As part of my isolation, I decided last week to go back on to ficklebook. Gareth phoned me up to check if I was alright.
"You know things are weird," I said, "If I'm back on that site."
Well. Things are weird. And I am (temporarily) back. I figured I needed as much opportunity to connect with people as possible, and it so happens that most people are gathered around the Zuckerberg campfire, so there I am suddenly, face-flickering on the edge of the circle.
I'm not getting involved. I'm only commenting on our church's page, and accepting the odd friend request from people who suddenly can't work out how we're not friends after all this time. Yes.
What I've noticed though, is that that old fire is hotter and fiercer than I think it used to be. I might be wrong - six years is a long time to have forgotten what people are like. Plus, I seem to have rejoined at a time when the world is collapsing. What results is a timeline of political fury, mockery of world leaders, people trying to find new angles to be funny, and a smattering of hopeful, inspiring memes, videos, and reposts. It's a mixed bag at best.
I felt an old feeling of restraint I've not felt for a while. Someone shared an article about a prominent evangelist who was arrested for holding church during the lockdown in Florida. Tempers flared in the comments - on both sides, but weirdly, Christians were personally attacking each other because they disagreed. That chilled me a bit.
Then, someone posted about a televangelist commanding the 'demon virus' to leave the USA alone, while simultaneously being rich enough to do more than just loudly prophesy about it in a shiny suit. Out came the hotheads round the fire again - believers with furious opinions, lighting their torches and stomping their pitchforks.
Also, there are the people who won't applaud the NHS because of something they believe... politicians... have done? I'm left bemused by this kind of ranting anger. Isn't that a bit like boycotting your child's assembly because the teachers aren't very good?
Again, Christians I know were using the foulest language (and I know, I heard Gareth say it was happening a while ago, but it was still a shock) to rail against the system, and (whether we like it or not) our elected leaders!
I felt the pain of that too. It made me cry a little bit.
If you are one of those people by the way, this isn't me attacking you or your views: this is me observing something surprising, and possibly me being a bit simple about it. If you want to talk to me about why you're so angry, or why you won't applaud the people who are trying to save our lives, I hope you know that you can. I think I'm an okay listener. If you swear at me though, I might point that out.
Above all though, there seems to be an overwhelming torrent of noise. And that's what I can't really cope with. It's a stream of detritus, powering down the page, begging and babbling for my likes and attention, my allegiance and my love. Even the algorithm that controls it is specifically trying to get me to jump in and swim. It's loud and obnoxious and sweet and terrifying. And it's very noisy.
But I'm not going to jump in. As I say, I'm going to stick to being encouraging on the church pages we have, in an attempt to feel part of a thing we can't be present in right now. I might record some music and put it up there, I might very sparingly do some other creative things. One of the reasons I like Jesus is that when he had the biggest opportunity to speak, he said absolutely nothing. Instead He chose the cross; he showed the value of silence before Father in the middle of a world of noise.
Unlike that evangelist and that pastor in America then, I think we can do more than just pray loudly and hold illegal services - in fact, I'm sure of it. I'm certain that in the quiet and still moments, grace in action through faith and love, will do a lot more.
Tuesday, 31 March 2020
Monday, 30 March 2020
VENUS AND THE MOON
She wandered through the heavens
As a dancer of the sky
She made her way through darkness
As the silver clouds went by
She span with silk and silence
Shining brilliant and bright
Like a finely polished gemstone
In the splendour of the night
He sang a moonlit madrigal
Upon the tired world
His face a slender crescent
Where the nightly clouds unfurled
And as she danced much closer
They were drawn to sing in tune
The soft and gentle melody
Of Venus and The Moon
As a dancer of the sky
She made her way through darkness
As the silver clouds went by
She span with silk and silence
Shining brilliant and bright
Like a finely polished gemstone
In the splendour of the night
He sang a moonlit madrigal
Upon the tired world
His face a slender crescent
Where the nightly clouds unfurled
And as she danced much closer
They were drawn to sing in tune
The soft and gentle melody
Of Venus and The Moon
ISOLATION DIARIES PART 10: LOOK AT THE CAMERA
The sky looks heavy with rain this afternoon. After last week's sunshine through the window, there's a grey world out there. It's cold too, today.
I've noticed today that people don't look at the camera. When chatting, it almost feels as though they either can't see you, can but don't want to (actually, pretty likely) or prefer to look at themselves (very likely).
Of course, it's also possible that when speaking, they're looking at the screen - in real life you'd look at someone's eyes, wouldn't you? But unlike the old way of doing things, in this world, the person's eyes are not looking at you, they're looking at a picture of you, and the picture is not where your eyes are, so you're not really making eye contact at all.
So, when speaking, I now talk directly at the camera - rather like being on TV, which I suppose we sort of are these days. That way, anyone looking at the screen will see me looking straight at them. Sure, I can't see my own facial expression. I can't see their reactions either (without breaking eye contact anyway) and we can't respond with that microsecond fluidity we're used to. But that's alright, I'm getting used to it. And eye contact, though it can be thousands of miles in the making, is a good thing.
There's a thirty percent chance of rain, apparently. Then it'll clear up and be a bit sunnier, just in time for my evening stroll in the park. It's fast becoming the highlight of my day.
I've noticed today that people don't look at the camera. When chatting, it almost feels as though they either can't see you, can but don't want to (actually, pretty likely) or prefer to look at themselves (very likely).
Of course, it's also possible that when speaking, they're looking at the screen - in real life you'd look at someone's eyes, wouldn't you? But unlike the old way of doing things, in this world, the person's eyes are not looking at you, they're looking at a picture of you, and the picture is not where your eyes are, so you're not really making eye contact at all.
So, when speaking, I now talk directly at the camera - rather like being on TV, which I suppose we sort of are these days. That way, anyone looking at the screen will see me looking straight at them. Sure, I can't see my own facial expression. I can't see their reactions either (without breaking eye contact anyway) and we can't respond with that microsecond fluidity we're used to. But that's alright, I'm getting used to it. And eye contact, though it can be thousands of miles in the making, is a good thing.
There's a thirty percent chance of rain, apparently. Then it'll clear up and be a bit sunnier, just in time for my evening stroll in the park. It's fast becoming the highlight of my day.
Sunday, 29 March 2020
ISOLATION DIARIES PART 9: THE SUMMER THAT NEVER WAS
I'm a little frustrated today. I can't exactly explain why: it might be the lack of fresh oxygen, the onset of cabin fever, or just that I'm a little bored. We can't afford to be bored though; there are still long weeks ahead of this.
I went for a longer walk today. I haven't been further than a mile from my house in the last two weeks, which is quaintly old-fashioned, so I walked a little further this afternoon. The streets were empty, the sky clear and golden. No cars, some pedestrians and joggers swerving outlandishly to remain two metres apart. It's still quite surreal.
My thoughts have been more fixed today as to what happens WATIO (When All This Is Over). I've been thinking it for a while actually, but I guess we're all starting to think like this. Quite when WATIO will be, none of us are sure. The government today announced that life might not be fully back to normal for six months - a number that I found astounding, but also understandable. We flatten the curve; the curve gets longer. It was always going to be the choice of the powers that be, whether they'd prefer more people to die quickly so we can get this over faster, or protect more of us from dying by dragging it out for a lot longer. I'm glad our country has chosen compassion over economics, even if 'back to normal' might not be a thing that's possible.
And that's where I'm landing today. There is no normal to go back to.
I know we like the comfort of thinking about how life was, but what if we're really leaping into the air above the chasm, sure to land somewhere, on the other side, but somewhere very different? That's how I see it for me, anyway. How we do work, family, church, friendships - all of this is changing in real-time in front of our eyes. It's a real moment of transition, and I'm not sure it's as temporary as a lot of people are thinking.
In 1783, Laki (an Icelandic volcano fissure) erupted and threw clouds of ash over most of the Northern Hemisphere. The so-called Laki Haze is a little blip in the historical records - just one summer, dubbed the Summer That Never Was. The sun went red, the air was thick with poisonous sulphour dioxide, and thousands of outdoor workers died.
Due to the extreme weather of that year: the winter that followed and then the climate change of several summers, France particularly, experienced droughts and failed harvests, leading to a national famine, which became an enormous factor in precipitating the French Revolution of 1789. Meanwhile, in Britain, 23,000 people had died from their mostly agricultural work, not to mention livestock and failed crops. The Laki Haze was a factor in speeding up the process of the Industrial Revolution in our country.
It was a blip. But it rippled - and its effects still ripple, right into the present. And I wonder whether future historians will look back at the summer of 2020 in the same way.
I guess that's why I'm feeling frustrated. Change is already here, and I don't particularly like the uncertainty of where I'm going to land. There's no surety I'll have a job WATIO. I think it'll be okay, but I sense the worry at sales-slowdowns hinted in emails. There's no certainty that I'll have a ministry to go back to either - and if I do, I already feel as though we'll be doing it very differently.
