HEATWAVE AND HAY FEVER

We’ve had a heatwave. Hottest May days ever, apparently. Now that we’re sliding out of it, and there‘s a cool breeze through the window, it finally feels like my brain can function again, which hopefully you, me, and my manager can all agree is a good thing.

What isn’t a good thing is that the heat seems to have kickstarted the grass seed, activating the annual torment of hay fever.

I’m so tired of complaining about hay fever. Every year I go on and on about how awful it is, how I’m suffering, and how much I’m sneezing and sniffling so pathetically. This year it seems to me that moaning about it is just as bad, and I don’t want to make things worse with an attitude. It is so boring.

So, I’m challenged by allergies today. Difficult, but compared to some things people have to go through, very bearable. I have access to fexofenadine via high street pills, and we have tissues and towels and water and air purifiers. And in a few weeks I will be alright.

The heatwave nights were difficult too. I sleep deeply so it’s rare for me to wake up in the middle of the night these days. Yet on both the last two nights, I’ve been woken up purely by the heat. It’s been almost as though my body has a thermostat, clicking in when it can no longer route enough power to the sleep centre. It hasn’t helped with the grumpy attitude, any more than the open windows have. I think if it were up to me, I’d have designed the grass to spawn in winter.

Anyway. I’m pushing through.

A LATE SPRING DAY

We just went for a walk in the park.

Why is it that when you say hello to a dog, the owner apologises? Bit harsh on the dog, I think. Maybe not everybody likes it.

It’s a beautiful late spring day. There’s just enough breeze to hold back the scorch of the sun, and it ripples its way through the trees, flicking the leaves so that they look silver. The air’s warm like a comfortable blanket, and the clouds hang lazily, too slow to move from the view of green and gold below. I know the feeling.

I’ve been low recently. Chemical maybe, circumstantial perhaps, but low either way - depressed, as one person was inclined to say, hopeless and inadequate as I’m inclined to admit. I can’t exactly tell you why or how my brain has led me to conclude it, or what triggered it, just that there is so much going on in my head and my heart, it seems likely that the part of me that looks on the bright side has just… run out of fuel.

So days like today are good. Getting into Brain of Britain is good. Sunshine, green grass and blue sky are all good. Dogs that come to say hello to you are wonderful - and I always get the impression that if they could talk… they would make be the best therapists. Don’t apologise for them.

Speaking of which, I will almost certainly get some therapy. I’m far from ashamed of it; I think it should be for everyone! It’s not an admission of weakness, it’s a revelation of humanity and wanting to be a better person. I’m all for that.

How come I never noticed the beauty of a May day when I was young? Did exams wreck the whole thing? Did I just sail through those summery days unaware of the unique beauty outside the window, too concerned about French and Algebra and Thermodynamics?

Well. There it is. And long may we walk in it.

BRAINS PART 7: ACCEPTED

I’ve not really been able to write about Brain of Britain much, due to not being sure whether I should. After last year’s news that the production team had left, I let the whole thing go. And then a few months ago I got the chance to apply again.

I did an online audition (let’s call it a quiz and a chat with some Radio 4 listeners on zoom) and didn’t hear back. They said I might not. That’s fair enough - there must be plenty of people more suited to a high level radio quiz than me. I was, if anything, just relieved. Okay, slightly rejected, but not enough that it bothered me. Even this week I found myself wondering whether I would reapply again next year, and quietly concluding that I probably would not.

Well. Yesterday I got an email to say I have been accepted for 2026. More than likely (if the dates work out) I will be one of the 48 candidates.

How do I feel? Well my reaction was a sinking feeling - not because I’m disappointed or anything, but mostly because all that pressure I’d been relieved of came flooding straight back. Don’t misunderstand me - excitement too. After all this has been a long journey, and it was something I very much wanted to do. It’s just now a bit real.

I’d really like this to be fun. I hope it will be. I’ll meet some people, learn some things. Looks like I’ll need to go to London for my heat but I’m not certain of the date yet. Will I get an answer wrong that all my friends listening will know? Probably. Should I even tell them I’m on? Probably, though it won’t be broadcast until Autumn I think, so maybe they’ll have forgotten by then. Is it a good thing for me to do, to challenge myself and do something a bit different? Course it is.

