THE LITTLE ROOM OF CELEBRITY

Well last night I dreamed I let myself into the home of the actress Sally Phillips, and used her toilet.

She was alright about it. I tried my best to excuse myself from the confrontation in her hallway so I could let myself out, and I really was as polite as possible - though also, excruciatingly embarrassed. Sally Phillips had no idea who I was (I mean, why would she?) and I remember it feeling like it might be exactly the wrong moment to ask for a selfie.

The weird thing is though, when I woke up, I had a very real sense that I'd done this before; that I'd broken into the houses of famous people and used their toilet - but that somehow all of those dreams had all been forgotten, until this one.

My second waking thought was that I wondered whether dreaming of going to the toilet actually sped up the process in real life, and I might have... well... That hadn't happened, thankfully. All I had was a weird déjà vu of celebrity toilets.

So, do dreams have memory? How was the dream-version of me able to remember other things that had happened to him, but the awake-me had completely forgotten them? Is my subconscious really split into distinct states like that, or is there a whole bunch of stuff that goes on in my mind that I just can't remember? 

How many other famous toilets have I visited in my sleep? And how many celebrities out there got a bit more annoyed rather than mildly awkward with me like Sally Phillips was, and called the Police, or threw me out like Fred at the end of The Flinstones? And why can't I remember the details?

And how many other running dreams have I got that I just can't remember? Well. Whatever it's a great reminder to use the toilet before going to bed. Seems strange that I need that kind of reminder, but there we are. I'm 43 you know. I don't always feel it.

SAFFRON AND LILAC

It was just about warm enough to go out without a coat today. I love that day when it comes; there's something sweet about slipping out of your coat on an afternoon you thought would be colder, letting the warm sun wrap around you as you sling the bulky winter coat over your arm.

Though I didn't have mine with me. I'd decided to go out to the park at lunchtime, and when I got to the front door and laced myself into my walking boots, I realised my coat was upstairs - so I risked it and went without it.

It was a delicious day. The trees are still bare of course, but the sky was enormous and blue. Though lunchtime, the sun was low, and so long shadows fell across the bright green grass. I did my usual survey of the trees: there were tiny buds on the fingers of the branches of the rogue oak and the pagoda tree. In the copse, the silver sunlight fell beautifully on the climbing tree, and the apple tree was twisted in the wind.

There was a patch of crocuses in the shade. I love how they grow so early in the season, their petals bobbling in the cool breeze. They're delightful, happy little flowers. I thought about how magicians pull flowers out of handkerchiefs and look smug about it on stage. God, in all his quiet glory, pulls real flowers out of the soil, and it is wonderful.

I wrote a quick ditty:

Saffron and Lilac

Saffron and lilac
Lit by the light
Of the sun, through the silvery wood
Shadow and flame that is
Flimsy and bright
As the wonder of all that is good
Crocuses bloom
In the shade of the tree
Where the winter is fading to spring
Saffron and lilac
So gentle to see
As the flowers that silently sing

I guess there's a time for everything, and today it just so happened to be the first day for not wearing a coat. The crocuses too, seemed warm enough with their little splash of colour. Sure, there might be frosts ahead, and there might be days still for wrapping up in a jacket. It's nice to think though that on the whole, we're heading into a bit of freedom and joy: a bit of springtime.

RICHARD’S INTERNET

Do you reckon Sir Richard Branson has decent internet? I bet he does. I bet he’s constantly streaming and downloading and uploading at a gazillion bits per second from his Caribbean island. I bet he’s got his own satellite in some sort of geosynchronous orbit above him, launched during one of his Virgin Galactic test runs. I bet it relays all his data so smoothly, so perfectly, so well, that he never sees so much as a Netflix glitch or an iPlayer spinning wheel.

“Excuse me sir,” says an assistant approaching him on the verandah. The billionaire looks up from his lounger and rests an elbow on a tanned knee. The assistant continues.

