DESSERT ISLAND

An ocean of jelly

In waves of ice cream

And chocolate palms

Where the coconuts gleam

On the caramel sands

Of the sugary sea

My dessert island:

That’s where I’ll be

Where angels delight

In the soft Milky Way

And the stars are so sweet

Over Toffee Nut Bay

And the delicate moon 

With its honeycomb glow!

Oh, my dessert island:

That’s where I’ll go

I’ll sit and I’ll sing

Through the air soft and still

In the lemony breeze

Of the Blueberry Hills

I’ll leap with abandon

From mountains of cake

And swim to the bottom

Of Jellybean Lake

And the savoury world?

Somewhere over the sea.

On my dessert island

Yes that’s where I’ll be

With the smile of the sun

From my head to my feet

For my dessert island

Is ever so sweet

MARDI-SHROVE-PANCAKE-TUESDAY-GRAS

Well happy Mardi-Shrove-Pancake-Tuesday-Gras everyone. May you run out of fatty butter and sinful sugar faster than you can say ‘pass-the-marmite’.

One story caught my eye today. The Surrey police force took to printing the faces of wanted criminals on pancakes. The hope was that they could eventually catch up with the flattened rogues and (is this a joke?) “whisk them away”.

I don’t know how well that’ll go down in H-Wing during the ‘what are you in for’ question.

“How did they get ya, the old bill?”

“Don’t ask.”

“What did you do, steal some dough?”

“Well you know what they say, out of the frying pan...”

It made me wonder whether it might be April 1st. Typical prank: having April Fools’ Day in February. Tsk. Well.

Anyway, no pancakes for me. It’s all been a bit too busy. And it’s not really the kind of party you can have on your own. Though I do like a pancake.

And yes, marmite! You don’t like it? Then use it up! That’s the idea of shriving isn’t it? Chuck it all on your pancakes and then you don’t have to think of it again until Easter.

Happy Mardi-Shrove-Pancake-Tuesday-Gras.

HEAVY WEAR FOR A SNOWFALL

"You ready for the snow then?" asked the lady in the café.

"Is it going to snow then?" I asked, incredulously. It was the first I'd heard of it; normally my Dad is right on top of the weather news.

"What time?" I asked.

"No idea," she said, "Just that me daughter said I should put the heavy wear on the horses anyway."

I didn't really know what that was (though something told me I ought to). I steered the conversation back to the safer ground of the weather forecast.

Snow has such a peculiar effect on us Brits. It is notoriously difficult to predict here, as it seems to depend on a peculiar set of conditions too tricky for a super-computer, despite certain newspapers and a small subset of rather confident people who seem to know exactly when it's on the way.

I didn't dare contradict the café-horse-lady and the report from her daughter. I nodded along sympathetically.

She seemed like the kind of person who appreciated agreement - and so I eventually emerged from the café actually half-convinced that at any minute the grey clouds would shroud the lake, and my afternoon journey back to the office would be obstructed by a snowdrift.

That's my problem - I'm in the other subset; the people who err on the side of it not snowing, because (let's be honest) for most of the time in the UK... it doesn't. And today, on this second-hand report alone, I was sceptical.

This happened once before, in 2010. I told everyone I knew that it was 'unlikely'... and then a few hours later the entire county went into gridlock. We were stuck in the house for two weeks; Flimflambook was white with people building igloos, iced cars were abandoned on the quiet roads, and the air was filled with the sound of kids laughing and dragging plastic toboggans through the park.

So I came back to my desk today and checked a few forecasts.

No snow.

... which of course either means a kind of miserable evening of icy drizzle, or thick avalanches of the white stuff burying the world and all its horses in winter's frosty blanket.

Though, genuinely, I do hope her horses (and indeed, all the horses I know) are alright in their heavy wear, regardless.

WINTER’S NOT FOREVER

I stepped out of Waitrose and suddenly felt a sort of familiar old happiness.

A loaf of bread swung pleasantly from one hand; a carton of orange juice, cradled by the other. I walked to the car, almost whistling, almost with a skip, wondering what was suddenly different. I was slowly twigging of course, that, after months of forgetting how to do it - the sun was actually shining - and it felt vaguely warm.