THE RULES ON THE BUS

When I was a child, there were three things that I wasn’t allowed to do on the bus. I remembered them today, as the S3 pulled along the Woodstock Road.

The first was never to talk to the driver when the bus was in motion. It was printed on the partition, just above where it told you the capacity of the vehicle - upstairs, downstairs, and total standing, laid out in a way that made me add up the numbers.

It didn’t say why, but of course I must have been told that I ‘shouldn’t do anything to distract the driver’.

No fear! I was too shy to talk to relatives, let alone the grumpy stranger in the driving seat! No, the only things I have ever said to any bus driver in the last forty years have been: the name of a particular bus stop, “Return please”, and “Cheers!” which is of course, obligatory.

The second thing I was never allowed to do was to ring the bell if someone else had already pushed the button. Funny. I still remember the orange font of the ‘Bus stopping’ sign. This morning as my stop approached, I realised it had already lit up. Someone in front of me then curled their fingers around the pole and pushed the Stop button regardless, causing the bell to ding ding, and me to remember with a gasp, the stern instruction not to do this.

I know there’s a different kind of person out there, who, when told not to do something by a parent, would absolutely go out of their way to do it. Perhaps that’s most children? I don’t know because I’m the other kind of person. I don’t think I have ever pressed the stop button on the bus when the ‘Bus stopping’ sign has been on. And I still wouldn’t.

The third forbidden thing to do on the bus was something that there is no way at all of doing anymore. But in the 1980s, it was so terrible and so severe that I probably imagined them locking me up if I even tried it. Worse than pressing the stop button twice, worse than jabbering at the driver behind the yellow (actually I think it was white) line, and worse than committing an actual bona fide crime on the bus, was peering down the periscope.

I know what you’re thinking, young people, and no I’m not mixing up public transport with a submarine.

Before the days of CCTV, the driver actually had a periscope viewer that ran up the inside of the bus, hit a mirror on the top deck and showed him a reflected view of all the shenanigans that might be taking place up there. And if you were sitting in the front seats (and of course you were if you happened to a curious and excitable small boy) you could easily peek down the tube and see the driver.

I can’t begin to describe the fear of doing that. Probably as intended, that fear always overwhelmed the temptation to do it, and I suppose, even now it would feel as bad as unscrewing the camera or sticking two fingers up at the driver through the lens.

I genuinely think there’s no force short of an angelic visitation that could have induced me to do that. And to be honest, I reckon the angels have better things to do.

So those were the three things I could never do on a bus. I descended the steps as the S3 slowed towards the bus stop. Flecks of rain spattered across the windscreen. I grabbed the pole to steady myself, then the bus came to a halt, and the doors swooshed open, in much the same way that they always have. I skipped cheerily onto the pavement with a quick, perfunctory ‘Cheers!’ to the driver. Course I did.

OXFORD OAT MILK DRAMA

It’s another Oxford Day. I found out this morning that for the last few months I’ve been using the receptionist’s oat milk.

My colleagues think it’s fair game because she hadn’t labelled it, and - this is more to the point I think - it’s been in a fridge in the communal kitchen. I still felt bad though. She stopped me mid pour, black tea steaming around the carton.

She was really alright about it. I was immediately British and told her how embarrassed I was, as she told me not to worry as it only cost 72p. Bright red and apologetic, I swiped my tea away and completely forgot to ask her where on earth she bought oat milk for 72p.

Loads of people in the office today. You know, I think I like it when there are just a handful. The noise can get unworkable with four or five cross-conversations going on and once again I had to be rescued by my white noise playlist.

Actually, I burst into tears a couple of times. Exhaustion I think. Plus, as you know, I seem to have been living on the stinging edge of tears for a long time now - doesn’t take a lot to break me. I ought to analyse why, one of these days, when I’m brave enough.

