how-you-say-it

7/7: His Latest Period of Absence

2011-06-15T16:44:00.001+01:00

'It is a decision for you and you alone,' counsel explained, 'we need an answer.' Unyielding, apparently unmoved, the client continued to stare into the oak beams, it dawning on counsel that no decision would - or perhaps could - be forthcoming.
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6/7: Light at the End of the Estate

2011-06-14T10:17:00.003+01:00

Chimneys drawn sharply against the darkening sunset, the sky bade goodnight. Under a flat roof on the edge of town, shift worker and machine bathed in halogen daylight.
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5/7: Hours after Mam's service

2011-06-13T16:34:00.008+01:00

Her parents had moved 200 miles north such that an adoption, 'at their age', could be effected. Now, overlooking a blustery North Sea, she clasped the hand tight - the good man, the one who would not get away, the one who had already decided to leave.
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4/7: I think, therefore it is

2011-06-12T00:24:00.004+01:00

With the utter conviction of one who had never been inclined to reason, the emerald dress leaned forward with an inelegantly raised hand. 'Thing is,' she whispered, 'I happen to know someone who works in a college just like that, and believe me, many of these kids are lost from day one.'
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3/7: The Giveaway

2011-06-11T09:06:00.006+01:00

Barely perceptible, but there, a flicker of something - no doubt about it, the eyes flashed alert. Half-baked hypotheses now queuing to be made sense of, the older man rose, made his excuses, and headed out onto the street.
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2/7: At 54 m.p.h.

2011-06-10T09:21:00.005+01:00

Cutting corners was made easy by the low hedges. Dropping left, eyes darting right, a buzzard perched atop a telegraph pole was the last thing he saw.
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1/7: White Behind the Hedge

2011-06-09T08:29:00.007+01:00

Looking up from his screen, Frank glanced across to the 9-shot CCTV feed - all quiet. Except, the image from Camera 8 had changed.
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An Exercise in Pairing

2011-06-08T17:11:00.000+01:00

General Readerly Scouting - plotter and one-time mentee of Colonel Terjero, led me to a short feature on Dan Rhodes, whereupon I read of his collection, Anthropology - 101 stories, each of 101 words. That, I liked. The playfulness provoked me into scheming a short wordish game. Thus, the precept: two sentences, posted here, each day from tomorrow, for the next week.

The Anatomy of a Week-Long Moment

2011-06-06T08:33:00.008+01:00

Just back from a fractured week in Powys and Herefordshire, where Alex and his young cousin playfully broke up the otherwise Proper Grown Up stuff of the Hay Festival, and my breathing in of the lush green hills of Presteigne, in old Radnorshire - home of the very well-groomed (albeit naive) Pristine Christine, the best green teen of Presteigne.

Hay-wise, with my mother in mind (she be a fan), on the first Saturday evening I'd elected to go and listen to Paul O'Grady in conversation with Sandi Toksvig. Sure enough, as he waxed lyrical on the second volume - The Devil Rides Out - of his memoir, his wit, warmth and self-effacement beguiled the thousand-plus audience in the pavilion. On the back of previous Hay experiences (below par interviewers and chairs), Toksvig pitched perfectly.

The following day, I committed only to Javier Cercas' session, intelligently and generously chaired by Jon Gower. I knew little of Cercas, but from listening to his appearance on World Book Club a few months ago, I expected sufficient hooks of interest. The particular quality of his that drew me in, was his appetite for forensically unpacking social and cultural 'moments', or actions - the title of his session, The Anatomy of a Moment, saying as much. The historic thread that ran through much of Cercas' discussion concerned the transition in governance of Spain. At the heart of this was the failed coup d'etat of Colonel Tejero, of 23 February, 1981 - during Spain's shift to a liberal democratic state. And, phew.

