AMAZON'S TOP PICKS

I’ve just logged into Amazon and clicked ‘Top Picks For You’. It’s a like a catalogue of how much my life seems to have changed - at least at first glance. To be honest, I don’t even understand how these things have made it to the list.

Lavazza Coffee Beans

Did I order something like this for a present? I have entirely no need for Lavazza Coffee Beans. I don’t even know if they’re any good. Are they any good? Why, Amazon?

Earth Rated Dog Poo Bags

New look, Guaranteed leak proof… I can’t read any more. Never owned a dog. Mystified.

Johnson’s Baby Cotton Bud Pack of 200

Seems like a lot of cotton buds. Perhaps too many cotton buds.

Dr Beckman Carpet Stain Remover

Useful, I guess? Never seen it before.

UNO Classic

Fair enough. Probably bought it as a gift a while ago - that’s the kind of thing we’d give away as a gift for sure.

Atomic Habits by James Clear

Heard of it. Looked it up once. Never read it. Is it one of those passing fad books that’s popular for a month and then never spoken of again? I feel as though I’ve read a few of those.

Mr Muscle Drain Unblocker Heavy Duty

Okay. The less said the better.

PHILIPS Fabric Shaver

That’s a little gadget that removes lint from clothes. I don’t know what it’s doing in my top picks list - it took my sister-in-law a week to clean a jumper with one of those things.

BARR American Cream Soda

Yuk

Andrex Toilet Rolls

Is this synced with our online shopping list?

Finish All in 1 Powerball dishwasher Tabs

Maybe…

Kitchen Roll

Yes.

Batteries

Christmas.

Air Fryer Recipe Book

Christmas.

CRAYOLA Markers

Sammy.

Pepsi Max Pack of 24

Not Sammy.

How to Win At Chess: The Ultimate Guide For Beginners

Me.

The Cheeky Panda Bamboo Toilet Paper

Not me.

Happy 30th Birthday Sophie Cake Topper

Who’s Sophie?

Pack of 50 Tealights

Sounds like the kind of thing we’d order.

Nescafe Gold Blend Instant Coffee 750g Tin

If the Lavazza wasn’t going to make the cut, I’m really not sure why the algorithm thinks this’ll be alright.

I reckon someone’s been using my Amazon account to browse for things. I used to look for cool shoes and smart watches, or at least Lego sets! Toilet roll? Coffee beans? I just don’t know where the algorithm is getting its data.

BLUE CORPORATE GLOW

I’ve been away with work for a couple of days. At one point, I scanned around the u-shaped arrangement of tables and wondered what I was doing there. Hotel conference room, curtains closed so we could all see the projector, colleagues bathed in the dull blue glow of open laptops. Person presenting.

Don’t misunderstand me. The whole thing was really fine, and these are very dedicated people who are invested in their jobs. They talked work on their breaks, over dinner, over coffee. They knew their stuff and they wholeheartedly threw themselves into discussion as if this soft blue light were something, perhaps the only thing, to live for. As though there were nothing else. And there I was - feeling like the artist who accidentally went through the wrong door at careers fest.

I sighed softly to myself. It doesn’t do any good to think like this; I’m not superior to them, and one way or the other I chose this path just like they did. Only innocent man in Shawshank. Perhaps they had dreams too, perhaps this is a deviation they’re making the most of. Perhaps they’re just really good at being professional. Perhaps that’s my trouble.

I don’t think I did a fantastic job of socialising either. I tried, but I ended up being so quiet! I didn’t make anybody laugh. I don’t even think I went deep. I was just a bit boring and a bit shy. In fact, I’m not even sure my goodbye registered when I slung my rucksack on and headed to the car to come home.

Two women were chatting by the coffee machine. They weren’t anything to do with us, but they had that same kind of corporate investment in their bearing.

“I think what we need to do is to be systems managers in our boundaries,” said one.

“Yeah,” said the other, “We should put down some responsibility markers.”

I don’t think even they knew what any of that meant. I zipped up my jacket and strode purposefully toward the car park.

THE SIZZLE OF A STEAK THAT’S NOT IN THE KITCHEN

Apparently, there’s more money in selling an online course on how to do a thing, than there is to be made actually doing that thing.