I thought about joking about the oat milk with the receptionist on my way out. I don’t know. It felt like if I had, she’d have laughed, waited for me to leave,  then rolled her eyes and called me something unpleasant. I didn’t like that thought, so I didn’t mention it.

MANLY APPLAUSE

I’m in the park tonight watching a football match. No idea what’s going on: the red team are getting heated, and the blue team are doing a lot of shouting. Thinking about it, that might sum up every football match. Nevertheless, I’m enjoying the rhythms from the sidelines.

I think I’d like to be part of a team. I mean a sports team. There’s a lot of community and camaraderie going on. The blue keeper just did a diving save and got a manly round of applause and a pat on the back. The only problem is that I’d have to be good at sports.

Maybe I could join a quiz team! Perhaps you get the same camaraderie for knowing things. Honestly though, I don’t think I have the time. Plus that sounds like committing to be in a pub on a semi-regular basis and I’m not sure about it. I think my motivation has always been learning rather than proving.

Reds scored. There was some effing and jeffing after that, as you might expect. I worked out from an early age that swearing is part of it all, and I didn’t much like it. Plus if you’re not very good at football but you do happen to be forced into playing every now and then (hello school), the effing and jeffing tends to be pointed at you. And I really don’t like that. I’d rather watch the looping projectile motion the ball takes as it’s punted upfield, gravity pulling it inevitably and beautifully towards the earth. There’s lovely physics at work in football, I always say.

And that’s probably why I don’t have a clue about what’s going on in the match. Nice to see the manly applause though.

RAGGEDY CURTAIN

I’ve found a place to sit and think. There’s a nice view, and it’s far enough from the houses to be kind of secluded among the trees.

I used to do this kind of thing all the time. I wonder why I stopped. Probably though, each of us could ask the same thing about a great many things, if we sat and thought about it for a while. Irony.

There are birds singing. Robins, blackbirds, I think maybe even the squeaky wheel of the great tit somewhere. It’s nice. A propeller plane above the leaf canopy, then the thunder of a jet engine crossing the sky.

I feel teary. It is tiredness of course, but I know enough to know that it’s like a raggedy curtain revealing backstage to the audience - not the curtain’s fault. And the teariness is there behind the scenes whatever kind of curtain goes up.

I should get back home, I suppose. Sammy doesn’t like it when I’m not there, and she’s due home herself any minute. Plus, I get the feeling it might rain. There is something in the air.

The wood pigeon now. A dark grey squirrel pauses halfway down a tree trunk, freeze-framed. Then comes the bushy tail. The sky turns greeny grey as a wind picks up in the trees around me. Yeah. Time to get home, isn’t it?

THE LAST WINTER BEFORE THE LONGEST SPRING

Golden sunshine this evening. The trees wave, birds dart from branch to branch, ready to sing the sun to bed. The older I get, the more I like springtime.

Strange then that I should feel like bursting into tears. I do though. My eyes sting and my head’s heavy; no reason, at least nothing obvious. I just feel a bit melancholy.

I was listening to a podcast about eschatology, the study of the biblical view of end of the world. Cheery. It’s such a messy topic - you can interpret so much of it in a hundred different ways, and there are long, theological, academic labels for everything. It’s like a physicist trying to describe spaghetti. I gave up. Why can’t someone just make it simple? And useful!

I think I’m tired, more than anything. That would explain the melancholy mood. The weird thing is that I’m not sad particularly. I’m a little fed up and I’m a lot confused by life, but I’m not upset. Still the tears bubble beneath the surface.

Perhaps that’s what eschatology needs - a little aching, a deep longing for a better world. Maybe it really is just tears before bedtime, the last winter before the longest spring. Perhaps I should do my own podcast.

Sigh. I don’t know. I think I envy the birds out there, singing to the sun from the dappled branches, not because anyone is listening, not because the sun even knows their song, but simply because that, above all things, is what they do. 

ASKING QUESTIONS

Hard to believe it but I wrote a poem, after a long, long gap. Sigh. I don’t know what’s the matter with me.

