losing the gem stone in the process. Or rather, drowning the baby in the bath water, if you like a mixed up metaphor.

Oh don’t look at me like that; ‘throwing the baby out’ is just as awful a picture, and you know it.

If we had sky messages... now that would be a thing. Imagine! “2020 will be your year of breakthrough!” or “Don’t worry. Rain is coming!” Though of course, rain literally does come from clouds so that one might be a given.

We don’t have skyscribing angels though. I think he’d rather we sought out the word, than take the lazy option of just gazing upwards. And sometimes those lengthy streams of consciousness on social media have gold sewn into them - there for the finding like treasure in a field. And sometimes the gold is in the digging.

There’s precedent though. Constantine is said to have marched boldly into battle when he saw a vision of the chi-ro, an ancient Christian symbol, emblazoned in the sky above the sun. A Pictish king too, Angus MacFergus (I am not making this up) in the Ninth Century, saw the cross of St Andrew in the clouds, won a battle, and then adopted the sign as the emblem of Scotland.

So who knows, maybe God can write, “Leave your job and go and live in Tahiti,” for me tomorrow when I head out for work. That’d be nice. Though, there aren’t many clouds at all in the South Pacific, so I’d probably not be able to come back.

And that would be a shame.

READER-WRITER TIME DILATION

I was reading something earlier, that I wrote last summer. It wasn’t a thing that went anywhere, just thoughts really - though I did have an audience in mind so it was formatted to that effect.

I was recapping the story of the last ten years or so - in what turned out to be whistle stop fashion. Some of the points I made flew by with the narrative. Some made me raise an eyebrow, and some made chuckle. Not many though - and all the beats I’d obviously written in as humorous... suddenly came across as flat and mistimed.

(You know where I’m going with this, don’t you?)

It’s that old thing; when I was young I’d flick back through my daily diaries at night. Thick biro bobbled along the lines, on and through February, January, 1993, 92, 91: scrawls and scrawls of me filling each page with how I felt about friends, about school, about church, about punctuation, all in the same cringey blue ink. “How could I have been so young, so immature, so twelve?” my thirteen year old brain would wonder, gently clutching the blue pen (I thought) like Da Vinci over the newest blank page of unwritten genius.

I got the same dull feeling today, reading last year’s notes. I would rewrite the whole thing if I were to start again! Edit, edit, edit, edit! And yet at the time I remember... I was absolutely happy with it.

Time is clearly flowing differently when you write. It’s much slower; thoughts happen in between the words, little moments of subtext that you have chance to pursue as they dart along the dilated train of thought. You can twist grammar, bend the syntax, make long sentences that might tumble out of your mouth, and the voice in your head judges it well.

But your experience then is not the reader’s now. That’s a good lesson - it isn’t like recording a song or a melody on the piano; you have no real control over the playback speed. In text, the person at the other end is completely in charge of the sound desk, and by then there’s nothing you can do about it.

That’s why ten years flashed by today. All the nuanced story, the character development, the aches and pains I wanted to convey, not to mention my lame jokes and moments of wonder, all zipped on by like the 8:25 to Manchester. I was not engaged, and then I’d read the lot.

You see the irony don’t you? There’s every chance I’m making the same mistake right now. I guess you, and perhaps a future version of me who forgot this moment and wondered what this post had been about, might just be reading this a lot faster than I’m writing or thinking about it.

But I think I’ve reasoned that that’s okay. Just like me propped up in bed with my blue biro and my 1993 desk diary, this is simply practice. Finding a voice that feels right. Choosing words that swoop and glide, and a way of thinking that makes as much sense in 2023 as it might have done 30 years (or even 3) prior.

And maybe by 2023 I’ll have actually got there.

Until then I’m afraid, the cringeworthy scrawl and unfunny asides continue. And I do need the practice.

THE MAGIC ANTS OF OUTER MONGOLIA

This week, my hyperlexic nephew (3) left a whole load of coded messages around my sister’s house, using coloured letter fridge magnets.

I don’t know if they are codes, actually, though it wouldn’t surprise me: he’s amazing. Here’s my favourite:

YAK

HEX

RAP

BUG

POSES

Fridge magnets, living room carpet. What does it mean? Nobody knows! Though my mind went to a story instantly: The Magic Ants of Outer Mongolia.