Ah that explains it. That’s why that guy whose property empire is collapsing - is currently on instagram hawking his skills as a mentor and selling a pipe-dream. I’d been wondering. If it’s possible to make so much money, and clearly he has, why doesn’t he either keep doing it (instead of creating competition for himself), or perhaps more simply, put his feet up on his gold couch and watch the sun set over the yacht-sails of Dubai marina?

The generous explanation is the kindness of his heart, wanting to make the world a better place. But wait, when you factor in that a) his company’s about to be wound up, b) it doesn’t really fit with his character, and c) buying up lots of property so you can rent it out at extortionate prices is a terrible way to make the world better, you have to conclude that this is really about selling the sizzle of a steak that’s not in the kitchen.

There’s a lot of this on instagram. You can buy packages and courses that give you the secrets of gaining lots of organic followers. You can even buy followers - though they are of course, not real people. Every day there’s some fresh ad about how hashtags don’t work, or how there’s a trick to it at the end of this video. A pretty girl points to the ceiling where words appear over her head telling you that you’re doing it wrong. A guy walks through the park explaining that he got thousands of followers overnight by doing this one, simple trick.

It’s an odd kind of credit crunch really. I’m waiting for the expert course creators to start popping up and explaining how you can make millions by selling online courses. Actually, I think I might have seen that already, now that I think about it. What next? The course creation marketing expert who wants you to convince others how to make online courses?

But it is all a credit crunch, this kind of thing, because ultimately these people are trading in the credit of being able to do something very well and making it monetízable. And as they know, there just isn’t enough steak to go around, just like there aren’t enough houses for us all to be landlords, and the more followers everyone has, the less you stand out from the crowd.

It’s a pipe-dream designed to make those people richer, and honestly, I think that’s it. Magic beans and pyramid schemes, Dubai dreams and greasy memes. Well, they’re welcome to it. I think there are much nicer ways to make the world better.

WANTING TO BE USEFUL

Tired. Like, twelve-hour-day tired. I usually get two things when I’m like this: I get teasy and I get deep - which means I’m currently either a) no fun, or b) no fun. Great.

The thing is I can’t help wallowing in thoughts. Like, have I made an identity for myself out of being useful? Does everyone do that? What would that mean when you’re old? Is it okay to just sit there and be loved? Do people in their last chapters feel like that? And is that really enough? And by the way, what happens if I hide these fluffy slippers?

The ‘useful’ thought’s a good one. At work they call it value. Do I add value? If yes, carry on. Really though I want to belong, I’m yearning for it, and the world has taught me that to do that, I have to add value, I must earn a place at the table.

I want to be useful at home too. What I mean is that really, I want to solve all of Sammy’s problems. I do. I want to sweep in and make her happy, relaxed, well-fed, looked-after, creative and free, not even so I can bask in the glory of having fixed everything! I want to do all of that for her. What if I can’t? Well I can’t, actually. But what if I can’t do any of it? Would I be alright? 

She won’t find it funny if I hide her slippers. It will go dangerously wrong rather than broadly hilarious. I know this, even when I’m tired. It’s just that there’s not enough battery left to power the filter.

I suppose it’s a sort of middle-aged life lesson. How will I learn how to feel loved? Not for what I do, not for songs or words or talks or writing, not for hard work or even turning up, but just simply for being. How am I going to rewire my brain to think like that?

Well, I tell you one thing: I’m going to need more power to that filter, that’s for sure.

MULTIVITAMINS

I’m on these new male multiple vitamin tablets. All you need to be a healthy man, I guess, although I’d argue they can’t give you a backslapping sporting event or a cool pint after a day’s hard work. Joke.

Anyway. It’s too early to tell whether they’re doing any good. I suppose they might be. Part of the problem though is that, to put it bluntly, they stink.

Oh boy do they smell. Opening the jar is like letting a flatulent wet dog into the room. It’s egg and cabbage, methane and rotting tires, tinged with burnt hair and a hint of old rubber. I think we need a fume cupboard.

Tonight I screwed my eyes up as I carefully twisted the lid. Then I quickly popped it off and reached inside for one the lozenge-shaped multivitamins. That was enough to do it. I quickly slipped it into my trembling mouth, and even faster, reached for the cup of tea next to me, to swill it down.

