PARDONING THE CHUBBY BYSTANDERS

Hey Americans. Quick question. Why do turkeys need pardons?

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not knocking Thanksgiving. If you’re going to celebrate anything nationally it might as well be that. I’m just wondering why every year the President pardons a turkey. What have the turkeys done?

I mean, by implication, all the turkeys are criminals (worthy of the death penalty no less) and in some sort of hazy tradition, each year, one single bird gets forgiven and allowed to live out its days in a turkey sanctuary… while all the rest are sentenced to the chop. But for what?

It’s the first turkey I feel sorry for. Before that, the turkeys probably roamed Virginia without too much of a trouble. Then one gets strung up by some hungry colonists and it’s open season on the rest. Farmed and fed from field to table, imprisoned for a purpose  - slaves to the scrawny Brits at Jamestown, who are a) ever so thankful, for some reason, and b) very hungry.

But it’s not the turkeys’ fault is it? I mean they weren’t holding back the harvest! If anything they were chubby little bystanders to the human drama of American settlers in a new world. Seems a bit unfair to drag them into the story and then condescend to offer one of them a pardon for what… being delicious?

So yesterday the current President in his own unique way pardoned yet another turkey, implicitly recognising that millions of innocent unpardoned turkeys - in fact, almost every other turkey in the land - were each heading for family dinners as a result of their terrible crimes.

If you’re going to pardon one turkey, America, come on… you might as well pardon them all. I’m no vegetarian activist, but that has to be the logic, no? Unless every year the White House miraculously finds the one turkey in the USA who’s been wrongly accused of something, and actually deserves a pardon? That is what that system is for… right?

Right?

THE CARBON BETWEEN THE STARS

It’s complex hitching yourself up with another person. Your centre of gravity changes - like a binary star system, you’re now orbiting around a point that’s sort of between you, and no longer in you completely. So your decisions are still yours to take, but they also affect the life of another person, however small, however insignificantly.

Their decisions affect you too, as you both spin through space. And it’s a strange dance sometimes - the steps seem complicated - a Viennese waltz among the stars, full of unspoken technique and balance.

This is all a very poetic way of me saying I burnt the toast today.

It was several hours ago, but… well time… hasn’t really… helped. And I didn’t really realise how bad it was. Until I did. And then I really did.

Now, as a lone star, I think I’d have handled the smoky house differently. This is what I mean - my centre of gravity is off-centre now, and decisions I make as a person working from home are not decisions that necessarily map to our binary system. There’s new inertia, and unpredictable spin. And three and a bit years in, I am still learning the footwork. It became clear to me when Sammy got home.

I think an old bit of toast got stuck. A blackened bit of charcoal certainly fell out of the toaster, rather like an ember from a forgotten bonfire: the smoking culprit. Somehow that little chunk of bread had filled the house, the cosmos of our daily life, and it had created a sort of atmosphere, a haze of uncomfortable carbon floating in mid-air, somewhere between our two stars.

It’ll be alright. Worse things have happened. The key bit of learning is that consideration of gravity, of how we orbit, and what we orbit and why, and learning the pull of angular momentum that’s on both of us. Though, I’m not sure I’m going to explain it like that in person just yet. Maybe let the atmosphere clear a bit.

WHISPER WHILE YOU WORK

It’s rare to have an office day on a Friday, but… here we are. London. Londre, Londonius, Londinium - the beating heart of our national shimmering griminess. What a treat.

Actually, I don’t need my sarcastic hat today.

It turned out to be quite enjoyable getting here - an empty train, sun rising over the fields and factories, podcast in the ears, and the smell of fresh coffee in the carriage. Normally it’s armpit-to-armpit scrummage. Today felt a lot more old-fashioned.

That’s Friday for you - the masses stay at home and the commute becomes old-fashioned. Even the city itself, emerging from the underground, seemed hopeful about it, the morning sun blinking its way across the tall stone buildings. Were they remembering their old lives as merchant banks and trading houses?

Well no; they’re not sentient. But it’s nice to be poetic every now and again. I arrived at the office in a much better mood than usual, dropping an empty Starbucks cup into the bin and coming close to whistling as I waited for the lift.

I doubt much whistling goes on in London. Obviously bin men and road workers push up the average, but I’d still wager the number of people whistling at any one time in the capital is low.

I didn’t whistle though. I figured it might unsettle the girl on reception.

One of the great things about being in the capital on a Friday is that when you go home… it’s still Friday, and somehow that makes the return journey sweeter, in turn making the build-up to the return journey proportionally sweeter too. So that’s good.

Whipsering’s a lost art too, I think. I find it hard these days - not sure why. Though, an odd thing did happen: someone whispered something to someone else knowing full well I could also hear it, and was the only other person in the room. A secret perhaps, something they weren’t sure they ought to say. Perhaps it was ultra caution but… I’m not so sure. I started wondering whether it’s a subconscious admission that a thing is morally wrong, and so must be hidden, at least whispered carefully. Interesting bit of human behaviour I thought.