Monday began with an air of gaiety - which many of the audience (of about 300) may not have expected from 'The Lost City of Stoke-on-Trent' - primarily, a sales pitch for Matthew Rice' book of the same name - an aesthetically pleasing document of the city's industrial cultural heritage, and traces thereof. With his wife, the potter Emma Bridgewater, opening the discussion with an account of her recalling her first experience of Stoke-on-Trent - a wave of mixed emotions and the thought, 'I didn't know that places like this existed', I had a feeling that I was about to be taste-challenged. From 'those who should know better' (the plummy, the well-bred), I struggle to tolerate that kind of socio-environmental ignorance. Gladly though, bottom line interests aside, both speakers turned it around, and chair Tristram Hunt batted well for the city, too. It was especially pleasing to gauge that the vast majority of the audience were not Stokies on sabbatical (or holiday, or parole), but more broadly interested vultures of socio-industrial culture - the end-of-session questions from the floor were, as my sister would say, top-notch. From that, I moved on to listen to Catherine O'Flynn ('The News Where You Are') and Mark Watson ('Eleven') speak of their most recent novels, both of which centre around characters who are on big personal quests, that see them ask gentle philosophical questions. Again, this was well-chaired, by Stephanie Merritt - no cloyingness, just walking the main protagonists through a well-balanced discussion of their works - as separate entities, albeit with big thematic cross-overs.

Otherwhere, culturally-speaking, there's a feature on Lady Gaga, written by Stephen Fry, and published under the FT banner. It's over a week old now, it's fannish but good, and it's here. And I'm really liking In Treatment - the talking therapy drama, from HBO, with Gabriel Byrne and a strong supporting cast - not least of whom, Hope Davis' Mia is spookily well written and acted.

Otherwise, otherwise.
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nonsensemongering

2011-03-02T12:41:00.005Z

I'll not bore you with the whys and wherefores of why and wherefore I happened to be reading up on schools in the Bangor (north Wales) area, but let me share my delight in finding some very subtle tweakings to the wikipedia site of one of those schools, here. Note the beginning of paragraph three, and the delicate amendment to the Band Jazz Ysgol Tryfan heading.

I'd heard of wikipedia being open to falsehoods and general nonsensemongering, but I'd never knowingly encountered such suchness before.

Young people - so wonderful, so creative.

Unrelated: It's recently occurred to me that the meaning and function of my blogging has changed enormously, once more. With Alex now being so much more grown up than in the early days of my writing, here, and my confidence in my position in his and Emma's lives growing a lot, this largely safe and supportive space for reflection has become a bit redundant. I'm not saying that I'm done with blogging - I'm not, but things have changed.

Hope this finds you well.

respect

2011-01-10T22:19:00.004Z

On Boxing Day, I risked getting into Newcastle-upon-Tyne - through hordes of sales shoppers and the great amassing ranks of 53,000 football supporters to entreat mother, father, brother and his new girlfriend, to the spectacle of Newcastle United's 1-3 defeat to Manchester City. I say it was a risk, as mother 'doesn't like crowds', but having thoroughly researched a smart route to the match, I thought this small extension of (unwanted) cultural experience would be good for her. From within, the sight alone of the packed out stadium is something special. And with so many bodies about us, and generous roofs overhanging all four stands, I was confident that it wouldn't couldn't shouldn't feel quite as cold as the minus two degrees celsius that it actually was.

It went well - all of it. They were all glad to have gone along - for mother it was 'good, something a bit different'. For Dad, it was a starkly different experience to the trips to the stadium that we took twenty years ago, back in the days of open terracing, a capacity of 36,000, and the approach to the toilets as likely to have the unsuspecting pisser overhear regular spectators ask, 'How deep is it today?' (There was a time, during some extended building works when the toilets were some combination of not draining and, thus, getting deeper). Returned to the parental home, I sighed a big sigh of relief at my unwell Sister Doubter, who'd questioned the sense in the Newcastle trip - imagining the whole escapade to be as much of a freezing hassle to the parents, as a novel gift.

Shane: It went well! Phew, phew and phew again!

Sister: I don't know why you do it. Y' know, they're just as happy chillin' out - maybe give them a year off next year, eh?

Shane: Mm, maybe. I was feeling a bit of pressure beforehand, myself - didn't know whether using the Metro from Heworth would be such a good idea, but it worked like a dream.

Sister: The Metro on match day - full of chavs, and stinkin' of piss... Happy Christmas!

Shane: No, it wasn't bad - enough space on the way there, and not smelly at all. Bit cosy on the way back, though.

