Coming to the final week or so of the improvements at J3 of the M60, which ordinarily I would use twice a day ferrying my good lady to and from her office. For the duration of the work I've been avoiding it in the evenings in favour of the A34 since the tailback has often filled the anticlockwise slip road right back to the motorway (about a mile), but I couldn't avoid it on Monday.
I noticed the contractors had put up "Please Merge In Turn" signs to encourage gentlemanly practice among drivers approaching from both clockwise and anticlockwise slip roads (which at the moment both feed into a single lane) and on the southerly approach from the A34 (ditto). Once complete, both of these flows of traffic will have three lanes available so you can see how much better it will be. Eventually.
But the appearance of these signs set me thinking (again) about something that has always perplexed (annoyed) me about British drivers. Whenever a road reduces in lanes, from 3 to 2, or 2 to 1, they seem hell bent on dividing into two warring camps. One lot will move into the open lane often several miles back, despite any long queue, and sit there in their righteousness inching forwards every few seconds. The other lot, perceiving that the soon-to-be closed lane has been totally vacated by the first lot, will stay in that lane until the last minute, and then attempt to cut in. At which point the righteousness of the first lot boils over into righteous indignation as they hog the bumper of the car in front to freeze out any car wanting to "push in."
This behaviour is a constant source of amusement to me, on those days where I'm in an expansive, forgiving mood. And annoyance when I'm not feeling so full of the milk of human kindness. My question - one of my questions - to the drivers in the first group is: at what point do you decide that you should abandon the unoccupied road in front of you in favour of a lengthy, barely moving queue? Which distance would you consider socially acceptable? 200 metres? 500? A mile? Two miles? And what good do you think it does to sit queuing in one lane when there's a totally empty lane going to waste immediately to your left, or right?
What is so magical about the appearance of a "Please Merge In Turn" sign that lights up the lightbulb in your head and makes you realise that it makes more sense for everyone to use as many lanes as possible, for as long as possible, and then merge in turn at the point where one lane disappears. Not to mention being a fairer and less stressful alternative.
Is it embarrassment that makes you try to stop drivers merging late from the other lane? A realisation that you too could have "pushed" to the front and not wasted all that time queuing? Or a determination to force the other person, even if only for one more car length, to "waste" a fraction of the time that you've wasted in your queue? Can't you see that merging in turn means no-one gets an unfair advantage, or disadvantage, over anyone else?
As someone aptly commented the other day: you are the result of 4 billion years of evolution. Fucking act like it.
Showing posts with label people. Show all posts
Showing posts with label people. Show all posts
Wednesday, November 07, 2012
Saturday, November 03, 2012
100TWC - Day 99: Friendship
This post has a lot of tags. It started off with more but I blew Blogger's limit. I didn't even know there was a limit! See, friendship touches so many areas of my life that Blogger can't cope. I'm half expecting it to seize up in the middle of this post. Let's see how we get on...
With the last post of my 100-day (aka 100-theme) writing challenge in sight, friendship has been much on my mind. I've had some really nice comments and feedback on here, but what's been even better, and more surprising, is the feedback I've had in real life. Whenever I've met up with friends at least one of them has commented on each occasion how much they've been enjoying the writing. I've been enjoying it too, of course, in fact that's one of the things I'll be including in the "lessons learned" follow-up post I'll be writing over the weekend. But it's one thing to gain enjoyment from something yourself, and totally another thing to find out that you've been giving enjoyment to others. Writing can be a solitary experience (all writers say this, at least those who speak/write/email to me) with -- often -- not much in the way of validation or appreciation, so it's really cool to hear the opinions of readers, which posts they liked best and why, etc.
I'd also be really interested to hear which ones folk thought didn't work out so well. To see how this matches my own feelings, for one thing, but also because it's all part of the learning experience. Just doing this stuff has helped me improve enormously, but really good feedback that mentions the bad as well as the good, is also a huge help.
I appear to have drifted off topic somewhat, so to drag it back to friendship: I've been lucky. When I talk about the times we have with mates -- the trips to the Lakes, weekends away, meals out (and in) -- the single most common response is how unusual it is for a bunch of guys to have kept a communal friendship going for so long. I'm not sure how rare it is in the great scheme of things, but those who comment on it seem to think it's pretty rare. Much more common for women to have a "girly group of friends"; less so for guys to have a "blokey group", apparently.
I've known for many years that social groups depend on key individuals to hold them together. I had an old colleagues network at one time -- around two dozen people who all used to work together in the same part of the organisation until one dark day a reorganisation came along and scattered us all across the company. Some left for other jobs, some took the opportunity for early retirement, most split up into three or four units, separated by geography, department and skill set. For several years after the split, we would get together two or three times a year (Christmas, obviously, and then one or two other meals or social events like bowling, walking, pub crawls). These were all marvellous events, well attended and very popular, but they all had a single individual -- the same guy in every case -- as the instigator. And then one day he stopped doing it. And none of us have ever met up again since that day.
The small group of friends I always refer to as my "Nottingham" mates (even though only two of them live there now) have strength in depth when it comes to organising get-togethers. It's not driven by just one of us. Once a few weeks, or a months, have gone by since our last meet, one or other of us will get in touch to set something else up. Often we don't need to do this, as we arrange it in advance at the previous one. It's a source of infinite variety, pleasure, amusement and fun to Nikki and I to be able to be part of this, as I'm sure anyone who is lucky enough to have their own strong ties of friendship will understand. Friends, they say, are the family you choose, and I would tag that with "lines I wish I'd written" if there was any space left in the tag list :0)
As I've discovered (and blogged about before), friends come at you from all parts of life, and another group that I've been blessed to reconnect with -- a few years back now -- has been the curry crew. We may only meet once a month, but I find myself looking forward to those evenings immensely. The conversation always flows, it's always stimulating and amusing, and the food is only the icing on the cake (if curry can be said to be any kind of icing).
I have a small number of friends that fall into another different category. All of the aforementioned might be classed as "regular" friends, and if such a term fits then this small number I'm talking about now might correspondingly be referred to as "irregular" friends. People who, over the years, have meandered in and out of my life seemingly at random, but who whenever we meet will pick up the threads of friendship (and even conversation!) and knit them back into something recognisable within a few hours. I met one such person outside a hotel once, a few years back. Having not seen him for more than five years, suddenly there he was, leaving a hotel at which I had arrived to meet someone else. We only had chance for twenty minutes frantic catching up and exchanging of current contact details, but it rekindled some long-buried memories and the spark of yet another friendship stretching back to the mid 1970s. We originally met at university and the names of other uni friends crop up regularly in the strangest places. Naturally the Internet is the perfect medium for this and over the years I've had the occasional email from old friends who've read this blog, or seen my profile on LinkedIn, or Friends Reunited, or found my website through Google.
There is a downside to this though. The reality of how easy it is to lose touch with people was brought home to me when I attended a school reunion about 15 years ago. It was such a strange experience I vowed never to attend one again (although I was tempted a couple of years back when they held a 25th -- or was it 30th? -- reunion). Not only the experience -- spending 3 or 4 hours in a function room with 50 people who at one time I saw on a daily basis but who, with one exception, I hadn't seen for 15 years -- but the aftermath. The impact of the realisation that I had completely lost touch with all of them, even those I'd thought of as close friends, really hit me surprisingly hard. I guess it just shows that friends are more than simply people you spend time with. Just as it's easy to be lonely in a crowded room, rubbing shoulders with a bunch of people every day for six years doesn't necessarily make them your friends. It knocked me for six a bit, did that.
With the last post of my 100-day (aka 100-theme) writing challenge in sight, friendship has been much on my mind. I've had some really nice comments and feedback on here, but what's been even better, and more surprising, is the feedback I've had in real life. Whenever I've met up with friends at least one of them has commented on each occasion how much they've been enjoying the writing. I've been enjoying it too, of course, in fact that's one of the things I'll be including in the "lessons learned" follow-up post I'll be writing over the weekend. But it's one thing to gain enjoyment from something yourself, and totally another thing to find out that you've been giving enjoyment to others. Writing can be a solitary experience (all writers say this, at least those who speak/write/email to me) with -- often -- not much in the way of validation or appreciation, so it's really cool to hear the opinions of readers, which posts they liked best and why, etc.
I'd also be really interested to hear which ones folk thought didn't work out so well. To see how this matches my own feelings, for one thing, but also because it's all part of the learning experience. Just doing this stuff has helped me improve enormously, but really good feedback that mentions the bad as well as the good, is also a huge help.
I appear to have drifted off topic somewhat, so to drag it back to friendship: I've been lucky. When I talk about the times we have with mates -- the trips to the Lakes, weekends away, meals out (and in) -- the single most common response is how unusual it is for a bunch of guys to have kept a communal friendship going for so long. I'm not sure how rare it is in the great scheme of things, but those who comment on it seem to think it's pretty rare. Much more common for women to have a "girly group of friends"; less so for guys to have a "blokey group", apparently.
I've known for many years that social groups depend on key individuals to hold them together. I had an old colleagues network at one time -- around two dozen people who all used to work together in the same part of the organisation until one dark day a reorganisation came along and scattered us all across the company. Some left for other jobs, some took the opportunity for early retirement, most split up into three or four units, separated by geography, department and skill set. For several years after the split, we would get together two or three times a year (Christmas, obviously, and then one or two other meals or social events like bowling, walking, pub crawls). These were all marvellous events, well attended and very popular, but they all had a single individual -- the same guy in every case -- as the instigator. And then one day he stopped doing it. And none of us have ever met up again since that day.
The small group of friends I always refer to as my "Nottingham" mates (even though only two of them live there now) have strength in depth when it comes to organising get-togethers. It's not driven by just one of us. Once a few weeks, or a months, have gone by since our last meet, one or other of us will get in touch to set something else up. Often we don't need to do this, as we arrange it in advance at the previous one. It's a source of infinite variety, pleasure, amusement and fun to Nikki and I to be able to be part of this, as I'm sure anyone who is lucky enough to have their own strong ties of friendship will understand. Friends, they say, are the family you choose, and I would tag that with "lines I wish I'd written" if there was any space left in the tag list :0)
As I've discovered (and blogged about before), friends come at you from all parts of life, and another group that I've been blessed to reconnect with -- a few years back now -- has been the curry crew. We may only meet once a month, but I find myself looking forward to those evenings immensely. The conversation always flows, it's always stimulating and amusing, and the food is only the icing on the cake (if curry can be said to be any kind of icing).
