It's an automatic process, of course: the exchange of gases within the spongy sacs that fill our thoraxes, the gentle rhythmic pull of the diaphragm, drawing air in, expelling the voided gas. Did you know, however, that with any given breath or exhalation, you only expel, on average, about 10-15% of the used up stuff? Athletes do a bit more, but not much.
Yet when was the last time you really, really focused on the act of breathing, or noticed it? There are days when the air really is like wine, a intoxicating heady rush, eager to fill your lungs; there are times when air blasts through you, cleaning you out - I once experienced this in spectacular fashion, while climbing Carnedd Dafydd, and I encountered a sudden updraught of pure, stromg cold air that didn't just clean my sinuses, it seemed to fill me with an wild, cold fire, and I felt I could have run for hours and hours; then there are days when the atmosphere is laden with perfume from honeysuckle and jasmine and late flowering trees and all is a lavish, luxurious drug of drowsiness. And still we breathe.
Yet when do you focus on the act of breathing itself? Try it: close your eyes, and carefully count the breath in, the breath out, diastole, systole. Feel the air moving through your nasal passageways, in, then out: sense how it feels against the mouth, the throat, the nose, the lungs. Feel your chest rising and falling, then become aware of how your pulse has slowed, and how much slower you are, all of a sudden, breathing. Now, if you're brave enough, stop counting the breaths, and let them flow, and now watch the show inside your head of your thoughts rising and falling, vying with each other to be heard, some gentle, some strident, all needy.
I must admit at this point that I've stolen this idea from Marcus' journal. The act of counting your breath, that is. And what I've found is remarkable. As I seek to focus on the breathing, suddenly I become aware of tens, hundreds of voices, all striving to be heard over the bell-toll of my counting my breaths, or the magisterial silence as I try to let even counting go. And eaach voice is a bit of me, all parts of me articulating worries, fears, anxieties, boasts, terror. Yet while I'm in counting mode, I can look at all this shouting audience and understand, REALLY understand, how trivial or important something is, and get it done if necessary.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Sunday, February 08, 2009
ch-ch-ch-changes
I have, for my sins, or possibly just out of sheer torpor, just been watching the 1995 romcom The American President, featuring Michael Douglas as a singleton POTUS wooing Annette Bening. God I'm sad. There's one scene that stuck with me - the bit where the president is ordering an attack on some building with the full knowledge that a lot of innocent people will die. Just got me thinking: right now, someone, somewhere, is doing something that will have an impact on your life. It might be major, it might be minor, you might barely notice it, but because of someone else the course of your life has been changed, just because someone has said this or done that, or possibly because they HAVEN'T done this or said that. It might not be as dramatic as having the shit bombed out of your house, as Hamas and Israel between them have managed to concoct between them for the poor sods in Gaza, but nevertheless the path has been altered. And a small turn here ends up as a big diversion later.
Of course, this is a continuation of the theme of the last post. Who knows - maybe this entry has changed the course of someone's life by just a bit.
Of course, this is a continuation of the theme of the last post. Who knows - maybe this entry has changed the course of someone's life by just a bit.
Friday, February 06, 2009
Do? Don't do? Mean to do? Do be doo?
And still the snow falls, and still the students straggle in. I was half hoping that no-one would turn up. Well, no, I was fully hoping no-one would turn up actually, but there you go. In fact, from what I've seen, my class is the only one with anything near full attendance today. Bah.
I've been sat here for the past hour, thinking over ideas for lesson plans, but distracted by other thoughts, mostly along the lines of 'I meant to do this and that, but..' I suspect it's the trip up to North Wales that's got me in this vein of thought. How much time have I spent pondering this very statement? I meant to study more. I didn't mean to become a teacher. I meant to do this. I didn't mean to say that. And so forth and so on... The fact of the matter is, we are who we are because of what we do, or don't do. Inaction is as bad as action, sometimes. Whenever I say 'Oh, I meant to do this (but didn't)' , isn't this an admission of some kind of failure? Isn't it me owning up to being an inert lump?
My failure, as a person, has been to be too analytical, too cautious in moving towards action, and thus end up not doing anything much. I have been afraid of action, its consequences and possible harm to others, to the point that not doing seems safer. Yet not doing is harmful in its own way, to myself in my self-esteem (because I don't do the things I want or should do) and to what others need from me, especially my children.
My aim this year, and yes, I know this seems like a late new year's resolution, is to move away from saying 'I meant to do...' and just do it, and avoid 'I didn't mean to do...' by doing the right thing - for myself, at least.
I've been sat here for the past hour, thinking over ideas for lesson plans, but distracted by other thoughts, mostly along the lines of 'I meant to do this and that, but..' I suspect it's the trip up to North Wales that's got me in this vein of thought. How much time have I spent pondering this very statement? I meant to study more. I didn't mean to become a teacher. I meant to do this. I didn't mean to say that. And so forth and so on... The fact of the matter is, we are who we are because of what we do, or don't do. Inaction is as bad as action, sometimes. Whenever I say 'Oh, I meant to do this (but didn't)' , isn't this an admission of some kind of failure? Isn't it me owning up to being an inert lump?
My failure, as a person, has been to be too analytical, too cautious in moving towards action, and thus end up not doing anything much. I have been afraid of action, its consequences and possible harm to others, to the point that not doing seems safer. Yet not doing is harmful in its own way, to myself in my self-esteem (because I don't do the things I want or should do) and to what others need from me, especially my children.