I like this day of the year. It’s not the last day of winter; I feel sure we’ll get a few more icy days of frozen rain yet. Neither is it the first day of Spring! It is though, a very nice reminder of the season to come, unexpectedly beaming through the bright blue sky.

I felt the warmth on my skin. I don’t get enough vitamin D, sure, so it’s quite likely that my whole body has been deeply craving that gentle caress of sunlight. Last year, I was in Israel - where the February sun was strange and hot; this year I’ve cracked through the British winter with dry, cracked skin. But now, maybe now, there’s a little hope of something bright around the corner!

Soon the flowers will burst, the birds shall return, and the skies will fill with song! Soon the windows will be down, and tanned arms will catch the breeze under cotton white shirts again. There’ll be the flash of glare from sunglasses and sun on metallic bonnet, oh and the delicious pink and white cherry blossom, tumbling like warm snow from the trees.

I drove home. What do you call this day? It’s not sunroof day - that was always later, and anyway, cars don’t really have sunroofs anymore - well not the wind-down kind anyway. It’s still too cold for windows-down. It is hopeful though. 

Perhaps I shall call it Vitamin D Day - the ‘vita’ the stuff of life, starts flowing back to your skin, the milky sun just close enough to part the clouds and softly kiss you, ready to tell you that somehow, everything will be alright.

Winter’s not forever after all.

TURNER’S RETURN

A few weeks ago, a colleague of mine got me enthused about art and my recent trip to the National Gallery. She was clever: asking me all about which rooms I prefer, whether I liked the Impressionists or the Surrealists or the Old Masters, and so on. She herself studied the Italian Avant-Garde movement, and she certainly has an eye for design.

“Do you have any paintings you keep going back to see?” she asked, “any favourites?”

I told her at length about Renoir’s Umbrellas, about the little collection of Van Goghs, and The Haywain, and Holbein’s Ambassadors, oh and all the exquisite detail of Canaletto’s Venice.

“But I really like Turner,” I said. “I just love how paint can create an atmosphere.”

Doubtless that was Turner’s shtick. I reminded her of that scene in Skyfall where Bond and Q sit opposite The Fighting Temeraire (in a suspiciously quiet and unlikely gallery, nowhere near where the painting actually is) and discuss its symbolism over a briefcase containing a gun and a miniature radio. The painting shows an old warship, the Temeraire, being tugged home to the breakers’ yard, with its masts and wooden hull gleaming in the sunset, offset by the thick black trailing smoke a tug boat. It is emotive.

In real-life, next to the Temeraire is a painting called Rain, Steam and Speed. I’ve mentioned it before, I think. It’s classic JMW Turner - a train hurtles over a river bridge in the pouring rain - though you only just get the glimpse that that’s what’s happening, as the whole thing is painted with layers and layers of impressionist feeling, atmosphere, and mood. Turner was masterful at story-telling with the technique. I went on about it a lot.

-

So today, it transpired that my colleagues had bought me a gift for my birthday - a mug with Rain, Steam and Speed printed onto it. I love it! Another one for the collection of awesome mugs!

The steam train hurtles out of the mist: new, exciting, and quick, over the old, slow world of boats and rivers and bridges. A hare darts from the track, astonished at the blistering fire-lit carriages, and the rattling engine that pulls them by, a symbol of the Future, the shining Twentieth Century, the New Age of speed and technology and progress.

There are metaphors a-plenty.

Well I like it. And I particularly like that I had no idea what my friend was up to that day. You know work can be a bit dreary sometimes, but every now and then you catch a glimpse of hope at what might be coming, and the lovely people who are muddling through with you. It’s nice when that happens. Isn’t it?

NOTES FROM THE NEUTRAL ZONE

I was in a hugely bothersome conversation the other day - not bothersome because I disagreed with any of it, but bothersome because the implications of it could be, well let's say, difficult.

I think I had a furrowed brow throughout.

I've been wondering for a while now whether it's possible to stay in neutral ground on hotly controversial subjects. There's so much damage out there, so much tribal-thinking, it almost seems like you're on a loser to state any kind of opinion. For the longest time I've done my best to stay out of it all. Why, even on the train the other day, my friend Luke asked me something detailed about whether I had opinions. I heard myself say:

"I do have political opinions, but I never ever share them. It just causes trouble."