Sister: You got lucky. What was Jayne (brother's new girlfriend) like?

Shane: She was good - bit shy, maybe a bit scared of me, but I like her. I imagine she's heard lots about me.

Sister: Aye, 'Ignore Shane, he's obnoxious with everyone - it's just his way'.

Shane: Hi-lar-i-ous.

Sister: I am funnier than you, though. And better-lookin'.

Shane: Though I am adopted.

Sister: No. I'm the adopted one!

Mother: (from the kitchen) Eh! I can hear that!

Sister: (to me) Me Dad's 60 in a fortnight - any thoughts about a present?

Shane: (I must have twitched an eyebrow or some such)

Sister: Oh, god. What have you done?

Shane: Before I tell, you have to understand where I'm coming from.

Sister: This is gonna be really bad, isn't it.

Shane: I don't think it has to be. What I'm fairly sure that my Dad enjoys is just having us all together - me, mother and brother.

Sister: Funny. What have you done?

Shane: I thought we could all go out for the evening.

Sister: Where?

Shane: Not exactly round here, but not really very far away.

Sister: Where?

Shane: Near Pickering.

Sister: Why?

Shane: There's a... I saw an advert for some... There's a music thing that I thought we could go to.

Sister: Like, what?

Shane: (feeling a few notes of self-doubt about the several hundred pounds that I'd lashed out on tickets) Hmm.

Sister: A gig?

Shane: Mm. In a forest. In June.

Sister: A festival?

Shane: No, a gig - part of a short tour. But it's not really about who it is, it's about the all being together, so it doesn't really matter who it is.

Sister: It's just someone who you like and who we'll all think are shit, isn't it.

Shane: No.

Sister: Who then?

Shane: Erasure.

Sister: (expressions of (in order): 'did I hear that right', 'that could be quite good', 'but hold on - Erasure for a belated birthday trip out for Dad - that's utterly ridiculous')

There followed some uncontrolled laughter from sister, during which moments my straight man act considered the cultural scale of what I'd committed us to.

Shane: What do you think, really?

Sister: (stands from her curled up on the sofa location, holds out a clenched fist - which I automatically bounce my fist down on) A little respect, brother, a little respect.

A Post on the Subject of Travel in Sweden

2010-11-03T10:48:00.014Z

It had been far too long since such a jaunt.

The Oresundsbron, a bridge that connects the Danish capital, Copenhagen, to the west, with the Swedish city of Malmo to the east.

From the train, edging into Malmo.

As one of Malmo's outdoor markets close up, the culture of van decor presents itself.

Saturday morning strolling leads to the fish market, and eels.

And maybe a hint as to where just a few of the local residents got their spectacular good looks from.

And to the Turning Torso, a residential building - the tallest building in Scandinavia - that overlooks the Oresunds strait.

And back to what you know, with the same eye for the unusual, the unlikely, and the oft-unremarked upon.
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A Post on the Subject of Environmental Psychology, and Formal Education

2010-10-12T10:24:00.007+01:00

From my new workspace, I'm overlooking a small gravelly garden, big fir trees, a chaotic bamboo patch, and a dovecote. The birds that are a-twitter at the tops of the firs seem uninterested in the seed-feeders, below - wise, given the number of cats that frequent this area.

There is something really rather pleasing about the swoop and swirl of blue tits.

Just yesterday, I mentioned to a teacher - a bit stressed, she was - that were her school located within an entirely concrete landscape (as so many are), then that pressure that she was feeling would somehow be a fraction more overbearing. Casting a casual glance across the green fields adjacent to the staff room, and to a hill beyond, she murmured.

'Mm. You know you do talk some shit sometimes, but I know what you mean.'

Then I added to her workload.

A Post on the Subject of a Weekend of Lurid Cultural Learnings

2010-09-13T15:54:00.003+01:00

Privy to flirting
The Tube - arm-pits and elbows
Dinner by the Thames

What? No parakeets
Tate Modern and swing-dancing
Exposed and hair pinned

A fine shirt, fit for
Gay flings, breakfast, and intros
- a stellar stranger.

A Post on the Subject of Mundane Violence - Spiritual, Physical, Memorial.

