WEARY FOR HOME

Back from holidays then. In some ways it’s felt like falling off a cliff and landing exactly where we left - at someone else’s house. 

In others, it’s felt as though we’re also better equipped for things ahead - though that’s harder to see straight away.

There is no doubt we’re weary.

We’re now in our tenth week of having no home. We’re edging closer but still there’s no definite exchange date and despite us asking for November 4th, I now think this is getting really unlikely. It’s deflating us.

‘Better equipped for things ahead’ is a good way to look at it. The break gave us clear eyes, and a new determination about what to ask the estate agent tomorrow. I still maintain that the entire process is unnecessarily complicated, and unfair in some ways. It would be wonderful if the folks at the end of our chain could do what we did for our buyers and pack up their house in three and half days - but somehow I don’t see that happening.

It also makes me wonder what might be ahead, if this time is ‘training’ for it, whatever ‘it’ is. Personally, I don’t want to have to go through anything like this ever again.

-

We went to see fireworks last night. The last ever steam fair in my childhood park, and the last opportunity to stand under those trees and see the sky burst with light and fire. It reminded me so much of those good old days when we’d stand there with our coats around our pyjamas and our wellies squelching in the dark grass. We lived opposite the park and so it was always a treat to go late at night for the firework display, then come back to my Grandma’s sitting room for hot chocolate.

The final display didn’t disappoint. It was loud and spectacular and enormous. As the last rocket thudded from its cannon, I watched it climb through the clouds of smoke that had gone before. Then like a comet with a golden tail, it burst overhead into a huge fountain of light.

Gold and silver sparks filled the night like daylight, cascading down through the trees in cataracts of diamonds. For a brief moment it was as though the whole park was surrounded with fire. And then, just as quickly, it was gone, and all was smoke and applause.

Permanence is an illusion isn’t it? Everything’s temporary in the grand scheme of things. Year after year, the steam fair kept coming back, and year after year we’d watch those fireworks. We never thought there might be an end, but of course there always was, even when we grew not to care for those things. The fair would always be there. Until yesterday. And now, like the smoke, it’s only there in memories.

We are weary, longing for home, longing for something that’s no longer temporary aren’t we? I mean all of us.

I wonder if that ache, that desire for home, that burn, is the fire of something much more. It would not surprise me.

SACRED SPACE

It’s our last day today. I got up early to watch the sun rise over the sea.

Yesterday was a bit more of a relaxing day in the end; my favourite bit was sitting on the beach watching the waves. They were huge.

Okay, not huge by surfing standards but big enough to really crash and pound the sand. I really like the way a wave rolls, parallel to shore. It curls over and clutches the shore like hands grasping for stones, then collapsing into a line of foam and spray.

We were there for a while with our tea and our ice creams. It wasn’t hot, but it was pleasant enough in winter coats. This might just be the best time of year for introverts to be at the beach - all the joy we’d get from the summer, but also, hardly anyone there, and additionally, the full drama of the choppy autumn ocean.

It’s certainly been a good time for artists! The light has been phenomenal, as though golden hour has somehow lasted all week - topped off this morning by one glorious sunrise! As I walked down the chilly lane to the sea, I was taken aback by the pink and orange sky twinkling between the houses.

It’s tough in the social media age to have sacred spaces. You find one; the instinct is to post it on instagram. You encounter God in a moment of wonder, then it’s on flumpbook. It never looks quite the same on there. It’s as if pieces of it are divided for consumption - like cake.

That’s why I can’t tell you how sacred my time on the beach was this morning. I can’t post the pictures (though they are incredible) and I can’t even begin to describe the love I felt overlapping heaven and earth. But there it was.

We’re on the way home now. The sunset of seaside fish and chips faded out of orange and blue to become first, deep purple, then ink black, along with red tail lights and the white lines on the road.

So how was it? We really enjoyed it. It was relaxing and fun. We had our moments of discovery and our moments of anxiety, yes, but on the whole we found a great place in a beautiful light, under a huge, hopeful sky.

WALKING FROM PAST TO PRESENT

I was thinking about the past today. It’s hard not to in a place like this, where, if anything the very air pulls you back there.

