Onwards

Life goes on.


Mostly.

Harbour

Seahouses, Northumberland.

Unassuming and lo-fi, a place for the occasional Sunday afternoon out, when I was a kid - (whispers) when Dad was capable.

A couple of decades later, I could see more to Seahouses than I had done as a child. It stood as an invite to slow down, unwind, recharge - not a place of noise or garish colour, full of slateish greys and deep seaweed greens. It was, perhaps, a bit rude of us to go intruding on those who might call the town home.

But then again, if one's freedom can be bought (temporarily) for the small yet alluring sum of a bag of bacon bits, then perhaps the onus should be on a little more fishy self-restraint. Still, no harm done.

From our digging and sand-piling, The Boy and I turned a tad artful. A few days earlier, we'd stopped off in Durham for breakfast, and to watch Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince (not quite as dark and doomy as I'd imagined, pleasing for Jim Broadbent's Professor Horace Slughorn and Evanna Lynch's Luna Lovegood, overall quite restrained - a breathing space before the final chapter, the filmically two-parted final chapter). I suspect there were echoes of The Dark Lord, clouding our direction, as we got down to our sand-etching.

The Boy's work (above), and my own (below).

Try as he might, The Boy's sea-beckoning did rather fall a bit flat.

But lo and behold, when that tide turns, it does race in across those sandy Northumberland plains. And thus we did bear witness to the inglorious destruction of our work. It was gradual, it was wet, it was what we'd wait for. Which reminds me of something, well, elsewhere, that I read recently. Each unto his and her own in this wee family of t' 'net. Back in the land of wholesome goodness, and my, see the creation come a-tumbling down:

It turned out to be a more relaxing week than I'd imagined it would be. Emma was with us for much of it, which helped. My family dropped by to join us for some puffin-spotting - not overlooking the razorbills, guillemots, shags, arctic terns, seals and more, about the Farne Islands. It was good.

The Boy and I caught (and were rather pathetically scared by) a pipefish - well how was I to know that the damned thing would wriggle out of the bucket?! The Boy was impressed (and amused) at my delicate flick of said specimen, back into the harbour. And so it goes.

That was all a week ago. The Boy has been with the paternal clan, in Abersoch, this week - he gets about. I miss him. But his Dad timed their trip well, very well indeed... Emma grinds on, with what she must.

So, this week, I have been sustained by Wallander, Taking the Flak, Psychoville, and by the silly silly game that is XpertEleven. Couldn't quite bring myself to write (like, proper big really selfish stuff) or get out much.

As I write this, trickle-down grind reaches me, and so to it must I turn. Must I. I must.

Hope you're catching some summer... relaxation, that your bearing is positive, and that you (the visible, and the quiet ones) are well - simple but effective, seems reasonable enough.
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Histories

The Bed-time Blues.

Shane: It's late - you really need to brush your teeth now.

The Boy: But I'm not tired.

Shane: But you still need to brush your teeth.

The Boy: I'm hungry!

Emma: (fails to withhold snigger)

Shane: Look! It's li-ke... past nine o'clock.

The Boy: It's li-ke... a biscuit.

Shane: No! And don't be cheeky.

The Boy: Ohhhhhhhh.

Shane: I'm out of patience. I'm tired, I'm hungry, and I need you to brush your teeth and get into bed.

The Boy: Should I get you a biscuit, too?

Shane: Brush your teeth!

We are less than one week from the official summer not-a-holiday. Many events, many places, await. As a family unit, we are ill-prepared. As a family unit, as for so many others right now, we're having a tough time - a crunchie time - nothing to do with credit, though. Friends and family ask delicate questions and they invite us to hang in there. Some promise change. The audacity of hope - that's how it feels, that's what I hear.

Parting at the school gate earlier, The Boy chirruped, 'Shane! This time next week! Puffin Cottage!' 'That's the spirit', I thought. Got to work towards that same frame of mind - hope springs internal.