It would be the tale of a colony of ants somewhere out there on the Mongol plains, who are getting fed up with being squished by massive yaks whenever the herd migrates East over their anthills. One young fast-talking streetwise ant, let’s call him DJ, gets sent out to find a colony of wizarding ants, the kind that can cast spells but don’t have a good reputation of accuracy. The elder ants on the council just don’t think it’s a good solution to their biannual squashing.

“Yak hex!” rap bug poses,

“Aim it at their slimy noses.”

It’s basically ‘A Bug’s Life’ isn’t it? Well anyway, it was nice to have a little moment of imagination. And my nephew is awesome.

THE RETURN OF HUGH GRANT

This will probably be a more frequent thing, but I had to have an in-depth conversation with an American on the telephone today.

I’ve never met an American I didn’t like. It’s hard not to make sweeping statements, because there are undoubtedly some out there who would be harder to get along with; yes, there are a lot of British people like that too. But with the sample of US citizens I currently have in my data banks, Americans come out as very likeable indeed.

What I mean (I think) is that sort of open, youthful, expansive attitude to life. Everything’s super awesome, sunny, and hopeful, and the cynicism of rainy grey days is like a foreign language. I really love that.

What I didn’t love today though, was the feeling that tiny foibles in my pattern of speech might sound accidentally rude without me knowing about it.

I had turned into Hugh Grant on the phone, interspersing everything with a flustered ‘oh golly, gosh, yes, crumbs, wowee’ (I mean who says ‘woweee’?) All the while my brain spinning into thinking things like: ‘it’s a phone, you give people a call, not a ring, don’t say fortnight, stress the first syllable, and just relax will you, you old buffoon.’

... none of which was helpful. At the end, while my accent was veering dangerously close to quick-speaking, Elgar-scale pompous, she signed off with, ‘have a great rest of your morning!’ and then corrected herself to adjust to my time zone. Hugh Grant replied, ‘and yourself!’ and then ended the call.

That’s okay isn’t it? I mean, I’m just being paranoid, right? Golly.

I remembered a conversation I had once with a colleague, a USA-chanting fan of all things Americana who lived with his mum in Hemel Hempstead. He sat in a cold pub and told me over a pint of cider about the doors my Home Counties accent might open for me in the land of the free. “They love a proper British accent, Matt, they love it!” He may as well have actually said, ‘nudge nudge, wink, wink.’ I ignored him.

I think it went okay, anyway. I hope so - and perhaps she’ll forgive the Hugh Grant foibles and odd way of speaking as the stammer of the nervous Englishman out of his comfort zone. Perhaps next time I should aim for Dick Van Dyke in the hope that my accent will correct itself and land somewhere normal between Bert and Hugh. Though I don’t want it to go too far:

“Technicle woiting you say, Mary Pawpins? Blimey Oi’ve sure got some oideas abouts how to do that, and no mistoike.”

A LATTICE OF LIGHT AND SHADE

I went for a night walk. I thought the cold air might clear my stuffy head.

I go on about the moon and the stars too much I know, but they really are so beautiful: the silver chandeliers that hang like frozen crystals, the waning pearl moon, so bright, so clear, among its amphitheatre of lit clouds. I love the night sky.

There was a stillness out there too. Last night, the wind bellowed through the trees, and the night before it had carried flecks of cold rain with it. But tonight, there was no wind - just silent, still, brittle trees lit by the street lamps. Each pollarded branch and bare twiglet touched the sky with inky fingers.

I passed a house. A lady was coughing from an upstairs window. Strange that the lights were out but the window was open on such a cold night, I thought. In others: warm sitting rooms, bright sofas and artwork, cases of books, lamps and Venetian blinds. Everyone’s house looked very homely all of a sudden. Very warm.

I don’t know if mine will ever feel like a home. I hope so.

There weren’t many cars around either - just a few sweeping their headlights around the bends. A pizza delivery car had stopped outside the Chinese Takeaway, which I found funny. Empty Number 17 buses rattled past, brightly lit and empty.