It seemed wise (even if it's a very difficult position to take sometimes). To be honest, I feel like I'm on shaky ground even writing about it! My default is always the middle ground, the neutral zone, where the cannons fire either side, and the bombs cruise high overhead. Fighting it out has never been my style.

And then a really bothersome conversation comes along where you realise that you might not be able to stay in 'no-mans-land' after all; kindness and love, and a commitment to truth - to real truth, all require you to 'take a side' because you can't afford to be dishonest with people any more about what you really think.

And then you realise with a sigh that there was a reason that First World War Conscientious Objectors were so vilified. There was (and still is) a war on, you know.

So here's the thing... and I'm truly sorry if this offends or causes pain, hurt, or significant upset, while I cross the barbed wire fence towards a 'position'. All I ask is that you don't think any the less of me.

-

You have to put cream on the scone first! It doesn't make sense putting cream on top of jam - and there's always more of the base layer, so the balance of delicious cream and lovely strawberry jam works best with slightly less of the really sweet stuff! Sorry Cornwall, but for me it's Devon all the way. Then the jam will spread so nicely over the cream! It's just harder work the other way around.

See? Bothersome isn't even the half of it.

FOOSBALL FODDER

"Hey Matt, by chance, would you like to sign up for the Table Football Tournament?"

My face said no. Meanwhile, my voice said nothing. It invited a pause for Robert to explain how they're trying to get the numbers up and there was an odd number (it's a doubles tournament) so I'd be helping them out if I said yes.

'Helping them out'. I didn't think he was selling it very well. I was having flashbacks to school, where I was forced to join sports teams to make up the numbers. I, and the three others Robert's just strong-armed into forming two teams, are clearly fodder... so that the cool kids (who play each other every lunch time and have already picked their own teams anyway) will end up facing off in the glorious table-football-finals.

"At least you'll be in a team," said Robert.

"So, let me know who I'm going to let down and be humiliated with," said I, "I'm really rubbish at this; I'm not sure why you've asked me, to be honest."

"Well, I just thought you'd be easily persuaded!" he said.

I don't think it was a joke.

"So I'm both incompetent and gullible!" I replied, pointedly. (I don't like it when I do that, but I'd done it.) "Excellent." (sarcasm)

In the end, back at my desk, I thought about it. Things like this are supposed to be fun, and it isn't right to only ever play games to win them. My competitive side must never be allowed to outweigh my joy, and who knows, I might... enjoy... it a lot more than I think - even though I haven't played for ages. Perhaps that's the attitude to take? The win is in the joy?

Robert's currently randomizing the ensign red-shirts, the foosball fodder for the better teams to pick off week by week. I'm kind of hoping I don't end up with someone who gets cross when I backheel the ball into the goal (likely) or use my famously slow reflexes to slide the keeper out of the way when a slow ball rolls towards him (more likely).

But then, if I remember my school days well: lining up against the wall while all the cool kids get picked for the teams and a handful of us were left with our hands behind our backs on the cold bricks - the chances are that the other three are hoping that they won't be a let down either. And I don't want to be that guy who huffs and puffs and takes it all too seriously.

So I'm in. I'm in the TFT. I messaged Robert back. Who knows? Maybe it'll be like the time at school when I accidentally toe-punted the football with no intention or skill, and curled it into the top corner like Roberto Carlos. I guess anything is possible.

THE GIANT MECHANIC

"So how was the service today?" he said gruffly, eyes down to his grubby iPad.

"Fine, fine," I gulped. He was twice as tall and one and a half-times as wide as me - a massive, square bulk of human, dressed in the thick warm fleece and oil-splashed hi-vis livery of every roadside assistant, everywhere. There was no way I could ask him why it takes two hours to attend a flat tyre.

And actually, I wasn't really in the mood for complaining anyway. He'd showed up, and with silent skill, he'd fixed my spare tyre and lumbered my old one awkwardly into the boot - even if he'd done it all without really saying a thing. I'd not been in danger. I'd not been freezing. I'd been alright - if slightly miffed.

"How's your day going?" I'd nervously asked while he pushed the jack underneath. He didn't look up. He just said,

"Better than yours, I reckon," as though he'd said that exact thing in this exact circumstance a thousand times. I laughed - in exactly the way a thousand other people must have done already, and then said,

"Well don't worry about me. I'm okay; these things happen."