He did brush his teeth, and he did sleep well. No biscuits.

Handling

Such a lot going on, such a lot.

Anyway.

I find myself talking to a couple of actors - a married couple, nice people. And they're telling me about how he has to do a parachute jump as part of a film project that they're working on. He strikes me as the sort of chap whose likeliest form of exercise would be the run to beat closing time at the off-licence. I can tell that he didn't wash his hair this morning. She washed her's, though. Neither of which hair observations are related to jumping out of aeroplanes, but there you go.

We talk about their funding and about timescales. And then, dimly, distantly, I recall:

Shane: I think the strangest thing about parachute jumping was watching the ground get further away through the space where there should have been a door.

Him: The aeroplane doesn't have a door?!

Shane: No. It felt stable, though - tiny but stable. Bit breezy.

Him: No door?!

Her: (to Him) You didn't have to agree to it. Say you've changed your mind.

Shane: Thing is, after a day of training, I had such absolute faith in the people training us, that I felt very few nerves - it was just about doing what they'd said to do. And actually, the movement, as you come down - putting on the brakes - the side-to-side - kind of swinging down in great graceful arcs - even if you were a big ball of fat, it could feel like the most elegant thing you'd ever done.

Her: (mildly amused eyes)

Him: (murmurs)

Shane: Assuming the straps aren't digging into your arse, of course. There was one jumper - a woman -

Him: Yeah. I've heard it can be a bit uncomfortable.

Shane: It's like fastening your shoe laces. Too tight - loosen off a bit. Too loose - tighten up. The whole thing can be fairly profound... I'm not a scientist, but I found the stuff to do with movements of warm air - the thermals that'll lift you right back up as you cross over a heated runway - to be absolutely fascinating. Got to play with the brakes - the toggles - a bit as you're coming down, though - to get the measure of them, to trust them for the landing.

Her: Mm.

Shane: Mm. Wouldn't want to brake too early and go smack-down on your face.

Him: (frowning) You're not helping.

Shane: (thinks sideways, thinks about this chap being an actor) When I was a kid - through the teenage years, up to about twenty - I hated public-speaking. I mean hated - panic attacks, nausea, no belief. I ended up realising that it had to be dealt with and that only I could do that, otherwise I'd be really pissed off with myself - so I just flooded it. Any opportunity, I stepped up and spoke - I became a Master of Illusion - scared shitless for the first few goes but got away with it - quickly felt the circularity of the whole thing - fake confidence, get away with it, breed real confidence. But the nerves that I had to handle to get through that, I promise, they were off the scale compared to the jump 'plane going up.

Her: (raised eyebrows)

Him: (thinking) Yeah, but you see, public-speaking versus jumping out of an aeroplane - there's only one of them that...

Her: ...could kill y'?

Him: Yeah.

Shane: Mm. Strange, isn't it. Like I said, the whole thing can be quite profound.

This felt like a rare kind of conversation - one of those where you don't really know the person or people who you're talking to, but you sense that there's something slightly deeper going on - there's a... a puzzled warmth. It felt good. They said I could be in their film.

Okay, so I did ask to be in their film - which isn't cool, but I was joking. I was, really. But they weren't, I could tell. I'm not an actor, I don't want to be an actor, but I'll be in a film - it's something to tick-off. There are more important things to tick-off, but it'll be something.

I'm going to Morecambe tomorrow. I've never been to a Morecambe, before.
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Awkward

Every second Friday, routine now sees self, The Boy, and his Dad, drive over to the young cricketers' training session. Boy plays cricket, Dad reads a book or goes for a run, and I help out with the coaching. It's a comfortable enough set-up.

Last night, we probably stuck around for just a little bit too long, though it was fun having general knockabout time with the young guns - a largely bright and funny bunch. That is, whilst the wind is with them.