I passed the pub too. A warbling band were playing covers behind the single-glazed, steamy windows. The flashing lights made it look like a Christmas party. I did catch the eye of the bass player though as I passed. He was super cool. Cooler than me, anyway. But most people are.

I found the allotments and headed home, all the while lit by the silvery moon and the crystal stars. Long shadows fell out of the night, onto the cabbages and sheds and beanpoles. And me, criss-crossed by light and dark, a lattice-work of shade and brilliance, plus and minus, happy and sad. I picked my way over the frozen puddles and headed gently home.

ALGORITHMS

I’ve been thinking about algorithms this week. They’re the processes that computers use to make decisions. Data flows in to an algorithm (what you’ve bought before, what you’ve liked, how often you’ve searched for a thing) and the algorithm uses pure logic to work out what it should do, and what it should recommend or show you.

Sometimes when I have a decision to make, I try to calculate it in a very basic algorithm: a matrix. Weighting gets given to my preferences, or my desired outcomes. Then I break down the options into rows. Simple calculations give each row a score, and then the matrix outputs to me what my most logical, best option actually is.

I’m a very simple computer then. And I’m quite aware that I might not be as free from emotion as I ought to be if I were to rely 100% on the matrix method. I’m also aware that when other people can’t see what inputs went in to the algorithm, or how the algorithm actually works, its output might look a little strange.

What’s also true is that this is a super-slow, laborious thing to do if you’re not actually a computer. Data doesn’t go streaming through my brain in nanosecond intervals like a torrent of ones and zeros. I’m very slow.

Which means some decisions have to be made on a sort of instinct - a feeling that, given what you know right now, the best course of action is definitely this path, if only to give yourself a bit more time to figure out what you ought to do next.

Here’s my theory: I think that even that is a sort of algorithm. There are rapid processes going on, faster than the speed of thought, constantly pushing us to take choices, based on the inputs of our observation and experience. Adrenaline flows, the brain says ‘fight or flight’ - the simplest algorithm of all, probably. A car accelerates towards you on the wrong side of the road: there is no time to make a matrix.

So, somewhere in between the quick-fire autonomic computer, and the ‘which house should I buy’ matrix algorithms, there are some medium-sized decisions it’s hard to know whether to calculate out or go with the gut and the hypothalamus. Data flows in (I ponder as though my brain is spinning like the Microsoft hourglass) and moments later, out comes a decision that feels right, though it might not necessarily be obvious why. It also might be true that others who haven’t seen the same inputs, or would perhaps question the weightings of your preferences, would question the decision, and that itself (and I wish it didn’t) could so easily feed back into the algorithm and become a factor too.

And that, my friends, is how I ended up staying at home this morning instead of going to church. Blame the computer.

POLISHED WOOD AND STARLIGHT

I still remember the smell of the polished wood. It was there in the lobby, then it was there again when the doors opened and I was in the chaplaincy centre. The triptych hung at one end - three vertical paintings, each displaying something abstract about the Trinity. Bookcases lined the wall, with a tiny halogen lamp embedded in the flat ceiling above.

Textiled banners hung, as often they do in places like this - some made by the Anglican Society, some by the Catholics. One even by the Baha’i people! None of us in the CU had made one. I always found that interesting.

The roof angled slightly towards the centre of the room from all directions. There it converged in a simple square hole, in which a small spire supported a skylight window. Lie on the floor in the middle of the chap centre, and you could see the stars!

And by day of course, the light streamed in, lighting the tapestries and banners as the sun moved through the afternoon. Though I was rarely there in the day. My best time was night. On my own.

There were of course, church-chairs: sturdy wooden frame, soft pink upholstery seat and back rest, complete with hole for communion cup, and nearly impossible to stack. At night they seemed to be arranged in a wide circle, but they were often left scattered, or in rows, sometimes nearly ready for the early morning prayer meeting. We were students though. We never used them. We sat routinely on the carpet.

There must have been a pulpit too, though my guess is that it was one of those moveable ones. I actually can’t remember it - again, students in the CU favoured a more relaxed approach to spirituality. I expect ‘wandering around with a New King James Version’ was the hip approach. And there were no iPads in those days, though if there had been, I bet we’d have used them.

But my favourite configuration for meetings in the Bath University Chaplaincy Centre was definitely just me, alone, with the piano, late at night.

