REARRANGING THE FURNITURE

Well Autumn’s properly here now. Strictly’s on, the nights grow deep as the living room windows glow, and Sainsbury’s is jostling with spiders and pumpkins.

I’ve been thinking about that urge we all get sometimes to move our furniture around. What if the bed were over there instead of here? we wonder. How about the sofa faces the other way and that cupboard had games instead of books?

I wonder what the average length of time is. If you surveyed the nation, how often on average do we all get shifting armchairs and moving tables? Is it seasonal?

Our house is a bit different. We haven’t really finished settling into it, and for various reasons, that has been difficult. But I get it; there’s definitely a curiosity about what works where and why. And then, when you’ve moved everything around, you have the novelty of everything being different and cool for a while.

I’d like it if I could do that with my brain. Every now and again, I wonder what would happen if I thought about a problem from the opposite angle; what would it look like from over there? If I had less information about a situation, would it make me kinder? Would I be quick to judge?

But… I’m set in my ways, I think. The other day I was in the middle of a sudoku and someone tried to help me finish it using their own method. It was an intriguing moment, realising that their approach was different, perhaps their whole way of thinking about life was different. I really hope I was kind as I let them take over, even though on some level I was grinding my teeth.

I also wonder what would happen if I rearranged the house while Sammy was out.

Surprise!

Hmm. They say there’s a fine line between bravery and foolishness. I know my onions. And I know where they are - for which we can all remain thankful.

WATCHING THE RAIN AND LEAVES

It was alright, the hospital thing. They looked after me really well.

That done, and with all my hospital musings on how we answer the question ‘how are you?’, I’ve been thinking today about the rain and the leaves.

My great grandfather lived his last few weeks in a big house by the park. His window (it became my own window with time) faced the leafy green trees and the fluttering birds, over the road.

I used to perch on that windowsill from time-to-time. I was small enough. I’d count the cars and make words out of registration plates, and I’d watch people as they strolled across the green grass or up the concrete path to the woods or the adventure playground.

Adventure playground. That’s a thought for another day.

Anyway, I really think I like the idea of a peaceful life. There must have been something so calm and beautiful about my great grandfather watching the autumn leaves flutter and shine. I’d like that. I’d like a window to sit by and watch the rain wash down the road. I’d like to see those leaves dance their way along by the gutter as the world sweeps by.

I didn’t fight in a war. Maybe he was a different kind of person. I’m a bit of a dreamer really; I haven’t earned that life I’m talking about. And I’m not at the end of mine; I just think it would a nice way to be - to not have to worry about everything all the time, and just be able to sit and watch in quiet peace.

My eyes have got that coloured fringe from too much screen time tonight. I need to stop. I need leaves and rain I guess.

FROM THE END OF THE PIER

I was listening to a podcast.

The guest was talking about her journey to being a leader, and she mentioned that she’d been working specifically with ‘millennials’.

“So can you unpack what you mean by the word millennial?” asked the host, presumably for the benefit of the listeners.

“So millennials are basically the middle-aged people now,” she replied.

I switched off.

To that lady (quite probably a genuine millennial herself) me and my cohort of fellow Xers and Xennials must be like Victorian piers, crumbling into the sea. Oh sure, nice for a Sunday afternoon stroll, or a nostalgic wander to see the flaky paint of the 80s, the garish amusement arcade of Pac-Mans and Space Invaders, but you’d never host a party out there! Would you? I mean not un-ironically.

Presumably she means the generation who were ‘digitally impacted’ in their teenage years, those who know how to use Snapchat but still just remember a time before we were all glued to our phones. You know the young people us ancient folk go on about all the time. 

It did occur to me that she was attempting a sort of self-deprecating tone, and was humorously calling herself middle-aged, which (I’d guess she’s in her thirties) she may be. Well lady. That kind of thing gets a chuckle at your Millennial Mums’ Club… but even I know better than to turn up at a care home and complain about my knees.