“We’ve got this er, email to send out to all our U.K. Virgin Media customers, and marketing wondered if you’d take a look at it.”

“Tell me, is it written in an overly friendly and informal style that skirts on the borders of patronising and sarcastic?”

“Yes Mr Branson. It follows the guidelines.”

“And is it promising something vaguely beneficial that isn’t quite specific enough to be promising or beneficial?”

“We followed the guidelines, sir. It’s the one about us upgrading the WiFi ‘in your area’ at no extra cost, etc.”

“Ah yes,” Branson slips back into his sunglasses and relaxes onto the sun lounger. There’s a moment for the ocean to breathe: in the distance below, it crashes into the white sand and seeps back to the dark blue-green of the wide Atlantic. Palm trees whisper on the gentle evening breeze, and above them the pink clouds hang like drapes beneath the purple night. A few stars even begin to twinkle.

“And is the WiFi upgraded in their area? Really?” He asks. The assistant flashes back a confident smile.

“I’ve no idea, sir.”

Branson smiles too, as though sharing some sort of in-joke. Far above him, there’s a single star, a tiny dot of white, motionless in the night sky. If he looks carefully, he knows it won’t be long before it would look like that one man-made glint of sun-kissed space-aluminium was actually winking at him.

I bet he does have good internet. He’d be really annoyed, wouldn’t he, if say, most evenings the signal cut out six feet away from the router at fifteen minute intervals and he had to dance around like a gazelle in pyjamas, with his smartphone, looking for a signal. Imagine if he suddenly couldn’t look up how to fly a balloon over the Himalayas or lay a hyper-loop across America! No building a spaceship today, Richard, the internet’s broken; you’ll have to look at other ways to buy off bits of the NHS now, won’t you?

I guess I might read a book; that might help. I’d phone for support but as VM also have my landline contract, I have a feeling I’d be paying the gamekeepers to hire the poachers. Plus it never seems to go well that, and they always want me to use the chat bot. And the chat bot makes me feel uncomfortable, in a sort of ‘other end of the Turing Test’ way.

What I really need to do is ask to speak to Sir Richard. They’d patch me through, wouldn’t they? I mean, if I’ve interpreted the chummy communication properly, his door ought to be so wide open, it’s off its Caribbean hinges! He’s bound to want to talk to someone with about as much money as he makes in ten minutes of high-performance interest, isn’t he? I mean who’s not for the little guy?

Well. So long as he can still sip a stockpiled can of Virgin Cola, tune in to Cash in the Attic and check up on Elon’s Twitter, I guess he’s happy.

ISOLATION DIARIES PART 80: THE FIVE DATES

We turned a huge corner today in England. We’re still in Lockdown 3, we’re still fighting the virus with millions of vaccinations, our hospitals are still bursting, but, for the first time, we might actually have a clear and sensible way out of it! Today the government announced the roadmap.

It was as though a fresh Spring breeze swept softly across the nation. There was suddenly talk of beer gardens, of barbecues, of weddings, and sports events! There was longing for family gatherings, of parties and nightclubs and restaurants, and perhaps even an end to tiers and restrictions altogether! Hope was glistening at the bottom of Pandora’s empty box.

Not all at once though. Provided that the R rate stays low and the numbers keep dropping, there are five very specific dates to look out for. And each one is going to feel like a mini gust of joy...

March 8th. Back To School Day, 14 days away:

All schools reopen. This might well be the most crucial one of all, as it’s likely schools will be transmission hotspots. Apparently you can also meet someone on a bench for a coffee, if that floats your boat. Take a mask though. And your own coffee. And your own boat.

March 29th, Back to Sixes Day, 35 days away

The ‘rule of six’ is back for outdoor gatherings. My guess is that the air will be filled with the smoke and sound of barbecues. We still have to stay local though, so I can’t go too far for a burnt burger on a paper plate.