It was an upright piano. Just a normal, wooden, upright piano, with a covered back and shiny wood, just as you’d find in any primary school or church hall.

That piano is the reason I can still describe the place - it used to swim in and out of focus with my tears. I spent hours worshipping God there at night, just on my own behind that piano: playing, singing, writing, longing, hoping. No-one told me to; nobody said it would help me. Nobody even knew! I just went and did it. Out of earshot of anyone, out of sight from the world, a secret, secret place with God that I treasured with all my heart - by the triptych, with the smell of polished wood, under the thin window of stars.

That was more than twenty years ago. I’d barely lived that long when I first found the Chaplaincy Centre. Now here I am, all these oceans of time later, wishing somehow for just one moment there again.

I really need it tonight. I feel as though I could pour out my whole heart, all its woes and joys, spilling into the quiet air of mahogany and books, with every prophetic note. Perhaps God could pick them up? each one, and sort them one from the other, singing them gently back to me. Don’t be afraid. I won’t be afraid. It will all be alright. It will all be alright. I feel as though I’d very much like that; I’d very much like to go home.

THE FIRST ORDINARY DAY

It’s Epiphany today, which means the day I drive to the end of my cul-de-sac without any of my neighbours’ Christmas lights to guide me home.

It is dark and cold. Some of the stars are out but even they seem a little dim tonight, as though they too know the festivities are over, and are just ever so slightly sad about that.

Epiphany is supposed to be the celebration of the magi visiting the baby Jesus. In some countries they chalk up a ‘KIII’ or a ‘CMB’ on the door as a sort of a blessing of the ‘three kings’ - Caspar, Melchior, and Balthazar. Others have a special cake with a baby-Jesus-figurine baked into it. In this country (at least from my observations today) we pack away our Christmas stuff, and complain about going back to work.

But I think the wise men went home differently. Christmas must have changed them, as they skirted Herod’s palace, and cautiously headed East. What stories would they tell? How would they tell it? It intrigues me to think that they might have been sharing the news of the saviour, missionaries far from the action, long before the saviour had ever learned to walk or talk.

Well anyway. Epiphany it is, and a pretty good time of the year to ask how what’s been ‘revealed’ to us might change our world also. I’ve asked myself this question today, even in the cheerless cul-de-sac. What can I do to change the atmosphere? What am I bringing back from the Encounter of Christmas.

One thing’s for sure - I hope I don’t get back in the box with the plastic shepherds and the porcelain angels, waiting in the straw until next Advent.  The wise men went home and carried the story with them. They made a difference.

And that, I reasoned at the end of my road on the first ordinary day of the year, is probably what I should do.

PAM THE PROMPTER

“Are you in any bands, Matt?” asked Pam the Prompter. She seemed genuinely interested so I leaned across from the piano and told her about some of the stuff I’m involved in.

She’s an older lady, perhaps a little disconnected from the rest of the pantomime cast somehow. A little dog, quiet, like a doll, sat imperceptibly well-behaved on her lap, nestled between the pages of the script in a red ring binder. For today, Pam the Prompter had a particularly tricky task: prompting the actors when they forgot their lines.

“You have a really difficult job there, Pam,” I said in a break.

I could see what was happening.

First of all the actors were forgetting a lot of lines. The kids were alright but some of the adults were struggling a bit. Pam the Prompter had to be razor-tight to the script at all times.

No-one’s more frustrated than the actor who knows they’ve got it wrong or have got stuck. So sometimes, just through remembering it a split-second late, they cut across Pam’s prompt with the line as they just remembered it. The prompter has to stay calm and collected.

Thirdly, everyone else in the room also seemed to want to help with the prompting! That meant that often everyone was talking over Pam the Prompter at a bit of missed dialogue or a head-scratching pause. Not ideal, is it?

“... just wanted to say that I appreciate it,” I said warmly. She smiled.

Then it was time for me to play something for a scene-change. It seems any scene involving the pirates needs a short burst of ‘What Shall We Do With The Drunken Sailor’ so I played that while they worked out how long it takes to do a stage reset behind the (not there yet) curtains. There’s not a lot of tune in those 8 bars, so I did a few little key changes with it and messed about with the chords. There’s a line between doodling and showing off though.