2010-08-30T11:49:00.006+01:00

I felt – interpreted, sensed, imagined – a disjuncture, as I recently listened to the cremation service of my mother’s aunt. At one point, biblical references were creatively and affirmatively related to the dead woman always having ensured that the (food) cupboards were well-stocked – something about providing for the family, et cetera, et cetera, and so I’m sitting there knowing that this was a woman who was a generally prolific consumer… often received as communicating pride in her personal appearance, in her home, and in much else that no one (except her) really cared about. I found this vulgar, and dubious, to say the least, in what it and she communicated in terms of the Christian values that were said to underpin the service, throughout which, the speaker – a collared churchwoman – spoke without the merest flicker of embarrassment or irony. And so it goes.

Whilst in the north east (above), it was good to reacquaint with the deceased aunt’s husband, daughters, and their families. I also got to hear my mother and sister discussing various local folk’s trials and tribulations. For much of the time, I was left with the sunken feeling (sinking didn’t last very long) that these locals were the cast of soap operas that were routinely so violent, far-fetched and lacking in basic humanity that no outsider would wish to endure their grim narratives. And so I went. Leaving early, my drive back to the Midlands coincided with quiet roads – good thing, autopilot, quick. Whatever it was that I had on the radio – maybe podcasts, possibly Saturday evening Radio Four, I failed to take in – distracted. Sister’s casual mention of the young woman who’d just skipped out of town with her own sister’s husband, that was nothing – that occupied me as far as the end of my mother’s street. The matter of the house with the big shed changing hands, that was with me through to somewhere in North Yorkshire – say, Leeming Bar. It wasn’t so much the house, but more the previous owner. ‘What happened to him?’, I’d asked. ‘He went to prison, didn’t he. D’ y’ not remember?’, said mother. I didn’t remember, I’d never been told. She explained, sort of - ‘Prison - somethin’ t’ do with his step-daughters… y’ know’. His step-daughters, yes, I remembered them - the ones who my own sister used to play with. But for much of the journey, I was thinking about the old friend who I’d run into at the town’s football club earlier that day. As teenagers, we’d played football and knocked about together. At around 16, maybe 17, we drifted apart. My pathway was study and getting away, his was different. He didn’t have the scar when I knew him. Of course, as we caught up, I didn’t mention the line across his face. We talked jobs, where we now lived, and how our footballing allegiances had shifted over the years. His physique told me that it was a long long time since he’d last played football. As sister and I later departed the football club, she explained the old friend’s changed appearance - ‘It was Lenny Fulton that did it’. The name meant nothing to me. ‘He’d be about 40 now, lived down at the bottom of Chapel Street. They got into an argument one night, Lenny just slashed him.’ As sister sought out her car keys, I asked more – why did Old Friend and Lenny Fulton argue, why the violence, and what happened to knife artist Lenny. She explained, ‘It was nowt – drugs probably… He went to prison for it, though he’s dead now - alcohol.’ All of that, and the perfectly horizontal register of it – from just behind the ear, through the ear, across the left cheek, falling just short of Old Friend’s top lip – consumed me across the M62, to the M6.

In around 1990, maybe ’91, I thought it was cute, the way sister – then aged about five or six - would tackle a minced beef pie, as I watched the town’s football team with pals. She would then go and run up and down the undulating hills that flanked the western side of the football ground – all within my sightlines. We’d later jog back home – a distance which must have felt enormous to her short legs. In the same place, now, she explained to me how one of those pals who’d have been with us happened to look like something from a horror film.

For the final, short rainy stretch of the M6, I wondered about Lenny Fulton, about the final words that would have been conjured by and for his kith and kin, and whether his mother's food cupboards would have been well-stocked. My guess was that they weren't.

you

2010-08-07T08:41:00.001+01:00

The Boy and I are in WH Smith's, using up an old voucher card (we didn't know how much was on it) on some new kit for his 2010/11 school year. After bagging the various pens, glue-sticks and primary ephemera, the cashier - a pretty, young female - explains that there's just over three pounds left on the voucher card.

Shane: Er... just throw it... no! Are those scratch cards?

Cashier: Mm.

Shane: Pound each?