April 12th, Haircut Day, 49 days away

Salons, gyms, beer gardens and outdoor restaurants are all open for snips, flips, drips, and lips respectively. Shopkeepers breathe a sigh of relief, though unfortunately too late for Easter. I might get my haircut, though it’s likely they’ll need the big scissors by then.

May 17th, Big Travel Day, 84 days away

This is when you can fly internationally, meet 30 of your best pals outside, and get back to watching sport in stadiums. Two-household parties are back and I can go and see my parents for dinner again.

June 21st, Liberation Day, 119 days away

Everything is open, everything is normal, the season of singing is heard in our land and all restrictions are finally lifted. Dancing in the streets, bunting and ticker-tape, tears of joy.

Will we make it? I don’t know; a lot needs to happen, and Haircut Day, Big Travel Day and Liberation Day are stipulated as ‘no earlier than’. But it’s so good to have a plan nevertheless, to have dates to aim for and look forward to! In a way, the government have been brave, pinning down dates like that. Any failure to meet the nation’s surge of optimism on those dates, will be treated as a failure of competence on their part, not ours. And that’s despite them layering on the cautious caveats today.

They would have known that though and yet they still went ahead with announcing the fixed dates. So today’s news makes me feel hopeful anyway. It will have done a lot of good for people who are struggling.

There’s an end point; there is a WATIO after all, and it might well be less than 120 days away, just in time for an unforgettable summer! I hope so. The government hope so, and the Queen’s England certainly does too.

ISOLATION DIARIES PART 79: NEGATIVE IS THE NEW POSITIVE

Negative. The result came back negative, meaning that ‘on the day of the test’ (Friday) I did not have COVID-19, and presumably still don’t.

Woohoo!

It’s not often you dance around exuberantly at negativity, but there it was - no house arrest, no further isolation, no dreadful panic at the thought I might have infected someone else. Just boogieing in the house to an inaudible soundtrack of joy. Negative, it seems, is the new positive.

That has been of great concern to many of us - the thought of accidentally passing it on. I’d rather be in the ICU on a ventilator myself, than live with the thought I accidentally put someone else on that ward! And of course, given the choice, I’d rather not be there either, what with all the pain and anxiety that would cause others, let alone me.

It’s another reminder of how connected we all are. If I know a hundred people and each of them knows a hundred people, that’s a network of something like 10,000 people. The virus has a natural R rate of 3 I think, which is frightening when you connect the dots - in short leaps, thousands of people are two high-fives away. No wonder this thing spreads so fast. It’s like spam.

It’s made me think a lot about all those hidden connections we have too - the brushing past people in the street, using a petrol pump or an ATM, pushing the screen at the supermarket self-service checkout, sitting in a cinema seat. I feel about a thousand percent more mindful of those kind of things now. Hand sanitiser, masks, social distancing - these things are here to stay for a while aren’t they?

Well. For today at least, I’m negativo, king of the negatives, proven officially by the sceptred-cotton-buds-soaked-in-pink-solution, to be currently and right regally unencumbered by the coronavirus. It might not be a permanent victory, or indeed a big one, but for me for now, not testing positive for COVID-19 is sweet.

ISOLATION DIARIES PART 78: THE WAIT

I tell you what’s worse than taking a test: waiting for the results. I don’t know why I expected them early (Matthew had told me 72 hours) but for some reason I thought I’d know by breakfast today. Nothing so far.

What this means is that I’m now self-isolating, until officially told that I don’t need to.

The park looks more tempting than ever. I think the daffodils are about to bloom, and already the bare trees look much happier waving in the sunshine. The kids are making the most of the end of half-term - I can hear them whooping from the play area. Soon the grass will burst green under the blue sky, the weak sun will turn with all the warmth of spring, while the wind caresses the coatless and the carefree, sitting among the buttercups.