But. We're only at the beginning of Week 3. There's a way to go yet, and I also believe that difficulty creates opportunity. It is hugely likely that people with big ideas will have time to shine - and that's so exciting. All it takes is a little bit of proactivity and an amazing idea, and you can change the world, I reckon. It is the entrepreneur's age.
Gilbert White was an eighteenth century naturalist who started recording the weather as a result of the Laki Haze - in a way he's one of the first technical communicators, a forerunner of all of us who write about things in plain English. As a technical author, I owe at least a little bit of my job to the Summer That Never Was inspiring him to do something unthought of. And that might be what we all have to learn how to do - adapt and move into the new season, ready for the adventure of doing things differently.
I went for a longer walk today. I haven't been further than a mile from my house in the last two weeks, which is quaintly old-fashioned, so I walked a little further this afternoon. The streets were empty, the sky clear and golden. No cars, some pedestrians and joggers swerving outlandishly to remain two metres apart. It's still quite surreal.
My thoughts have been more fixed today as to what happens WATIO (When All This Is Over). I've been thinking it for a while actually, but I guess we're all starting to think like this. Quite when WATIO will be, none of us are sure. The government today announced that life might not be fully back to normal for six months - a number that I found astounding, but also understandable. We flatten the curve; the curve gets longer. It was always going to be the choice of the powers that be, whether they'd prefer more people to die quickly so we can get this over faster, or protect more of us from dying by dragging it out for a lot longer. I'm glad our country has chosen compassion over economics, even if 'back to normal' might not be a thing that's possible.
And that's where I'm landing today. There is no normal to go back to.
I know we like the comfort of thinking about how life was, but what if we're really leaping into the air above the chasm, sure to land somewhere, on the other side, but somewhere very different? That's how I see it for me, anyway. How we do work, family, church, friendships - all of this is changing in real-time in front of our eyes. It's a real moment of transition, and I'm not sure it's as temporary as a lot of people are thinking.
In 1783, Laki (an Icelandic volcano fissure) erupted and threw clouds of ash over most of the Northern Hemisphere. The so-called Laki Haze is a little blip in the historical records - just one summer, dubbed the Summer That Never Was. The sun went red, the air was thick with poisonous sulphour dioxide, and thousands of outdoor workers died.
Due to the extreme weather of that year: the winter that followed and then the climate change of several summers, France particularly, experienced droughts and failed harvests, leading to a national famine, which became an enormous factor in precipitating the French Revolution of 1789. Meanwhile, in Britain, 23,000 people had died from their mostly agricultural work, not to mention livestock and failed crops. The Laki Haze was a factor in speeding up the process of the Industrial Revolution in our country.
It was a blip. But it rippled - and its effects still ripple, right into the present. And I wonder whether future historians will look back at the summer of 2020 in the same way.
I guess that's why I'm feeling frustrated. Change is already here, and I don't particularly like the uncertainty of where I'm going to land. There's no surety I'll have a job WATIO. I think it'll be okay, but I sense the worry at sales-slowdowns hinted in emails. There's no certainty that I'll have a ministry to go back to either - and if I do, I already feel as though we'll be doing it very differently.
But. We're only at the beginning of Week 3. There's a way to go yet, and I also believe that difficulty creates opportunity. It is hugely likely that people with big ideas will have time to shine - and that's so exciting. All it takes is a little bit of proactivity and an amazing idea, and you can change the world, I reckon. It is the entrepreneur's age.
Gilbert White was an eighteenth century naturalist who started recording the weather as a result of the Laki Haze - in a way he's one of the first technical communicators, a forerunner of all of us who write about things in plain English. As a technical author, I owe at least a little bit of my job to the Summer That Never Was inspiring him to do something unthought of. And that might be what we all have to learn how to do - adapt and move into the new season, ready for the adventure of doing things differently.
THANKFUL SUMMER
In a weird little slice of normalness, the clocks go forward tonight. There are no farmers on the radio, nor newscasters debating the danger of the roads in winter. Nobody’s advocating the shift into British Summer Time, and as far as I know, not many of us are prepping our barbecues for those long balmy nights either. It’s merely a formality this year - one fewer hour to sit in front of Netflix.
I phoned my Mum. We’re postponing our holiday to September, at the earliest. Who knows what the world will look like by then: hopefully safe enough for the three of us to get on a ferry to the Isle of Wight and be thankful for it. But even if not, there will be other things to be thankful for too. There always are.
That’s one theme that’s emerged strongly at a time like this. My friends and I seem to have arrived at the same point - that thankfulness is so good for keeping positive. We have One to be thankful to, which makes our gratitude laser-focused on Heaven. Somehow a thank-offering takes the focus away from the difficulty, and repositions it somewhere else. Birdsong, sunsets, vegetables, laughter, our families, technology, warm duvets, and cheese have all made it onto our daily lists. And rightly so.
So the strangest British Summer Time begins. Some of the more spiritual types in my circle believe this pandemic will be over by Passover - that’s April 16th at the latest. I don’t know; that would take a remarkable miracle, and I have a feeling something significant has to happen to America first. But I just don’t know anything, other than the changing picture of our world now. This Summer Time will not be typical. But my friends and my family and I will definitely remain thankful.
Thursday, 26 March 2020
ISOLATION DIARIES PART 8: APPLAUSE
I was on another zoom call at the time, when someone reminded us that it was most definitely the moment.
So, I went down to my front door, and in unison with the rest of the street, we all started clapping.
There were warm-looking houses and hallways leaking light into the darkness. I realised I'd never seen inside. Each, like my own, poised with figures with long shadows, all applauding, (some cheering) as we raised a national, very British show of appreciation for our NHS workers: our tireless doctors, nurses, surgeons, attendants, and medical professionals.
They deserve it. They deserve a lot more too. They're risking their lives to keep our country safe, and thousands of people are still alive purely because these heroes went to work this week.
It was an emotional moment, standing there for a few minutes in the cold. The applause rippled, not just from our street, but from every street - from council blocks and avenues, from terraces and flats and bungalows and cottages, and of course from 10 Downing Street - the roar of appreciation from millions and millions of hands all clapping in unison simply to say thank you, from a single audience: the British people.
A firework popped in the sky. It was a sudden reminder of happier times. Somebody whooped above the applause and then we laughed together. We actually laughed!
I thought about Brexit and all those dreadful divisions we had: families torn apart over allegiances and ideals, friends no longer friends and social media a war zone for the opinionated. I thought about the political ripping apart we've suffered as the right wing have ploughed right and the left wing have swung left. I thought about the way those tentacles crept into our lives over the last few years and how fear and mistrust had been soaked into our culture. I thought about all of that, as we stood there at 8 o'clock on our doorsteps.
It was as though a powerful wave of hope had swept over us.
For the first time, maybe since the 2012 Olympics, maybe longer, this nation felt united in something - a common spirit celebrating the best of us, and coming together despite our differences to recognise it. It was, if anything can be these days, amazing - and sure, it was only a few minutes, but there it was. It was us, together.
I'm old-fashioned I know, but I do think these things make a difference. I wonder whether our country changed tonight, and whether we'll look back on 8 o'clock on March 26th, 2020. Will we see it as a moment? I hope so. And that's okay - these days, I think it's good to have hope.
So, I went down to my front door, and in unison with the rest of the street, we all started clapping.
There were warm-looking houses and hallways leaking light into the darkness. I realised I'd never seen inside. Each, like my own, poised with figures with long shadows, all applauding, (some cheering) as we raised a national, very British show of appreciation for our NHS workers: our tireless doctors, nurses, surgeons, attendants, and medical professionals.
They deserve it. They deserve a lot more too. They're risking their lives to keep our country safe, and thousands of people are still alive purely because these heroes went to work this week.
It was an emotional moment, standing there for a few minutes in the cold. The applause rippled, not just from our street, but from every street - from council blocks and avenues, from terraces and flats and bungalows and cottages, and of course from 10 Downing Street - the roar of appreciation from millions and millions of hands all clapping in unison simply to say thank you, from a single audience: the British people.
A firework popped in the sky. It was a sudden reminder of happier times. Somebody whooped above the applause and then we laughed together. We actually laughed!
I thought about Brexit and all those dreadful divisions we had: families torn apart over allegiances and ideals, friends no longer friends and social media a war zone for the opinionated. I thought about the political ripping apart we've suffered as the right wing have ploughed right and the left wing have swung left. I thought about the way those tentacles crept into our lives over the last few years and how fear and mistrust had been soaked into our culture. I thought about all of that, as we stood there at 8 o'clock on our doorsteps.
It was as though a powerful wave of hope had swept over us.
For the first time, maybe since the 2012 Olympics, maybe longer, this nation felt united in something - a common spirit celebrating the best of us, and coming together despite our differences to recognise it. It was, if anything can be these days, amazing - and sure, it was only a few minutes, but there it was. It was us, together.