Is it okay to use tea to swallow tablets? I guess it is, but you should probably use water really. Any doctors out there know? Anyone want to tell me it’s fine as long as it’s not whisky?

Urgh tablets. The other day in the pharmacy, I was looking around the packed shelves at all the medications and creams and terrifying posters. I stopped by the pill pot organisers, wondering just how long I might live before I really need one of those. It made me feel a bit depressed, to be honest - but then, the pharmacy often does.

Do you ever wonder whether at some point, all the young people in the world were suddenly hit by an ageing ray that turned them into pensioners overnight? One minute they’re gathered around a field singing peace songs with crossed legs and rainbow guitars, the next thing they know, the ground is scattered with daisy petals, and every joint in their body throbs beneath their wrinkled skin. It must feel a bit like that, I reckon.

Anyway, these new multivitamins are a toxic hazard in a bottle. I’m continuing with them though - one a day, usually in the evening, as directed. I think I ought to start taking them with meals though because the reflux after gulping one down is… well, I’m sure you can imagine.

PROJECTILES AND PREDICTABILITY

I was thinking today, about projectiles. When I was about sixteen, I studied projectiles as part of my mechanics module for Maths A Level. I was the only one in the class, and Mr Mallarkey (I know it sounds made up but I promise you that was his actual name) drew parabolas and equations on the blackboard.

A projectile is launched, and various parameters to do with its mass and its angle, determine quite specifically where it lands and how long it takes to get there. Obvious really, but the maths part makes it beautiful to see mapped out in Newtonian physics. Plus, I was into the video game Worms at the time, so it was also super useful.

One thing that struck me (then and today) was that a projectile’s path was completely determined at its point of launch. Gravity made it so certain! Before a tennis ball leaves my hand, I know that it curves up, runs out of kinetic energy, stops mid-air, and then comes back down again in a perfect parabolic curve. If I have a way of knowing the parameters precisely, before its journey has even begun, I can calculate its trajectory.

Does that terrify you? It does me. What if the rest of life is like that? What if certain trajectories are so far out of our control, all we can do is watch the curve as the ball flies through the air, knowing well that there’s a thud, or the shatter of broken glass at the other end? What if there’s nothing you can do to change a person’s trajectory? What if someone you love is metaphorically hurtling through the air and the laws of physics are working exactly as you feared? I’d rather not watch, I suppose, but to be honest, that doesn’t feel like one of the options.

I saw a meteor tonight. I was driving along the motorway - it was dark, and I was just listening to the news headlines. A bright flash caught my eye as it streamed diagonally earthwards. Then it was gone.

Perhaps that lump of space-rock had a trajectory all of its own - tumbling and accelerating through our atmosphere as it burned. Who knows where it began, how it came to be spinning through the universe. And for how long? What set it off on its long long journey? Was I the only person to see it?

Mr Mallarkey’s drawings were wrong, I think. At least, he’d drawn them to show the natural ideal path a projectile would take. But, I reasoned, trajectories get interrupted all the time. A fielder catches a cricket ball and prevents a boundary; a trapeze artist trips and tumbles into a net rather than the circus floor. And a meteor, on an endless path through space, collides with our planet and bursts into flame just as I’m watching that exact bit of sky. You could call these miracles if you like. I like to think that God is able to keep us from falling.

Perhaps not every trajectory is set from the beginning then. I like it. That situation that’s a car-crash in slow-motion - it’s not too late to stop it. That report from the doctor - it’s not too late for a divine intervention. That predictable end to what was once a good relationship - it can be changed, it can be reversed. The ball can be caught, the meteor can become a meteorite, the future can be changed, even when it looks bleakest.

I wish I’d thought of that in Mr Mallarkey’s class.

TRAVEL WOES

I went to Oxford yesterday, though I’m still not quite sure how I got there. At about 6:57 on the chilly platform, the tannoy announcer bonged over the station and said:

“Platform 3. We are sorry to announce that the. 0705 service. to. Didcot Parkway. has been cancelled.”

Pause.

“The next train due to arrive on platform 3 will be the .0705 service. to. Didcot Parkway.”