Cashier: Yeah. D'y' want three?

Shane: Yes please (actually a bit excited at the novelty of such suchness).

Cashier: Shall I give you three different kinds? (she has sensed that we don't normally do this sort of thing)

Shane: Yes, please.

We leave the shop with our scratch cards and retreat to a local cafe, wherein we read about what we must reveal in order to win.

The first two cards pass without success - we did not reveal a hatrick of matching amounts, and we did not reveal a logo of a dog. This is how I imagined it would go.

We move onto card three, and the boy suddenly shrieks.

The Boy: WE'VE GOT A PIG!

And so we had. Ten pounds worth of pig logo. We eat our lunches, drink our drinks and return to WH Smith's. We have filled in my name and address on the back of the card and are feeling upbeat as we wait in a short queue to collect our winnings. I see the potential for boy-amusing playfulness.

Shane: What do I say when I get to the front?

The Boy: Just tell her that we've won ten pounds and give her the card.

Shane: (entirely straight) Oh, ok. (pause) Should I say that we've got a pig?

The Boy: (amused, but trying to suppress the smile) Yeah, say that, say 'We've got a pig'.

Shane: Mm. (pause) Y' sure?

The Boy: (failing to suppress The Grin of Social Mischief) Yeah - 'We've got a pig', and give her the card. That way she'll know it's ten pounds.

Shane: (playing it naive) Mm, ok.

We are at the front of the queue. The cashier looks to me.

Shane: (playing it straight, handing her the card) We have a pig.

The cashier is temporarily raised from barcode bleeping boredom - she, too, fails to suppress the grin. From low down to my immediate right, I hear a boyish snort of laughter.

I continue to play it straight, entirely pleased with myself.

august

2010-08-03T19:45:00.005+01:00

In no particular order:-

Moving house
A taste of (life) coaching
Feeling tense
Looking to do something selfish with the week after next
Not reading enough
Removing the cat from where he tears papers
Becoming an angler
Enjoying Sherlock
Feeling underwhelmed at the dawn of the football season
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expectations

2010-07-22T14:23:00.003+01:00

During his bath-time, The Boy and I talk. He makes a surprising remark about one of his class-mates, and this leads to me wondering about how developed these children's expectations of one another are, even by the age of nine (a serious interest, though not phrased in these exact terms at that moment).

Shane: Let's play a game where I ask you questions in three parts and you answer them - dead easy.

The Boy: (looks at me, chooses not to bob back under the water, though not yet committing to this nonsense)

Shane: Okay. Think of all the people in your class. I'm going to name three of them - not including you, and you've got to tell me what you think these three might end up doing when they're older - what you think they might end up working as.

The Boy: (wet-haired, possibly interested) Mm.

Shane: Let's start with... Imran.

The Boy: (reaching for shampoo, though interested - thinking hard) Mm. (still thinking - taking this very seriously) The thing is, I don't know Imran very well, so it's hard to say.

Shane: Okay, no problem. Let's try a girl. How about... Danielle.

The Boy: (shampooing) Mm. I don't know about Danielle, but I can find out tomorrow.

Shane: No no, let's not do that. That would sound weird - it might scare her if she thought that your step-dad was wondering what she might end up working as. No, let's think of someone who you do know - last try at this.

The Boy: (mildly amused) Yeah, that would have sounded weird.

Shane: Yeah.

The Boy: (back to being serious, reaching for the rinsing jug) I think I know what Ryan wants to be.

Shane: Alright, tell me what you think Ryan might end up being.

The Boy: (jug of water cascades noisily and splashingly over head) (louder, straight tone) He wants to be a wrestler.

Shane: A wrestler.

The Boy: (hair dripping, eyes still tightly shut) Mm.

Shane: Mm.

I can't be sure that my original ponderance has been effectively handled.

I pass a towel.

dissipating

2010-07-19T16:58:00.001+01:00

Recently, The Boy and I were walking one of his pal's home, following their after-school knock-about time (various larks and boyish shriekery, all of which sounded like a good time was being had). The unusual detail to the evening, was that this pal was not one of the usual suspects, so when I was asked whether he'd be allowed to come back with us, I was keen to say 'yes' - The Boy's sociability is one of the things that most pleases and impresses me.