I'm old-fashioned I know, but I do think these things make a difference. I wonder whether our country changed tonight, and whether we'll look back on 8 o'clock on March 26th, 2020. Will we see it as a moment? I hope so. And that's okay - these days, I think it's good to have hope.
Wednesday, 25 March 2020
DEEP
There's such a gentle mystery
That folds me in its keep
Unfathomed depths of mercy
In the storehouse of the deep
From silver point of starlight
Upon the painted sea
You threw my shame from East to West
So far away from me
And now we dive together
Where mysteries abound
The saviour and his treasure
Once lost, forever found
That folds me in its keep
Unfathomed depths of mercy
In the storehouse of the deep
From silver point of starlight
Upon the painted sea
You threw my shame from East to West
So far away from me
And now we dive together
Where mysteries abound
The saviour and his treasure
Once lost, forever found
ISOLATION DIARIES PART 7: SHOPPING
Well thankfully it's been sunny. Yesterday I drove to Waitrose for my government-mandated food essentials trip. That was surreal. You have to queue up round the car park.
"Excuse me," said I, two metres away from a lady emptying shopping into her boot. "How long did it take you to get round?"
She smiled. For a moment, I wondered whether she appreciated the human contact with a person outside her household. I think she did, because she gave me a longer and more detailed answer than needed, and it was sprinkled with kindness.
It wouldn't take me long, she said, 'the queue moves quite quickly because it's one in and then one out. And when you do get in, it's really dead.'
It's strange to queue up so far apart. It looked like we were all in a weird music video from the 80s. Most had trolleys, a few had bags for life. I had my empty rucksack over my shoulder. We all waited quietly.
Had it been raining (and yes, next week it might be) this would have been the worst queue since Alton Towers. But the sun was warm and spring-like, and there was room to stand. My shadow fell across the concrete, black and mysterious. The air was still, and the sky, blue.
Inside, where I was ushered in by a marshal, the store was quiet. They'd only allowed a handful of people in, so finding what I needed was really easy. It isn't hard to forget the reason why though - in almost every aisle, people swerved to avoid each other, and the staff stood at the ends with worried looks. There was a thought-out process of how to pay too - a red line, taped to the floor, an operative explaining where to leave your things, where to scan your card and when to pack it so that she could stand back a couple of metres.
I liked the efficiency of it. And another example of slowing down, taking a breath, doing things in a smaller, more measured way where we're not driven by greed or by money. It all feels really quite old-fashioned.
That's a good word. Old-fashioned. The Intrepids, secretly enjoying the distance we're all keeping, report that on their daily walks they're meeting and chatting with all sorts of people (at the regulated distance of course). Conversations are happening, and not the usual angsty ones, but the polite, friendly, all-in-this-together type chats, as I had found with my car park lady.
The streets are empty too - nobody's going anywhere (and nor should they be really) so on a stroll, it's nice to see the roads so Christmas-Quiet. You can hear the wildlife, the leaves, and of course, the lovely birds.
I smiled at the checkout operator, and she smiled back as I zipped my rucksack around a loaf of fresh bread.
"Stay safe and have a great day," I said, as cheerily as I could.
"Oh and you too," she waved. I headed back out to the sunlight, to the queue of waiting people, standing two metres apart around the car park. I smiled at an older couple, holding hands. They both beamed back. The birds sang happily in the trees by the quiet main road.
"Excuse me," said I, two metres away from a lady emptying shopping into her boot. "How long did it take you to get round?"
She smiled. For a moment, I wondered whether she appreciated the human contact with a person outside her household. I think she did, because she gave me a longer and more detailed answer than needed, and it was sprinkled with kindness.
It wouldn't take me long, she said, 'the queue moves quite quickly because it's one in and then one out. And when you do get in, it's really dead.'
It's strange to queue up so far apart. It looked like we were all in a weird music video from the 80s. Most had trolleys, a few had bags for life. I had my empty rucksack over my shoulder. We all waited quietly.
Had it been raining (and yes, next week it might be) this would have been the worst queue since Alton Towers. But the sun was warm and spring-like, and there was room to stand. My shadow fell across the concrete, black and mysterious. The air was still, and the sky, blue.
Inside, where I was ushered in by a marshal, the store was quiet. They'd only allowed a handful of people in, so finding what I needed was really easy. It isn't hard to forget the reason why though - in almost every aisle, people swerved to avoid each other, and the staff stood at the ends with worried looks. There was a thought-out process of how to pay too - a red line, taped to the floor, an operative explaining where to leave your things, where to scan your card and when to pack it so that she could stand back a couple of metres.
I liked the efficiency of it. And another example of slowing down, taking a breath, doing things in a smaller, more measured way where we're not driven by greed or by money. It all feels really quite old-fashioned.
That's a good word. Old-fashioned. The Intrepids, secretly enjoying the distance we're all keeping, report that on their daily walks they're meeting and chatting with all sorts of people (at the regulated distance of course). Conversations are happening, and not the usual angsty ones, but the polite, friendly, all-in-this-together type chats, as I had found with my car park lady.
The streets are empty too - nobody's going anywhere (and nor should they be really) so on a stroll, it's nice to see the roads so Christmas-Quiet. You can hear the wildlife, the leaves, and of course, the lovely birds.
I smiled at the checkout operator, and she smiled back as I zipped my rucksack around a loaf of fresh bread.
"Stay safe and have a great day," I said, as cheerily as I could.
"Oh and you too," she waved. I headed back out to the sunlight, to the queue of waiting people, standing two metres apart around the car park. I smiled at an older couple, holding hands. They both beamed back. The birds sang happily in the trees by the quiet main road.
Tuesday, 24 March 2020
ISOLATION DIARIES PART 6: LOCKDOWN
We all knew it was coming. I was on a zoom call at the time, but moments later, someone read out the news.
We’re not allowed out of our houses unless it’s for food essentials, medicine, or daily exercise. All shops are closed, other than grocery stores and pharmacies. We must not visit friends, family, loved ones, or anybody, for the next three weeks, and gatherings, all gatherings of more than two people, are now officially banned by the government of the United Kingdom.
“It is the right decision,” said Rich, looking away from his screen for a moment. And it is. It’s just a horrid one. This virus can infect up to 3 other people once hosted - meaning just ten leaps of infectious contact and one person, just one, will have infected around 59,000 other people.
What’s more, thousands of us won’t have a clue that we’ve even got it. So when you see a weekend where people flock to the park, the beach, the river, to make the most of the sunshine ... it makes absolute sense to enforce a complete lockdown. People will die if we don’t do this.
So here we are. Forced into endless hours of mind-numbing confinement, the ever-loopy TV, and our inseparable smartphones and iPads. We’ll be square-eyed, drained and pale when we finally blink into the sunlight half asleep. And there I was thinking this wouldn’t look like a zombie apocalypse!
A crisis like this brings so many tensions into sharp focus. The selfish spirit of stockpiling and socialising comes into relief when the world reminds us that that behaviour is literally endangering the lives of other people. It is currently irresponsible to live like that - though generations of us have never really known any different; we've never really had to give up anything before.
But there are older generations who know exactly what that means. They weren’t hunted by an invisible killer; they were bombed by a real one, who burned their towns and cities to smouldering ash. They fought for, and won our freedoms at a great and terrible cost. They had ration books and night terrors, they had hardship and hard work, they had fire and fury. They gave everything for us. And now they, and the children who grew in the shadow of that war, need protecting, but we don’t seem to know how to do it. We can’t even bring ourselves to stay at home in front of the TV!
If there is one thing then that emerges ‘blinking into the sunlight’, I hope it’s a new sense of responsibility. I hope we all finally get it - that our actions have consequences, that somebody, somewhere always cleans up when we make a mess. I hope that we see a kind of an end to that ‘I’m young and healthy/why shouldn’t I stockpile/it’s my right’ attitude.
Anyway, we’re locked down, at home for the foreseeable future. The world belongs to the birds for a while, and as I realised the other morning, that really is quite a beautiful, hopeful sound to sing across the empty streets.
There will be a day when we’re back. And it’s my hope that it will be a different kind of day altogether.
Sunday, 22 March 2020
WATCHING THE SUN COME UP
I woke up ridiculously early. It wasn't the kind of halfway-up either; I was fully awake, and unable to go back to sleep.
Often that's a pretty good indicator that I'm supposed to pray about something, so naturally, I then spent the next half hour listening to a podcast and playing Tetris on my phone. I'm lousy sometimes.
But I did get up, and I did throw on some clothes and head out to the park. The air was still thick with night. There were some early mists steaming from the grass, but above, the stars twinkled in a purple sky.