“Next time, let’s not pray for patience,” joked Sammy on the phone, referring to something I’d said a few weeks ago. Fair enough. Waiting is hard work sometimes; it prevents you from making a plan, it reminds you that you can’t control the world or its timing, and it pushes you into a rhythm that is definitely not on your terms.

What’s clear is that until I know for sure, there’s nothing I can do other than remain indoors waiting for my phone to ping with a text message.

ISOLATION DIARIES PART 77: HOME AND SAFE

In the end, for peace of mind, for valiant reasons, and for myself, I decided to go for a COVID test.

(I had a temperature, but not a defined 'high' temperature earlier in the week)

So I booked it and went. The nearest walk-in testing centre is in my old park, not too much of a drive away, and quite easy get to. I parked up (outside my old house) and strolled through the park, mask on.

It's a little bit like being on a movie-set. A huge white portable cabin sits in the middle of the fenced-off area, yellow steps leading up to its entrance where a burly man in high-vis stands with his arms folded.

There's a wide artificial path leading around the unit, made of the same kind of thing you'd expect the army to use for a pontoon bridge - a sort of sturdy, white rubber. When the lady in the booth had told me what to do, I walked around that wide path and stood sheepishly in front of Mr Burly.

So much about this pandemic reminds me of the speed with which everything has changed. This military-style operation, warning notices pinned to the fencing, queuing with masks strapped to our faces, rubbing our hands with sanitiser without evening thinking about it, all of this is so unthinkable really.

I got called in. Without touching the rails, I clanked up the yellow steps, past the security and into the cabin. I was handed a small black plastic bag, which would have everything I needed, and then I was shown to a 'bay' where I sat down in front of a small mirror and another pot of sanitiser.

"It's good actually, Matthew, as my name's Matthew as well," said the masked man who guided me through it. He was pleasant, concise and patient - which I figured would be exactly what I'd need. Step by exacting step, Matthew took me through the process.

First it seems you have to bring yourself close to gagging, by brushing your tonsils with a long cotton bud. That (I was told) is what the mirror was for - you're not allowed to touch your teeth, cheeks or lips. I felt my eyes watering and my stomach gurgling up to my throat in reflex. That is absolutely not pleasant. A couple of seconds more and I'd have spewed all over the mirror.

"And again," said Matthew, kindly. He's clearly seen it all before. I took a deep breath.

Then, that very same cotton bud needs to be wedged up your nostril and twisted around for fifteen seconds. Two thoughts went through my mind while I poked the inside of my nose: one, thank the Lord it's mouth first, and two - that scene from Total Recall where Arnie pulls a tracking device out of his brain through his nostril.

"13, 14, 15... Done!" exclaimed Matthew. I followed the steps to bag everything up, break off the cotton bud and wedge it business-end first into the test tube of pink solution. The tube goes in a double-wrapped and sealed 'biobag' which I dropped in to the lady at the end of the process, then I headed out like a Big Brother contestant, through the back door into daylight and freedom.

The wind blew leaves around the park. I'd not been there for a while and it was suddenly reminding me of how life, how childhood really, used to be. It's the worst kind of time-travel: visiting places that are aching with memories - I was young, times have changed so much, and now I'm not, and still they do. 

There, opposite my car was our old house looking both new and exactly the same: same bricks, new windows, gates thrown across the drive where I used to chuck tennis balls about before racing over to the park. Everything was there, but nothing was there - like a sort of illusion that was twisting my memories into a new sort of reality. It's like a dream, I whispered to myself under my mask. My glasses steamed up.

And in this new reality, this cold dreamworld of present and past, I'd decided to get a test, even though I'm fairly certain the result will come back negative. I wish I hadn't had to do that. I wish I could have been young again, right there in the park with everyone I loved just over the road, home and safe.

But that is the point of all of this isn't it - ultimately we're doing all we can to keep everyone we love home and safe.

BURNING KNOT

I've been off work the last couple of days. I had the day off on Monday anyway, and quite typically, I was ill. So I followed my day-off sick-day with a sick-day day-off.