I have a small number of friends that fall into another different category. All of the aforementioned might be classed as "regular" friends, and if such a term fits then this small number I'm talking about now might correspondingly be referred to as "irregular" friends. People who, over the years, have meandered in and out of my life seemingly at random, but who whenever we meet will pick up the threads of friendship (and even conversation!) and knit them back into something recognisable within a few hours. I met one such person outside a hotel once, a few years back. Having not seen him for more than five years, suddenly there he was, leaving a hotel at which I had arrived to meet someone else. We only had chance for twenty minutes frantic catching up and exchanging of current contact details, but it rekindled some long-buried memories and the spark of yet another friendship stretching back to the mid 1970s. We originally met at university and the names of other uni friends crop up regularly in the strangest places. Naturally the Internet is the perfect medium for this and over the years I've had the occasional email from old friends who've read this blog, or seen my profile on LinkedIn, or Friends Reunited, or found my website through Google.
There is a downside to this though. The reality of how easy it is to lose touch with people was brought home to me when I attended a school reunion about 15 years ago. It was such a strange experience I vowed never to attend one again (although I was tempted a couple of years back when they held a 25th -- or was it 30th? -- reunion). Not only the experience -- spending 3 or 4 hours in a function room with 50 people who at one time I saw on a daily basis but who, with one exception, I hadn't seen for 15 years -- but the aftermath. The impact of the realisation that I had completely lost touch with all of them, even those I'd thought of as close friends, really hit me surprisingly hard. I guess it just shows that friends are more than simply people you spend time with. Just as it's easy to be lonely in a crowded room, rubbing shoulders with a bunch of people every day for six years doesn't necessarily make them your friends. It knocked me for six a bit, did that.
Wednesday, September 19, 2012
100TWC - Day 54: Health and Healing
I had a nasty experience recently. Immediately after it, I decided to make it the subject of this post, as part of the writing challenge. I've been coming up with ideas for each day's prompt in advance (which shouldn't come as a surprise) and at the start of the piece I check back at the few words or couple of short sentences I've written in my "theme pack" (a document that lists the themes, my ideas for the themes, how many are left to write, how many to decide what I'm going to write, etc), get the idea in my head, and set off writing.
Today, it's a couple of weeks since the nasty incident and I've calmed down a bit. With those two weeks' perspective I'm no longer angry. Just sad, and... well... a little resigned. Resigned to human nature.
Some of you already know I'm a Spiritualist healer. To anyone that's just visiting, or is a regular who didn't know that for whatever reason, there are a few pages about it (what it is, how I came to be one) on my website. Shortly after I finished my training, the Spiritualists National Union (SNU) asked me if I'd like to be a tutor for the course I'd just taken. It's a correspondence course (there is a practical element to the healing too, of course. You can't be healed by post) and they were in need of new tutors. Since I'd done so well on the course, achieving the highest mark in my graduation year and winning a prize for doing it, they thought I'd make an ideal tutor.
So since 1997 I've been looking after students from all over the UK and, more recently, overseas, as the SNU spreads its influence and offers the course to people from Europe and beyond. I've had some excellent students in all that time, many lovely comments, some that have required a little more help than others, some who have really struggled but even so done their best, and others who have for one reason or another given up part way through or even not started at all, after having registered.
But until the Sunday before last I have never, ever, been engaged in a shouting match with a student. These are, after all, people who are looking to be healers. Empathic, sympathetic, warm and generous people who want to give their time to help make others feel better. So not the kind of person, you would think, to have an over-inflated ego, a sense of moral righteousness, or - worse - one of entitlement where they believe the highest grades should be handed to them on a plate for a minimum of effort. Such were the sentiments behind the irate phone call I received from this particular student.
One of those people who ask a question and then immediately talk over the answer. Because they're not interested in your answer. They're only interested in telling you what the answer is. What the answer you should have given them is. And that answer is never a C grade. I've never had a C grade in my life and I'll be damned if I'm going to let you give me one now. I'm a teacher and assessor myself, I'll have you know. All courses all over the UK are governed by this or that official body and I know the rules. Show me where in the question it tells me that I need to answer in the way you say? The question asks for X and I've given you X so I should have top marks. I'll take this as high as I have to in the SNU. I'm not having it. I've let it pass and let it pass but I can't take it any more. Everyone at my church is AMAZED at what I've had to put up with and on and on and on.
A lot of the above paragraph is paraphrased or implicit (rather than explicit) in what he said but that was the clear message. Some of it is the real words. And with the best will -- and all the patience -- in the world I found it impossible, eventually, not to rise to the bait. Although I started off calm, I ended up literally shaking with rage. Which, you know, is the most annoying thing of all really. My reaction. The fact that I lost it, when all I really needed to do was keep calmly putting forward my view. My correct view. My 15-year-experienced-tutor view. My 55-year-old world view*. He hadn't done the work. For months he has been trying to get away with the minimum necessary to scrape through the course. And for quite a long time I've shrugged and warned and cajoled and suggested, and been ignored. And this time, finally, the chickens came home to roost and they didn't taste very nice. And there was a clucking and a ruffling of feathers in the hen house.
I hung up in the end. In the middle of a continued tirade from the other end, I hung up. And emailed him to tell him not to call again. I have no idea if he complained, or how high, or whether he's demanding a different tutor, or what. I strongly suspect our student/tutor relationship is too badly compromised to continue, which is a shame (in a way) because he's only one question away from finishing the course. If he can swallow his enormous pride and just knuckle down and get on with it. But I doubt that will happen. And I don't much care either way. One bad apple in a barrel of almost 150 students over 15 years. It's not a bad track record. The guy who organises the training courses was worried it would put me off being a tutor. I have a thicker skin than that. Yes, I was upset, but I got over it.
But as I said right at the off, my main feeling now is one of sadness. That someone with that amount of hubris cannot set it aside and focus on the long term goal. If he wants to help people, then he really needs to be able to understand them better. And do the work.
*His opening gambit, at the start of the phone call, had been to say "I don't know how old you are, but..." so I told him. Quite took the wind out of his sails to learn I was three years his senior. I'm certain he was expecting me to be younger so that he could play the "age and experience" card on me. Shame ;0)
Today, it's a couple of weeks since the nasty incident and I've calmed down a bit. With those two weeks' perspective I'm no longer angry. Just sad, and... well... a little resigned. Resigned to human nature.
Some of you already know I'm a Spiritualist healer. To anyone that's just visiting, or is a regular who didn't know that for whatever reason, there are a few pages about it (what it is, how I came to be one) on my website. Shortly after I finished my training, the Spiritualists National Union (SNU) asked me if I'd like to be a tutor for the course I'd just taken. It's a correspondence course (there is a practical element to the healing too, of course. You can't be healed by post) and they were in need of new tutors. Since I'd done so well on the course, achieving the highest mark in my graduation year and winning a prize for doing it, they thought I'd make an ideal tutor.
So since 1997 I've been looking after students from all over the UK and, more recently, overseas, as the SNU spreads its influence and offers the course to people from Europe and beyond. I've had some excellent students in all that time, many lovely comments, some that have required a little more help than others, some who have really struggled but even so done their best, and others who have for one reason or another given up part way through or even not started at all, after having registered.
But until the Sunday before last I have never, ever, been engaged in a shouting match with a student. These are, after all, people who are looking to be healers. Empathic, sympathetic, warm and generous people who want to give their time to help make others feel better. So not the kind of person, you would think, to have an over-inflated ego, a sense of moral righteousness, or - worse - one of entitlement where they believe the highest grades should be handed to them on a plate for a minimum of effort. Such were the sentiments behind the irate phone call I received from this particular student.
One of those people who ask a question and then immediately talk over the answer. Because they're not interested in your answer. They're only interested in telling you what the answer is. What the answer you should have given them is. And that answer is never a C grade. I've never had a C grade in my life and I'll be damned if I'm going to let you give me one now. I'm a teacher and assessor myself, I'll have you know. All courses all over the UK are governed by this or that official body and I know the rules. Show me where in the question it tells me that I need to answer in the way you say? The question asks for X and I've given you X so I should have top marks. I'll take this as high as I have to in the SNU. I'm not having it. I've let it pass and let it pass but I can't take it any more. Everyone at my church is AMAZED at what I've had to put up with and on and on and on.
A lot of the above paragraph is paraphrased or implicit (rather than explicit) in what he said but that was the clear message. Some of it is the real words. And with the best will -- and all the patience -- in the world I found it impossible, eventually, not to rise to the bait. Although I started off calm, I ended up literally shaking with rage. Which, you know, is the most annoying thing of all really. My reaction. The fact that I lost it, when all I really needed to do was keep calmly putting forward my view. My correct view. My 15-year-experienced-tutor view. My 55-year-old world view*. He hadn't done the work. For months he has been trying to get away with the minimum necessary to scrape through the course. And for quite a long time I've shrugged and warned and cajoled and suggested, and been ignored. And this time, finally, the chickens came home to roost and they didn't taste very nice. And there was a clucking and a ruffling of feathers in the hen house.
I hung up in the end. In the middle of a continued tirade from the other end, I hung up. And emailed him to tell him not to call again. I have no idea if he complained, or how high, or whether he's demanding a different tutor, or what. I strongly suspect our student/tutor relationship is too badly compromised to continue, which is a shame (in a way) because he's only one question away from finishing the course. If he can swallow his enormous pride and just knuckle down and get on with it. But I doubt that will happen. And I don't much care either way. One bad apple in a barrel of almost 150 students over 15 years. It's not a bad track record. The guy who organises the training courses was worried it would put me off being a tutor. I have a thicker skin than that. Yes, I was upset, but I got over it.