There's no real need for 'social distancing' at 5-something-or-other on a Sunday morning. I was a lone figure striding across the grass to the benches. In the East, the morning was already painting a golden band above the town and the silhouetted treeline. It would not be long before my own long shadow would join the trees and fall behind me.
It felt very real that moment. Sometimes, especially now, life seems a bit sort of artificial. But a cold early morning in the park felt as tangible and as earthy as ever. As a teenager, I'd do this often: no thought of my own safety - I'd get up and go to the park to think and pray. It isn't normal teenage behaviour, but I wasn't particularly a normal teenager. I'd race back before school, just in time to cut another memory verse to recite on the way up the road later. This morning, out there in the cold air, waiting for the sun, I found myself wishing I was still a bit more like that.
I want to be real. When all this isolation is over, and we get to choose our culture and our etiquette again, I want to be genuine and real. I don't want to pretend to be anything, or conform to other people's expectations. I don't want to be the 'model' of a leader or an 'example' character for people to look up to and be disappointed - I want to be genuine.
And I think I'm arriving at that point because if there's one thing we're all going to need, it is genuine friends. In the end, nobody really follows the leader just for the sake of it: the best teams are the ones with the best combinations of boundaries and friendships. And I'd pick friends over followers any day; just like Jesus did.
I watched the sun. I love this daily drama. A thin sliver, a semicircle of golden light. A vibrant ball of hot orange emerging into the lightening sky. Already it's too bright to look at. Brilliant and yellow, it burns rays into the purple sky, bursting in every direction, catching glints on aeroplanes, painting clouds with gold, and dropping like silver across the tiny jewelled blades of grass.
The birds erupt with praise. Every beak in every tree sings its own part of the hallelujah chorus: from chaffinches to great tits, and robins to blackbirds. The magpies stutter and the woodpeckers rattle their beaks into the tree; the passerines dart happily from branch to branch, and somewhere an owl hoots a good morning, which may well be a goodnight as hunting time is over. And for some reason, I join in.
Sure my notes are simple, earthy melodies compared to theirs. Even the greatest of our sopranos couldn't match the smallest robin - we are slow and deep, and we've trained our ears to define a tiny window of sounds as 'music'. But real music is a vast, fluid ocean of sound, and the birds know far more of it than we do - not to mention the creatures of the deep, the seas themselves, and the planets spinning in their elegant frequencies. Sun, moon and stars in their courses above. I sang in the early morning anyway.
Walking back for breakfast, I started to think of some of the challenges of being real with people. There are risks, there are offences, there are miscommunications. But I hope there's also real honesty about who we are - what we struggle with, how we're overcoming, and how joy and wisdom, faith and grace all combine to make the journey so beautifully balanced, both for us, and those we walk with.
Well. That's yet to come in some ways. First is Isolation Week 2 - the quest for normal. There's every chance it could develop and evolve just as quickly as Week 1 did, by which I mean, this time next week we'll be locked indoors with tanks and infantrymen patrolling the streets. I sincerely hope it doesn't though. After all, I'd quite like to go out and see the sunrise again.
Often that's a pretty good indicator that I'm supposed to pray about something, so naturally, I then spent the next half hour listening to a podcast and playing Tetris on my phone. I'm lousy sometimes.
But I did get up, and I did throw on some clothes and head out to the park. The air was still thick with night. There were some early mists steaming from the grass, but above, the stars twinkled in a purple sky.
There's no real need for 'social distancing' at 5-something-or-other on a Sunday morning. I was a lone figure striding across the grass to the benches. In the East, the morning was already painting a golden band above the town and the silhouetted treeline. It would not be long before my own long shadow would join the trees and fall behind me.
It felt very real that moment. Sometimes, especially now, life seems a bit sort of artificial. But a cold early morning in the park felt as tangible and as earthy as ever. As a teenager, I'd do this often: no thought of my own safety - I'd get up and go to the park to think and pray. It isn't normal teenage behaviour, but I wasn't particularly a normal teenager. I'd race back before school, just in time to cut another memory verse to recite on the way up the road later. This morning, out there in the cold air, waiting for the sun, I found myself wishing I was still a bit more like that.
I want to be real. When all this isolation is over, and we get to choose our culture and our etiquette again, I want to be genuine and real. I don't want to pretend to be anything, or conform to other people's expectations. I don't want to be the 'model' of a leader or an 'example' character for people to look up to and be disappointed - I want to be genuine.
And I think I'm arriving at that point because if there's one thing we're all going to need, it is genuine friends. In the end, nobody really follows the leader just for the sake of it: the best teams are the ones with the best combinations of boundaries and friendships. And I'd pick friends over followers any day; just like Jesus did.
I watched the sun. I love this daily drama. A thin sliver, a semicircle of golden light. A vibrant ball of hot orange emerging into the lightening sky. Already it's too bright to look at. Brilliant and yellow, it burns rays into the purple sky, bursting in every direction, catching glints on aeroplanes, painting clouds with gold, and dropping like silver across the tiny jewelled blades of grass.
The birds erupt with praise. Every beak in every tree sings its own part of the hallelujah chorus: from chaffinches to great tits, and robins to blackbirds. The magpies stutter and the woodpeckers rattle their beaks into the tree; the passerines dart happily from branch to branch, and somewhere an owl hoots a good morning, which may well be a goodnight as hunting time is over. And for some reason, I join in.
Sure my notes are simple, earthy melodies compared to theirs. Even the greatest of our sopranos couldn't match the smallest robin - we are slow and deep, and we've trained our ears to define a tiny window of sounds as 'music'. But real music is a vast, fluid ocean of sound, and the birds know far more of it than we do - not to mention the creatures of the deep, the seas themselves, and the planets spinning in their elegant frequencies. Sun, moon and stars in their courses above. I sang in the early morning anyway.
Walking back for breakfast, I started to think of some of the challenges of being real with people. There are risks, there are offences, there are miscommunications. But I hope there's also real honesty about who we are - what we struggle with, how we're overcoming, and how joy and wisdom, faith and grace all combine to make the journey so beautifully balanced, both for us, and those we walk with.
Well. That's yet to come in some ways. First is Isolation Week 2 - the quest for normal. There's every chance it could develop and evolve just as quickly as Week 1 did, by which I mean, this time next week we'll be locked indoors with tanks and infantrymen patrolling the streets. I sincerely hope it doesn't though. After all, I'd quite like to go out and see the sunrise again.
Friday, 20 March 2020
ISOLATION DIARIES PART 5: THE ARMCHAIR LANGUAGE OF HOME
Today has felt more normal for some reason. Maybe it was just the indefatigable ‘Friday Feeling’ hard-wired into my core, overriding the weirdness.
The sky above the houses was blue this morning. Little white ice clouds, high and thin, like horsetails, and then banks of lower, flat, fluffy clouds catching the sun. Spring is hinting at us.
Social distancing will be the new normal for a while. The inevitable work email came: it’s longer than just two weeks, folks. There’s talk of 10-12 weeks. There’s talk of social distancing lasting ‘most of this year’ - a prospect that sits like slurry in my stomach.
In his daily briefing from Number 10 Downing Street, the Prime Minister closed “all nightclubs, restaurants, gyms, leisure centres and pubs” with immediate effect. It was a bleak reminder that this virus has stolen the one thing from us that would make it more bearable - each other. The two union flags stood side by side, three feet apart behind him, in his wood-panelled briefing room - a reminder of the minimum distance that there now must be between every human in this United Kingdom.
Emmie called me from Canada today while I was walking in the park. I’d just been reflecting on the dog-walkers I’d seen who’d shot me looks of fear and compassion: “we all know what’s going on but don’t come near me,” they all said, without saying it. Anyway, Emmie gave me the lowdown on Toronto. Much the same. People there are building toilet roll forts at home too. Fear and compassion, the same weird mix everywhere, has a funny effect on people.
So we rounded out the week. Who knows what’s next: complete lockdown? Rationing? Curfews?
I’m not alone I’m sure, but the one thing I’d like is a big hug from someone who really loves me. Like my Dad, or my Mum or someone out there who knows that armchair language of home, and isn’t afraid to throw arms around me while I flood them with tears.
I’m going to have to wait aren’t I? I think we all are.
Thursday, 19 March 2020
ISOLATION DIARIES PART 4: SNOW DAYS
Normally when my neighbour sends me a text, my heart sinks with a particular fear. It's a very unique fear that people in upstairs flats have - if you've ever lived in one, you might know what I'm talking about. There's a damp patch in the ceiling. Is there a door slamming? Have you left something beeping? Can you smell gas?
So today, when she texted me from downstairs (and it's the first time in ages) I was all set for the worst.
"Hi Matt I hope you are ok - obviously if you do feel unwell let me know - I know you are part of the Church and if there is anything I can do to help in my spare time I can"
I replied and said I was feeling okay for the moment, and I of course would do the same.