It’s a special resonance for me too, given that we used to come to Southwold when I was very young. Occasionally I’ll see a view of something and it will look vaguely familiar, as though I’ve been there in my dreams. 

The geography is that Walberswick, where we’re staying, is to the South of Southwold and the two are separated by a river, the Blyth. The Blyth flows heartily out to sea, in contrast to the rough waves that crash in, either side of it.

This means there are really only two ways to get from Walberswick to Southwold - over the Blyth, or around it: a journey that takes eighteen minutes by car. Today, I decided that I would go over the river, while Sammy decided she preferred to have a car the other side, and would meet me there. She was quite happy going around it.

So I walked. Present to past, I walked, ignoring the rowing boat ‘ferry’ and heading up to the footbridge.

The river was sparkling in the afternoon sun. A cool wind blew the grasses and rippled the trees. It was so nice to hear the clink and rattle of boats moored up. Years ago, there would have been all manner of trading barges and sea-faring boats, clippers and schooners and sails and spinnakers, jostling and billowing for room along the harbour wall.

I crunched along the path, leaping puddles in the sunlight. There were a few others walking, so we wished each other a good afternoon, though the weather was already providing it. I got to the footbridge and stopped by the sparkling river.

Behind the tall masts of yachts and sailing boats, Southwold was shimmering on the horizon. It has a distinctive lighthouse, nestled in the town centre. Between rows of cottages, it stands just above the roofline, ready to guide ships into the harbour.

We came here on camps. I would have been maybe six years old. Somehow those special years still mean a lot to me, forming as they did, a very particular softness. I think there’s something wonderful about the first time you do a thing, and childhood is by nature, a long sequence of first-things. We came back here quite a few times in those years, and it was enough to seal memories for almost four decades.

The other side of the bridge, the path turns back East so that you’re walking downstream towards the sea. The sun was much more in my eyes that way, and there were more people, crunching over the muddy, wet gravel. Soon, the footpath widened and became a road, alongside wooden shacks selling fresh fish and trinkets. The smell of delicious chips filled the air too, salty and sweet. I approached a large barn with picnic tables outside. Each was occupied by people in sunglasses and winter coats, eating fish and chips, chatting, drinking an early beer.

I imagined that these wooden buildings were here in centuries past. I pictured burly men hoisting barrels, twisting dirty rope around mooring posts, calling out to the tradesmen and dockers in the shadow of those shacks. Clouds of dust and fog and dirt would have obscured the sun, save a few diffuse rays of light. Perhaps the smell of fish and horses and steam and sweat would have clung to every piece of fabric and leather you carried, as you jostled along the noisy harbour.

Past the Southwold Sailing Club, I emerged on more familiar ground: the lifeboat museum we’d seen the day before, and happily, the car park, in which Sammy had parked, facing the sea. I walked up through the rows of shiny cars until I appeared in her rear view mirror. I waved and smiled. She smiled back. Then, we just sat and watched the green-white waves crash and roll onto the sand.

You only get to live in the present, don’t you? It’s always better to make the most of the now.

HAND-DRAWN BE-KINDERY

I woke up a bit earlier today and went to get coffee from the deli.

That was a nice treat - the air was still fresh and the autumn sun was just high enough the catch the overnight puddles.

Unfortunately I also needed to be on the phone to the doctor. Oh, don’t worry, nothing serious - I just needed to make an appointment to get my mood-swings and emotions checked. You may have noticed I get low sometimes: I want to do something about that.

So it was that my phone (in my back pocket) was on hold, while I happily stood in the famous Black Dog Deli.

I say famous, mostly because the walls in the Black Dog Deli are hand-illustrated with Charlie Mackesey art. He lives in the village, and his sweet brand of ink-drawn be-kindery trails around the place. You know, ‘love wins’ at the Anchor down the road, and ‘choose kindness, said the horse’ while you’re picking up your organic oat latte. Good on you, Charlie, I thought.

“We are experiencing an unexpectedly high number of calls,” sang out my pocket, suddenly. “You are in the queue at position… eight.”

The deli man raised an eyebrow and gave me a wordless smile. The word ‘Townie’ must have been just behind it, I thought.