But as I said right at the off, my main feeling now is one of sadness. That someone with that amount of hubris cannot set it aside and focus on the long term goal. If he wants to help people, then he really needs to be able to understand them better. And do the work.
*His opening gambit, at the start of the phone call, had been to say "I don't know how old you are, but..." so I told him. Quite took the wind out of his sails to learn I was three years his senior. I'm certain he was expecting me to be younger so that he could play the "age and experience" card on me. Shame ;0)
Thursday, August 16, 2012
100TWC - Day 20: My Inspiration
For a long time I thought I got my inspiration from others.
When you work in the kind of high-tech, leading edge company that I did back in the 80s and early 90s (it's still the same company now, but I no longer think of it as leading edge. Even though it is still in the business of high tech), you become so familiar with being surrounded by people of enormous intellect that it's easy to feel almost less than normal. Or at least, below average.
Over the years I've heard anecdotes from ex-colleagues who left. They all shared a theme: no-one within the company really knows how good they are until, voluntarily or otherwise, they step outside it. Only when given the chance to compare oneself with regular people outside can one begin to appreciate the amazing talent that exists inside.
Without wishing to blow my own trumpet overmuch, it's true that in all the 34 years I've been there I have never been asked to do something that I couldn't, eventually, succeed at. And before the cynics among you start, I have been asked to do some pretty off-the-wall, technically challenging stuff. But even allowing for the fact that the staff in general were above average for "the marketplace" there were still some particular outstanding individuals that I looked up to, wanted to emulate, and who I thought of as a source of inspiration.
Outside the workplace, in common with a lot of people (at least those who don't allow their work life to grow so that it consumes their entire life) I got busy with private endeavours. More artistic endeavours. Here too I was lucky to meet people who I looked to for inspiration.
But in thinking of how I would approach this theme, it came to me that these people, almost to aman person, did not inspire me. I was confusing inspiration with aspiration. I aspired to emulate them in some way, either to be as clever, as resourceful, as knowledgeable, as inventive, as dedicated, whatever. But my inspiration - my source of ideas, or commitment - was not them.
It was me.
When I seek an idea for a story, or a poem, or a song, I don't go to people I respect or admire. I sit quietly, possibly listening to music (yes, also possibly, just possibly, playing Spider Solitaire) and I run ideas through my head. Or, more often, I wait for them to come to me. I open myself up to what ancient scholars would have called my Muse. And I've learned, more so in the last few years than at any time in my life, to trust it. If I let my mind free wheel, ideas come. It might only be a line of dialogue or it might be an entire conversation. My memory is so poor, and the ideas often so fleeting, that I have to write them down as quickly as I can. The trick there is not to start writing too soon. To let the idea ripen and develop until it feels "done." You could liken it to letting dough "prove" before baking. Only then can I write it down without losing it, and so that I don't lose it. Getting the timing of that right is quite a delicate balance, and I still miss regularly (mostly on the side of waiting too long and forgetting the important bits, unfortunately).
Of course when it's a song I'm writing I have the source of inspiration right there on my computer. The music. I can just let it play over and over on repeat until the words begin to suggest themselves. I've often referred to this as "letting the music tell me its story," and that's exactly how it feels.
The example I most commonly use to explain how this inspiration works when at its best, is the time I wrote Tumbleweed (one of the poems in my first collection - Well of Love - which is linked in the sidebar). It was a quiet weekend afternoon and I simply sat at my keyboard, opened up my mind and started writing. To my astonishment the words poured onto the screen, my thoughts flying so fast I could hardly type quickly enough to keep up with them. So fast, indeed, that I was hardly conscious of what they were saying. It was an exhilarating experience. At the end of that brief period of frantic typing I had well over 90% of a completed poem. The only missing parts were where I had felt my mind groping for a word or a phrase that was missing from the stream of consciousness I was recording. When that happened - only three or four places in what is quite a long poem - I simply skipped over the word or line, leaving a dash to mark the place.
Going back over the piece and replacing the dashes with real content was a matter of only half an hour or so. The words were there, it just felt as though they had somehow "got stuck" in the frenzied flow.
I can't explain it and it's probably silly to try. It has only happened once since, although on that occasion it was a deliberate experiment to see if I could repeat the experience - this time with a song rather than a poem. Contrarily perhaps, the fact that it worked a second time has made me reluctant to try again until and unless I reach a point in my writing where I absolutely need it. It's like a pure wellspring that I don't want to drink from too often for fear of tainting it. That probably sounds crazy, but
When you work in the kind of high-tech, leading edge company that I did back in the 80s and early 90s (it's still the same company now, but I no longer think of it as leading edge. Even though it is still in the business of high tech), you become so familiar with being surrounded by people of enormous intellect that it's easy to feel almost less than normal. Or at least, below average.
Over the years I've heard anecdotes from ex-colleagues who left. They all shared a theme: no-one within the company really knows how good they are until, voluntarily or otherwise, they step outside it. Only when given the chance to compare oneself with regular people outside can one begin to appreciate the amazing talent that exists inside.
Without wishing to blow my own trumpet overmuch, it's true that in all the 34 years I've been there I have never been asked to do something that I couldn't, eventually, succeed at. And before the cynics among you start, I have been asked to do some pretty off-the-wall, technically challenging stuff. But even allowing for the fact that the staff in general were above average for "the marketplace" there were still some particular outstanding individuals that I looked up to, wanted to emulate, and who I thought of as a source of inspiration.
Outside the workplace, in common with a lot of people (at least those who don't allow their work life to grow so that it consumes their entire life) I got busy with private endeavours. More artistic endeavours. Here too I was lucky to meet people who I looked to for inspiration.
But in thinking of how I would approach this theme, it came to me that these people, almost to a
It was me.
When I seek an idea for a story, or a poem, or a song, I don't go to people I respect or admire. I sit quietly, possibly listening to music (yes, also possibly, just possibly, playing Spider Solitaire) and I run ideas through my head. Or, more often, I wait for them to come to me. I open myself up to what ancient scholars would have called my Muse. And I've learned, more so in the last few years than at any time in my life, to trust it. If I let my mind free wheel, ideas come. It might only be a line of dialogue or it might be an entire conversation. My memory is so poor, and the ideas often so fleeting, that I have to write them down as quickly as I can. The trick there is not to start writing too soon. To let the idea ripen and develop until it feels "done." You could liken it to letting dough "prove" before baking. Only then can I write it down without losing it, and so that I don't lose it. Getting the timing of that right is quite a delicate balance, and I still miss regularly (mostly on the side of waiting too long and forgetting the important bits, unfortunately).
Of course when it's a song I'm writing I have the source of inspiration right there on my computer. The music. I can just let it play over and over on repeat until the words begin to suggest themselves. I've often referred to this as "letting the music tell me its story," and that's exactly how it feels.
The example I most commonly use to explain how this inspiration works when at its best, is the time I wrote Tumbleweed (one of the poems in my first collection - Well of Love - which is linked in the sidebar). It was a quiet weekend afternoon and I simply sat at my keyboard, opened up my mind and started writing. To my astonishment the words poured onto the screen, my thoughts flying so fast I could hardly type quickly enough to keep up with them. So fast, indeed, that I was hardly conscious of what they were saying. It was an exhilarating experience. At the end of that brief period of frantic typing I had well over 90% of a completed poem. The only missing parts were where I had felt my mind groping for a word or a phrase that was missing from the stream of consciousness I was recording. When that happened - only three or four places in what is quite a long poem - I simply skipped over the word or line, leaving a dash to mark the place.
Going back over the piece and replacing the dashes with real content was a matter of only half an hour or so. The words were there, it just felt as though they had somehow "got stuck" in the frenzied flow.
I can't explain it and it's probably silly to try. It has only happened once since, although on that occasion it was a deliberate experiment to see if I could repeat the experience - this time with a song rather than a poem. Contrarily perhaps, the fact that it worked a second time has made me reluctant to try again until and unless I reach a point in my writing where I absolutely need it. It's like a pure wellspring that I don't want to drink from too often for fear of tainting it. That probably sounds crazy, but
Sunday, August 05, 2012
100TWC - Day 9: Death
Of all the things Not Spoken Of In Polite Company - I'm sure you can think of your own list - death will probably come at or close to the top of most people's. It's often been remarked that, despite it being one of the only certainties in life, one of the few things that everyone will experience, it's also one of the least discussed. And, in most cases, one of the least prepared for.
At least 50% of people die without making a will. They leave it up to the laws of whichever country they die in, to decide how to distribute their worldly goods when they're gone. True, there are those who may think they don't have a lot to leave, but at a time when home ownership - and the value of those homes - remains high, it's not unusual even for ordinary people to leave at least one item worth around a quarter of a million pounds. I don't know about you, but I don't want incompetent jobsworths in whatever government department deals with inheritance to decide on my behalf where that kind of money goes. It's even more complicated for those who don't have children, or for those who have more than one and one or more of them don't get on. Why would anyone want to saddle their offspring or near relatives with potentially years of bitter feuding, arguing and recrimination, for the sake of not taking an hour out to write down a simple will?
I guess it's looked upon as one of those things you'll get around to at some stage. But death doesn't always wait on your convenience. It doesn't sit there waiting for you to sign on the bottom line before swinging its scythe of doom. Without wanting to sound morbid (and there I go, veering off in the direction of the apology for even daring to consider it), death can come at any time. It'll surprise you. We don't all get to enjoy the "luxury" of a ripe old age, dying in our own beds surrounded by family and friends.
The various manners and means of alternative death (by which I mean the alternatives to that "ideal" death referred to above) are each in their own right awkward to even think about let alone talk about. Death through short- or long-term illness (cancer, heart disease, lung disease) is familiar to everyone, and a fairly high proportion of people will also know someone (or know someone who knows someone) who has died through sudden means of one sort or another. A fall, a car accident, or drowning for instance. And yet the single most often uttered comment, when faced with another's grief is: "I just didn't know what to say."