Who knows what she’d make of me. Perhaps she’d say, “You look very… mature… and contented,” as someone actually did say to me the other day. Nice, I thought, chalking up the words ‘tired’ and ‘grey’ in my head. I didn’t ask for that.

I think though, to her, this champion of middle-aged millennials, I’d just be a guy in a raincoat looking out over a green, rolling sea, listening to it crash beneath the warped boards and seaweed-covered supports, and quietly throwing old chips to the seagulls.

RIBBONS

Working at high speed today. It’s actually just nervous energy coursing through my system - I have to go to hospital on Wednesday and I’m a bit worried about it.

I don’t know what to say about medical stuff. I don’t wish to talk about it, yet it is just part of life. I consider the details private but the broad strokes fair game, I suppose. In short, I’d make an excellent royal - although admittedly, that would be terrible for lots of other reasons, way beyond letting the public know you’re in hospital without telling them precisely why.

Also, far fewer people care, as far as I know.

Nevertheless, that really is the broad stroke I’ve gone for: I’m going into hospital on Wednesday, I should be back at work on Thursday. That should suffice the newspapers, right? I mean we’re not going to get grubby reporters going through the bins… are we?

I don’t know what I’d do if I were a royal. I mean for starters, I’ve built up a lot of Nectar points and it would be unbearable to see them go. Plus they’d make me go off and cut ribbons while supermarket workers stand around looking sort of dazed, and then I wouldn’t be allowed to say anything. 

Anyway. Back to the high-speed work and the upcoming appointment. You know, I much prefer measured and thought-through, but work is of course, often more pressured than we’d like it. I guess even if you’re a royal. Them ribbons ain’t gonna cut themselves your highness.

I LOVE THE WAY THE LIGHT FALLS

I do love the way the light falls at this time of year - especially in the evenings. The trees turn gold; the shadows are crisp across the fronts of houses, from eaves and fascias and windows. The sunlight is long and warm and brilliant through the branches of trees too, perhaps even flickering the pavement with patches of light and shade. And all of that is happening under a rich blue sky, streaked with aeroplane trails and wisps of cloud.

Sammy and I watched the sunset the other day. It was layered in bands of the most amazing colours. I found myself wishing I could do that… forever. I’d be an artist, like Turner or Monet, or Rembrandt, assigned to a wealthy duke who wants nothing more than beautiful pictures of the sun bursting its way through the evening. And out I’d go, easel and brushes, a cool wind in the evening sky - scarf whipping around an open shirt, smile on my young, free, glorious face.

I’m not exactly an artist. I leave that kind of thing for Sammy. I lost confidence when I got brown and red mixed up on ‘paint your classmate’s portrait’ day at Primary School. I didn’t really know I was colourblind. Chris knew he didn’t have purple eyes though - he was quick to tell me. I’ve not been great with art since, and everything I try turns into a cartoon. I can’t imagine Turner doing that. Rain, Steam, Speed would have turned out like a frame from the Beano.

Anyway, we watched as the sky shimmered with light and the colours stretched behind the houses and the trees in the park. It was magnificent.

Life’s too short for stress, I thought to myself. I wonder why we bring it on ourselves? Looking up was somehow cathartic, and I was loving it. We all live under the same sky, don’t we? It’s a choice whether or not to watch the setting sun, or go for a dreamy walk on a September day. I suppose something very liberating was happening to me.

I really do love the way the light falls at this time of year.

FREE JAZZ THINKING

I’ve realised that I don’t like an unclosed bracket.

It feels like an unfinished cup of tea or an oven left on, or perhaps a door that wasn’t locked. It all needs closure, or I can’t sleep.

The trouble is that a lot of people seem to think in tangents these days. Halfway through a thought they’ll think of something else, then leap again, and perhaps again. So, is that three or four unfinished thoughts? I don’t really know how to explain the way those loose threads get under my skin. My brain (which I’m about to compare to an Excel spreadsheet) flashes up with #N/A or #ERROR! or some such alarming thing. What I want is to unpick the conversation, go back and debug the code until I can resolve it!