There was a ripple of laughter from my fellow passengers gathered on platform 3. I think even the London-bound folks on the opposite platform had a giggle across the tracks.

Well the quantum-physical train did arrive at five past seven, and it did take us to Didcot Parkway. So I guess that answered that.

Getting to Oxford on the following train though was a bit more difficult. By that time, the dawn was a wide band of orange and purple, glimmering through the trees. The air was thick with cold breath and anticipation. No train. A lot of people.

Amazingly, I got a seat when it turned up. The space appeared right next to where I was standing so I sat in it. Good job too. My view was to be rucksacks and satchels and the shoulders of thick winter jackets. The guy next to me was creating something for TikTok and I slipped my AirPods in and listened to a podcast about the TV show Gladiators.

When I got to Oxford, it was light. Clouds had gathered over that first glimpse of sunlight, and the sky was a dull grey. Oh and there were twenty people in the queue for a taxi. Common sense, as predictable as a working compass, pointed me to the bus stop.

They say, don’t they - that we know how to queue in this country. Nope. A crowd swarmed around the empty bus in a radial pattern, waiting for the doors to open.

It was the right bus - I checked! We even saw the driver cross the road with a coffee and a cigarette. If you ask me, he was a little too leisurely for my liking, a stroller with no care for the world. He had a chat with some minicab drivers, drawing on that cigarette and sipping the rim of that coffee cup. I don’t know what about. Potholes? Traffic lights? Football. What do drivers have in common? I don’t care; it was freezing.

The taxi rank had ballooned to twenty five, I’d noticed, and no taxis arriving.

Back came Monsieur Laissez-Faire of the S7 bus, smoke snuffed out and coffee consumed. The doors swooshed open and he boarded, swinging himself into the driving seat.

“Sorry luv,” he said, as the first lady hopped on automatically. “Not in service, this one.”

He flicked the electronic signs, and they all changed accordingly.

“What?” she asked.

“Not in service. Twenty minutes to the next one.”

I decided I was walking.

-

To be fair, I could have ordered a taxi back at the end of the day. The thing was I had seen the S7 bus shoot by as I left the office at 5:30, and I’d sprinted for it. And the taxi costs £8 instead of £2.

Sprinting is odd these days. The first few seconds are a rush of adrenaline. Wow, not as unfit as I thought. Still got it. This is easy. I don’t even feel tired. I’m Linford Christie, and Linford Christie always makes it to the bus stop…

About five minutes later, I was doubled-over wheezing at the bus stop, still catching my breath and wondering just how long the next bus would be. You know, like Linford Christie definitely doesn’t. It was cold and dark and I’d had a long old day. I pulled my gloves out of my coat pocket and thrust my freezing fingers into them.

The next five buses were all 2s and 2As all marked ‘City Centre’. I asked the drivers of each if they went to the railway station. They shook heads. One told me I needed the S7. Thanks, bus drivers.

In hindsight, Oxford isn’t big enough for the train station to be miles away from the city centre; I should have got on a 2 or a 2A and then walked the rest of the way. I reckon the drivers could have told me that too, but I understand why they didn’t feel the need. By the time I thought of it, it was a bit late anyway. And then the S7 trundled along and I climbed aboard.

The train back to Didcot was alright. I had a bit of a wait for the next one, so I got a Starbucks and a ham and cheese toastie. £9. I munched it with the strange sensation that I was somehow eating a taxi-ride. By this time I was feeling quite exhausted. The cheese dripped from the paper bag and over my fingers.

I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. The journey isn’t typically this annoying, and things don’t often feel quite so antagonistic. But here’s the thing: I got a seat on every train I took yesterday. I could listen to anything I wanted. I saw the sun come up and was reminded of how beautiful the world can be. The people I spoke to in the ticket office helped me. I wasn’t once hungry, or thirsty, or wet, or too cold. I had a lovely walk up the canal. Nobody minded that I got to work late, and I was able to stay a bit later to make up for it. I have a really decent job and I enjoyed it yesterday.

Those things sound like blessings. And just listing them reminded me that our perception of a thing, how we feel and choose to react to it, and how we tell others, it all depends on what we choose to focus on. And it really is a choice.

Sammy picked me up from the station. I smiled with warmth as I got into the car, and we headed home. So nice.