If death itself is rarely spoken of, its companion topic - Life After Death - is an even more unwelcome subject for polite after-dinner conversation. We generally steer clear of this. Perhaps because we think it's a foregone conclusion that it either does, or does not, exist, or through imagined embarrassment at admitting to either of those views. True, some people hold their view so closely to their hearts that no debate is possible, and any attempt is met with frosty disdain or heated argument, either of which is more than enough excuse to avoid the subject altogether. There are some opinions, it seems, that it is uncomfortable to air in the aforementioned polite company.
Which probably explains why those with strongly held beliefs tend to seek out like-minded individuals and even invent societies, closed clubs, cliques and organisations, along with their attendant rules, regulations and rituals. Some of these are so successful that they "enjoy" over a billion members and find themselves among the richest organisations the world has ever seen. But even then death is rarely discussed until it happens.
Another unwanted side effect of discussing the afterlife is ridicule. Even a slight misjudgement of audience on those rare occasions where one might feel moved to - for example - explain that one has proof of life after death will be met with ridicule more often than with interest, in a proportion of roughly 20 to 1. Little wonder the subject is avoided most of the time. Ridicule is, of course, often a smoke screen for embarrassment on the part of those doing the ridiculing. Are they embarrassed by their own beliefs - or lack of them? Or simply embarrassed to be associated with, or even listen to, someone who holds such beliefs. Does believing in life after death make you "other?" Or does the line become stepped over only when you decide to voice your beliefs. Or, indeed, write about them? Are such things so personal, so intimate, that they fall into the category of things that it is forbidden to speak of, along with what kind of sex you had last night and how often, or whether you secretly enjoy listening to Jimmy Carr.
At least 50% of people die without making a will. They leave it up to the laws of whichever country they die in, to decide how to distribute their worldly goods when they're gone. True, there are those who may think they don't have a lot to leave, but at a time when home ownership - and the value of those homes - remains high, it's not unusual even for ordinary people to leave at least one item worth around a quarter of a million pounds. I don't know about you, but I don't want incompetent jobsworths in whatever government department deals with inheritance to decide on my behalf where that kind of money goes. It's even more complicated for those who don't have children, or for those who have more than one and one or more of them don't get on. Why would anyone want to saddle their offspring or near relatives with potentially years of bitter feuding, arguing and recrimination, for the sake of not taking an hour out to write down a simple will?
I guess it's looked upon as one of those things you'll get around to at some stage. But death doesn't always wait on your convenience. It doesn't sit there waiting for you to sign on the bottom line before swinging its scythe of doom. Without wanting to sound morbid (and there I go, veering off in the direction of the apology for even daring to consider it), death can come at any time. It'll surprise you. We don't all get to enjoy the "luxury" of a ripe old age, dying in our own beds surrounded by family and friends.
The various manners and means of alternative death (by which I mean the alternatives to that "ideal" death referred to above) are each in their own right awkward to even think about let alone talk about. Death through short- or long-term illness (cancer, heart disease, lung disease) is familiar to everyone, and a fairly high proportion of people will also know someone (or know someone who knows someone) who has died through sudden means of one sort or another. A fall, a car accident, or drowning for instance. And yet the single most often uttered comment, when faced with another's grief is: "I just didn't know what to say."
If death itself is rarely spoken of, its companion topic - Life After Death - is an even more unwelcome subject for polite after-dinner conversation. We generally steer clear of this. Perhaps because we think it's a foregone conclusion that it either does, or does not, exist, or through imagined embarrassment at admitting to either of those views. True, some people hold their view so closely to their hearts that no debate is possible, and any attempt is met with frosty disdain or heated argument, either of which is more than enough excuse to avoid the subject altogether. There are some opinions, it seems, that it is uncomfortable to air in the aforementioned polite company.
Which probably explains why those with strongly held beliefs tend to seek out like-minded individuals and even invent societies, closed clubs, cliques and organisations, along with their attendant rules, regulations and rituals. Some of these are so successful that they "enjoy" over a billion members and find themselves among the richest organisations the world has ever seen. But even then death is rarely discussed until it happens.
Another unwanted side effect of discussing the afterlife is ridicule. Even a slight misjudgement of audience on those rare occasions where one might feel moved to - for example - explain that one has proof of life after death will be met with ridicule more often than with interest, in a proportion of roughly 20 to 1. Little wonder the subject is avoided most of the time. Ridicule is, of course, often a smoke screen for embarrassment on the part of those doing the ridiculing. Are they embarrassed by their own beliefs - or lack of them? Or simply embarrassed to be associated with, or even listen to, someone who holds such beliefs. Does believing in life after death make you "other?" Or does the line become stepped over only when you decide to voice your beliefs. Or, indeed, write about them? Are such things so personal, so intimate, that they fall into the category of things that it is forbidden to speak of, along with what kind of sex you had last night and how often, or whether you secretly enjoy listening to Jimmy Carr.
Sunday, December 18, 2011
Of Bosuns, Bosons and Bozos
The hunt for the elusive Higgs Boson has been much in the news this last week, as the particle physicists at CERN pore over the latest outputs from the Large Hadron Collider and believe they may have seen tantalising hints of its existence.
Sticking with my recent theme of poor science coverage by the nation's media, this has largely been reported as a search for a totally different entity. Something apparently called a Higgs Bosun. Now I'm not overly familiar with the subject, but to me a bosun has always been something to do with sailing. The oldest rank in the Royal Navy, more properly rendered as boatswain, and the chappy who supervises the deck crew. He also, optionally, may have a locker. But he's got absolutely fuck all to do with particle physics.
Now I know it's an unfamiliar term, but you radio and TV Johnnies really mustn't use that as an excuse to fall back on something you ARE familiar with. It's a BosON. Phonetically: BOSE - as in the world-renowned purveyors of high quality audio equipment - and ON - as in the opposite of off.
I really don't see what the problem is. You never see or hear of people referring to protuns, or neutruns, or electruns. Surely even the densest of media hacks must have noticed by now that sub-atomic particles generally, with some notable exceptions, have names ending in -on. And that this not pronounced un.
I know I shouldn't really get so wound up about this stuff but, well, I do. It's just not proper.
Sticking with my recent theme of poor science coverage by the nation's media, this has largely been reported as a search for a totally different entity. Something apparently called a Higgs Bosun. Now I'm not overly familiar with the subject, but to me a bosun has always been something to do with sailing. The oldest rank in the Royal Navy, more properly rendered as boatswain, and the chappy who supervises the deck crew. He also, optionally, may have a locker. But he's got absolutely fuck all to do with particle physics.
Now I know it's an unfamiliar term, but you radio and TV Johnnies really mustn't use that as an excuse to fall back on something you ARE familiar with. It's a BosON. Phonetically: BOSE - as in the world-renowned purveyors of high quality audio equipment - and ON - as in the opposite of off.
I really don't see what the problem is. You never see or hear of people referring to protuns, or neutruns, or electruns. Surely even the densest of media hacks must have noticed by now that sub-atomic particles generally, with some notable exceptions, have names ending in -on. And that this not pronounced un.
I know I shouldn't really get so wound up about this stuff but, well, I do. It's just not proper.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Book Swap
Chorlton’s "Big Green Festival" today and the book club were invited to man a book swap stall again. I did this once before, at our first book swap back in 2007, but hadn't been involved the last couple of times. This year the previous organisers of the book swap table weren't available, but this coincided with us having rather a lot of books we wanted to get rid of, so I volunteered. I turned up this morning with one plastic crate full and another containing half a dozen hardbacks.
The festival proper opened from 11am to 6pm, but that's a long time to be stood behind a table full of books smiling politely while passersby sift through the multiple copies of book club cast-offs looking for a good read. I never intended to stay for the whole afternoon, but I'd assumed - since several other book club members had volunteered to help man the stall - that I wouldn't be the "last man standing" and could hand over to someone else. This cunning plan also hid the main reason for leaving early: not to be left with piles of books to look after.
We may have only done four of these, but that's enough experience to know that we always end up with way more books than we start with, and I was under strict instructions not to bring the remainder back home. But at 4pm, having been left on my own since my only two helpers had to leave around 1.30, I had no option but to pack the books back into my plastic crates (which were now BOTH full to the point of books falling off the top) and start to carry them to the gate.
In between carrying off one box and returning for the second some generous individual had come along and dumped FIVE carrier bags full of books on the table. My reaction by that stage was "you have got to be joking." Less than two hours before the event closed? I left them there.
Even so, returning home with two full crates is not the most popular move I've ever made :-/
The festival proper opened from 11am to 6pm, but that's a long time to be stood behind a table full of books smiling politely while passersby sift through the multiple copies of book club cast-offs looking for a good read. I never intended to stay for the whole afternoon, but I'd assumed - since several other book club members had volunteered to help man the stall - that I wouldn't be the "last man standing" and could hand over to someone else. This cunning plan also hid the main reason for leaving early: not to be left with piles of books to look after.
We may have only done four of these, but that's enough experience to know that we always end up with way more books than we start with, and I was under strict instructions not to bring the remainder back home. But at 4pm, having been left on my own since my only two helpers had to leave around 1.30, I had no option but to pack the books back into my plastic crates (which were now BOTH full to the point of books falling off the top) and start to carry them to the gate.
In between carrying off one box and returning for the second some generous individual had come along and dumped FIVE carrier bags full of books on the table. My reaction by that stage was "you have got to be joking." Less than two hours before the event closed? I left them there.
Even so, returning home with two full crates is not the most popular move I've ever made :-/
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Bloody hell #2
I had a text yesterday from the Blood Donor service warning that stocks were low and asking for my help. So I popped along to their website (because I'm one of those shy retiring types who prefers to do things by typing and reading rather than talking to a real person on the phone) to see what was afoot.
As it happened I ended up calling them anyway because I had to register to use the site and their security procedures meant I had to wait to receive my login details through the post before I could do anything useful online, but that's not the point of this post.
No, the point is the headline text that greets you when you visit the blood web site:
96% of us rely on the other 4% to give blood.
What? Are they serious? Don't get me wrong I'm very proud to be part of that 4% but, really? Every single scheduled and emergency operation throughout the UK relies on just FOUR percent of the population for its blood? Crikey. Come on you lot, get off your arses and get on your backs and get donating! Wimps.