And that, until he asked me his regulated question about the service from the dirt-covered iPad, was the sum-total of our conversation, him and me: the giant mechanic and the tiny man who'd punctured his driver-side front tyre.

"'member you can only do fifty on that one," he grizzled.

"Y'okay," I said for some reason. I signed his iPad and then he was gone, his AA transit van flashing around the corner to the next emergency.

I got in my car and went to work. Nobody there would be waiting for me to silently fix their latest documentation emergency. In fact, I wasn't even sure anyone would really be waiting to see me at all. I thought about that a lot.

ANOTHER FLAT

Last time I needed to change a tyre, I was three-quarters through the mechanical process, when I realised I didn't have a locking wheelnut and would not be able to do it. I had to phone the AA.

Well down came the hydraulic jack. "You put it in the wrong place mate, coulda crushed your 'and." Away went the shiny never-used wheel brace, and out came the repair man's high-powered hydraulic gizmos. The wheel came off, the spare went on, the car was back on the road faster than it had taken me to wedge the spare tyre out of the boot.

This time, I thought, I have so got this. I unbolted the spare, I found the locking wheelnut, I found the wheel brace and I flexed my hands, ready for the task, like Popeye post-spinach.

I knew it would give me a sense of achievement. I knew it would make me feel manly, strong, super-cool and ultra confident. Some day in the future, when this happens to someone else I'm with, I'd be able to say, "Yeah I've changed a flat, sure" and laugh, "Call the AA? Nah, you don't need to do that mate," I'd definitely throw in a 'mate' there, "Let's have a quick look eh?"

So, I rolled the spare over to the wheel. I clattered the wheel brace and the locking wheelnut onto the concrete, and then I stopped and realised.

I didn't have a jack.

Not much use unless you can raise the car up, is it? I sighed to myself, then reluctantly fished a number out of my wallet. At least the AA should be quick, I guess.

RELENTLESS COMPANY OR LOVELY SOLITUDE?

The car door slammed shut and I waved at Joel as he went inside. I yawned, released the handbrake, and then pulled out into the dark road up the hill.

I quickly realised that I'd not been alone at all, for the entire day. Fourteen straight hours of being me around other people! Even extroverts are going to find that tough, surely? What about quiet internal-processors?

That was Saturday, and I'd just finished the day of worship at the Prophetic Conference. I feel like I could post thousands of words about the day itself: the weird atmosphere and the flavours, the challenging prophets and the fascination of what happens when you get a roomful of them. I won't though. At the end of the day, driving up that hill on my own, I was just simply thankful, exhausted, and totally proud of my team. And also relieved to be on my own.

The internal-processing thing is quite the challenge sometimes, especially when tired. I often feel as though I can't think fast enough, and everyone around me is way ahead. When it's you that has to make a decision, that can be really tough. I don't like leaving people hanging when they're waiting for an answer. It feels like a very rude thing - it isn't, I'm thinking - it just feels like it.

Another thing that happens is that I can get quite brusque. Now, I do need to be more assertive sometimes, certainly - so a little tiredness can add some decent sharpness to my attitude - it can be most effective. But that's a slippery slope isn't it? I'd much sooner know how to do that without the exhaustion lens.

And so the car pulled up the hill under the street lamps and I breathed relief at finally being alone after a day of non-introversion in a fourteen-hour world of extroverts.

Having said all that though, I'm still not convinced that introverts and extroverts really exist. We're all a little bit of both, and there are balances at different times.

Which kind of Saturday do I prefer? The empty ones alone, or the mad ones of endless hours of relentless company? If I'm truly an introvert (and I do lean that way), the answer ought to be obvious.

And yet, the subtle, more nuanced truth is that I really would like a balance somewhere in-between those two ridiculous kinds of Saturday - drawing energy from rest and lovely solitude, but also adoring and absorbing the brilliance of funny, sparky, smart, and friendly people. Perhaps next week... perhaps next week can be a bit more of an Ambivert Saturday? Well, I live in hope.

And solitude.

And company.

THE WASHING-UP INCIDENT

I was washing up tonight when I suddenly noticed that the washing up water had turned a shade of pinky red, and my hands were horrifically, and suspiciously, orange...

I lifted them both out of the soapy water, only to see my left thumb was gushing with blood! That was what had turned the water! I’d cut it on a knife!