I'm okay. I had a bit of a temperature. In ordinary times, that would be just something I'd sleep off with a hot water bottle and a Lemsip. These days, a high temperature is more like a warrant for your own house-arrest.

It wasn't however, feverishly high. The received wisdom is that a 'symptomatic' temperature is anything above 37.8C (99.8F), and I didn't once exceed that. I phoned the surgery anyway, and they told me to monitor my symptoms but also that I was probably okay. Then yesterday, my temperature dropped all the way back down to a very normal 36-and-a-bit.

I do have that feeling that I've walked back into a snow-flurry of work. I'm sure there was a time when this was easier, when there was far less pressure after a holiday or a time off. I missed two days and the roof seems to have caved in.

I really don't like that tight feeling. It's getting more and more familiar these days, like a sort of burning knot of panic - have I done what I'm supposed to do? Are there people out there complaining about me? Am I racing too fast? Am I working too slow? Have I prioritised everything well?

'Take a breath', says the empathetic part of my brain that works out what all the kind people might say if I were in the office trying to ignore the fact that a silence reminds me that we're in a global pandemic and everything's messed up.

They'd still be right though. I do need to breathe. Plus, I've not been outside for two days and that always sends me a little kooky. I can't imagine what would have happened if I'd had to isolate.

PHOTOS AND TENTACLES

So, UFOs are real now. Well so it seems, anyway, according to a few of the tabloids.

To be honest, as soon as Photoshop was a thing, it was always inevitable that definitive 'proof' of alien spacecraft would be next to impossible. At least with grainy old film it was much less likely to be a doctored image - just an indistinguishable one; in the 80s all the UFO photos looked like clouds and fuzzy aeroplanes. Now they come in deepfakes.

Well anyway, Anthony Bragalia seems to know. He's an American author who submitted a Freedom of Information request to the US Defence Intelligence Agency. Apparently, in return they sent him several hundred pages of redacted information, outlining testing work that went on on UFO crash-sites, including of course, Roswell, New Mexico.

'Memory metal' was one thing that came out of that, Bragalia reports: metal that could be folded and bent, but still remembered its original shape. Some of the material, he goes on to say, could make things invisible (okay) and was even capable of slowing down the speed of light.

By the way, none of the articles I read pointed out that the speed of light changes depending on which medium it passes through; it's much slower in water, for example. But never mind.

I sometimes get asked about what I think of aliens, whether they exist, what the Bible says about extraterrestrial life and so on. I guess people think I'm interested in that kind of thing. 

I actually don't think it matters too much. Statistically they're out there, statistically they're unlikely to have made it, even to our galaxy, let alone our planet. And the Bible doesn't really mention it at all, so (call it glib if you like) I don't really feel like I need to dwell on it either. There are rabbit holes I'm absolutely certain I don't need to go down.

Nonetheless, it is interesting! Mr Bragalia might be pushing books with fanciful ideas and secret evidence, or the US government might finally have let slip the big ol' Area-51-sized secret. I'll leave it to you to decide which you think is more likely. Either way, as is the way of the world with pretty much everything these days, there'll still be both wide-eyed conspiracy-theorists and sceptics on either side of the trench, even if the tentacles emerge betwixt them in broad daylight!

I quite liked those grainy photos from the 80s. They added mystery, and sometimes that's much more exciting.

ISOLATION DIARIES PART 76: RESTART, NOT RESET

The other day my sister asked me what I’d like for my birthday and I gave her a suggestion. So today, she came round and dropped it off with a lovely card and a doorstop visit.

She brought a young man with her. He looked a lot like one of my nephews, but taller and older and more sullen. I’m constantly amazed at how young they make teenagers these days. It took a remarkable amount of resolve for me not to say, ‘My, haven’t you grown?’ or some such thing as aunties and uncles say. The little boy I’d built catapults with, and fought against with sellotaped-toilet-roll-swords... was quite probably taller than me now. And I felt myself transitioning on my doorstep, from ‘fun uncle’ to ‘irrelevant relative’ in a matter of a single moment.