Thursday, September 09, 2010
We've been carpeted
Great excitement yesterday evening as the carpet company called to say our replacement carpet had finally arrived and would it be convenient to fit it today? You bet your sweet bippy* it would.
The very personable man on the phone assured me that since we'd been waiting ages and the (replacement) order was marked as urgent, he would put us down as the first call. Which meant the fitters should arrive shortly after 9am.
At 10:45 I tried to call the shop. After the third busy tone I was in the middle of trying again when my mobile lit up with the shop name, calling with sincere apologies that the fitter had been delayed but was loading up his van RIGHT NOW and would be with me in 20 minutes. Which turned out to be, naturally, 40 minutes. But at least he was here! With a carpet!! Which was the right size!!!
But didn't have any underlay or gripper rods with it.
Chief Fitter walked into the room.
"Just going on the floor, is it?"
My initial reaction, which I managed with superhuman effort to bite back, was to say "No, it's a carpet. It's going on the fucking ceiling, where do you think?"
Then I realised what he was saying. That he was going to lay the carpet on the bare floor.
""No, there should be underlay with it."
"They've not given me any underlay. Or grippers."
""You ARE joking?"
I fetched the invoice.
""Underlay," I pointed.
He called the shop, and shortly afterwards with much muttering under his breath at the incompetence of both the shop and the previous fitter, who "if it had been me" should have at least fitted the underlay and grippers before taking the too-short carpet back, returned to the depot to pick up... underlay and grippers.
An hour later he was back, and not much more than half-an-hour after that (it always amazes me how fast professional carpet fitters work), our new room was finally, finally ready to receive furniture, and have its new curtains hung.
A task for the coming weekend. With any luck, we only have one more night on the sofa bed! Yippee!
*What exactly is a "sweet bippy"? Does anyone know?** And why would you want to place a bet with it?
**Yes, I know. Google does. Slang term for unspecified body part (probably 'ass') as used in Rowan & Martin's Laugh-In. God, I never knew it was THAT old.
The very personable man on the phone assured me that since we'd been waiting ages and the (replacement) order was marked as urgent, he would put us down as the first call. Which meant the fitters should arrive shortly after 9am.
At 10:45 I tried to call the shop. After the third busy tone I was in the middle of trying again when my mobile lit up with the shop name, calling with sincere apologies that the fitter had been delayed but was loading up his van RIGHT NOW and would be with me in 20 minutes. Which turned out to be, naturally, 40 minutes. But at least he was here! With a carpet!! Which was the right size!!!
Chief Fitter walked into the room.
"Just going on the floor, is it?"
My initial reaction, which I managed with superhuman effort to bite back, was to say "No, it's a carpet. It's going on the fucking ceiling, where do you think?"
Then I realised what he was saying. That he was going to lay the carpet on the bare floor.
""No, there should be underlay with it."
"They've not given me any underlay. Or grippers."
""You ARE joking?"
I fetched the invoice.
""Underlay," I pointed.
He called the shop, and shortly afterwards with much muttering under his breath at the incompetence of both the shop and the previous fitter, who "if it had been me" should have at least fitted the underlay and grippers before taking the too-short carpet back, returned to the depot to pick up... underlay and grippers.
A task for the coming weekend. With any luck, we only have one more night on the sofa bed! Yippee!
*What exactly is a "sweet bippy"? Does anyone know?** And why would you want to place a bet with it?
**Yes, I know. Google does. Slang term for unspecified body part (probably 'ass') as used in Rowan & Martin's Laugh-In. God, I never knew it was THAT old.
Monday, August 23, 2010
What a difference a foot makes
Having spent the weekend tidying up the loose-endy type of jobs on the front bedroom - refitting the power sockets; replacing floorboards; checking for squeaks; pushing the lighting cables back into the ceiling void and refitting the light; caulking the skirting boards to avoid draughts; etc - we sat back this morning with excited expectation to await the carpet fitter.
He arrived mid-morning and within minutes of dropping his tool bag in the bedroom was wearing a worried frown.
"It's 570 this."
"That's right"
"I've only got 540 on the van."
Those being linear measurements, in centimetres, of the room and the carpet respectively.
Now I've made many mistakes in my life, but one of them definitely isn't measuring a room and getting the length out by 30cm. That's very nearly a foot. An inch and I might have accepted responsibility, but a foot? No way. So what's gone wrong? Seems to me either the salesperson made a mistake converting my Imperial dimensions to metric, or (more likely) when keying it into "the computer" she's hit the 4 instead of the 7.
But as you might expect, no-one is owning up to that, so we have two options:
He arrived mid-morning and within minutes of dropping his tool bag in the bedroom was wearing a worried frown.
"It's 570 this."
"That's right"
"I've only got 540 on the van."
Those being linear measurements, in centimetres, of the room and the carpet respectively.
Now I've made many mistakes in my life, but one of them definitely isn't measuring a room and getting the length out by 30cm. That's very nearly a foot. An inch and I might have accepted responsibility, but a foot? No way. So what's gone wrong? Seems to me either the salesperson made a mistake converting my Imperial dimensions to metric, or (more likely) when keying it into "the computer" she's hit the 4 instead of the 7.
But as you might expect, no-one is owning up to that, so we have two options:
- Accept a join in the carpet, a foot from the window end of the room, using a piece cut from the side which would therefore have its "grain" going in the wrong direction. Not a very attractive option.
- Wait for a replacement piece of the right length, and pay for the (slight) extra yardage, plus a cutting charge for the mistake. Their mistake. Earliest possible return visit by the fitter? Friday. Might be next Monday. Also not a very attractive option, but slightly less unattractive than #1.
So that's what we've done. Guess we'll be on the sofa bed for at least another four nights. >sigh<
Friday, June 18, 2010
Yours for only £12.99
Along with most of the (Internet enabled) planet, I'm guessing, I get spammed regularly by Universal Online Retailers Inc. (aka Play.com, Amazon, etc) with offers of stuff their "clever" algorithms have decided I'll be interested in.
I say spammed, but I'll admit in this case it's partly my own fault for, you know, shopping there. I do take exception to the notion that if you've ever, even once, bought a vampire movie then you're bound to be interested in every other vampire, near-vampire, or teen-vampire movie, or anything with characters similar to "vamp" or "pire" in the title, genre, plot description, crew or cast.
Partly because I'm lazy, partly because it's easier to just delete them, and partly because I'm an eternal optimist who believes that in among the dross will one day sparkle an irresistible gem, I remain subscribed to these emails and occasionally, when the morning crop is a bit thinon the ground in the Inbox, I read one.
Today was one such day. And what I saw was more frightening than the goriest schlock horror film ever produced.
A 3-disc boxed set of... the 2010 Eurovision Song Contest.
I mean, come on. It's bad enough watching the crap the first time through. Who the hell would PAY to watch it again? To be able to watch it again whenever they want? Weird.
I say spammed, but I'll admit in this case it's partly my own fault for, you know, shopping there. I do take exception to the notion that if you've ever, even once, bought a vampire movie then you're bound to be interested in every other vampire, near-vampire, or teen-vampire movie, or anything with characters similar to "vamp" or "pire" in the title, genre, plot description, crew or cast.
Partly because I'm lazy, partly because it's easier to just delete them, and partly because I'm an eternal optimist who believes that in among the dross will one day sparkle an irresistible gem, I remain subscribed to these emails and occasionally, when the morning crop is a bit thin
Today was one such day. And what I saw was more frightening than the goriest schlock horror film ever produced.
A 3-disc boxed set of... the 2010 Eurovision Song Contest.
I mean, come on. It's bad enough watching the crap the first time through. Who the hell would PAY to watch it again? To be able to watch it again whenever they want? Weird.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
The future's bleak; the future's Bleakley
Warning: rant coming.
In the news recently, speculation that Christine Bleakley is on the verge of signing a new 2-year deal with the BBC worth £1million. An increase of £100,000 a year over her current pay. Shortly after that, news that Bleakley had issued a statement denying this rumour, and stating that she had received offers from both BBC and ITV and was "torn."
Until a couple of weeks ago, my impression of Bleakley was based entirely on her 2008 appearance on Strictly Come Dancing. Personable enough. Made an effort to learn the dances. Usual media speculation about romantic entanglements with her partner. I never watched her on The One Show because I couldn't (still can't) stand her sidekick Adrian Chiles. A talentless buffoon hiding behind faux blokey "charm" who could get right up my nose within milliseconds of being subjected to his pudgy face spouting inanities in a Brummie accent.
Since Chiles left, we've risked the odd half-hour with The One Show. Bland pap for the early evening, when the schedulers must think everyone's rushing to cook and scarf their evening meals in between the regional news and the soaps, and anyone left watching will be easily entertained with a few talking heads and content-free general interest stories.
So has my impression of Christine changed since I've watched her in her natural habitat? Not really. To be honest I can't see what all the fuss is about. She looks relatively pretty, sits on a sofa, smiles and reads an autocue. In a Northern Irish accent, which for some reason virtually guarantees that media luvvies will be falling over themselves to give her air time. Can't understand the attraction myself, but each to his own.
So nurses are worth something like 20 grand a year, police and firemen a bit more. But if you're a vacuous bimbo who can smile and read at the same time, you can get a job with the Beeb and be paid half a MILLION pounds a year. Of our money.
Oh no, sorry. To be entirely accurate you can WRING YOUR HANDS and be publicly "TORN" about whether you want to accept the offer of half a million pounds, or whether you'd rather run off to the competition for probably a bit MORE dosh, and the chance to once again share the same sofa with an old mate.
I must be missing something, but what is it she actually does that is so difficult? I'm experiencing that stress that one gets when the perceived value of something doesn't match the actual money involved. Let's just hope that the BBC aren't sucked into a bidding war for this non-entity. If she decides to go, let her. If ITV think she's worth more than half a million a year, and their advertising revenues can stand it - with people deserting the channel in their millions and those still watching fast-forwarding through the ads with their PVRs - let them have her. It's June, and university finals are finishing all over the country. Within a few weeks there'll be hundreds of media studies, journalism, drama, and similar graduates tipping out onto the job market. I'd wager there's at least a dozen in that bunch who are (a) as attractive as Bleakley; (b) can read; and (c) would jump at the chance to take her place for one-tenth of the wedge she's on.