Then, if anyone had been analysing me today, I wonder what field days they’d have had. I have to keep myself focused on the screen sometimes in the office, just so my face doesn’t accidentally give me away.

So a good day in London I suppose. But the best bit as ever, will be the going home. Hi ho.

A HINT OF SNOW

Fact. It snowed this morning. Somewhere between the gym and the first call of the day, the sky filled with a flurry of falling flakes, and the roof of the shed looked like it had been dusted with icing sugar.

It’s worthy of attention apparently. I always think this - unusual weather gets us excited for some reason. In Alaska, they’d barely think of mentioning it, I reckon.

Sigh. It comes from living on a small, very temperate island. We’re hobbits, finding solace in things remaining roughly the same, and reacting quite demonstratively when something (an adventure, I suppose) breaks outside the norm.

Anyway, it did snow. As usual, in other parts of the country, the family sent round much snowier pictures - kids in wellingtons, etc. I think I’m a bit beyond that kind of excitement, and certainly, there’s little point in chucking on wellies to go out and leave black footprints in the thin wet drizzle.

THE SANDS WERE DRY AS DRY

I don’t know if you’ve noticed but this year, I’ve been blogging a lot less frequently. I’ve been trying to work out why that is, and I think it’s possibly to do with available time (of which I seem to have less) and the corresponding lack of interesting things happening.

But that can’t be, can it? I mean why would interesting things stop happening?

It’s much more likely that they do still happen, that they do still make me laugh or ponder or weep - but I’m somehow less inclined to write about them. Perhaps I’ve written about them before, or I’m not able to make them funny, or, as I hinted, there’s no time.

Perhaps I should find a way. Or perhaps I shouldn’t? Maybe I should let myself be guided by what feels right, improvising my way through the jazz score of life, and loving the bars where not much is happening just as much as I seem to love the complicated riffs and melodies. Maybe not blogging as often is, in itself, telling the story.

It’s been 12 years now, this blog - 12 years today. Over 2,500 posts and probably a million words flying by, doing their best to bottle a world. I wish I could count the adverbs. I’d probably remove most of them. But then, maybe you need a way to explain how a thing was done, rather than a dispassionate list of just the verbs and their impact on all the nouns that get in their way. The how matters.

And that was always the intention: lifting the stage curtain and exploring the how, as well as the what and the why.

I will keep on - who knows, maybe some more interesting things will happen, maybe some new thoughts will pop into this old head and I’ll get chance to write them down. Maybe, just maybe, I’ll be less bored with everything.

THE DAY WE SAW SANTA OUTSIDE COSTA

We saw Santa outside Costa Coffee yesterday. He wasn’t an attraction; he was nonchalantly drinking coffee, alongside Mrs Claus at one of the al fresco tables.

Sammy found it hilarious. “He deserves a break!” she exclaimed, after I asked what he thinks he’s up to. Honestly, he was a proper Santa, not a tacky shopping-mall cotton-wool-beard knockoff; a genuine old Father Christmas. With a latte and a newspaper.

We went in to the shop. It was coming up on closing time so hardly anyone was inside. My glasses steamed up instantly, which gave the girl behind the counter a giggle as I scanned the flapjacks. There was a lady mopping the floor there too who laughed uproariously at something Sammy said - I think she was trying to stop me walking in the wet bit.

Lights twinkled outside, the all-too-ubiquitous Christmas music played, and I clutched my double-cupped earl grey tea in both hands. It was, undoubtedly festive. And yes, undeniably still November.

And yet there we were - sprinkled with a little of that indescribable Christmas feeling. Where had that come from? I wondered.

Santa was still there in the twilight.

Mrs Claus looked happy. I don’t know. Did he wink at me? I didn’t tell Sammy; it just seems a bit silly… well anyway, Costa Claus… and there did seem to be some joyful magic in the air.

Sammy, who seems to live Christmas from August onwards, was absolutely loving it. Of course she was.

HELTER-SKELTER MONTH

So November’s barrelling on isn’t it? It’s like a helter-skelter month: you start at the top with the fading sunlight and the whiff of pumpkins in the park, and before you know it, you’ve slid into Christmas.

It’s a bit soggy for helter-skeltering. The lights are on, the sky is battleship grey, and the windows are dashed with streaming raindrops. Thomas Hood follows Keats as usual.

I think it’s the looking-forward-to-Christmas that robs November of its character. That’s the gravity, whizzing us down the ride on our straw mats, isn’t it? The cosy thought that at the end of this stormy month, there are twinkling lights and cosy nights. We race towards it through a flurry of crispy leaves, and I wonder whether that‘s okay.

I tell you what though. ‘Christmas Tree Prep’ has appeared in the diary for next weekend. It’s followed, the weekend after (still November), by ‘Tree Up!’ and I’m a bit scared to ask what the difference is. Meanwhile, the piano tuner’s round, pre-carol season. I’m fairly certain the lady of the house will want to try a few Ding Dongs and Good Kings Wenceslas when he’s gone - so even before the helter-skelter drops me in lovely Advent, the festive season seems to be spilling up the slide at the same time. Fa la la.