My aim this year, and yes, I know this seems like a late new year's resolution, is to move away from saying 'I meant to do...' and just do it, and avoid 'I didn't mean to do...' by doing the right thing - for myself, at least.
Wednesday, February 04, 2009
More Ice
Walked up to school with Angus this morning. There'd been a hard frost, and the hill that we have to walk up was one solid gleaming sheet of polished ice. It wasn't too bad underfoot, but cars were having a torrid time getting up. There was a queue of Mummy Tanks going nowhere quickly, stuck on the steepest part of the hill. Quite frankly, I felt absolutely no sympathy for them. These were people who were just driving a few hundred metres to take their kids to school before turning right round again.
Regular readers will know that I have no small antipathy to people in big cars, especially Mummy Tanks: These huge, seven-seater 4wd vehicles that are used solely for the ferrying of a couple of small children and the week's shopping, have never been used in an environment that would require 4wd (except today, of course, and then the Mummy Tank drivers didn't have a clue how to use it), and are there as sops to the egos of fearful, fret-filled souls. Why the hell use them? All you do is literally burn money in order to drive an extra half-tonne of metal around. All for the sake of showing what aBIG car you have, what a LOT of money you must have, what an IMPORTANT person you must be. And also, it shows what a bully you are, and how little you care for your own kids' future as you burn up just a bit more fuel and pollute just a bit more, just because you can.
I also despise them because they are the most poorly-driven cars around. Most of my near misses have been because some arrogant bitch in her Mummy Tank thinks she can drive any which way she likes - she's not going to get hurt, because she's in a big tank, and damn everyone else. However, they are not the only tits on the road. Men who drive vehicles with names like the Mitsubishi Warrior - they're high up on the list of Road Twats. why on earth do you NEED to drive a car called a Warrior? to show that you're a MAAAAAN? That you're macho? Or that you're a sadly deluded middle-aged fatty who's overdosed on pies? 'cos you ain't a warrior.
One of my favourite names for one of these stupid vehicles is the Pajero - this is because, in Spanish, it's slang for 'wanker'. And that sums it up nicely.
Regular readers will know that I have no small antipathy to people in big cars, especially Mummy Tanks: These huge, seven-seater 4wd vehicles that are used solely for the ferrying of a couple of small children and the week's shopping, have never been used in an environment that would require 4wd (except today, of course, and then the Mummy Tank drivers didn't have a clue how to use it), and are there as sops to the egos of fearful, fret-filled souls. Why the hell use them? All you do is literally burn money in order to drive an extra half-tonne of metal around. All for the sake of showing what aBIG car you have, what a LOT of money you must have, what an IMPORTANT person you must be. And also, it shows what a bully you are, and how little you care for your own kids' future as you burn up just a bit more fuel and pollute just a bit more, just because you can.
I also despise them because they are the most poorly-driven cars around. Most of my near misses have been because some arrogant bitch in her Mummy Tank thinks she can drive any which way she likes - she's not going to get hurt, because she's in a big tank, and damn everyone else. However, they are not the only tits on the road. Men who drive vehicles with names like the Mitsubishi Warrior - they're high up on the list of Road Twats. why on earth do you NEED to drive a car called a Warrior? to show that you're a MAAAAAN? That you're macho? Or that you're a sadly deluded middle-aged fatty who's overdosed on pies? 'cos you ain't a warrior.
One of my favourite names for one of these stupid vehicles is the Pajero - this is because, in Spanish, it's slang for 'wanker'. And that sums it up nicely.
Tuesday, February 03, 2009
A weekend away
Oh my thumping head. I've spent the weekend in Bangor, attending the UCNW Stage Crew 25th birthday bash and going up a mountain. I went up by train last sunday: I was going to hire a car, but after working out costs and petrol, it worked out cheaper to go by rail. Besides, it allowed me to have a drink or several. And, when I got to my destination, to have several more, and then some. I stayed at the Eryl Mor Hotel, which conveniently enough was directly opposite the pub. It also boasts, as I found out the next morning, a spectacular view across the Menai Straits, Bangor Pier and harbour, and the wide, snow-flecked sweep of Snowdonia.It was great to meet up with a few old faces - I wasn't sure that I'd recognise anyone, or whether they'd recognise me. In a couple of cases, it took a bit of intent peering behind fading hair and wrinkles to work out who was who. Besides, alcohol was involved, which didn't exactly help things at times. I'd half-expected that we'd be meeting up at the Student's Union, but no: apparently, it's hardly open anymore, it's losing money and it's about to be pulled down. It was a bit of a shame, because I would have liked to have seen the old place one more time. However, its failing state suggests that its heyday had been when I was a student there, in the times when a room with a fire safety limit of 125 persons was regularly filled with more than 4 times that amount, where the air was thick with cigarette smoke and cheap 80s perfumes and body spray and beer fug and a frantic joy. Whether this is a good or bad thing, I'm not sure. I did walk past the place as I went home, and I could see the toll of the years - if it didn't get pulled down, it would fall down. Some things hadn't changed: the faded Welsh graffito on the wall of Jock's bar, the signage painted by green algae, the curtains on the upper floors in their half-open, half-torn, mostly stained state - even a half-drunk bottle of Newcastle Brown, placed behind a pillar and visible through the floor-to-ceiling windows, could have been there since 1989. Overall, though, I think we did best to stay in the comfort of the Tap and Spile.