But… people don’t always like that. They like to be free to hop from stone to stone, improvising their freestyle jazz thinking as they go, without someone annoying who really needs them to retrace their steps. They see those steps as workings out, scratchings on envelopes that are fragments of ideas towards a great and more important end, or perhaps many ends.

But jazz is not ‘making it up as you go along’. Not really. You need skill and understanding, feel and expression. And the joy of it is the journey - the emergence of sound, the dissonance and drama revolving around a beat, playfully working together as a group of structured, but essentially skilled and free musicians.

Where are those guys?

Anyway. If you have any tips on how to handle discussions that are started but not properly resolved, feel free to let me know. Otherwise I’ll just be daydreaming about the thing we were talking about twenty minutes ago.

SEPTEMBER SUN

I went to the park with a (vegan) cheese roll today. It was one of those hot September afternoons when the cumulus clouds hang in the pale blue sky, the sun burns, but there’s also a cool wind, and long shadows from tall trees.

Two groups of sixth-formers from the local school turned up. Piles of bags and coats, a shiny ball, and some shouts of hilarity heralded (as they always do) the friendly game of lads’ football about to begin. I watched from the bench.

I kind of miss those days. I mean I didn’t much enjoy them - football wasn’t exactly my thing. But camaraderie was. Toe-punting a ball into the trees might have caused some groans and a few swears in my direction, but at least it was kind of funny. And we were mates together, as I remember. I doubt my peer group today would be up for a kick-about in the park somehow.

Bit hot for jeans, I thought as the ball rolled towards me. It was being chased by a cool guy in a black t-shirt and yes, dark blue jeans. He’d just been side-footed by a dude now running about with his t-shirt over his head.

I’m guessing these guys had to go back to school after that. They must have been sweating like sailors later - not exactly what you want in Further Maths or A Level English. Perhaps they have showers these days. All seems a bit revolutionary to me.

Anyway. Time’s odd isn’t it? Men get isolated as they grow up. No-one’s exactly sure why, I suppose. Family, life, work, harder to make new friends. We invest time in our partners and our children, and then suddenly - where is everybody?

A loud roar came from the lads. Something - maybe a foul, maybe a nutmeg or some fancy ball skills, perhaps even a goal at the other end? I wished I could have joined in. Or perhaps better, I could have sat like a wise old sage and told them that this feeling, this moment in the September sun… wouldn’t last forever, that they should cherish it and remember it, and hold on to it.

I munched the last of my cheese roll and stretched my stiff legs, extending my toes in my trainers. 

KARAOKE AND HOME

I was on that bench for a few minutes. I like being on my own. Above, white, textured clouds shuffled across the blue sky, and the hot sun made short shadows. Below, a gravel square, a statue of a French duke on a horse, and a grand chateau, perched in a wide, sparkling moat.

I’m remarkably unbothered by the history. There were some nice paintings, and the Duke of Aumale seems like a fine French nobleman. Nevertheless, there was no real connection for me. The chateau was big with all the usual finery of course - chairs and chandeliers and bureaus and candlesticks that were straight out of Beauty and the Beast. But I couldn’t help thinking that in all this gold and wood and velvet, the whole place must have been terrifying at night. Everything would creak. Those rooms would have been cold and big and empty. It was no home.

Speaking of home, I’m on my way back now. I’m so tired. It’s been good from a work perspective, perhaps even affirming from a personal perspective, but it’s also been socially exhausting. 

During the karaoke last night at the hotel, I decided to slip out and play the piano. The singers had steadily become more rowdy, the music more cheesy, and as confidence flowed more freely than the table wine, and the dancing grew evermore expressive, I left them to it for something calmer.