As we walk, I ask The Pal whether he walks to school or is dropped off by car. He explains that for mother's walk-related schedule, it tends to be car, apart from her one day off per week. He then pipes up with, 'But I couldn't walk from my Dad's - that's too far'. He adds that Dad lives in Nearton, only a couple of miles away. And I remember there being mention, only a month or so ago, of this young lad's parents separating (I still don't know what that means... half-way house, permanent split, or otherwise). The Lad - who I'd distantly read as a bright-eyed chap, suddenly looks a bit serious, though not quite mournful. It is a sensitive moment, as I happen to catch the eye of Alex, who seems also to recognise this with the most acute of eyebrow twitches. And Alex speaks.

'There's no way I could walk to school from my Dad's house! (mock laugh) He lives in London!'

'You could' I suggest, 'but you'd have to set off about a week earlier'.

'Yeah', he agrees. Continuing, he turns to his pal, 'Imagine that - having to set off a week before we're meant to be at school - that's just nuts.'

His pal joins in with the mock laughter, and seems to relax - the frown dissipating.

It is gentle, it is normalising, it is a moment in which my love for Alex is immediate and felt.

'Race you', he calls, as he tears off from his pal and I. The Pal runs off, too, albeit bearing a school-bag weight disadvantage.

We reach The Pal's house - another first, for me. Mother answers the door, relaxed in enormous pink slippers and pleased to see her little man. I proffer the ever-pleasing complimentary remarks about her son, and The Boy and I bid these folk, plus younger brother, a good evening. The novelty of the drop-off - we grown-ups remaining largely unfamiliar, means that there is a certain stiffness, but all is fine. There is simplicity and gorgeousness in all of this.

Until.

Turning back to wave at The Pal and his mum, The Boy calls out - all high spirits and with comic intention, 'See you later, suckers!'.

I roll my eyes, sigh, and am relieved to note that this has generated a genuine smile from the mother.

The Boy and I walk home.

air

2010-07-16T21:14:00.007+01:00

I had some really interesting conversations, this week. To and from Lake Windermere (a day-long meeting plus sleep-over), my journey's sidekick (who I didn't know very well) proved the ideal companion, and reliable navigator (short-cutting it through back-waterest North Staffordshire should never be taken-for-granted). During our journey north, we established that we both identified with the fundamental qualities of The Brunettery. On our south-bound return, we compared mental notes from the previous 24 hours. They seemed to correspond.

Whilst in Windermere, or nearabouts, I had the pleasure of a longish walk-and-talk with another Don't-Really-Know-This-Person. This was good for some of the finer detail - how and through whom the conversation came about, the speed with which we seemed to establish trust, the fact that we recognised this and spoke it out loud, and the subject matter that - through our handling of it - further conveyed this trust (what poor phrasing... I'm slapping myself, for you). Skimming over talk of overseas property and what it is about time away or time in the sun that enables a person to relax, we got to discuss how we met our respective partners and with that, somewhat more taboo matters. Throughout, questions and answers were reasonably frank. And all the while, we enjoyed the back-drop of low-flying swans, gambolling pied wagtails, driftwood under foot, and the lapping of water. Quite, quite right - so much more preferable than the staid surrounds of the conference room.

Regular doses of that leg-stretching, mind-uplifting outdoor thing are absolutely vital to the task of breaking up the week, so it was good to share in this in a rarefied fashion.

Back in blighty, The Boy and I made use of the heavy downpours we've been having. Fully braced for a drenching, Wednesday evening saw us head out on the bikes to our favourite local woodland. Exiting the wood furthest from our house, we spotted a lapwing as we darted through a field into the Barlaston Park area, then down past the Wedgwood facilities - including cricket club and fishing ponds. Stopping to look at one of the ponds, we both gasped as our immediate sighting was of a kingfisher rising out of the water with its small catch. And then on to the Trent and Mersey canal path, and back home. A bracing circuit, with good rapport and observations all the way.

This weekend, Emma and Alex are in London, and I'm left to face workish loose ends that have been loose too long.