It’s okay. ‘Wise old wizard’ is the next phase, when the investment of putting them in the wheelie bin when they were little, returns in the closeness they feel when they need someone sensible to help them know how to be a grown up. I can get through the middle bit if that’s on the other side.

‘My haven’t you grown’ indeed! Tsk. I might as well have pushed a pound coin deep into his palm and ruffled his hair. Funny. I never considered that my aunties and uncles too, might have been just trying to keep up with how to be relevant and fun, like they always had been when I was very young. We grow up so fast I guess we don’t often consider that all those around us have to change too. We treat them as constants but they’re not. But there’s no time to consider that when you’re racing through the growth-spurt is there?

I closed the front door and it clicked shut behind me. I exhaled, sighing long and low into the coats. Actually I felt a bit like sobbing into a sleeve, but I pulled myself together in the end. The year of pandemic has already robbed me of so much time. I felt cheated out of watching them grow up all of a sudden.

How can I be a good uncle to all eight niblings? I’ve barely seen them, and I miss them so much! A lot of people say this experience has been a ‘reset’, but it can’t be, can it? You can’t freeze time or make everything the way it used to be by jabbing a pencil into a tiny button-hole! Time has already gone and changed us; we’re going to have to work out how to start again from where we are, not where we were. And that suddenly made me feel quite sad.

But that’s the flip side of the disconnect; some things really needed to be unplugged, powered down, switched off. The pandemic did that - it gave us a forced restart, not just on those things but on everything. In some ways it’s a bit of a pain having to reinstall only the things we need and discard all the stuff we didn’t. For me, family comes out high on that list of things to restart, and to restart well. May God help me.

And that, I think, is what I’m minded to do - begin again, perhaps as I morph into that curious middle-aged uncle in the corner who’s trying his hardest to be either wise and useful for the future, or still funny and lovable from the past.

I think it’s a restart; not a reset. I think the new adventure might be in figuring out who are and who we want to be, not in recapturing who we used to be. And even if it’s difficult I hope I’ll be up for that.

TEA AT TOFFHAM HOUSE

I wrote a little opening to a murder mystery story. You know, just for fun. I think I'm calling it Tea at Toffham House. I doubt I'll write any more - I certainly haven't plotted it out, but perhaps one day. If you're itching to find out what happens next, then maybe. Anyway, enjoy.

---

Tea at Toffham House

"Oh Toffy darling, are you ready?" she called up the stairs.

"Yes, my love."

"Come on down then. Mister Poivre is dying to see you!"

'Toffy', Charlie Toffham, straightened his cravat and checked his reflection. He was neat, tall, handsome: the kind of man who never let himself be seen with a hair out of place, especially when taking tea with renowned company such as Monsieur Poivre! He smiled at himself carefully, checked his cufflinks, and clipped smartly down the wooden staircase.

-

Angela was rearranging the flowers in the hall when he trotted down. She looked up at him from the vase as she heard his footsteps. He stopped and looked at her for a moment. Then, wordlessly he continued, brushing past her as he went.

-

"Well, I'll be, Reverend, if this isn't the most splendid tea! Monsieur Poivre, you must try some, I insist!" cried Lord Toffham.

The three men stood around the fireplace while an elegant figure was spilling over the chaise-longue. The Reverend, a tall but jolly man with red face and round spectacles, was beaming at Lord Toffham. Lord Toffham was gesturing a cup and a saucer toward Monsieur Poivre, who still stood pensively with his hands behind his back.

"Ah, your Lordship," said the detective. "I regret I am not familiar with your English taste for the tea."

"If he doesn't want tea, Daddy, you can't force Mister Poivre," said the lady from the chaise-longue.