-

“And you can tell everybody…” suddenly sang a voice with me. It was a lady, a stranger who’d popped out from the restaurant. “This is your song…” she sang as I played. I smiled from the piano.

“It might be quite simple but… now that it’s done…” we sang together. Before I knew it, a crescent of French people had gathered behind me, some with drinks, some with phones…

“I hope you don’t mind, I hope you don’t mind, how I’ve put down in words…”

About twenty people were singing with me.

“How wonderful life is, while you’re in the world!”

Applause, embarrassment. I span around on the piano stool and applauded back politely beaming. What a lovely moment. I think that’s what music ought to do - bring people together. And there was me actually trying to escape from karaoke night!

I know. You can’t really escape who you are, can you? I couldn’t see that lady who’d sung with me either. She had disappeared. I thought about that a lot afterwards.

-

Homeward then, to the people and places I love. Perhaps that was the thought of the Duke too, poised on his horse at Chantilly. It’s possible that that same feeling beat within his noble French heart, a sort of passion for the land and the great wonder of his chateau. We’re all different. But some things, like music, home, and love, will always be what they are.

MASTERING THE LINGO

Well au revoir, smoky Paris, et bonjour Chantilly. Yes Chantilly of the cream fame. Oh and the lace, apparently, which is probably more digestible to a person with suspected lactose intolerance.

Irony aside, we’re now in the wooded environs of a hotel that might just once have been a castle or palace. It’s very classy - five stars apparently. Though, it’s quite possible that all five of those stars might be for the decor.

-

“Bonjour!” said the lady behind the counter. She was a bright, friendly person with dancing eyes and a genuine smile. I liked her.

“Bonjour,” I replied, “Je peux avoir un thé noir?” I had already skimmed the board of drinks behind her. I was asking her for a black tea.

“Eh?” she said. I blushed.

“Thé” I repeated. She understood and then told me in English to select a teabag from the box she was fetching from somewhere beneath the pastries. The pastries did look good. I focused all of my effort on the selection box instead, and I was already trying to work out how she’d spotted I was English. It flustered me a little, and I was close to accidentally saying something like “Ah limon!” Or “Hmm. Ou est le petit dejeuner anglais?” but I thought better of it. I plumped for “ici!” (here) and handed her a teabag.

I felt sure suddenly that I could master the interaction, were I to live in France for a while. But given that everything about me, from my tea-drinking to my clumsy fumbling of Euros as an ‘English tourist’ I decided to settle for the obvious fact that she was just trying to make my life easier. My trips to France might be decades apart. Oh and not everyone in France will talk to you like your French teacher, it turns out.

I’m still persisting. Here in Chantilly, I asked the waiter for “un couteau” and he had no idea what I was talking about. I had to point to the space on the table where my knife should have been and repeat the word - which I must have been saying wrong.

“Here you are sir” English.

I’m actually a bit tired of trying to speak French now. My brain’s wiring into the task and desperate for practice, but it’s a bit exhausting. I tried sparking a conversation with the lady running the team-building event before lunch, mostly just for the language.

“C’est tres amusant,” I said, beaming. She smiled back and said something like…

“Oui, mais en réalité, vous êtes tous des gens formidables et vous formez une bonne équipe. On ne voit pas ça tous les jours.”

“Ah oui…” I said, picking up ‘équipe’ and ‘tous les jours’ and inferring the rest. “Mais, nous sommes amis aussi. Merci pour tout.”

“Bon appetit,” she smiled back.

It was nice that she didn’t switch to English. Also it was nice that I got to the end without looking blank, I hope. It’s quite exhausting. I think I’m ready to give the GCSE oral exam a slip and head back to Angleterre, where (believe it or not) I’ve mastered more of the lingo.

Chantilly’s pretty by the way. More about that later, but from what I’ve seen of it, est tres jolie. I sat on a bench at the chateau beneath a hot blue sky, thankful to be there, but also looking forward very much to going home.