Getting into the car, The Boy realised that he forgot to have the drink that was bought for him about an hour earlier, and so suggested we return for him to have a drink. Dad and I were as one, 'You can wait, we'll be home in 10 minutes'. Cue tantrum - a rare thing, but a thing of tiredness and layered frustration nonethless. Some effort towards reasoning occurred, but this was upset that he'd just have to burn off. Barking his frustration from the back seat, we were struck with:

'You two are the worst parents I've ever had!'

Dad turned to me, observing, 'Seems you're Dad, too'.

'It was a beautiful moment', I agree.

A few minutes later, sitting on the doorstep of home (having peeled himself from Dad's car), The Boy accepted a glass of water. As a concession that was by my design and at Bio-Dad's despite-himself approval, it made for an awkward moment. I could feel Bio-Dad calling upon more reserves of patience than he knew he had. Quietly patting down The Boy's talk of 'I'm staying here, tonight' - he offered no real resistance - I kind of wished he was, but was also glad that he wasn't. He's been my little rock, of late. He scored his first competitive boundary (four runs), last weekend, too.
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Apostrophes

Greek god of irritating grammar and nuisance punctuation?
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UPDATE (5 seconds after originally posting): I guess this is the kind of post that Twitter is for swallowing up.
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Ache

On Tuesday morning, I awoke to the sound of Nadine Dorries being interviewed on Today. That was the audio equivalent of watching a chaotic pitbull harass innocent parkfolk - not a good start to any Tuesday.

Wednesday has been better.

Thursday addendum.

Audio

It's like we've been on a car journey for quite a long time - a long journey - with not much to look at along the way, a destination that is only vague - we've heard of the place - let's call it Philadelphia, but we've not seen any pictures or know quite what to expect. But we're pretty sure that it's worth travelling to. Long journey.


We've travelled so far, there can be no turning back. Well, there can, but that would feel really shitty. Extremities aside, the attitude has got to be: no matter how many punctures, breakdowns, false dawns or whatever elses present themselves, we're not quitting this journey.

I'm not driving - which is unusual. Often, I enjoy driving - the motion, the choice words from the radio, a degree of peace. But right now, I'm not driving. Well, I kind of am - but in a sort of reaching across from the passenger's seat sort of way - and maybe not so much driving, as keeping us on the road. On-rushing trucks.

For the past few months, next Monday was the date that we were to get to Philadelphia.

Was the date.

It seems that the journey is to continue. Whilst we can't say exactly how far we've still to travel, my guess is that we're still a distance from the interstate line. We're low on gas, and the air conditioning is on the blink.

We're all being stretched, moreso than this metaphor.

And so, as I dare to take my hands off the wheel, I look sideways for something that warrants this kind of single-mindedness. Dust whipping up, run-down factories, a broken-down long since forgotten car that was someone else's journey. Then I stop looking so hard, and what was right in front of me comes into sharpest focus again*.

So we push on, cos we've got to.

One dares to dream, cos one's got to.

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Maybe.

All without the pectorals, of course.

* The Boy and I had been playing Top Trumps (cars - bloody cars!) one evening, a week or so ago. His chirpiness was just what I needed. In the sound-bite, above, he finds much amusement in having dropped one of his cards and caught it between his toes.
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Arseholes?

I had toyed with posting about voting in the European Parliamentary election (the invisible election?) - about my experience of looking over the list of parties and candidates (the vote-splitters; the known and the no-face politicians), and the rationale (if I could raise the status of any one party in the UK, who would that be?) that led to me voting for a party (Green) that I'd never before voted for... but I won't. Instead:

Shane: Politics, eh.

Emma: Mm.

Shane: So what have we got?

Emma: Quite of few young, big-boobed beauties. There are the gays, a few internationals, one or two normals, a geordie - gay... you know, the usual. Oh! And a really nice young Brazilian lad.

Shane: Worth watching?

Emma: It will be, in bits. Eventually. First few weeks are usually too noisy - wait 'til they settle in and settle down.

Shane: Ok.

Emma: I think you should go on Big Brother.

Shane: You say that every year.