Isn't that lovely? Meanwhile on my friends' street, someone's organised a community WhatsApp group by putting a note through each door offering help and support. Out of unthinkable isolation comes unsinkable community. I like to think that this kind of thing might be happening all over the country.
I've been contemplating today about how different it looks is when everything stops.
Sometimes we have snow days, and on snow days it feels like the very sound of the world changes. Traffic becomes the sound of kids pulling sledges. Car horns become the laughter of little voices on tea-trays hurtling down the slope in the park. The air is stiller somehow, blanketed, and it's as though there's a breather for everyone while we rest so helplessly stuck at home. For a while you remember how beautiful we can be.
I know. Snow days don't tend to be this dangerous or this fearful either, and I don't want to minimise the seriousness of it all, but it does feel as though, out here in the shadows, the very sound of the world is changing this week.
I've spoken to so many people - way more than usual - and not just about technical writing! I've had video calls, phone calls, deep, deep WhatsApps; I've written haiku, jingles, poems and stories, and I've made a board game! I've told my parents I love them, I've read, I've laughed, I've eaten biscuits, and I've got sad, happy, relieved, and anxious all within the same five minutes.
It's really rather lovely that suddenly we've been given a whole load of our most precious resource. None of us talk about how busy we are. None of us are rushing off to the next thing. All that stuff we thought was so important seems so trivial; we're all just at home. We seem to suddenly have time for each other. As troublesome as it is right now out there, I don't want that revelation to pass me by.
And those of us who aren't raiding the supermarket for hand sanitizer and pot noodles are using that time hopefully, to change the sound of the world, taking it back to the stuff that makes us who we are deep-down, on these kindest and strangest of snow days.
So today, when she texted me from downstairs (and it's the first time in ages) I was all set for the worst.
"Hi Matt I hope you are ok - obviously if you do feel unwell let me know - I know you are part of the Church and if there is anything I can do to help in my spare time I can"
I replied and said I was feeling okay for the moment, and I of course would do the same.
Isn't that lovely? Meanwhile on my friends' street, someone's organised a community WhatsApp group by putting a note through each door offering help and support. Out of unthinkable isolation comes unsinkable community. I like to think that this kind of thing might be happening all over the country.
I've been contemplating today about how different it looks is when everything stops.
Sometimes we have snow days, and on snow days it feels like the very sound of the world changes. Traffic becomes the sound of kids pulling sledges. Car horns become the laughter of little voices on tea-trays hurtling down the slope in the park. The air is stiller somehow, blanketed, and it's as though there's a breather for everyone while we rest so helplessly stuck at home. For a while you remember how beautiful we can be.
I know. Snow days don't tend to be this dangerous or this fearful either, and I don't want to minimise the seriousness of it all, but it does feel as though, out here in the shadows, the very sound of the world is changing this week.
I've spoken to so many people - way more than usual - and not just about technical writing! I've had video calls, phone calls, deep, deep WhatsApps; I've written haiku, jingles, poems and stories, and I've made a board game! I've told my parents I love them, I've read, I've laughed, I've eaten biscuits, and I've got sad, happy, relieved, and anxious all within the same five minutes.
It's really rather lovely that suddenly we've been given a whole load of our most precious resource. None of us talk about how busy we are. None of us are rushing off to the next thing. All that stuff we thought was so important seems so trivial; we're all just at home. We seem to suddenly have time for each other. As troublesome as it is right now out there, I don't want that revelation to pass me by.
And those of us who aren't raiding the supermarket for hand sanitizer and pot noodles are using that time hopefully, to change the sound of the world, taking it back to the stuff that makes us who we are deep-down, on these kindest and strangest of snow days.
ISOLATION DIARIES PART 3: MALTED MILKS
I had a wobble today. I was sort of expecting it; it’s been feeling as though the picnic phase might be over, for a while.
What I mean by the ‘picnic phase’ is that first cheery burst of pragmatism. The war will be over by Christmas; come on chaps. We can handle anything Hitler tries to drop on us, by George. George? George! Yes, for Harry, and for England.
Don’t get me wrong: I’m not trying to cheapen the dreadful wars, or even this wretched curse we’re under now, by comparing it all with a picnic! I’m just trying to find words for that rather jolly spirit that braves a disaster with the initial confidence that everything will be alright if we press on through.
Actually, I think it will! It’s just that between the picnic phase and the end, there’s a sewer of difficulty to go through. And that’s what gave me a wobble today - the dreadful thought of being on my own for months in that sewer. This is going to be tough, and the realisation was hitting me.
It hit me when I realised I couldn’t do a thing I said I’d do. It hit me again when I realised that there might be people out there who have different opinions of what to do about church. I suddenly felt very anxious that I couldn’t hold together the two views that must be right: that you can be full of faith, and also wisely following the advice of health officials. Someone I know once said that handling cognitive dissonance like that was a mark of maturity. Well, raspberries to maturity then; I couldn’t do it today.
And then I ate a packet of malted milk biscuits. You know, for ages I couldn’t work out what the little animal on the front is. Next to the big cow. I mean, it actually is a second cow, lying down, but also, it kind of looks like a kangaroo. Or a fish. Or a crocodile. And I had to check every single biscuit in the pack, just to make sure.
And anyway, why would one cow be lying down and the other standing up? What weather is that predicting - looks like rain? Will rain on only half the field? Thundery spots on the windscreen but it ‘won’t come to much’?
Well anyway, I wobbled. This isn’t going to be very easy. To smooth out the peak so the NHS can cope, it means the standard distribution has to get wider and wider. So the peak gets smaller, and later, but fewer people die. Rather like a tsunami wave - it carries energy and devastation whether it’s a huge wall of water surging once into the town, or it seeps in like a tidal surge over several hours. We’re in this for a while, and I don’t believe it will be a picnic. Though I’m still very happy to check the malted milks.
Wednesday, 18 March 2020
ISOLATION DIARIES PART 2: ONLINE MEETINGS
Online meetings are great.
There are some moments though when reading body language, micro-expressions and facial expressions, would also be really useful. And you can't properly do any of that online.
First of all, no-one seems to know when to start speaking, leaving you with
awkward pause A. Or of course, speakverpetwoopleing the top of each other B, which then creates awkward pause A anyway, and a loop of A and B into which we might well fall forever, or until Meeting Organiser regains control and starts talking.
Then there's the question of who shares their camera and who doesn't. We were here yesterday of course when I accidentally showed off my dressing gown to my new boss. But it seems there's still a bit of an unspoken confusion about whether you should be visible or not. And some of these platforms let you blur your background, or even display somewhere else like San Francisco or the Moon! Sensible? Or showy? Or paranoid?
At the moment, the camera-resolution isn't quite detailed enough anyway. It can't give us the micro-expressions we never knew we relied so much upon in real meetings. And even if it could, there's no way to see the whole room at once, to study reactions to what's being presented. I never knew how useful a thing that was to do!
Presenter makes joke. Boss shakes head slowly from side-to-side. Colleague stifles a laugh on the other side of the table. There's no narrative like that in TeamSkypeZoomLand.
And of course, if you're not speaking, you should always mute your microphone - otherwise the chat is awash with interference - in most platforms, coughing or sneezing unmuted will actually put you on-screen in front of everyone else, as the software tries to prioritise who's speaking. And that's not ideal if you're still in your dressing gown. Or if you've got post-sneeze-face in 'San Francisco'. Or if you're trying to avoid those awkward pause loops.
So, we're still learning the culture and etiquette of this newish way of communicating. It's socially fascinating, even if the situation that's created the need for it is dreadful and surreal.
I don't mean that in a flippant sense. It really is surreal - "over the top of reality", as though someone somewhere is dreaming, and we're all characters in the story their sleeping brain has concocted.
In what universe two weeks ago, would our country be pledging 15% of our GDP to help keep people alive and our businesses running? In which parallel dimension would we needed to have tumbled, to have got here so fast! A world where we can no longer be hugged or held by people, where we can't hold hands to gently show each other it'll all be alright, nor eat together, nor do all the simple things we used to take for granted, like going to the movies, out for a coffee, a drink in a pub, watching our sports team. It was unthinkable a month ago; now here we are - deep in the wormhole.
Anyway, I don't want the isolation to get to me. That's not going to help anyone. Surreal it might all be, but it's also real - nobody's dreaming this.
But it might also be a world full of opportunity, actually: opportunity for families to spend time together while they self-isolate; opportunity for us to remember our neighbours while we do our best to work from home together; opportunity to remind each other of what really matters, and how preciously we hold our friends and our family, even though we can't hold them at all.
And I'm resolved to still be the best I can be, even if for a while, I'm just a voice and a message and a face on a screen.
Well. You know. That's if I actually remember to unmute myself and turn my camera on.
There are some moments though when reading body language, micro-expressions and facial expressions, would also be really useful. And you can't properly do any of that online.