"Nevertheless," interjected the clergyman, raising a finger, "There are always new experiences to try, even for a man of great distinction."

Poivre smiled politely and bounced on the balls of his feet. Somewhat awkwardly he moved towards the fireplace.

"Where is Toffy?" drawled the lady. She swung her legs to the floor and stood up, placing a small pink glass on the coffee table beside her. And with that she swept through the room and into the hall. The men ignored her.

-

"Angela dear," said Lydia, "Have you seen Mr Toffham?"

Angela reddened slightly. "I think he went to the kitchens, Mam."

Lydia continued, leaving Angela with the flowers. 

-

Charlie, with a spring in his step, bounded into the drawing room. The effect was instantly arresting - like pulling back the drapes on a sunny morning, or suddenly scratching a gramophone record. His father stopped mid-sentence at his arrival, the detective looked at him politely, cup in hand, and the Reverend peered through his spectacles.

"I say," said young Mr Toffham, almost at once, "Monsieur Poivre, you're well I presume. The name's Toffham, Charlie Toffham. But you can call me Toffy. Everyone else does. Ah! Good! I see you're taking tea. Marvellous!"

"Ah monsieur Toffham. The tea? Oui, I was persuaded. But a pleasure nonetheless."

"Very good, very good."

"Charlie," interrupted his father sternly. "Lydia is searching positively the entire house for you. Where the devil have you been?"

"None of your damn business," said the young man lightly. "Apologies, Reverend, Monsieur Poivre; My father seems to have a rather specific determination to know my affairs, but not it seems, the grace to reveal his own."

The Reverend stared. Poivre lifted his teacup, and Lord Toffham turned his face toward the fire, which was crackling in the grate. Then he snapped back.

"Everything in this house is my business." His face was pink between his starched collars, whether from fury or his proximity to the fireplace. His son, oblivious, continued towards the couch and flopped somewhat artistically into it.

"Toffy!" said a more melodious voice from the doorway. Lydia had returned from the kitchens.

"Sorry old bean. Had to make a detour."

Lydia nodded and quietly returned to the chaise-longue.

"You were saying I think, Monsieur Poivre," continued the Reverend, "that the motives for most murders are in essence, the same?”

"Indeed. The crime is so often the crime of the passion, n'est pas? And if not of the passion then the power. That one thing man craves so much, to be the, how do you say, king of the castles."

The Reverend chuckled.

"Castle," he corrected, "King of the castle. There's only one castle. And certainly in this part of the world.”

Lord Toffham raised an eyebrow, while Charlie looked at Lydia with a withering glare. Then, rather reluctantly they laughed together.

A tinkling sound came from the hall, as though something had been knocked over.

Then, suddenly, Monsieur Poivre looked down at his teacup in shock. His eyes widened. His face turned red. He spluttered.

"Poivre! Are you alright?" cried Lord Toffham.

But the detective couldn't speak. The teacup clattered to the floor and he staggered backwards.

"Mon Dieu," he said weakly, sweat beading on his temples.

"My God!" cried Charlie leaping to his feet, “Monsieur Poivre!"

The Reverend lurched forwards as Monsieur Poivre fell. Within moments the famous detective lay still on the floor of the drawing room, stone dead. 

OUT OF, OR AT

Want to hear about the help link paradox that means we can’t test a thing until it’s published because the XML points to the finalised URL and there’s no obvious way to spoof it prior to the point of release?

No? Shame. You could have solved it for me and made me look really good. And sometimes at work I think I could do with looking good.

It’s weird saying ‘at work’ these days. The ‘at’ doesn’t mean anything. I sit at a desk in my spare room, click a button and I’m apparently ‘at’ work all of a sudden. Except I’m not; I’m at home - and I spent a long time trying to prevent home and work overlapping like that. There’s no such thing as ‘at work’ any more. Location is redundant.