In the news recently, speculation that Christine Bleakley is on the verge of signing a new 2-year deal with the BBC worth £1million. An increase of £100,000 a year over her current pay. Shortly after that, news that Bleakley had issued a statement denying this rumour, and stating that she had received offers from both BBC and ITV and was "torn."
Until a couple of weeks ago, my impression of Bleakley was based entirely on her 2008 appearance on Strictly Come Dancing. Personable enough. Made an effort to learn the dances. Usual media speculation about romantic entanglements with her partner. I never watched her on The One Show because I couldn't (still can't) stand her sidekick Adrian Chiles. A talentless buffoon hiding behind faux blokey "charm" who could get right up my nose within milliseconds of being subjected to his pudgy face spouting inanities in a Brummie accent.
Since Chiles left, we've risked the odd half-hour with The One Show. Bland pap for the early evening, when the schedulers must think everyone's rushing to cook and scarf their evening meals in between the regional news and the soaps, and anyone left watching will be easily entertained with a few talking heads and content-free general interest stories.
So has my impression of Christine changed since I've watched her in her natural habitat? Not really. To be honest I can't see what all the fuss is about. She looks relatively pretty, sits on a sofa, smiles and reads an autocue. In a Northern Irish accent, which for some reason virtually guarantees that media luvvies will be falling over themselves to give her air time. Can't understand the attraction myself, but each to his own.
So nurses are worth something like 20 grand a year, police and firemen a bit more. But if you're a vacuous bimbo who can smile and read at the same time, you can get a job with the Beeb and be paid half a MILLION pounds a year. Of our money.
Oh no, sorry. To be entirely accurate you can WRING YOUR HANDS and be publicly "TORN" about whether you want to accept the offer of half a million pounds, or whether you'd rather run off to the competition for probably a bit MORE dosh, and the chance to once again share the same sofa with an old mate.
I must be missing something, but what is it she actually does that is so difficult? I'm experiencing that stress that one gets when the perceived value of something doesn't match the actual money involved. Let's just hope that the BBC aren't sucked into a bidding war for this non-entity. If she decides to go, let her. If ITV think she's worth more than half a million a year, and their advertising revenues can stand it - with people deserting the channel in their millions and those still watching fast-forwarding through the ads with their PVRs - let them have her. It's June, and university finals are finishing all over the country. Within a few weeks there'll be hundreds of media studies, journalism, drama, and similar graduates tipping out onto the job market. I'd wager there's at least a dozen in that bunch who are (a) as attractive as Bleakley; (b) can read; and (c) would jump at the chance to take her place for one-tenth of the wedge she's on.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
The YouTube generation
You'll be surprised to learn that it's common practice to decamp to one of the local ale houses following any (and all) Chorlton Players' performance(s). So it was that I found myself stood outside on the "porch" of The Bar clutching a pint of Alchemist's on Thursday last.
The evening began in unassuming fashion, but turned rapidly surreal as we watched a woman dressed in a leopard skin outfit drive a disabled cart determinedly across the road towards a waiting taxi. It seemed a dangerous manoeuvre, it being dark, the cart having no lights, and the road outside The Bar - passing as it does over the railway - being effectively on the brow of a hill. Still, she made it alright, and the taxi driver got out to help her into the cab (or so we thought), so we turned back to our drinks and our conversations expecting that to be the end of it.
How wrong we were.
A few minutes later, someone called out "oh my God! Look at her!" Far from alighting the cab and leaving, the woman was now holding up the traffic. Facing the cart the wrong way down our side of the road, she drove it from side to side in a kind of mad, figure-of-eight dance, narrowly missing the headlights of the first car in a queue of about ten that she was preventing from making any progress down the road.
The cab driver decided he didn't want to know, did a U-ey and headed back into Chorlton centre.
That was the start of an interesting half-hour during which this lady, who was clearly inebriated, high, mentally disturbed or a combination of all three, drove maniacally around on the open road, or the pavements, alternately stopping vehicular or pedestrian traffic. When, eventually, a man intervened to try and steer the cart to safety, she beat him around the head, and then got out of the cart and chased him down the road!
So. Not disabled then. No. It wasn't even a real disabled buggy. When it passed us at close range we realised it was a disabled person's shopping trolley, the "Asda" emblem clearly visible on the side. As the nearest Asda is in Hulme she'd done pretty well to navigate the thing from there to here, especially in her... incapacitated... state.
Eventually someone called the police, but they didn't seem especially interested in her or her behaviour. Not the theft of the trolley or the multiple traffic offences she must have committed, or even any kind of breach of the peace (she'd had minor altercations with several bystanders by this point).
But the most surprising and disturbing thing of all, for me, was the reaction of the overwhelming majority of onlookers.
Did they try to help her?
No!
Protect her?
No!
Warn any of the other approaching drivers?
No!
Call the police?
No!
They got out their videophones and recorded the whole thing for YouTube.
The evening began in unassuming fashion, but turned rapidly surreal as we watched a woman dressed in a leopard skin outfit drive a disabled cart determinedly across the road towards a waiting taxi. It seemed a dangerous manoeuvre, it being dark, the cart having no lights, and the road outside The Bar - passing as it does over the railway - being effectively on the brow of a hill. Still, she made it alright, and the taxi driver got out to help her into the cab (or so we thought), so we turned back to our drinks and our conversations expecting that to be the end of it.
How wrong we were.
A few minutes later, someone called out "oh my God! Look at her!" Far from alighting the cab and leaving, the woman was now holding up the traffic. Facing the cart the wrong way down our side of the road, she drove it from side to side in a kind of mad, figure-of-eight dance, narrowly missing the headlights of the first car in a queue of about ten that she was preventing from making any progress down the road.
The cab driver decided he didn't want to know, did a U-ey and headed back into Chorlton centre.
That was the start of an interesting half-hour during which this lady, who was clearly inebriated, high, mentally disturbed or a combination of all three, drove maniacally around on the open road, or the pavements, alternately stopping vehicular or pedestrian traffic. When, eventually, a man intervened to try and steer the cart to safety, she beat him around the head, and then got out of the cart and chased him down the road!
So. Not disabled then. No. It wasn't even a real disabled buggy. When it passed us at close range we realised it was a disabled person's shopping trolley, the "Asda" emblem clearly visible on the side. As the nearest Asda is in Hulme she'd done pretty well to navigate the thing from there to here, especially in her... incapacitated... state.
Eventually someone called the police, but they didn't seem especially interested in her or her behaviour. Not the theft of the trolley or the multiple traffic offences she must have committed, or even any kind of breach of the peace (she'd had minor altercations with several bystanders by this point).
But the most surprising and disturbing thing of all, for me, was the reaction of the overwhelming majority of onlookers.
Did they try to help her?
No!
Protect her?
No!
Warn any of the other approaching drivers?
No!
Call the police?
No!
They got out their videophones and recorded the whole thing for YouTube.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Book Launch
I was invited to a launch party last night in town, for the debut novel of someone who used to be on the team with me when I wrote for TV Scoop. Although I'd never met the lady in question, she's the kind of person whose online persona makes it easy to think you've known them all your life. Someone with whom you feel an instant rapport that marks them out as "your kind of person."
Which made my quandary even worse. I wanted to go. Not only for the chance to finally meet her, and to avoid appearing rude, but also to offer a crumb of moral support to a fellow writer and maybe even swop rejection stories.
But I didn't want to go. I'm not good at doing small talk with a bunch of people I don’t know, and I can't stand the air-kissing "and what do YOU do?" luvvieness that the dark side of my imagination had already populated the room with before I even walked in. It was clear from the outset that the debutante authoress would be fully occupied with mingling, and wouldn't have a lot of time with anyone in particular, so I fully expected to be left propping up the bar, avoiding eye contact with all those strangers and clutching a pint protectively to my chest while trying to look unobtrusive and wondering how soon I could bail without looking frightfully impolite.
Regular readers may recall another aborted attempt at socialising with strangers when I attended the Alfred Bradley Bursary Awards ceremony at the Beeb last year (crikey, that's almost a year ago!). Well this event proved all too similar, except with marginally fewer luvvies. It did, however, have one redeeming feature which tipped the balance. We were expecting another ex-Scoop writer to be there, and I figured what the heck - at least there'll be one other person there I'll know, who isn't fully occupied with actually running the thing. So I went. He wasn't there. I chugged a pint of lime and soda and left. The end.
Except it's not quite the end, because Lady Authoress spotted me in the middle of my quick getaway and headed me off by the door. I honestly hadn't intended leaving without saying goodbye, but as the last of the lime and soda drained away she'd been engrossed in conversation and I didn't want to interrupt. So then I had chance to feel bad because SHE felt bad that she'd not been able to talk with me for very long. Great! I never could *quite* get the hang of new people. Maybe I should open a small shop in Royston Vasey.
Which made my quandary even worse. I wanted to go. Not only for the chance to finally meet her, and to avoid appearing rude, but also to offer a crumb of moral support to a fellow writer and maybe even swop rejection stories.
But I didn't want to go. I'm not good at doing small talk with a bunch of people I don’t know, and I can't stand the air-kissing "and what do YOU do?" luvvieness that the dark side of my imagination had already populated the room with before I even walked in. It was clear from the outset that the debutante authoress would be fully occupied with mingling, and wouldn't have a lot of time with anyone in particular, so I fully expected to be left propping up the bar, avoiding eye contact with all those strangers and clutching a pint protectively to my chest while trying to look unobtrusive and wondering how soon I could bail without looking frightfully impolite.
Regular readers may recall another aborted attempt at socialising with strangers when I attended the Alfred Bradley Bursary Awards ceremony at the Beeb last year (crikey, that's almost a year ago!). Well this event proved all too similar, except with marginally fewer luvvies. It did, however, have one redeeming feature which tipped the balance. We were expecting another ex-Scoop writer to be there, and I figured what the heck - at least there'll be one other person there I'll know, who isn't fully occupied with actually running the thing. So I went. He wasn't there. I chugged a pint of lime and soda and left. The end.