Emma: You should!

Shane: That would be hideous! How would I get on with ANY of the people you'd typically get on that programme?

Emma: I think you would. I think you'd be rubbish at the getting excited and all of the shrieking, but that's why you'd be good. You'd just be... y' know, not bothered.

Shane: It would be hideous. I'd end up in a conflict - on national television, with either a massive muscley male - hideous, or some totally ditsy blonde thing - equally hideous.

Emma: You wouldn't. You'd rise above it. You'd float about and you'd talk to everyone. Then they'd all vote you out and you'd be back here in less than a fortnight.

Shane: (a bit offended) D' y' reckon?

Emma: What?

Shane: D' y' think I'd be got rid of... quickly?

Emma: I don't know. There'd only be one way to find out...

Shane: Pathetic, absolutely pathetic. The humiliation! Just applying... before getting anywhere near to being on the tele'. Not a chance.

In the way that Huw doesn't concur with lofty disinterest in football, I hold the same view regarding Big Brother. As people discuss the programme - a massive and shifting cultural phenomenon since it first aired, the real value of the show becomes evident. In person, in-the-flesh, as part of life here on Earth, I have learned much about relative strangers, as I've listened to their views on the empty, the vacuous and the banal. Because, of course, them there - their - views, can be far from empty, vacuous or banal. Racism, sexism, politics, the value of time and energy, sexuality, relationship-formation, conflict - how and how not to resolve it, and much more besides. Big Brother has it all. And so, Big Brother is as sharp as the minds that watch and listen to it. So yes it will be tremendously dull, but it'll also be as sharp as... well, you and I...???

(Whispers) The thing is, I don't really care that much - you know, enough to actually vote, but there is something that can be pro-social about it all. I think that's what I hold onto.

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And for anyone who got this far down the post: a treat! A shot of the performance artist, Ron Athey - a very nice man. We once chatted about an atmospheric violin soloist. As I typed the title to this post, Ron came to mind.

Ass

Not so much a rocket from the crypt, as an echo from the everyday.

For S:

This past weekend, The Boy and his Dad had a chat about swearing.

Alex: Shane.

Shane: Mm?

Alex: Right, if I said 'I'm gonna kick your ass' -

Shane: Whoaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!

Alex: - so that would be swearing?

Shane: Yes to that. Swearing not good.

Alex: Okay-. What about - if I was talking to myself - what about 'Now I'm really pissed off'?

Shane: Definitely more swearing, there. No doubt about it.

Alex: (mock contemplative, suppressing a smirk) Mm, so Daddy was right, then.

And so, there came clear and direct Cultural Learnings from The Boy's viewing of HellBoy II (one of Mummy's more curious spending decisions, of late - we'll put that down to stress).

A little later:

Alex: I got told off by Gail (aunt), this weekend.

Shane: Why?

Alex: Well, you know in grandma's garden, the wall at the bottom - before the bushes and trees and things?

Shane: Yeah.

Alex: Well I was walking along the wall, and I sort of fell backwards into one of the bushes and scratched myself - see... (shows scratches on leg and back)

Shane: Sounds a bit harsh. She would've asked if you were okay, though?

Alex: I didn't get told off for falling off the wall... I got told off cos I said shit as I fell.

Shane: Ah. Another swear word. You would have to get told off for that.

Alex: But you say it.

Shane: Er... no I don't.

Alex: Yeah y' do. I told Daddy that y' do.

Shane: Oh, f-... what did y' want to go and do that for?

Alex: So I wouldn't get told off.

Shane: That's... no. No. You have to learn to not use words... like the swear words. And learn to stop imagining that you've heard me say any of them.

Alex: (pause) Y' do, though.

Shane: Sometimes - and this may catch you by surprise, here... sometimes - rare occasions, very rare indeed - I'm not perfect.

Alex: (slowly gets the point) You are so ridiculous.

'Perhaps', I thought, relieved at his having not just replied, 'Bollocks!'.