Perhaps that’s why Pam asked me about bands.

“Ooh a latin band!” she exclaimed, lighting up. I was flashing back to Southampton, where I was so bad at playing keys, I got handed a cowbell as if I were the work-experience stand-in.

“Do you even know where the pulse is?” had jibed the band-leader.

“Yeah it’s fun,” said I, to Pam the Prompter, “Hard work, but fun. Like this!”

She laughed in a kind-hearted, rather beautiful way, as though between us we’d stumbled into a pocket of kindness. I arched my fingers over the keys, ready for my next tune. That’s the spirit.

THE SATURDAY NIGHT TV PENDULUM

Sometimes I go to see my parents just to remind myself why I don’t have a TV licence.

Tonight they were watching a show where minor celebrities have to guess which other minor celebrity has dressed up in fancy-dress... and is now singing to them from inside a butterfly, or a giant duck, or a bumblebee costume. I don’t know if I could care any less about this.

So they switched over. Jason Manford was hosting a gameshow in which the contestants were guessing the size of a potato.

I rest my case.

Next up, the Saturday Night TV Pendulum swung all the way over to Casualty, where hospital staff don’t look anything like hospital staff, and spend a third of the show trying to be social workers, a third sorting their own messy lives out, and a final third dealing with unspeakable blood and goo and (shudder) effluent. That last third is probably realistic but I definitely don’t want to see it. I really definitely don’t want to see it.

“You’re not going to comment all the way through it, are you?” said my Mum, grinning. I made a zip-mime across my mouth and put a hood over my head.

On another channel, Will Smith and Jeff Goldblum were blowing up aliens. I thought about that for a full thirty minutes. That, and the best way to tell the size of a potato.

DEAR OLD BETELGEUSE

My friend told me about the quadrantid meteor shower tonight. The skies were clear and cold; the stars bright, so I thought I’d venture out and see some shooting stars for myself.

She was right! Somewhere between the horizon and the lowest star of the ‘Question Mark’ pan-handle, bits of debris sparked into streaks of light in the atmosphere. They’re so fast; like lightning. And the more I looked, the more there were!

I stood there in the freezing allotments for a while. It’s the best place: the park isn’t all that safe, and the middle of the allotments is far enough from street lamps to let you see more once your eyes have adjusted. I didn’t think anyone would be passing through at that time of night.

It was so cold. The icy wind rattled the upturned lemonade bottles on top of bean-stalks, and an old jacket flapped against the wooden fence it had been hung upon. Leaves rustled. Quadrantids zipped silently across the northern sky.

It’s great to look up and see the stars. All that light from so far away; long gone constellations whose radiance crosses the galaxy to find us, while their sources dimmed and died, centuries and centuries ago.

That reminded me. I span around to find Orion. If the Question Mark (the upturned plough of Ursa Major) is in the North, then Orion is opposite in the South by winter, right where I’d left him last week disappearing behind the trees.

I was looking for Betelgeuse. That’s the star of Orion’s left shoulder. It’s a red giant, normally very bright, very distinctive, but recently it’s been dimming; I wanted to see it. Especially after I looked it up in ‘Stars and Planets’ the other day.

There it was - still visible, still tiny, twinkling, and red. Good old Betelgeuse. They think it’s about to go supernova. Stars like that eventually run out of fuel and collapse under their own gravity. If Betelgeuse implodes into a supernova it will be brighter than the moon. But nobody’s exactly sure when in the next 10,000 years that will be. It’s the big news in astronomy at the moment.

I peered at Betelgeuse through the cosmos. 600 light years away it twinkled back. Time is different, I thought, when you can’t travel faster than light. That tiny twinkling star is as big as the sun if the sun could swell to the orbit of Jupiter. It’s also probably not actually there any more. That messes with my head a bit. It still twinkled happily.

I watched more quadrantids, thinking about how cool it would be if the sky behind me lit up with the brilliant end, the great swan song, of Betelgeuse. It happened to Kepler in 1604! Why couldn’t it happen to me?

Well it wasn’t the moment for serendipity. It was the moment to bid Orion goodnight and go indoors to get warm. Goodnight Alnitak and Bellatrix. Goodnight brilliant Rigel and Saiph, and Mintaka. And goodnight, dear old Betelgeuse. I wonder when I’ll see you next.