On Saturday morning, nursing an aching head and a stomach full of a Full Welsh Breakfast (that's an English Breakfast, coooked in Wales), I took the bus up to Llanberis for a climb up Snowdon. My intention was to get the Sherpa bus to Pen Y Pass, then go over Pyg Track and down the Llanberis Path. Once I'd arrived at Llanberis, however, I quickly revised my plan. First, there was an awful lot of snow on the mountain: second, there was a freezing cold hard wind blowing gale strength. I realised that meant my original plan would be impossible to undertake because of the wind direction and strength and because the snow on the Pen Y Pass side would probably make any Snowdon ascent extremely difficult, even if well equipped. Instead, I took the Llanberis path, which is a tedious, dull, hard and very long slog up the mountain. There were plenty of other people going up the path, and it didn't cease to amaze me how poorly equipped some of them were. I went up with my trusty Berghaus boots, waterproof trousers, winter jacket, walking poles and a backpack with map, lights, food, medical pack, water and other useful bits; One chap I saw, while wonderfully coordinated in his clothing choice, had skimpy pixie boots, a lightweight summer jacket, a tastefully chosen bandanna and a jaunty little knapsack. Others were plodding up as though they were just popping back from the shops, including carrying a plastic shopping bag with a few bits and pieces in.
After getting past Clogwyn Station, the snow appeared, but it was deep snow that had been lying for quite a while and had turned into a very hard crust, with soft and rotten snow below. It had blown into drifts in some areas higher than my head, and left only very thin paths up, especially at the point where you walk under the rail line and look over Pen Y Pass towards the Glyders. I trudged on up, fighting my hangover and the wind and the cold, until I go to the point where the path deviates higher up from the rail line, under Carnedd Ugain and towards Clogwyn Coch, and saw a few groups of people sitting on the snow. Some where shuffling gingerly upwards on their bums, while others were shuffling gingerly downwards. After a few more steps, and not without a slightly rising sense of horror, I realised why: the snow had turned into an extremely dangerous sheet of ice, pointing down towards a sheer fall. I tried probing the snow, but it was quickly obvious that it was a solid icy crust. I also realised that I would have to be extraordinarily careful in order to turn round and get the hell out of there. It was brought home to me how you need crampons and ice axes whenever on the side of a snowy slope like that. Amazingly, some idiots with minimal equipment were still trying to get higher up. I decided to turn back, with lots of very small, careful steps and judicious use of walking poles. I wasn't helped in this by the wind, which was doing its best to unbalance me. What was also worse was the wind direction - from the south, meaning that it was relatively warm, meaning it was melting the snow, meaning that it was a rapidly increasing avalanche risk - if not that day, then later. Anyway, as you can tell, I made it off safely.
The next day, two brothers, in their 30s and both married, fell and died, less than 100 metres away from where I reached.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
I don't fancy yours much..
This is what happens when you pour alcohol down my mum and sister's throats. These were taken at dad's birthday dinner, at Picasso's on Caversham Bridge. Mum's put far nicer pictures on Facebook.
Monday, January 12, 2009
that's about right...
Your Word is "Why" |
 You see life as complicated and intriguing. The only thing you know for sure is that you haven't figured it all out yet. You question everything and believe very little. And whatever you believe is likely to change. You are interested in theories, philosophies, and religions... even if you don't buy into any of them. You are also fascinated by how things work. You'd like to understand as much in the world as possible. |
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
12 months, 12 pictures part three
..although, as you may notice, there are in fact fifteen pics, in reverse chronological order. I was surprised to find that I'd taken well over 500 pictures on my mobile phone this year: I thought I'd done bugger all. Anyway, these are all mobile phone pics, and I've chosen them just because they speak to me. I haven't necessarily gone for those shots that I love the best, although I must admit the november pic of Angus is one of my favourites.
And Happy New Year to everyone!
Tuesday, December 09, 2008
I've been somewhat remiss of late, thanks to work commitments, so it seems only fitting that I return with an old favourite of this blog, namely children's tv programmes. The prompt for this has been the death of Oliver Postgate, creator of Bagpuss and The Clangers, amongst others.
Being a 70's kid, Bagpuss and The Clangers loom large in my childhood memory, right up there with Pipkins (It's.......................TIME! for a story), Crystal Tips and Alastair, Charlie the Cat and his mad musings on health and safety, Mary, Mungo and Midge, and of course, the titan that is Rainbow. Now, it should be pointed out that children's tv programmes at this period were downright weird and occasinally deeply disturbing. I know I've mentioned Roly Poly Fucking Olie before and The Bloody Weird World of Richard Scarry (involving a worm in a wheelchair), but these are American programmes and bloody idiotic by dint of being far too wholesome. And Crap. Home-grown British kids'tv however...weirdness abounds, alongside some deep political commentary and drugs references, or somewhat disturbing sexual connotations. Captain Pugwash, ALLEGEDLY (that's for the benefit of the lawyers), a tale of salty seafolk on the high seas, contained a Seaman Staines and Roger the Cabinboy. Fingerbobs, a programme involving really duff finger puppets, had a presenter who looked like he should have been confined to an institution that dealt with all kinds of strange...urges. Mary, mungo and midge? Searing indictment on the miserable solitude of modern life, where a single girl is trapped in a high-rise block of flats, with only a mouse and a dog as friends. Crystal Tips and Alastair? a pair of Acid-tripping freaks, giggling and chasing butterflies. Mr Benn? Well, what can you say better than it does itself: 'all of a sudden, the shopkeeper appeared and said, 'fancy a trip, mannn?' and Mr Benn found himself embarking from a UFO in the middle of some mushrooms while all the fairy people danced around singing about the Age of Aquarius...'