Asking Questions

I wish I had asked more questions

When younger and simpler, and green

I’d have asked older people

For wisdom they’d learned

And the difficult things that they’d seen

I wish I’d been able to quiz them

On all that they’d found on the way

I’d have asked them to show me

The truth of the world

And then written it down straight away!

But now I have lived through the decades,

And many are younger than I

I wish that they’d ask me

For things that I’ve known

As the summers and winters went by

I wish I had asked more questions

As the cogs of the world rolled away

So perhaps I should ask

All the youngsters I know

And just see what they might have to say

QUIETER TIMES

It’s a sunny evening. Fields flash by the train window, cotton wool clouds and blue sky. England is such a beauty sometimes.

I’m going to switch off social media. For me, not for everyone, though that would be quite some power, wouldn’t it? No, I’m going to use an app to disable all those platforms bar WhatsApp. And especially including the news. For one week, I want to try living without being weighed down by it all. I don’t need to be informed; not for the next seven days anyway.

Petrol will go up again. More nonsense will happen here, there, and especially over there - of course. But just for a while, I don’t think I want to know about it. Let it be.

The trees are painted gold at their tips now. Bright sun in the west angles through the window, throwing shadows and shapes onto the carriage and the seats in front. We flicker through the dappled stripes of light and shade. Forest and sun and leaf and siding, all moving like a silent movie, ticking through the frames of a great story.

People used to live like this. We were aware of our world, not just through lenses and screens, not through glossy photographs or even flourishes of paint on a grand canvas - we lived in it. Time was slow, and ignorance was somehow bliss. But it was all real.

I wonder how I’ll get on. Will the news find me anyway? Will opinion and article track me down? I hope not.

ARTEMIS II

I am loving the Artemis II mission. Yesterday, we watched on YouTube, as four astronauts circled the actual moon and began their return journey to Earth, 250,000 miles away. 

In a weird juxtaposition, on the other channel, at the exact same moment, the US President was in a press conference, blistering about wiping out Iranian civilisation. I'm not making a comment about that by the way - I'm just reporting on the contrast. Somewhere out there, looking back on the swirling, boundless blue and brown and white of our planet, distant from the bare moon, a speck of life in the bleakness of space, brave souls in an aluminium can, with a unique perspective.

What I love most (and there's a lot to love about this mission of course) is the absolute geekiness. And I mean that with the greatest respect! These are people who just love what they get to do and are super excited about it - you can tell! In the old days, they used to send pilots up in space rockets, but these days they send beaming scientists, and I am loving it. What a brilliant way to inspire people to get interested!

What's more, the message of these astronauts is for all humanity. Sure, three are American and one is Canadian, but the spirit of adventure and exploration is so clearly, so universally human. In the 1960s, the Apollo program must have had a similar unifying effect, but for most of us who weren't around, this is a real moment in our lifetime - not just to push for the stars but also to remember who we are and the beauty of the planet we live on. I think that's remarkable.

I stayed on the NASA channel. On the other, I suspect the mood was different, a lot more scowly than four excitable scientists in space, living their best life. We're amazing when we work together, aren't we?

THE ROAR ECHOES STILL

“I don’t want Easter to pass me by,” I said in the dark. There was a hint of sadness - it was my own voice but it still took me by surprise. I think Sammy picked it up too; she flung a tired arm around me, half asleep, probably unable to ask me what I meant, but loving me anyway.

What do I mean?

I mean that I don’t want it to just be like any other holiday. I don’t think I want to sleepwalk through it, go the passion play, eat a chocolate egg and have a good old roast dinner in the afternoon. I think that’s what’s happened in recent years - a sort of numbing to something that ought to be treated with awe and wonder. Imagine being so fascinated with the stone table and the broken mouse-nibbled ropes, so blinded by the morning sun and the deep magic, that you actually forget that Aslan is right there in front of you.

We lived opposite a park when I was young. At this time of year, it would burst with green, and there’d be a sea of yellow daffodils. The sky was bright blue and the world was fresh with new life, enjoying the white spring sun. I remember the smell of chocolate and hot cross buns, and tea and simnel cake - there was a lusciousness to it all that I still sort of miss. 