Why is the call volume ‘unexpected’ if they’ve prerecorded the message? On some level it must have been wholly expected. In fact I don’t think I’ve ever phoned the surgery when there hasn’t been an ‘unexpectedly high number of calls’. Plus, for something to be unexpected it means that neither they nor us expected it, I think, and let’s be honest, the exact opposite is true isn’t it? We all expected it.

I wandered back from the deli thinking about how I probably shouldn’t be thinking of such things while we’re on holidays.

First stop then was a lifeboat museum. After that we sat on the beach for a while and tried to eat our lunch. I voted we bury the egg sandwiches we’d made, but Sammy thought that would constitute a biohazard. Fair enough - we couldn’t have risked children or dogs digging them up someday and contaminating Southwold beach. Despite a quick thought that they’d be useful in a war against the Russians, the egg-bombs went in the nearest bin and we ate Co-Op sandwiches on the sand dunes.

Charlie Mackesey’s right - even if he’s plastered it all over the Black Dog Deli. Kindness is beyond all things, it is important to choose love, and worrying about what others think of you is the biggest waste of time. I found myself wondering if he’d ever played crazy golf, when, in classic holiday tradition, Sammy and I stood clubs in hand on the Southwold Adventure Golf Course.

It’s properly not called ‘crazy’ golf any more. Better to have an adventure (I imagine Charlie saying) than to be unkind about people. Adventure golf it was.

Talk about your classic British holiday activity. Few things are more exciting than knocking a plastic golfball through a windmill and round some polystyrene rocks. The grey clouds rolled over, the air went chilly, there were even flecks of rain. I got the feeling that if there’d been a sudden deluge, not a soul out there would have run for cover. Hoods up and on we go. Thankfully it came to nothing.

My doctor’s appointment is in a couple of weeks’ time. That’s okay. Sammy asked me what I would say. I’ll have to think about the best words to use. One thing is sure though - being on holiday with my wife, resting and taking it all a bit easier for a while is a great help. I might mention that.

THE LIGHT, THE STARS, THE SKY, AND THE DEEP

I happened to look up tonight.

“So that’s what the stars are supposed to look like,” I said, quietly.

The air was warm but the sky clear. Above the lampless streets and rooftops, the canvas of deep black was studded with layer upon layer of jewels, each glistening with light - starlight, twinkling like a carpet of breathtaking diamonds. It was stunning. 

There was the Great Bear, Ursa Major, brighter and richer than ever I’d seen him, and Orion with his shoulders, belt and sword! And so much more, as though these usually dim collections had suddenly been joined by a background of angels who lit up the sky like a glistening chorus line.

It was a lustrous end to a deliciously attractive day. Somehow the light here has been perfect for photography today, and by the sea at Southwold, Sammy and I had been marvelling at the photographs we’d been able to take! Crisp blue sky, green sea and white waves; the wood of the pier lit gold by the autumn sun, tiny stones in wet sand casting long, dark shadows - we’d had a great time in the light. Now the dark was showing off too.

“You’re a great photographer,” she said, kindly, looking over my shoulder. I told her that the light was doing all the work. She said it’s ‘still about what you choose to photograph’. That being said, her own shots under the pier were a masterclass of light and shade; I still think I got a bit lucky with the camera.

View from the end of Southwold Pier

We walked along the pier for a bit. I love a pier: it’s as though the Victorians loved walking around looking fancy so much that they decided on new ways to promenade at the seaside when they’d run out of room along the esplanade. Southwold Pier is a fine example of a short but grand ‘prom’ that sticks out casually into the North Sea.

And what a sea! It was bright but wild today, untameable and raucous. The green waves blustered in, the foam sprayed under the wood and the tide rolled into Southwold under a warm silver sun. We strolled, arm in arm.

I don’t think other countries do piers, do they? I mean in America, they moor boats off them and they’re like grand jetties, but I’ve never heard of anyone putting a theatre on the end of one! No? They were everywhere in the 1900s - you barely had a seaside resort without one. Penny arcades, dance halls, wobbly mirrors, candyfloss (cotton candy) and ice cream! It was a genius piece of social and civil engineering, if you ask me.

We did have an ice cream today. I had strawberries and cream and the lady went for a mango sorbet. We sat and ate them in the afternoon sun, wind blowing around us, bright sunlight, coats on and fully wrapped around us. British. Lovely. Deliciously attractive.