Bagpuss is different. Now, i thought I'd already mentioned this in an earlier post on this blog, but I'm damned if I can find it. Bagpuss is actually a communist dialectic. Let's look at the facts. It's set in a junk shop - an Edwardian junkshop. this is clearly symbolic of the collapse of capitalism. Bagpuss himself is a symbol of the Communist revolution. Why? Because 'When he wakes up, EVERYONE wakes up!' that is, all true revolutionaries heed the spirit of the time.
the mice? they are the GLORIOUS PROLETARIAT. Their song is 'we will fix it, we will mend it', that is, they shall rebuild all society into a fair and just place for all.
The frog is the minstrel, composing poems in celebration of Bagpuss' achievements, while Professor Yaffle is the intellectual, guiding with a wise wooden beak the works of the proletariat.
See? it works.
Don't ask me about Ragdolly Anna though. She's some kind of Commie Groupie.
Being a 70's kid, Bagpuss and The Clangers loom large in my childhood memory, right up there with Pipkins (It's.......................TIME! for a story), Crystal Tips and Alastair, Charlie the Cat and his mad musings on health and safety, Mary, Mungo and Midge, and of course, the titan that is Rainbow. Now, it should be pointed out that children's tv programmes at this period were downright weird and occasinally deeply disturbing. I know I've mentioned Roly Poly Fucking Olie before and The Bloody Weird World of Richard Scarry (involving a worm in a wheelchair), but these are American programmes and bloody idiotic by dint of being far too wholesome. And Crap. Home-grown British kids'tv however...weirdness abounds, alongside some deep political commentary and drugs references, or somewhat disturbing sexual connotations. Captain Pugwash, ALLEGEDLY (that's for the benefit of the lawyers), a tale of salty seafolk on the high seas, contained a Seaman Staines and Roger the Cabinboy. Fingerbobs, a programme involving really duff finger puppets, had a presenter who looked like he should have been confined to an institution that dealt with all kinds of strange...urges. Mary, mungo and midge? Searing indictment on the miserable solitude of modern life, where a single girl is trapped in a high-rise block of flats, with only a mouse and a dog as friends. Crystal Tips and Alastair? a pair of Acid-tripping freaks, giggling and chasing butterflies. Mr Benn? Well, what can you say better than it does itself: 'all of a sudden, the shopkeeper appeared and said, 'fancy a trip, mannn?' and Mr Benn found himself embarking from a UFO in the middle of some mushrooms while all the fairy people danced around singing about the Age of Aquarius...'
Bagpuss is different. Now, i thought I'd already mentioned this in an earlier post on this blog, but I'm damned if I can find it. Bagpuss is actually a communist dialectic. Let's look at the facts. It's set in a junk shop - an Edwardian junkshop. this is clearly symbolic of the collapse of capitalism. Bagpuss himself is a symbol of the Communist revolution. Why? Because 'When he wakes up, EVERYONE wakes up!' that is, all true revolutionaries heed the spirit of the time.
the mice? they are the GLORIOUS PROLETARIAT. Their song is 'we will fix it, we will mend it', that is, they shall rebuild all society into a fair and just place for all.
The frog is the minstrel, composing poems in celebration of Bagpuss' achievements, while Professor Yaffle is the intellectual, guiding with a wise wooden beak the works of the proletariat.
See? it works.
Don't ask me about Ragdolly Anna though. She's some kind of Commie Groupie.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Snow
Brr, it's cold. Earlier on, returning home, I had one of the worst bike rides I've ever experienced, weather-wise. I got literally drenched to the skin by heavy rainfall, and the temperature was close to freezing. By the time I got home, I could hardly hold my house keys, and once I got in the house, I started shivering like buggery. And now, outside, it is snowing! Great, fat, wet clumps of snow, but snow nonetheless. I don't recall it ever snowing in October before, not this far south anyway.
What is it about snow that fascinates so much? Is it its texture, its evanescence, its seeming purity? Is it the way it blanks out all sound and leaves the earth a quiet and brooding place? I remember being enthralled as a child whenever it snowed, and always wishing that it would continue on and on, and always feeling a sense of baffled disappointment as the flakes would suddenly weaken, then lessen, then stop altogether.
In fact, I can count the number of times I've been in significant snowfall on the fingers of one hand. Even when in Istanbul, I never experienced the joy of a Snow Holiday, when the entire city becomes locked in deep drifts heaved down from the Black Sea. And now, here I am, one eye on the screen, another on the picture outside, of great white flakes drifting lazily through orange street light, wondering when it will stop, half-hoping it won't.
What is it about snow that fascinates so much? Is it its texture, its evanescence, its seeming purity? Is it the way it blanks out all sound and leaves the earth a quiet and brooding place? I remember being enthralled as a child whenever it snowed, and always wishing that it would continue on and on, and always feeling a sense of baffled disappointment as the flakes would suddenly weaken, then lessen, then stop altogether.