Except it's not quite the end, because Lady Authoress spotted me in the middle of my quick getaway and headed me off by the door. I honestly hadn't intended leaving without saying goodbye, but as the last of the lime and soda drained away she'd been engrossed in conversation and I didn't want to interrupt. So then I had chance to feel bad because SHE felt bad that she'd not been able to talk with me for very long. Great! I never could *quite* get the hang of new people. Maybe I should open a small shop in Royston Vasey.
Friday, April 23, 2010
Cleaning cars
I don't clean my car.
It's always been a kind of "grudge purchase" - or grudge activity I suppose - with me. I never saw the point of washing something that was going to get dirty again more or less immediately. It's not like a freshly-laundered shirt, where you can avoid dropping your dinner down it. At least for a day or so. Usually. No, with a car, you can't avoid the rain, the mud, the fumes, the dust and - most recently - the volcanic ash. Cars get dirty no matter how "careful" you are.
So I don't bother. Unless it's a special occasion. Like the arrival of the outlaws. Which means it might get a wash once a year, if it's lucky. I drive past one of those "best hand job in Manchester" places every day after dropping Nikki at work, but I even begrudge the six quid it would cost me for the minor detour (it's right there on the main road, so only a swerve or two will do it) to let someone else wash it for me.
Don't get me wrong, I understand the attraction of owning and driving a gleaming polished machine. I just can't be arsed.
But I had to smile at the guy I saw pull in there this morning in his soft-top Merc. I mean, to my mind, the damn thing was ALREADY CLEAN.
It's always been a kind of "grudge purchase" - or grudge activity I suppose - with me. I never saw the point of washing something that was going to get dirty again more or less immediately. It's not like a freshly-laundered shirt, where you can avoid dropping your dinner down it. At least for a day or so. Usually. No, with a car, you can't avoid the rain, the mud, the fumes, the dust and - most recently - the volcanic ash. Cars get dirty no matter how "careful" you are.
So I don't bother. Unless it's a special occasion. Like the arrival of the outlaws. Which means it might get a wash once a year, if it's lucky. I drive past one of those "best hand job in Manchester" places every day after dropping Nikki at work, but I even begrudge the six quid it would cost me for the minor detour (it's right there on the main road, so only a swerve or two will do it) to let someone else wash it for me.
Don't get me wrong, I understand the attraction of owning and driving a gleaming polished machine. I just can't be arsed.
But I had to smile at the guy I saw pull in there this morning in his soft-top Merc. I mean, to my mind, the damn thing was ALREADY CLEAN.
Monday, March 01, 2010
Official release day
Today was the day we were supposed to be releasing Weird and Wonderful, and in some ways jumping the gun and opening up the sound streams on Saturday was a bit premature. With most people expecting to have to wait until today, and spending a lot less time at their computers over the weekend, early feedback was almost entirely absent. Both Annie and I found this incredibly frustrating - a side-effect, I expect, of being SO close to it for SO long. It took on a kind of immense, special meaning for us which (obviously) isn't reflected in everyone else's lives. To anyone who isn't us, or very close family, it's "just another album."
The good news is that once the comments started to flow, they were all favourable. But then, I guess if anyone didn't like it they just wouldn't bother to say anything ;o)
The good news is that once the comments started to flow, they were all favourable. But then, I guess if anyone didn't like it they just wouldn't bother to say anything ;o)
Monday, December 21, 2009
Raging against the machine
Bloody brilliant.
Whether you like Killing In The Name or not, whether you hate Simon Cowell or not, whether you watch X Factor or not, whether you'd rather poke your own eardrums into your brain than listen to a charmless, tuneless, passionless, charismaless cover of the blandest of bland Miley Cyrus numbers or not, there's no denying the reality of people power.
This was never about who makes the money, who owns the songs, or whether the charts are a fading anachronism of yesteryear. It was all about flicking the finger at the man who never listens to music in his own home, yet thinks he has the right to dictate what we listen to in ours, every Christmas. Well, he doesn't.
Like I said, bloody brilliant.
And if you can't find two better singers out of 200,000 entrants than the wired jiggler Olly-the-Essex-boy Murs and the Bland Balladeer McDingleberry maybe it's time to call time on the X Factor, which became a parody of itself several series ago.
Whether you like Killing In The Name or not, whether you hate Simon Cowell or not, whether you watch X Factor or not, whether you'd rather poke your own eardrums into your brain than listen to a charmless, tuneless, passionless, charismaless cover of the blandest of bland Miley Cyrus numbers or not, there's no denying the reality of people power.
This was never about who makes the money, who owns the songs, or whether the charts are a fading anachronism of yesteryear. It was all about flicking the finger at the man who never listens to music in his own home, yet thinks he has the right to dictate what we listen to in ours, every Christmas. Well, he doesn't.
Like I said, bloody brilliant.
And if you can't find two better singers out of 200,000 entrants than the wired jiggler Olly-the-Essex-boy Murs and the Bland Balladeer McDingleberry maybe it's time to call time on the X Factor, which became a parody of itself several series ago.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Thoughts from the picket line
As I mentioned yesterday, I arrived on the picket at 7.15. Things were already in full swing. They'd started picketing at 6.30. 'Full swing' is, perhaps, the wrong term to use for such a low-key event. What I mean is, there were people there. Half-a-dozen or so. I'd walked past three of them on my way to the main group. They'd been sent to cover the exit road from the campus, as a few people had been seen using this as a route to avoid the picket. We exchanged quips as we passed each other. One of them had been in my team in the old VME support days but as with so many others, we'd lost touch. Meeting up with him again in such circumstances was slightly surreal.
The first thing to strike me (pun acknowledged) as I arrived at the main entrance was the lack of a brazier. Since my experience of pickets up to this point was limited to what I'd seen on news bulletins over the years - and with the early morning temperature at the aforementioned -2° - I'd expected to arrive to find the group huddled with hands outstretched around a glowing brazier. I'd reckoned without the mighty reach of the Health & Safety regulations. Our picket captain assured me braziers were no longer allowed. It was OK for us to freeze, apparently, but we couldn't be trusted not to cause ourselves or our surroundings some lasting damage with an errant lump of burning charcoal. The air temperature never climbed above zero the whole day, and within 30 minutes of my arrival I couldn't feel my fingers. An hour later, my toes had gone as well.
My next revelation: how very British the picket was. Already aware that the law mandates "peaceful" picketing, I was still disconcerted by how laid back was the approach. Virtually horizontal. A stern look appeared to be the only intervention allowed. I'd expected at least an upraised hand to slow down any approaching car, a wound-down window and a few words of gentle persuasion. Instead we all gazed on disapprovingly as a steady stream of cars - slow at first but gradually increasing as we approached "regular" office hours - drove through our small throng. Even the cold stares were lost on most of the drivers as they studiously avoided eye contact with any of the pickets.
Pedestrian arrivals didn't get off quite so lightly - being treated to a polite "can I persuade you not to go in?" or "would you like a leaflet?" - but in the Age of the Motor Vehicle these were few and far between. Mostly they ignored us too. Only one of them was moved to mutter an edgy "no you can't" in response to the first question. We were there a total of four hours and didn't succeed in stopping a single person entering the building. I bet we made a few of them feel uncomfortable though. As I said, very British.
On a more positive note, we enjoyed a lot of support from passing motorists in the form of horn tooting. I've done this myself, from the other side, but had no idea how uplifting it can be for those on the picket. One driver memorably sounded his hooter from the moment he noticed the picket to the point he disappeared around the last bend at the other end of the site - several hundred metres - to loud cheers from everyone. The hoots weren't restricted to delivery drivers, or other overt tradespeople. Ordinary drivers in their hundreds pipped and waved their messages of solidarity during the morning, each one greeted by a return wave of hand or placard and a cheer.
Around eight o'clock someone from inside the building took pity on us and carried out a cardboard box loaded with cups of hot coffee and soup. I made a grab for a soup. Too hot to sip when I picked it up, the December air sucked the heat from it faster than I could drink it. The dregs were cold by the time I reached the bottom.
It's been a long while since I had chance to stand and watch dawn break, and even though the scene was perhaps not as idyllic as the last time I did this, still it had the same profound effect on me. Thoughts of it "always being darkest just before the dawn" and "the dawning of a new era" and suchlike skipped randomly through my mind but mostly I just stood and absorbed the quiet miracle of another new day, silhouetting the construction across the road and lighting a fire under the tail feathers of a flock of starlings who took off squawking to find their breakfast.
Breakfast! I'd heard rumours that the local college had a restaurant open to the public. This was confirmed later, around the time I'd started to wonder if I could last the final hour without "facilities," as another member of the group returned with a glowing report of their breakfast. Shortly before ten I took myself off to sample the delights of a full English. The ten-minute respite from the cold was enough to restore feeling in everything except my toes and the breakfast proved more than enough to sustain me through the final half-hour of picket duty. We packed up all the flags, placards and banners around half past ten, and bid each other farewell and Merry Christmas.
Whether it will be a Happy New Year remains to be seen!
The first thing to strike me (pun acknowledged) as I arrived at the main entrance was the lack of a brazier. Since my experience of pickets up to this point was limited to what I'd seen on news bulletins over the years - and with the early morning temperature at the aforementioned -2° - I'd expected to arrive to find the group huddled with hands outstretched around a glowing brazier. I'd reckoned without the mighty reach of the Health & Safety regulations. Our picket captain assured me braziers were no longer allowed. It was OK for us to freeze, apparently, but we couldn't be trusted not to cause ourselves or our surroundings some lasting damage with an errant lump of burning charcoal. The air temperature never climbed above zero the whole day, and within 30 minutes of my arrival I couldn't feel my fingers. An hour later, my toes had gone as well.