I’m quite sure I saw the Milky Way tonight. A patch of stars, a smooth line of faint but compact, cloud-like light stretched across the sky, North to South. In the town, where we live, you simply can’t see that anymore. Out here though, you get the feeling that the light, the stars, the sky and the deep, are all as wonderful and as real as ever they were.

THE SKY AND THE SEA AIR

We are on holiday. It’s our first ‘real’ vacation (if you don’t count our honeymoon, which, if anyone asks you, I definitely do) and it’s well-timed and well-needed.

So let’s do the ‘where’. We’re in Walberswick, which is a small Suffolk village on the cusp of the North Sea. It’s a quaint place - posh warm pubs, cottages with trailing ivy, high hedges and no street lamps. The puddled lanes lead down to the sea.

Friends of ours own a holiday home here and as a wedding gift, they’re letting us use it for half-term. It is a wonderful gift; the place is charming, and within just a few hours of arriving, we both remarked on how relaxed we already felt.

I didn’t help with that today when I fell down the stairs.

I don’t exactly know what happened. Socks, stairs, not concentrating - the maths is all there, but it was a jumbled mystery at the time. Before I knew it, I was thudding down the steps like it was the end of Eastenders.

I was alright. Less relaxed than I had been,  but okay.

Before too long, we were happily on our way to see the sea. It’s just a minute or two down the road.

One thing about this part of the world that I just love, is that the sky is so huge. With no hills or tall buildings, no forests or trees to speak of, the great sky stretches down to the sea, and is a canvas of almost infinite glory.

We stood on the shore beneath the cirrus and stratus clouds, watching the grey waves roll and crash onto the stones. The wind was strong, blowing as it does onshore, and the North Sea and spray speckled into the air.

“What is it about the sea?” asked Sammy, thrusting a hand into mine. The stones crunched beneath our feet. I told her it was just the rhythm and safety of it alongside the peril and adventure of being on the very edge of the land. She’s cleverer than me: she said she thought it was about the delicate balance of earth, moon, ocean and land, a kind of cosmic equilibrium of gravity. Fair enough.

Later, the sun shimmered into pink and purple and the white horses of foam were catching glimpses of gold. In this part of the world, the sun sets behind the land. We stood once again under the enormous sky, thanking God for our moment, our opportunity to be there.

“How’s your back?” she asked later. Remarkably, I had forgotten all about my tumble. I must be more resilient than I thought, more bouncy, more youthful somehow. Or maybe it’s just the sea air.

MOVING FORWARD

How do you move forward
If your eyes are looking back?
I want to keep on moving
But I keep on losing track
Of where I’m going,
What my goal is,
What horizons I might find!
But how do you move forward
When you’re focused on behind?

How do you move forward
If your heart is in the past?
I want to see the future,
All that’s promised me, at last…
And all the good things
I believed in
When my years were young and few.
But how do you move forward
From the old into the new?

How do you move forward?
Fix your eyes on what’s ahead.
I’ll be thankful for the past and
Not be captive there! Instead...
I’ll take a hopeful step of heaven
To adventures yet unknown
And maybe moving forward
Is a journey somewhere home

FAITH AND DEPRESSION WAVES

It’s a lovely autumn day today.  Bright silver sunlight paints the trees golden, and white clouds stream across the vivid blue of the sky. It’s quite warm too - at least on one side of my face. I’m lit up from the south west, where the sun is gradually sinking behind the houses.

It’s not lunchtime but I’m having my lunch anyway. I had to drop paperwork off at the solicitors, so I’m just stopping on a bench for a while, taking a moment between all the other moments.

There’s lots going in my head. I get these waves of being horribly depressed by the world, then finding strength to get on with it. It’s the ebb and flow of having faith but also living in the lions’ den: one moment your eye is on the lions, snarling in the corner; the next your heart soars with the hope of God. Then it’s back to the lions, not knowing whether they’re about to pounce. Then God. Lions. God. Lions. God. Fear. Faith. Fear. Faith.

They used to say you couldn’t have one if you had the other.