In fact, I can count the number of times I've been in significant snowfall on the fingers of one hand. Even when in Istanbul, I never experienced the joy of a Snow Holiday, when the entire city becomes locked in deep drifts heaved down from the Black Sea. And now, here I am, one eye on the screen, another on the picture outside, of great white flakes drifting lazily through orange street light, wondering when it will stop, half-hoping it won't.
Monday, October 20, 2008
God, I hate being ill. Still, that is how you find me - dosed up on Lemsip, ginger tea and lentil soup. I literally ache all over. I couldn't sleep last night whatsoever, and each time I tried, I felt a wave of panic sweep over me: For some reason, all I could see in front of me was my workload and a feeling of helplessness in the face of it. Unsurprisingly, I've spent the day feeling rougher than a badger's badger. And while I don't feel quite as I did last night, every single joint, especially in my hands and feet, feels as if they've swollen up.
Sunday, October 05, 2008
On this day in history....
I've just installed Sunbird (a calendar/task application) on the computer, and was playing round with the dates, when one came up: Sunday, October 5th 1986. Exactly twenty-two years ago to the day, I was on my way to university for the first time. Indeed, it was my first time away from my family, if you except a week at scout camp and another on a school trip. The weather was actually not too far removed from what it has been today: cold and grey and damp, although the rain then came in gobbets and gusts rather than the fairly solid downpour of this morning. My going was not exactly what you could call a cheery affair: for starters, I was feeling extremely apprehensive about what I was heading to, and about what I was leaving behind. My parents had only just split up, and there was a lot of pain and rancour floating around. Dad had moved out, mum was trying to keep it all together, and my sister was going to have to face all the emotional maelstrom by herself. In a way, I was glad to be going – I could shut out all the hurt. At the same time, I really felt for Karen and mum, and was worried about what would happen.
Anyway, I'd packed my bags the previous night. Actually, I should say bag: An enormous blue rucksack, stuffed to the gills with clothes, books, a kettle, some fruitcake crushed in the bottom, a sandwich toaster donated by my aunt, a few items of cutlery, various bits and pieces and, on the outside, a collection of pots and pans, meaning I'd clank as I walked. I say walked, I mean staggered, as the thing weighed a ton. My dad had promised to bring up the rest of my stuff, including my camera, later on in the term. I'd gone up to the pub and said bye to my mates, and had, if memory serves me well, a fairly good night's sleep. Then, early on that cold Sunday, my dad turned up on the gravel drive in his company Volvo, and loaded my stuff, and we all set off for the station in an atmosphere of tense, nervous bursts of talk interspersing the tense nervous silences. We picked up my girlfriend en route, adding another layer of emotional unhappiness to the mix.
We arrived at about eightish at Reading station, and I remember it being surprisingly busy for a Sunday morning. The entrance at that time was through a narrow door in the old Victorian station building, past a grimy, grey ticket office with scratched plastic panels separating the vendors form the public, and a station guard in the old BR uniform, his grey hair slicked back beneath his cap, busily checking tickets and pointing people in the right direction. We crossed over to platform 8, and my dad insisted on us all having coffee in the depressing little tearoom. As we waited, announcements floated through the air, then there was one relating to my train:
'Due to works, the 8.50 to Birmingham New Street will terminate at Didcot. Please alight there and take the connecting train to continue your onward journey.'
My mum looked at me with a wave of first, shock, then disappointment, then concern, then brief anger passing over her face. I just shrugged. Well, we all just waited on that platform, me smoking with Jo, Mum, Dad and Karen stood around, and no-one really knowing what to say. The wind picked up a little: it was cold, and flicked rain at us. Eventually, and with some feeling of relief on my part, the train arrived. I hauled my bag onto the train, kissed mum, hugged Karen, said goodbye to dad, and then Jo burst into frantic tears, but what could I do? I hugged and kissed her and said goodbye and that I'd call that evening, then she abruptly pulled away, sobbing. I got on the train, and pulled the door to behind me. The guard walked up and down the concourse, and blew into his whistle. I leaned out of the door window and said goodbye again, then there was a soft judder and the whole engine strained forward, each wheel rolling first gently then gradually picking up speed. I waved to mum, and karen, and Jo and dad and blew kisses, and they waved back as the receded into the distance, and I saw Jo suddenly turn her back again and sob. The train pulled out of the station: rain flicked into my face. I saw a line of shirts on a washing line, waving goodbye, I saw the graffiti on walls and alleys, the industrial units lining the train tracks, train carriages in sidings, and then I went to sit down, dragging my rucksack with me. I don't recall much of this part of the journey – in fact, it didn't last long, before it pulled into Didcot station, in the shadow of the power station chimneys, and I had to run, or rather stagger with greater alacrity, to catch the connecting train.