There must be inherent goodness to November though, surely? In some ways, it’s a shame Guy Fawkes couldn’t have waited until the middle of the month - fireworks night might have been more of a thing. But then of course, he’d only have been able to blow up a few MPs and the cleaner, I suppose, given that the King was only ever going to be there on the Fifth.

Gosh. Sorry Americans. That was a weird digression. Don’t worry about it. You guys have lovely Thanksgiving in November. I like that - perfectly placed. Like stopping the helter-skelter halfway down for a roast dinner.

Anyway, here, we seem to twirl November away. The rain falls and the leaves flutter, the sky darkens and the roads glisten. It is beautiful in its own way. Isn’t it?

MORE LETTERS FROM SANTA

It’s that time of year again when I get emails from the people who write letters from Santa. Alright. It is admittedly better than emails from Stannah Stairlifts. “Is it time for you to consider a helping hand up the stairs, Matthew?” No. No it isn’t, you cheeky blighters.

Anyway, the Santa people are promising ‘personalised greetings’ from the man himself, or rather, if I read the Comic Sans letterhead in the email, the ‘Office of Santa Claus’, implying that, wait, he has an office? Like a president, or a royal, or the head of a corporation? Honestly people, workshop! If anything it’s Santa’s workshop, not his office that’s sending out the letters, surely. His office indeed. 

Anyway, the letters cost £8.99.

I know because I clicked through the process, adding info into the fields, pretending I was ordering one for Sammy.

“I know you’ve been doing so well at stacking the dishwasher and making the dinners,” says Santa. “And I heard that you’ve been good at leaving the house on time all year round, which is another reason you’ll be getting lots of nice things, maybe even horse riding stuff and unicorn socks… this Christmas. I’ll also stop off and see your best friend, Matthew, so give him my best Christmas wishes…”

Oh don’t worry. I’m not actually going to send it. It’s strange though; as I read through it, I did wonder whether I was making a mockery of something quite sweet and wholesome after all. I wouldn’t want to do that.

But that is the problem - behind the sweetness is £8.99 per letter, and a very real office actually, probably in some business park somewhere, where automated systems are printing these things off to the sound of tinkling cash bells.

And I think if you get the chance, you could easily do this yourself. Sparkly pen, aged paper (teabag), maybe a glittery envelope - all the things you want to say, personalised in the best possible way by you. Low-fi, old-fashioned, a Christmassy touch that feels almost like a bit of magic might have happened. Because it has - love. You can’t really automate that.

In fact, I think I might write my own letter to Sammy this year - not from Santa, but from me. Feels like a nice thing to do, in all seriousness. Old-fashioned I may be, but not in need of automation, it turns out. And not, let me remind you, in need of a stairlift either.

7 QUESTIONS I WOULD ASK THE PRESIDENT

I’ve recently been thinking about what I’d ask President Trump if I got the chance. I don’t know how, but say you were stuck in a lift (sorry, elevator) with him and all you had was a notebook and a pencil. What would you ask? Given the opportunity, what questions would you put to the man himself, before the Secret Service pulled him out of there?

Here’s my list. Call it a thought experiment. Perhaps even more interestingly, the exercise might be to ask how he would respond? What would he actually say, unable to deploy his usual strategies?

For that reason, I’ve worded my seven questions carefully. Think of them as a mix of flattery (which he obviously responds warmly to) and openers to wider debate (which he might not respond to immediately but should give opportunity for reflection - if he is still in the elevator I suppose. He’s not given to much instantaneous reflection I think).

Well. Thought experiment or not, these are genuinely things I’d like to know - some with a Christian slant, revealing my bias of course, some that I would hope would cover history and politics in a way I think is relevant for today’s world - even if I, a Brit, might seem unqualified to ask some of them.

So, what do you think? What would you ask him? How do you think he’d answer?

7 Questions for the President

1. Jesus taught his followers to love their neighbours and even their enemies. How are you, as the leader of perhaps the greatest Christian nation in the world today, putting that into practice?
2. How would you define an ideal democracy, and what checks and balances on power would be necessary to make it work?
3. You’re clearly an extremely successful person with years of experience at ‘winning’. What’s the greatest lesson you were taught on the way, and how would you pass that on?
4. You’ve repeatedly said that Washington and Lincoln are your favourite Presidents, and even stated that you rank alongside them. What specifically about those men has inspired you, and how does that shape your presidency?
5. In your opinion, what is the central idea of the US constitution?
6. You’ve previously said that you don’t think you’ve done enough to get into heaven. What’s your understanding of what is required for an eternal life with God, and why do you believe you fall short?
7. What role do you implicitly believe should be taken by the US on the world stage? Having put a ‘great again’ America, as first priority in your policies, is there a purpose/responsibility that the country should take, with respect to the rest of the world?