Pain surged to my brain as the deep red globules of B+ plasma splashed into the dishwater and blotched over the steadily pinkening plates. My eyes did a zoom-fade; I knew I was in trouble.

Survival instinct kicked in, almost as quickly as the pain. What would Bear Grylls do? Hover over the bubbles, dripping blood into the water? No. Whimper like a baby. Nope. Pass out from the blood loss? No way would Bear let himself do that; he’d run it under the cold tap and find a plaster (band aid). That’s what Bear would do. He’d keep it together. He’d keep cool no matter what.

So that’s what I tried to do too. On went the cold tap, under went the thumb. Full blast freezing water went spurting as my thumb coursed both blood and water into the sink. Like tomato juice it dribbled its way down to the plug while I gritted my teeth, cold water splashing up my arm from the tap.

I like how calm I can stay in an emergency situation. I think it bodes well, that I can have that collected air of confidence and cool pragmatism. Like Gene Hackman in The Poseidon Adventure, I can keep level-headed when everything is else is literally upside down. Like Bear, I will survive.

The blood was making me feel woozy a bit, so I quickly calculated how to get to the bathroom cabinet where the Elastoplast plasters (I hoped) were. The wounded thumb slipped out from the cold water and started throbbing in the fresh oxygen. Within seconds my hand was red again and dripping. I grabbed a dish cloth, wrapped it around the digit like a blue and white turban and made a quick ninja roll to the bathroom.

Call it a design fault, but it’s actually pretty difficult to open a plaster with one hand. Heart-thumping with the blood loss, eyes narrowing in determination, I ripped off the plastic packaging as best as I could, the wound still pulsating as I slid it out from the wrap. It was dry at least, and by now pink and sore - a U-shaped serration and a flap of raw skin, like the mouth of a tiny shark.

I grimaced, then stuck it tight. I’ve double-plastered it now too, just in case it starts bleeding through the night. 

It does still hurt but I don’t want anybody to think I’m not going to be alright. I’ll bear the pain, I’ll struggle through it, and I’ll survive, thanks to my quick reflexes, my training, and sheer resilience in the face of adversity. I did think about texting my friends and asking them to start a prayer chain, but I decided against it. Wouldn’t want them all worrying about me. And in any case, I don’t think Bear would have done that if he’d even lost a finger - well, it’s harder to text for one thing - and you know me: I’m Bear Grylls all the way.

NAIROBI DAY

Well it's Nairobi day. According to my calendar, I should be off to Kenya, jetting over the cool fluffy clouds as their dappled shadows move across the savannah. Zebras and gazelles ought to be darting between the flat top acacias and baobabs, and the plane should be bobbing down on the hot tarmac of Kenyatta.

I'm not. It's still a mystery how flight KQ704 wound its way into my calendar, or what it means. I suppose it could be a metaphor for something. Today though, I'm defying expectations and not unpicking that for once.

I'm actually really tired. I can't keep things in my head, and the whole world is a bit woozy. I keep wanting to ask whether everything out there is really okay? Some days it just feels like reality's taken a nose-dive, and skewed us off into a massive tangent.

Last night I turned on the radio, and the football people were going into explosive raptures about the game they were commenting on. The crowd roared like an ocean, the hoarse presenters bellowed with excitement at what had clearly just happened. It sounded momentous! What was it? Real Madrid, The Champions League? Barcelona?

"And that makes it Liverpool 1," exclaimed the commentator, "Shrewsbury 0!"

I laughed out loud.

Meanwhile, in the USA (and I'm sorry to take it there) the President gave a speech in Congress, having refused to shake hands with his opposite number. Then when he'd finished his huckstering, she responded the snub by tearing up that speech into four pieces for the cameras. For some reason that world seems intent on snarling and ripping apart the dignity it was all founded on.

I have so many thoughts about why we're suddenly all so tribal all of a sudden - none of them good. Even in my world, I happened to see a social media post written by one person I know that was viciously trolled by another.

"Never feed the trolls!" said Emmie from Canada. Correct. When I was a kid they had spiky hair and lived under bridges. Nowadays they lob insults across the river about which side has the greenest grass. Never feed 'em.

It's no wonder the Billy Goats Gruff are all bewildered.

Anyway, how did I get there? Oh yes, skewed reality! I had a whinge today about how packed the weekend ahead is. It was so unlike me. I had to stop and pray for joy to somehow return to me in the fog.