My next revelation: how very British the picket was. Already aware that the law mandates "peaceful" picketing, I was still disconcerted by how laid back was the approach. Virtually horizontal. A stern look appeared to be the only intervention allowed. I'd expected at least an upraised hand to slow down any approaching car, a wound-down window and a few words of gentle persuasion. Instead we all gazed on disapprovingly as a steady stream of cars - slow at first but gradually increasing as we approached "regular" office hours - drove through our small throng. Even the cold stares were lost on most of the drivers as they studiously avoided eye contact with any of the pickets.
Pedestrian arrivals didn't get off quite so lightly - being treated to a polite "can I persuade you not to go in?" or "would you like a leaflet?" - but in the Age of the Motor Vehicle these were few and far between. Mostly they ignored us too. Only one of them was moved to mutter an edgy "no you can't" in response to the first question. We were there a total of four hours and didn't succeed in stopping a single person entering the building. I bet we made a few of them feel uncomfortable though. As I said, very British.
On a more positive note, we enjoyed a lot of support from passing motorists in the form of horn tooting. I've done this myself, from the other side, but had no idea how uplifting it can be for those on the picket. One driver memorably sounded his hooter from the moment he noticed the picket to the point he disappeared around the last bend at the other end of the site - several hundred metres - to loud cheers from everyone. The hoots weren't restricted to delivery drivers, or other overt tradespeople. Ordinary drivers in their hundreds pipped and waved their messages of solidarity during the morning, each one greeted by a return wave of hand or placard and a cheer.
Around eight o'clock someone from inside the building took pity on us and carried out a cardboard box loaded with cups of hot coffee and soup. I made a grab for a soup. Too hot to sip when I picked it up, the December air sucked the heat from it faster than I could drink it. The dregs were cold by the time I reached the bottom.
It's been a long while since I had chance to stand and watch dawn break, and even though the scene was perhaps not as idyllic as the last time I did this, still it had the same profound effect on me. Thoughts of it "always being darkest just before the dawn" and "the dawning of a new era" and suchlike skipped randomly through my mind but mostly I just stood and absorbed the quiet miracle of another new day, silhouetting the construction across the road and lighting a fire under the tail feathers of a flock of starlings who took off squawking to find their breakfast.
Breakfast! I'd heard rumours that the local college had a restaurant open to the public. This was confirmed later, around the time I'd started to wonder if I could last the final hour without "facilities," as another member of the group returned with a glowing report of their breakfast. Shortly before ten I took myself off to sample the delights of a full English. The ten-minute respite from the cold was enough to restore feeling in everything except my toes and the breakfast proved more than enough to sustain me through the final half-hour of picket duty. We packed up all the flags, placards and banners around half past ten, and bid each other farewell and Merry Christmas.
Whether it will be a Happy New Year remains to be seen!
Friday, December 11, 2009
Another Christmas tradition
I may have commented before on the importance, for any group of friends, colleagues or acquaintances, of having an anchor. That person who takes responsibility for keeping the group together. You can have more than one, but one is the magic number, below which the group will cease to be a group.
It's been a good few years since I worked at the office known as "the airport" (mainly because it was fairly close... to... the airport), but the times we had there were relatively good. Frontier times. Breaking new ground. Or so we thought. Good or not, they were sufficiently memorable for us to want to meet up once a year for a Christmas lunch, and the group has the aforementioned anchor - a lady who at the time was PA to the main man in that office - who is happy, each year, to pull the event together. In the main these annual reunions have been memorable. Until now.
Whether it was the fact that we returned to a restaurant we'd visited a few years ago and the food wasn't as good as that first time, or the seating arrangements were less than ideal, or some of the group couldn't make it so we didn't achieve some sort of critical mass, or because I knew from the off that I had to leave early and stayed on soft drinks the whole time I don't know. Something didn't work for me.
I won't name the restaurant because I honestly believe they don't deserve a bad press for it. Last time we went - about three years ago if I remember right - the food was excellent. This time, it looked and tasted like a million other mass-produced Christmas lunches. Too much dark meat for my liking, light on the cranberry sauce (anyone would think it was the most expensive component of the meal the way they dole it out by the teaspoonful!), the vegetables barely cooked and the piggy in its blanket having a distinct taste of old grease.
For the first time in several years my seat at table was some distance from the members of the group I know best. Worse, I sat directly opposite a woman with whom I had a long-standing disagreement (she drove into me in the office car park and refused to take responsibility) that was never properly resolved, and to the left of a woman I've never seen before - not one of the original group - who was clearly a good friend of my 'nemesis'. Surrounded!
I couldn't even take refuge from these harridans in drink. I had important driving to do which meant leaving at 3.30. It's an enlightening experience to sit, perfectly sober, and watch how quickly a group of people can dissolve into a socially relaxed state when they put their minds to it.
Finally, adding insult to injury, the mediocre meal turned out to be the most expensive of all the Christmas meals I'm planning to attend this year, I was suckered into contributing a tenner to the "drinks kitty" for which I received a single pint of fresh orange and soda, and the city centre car park robbed me of another £8.60.
Just sometimes, maybe, keeping a group together is not such a good thing!
It's been a good few years since I worked at the office known as "the airport" (mainly because it was fairly close... to... the airport), but the times we had there were relatively good. Frontier times. Breaking new ground. Or so we thought. Good or not, they were sufficiently memorable for us to want to meet up once a year for a Christmas lunch, and the group has the aforementioned anchor - a lady who at the time was PA to the main man in that office - who is happy, each year, to pull the event together. In the main these annual reunions have been memorable. Until now.
Whether it was the fact that we returned to a restaurant we'd visited a few years ago and the food wasn't as good as that first time, or the seating arrangements were less than ideal, or some of the group couldn't make it so we didn't achieve some sort of critical mass, or because I knew from the off that I had to leave early and stayed on soft drinks the whole time I don't know. Something didn't work for me.
I won't name the restaurant because I honestly believe they don't deserve a bad press for it. Last time we went - about three years ago if I remember right - the food was excellent. This time, it looked and tasted like a million other mass-produced Christmas lunches. Too much dark meat for my liking, light on the cranberry sauce (anyone would think it was the most expensive component of the meal the way they dole it out by the teaspoonful!), the vegetables barely cooked and the piggy in its blanket having a distinct taste of old grease.
For the first time in several years my seat at table was some distance from the members of the group I know best. Worse, I sat directly opposite a woman with whom I had a long-standing disagreement (she drove into me in the office car park and refused to take responsibility) that was never properly resolved, and to the left of a woman I've never seen before - not one of the original group - who was clearly a good friend of my 'nemesis'. Surrounded!
I couldn't even take refuge from these harridans in drink. I had important driving to do which meant leaving at 3.30. It's an enlightening experience to sit, perfectly sober, and watch how quickly a group of people can dissolve into a socially relaxed state when they put their minds to it.
Finally, adding insult to injury, the mediocre meal turned out to be the most expensive of all the Christmas meals I'm planning to attend this year, I was suckered into contributing a tenner to the "drinks kitty" for which I received a single pint of fresh orange and soda, and the city centre car park robbed me of another £8.60.
Just sometimes, maybe, keeping a group together is not such a good thing!
Monday, December 07, 2009
That kid
He would have been the nerdy kid at school. The one with the National Health specs held together with Elastoplast and the clothes that didn't quite fit him, spending playtime with his head buried in one of the Ladybird books from the top class, even though he was still a first-year. Walking around with his hands stuffed deep into his pockets and his mind stuffed just as deep into his thoughts, which were of problems so esoteric for an eight-year-old that none of his contemporaries would have made it past the first sentence, even if he could have put them into words.
In years to come he would gravitate to a group of like-minded individuals, occupying the corner table in the library and sharing no more than a few words of conversation. Preferring to point at passages from hefty pictureless tomes with a knowing grin that passed around his contemporaries faster than a headcold in the PE classes he was always trying to duck. But at age eight, in a small suburban junior school, there were no like-minded peers. The jousting they dreamed of wasn't mental. It might be contemporary - five a side in the playground when he'd be the last one chosen - or historical - an ad-hoc re-enactment of King Arthur's clash with the Green Knight, when he'd be cast as the wizard and condemned to stand alone in the bike sheds pretending to assemble potions from left-over school milk, playground moss and berries from the tree that hung over from Mrs Washowska's garden - but it was totally physical and hence by definition excluded him.
And today, when you see him walking along the balcony and heading down the stairs to lunch, the deep-rooted echoes of the nerdy kid remain. The intervening years have covered him with the shell of an adult - taller, greyer, wearier. But his hands are still stuffed into his pockets. He still gazes unseeing at the floor as his mind grapples with a thorny, high-concept design problem, the latest in a lifetime of arcane solutions that still leave his contemporaries floundering. His gait is the shuffling near-skip of the man who, having always played the wizard or the goalie, never quite gained total control over his physical self. His clothes still don't fit properly. If you knew him back then, you would recognise him now. And knowing him now, you can still see him as he was then.
In years to come he would gravitate to a group of like-minded individuals, occupying the corner table in the library and sharing no more than a few words of conversation. Preferring to point at passages from hefty pictureless tomes with a knowing grin that passed around his contemporaries faster than a headcold in the PE classes he was always trying to duck. But at age eight, in a small suburban junior school, there were no like-minded peers. The jousting they dreamed of wasn't mental. It might be contemporary - five a side in the playground when he'd be the last one chosen - or historical - an ad-hoc re-enactment of King Arthur's clash with the Green Knight, when he'd be cast as the wizard and condemned to stand alone in the bike sheds pretending to assemble potions from left-over school milk, playground moss and berries from the tree that hung over from Mrs Washowska's garden - but it was totally physical and hence by definition excluded him.
And today, when you see him walking along the balcony and heading down the stairs to lunch, the deep-rooted echoes of the nerdy kid remain. The intervening years have covered him with the shell of an adult - taller, greyer, wearier. But his hands are still stuffed into his pockets. He still gazes unseeing at the floor as his mind grapples with a thorny, high-concept design problem, the latest in a lifetime of arcane solutions that still leave his contemporaries floundering. His gait is the shuffling near-skip of the man who, having always played the wizard or the goalie, never quite gained total control over his physical self. His clothes still don't fit properly. If you knew him back then, you would recognise him now. And knowing him now, you can still see him as he was then.
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