I’ve noticed that some Americans say ‘out of’ instead of ‘at’ or ‘in’. We had a team meeting today where everyone introduced themselves...

“Hi I’m Dave,” said Dave, “working out of Oakland.”

“I’m Sarah,” said Sarah, “I work out of Iowa.”

It’s almost a subtle reflection of that outward-looking, pioneering, bigger and bolder spirit. I’m based here, says the average Dave or Sarah, but boy I’m going places. I’m working ‘out of’ here.

“I’m Matt,” I said in a slightly posher British accent than normal, “And I work in the U.K.” It’s true, I do, and I’m quite content with this sceptred isle. Perhaps I was making my own point about the cultured introversion we’re slightly famous for. I heard myself clipping my consonants like something out of Mary Poppins.

Well at work or not quite at work, at meaning intentionally busy, or meaning present in a particular place, I could still do with looking a bit good sometimes. And I’m sure there must be a solution to the help links paradox? It feels like a puzzle that can’t not be solved forever, even if it means making a few bigger compromises. I shall solve it! Even if I have to work out of my spare room to do it!

ZOOM-BOMBERS

High drama on the poetry slam last night. I logged on while it was in the middle of being zoom-bombed.

It's not pleasant watching a flustered host trying to deal with multiple insurgents.

"Sir, sir, I've seen this before!" drawled one, in a young American accent (camera off) trying to pretend he was supposed to be there, "Just hit Alt and F4"

"Yeah man," cried another. "It'll kick out all the people who recently joined."

It won't, of course. I think Alt+F4 ends the meeting for everyone. The host was also sceptical. The infiltrators were adamant though, and there was a lot of cross-talk going on between them. At the same time, they were writing filth in the chat. The host held his head in his hands, apparently helpless - I felt sorry for him.

Then the little band of half-cooked anarchists started renaming themselves after the genuine people in the group! One of them even copied the picture of one of the poets, and used it as his off-screen avatar so that the host couldn't tell which one was the real person.

One by one, they got kicked out, thankfully. The last was perplexing though: a very well spoken young man who claimed he was using a desktop PC without a webcam. English literature, he claimed was his thing, and he had written a poem on his university course. He sounded very convincing. Then he began to read a poem which, unfortunately, would have been very much at home on the wall of a public toilet. He got a few lines in, and then rhymed a racial epithet.

"Kick him out, kick him out!" interrupted someone, madly.

"Wait, no! Don't k..."

But he was gone. Was he genuine but with a potty mouth? Was he just a posh troll who got a little further than the rest? Irrelevant really; you can't use language like that.

It's not helped me have a lot of confidence in zoom. It's a powerful tool but it's not an encrypted one. Even with a waiting room, the potential is there for interruption and embarrassment. In fact, this last week, a council meeting went viral because the host had to manage bad behaviour on zoom. Just like the poetry slam, she too kicked out the troublemakers one by one.

I think zoom credentials are like house keys. If you don't want just anyone in there with you, you shouldn't get multiple keys cut, and you certainly shouldn't leave the keys lying around with a map of how to get there.

Anyway, the slam continued. I read two poems. I didn't win. That's okay; one of the other guys on there wrote a fabulous piece about late-night shopping and waxy vegetables. It was a worthy winner.

The whole zoom-bombing experience made me want to do something. The host really needs a hand with running the slam, and especially with the fine-tuned bits, like making it safe online, sending out the newsletter, keeping it all ticking over. He's even asked for help with it all!

But alas, it can't be me. About as quickly as I had had the thought, I followed it up with the cold truth that I just don't have the capacity or the drive.

I don't think I'll go back for a while. I'm just not sure I like trolls seeing into my house and knowing my name. Who knows, maybe one of these days the slam will be back to being live and in a real room! Imagine that: performing poetry with a microphone... and an atmosphere!

As one person pointed out last night, when that happens, it'll take quite a lot of commitment, time, and travel for the zoom-bombers to interrupt us again.