TEN LORDS A-LEAPING

It's never too late for a Christmas miracle it seems. Someone's decided to take down the Engineering Tree in time for twelfth night.

Last year, it stayed up for days afterwards - glinting away like a tacky beacon above the banks of desks and computers. It's currently being shoved into a box, all its mouses and old CDs and processing-chip decorations wrapped up for another year. Christmas is over.

Technically though, this should be the day for ten lords a-leaping, not three engineers a-shuffling a plastic tree into a cardboard box.

I think the origin of the song says that the ten lords were supposed to be the Ten Commandments - maybe 'leaping to memory' over the otherwise indulgent festive season. No coveting thy neighbour's new Lego Millenium Falcon! No stealing mince-pies from thy colleagues' desks; that sort of thing.

Still, there is a part of me that likes the idea of official business in the House of Lords being suspended today while old men in mink and ermine gowns have a festive knees-up across the benches. Typically those fellows seem to be either asleep or a bit grumpy, and to be honest, ordinarily I can't really blame them given the state of things.

Anyway, round these parts, the Engineering Tree is away, leaving me to wonder if I'll see it again. Though, you know I'm sure I said that last year. Then, maybe things will be different. I'm not a lord, but I can certainly jump about and make a merry old difference. And today is today, but it is technically a leap year now too, isn't it?

STARS AND PLANETS

Eyes open. I'm looking at myself in the mirror, straightening a bow tie I've only just remembered how to tie. I think of the last time I wore it, conducting a choir, in a sunny park. My face looked younger then. This feels too tight around my neck. I smile, then pull the cord of the bedside lamp. Darkness.

-

Blink. It's ten seconds to midnight and the air is thick with fog and anticipation. A cacophony of voices around me starts reverse counting, in unison, from Ten to 'Happy New Year!' Then the air bursts with a thousand fireworks: stars and planets, and colours and shapes. It's suddenly 2020 and of all things there and then, I feel like praying. I bet I'm not alone, I think to myself, but I worry that I sort of am. Eyes close. Voices fade. Fade to black.

-

I pull up outside. Handbrake on. It's closer to one than midnight now, and the fireworks are long gone. I sigh to myself, not really wanting to go inside. The couple next door appear in the window of their spare room, suddenly lit by indoor sparklers. Their happy faces flicker like an old movie. I see what I think might be love. The sparklers fizzle and crackle until darkness returns. I can't see them any more.

-

I wake up. Weak sunlight streams through the gap in the curtains.

-

My sister sits in the armchair. She's talking, loudly, and mostly about how she'd like to meet a prominent conspiracy theorist. She tells us that it would be her 'ideal' Christmas present, though it would cost £500 for an hour's conversation with him. I'm sitting at the table, reading a book called Stars and Planets. I feel a million miles away, but for some reason, I say:

"We'll all chip in!"

But I don't really want her to fuel this part of her mind. I believe in a round earth, a human royal family, and in the thousands of young people who worked on the 1969 Apollo 11 moon landing.

Actually though, my subconscious and I just want her to be happy. Nobody in the room agrees with me about 'chipping in', which probably means I'm safe for now. I flick to 'Orion' in the constellations section and look up the average brightness of Betelgeuse.

-

Someone puts the kettle on. The power trips out and we're plunged into darkness. Candles come out. My Dad becomes investigator and fixer, and a small yellow torch is suddenly beaming into the fuse box.

-

I'm home. My electricity works, but nevertheless, the oil lamp leaps into flame. Flickering shadows dance on the walls, and the wick glows bright behind the curved glass. Has it really been a year? Time is so... so fast. And I'm a day late. Tiredness makes my eyes swim, and I can barely see the small text of the Bible this time. The words are in my heart though.

Outside, beyond the window, above the quiet street, far higher than the sultry night-clouds will show me, way past the moon and the long-hidden sun, the stars and the planets spin through the galaxy, just as they have all my life - just as they were designed to do.

I gently extinguish the oil lamp into a puff of spiralling smoke, and go to bed. My eyes flutter into sleep, and a new year, a new decade, a new season begins.