But all of these things were echoes of a far greater feeling, a wondrousness at the story of Jesus that must have somehow coursed through my blood into my tears and laughter and joy and sorrow and love, ‘mingled down’ as the hymn says. Look, I don’t want to get all mushy or preachy or anything, but it’s that that I miss. It’s that that I don’t really want to pass me by. And I can’t help asking myself, where did it go?

I really love that bit in the book where Aslan, newly woken from the stone table, just roars - and the whole of Narnia seems to shake. I don’t know if I always hear it, or always know it, but somewhere deep down, that resounding echo is what Easter should really be about for me.

PETROL CAP BEE

I got really grumpy yesterday because something silly had gone wrong. The petrol cap on the car is jammed and won’t open. Not the screw cap, I mean the door that flaps out. We’re stuck on half a tank.

I was so cross. I think mostly because it’s such a ridiculous thing to go wrong. Had the clutch failed or the brakes stopped working, I would have been less annoyed. Somehow this little inconvenience was massively irritating in a way that I just couldn’t quite believe.

It’s a good reminder about my attitudes. I really do think I need a softer heart, instead of getting all steamed-up about the tiny things. I’ve seen it so many times now - someone gets a bee in the bonnet, frustration builds like a storm cloud, then - pop - a relationship bubble bursts. Someone tries to be kind, or honest, or just right, and it’s too much. A ham-fisted comment, a barbed response, a flash of eyes and a friendship crumbles. I sometimes think these are the moments when I ought to guard my heart the most carefully.

Anyway, the petrol cap thing is annoying. Hopefully the garage will fix it; they say they can, they just have to work out when. Meanwhile we’re on emergency trips only to preserve our half-tank.

Bees are often silly things. Bonnets too, now that I think about it. Yet at the time, they’re all consuming. In fact, sometimes I think relationships fall apart for no good reason at all - just a silliness you can barely remember. Yet there you are.

Sammy takes it all in her stride when I get grumpy like that. She has a unique ability to cheer me up. We were back on track before we got home from the petrol station, and I was listing things I was grateful for. I do wish I were more chilled-out when things go wrong though - seems like a kind of super-power to me. For now, all I can ask is for a heart that’s soft, teachable and quick to forgive. I’ll settle for that.

LIFE UNGAMIFIES THE ADVENT CALENDAR

Finally finished opening my advent calendar. The last window was a chocolate snowman, which, I think, is an anticlimax.

Door 24 was always the big one - you know, baby Jesus in the manger, shepherds and angels gathering round the glowing cradle! These days, you’re lucky to even see a real snowman at Christmas.

Anyway. I know what you’re thinking, and, yes, Sammy asked the same question. The use-by-date is July 11th. So, even though I’m a bit slow at the Christmas admin (to say the least) I am ahead of the natural deterioration path of the chocolate.

I just kept forgetting about it. It was right there by the bed and I just went right on with life.

Christmas came and went, and every now and again I’d open a window and chomp a little snowflake or candle, or mysterious thing that might have been a sleigh but upside down could easily have been a stocking.

You probably won’t be surprised to know that I did this in order. I mean what kind of person wouldn’t?

Anyway, it has made me wonder what the point was. Clearly I hadn’t taken it very seriously if I’d let advent stretch over four months. Do we really need advent calendars? I mean, they’re supposed to be so exciting in December that you race to the choc, rip open the window and wolf it down before breakfast. I hate to say it, but I don’t think they’re designed for grown-ups.

Sometime in late November, Sammy will disagree with me about this, I have no doubt. Additionally, I will almost certainly relent and we’ll end up with an advent calendar each.

I feel like there are deeper points to make about growing up, and how an activity can do quickly go from being a joy to being just another bit of admin. It’s like life ungamifies everything.

But I can’t be bothered to go into the depths of it, trying to sound smart by explaining everything you all instinctively know already. I even feel like I ought to make a humorous comparison between all this and the fact that I have work to do. You’re probably expecting that. Well quite.