First of all, no-one seems to know when to start speaking, leaving you with
awkward pause A. Or of course, speakverpetwoopleing the top of each other B, which then creates awkward pause A anyway, and a loop of A and B into which we might well fall forever, or until Meeting Organiser regains control and starts talking.
Then there's the question of who shares their camera and who doesn't. We were here yesterday of course when I accidentally showed off my dressing gown to my new boss. But it seems there's still a bit of an unspoken confusion about whether you should be visible or not. And some of these platforms let you blur your background, or even display somewhere else like San Francisco or the Moon! Sensible? Or showy? Or paranoid?
At the moment, the camera-resolution isn't quite detailed enough anyway. It can't give us the micro-expressions we never knew we relied so much upon in real meetings. And even if it could, there's no way to see the whole room at once, to study reactions to what's being presented. I never knew how useful a thing that was to do!
Presenter makes joke. Boss shakes head slowly from side-to-side. Colleague stifles a laugh on the other side of the table. There's no narrative like that in TeamSkypeZoomLand.
And of course, if you're not speaking, you should always mute your microphone - otherwise the chat is awash with interference - in most platforms, coughing or sneezing unmuted will actually put you on-screen in front of everyone else, as the software tries to prioritise who's speaking. And that's not ideal if you're still in your dressing gown. Or if you've got post-sneeze-face in 'San Francisco'. Or if you're trying to avoid those awkward pause loops.
So, we're still learning the culture and etiquette of this newish way of communicating. It's socially fascinating, even if the situation that's created the need for it is dreadful and surreal.
I don't mean that in a flippant sense. It really is surreal - "over the top of reality", as though someone somewhere is dreaming, and we're all characters in the story their sleeping brain has concocted.
In what universe two weeks ago, would our country be pledging 15% of our GDP to help keep people alive and our businesses running? In which parallel dimension would we needed to have tumbled, to have got here so fast! A world where we can no longer be hugged or held by people, where we can't hold hands to gently show each other it'll all be alright, nor eat together, nor do all the simple things we used to take for granted, like going to the movies, out for a coffee, a drink in a pub, watching our sports team. It was unthinkable a month ago; now here we are - deep in the wormhole.
Anyway, I don't want the isolation to get to me. That's not going to help anyone. Surreal it might all be, but it's also real - nobody's dreaming this.
But it might also be a world full of opportunity, actually: opportunity for families to spend time together while they self-isolate; opportunity for us to remember our neighbours while we do our best to work from home together; opportunity to remind each other of what really matters, and how preciously we hold our friends and our family, even though we can't hold them at all.
And I'm resolved to still be the best I can be, even if for a while, I'm just a voice and a message and a face on a screen.
Well. You know. That's if I actually remember to unmute myself and turn my camera on.
Tuesday, 17 March 2020
ISOLATION DIARIES PART 1
It began with a message.
"Effective Monday, March 16th, we are strongly encouraging ALL employees to work from home for the next two weeks."
Isolation then. Stricken at home with the biscuits and the toast, and only the freezer for company (currently humming in G major). I have tea, I have toilet paper, I have pasta and I have rice. What I don't have is any idea how my mind will survive.
I wrapped myself in my dressing gown and flipped a baseball cap on - sometimes the sun beams in at just the wrong angle for my screen while I'm working from home. It was all very Murdoch-from-the-A-Team.
Onto the system. I phoned my colleague just to hear another human voice. She laughed at me. My own voice croaked and my mind started clunking into action like a well-used coffee machine. I was sure she could hear it.
Then came the dry Slack posts, after a few people hadn't got the message yet and had gone in as normal.
Why didn't HR use the emergency text message system we trialled a year ago? Well, it's not an emergency; it wasn't planned for. Oh! Whereas a real emergency would be totally planned for?! I wouldn't expect so no, emergencies aren't normally planned. Are we cancelling the table football tournament? Well obviously.
I stayed out of the remote banter. There's a lot of layers to the way people interact online when they can't see each other - the last thing they need is yet another person trying to be funny.
Then I had a call with my own manager in Minnesota. I forgot two essential things for the first few seconds: one, it was a video call; two, I was still dressed in cap and dressing gown. A ghostly image appeared, springs of unkempt hair under ill-fitting hat; sunlight bouncing off glasses and a ropey-looking grey dressing gown. I quickly (and surreptitiously) turned off my camera.
Later in the day, the government started their daily briefings to the country. The Prime Minister stood inside Downing Street, looking altogether serious. This really is as close to sci-fi as I've ever known the world.
Isolation. That at least was the first day of it, anyway.
"Effective Monday, March 16th, we are strongly encouraging ALL employees to work from home for the next two weeks."
Isolation then. Stricken at home with the biscuits and the toast, and only the freezer for company (currently humming in G major). I have tea, I have toilet paper, I have pasta and I have rice. What I don't have is any idea how my mind will survive.
I wrapped myself in my dressing gown and flipped a baseball cap on - sometimes the sun beams in at just the wrong angle for my screen while I'm working from home. It was all very Murdoch-from-the-A-Team.
Onto the system. I phoned my colleague just to hear another human voice. She laughed at me. My own voice croaked and my mind started clunking into action like a well-used coffee machine. I was sure she could hear it.
Then came the dry Slack posts, after a few people hadn't got the message yet and had gone in as normal.
Why didn't HR use the emergency text message system we trialled a year ago? Well, it's not an emergency; it wasn't planned for. Oh! Whereas a real emergency would be totally planned for?! I wouldn't expect so no, emergencies aren't normally planned. Are we cancelling the table football tournament? Well obviously.
I stayed out of the remote banter. There's a lot of layers to the way people interact online when they can't see each other - the last thing they need is yet another person trying to be funny.
Then I had a call with my own manager in Minnesota. I forgot two essential things for the first few seconds: one, it was a video call; two, I was still dressed in cap and dressing gown. A ghostly image appeared, springs of unkempt hair under ill-fitting hat; sunlight bouncing off glasses and a ropey-looking grey dressing gown. I quickly (and surreptitiously) turned off my camera.
Later in the day, the government started their daily briefings to the country. The Prime Minister stood inside Downing Street, looking altogether serious. This really is as close to sci-fi as I've ever known the world.
Isolation. That at least was the first day of it, anyway.
Monday, 16 March 2020
DIFFERENT SIZED QUESTIONS
Last week, while the country slipped into toilet-roll consuming panic, I had two medium sized questions to deal with.
What I mean by a medium-sized question is a question that’s difficult to answer, but not out of reach. I often get a feeling that an MSQ is solvable, even if I haven’t reached the solution yet. It’s not a small question: you can bat those away without going away to think about it. And it’s not a huge question either. It’s chunky but there’s at least an end to it.
Part of the trouble with modern life is that we can’t seem to make up our minds about the difference. Newsreaders looking for a sound bite, or a simple yes/no answer, hammer the point, badgering their guests into answering huge questions as though they were simple, small ones.
Meanwhile, old-fashioned debate, the stuff that could possibly help us get to the bottom of medium sized questions, is always time-limited and sprinkled with bias. And I hate to say it, but social media has only made that condition worse.
What’s more, it’s given us all a voice, of all things! We all have the same platforms to be published experts on everything - and an equal number of cathedral doors on which to nail our reformative theses! Huge questions then become paper-mulch in online-Wittenberg, where hundreds of thousands of Martin Luthers are having their daily scraps with each other. It’s a noisy town square to say the least.
My two MSQs last week were sort of solved. Not just by me. One friend, who’d asked me what a tricky bit of the Bible was about, reached a conclusion that seemed pretty sensible for both of us. Another, who’d found something even more difficult, did a bit of research too, and that was that. All I did was ask her a small question, hoping that it might unlock the medium size one.
I thought about that today, because I wondered whether huge questions might be tools to help us solve smaller questions too. The Pastor told the story of a Bible character called Hosea, a man who was required to do a life-changing thing to make a massive, much wider point.
If I were focused on the small question Hosea might have had: “Whom should I marry?” I might miss the picture, which is in this case, that marriage fits itself into a broader story, and a thing that carries a huge question for old Hosea: “What does my marriage say to the whole nation?” or bigger still perhaps, “Will I be obedient?”
I think huge questions are sometimes unsolvable. That’s okay: in mathematics, infinity and imaginary numbers are just tools you can use to solve real equations with things like ‘electrical resistance’ or ‘frequency waves’ in them. Somewhere along the line, the incalculable numbers cancel each other out and only the tangible, real stuff remains.
Huge questions too. We’re not going to solve them, but the art of looking at them, from so many different directions... that leads us to some awesome perspectives and principles when it comes to those smaller ones we just might be able to solve.
And no, I don’t understand why people panic-bought all the toilet roll last week. There was always going to be enough, for the pragmatic buyer and the stockpiler alike. And now, because of the perception that there wouldn’t be enough of it when there actually was, there now actually isn’t when there should be. But normal human behaviour during a sweeping global pandemic? Well that is a huge question, if you ask me.