Yet the call of Anglesey, of White Beach (west of Penmon Point), and of the Menai Straits (west of the Britannia Bridge), is reaching me. The beachcaster rod stands in the hallway, suggesting that it's there and ready for me to reel in tea (not that I have any experience of actually catching anything - such a novice as I am). But I can't possibly listen to the rod... a week from now I'll be on the Yorkshire coast, with plenty of chances for staring at the sea.

And so harrumph and harrumph. All cooped up, with no excuses for not doing what I'm meant to.

Living for the weekend? I think not.

stayers

2010-07-05T14:34:00.009+01:00

I attend The Boy's sports day. He is to race the three-legged race (they won, with his larger sidekick practically carrying him over the line - messy, but victorious) and the bean-bag race (a creditable finish somewhere in the middle).

At some distance from us, Emma spies the egg-and-spoon racers lining up.

And they are off.

They totter and teeter and wibble and wobble towards us.

Absent-mindedly, I gaze around, as many about me squeal and applaud in support.

Emma: Those eggs don't look even.

Shane: There'll be fallers.

Emma: No. I mean the actual eggs. They're not egg-shaped.

Intrigued, I look, and focus in, and all becomes clear.

Shane: That's because they're not eggs.

The racers get ever nearer.

Emma: They're potatos.

Shane: Potatos, they are. And the girl in yellow seems to be suffering from a particularly knobbly potato.

Emma: Stewards enquiry?

Shane: (momentary ponder) Not at all. This is education. It's all about how they deal with the uneven playing field.

Emma: (sighs) Profound.

Shane: Thanks.

And I am gone - remembering walking up Snowdon with my favourite spoon.

A potato bobbles towards my feet, a child in green feverishly following it, snatching it back and pressing on for the line.

My revery is mashed.

dane

2010-06-24T09:53:00.005+01:00

Monday to Wednesday, I was in Manchester, on a course that I enjoyed thoroughly - fellow participants exceeding my expectations around humour, deep thinking, and scope for creating intrigue.

Monday morning, during a break, I am walking down a wide looping staircase with a fellow participant, The Dane. She is 30ish, she is tidily casual, and we've already spoken of various cultural interests.

The Dane has mentioned that she 'manages a small design team'. With this, I hear urban. I hear urbane. I hear cutting edge. I hear technology. I hear city centre. I hear cosmpolitan. I hear Frappuccino. Descending the stairs, The Swede makes a remark about being very hard-pressed, financially.

Shane: What did you say you did?

Dane: I manage a small design team.

Shane: But, minimum wage?

Dane: Well, less than, actually.

Shane: How?

Dane: Well, the thing is, we're trying to run it in an ethical manner.

Shane: (Here, there is much to unpack - much that we don't have time to unpack. I sense that The Dane knows that whatever is being referred to as 'ethical manner' is unsustainable.) Mm.

Dane: (sighs) Mm.

Shane: Y' know, maybe what you need to do, is abandon the whole ethical approach - unethical is the new ethical, kind of thing. Then you'll be fine!

Dane: (frowns, looks me over - a bit puzzled)

Shane: Ah! Don't worry. Free consultation. I'm just here to help.

Swede: (briefly puzzles) (smiles)

I move on, confident that I have much to contribute over the next few days.

yacoubian

2010-06-19T09:33:00.004+01:00

I receive a copy of The Yacoubian Building (Alaa Al Aswany), from a most unexpected source.

This pleases me and is a part-fix to yesterday's foul mood.

Today, I will avoid all television, radio and news print. The fall-out from England's 0-0 draw with Algeria - neither the end of the world, nor the end of the World Cup - will be unnecessarily brutal.

Today is also a day for hosting the parents, and for walking by water.

gifted

2010-06-18T12:17:00.006+01:00

I had a great day, yesterday. It was an early start, that took me to the mac, in Birmingham, then a drive up the M6 to a school, for some head-on talk with a headteacher and two of her colleagues.

Throughout the day, I spoke with several people who I find - found - interesting. These outshone the couple of drones who I had to endure. These earlier folk - their ways of thinking and talking, were the essence of the great day.

During one early conversation, with Kay, a former colleague who'd worked on a difficult project with me, a few years ago, I enquired as to how she and her sidekick, Leon, were.