“Fear,” boomed the televangelist, thumping his gold-edged pulpit, “is the OPPOSITE! The RECIPROCAL! of Holy Ghost Bible Believing FAITH, somebody say a hallelujah.”

He might have been right I suppose. In my experience, there’s always a bit of both. Faith isn’t just believing, it’s doing. And the doing is scary. Buying a house is scary. Getting married, going to uni, starting a new job, telling someone about Jesus, asking someone out for coffee… fear is probably quite normal. If you ask me (and I appreciate you didn’t) faith supersedes fear like aeroplanes supersede the law of gravity. But I don’t know how well that message goes down on TV.

Daniel had a kind of belligerent faith. The reason he was thrown in with the lions in the first place was that he broke the law by praying to God (illegal) with his windows open (optional). Not only did he pray in his rooms, he did so a) loudly and b) through an open window.

I’ll be honest. If a law comes out that prayer in the UK is now illegal, I suspect I’d be praying still, but what I’d definitely be calling ‘wisdom’, would be the voice in my head that tells me to do that silently, internally, and in a locked room. There’s something brilliantly rebellious about Daniel throwing his windows open and praying at full volume.

I don’t quite know what I’ll do about these depression-waves. Some might say it’s half the battle realising that that’s what they are, and that getting out in the Vitamin-D-rich sunshine is a good move. I’d actually quite like it if they didn’t happen, if the world could just switch back to how it used to be, and if everything could be nice and hopeful like it was in the 1990s. But faith is an overcomer isn’t it? It’s a superseder, not a replacer. And even where there’s gravity and darkness and grumbling lions, there is always lift, and light, and the hope of salvation.

CHATTING WITH DAVE

I’m chatting to Dave online at an insurance company. Dave might well be a robot but I can’t tell.

I can’t type, “Dave, are you a real person?” because if he is, he’ll be offended. And if he isn’t, then the algorithm will kick in and then pretend to be offended, just to keep up this ridiculous illusion that I’m talking to a human being. It's like a malicious version of the Turing Test.

How did society get me here? How did society get me talking to a robot pretending to be a human, at all costs not revealing that it’s a robot? You know I’d honestly prefer it if "Dave" was called Chatbot3000 or Excelsior or something - at least then, I’d know where we stand. 

I signed off the chat with “Thank you, Dave, have an optimal day. I'm closing the pod bay doors.” Dave just said I was welcome. 

If Dave is a real person, he has no sense of humour. 

WEIGHTED BLANKET

Well it’s the middle of the night again. That is if by middle, I mean two hours before we’re supposed to get up and six hours after we went to bed. Kind of two-thirds through the night.

Don’t worry. I’ve not spilled water on the duvet this time. I’m just awake for no apparent reason at all, other than some latent worry or trouble I can’t put my finger on - the usual story really.

The unsettling adventure is really getting to us now. We’ve had crossed wires and miscommunications, It’s led to an exhausting cycle of disappointment, quick problem-solving, priority planning, and resolution, which all seems like such hard work. I almost don’t want to ask my married friends how long that cycle lasts because I’m afraid of the answer. So for now I’m quite happy to chalk it up to living out of a suitcase for six weeks.

The estate agent called yesterday morning. This one is always chirpy and pally, even when he’s spinning bad news. I like to imagine him at home, promising his wife a new a carpet and trying to convince her that waiting another two weeks is a good thing, after three months. These guys have a mastery with words the rest of us can only gawp at.

Meanwhile the solicitors have a unique way of letting you feel a bit simple - for not having a law degree, or in fact, any notion of conveyancing at all. I have to phone them later and be pushy, which is not exactly a word anyone would use about me.

Anyway. I’m awake and feeling the weight of it all, like a blanket pinning me to the bed. My brain can’t triangulate a word between the fixed points of ‘stressed’, ‘blessed’, ‘afraid’ and ‘thankful’ but I’m in there somewhere. Next to me is my wife, asleep, turning softly, and dreaming of being us in our own home. I feel as though I would do anything, anything at all, to make sure she’s always as safe and as happy as she is in those sweet dreams.

Perhaps that’s the ‘hidden’ reason I’m awake? I’m carrying her somehow through this, in a way she doesn’t know, with my eyes wide open in the dark watches of the night? Do all guys feel like this? Does it get heavier and sweeter with children? Is it just life, or are things unusually hard because of our houselessness?