Thursday, 12 March 2020
THE JOY OF IMPROVEMENT
So the Table Football Tournament has begun, and once again it's a huge test of our social dynamics.
I was not prepared for the first game - the ignominy of picking the ball out of your goal and swerving it back into the field of play, only for you to have to repeat that three seconds later. We lost that one 10-1, 10-0.
So for the second round, I got into the groove beforehand, knowing full well that we would lose. That's not defeatest - we were playing the best team in the tournament; a crunching loss was always likely. What we needed today, was improvement.
This is an interesting concept with games, isn't it? Improvement requires you to perform, try, act, play the same thing at least twice! It also seems to fuel enjoyment in a sort of hidden way that's a good silver medal to actually being good, or winning.
I went round to my friends' house last night for dinner, and they (loving board games as they do) introduced me to a game called Waggle Dance - it's about bees, and ingeniously, you spend the game turning 'nectar' into 'honey' using dice, cards and plastic.
I was bewildered by the instructions (I was trying to read them at the same time someone was explaining the game to me). The fold-out newspaper-sized book-of-words was almost indecipherable; nothing made sense. In fact, the game-play didn't really click until about two-thirds of the way through - by which time there was not much I could do about the strategy. But next time...
However, the chances of me forgetting exactly how to play Waggle Dance before playing it a second time are incredibly high. So will I enjoy it next time? I'd argue less so. And are board games therefore better when they're quicker to learn? Is this bewilderment one of the reasons why so many people say they despise board games? How do you gain the joy of improvement without the opportunity to practice it? And how do you remove your own inferiority from the mix, when you don't get what everyone else in the room finds so simple?
As for table football, a game where the rules are extremely simple, Alex, my Foosball-Fodder-Teammate, and I, on Team Hapless, lost our second game 10-0, 10-2.
And I for one, was delighted.
I was not prepared for the first game - the ignominy of picking the ball out of your goal and swerving it back into the field of play, only for you to have to repeat that three seconds later. We lost that one 10-1, 10-0.
So for the second round, I got into the groove beforehand, knowing full well that we would lose. That's not defeatest - we were playing the best team in the tournament; a crunching loss was always likely. What we needed today, was improvement.
This is an interesting concept with games, isn't it? Improvement requires you to perform, try, act, play the same thing at least twice! It also seems to fuel enjoyment in a sort of hidden way that's a good silver medal to actually being good, or winning.
I went round to my friends' house last night for dinner, and they (loving board games as they do) introduced me to a game called Waggle Dance - it's about bees, and ingeniously, you spend the game turning 'nectar' into 'honey' using dice, cards and plastic.
I was bewildered by the instructions (I was trying to read them at the same time someone was explaining the game to me). The fold-out newspaper-sized book-of-words was almost indecipherable; nothing made sense. In fact, the game-play didn't really click until about two-thirds of the way through - by which time there was not much I could do about the strategy. But next time...
However, the chances of me forgetting exactly how to play Waggle Dance before playing it a second time are incredibly high. So will I enjoy it next time? I'd argue less so. And are board games therefore better when they're quicker to learn? Is this bewilderment one of the reasons why so many people say they despise board games? How do you gain the joy of improvement without the opportunity to practice it? And how do you remove your own inferiority from the mix, when you don't get what everyone else in the room finds so simple?
As for table football, a game where the rules are extremely simple, Alex, my Foosball-Fodder-Teammate, and I, on Team Hapless, lost our second game 10-0, 10-2.
And I for one, was delighted.
Tuesday, 10 March 2020
CONSCIENTIOUS OBJECTOR
I'm a conscientious objector from the Dishwasher Wars. They began so long ago now, it's hard for any of us who are left, to even remember a time before this dreadful conflict took hold.
It must have begun, many many weeks ago, when someone in a hurry attempted to put their used bowl and cups into the dishwasher and found it full of steam-hot clean stuff. Clearly through convenience, they put their empties in the sink and left, trusting in the magical power of the holy Cleaners.
Enraged (beyond reason, the Sinkers would say) the nobility, the late workers, rose up in an altogether incandescent fury at this scandalous disrespect - not just of the cleaners but of "decent people everywhere" who "must" be affronted by such things.
Then one day, someone emptied the dishwasher and put the clean items away, but also refused to fill it with the waiting crockery and cutlery - an action which would teach the Sinkers nothing at all - after all, next morning they'd find their stuff mysteriously clean and ready in the cupboards. Sure enough, the other Shamers found their way to the kitchen and were met with the terrible disaster of empty dishwasher and sink full. The Sinkers saw ancient magic; the Shamers saw nothing but lazy pigs.
Photos began appearing - sinkfuls of plates and bowls and cups, half-filled with cold, grey dishwater, accompanied by jokey barbs. Then the barbs got less jokey, and became steadily infused with Anglo Saxon.
The war began: the propaganda of the passive aggressive posters (many featuring the deathly double-exclamation marks, capital letters, and fearsome underlines)... but the bombs merely dented their target, only fueling the anger on both sides, adding white-hot shame to the anonymous heads of the Sinkers, who buried themselves in their piles of dirty cups.
Still, unobserved and somehow unabashed, they left their things there, night by night, afternoon by afternoon, stacking toppling piles, leaning towers of plates and spoons and porridge-encrusted cereal bowls - there was nothing their Shamers could do, other than thinly threaten to leave a webcam hovering over the sink like the Eye of Sauron, or continue with the devastating war, on Slack, on Teams, on social media. Those wars, the Dishwasher Wars continue.
I am a conscientious objector, as I've made known. I'm a washer-upper if anything. And I do have a feeling there might be double-agents: spies in one camp who cover their anonymous guilt by loudly raging against their real cause... and I don't wish to be counted among those people, or even suspected of double-knavery.
Neither do I wish to be a dirty Sinker, irresponsibly fleeing the office like a fly-tipper leaves the recycling banks at midnight.
I let the bullets fly and the arrows poke the armoured skin. I watch, wondering how this office will recover from this war-torn world of woe, ravaging and burning as the weeks go by. I sigh to myself, knowing the truth, that ancient truth we've always known, and that is perhaps the oldest adage of all.
War has no victors.
It must have begun, many many weeks ago, when someone in a hurry attempted to put their used bowl and cups into the dishwasher and found it full of steam-hot clean stuff. Clearly through convenience, they put their empties in the sink and left, trusting in the magical power of the holy Cleaners.
Enraged (beyond reason, the Sinkers would say) the nobility, the late workers, rose up in an altogether incandescent fury at this scandalous disrespect - not just of the cleaners but of "decent people everywhere" who "must" be affronted by such things.
Then one day, someone emptied the dishwasher and put the clean items away, but also refused to fill it with the waiting crockery and cutlery - an action which would teach the Sinkers nothing at all - after all, next morning they'd find their stuff mysteriously clean and ready in the cupboards. Sure enough, the other Shamers found their way to the kitchen and were met with the terrible disaster of empty dishwasher and sink full. The Sinkers saw ancient magic; the Shamers saw nothing but lazy pigs.
Photos began appearing - sinkfuls of plates and bowls and cups, half-filled with cold, grey dishwater, accompanied by jokey barbs. Then the barbs got less jokey, and became steadily infused with Anglo Saxon.
The war began: the propaganda of the passive aggressive posters (many featuring the deathly double-exclamation marks, capital letters, and fearsome underlines)... but the bombs merely dented their target, only fueling the anger on both sides, adding white-hot shame to the anonymous heads of the Sinkers, who buried themselves in their piles of dirty cups.
Still, unobserved and somehow unabashed, they left their things there, night by night, afternoon by afternoon, stacking toppling piles, leaning towers of plates and spoons and porridge-encrusted cereal bowls - there was nothing their Shamers could do, other than thinly threaten to leave a webcam hovering over the sink like the Eye of Sauron, or continue with the devastating war, on Slack, on Teams, on social media. Those wars, the Dishwasher Wars continue.
I am a conscientious objector, as I've made known. I'm a washer-upper if anything. And I do have a feeling there might be double-agents: spies in one camp who cover their anonymous guilt by loudly raging against their real cause... and I don't wish to be counted among those people, or even suspected of double-knavery.
Neither do I wish to be a dirty Sinker, irresponsibly fleeing the office like a fly-tipper leaves the recycling banks at midnight.
I let the bullets fly and the arrows poke the armoured skin. I watch, wondering how this office will recover from this war-torn world of woe, ravaging and burning as the weeks go by. I sigh to myself, knowing the truth, that ancient truth we've always known, and that is perhaps the oldest adage of all.
War has no victors.
NOT THE ZOMBIE APOCALYPSE
A month or so ago, I’d put the radio on and listen to the number of fatalities in China. I distinctly remember a day when it was 6. Then 22. Then there were cases of Coronavirus outside China; then later, deaths in Asia, and eventually of course, Europe.