The fog. Colleagues with white envelopes and long long faces. Me with determined, resilient joy. Not knowing what's ahead while redundancy swirls and all the world is shadows and silhouettes: resplendent, fixed and firm joy.

You know I could sit here wishing I'd caught that flight. I could be dreaming of being anywhere else, let alone sailing through the blue skies and hot breezes of Kenya. I actually don't think I do wish that though - because as tough as it is, as skewed from reality as it sometimes feels, this is my assignment for now. And until that assignment changes, I want to do, and be, my absolute best.

I confess though, I did have a cup of Kenya tea. But I think that's alright in the grand scheme of things.

A SCILLY IDEA

It's as though a sort of unseen fog is slowly swallowing people up, like in that movie I forget the name of - you know the one about the fog that er... swallows people up.

I kind of hope it's over soon. I think it will be.

Anyway, all that aside, today I got sent my latest update of "Isles of Scilly Newsletter". It fluttered into my inbox like a summer butterfly. It's a mailing list I must have joined years ago, I suppose. I usually ignore it.

"Haven't had time to book your annual getaway? Here on Scilly we provide you with the right balance of thinking, doing and nourishment for the soul."

I am a sucker for good copy-writing.

A 'cluster of low-lying islands amid a turquoise sea', 'white sandy beaches', 'bathed in a light of vibrant intensity'... what could be more appealing on a grey February afternoon where the fog is swallowing up your colleagues in drizzly redundancy, and the atmosphere is like an old wet sock?

Dark-skies too (you know how I love the stars)...

'On a clear night, the sky is full of stars, which fall down to the sea, because there is little, if any ambient light to detract from them.'

Vibrant creativity, tranquility and peace by day; exquisite star-gazing by night. Why am I not there already?

Well. It's hard to get to the Isles of Scilly. The train journey to Penzance is long and expensive, and then when you get there, the trip to the islands (by boat, plane, or even helicopter) is quite the adventure. The islands are popular too, so for me (single supplement) it would be super-expensive to stay there unless I take a tent. And for the cost, I start to wonder whether I'd get more from the Italian mountain lakes.

And I'm not the greatest camper.

It's still nice to dream though - of succulent seafood, of sunshine and lighthouses, of galaxies and galleries - of a part of our country that's far enough away to feel like it isn't part of our country, in every possible way.

I rubbed my eyes blearily at the email. I'm so tired. I'm not sure I'm processing anything properly anyway. Navigating the fog is one thing - when your feet are sinking softly into the white sand of a warm beach, and your body tells you something you hadn't fully realised you needed, I guess that's a good time to start listening.

THE WEIRDNESS AND WONDER OF INFINITY ON BOTH SIDES OF THE TOWN

Do you ever think about how infinity can’t be defined, but it can still be considered equal to itself? No?

I did today, when my friend Gareth said that God loves one side of the town exactly the same amount as he does the other.

Algebra, innit. We don’t know what X is but whatever it is (as long as it’s a constant anyway) we know it’s always X = X, or X - X = 0, whether you can count up to it, or not.  I think they call it a sort of ‘identity equation’.

Seems obvious. No wonder hardly anyone thinks about it. But a constant X is at least a sort of real-world value; infinity isn’t - it’s a weird and wonderful concept that fills out the universe, swirling and spinning for ever and for a day. It seems so strange to me that it’s ‘the biggest number you can think of plus one,’ while also being ‘the biggest number I can think of plus one’, and also being ‘the biggest number an infinite number of people can think of plus one’ - and yet if you divide any of those by any of the other, you still get exactly 1, every time.

If that plays with your head, don’t worry. It’s the weirdness and the wonder at work in our little two-dimensional way of trying to think about it. The ‘biggest number you can think of plus one’ is a process really, rather than a number. And I’m playing with words a bit to make a point.

Still with me? Well, anyway, it’s a mathematical construct. Love isn’t though: that is an X style constant. It’s difficult to measure, sure, but it does at least interact with our world.

And whether you perceive it or not, whether you live in the East, where years ago the industrial smoke drifted over the rooftops and the workers’ houses were smaller, or in the West, where the skies are clear and the houses airy, but people forgot how to say hello to each other, there’s still the infinite possibility that all of us might be loved, the exact same amount.