I do hope it won’t be long.

NO NONSENSE WINSTON

How do you get to be more ‘no nonsense’? Some people are brilliant at it. They’re firm and they’re kind and somehow tell you you’re being a wolly without making you feel like one.

I’m not brilliant at ‘no nonsense’. I tumble out of those personality tests as a ‘diplomat’. I like peace and helping people like each other, even when it’s hopeless. I hate to say it I really do, but I’m far more Chamberlain than Churchill.

Speaking of Churchill, we went to Blenheim Palace on Saturday. Winston’s home was resplendent in the Autumn sun.

I was fascinated by pictures of the great man. One of them featured him orating at some grand occasion, surrounded by people on the dais. There he is, hand on pocket watch, mid-speech at a podium. With his other hand he’s gesturing, as though making an important point, and his face is full of fire and determination. I have no idea what he was saying.

I did have an idea how it was going down though. The seated faces said it all. One man was enraptured, smiling up in a thrall of admiration at the wartime leader. Another looked cross. He had narrow eyes hooded by his eyebrows and his face was downturned, as though he’d swallowed a wasp. Yet another had her face in hand, her head too heavy perhaps for her neck. She looked weary. Churchill was unrelenting. I get the feeling he almost thrived on that kind of split opinion, and bouldered on anyway.

This is the No Nonsense thing I’m talking about. You can’t please everyone. He knew that. Sometimes you’re right and everyone else is totally wrong and listening to their impassioned pleas would be fatal. Not only can you not please everyone, he intonates, but neither should you try!

It’s high-stakes I suppose. You have to be prepared to be wrong even if you’re sure you’re not, and that is a tricky feat of cognitive dissonance. Somehow you have to stay humble and kind, even when you’re firm with people.

I could start by saying no. Another phrase I wish I’d learned how to wield years ago is ‘None of your business,’ which (although considered rude by a lot of people) could have saved me an unthinkable amount of trouble.

Churchill was sharp of eye too, as well as of tongue. I read The Gathering Storm a long time ago, and even though it comes across as a massive ‘I told you so’ it’s impossible to deny that Churchill saw it coming, and did in fact, tell them so. That’s important because the appeasers couldn’t see what he could. To be less Chamberlain, I think I’d have to learn to see beyond what I see, to listen and to watch much more closely.

Well. I don’t have to win a war. I just have to start a new job and get on with people. And as ever, that requires a deft balance of wisdom and wit, humility and courage to tell people what’s what without crushing them or myself in the process.

RECURSIVE TV

The other day I was thinking about that show where ordinary people watch telly: Gogglebox.

Oh alright then. Put that raised eyebrow back. Yes. I was actually watching Gogglebox. Well, we both were; the lady finds it hilarious.

I suppose it is funny. In living rooms of different colours, couples, friends, siblings, and partners gather together and react to the TV moments of the week. Then up and down the country in living rooms of different colours, the rest of us gather and comment on these Goggleboxers commenting on the telly that we’ve all seen together while we watch it all together. Again.

“And they’re real people?” I asked Sammy. They are, she said.

“And they’re in their real living rooms?” They are, she said.

I guess it provides a very honest review of television. It also opens a little window on the nation of telly-watchers, which, if the show is to be believed, we all are. To be honest, I just wanted to tell them all to switch it off and go out. All we ever see of them is them watching the TV and I don’t think it’s very healthy.

“Get outside! Go to the pub, the park, the library, Nando’s, anywhere before this television thing starts eating your life!”

It is interesting watching recursive television. What if the Goggleboxers watched their own programme for their own programme? Then we’d be watching them commenting on themselves watching the TV watching the TV they’ve already seen twice, on TV again. I’ve a feeling the likes of Giles and Mary would get caught in an infinite televisual loop.

The irony wasn’t lost on me either, as I commented on all of this in front of Gogglebox with Sammy on the sofa. The only difference between us and the Goggleboxers was that we weren’t being filmed. And that must be true of everyone who curls up at home in front of the telly. All across the country, people just like us and them, must have been cosying up in front of glasses of white wine on sofas with colourful cushions just to watch a small flashing cabinet in the corner of the room.