What I recall of this journey was first, how long it seemed to take. The train crawled all the way through Banbury, Leamington Spa, Coventry, Birmingham International and Birmingham New Street, Wolverhampton, Stafford and finally Crewe, where I had to change again. Next, I recall the cheery voice of the train driver, who happily recounted the names of the stations and any and all delays and cancellations due to works on the line, and who whistled and sang to himself, having left the intercom on. Over the next few years, I heard his voice many times, and always associated it with that journey into the north. The carriage always seemed to be mostly the same, and in fact seemed to contain pretty much the same people: there were always several students, pretending to read something academic, somebody, usually male, talking loudly and self-importantly, a little old lady, and a group of Glaswegians drinking McEwans and playing cards. On this first occasion, there was also a group of Japanese tourists, taking photos out of the window. Incongruously, sat right in the middle of them, was a fully-blown hippy, with long frizzy ginger hair, John Lennon glasses, and purple corduroy flares with yellow loons stitched in. Considering that this was 1986, it was retro to say the least.
At Crewe, I had to wait nearly an hour in the freezing cold before my connection arrived – the train to Bangor. I got on, and somehow got talking to the hippy, who, it turned out was an ex-student at UCNW Bangor. Anyhow, I spent the journey talking, and the sun suddenly appeared and mountains rose like waves suddenly, and my heart rose, and I realised that I was entering a brand new chapter of everything.
At which point, I think I should stop for now and leave the description of what happened next for another time.
Anyway, I'd packed my bags the previous night. Actually, I should say bag: An enormous blue rucksack, stuffed to the gills with clothes, books, a kettle, some fruitcake crushed in the bottom, a sandwich toaster donated by my aunt, a few items of cutlery, various bits and pieces and, on the outside, a collection of pots and pans, meaning I'd clank as I walked. I say walked, I mean staggered, as the thing weighed a ton. My dad had promised to bring up the rest of my stuff, including my camera, later on in the term. I'd gone up to the pub and said bye to my mates, and had, if memory serves me well, a fairly good night's sleep. Then, early on that cold Sunday, my dad turned up on the gravel drive in his company Volvo, and loaded my stuff, and we all set off for the station in an atmosphere of tense, nervous bursts of talk interspersing the tense nervous silences. We picked up my girlfriend en route, adding another layer of emotional unhappiness to the mix.
We arrived at about eightish at Reading station, and I remember it being surprisingly busy for a Sunday morning. The entrance at that time was through a narrow door in the old Victorian station building, past a grimy, grey ticket office with scratched plastic panels separating the vendors form the public, and a station guard in the old BR uniform, his grey hair slicked back beneath his cap, busily checking tickets and pointing people in the right direction. We crossed over to platform 8, and my dad insisted on us all having coffee in the depressing little tearoom. As we waited, announcements floated through the air, then there was one relating to my train:
'Due to works, the 8.50 to Birmingham New Street will terminate at Didcot. Please alight there and take the connecting train to continue your onward journey.'
My mum looked at me with a wave of first, shock, then disappointment, then concern, then brief anger passing over her face. I just shrugged. Well, we all just waited on that platform, me smoking with Jo, Mum, Dad and Karen stood around, and no-one really knowing what to say. The wind picked up a little: it was cold, and flicked rain at us. Eventually, and with some feeling of relief on my part, the train arrived. I hauled my bag onto the train, kissed mum, hugged Karen, said goodbye to dad, and then Jo burst into frantic tears, but what could I do? I hugged and kissed her and said goodbye and that I'd call that evening, then she abruptly pulled away, sobbing. I got on the train, and pulled the door to behind me. The guard walked up and down the concourse, and blew into his whistle. I leaned out of the door window and said goodbye again, then there was a soft judder and the whole engine strained forward, each wheel rolling first gently then gradually picking up speed. I waved to mum, and karen, and Jo and dad and blew kisses, and they waved back as the receded into the distance, and I saw Jo suddenly turn her back again and sob. The train pulled out of the station: rain flicked into my face. I saw a line of shirts on a washing line, waving goodbye, I saw the graffiti on walls and alleys, the industrial units lining the train tracks, train carriages in sidings, and then I went to sit down, dragging my rucksack with me. I don't recall much of this part of the journey – in fact, it didn't last long, before it pulled into Didcot station, in the shadow of the power station chimneys, and I had to run, or rather stagger with greater alacrity, to catch the connecting train.
What I recall of this journey was first, how long it seemed to take. The train crawled all the way through Banbury, Leamington Spa, Coventry, Birmingham International and Birmingham New Street, Wolverhampton, Stafford and finally Crewe, where I had to change again. Next, I recall the cheery voice of the train driver, who happily recounted the names of the stations and any and all delays and cancellations due to works on the line, and who whistled and sang to himself, having left the intercom on. Over the next few years, I heard his voice many times, and always associated it with that journey into the north. The carriage always seemed to be mostly the same, and in fact seemed to contain pretty much the same people: there were always several students, pretending to read something academic, somebody, usually male, talking loudly and self-importantly, a little old lady, and a group of Glaswegians drinking McEwans and playing cards. On this first occasion, there was also a group of Japanese tourists, taking photos out of the window. Incongruously, sat right in the middle of them, was a fully-blown hippy, with long frizzy ginger hair, John Lennon glasses, and purple corduroy flares with yellow loons stitched in. Considering that this was 1986, it was retro to say the least.
At Crewe, I had to wait nearly an hour in the freezing cold before my connection arrived – the train to Bangor. I got on, and somehow got talking to the hippy, who, it turned out was an ex-student at UCNW Bangor. Anyhow, I spent the journey talking, and the sun suddenly appeared and mountains rose like waves suddenly, and my heart rose, and I realised that I was entering a brand new chapter of everything.