It felt a bit like the opening montage to a zombie movie: the news reporters go from bemusement, to mild panic, to apocalypse... before anyone has chance to count how quickly the numbers are going up. Now it’s global, the tidal wave reaches us. So far there have been 3 deaths in our country, and over 300 infections.
We’re at the stage where there’s no toilet roll in the supermarkets.
Oh, not because this virus makes you... any more fluid... (heavens above)... but more because the government have told us to self-isolate for 14 days if we get the sniffles - just to contain this thing. It will impact everyone, though 95% of us will simply shake it off.
And everyone everywhere here has had the same predictive nightmare of running out of ‘essentials’ (toilet rolls and pasta, apparently) during our ‘inevitable’ two-week house arrest. Airing cupboards in the UK are popping open with tumbling packs of Charmin Ultra.
Meanwhile, as a precaution, work have asked us all to try working from home on Wednesday, like a sort of enforced snow-day. They want to see whether that the infrastructure will fall over if we’re all of us self-isolating. It’s pretty serious then.
I do not wish to self-isolate. I can barely survive a Saturday in my own company; two whole weeks of nobody is going to send me potty. What will I do?
It’s worth it though, if it saves some lives. The latest figures show a less than 1% chance of serious consequences for me, but the over 70s have a much higher probability, at something like 8% - two weeks of barmy-living in the porthole cabin of a first-floor maisonette with a set of pencils and a piano isn’t a hardship. Not if it can reduce that 8% significantly.
And it isn’t the zombie apocalypse. It’s just a really horrible bug. There are no stumbling, half-eaten monsters wailing through the streets, seeking out the uncontaminated en masse.
If there were though, it’s good to know that we’d all be stocked up enough to fend them off with toilet roll.
Friday, 6 March 2020
TING TING
It feels like the opening to an alien-invasion/sci-fi movie, but I genuinely have had a strange notion over the last few days, to send my entire contacts list a quick message that simply says:
“Ting Ting”
That’s it. No explanation! Just: Ting Ting.
Ting Ting?
Where has that come from? What does it mean? Why is it in my head, every time I open WhatsApp? And what responses would I get?
Ting Ting?
Where has that come from? What does it mean? Why is it in my head, every time I open WhatsApp? And what responses would I get?
If you’re reading this in the far future, looking back at that lovely, peaceful time just before the arrival of the Ting-Tingians in the middle of 2020, then I can only apologise, and hope that others out there on Earth paid more attention than I did.
To my mind, Ting Ting is the noise made by tinkling a teaspoon against a wine glass - the kind of thing the Father of the Bride does as a warning bell for incoming dad jokes. It’s a sound that quietens the room. It gathers attention. It creates a hush.
Maybe that’s what this is: a subconscious urge to tell everyone to stop talking and listen up, to remove the noise from the air.
And boy is there a lot of noise! Who’d have thought silent words on a screen could be so noisy? It’s tough to concentrate on the important bits when the signal gets dissipated so quickly.
That was the problem with early telephone wires too - noise to signal ratio. Over distances, natural physical effects caused the signal (the bit you needed) to be lost within the noise (the interference you didn't). The further you laid the cable, the worse the noise became. The history of how they solved that a hundred years ago, is really interesting by the way, but it’s for another time.
Today, phone signal is carried digitally, with corrective packets that do the ‘noise cancelling’ bit remarkably well. And in smartphone world, the digital packets are perfectly reassembled into text and emojis, and whatever else we seem to love sending each other.
But clearly we haven't eliminated noise. It’s just changed its form.
I haven’t sent a ‘Ting Ting’ to anyone yet. I think most people would just ignore it. Some would send back two alarmed question marks like this:
“??”
... or would ask me if I’m feeling quite alright. Others would assume I was starting some sort of pattern, and would play the game by sending back a...
“Tong Tong” or a “Ping Ping”
... and then not think much more of it.
I’d get at least one eye-roll emoji: “Just Matt being Matt" they’ll say, pressing 'Send'. (The eye roll was designed for that kind of thing.)
I’d get at least one eye-roll emoji: “Just Matt being Matt" they’ll say, pressing 'Send'. (The eye roll was designed for that kind of thing.)
If it is aliens, then I don’t think they’ve picked the right Bill-Pullman-Nicolas-Cage-Shia-LaBeouf for the job.
The Ting Tingians are just going to have to turn up unannounced, ready to wonder why we all clean our teeth in the excretion room, and then why we shake hands (albeit limply) with each other. And what's a dad joke?
The Ting Tingians are just going to have to turn up unannounced, ready to wonder why we all clean our teeth in the excretion room, and then why we shake hands (albeit limply) with each other. And what's a dad joke?
Sorry, aliens.
Thursday, 5 March 2020
HANDSHAKE SOLUTION
I went for coffee today with my friend Tom. Halfway through a deep chat, a man we both know came over to say hello.
Naturally, Tom said hello with a handshake - though at the moment of course, even that is quite a controversial greeting, given that there’s a deadly virus out there passing from human to human. Anyway, without thinking about it, I followed Tom’s lead, and shook his hand too.
He gave me a look. Then he turned to Tom and mouthed the words, ‘a bit limp-wristed’ and stared back at me as though I’d just given him a nettle sandwich and a glass of Castrol.
Now, I’m reporting all of this as fact - it happened in a public place - though I won’t tell you who it was, obviously. I smiled at him, and let love take over as best as I could.
“Come on then, bring it in,” I beamed, holding my hand out a second time. He responded and we shook hands again.
You know that scene in Superman II where Superman comes out of the crystal chamber and kneels before Zod, just before taking Zod’s hand and crushing his fingers like icicles in a hydraulic press?
Yeah, me neither.*
Anyway, I gave him as firm a handshake as I could without it looking like I was auditioning for the Freemasons, and that was that.
Tom laughed at me after he’d gone.
So, it looks like I need to work on my formal handshake! Confidence, squeeze, warmth, single-handed (we’re not insane), oh and everything else that’s needed to prove to the other person that there’s no way at all either of us can reach our swords (dangling on our left sides of course) while each of our fighting arms are locked into this archaic ritual.
That is of course, provided the government doesn’t outlaw the practice to stop the spread of Coronavirus. Perhaps, like that weird video that went viral this week, we’ll all be required to bump elbows instead, as though we were trying to be teenage rappers. It just looked weird when politicians did it in their suits.
If the government do put the kybosh on the old handshake, I’d like to humbly suggest an alternative then - one that would have thoroughly avoided me being silently mortified at coffee-time.
The Japanese bow. Just a nod of the head, or even the whole upper torso (no-one’s thinking about their samurai swords when they’re respectfully angle-poising their head). No physical contact. No risk of the power-dynamics that lead to President A yanking the arm of Prime Minister B to show him who’s in charge. Just a simple, respectful greeting of humility, dignity, and respect.
Admittedly though, it wouldn’t really have worked for Superman. Not unless he had headbutted Zod mid-bow, into the abyss underneath the Fortress of Solitude. And that isn’t really his dramatic style. Nor mine, thankfully.
*I had to repent later
Wednesday, 4 March 2020
IN WHICH I GET A NICKNAME
Well it’s taken nearly eight years, but it looks like I’ve been given my very own nickname by the cool kids at work!
Finally! I can join the ranks of NikNak, Butters, Katsu, and Princess Ironballs. And what hallowed ranks they are, chronicling the hilarious tales of bursting heroics and fury around the office! Though my new nickname is based on neither of those things really.
“So we had to name a bit of code after you,” said Butters, washing his hands in the sink. So we called it ‘DeepStubsReturns’. He waved a hand over an imaginary billboard for comic effect.
I reckon it’s because I started a ‘haiku’ channel on Slack, and filled it with such gems as:
Certain, we sailed on
The deep, restless ocean of
An uncertain sea
and,
He who underlines
Everything he ever writes
Underlines nothing
Hence I became “DeepStubs”, which I told Butters and Jamie I didn’t mind at all.
“To be honest, it wouldn’t matter if you did,” they said, “We were still going to call you it.”
I didn’t ask what the DeepStubsReturns bit of code did. I hope it stores and releases variables at appropriate moments, but at all other times just sits there quietly like an unassuming subroutine.
It wouldn’t surprise me though if it opens a web browser and spends several hours researching how to debate physics with a Flat Earther.
I do wish I weren’t quite so deep sometimes. It’s just the way my mind works, and I like it, but it can a bit tiresome I suspect for the brain-weary. I have to pick my moments for philosophy theories, and my moments for talking about football.
Or of course my moments for both - a Venn diagram which I think also swallows up: social bonding in cultural or tribal groups; the unifying power of a single, local cause to a community, and of course, the initiation of outsiders into established friendship using... guess what... nicknames.
Well.
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