I think it’s all of us who need to just go outside. 

THE ANCIENT ART OF SHUTTING UP

I had an interview yesterday in which I over-talked. At least, I’m pretty sure I over-talked.

“Seems unlikely, Matt,” said Gary (whom we’re staying with). I took his point; I’m not usually one to let my words run away with me. I often think of myself as much more measured, more thoughtful than that.

Nevertheless, the conversation had turned out to be one of those in which ideas were firing into my head like pulses of electricity. The guy asked me about my documentation process, and I went into a ramble about release cycles. Next up it was my opinion on technical schematics and I blurted on about Visio and Draw IO, and simplicity, and why different audiences might need different guides to help, and how people access content nowadays and how that’s changed.

It might all have been a good thing. After all, you want to be around stimulating people, especially if they fire your synapses and push you towards creative thinking.

I suppose my doubt was in accidentally revealing that I’ve not understood the question. Sometimes you can say too much.

Gary’s right though. I’m usually good at listening. Well. Mostly. Sammy might disagree, but I do think on the whole I’m practiced at the ancient art of shutting up. I just don’t know what got into me yesterday.

I expect I was thinking. That can be a barrier to true listening, can’t it? Gosh, if only people stopped thinking, the world would be a far better place! My brain might well have been taking on 70% of the interviewer and plotting how to answer him with the remaining 30%! Quite possible!

Actually, call it 25%. There was probably a little bit still wondering what I could eat. That 5% background thought is probably a constant hum.

When your brain is thinking and your face is listening, the effort is going into pretending your full attention is on the conversation. I guess there’s some science about how your eyes drift for different processes, but I suppose most of us are busy working out what to say while taking on board the other person.

Later, I tuned into Question Time, the panel show where members of the public ask questions of politicians and noted celebrities, and then clap, gasp or boo depending on where the debate goes. There was a lot of very fast-paced dialogue, a lot of layered discussion, and plenty of people listening with barely their face, let alone their ears. It was, as it often is, depressing.

It was a good reminder to get back to that ancient art. I tried imagining the words floating past my eyes as they were being spoken. I tried lasering in on what was being said, what was not being said, and why. It was hard work with Question Time. Perhaps it will be slightly easier on my next interview, should there be one.

I think there’s some wisdom though in just stopping talking and letting the pause be filled by someone else. But probably not always. Maybe, if I get the job I’ll be able to practice.

I’ll keep you posted.

ELEPHANT WALLPAPER

We went to town today. I had to go to the ophthalmologist and take a couple of shirts back, so we combined it with a few treats and a mooch around the shops.

I am too old for some stores. There’s one in particular that’s gone for that California beach hut vibe: surf boards on the wall, shutters and dark wood, with a backwashed soundtrack of cool new surfy type music. There’s a distinctive smell too - San Diego Febreze, I think I’ll call it.

“Hello,” quivered a person working there. She looked terrified, as though she had heard about people over 40 but had somehow never seen one before. We said hello back, Sammy as confident as ever. She’s cooler than me.

The other thing about these stores is that they’re so dark. The clothes are illuminated (and brightly coloured too actually) but that’s about it. As we were going in I joked that I’d forgotten to bring a torch, and then instantly realised that that kind of humour set me firmly in the ‘dad’ category in a place like that. Sammy laughed. I suppose I don’t care whether anyone else found me funny.

She tried on two shirts. Fair.  It it did mean I was left on my own for a while, standing like a lemon outside the fitting room. Unlike other shops, the fitting rooms all sort of face each other, and there’s no chair, which meant I sort of stood there, uncertain which way to face in the gloom. I picked a wall of elephant-print wallpaper that was attempting to be retro. That’s about the size of it, I thought. Elephants don’t belong in a Californian beach shack either. Looks like we’re all pretending.

Later, the ophthalmologist looked right into my eyes and told me I’m ageing and it’s perfectly normal to need help with close up reading. I guess she would know about these things. I didn’t feel like telling her I’d just been standing in the dark looking at elephant wallpaper in a shop far too young for the likes of me.

“Yep, welcome to the 40s,” she said.

“Thanks,” I replied.