At which point, I think I should stop for now and leave the description of what happened next for another time.
Saturday, October 04, 2008
not much to actually write here - just that I'm doing this on my new Advent 4211 Netbook, which so far seems to be working a dream. Considering that it's less than half the size of my good old Dell workhorse, and only about a kilo in weight, and that it does pretty much everything I need a computer to do - surf stuff, hold documents and do writing on - I'm pleased.
Here's a picture of me looking ecstatic taken using the inbuilt webcam.
Here's a picture of me looking ecstatic taken using the inbuilt webcam.
Monday, September 29, 2008
six or seven degrees of separation?
By how far are we divorced from ourselves? What is the distance between the person we show ourselves to be, and the very core of our souls? How many steps does it take to step out, walk the paths of other people's lives and return to us?
Sorry, I came over all philosophical there. In fact, I'm just going to try a little blog game. You've probably all heard of the idea that we are only separated from any other person by six degrees of separation - you want to find someone, you talk to a friend, then a friend of a friend, that that person's friend, then their friend, then their friend, and a friend after that, and voila, the person whom you seek - but how many steps does it take to get back to oneself? To be exact, how many blogs would I have to go through before finding a link back to this site? And what kind of blogs would I pass through on the journey? Let's see how many I have to go through. There's a single rule: I can't return via the first blog I link to.
Sorry, I came over all philosophical there. In fact, I'm just going to try a little blog game. You've probably all heard of the idea that we are only separated from any other person by six degrees of separation - you want to find someone, you talk to a friend, then a friend of a friend, that that person's friend, then their friend, then their friend, and a friend after that, and voila, the person whom you seek - but how many steps does it take to get back to oneself? To be exact, how many blogs would I have to go through before finding a link back to this site? And what kind of blogs would I pass through on the journey? Let's see how many I have to go through. There's a single rule: I can't return via the first blog I link to.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Far off signals
I've found myself a little busy this past week or so, and at the same time strangely reluctant to do much, hence my not posting anything, somewhat ironically considerring my previous post. Anyway.
Last tuesday, I returned home, panting and sweating from another evening spent dodging vehicles as I cycled from work, and as ever parked the bike in the garden. Coming back out of the garden entrance, I looked up, and noticed that the Satellite Dish Fairy had been. Alongside our humble Sky minidish, through which the house receives the standard terrestrial channels and about 15,000 other channels of what is mostly mindglop, there was a bloody HUGE new satellite dish. It probably has the ability to pick up signals from TV stations beaming from Arcturus. It only took me a few seconds to surmise what had happened: Nurel had been hankering after Turkish TV ever since coming across a programme, via the internet, called 'Asi' several weeks ago. She spent the best party of two weeks, almost NON-STOP, watching it in 8-minute bursts courtesy of YouTube. To that end, she'd been scouring eBay and Gumtree for cheap satellite dishes, and had even mentioned ones up in North London, over in Yorkshire, even in Wales.
It turned out that she'd actually bought one via eBay for £50, driven up to London (with Sean in tow), collected it, driven back, phoned a local friendly Turkish Satellite Installation Guy to install the bloody thing, and left me to come home gaping in surprise at the whole thing. Which she did: I have to admit I admire the speed and efficiency with which the whole deed was accomplished. So now we have about 15,000 additional channels, this time in Turkish.
Now, this is actually no bad thing, for several reasons. Firstly, it means the boys are getting some badly-needed additional Turkish input - not just the language, but also exposure to Turkish culture, or perhaps the Turkish media's interpretation of what Turkish culture is. What I mean by this is that, for example, watch Eastenders and say that that is an entirely accurate description of what British culture is. However, it can only be useful. Second, Nur's clearly suddenly much more comfortable and happier. Third, while watching snatches of it I can indulge in mentally translating things and also indulge in my love of wordplay and mockery. Next, by having it on in the evenings it makes me much more inclined to go and do something more productive - I become far more aware of how passive I feel in front of a TV when I'm watching something in a foreign language. And lastly, our house suddenly feels like a little corner of Turkey, and that is no bad thing at all.
Last tuesday, I returned home, panting and sweating from another evening spent dodging vehicles as I cycled from work, and as ever parked the bike in the garden. Coming back out of the garden entrance, I looked up, and noticed that the Satellite Dish Fairy had been. Alongside our humble Sky minidish, through which the house receives the standard terrestrial channels and about 15,000 other channels of what is mostly mindglop, there was a bloody HUGE new satellite dish. It probably has the ability to pick up signals from TV stations beaming from Arcturus. It only took me a few seconds to surmise what had happened: Nurel had been hankering after Turkish TV ever since coming across a programme, via the internet, called 'Asi' several weeks ago. She spent the best party of two weeks, almost NON-STOP, watching it in 8-minute bursts courtesy of YouTube. To that end, she'd been scouring eBay and Gumtree for cheap satellite dishes, and had even mentioned ones up in North London, over in Yorkshire, even in Wales.
It turned out that she'd actually bought one via eBay for £50, driven up to London (with Sean in tow), collected it, driven back, phoned a local friendly Turkish Satellite Installation Guy to install the bloody thing, and left me to come home gaping in surprise at the whole thing. Which she did: I have to admit I admire the speed and efficiency with which the whole deed was accomplished. So now we have about 15,000 additional channels, this time in Turkish.
Now, this is actually no bad thing, for several reasons. Firstly, it means the boys are getting some badly-needed additional Turkish input - not just the language, but also exposure to Turkish culture, or perhaps the Turkish media's interpretation of what Turkish culture is. What I mean by this is that, for example, watch Eastenders and say that that is an entirely accurate description of what British culture is. However, it can only be useful. Second, Nur's clearly suddenly much more comfortable and happier. Third, while watching snatches of it I can indulge in mentally translating things and also indulge in my love of wordplay and mockery. Next, by having it on in the evenings it makes me much more inclined to go and do something more productive - I become far more aware of how passive I feel in front of a TV when I'm watching something in a foreign language. And lastly, our house suddenly feels like a little corner of Turkey, and that is no bad thing at all.
Tuesday, September 09, 2008
'My friends, I have wasted a day'.
Or, What Have You Done Today To Make You Feel Proud?
The quote in the title is from Suetonius' The Twelve Caesars, and is reputedly what the Emporer Titus said one day at a banquet when he realised that he had done nothing that day to help others or improve their lot. Had he ruled longer, he may well have gone down as one of the better Roman Emporers - however, his apparent generosity of spirit could well have buggered up Imperial finances and undone all the hard work of his father, Vespasian.
The alternative title is that of the song, and is one of those upbeat catchy things they do at sporting events, e.g the Olympic party in London, and an exhortation to positivity with a capital P. In fact, capital O-S-I-T-I-V-I-T-Y, as well. It's the kind of music that goes with videos of people smiling and laughing on sunny days, or waving their arms in sporting triumph, or quite possibly as the background music to an advert showing some bloke who has sucessfully managed to shave his face with some new multi-bladed razor without ripping through his jugular, and is now getting admiring looks from his significant other, before heading off in his private jet helicopter to the golf course.
On the whole, I prefer the melancholic air of Titus. How is it possible, each day and every day, to do something to make you (sic) feel proud? Make yourself feel good, yes, but proud? The problem with exhortations like this is that, while they sound like good ideas, they in fact set you up to fail. Imagine examining your day at the closing of it; You look at what you have done, and ask, 'what have I done to make me (sic) proud?'; What if you've done things that make you feel Okay, but not outright proud; Wouldn't you feel a bit of a failure? And imagine that day in, day out - you'd end up feeling like a total loser, decide there's no point, and probably rip through your jugular with your new multi-bladed razor.
We cannot possibly aspire to do uplifting things on such a regular basis - such demands finally lead us top failure. So how about a slightly different question - 'What is the difference between this morning when I woke, and this evening before I sleep?' If there is even just a slight difference - a new thing learned, a task completed, a fear faced - then that is good. If the answer to the question is truly 'nothing', then we can sigh like Titus, but then look ahead to ther next day, when new chances may arise.
The quote in the title is from Suetonius' The Twelve Caesars, and is reputedly what the Emporer Titus said one day at a banquet when he realised that he had done nothing that day to help others or improve their lot. Had he ruled longer, he may well have gone down as one of the better Roman Emporers - however, his apparent generosity of spirit could well have buggered up Imperial finances and undone all the hard work of his father, Vespasian.
The alternative title is that of the song, and is one of those upbeat catchy things they do at sporting events, e.g the Olympic party in London, and an exhortation to positivity with a capital P. In fact, capital O-S-I-T-I-V-I-T-Y, as well. It's the kind of music that goes with videos of people smiling and laughing on sunny days, or waving their arms in sporting triumph, or quite possibly as the background music to an advert showing some bloke who has sucessfully managed to shave his face with some new multi-bladed razor without ripping through his jugular, and is now getting admiring looks from his significant other, before heading off in his private jet helicopter to the golf course.
On the whole, I prefer the melancholic air of Titus. How is it possible, each day and every day, to do something to make you (sic) feel proud? Make yourself feel good, yes, but proud? The problem with exhortations like this is that, while they sound like good ideas, they in fact set you up to fail. Imagine examining your day at the closing of it; You look at what you have done, and ask, 'what have I done to make me (sic) proud?'; What if you've done things that make you feel Okay, but not outright proud; Wouldn't you feel a bit of a failure? And imagine that day in, day out - you'd end up feeling like a total loser, decide there's no point, and probably rip through your jugular with your new multi-bladed razor.
We cannot possibly aspire to do uplifting things on such a regular basis - such demands finally lead us top failure. So how about a slightly different question - 'What is the difference between this morning when I woke, and this evening before I sleep?' If there is even just a slight difference - a new thing learned, a task completed, a fear faced - then that is good. If the answer to the question is truly 'nothing', then we can sigh like Titus, but then look ahead to ther next day, when new chances may arise.
Monday, September 01, 2008
Back to work today. Bah. Actually, it's not that bad: At least I'll be able to keep myself fully occupied with something other than child-centred activities. I can't say that I hugely look forward to the summer holidays, simply because I find myself flailing around for things to do, and also because I can't get any concentrated work done because of aforementioned parental duties. In addition, this year money has been horribly tight, which has meant that we haven't been able to get away whatsoever. We were considering just taking the tent and pitching somewhere, but the weather's been so bloody miserable it's just as well we didn't - I can't envisage it as having been anything other than a very damp experience. However, I am determined that next year we'll have a decent jaunt in Turkey.
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