Kay: Well, you did know that we were partners - we lived together - you knew that?

Shane: (it had never been spoken out loud, but still) Yeah.

Kay: (straight-forwardly) Well we're not together any more.

Shane: Ah. And how are you?

Kay: It's been difficult. He was the love of my life, really.

Shane: (admiring the candour) And do you know how Leon is?

Kay: Oh, Leon will always be Leon. He'll work out who he is, eventually.

Shane: (oh lordy and gulpy gulpersome) What does that mean?

Kay: I think he looked up to me, a bit too much. He looked to me to tell him what to do, how to be. He's attractive, intelligent, he's good at what he does, but I don't think he understands that.

Shane: (some of this pricks me into reflecting) (a quiet sigh) How long had you been together?

Kay: Twelve years.

Shane: That's an amount of time.

Kay: It is.

And we talk on for a short while, easy enough, and move on to covering why we are where we are - the work stuff.

During the drive out of Birmingham, some of Kay's comments echo over the top of Radio 4. I find myself wondering - but not so much wondering as perhaps grimly knowing - how one particular old flame would have spoken of me, to those in her post-Shane life. Mentally, I wince - the past is the past, some things change, some things don't.

Later, as my working day draws to a close, I'm gathering papers and a notebook, at which point I am lauded with a grand, public gesture of thanks - for work that I'd taken for granted as par for the course that I play, and for (in my view) being in no way better than that work that I've done for others recently. The gesture is pleasing, though it raises feelings of bashfulness.

Driving home, I think back to Kay, and to Leon, and to where they've been, and where they are now. With this, I'm thinking about myself, and I'm wondering about where I've been, and where I find myself. And I sleep.

Today, I had another early start. At the point of departing this morning's meeting, a colleague says, 'I want to get you something' - a statement which I query. As I begin to wonder whether there's been something in the air or the water around these parts, she explains - unprompted by any personal knowledge of me - that she feels that I deserve some reward, and bluntly adds, 'Tell me what you want, and I'll get it'. It's an entirely straight-forward point - no subtext, no subconscious anything. I feign dismissiveness, say that I look forward to seeing her and colleagues again, and I move on. There is much that I could have said that I wanted.

Today should have felt better than it does. Today is my birthday. I reckon that in a week or so, I'll work out what I wanted. I'm reminded of Leon and I know that I'm being a self-defeating idiot.

passions

2010-06-07T12:59:00.004+01:00

We've been back in blighty for a week, having spent a few days at the festival in Hay-on-Wye. The week of down-time left space for several longish local walks - woodland, meadows, canal - all with Alex several counties away (he returned well, he returned happy, he returned yesterday). The following notes are late reflections on what I - we - sat in on (and missed), whilst in Hay.

Henning Mankell (Saturday 29 May, morning): cancelled. Explained here (Mankell was aboard one of the flotilla boats that sought to break the blockade of Gaza).

Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall and Ruth Rogers, in conversation with Jim Naughtie (Saturday 29 May, early afternoon): The River Cottage and River Cafe chefs and food writers spoke in memory of Rose Gray (co-founder of the River Cafe). Whilst Rogers extolled the virtues of Italy and its sun-drenched produce, Hugh F-W's bent was differently located. Throughout, there was a quiet distinction in that the ethics and politics of food were much more to the fore in F-W's general message. Key word: sustainability. Jim Naughtie left enough space for the foodies to speak for themselves, and was a beacon of how best to facilitate engaging and occasionally challenging discussion.

Small Space (by Jane Nash and Dan Milne) (Saturday 29 May, early evening): We met by the town's clock tower. And were then guided towards this piece of theatre - a one hour two-hander, performed in the kitchen-diner of a nearby cottage, to a sell-out audience of 20. Themes of intimacy and honesty were charted through the fragmented story of a couple's meeting, marriage, and learning to live with one another. It's rare that theatre gets to be so intimate that you really are looking into the whites of the actors' eyes, and they your's, but more importantly - it's rare that theatre is so tightly written and sharply executed. A great production, that made me want to return to New York, stand up from my uncomfortably high stool and applaud loudly, then quickly push on with my own writing pursuits.

Richard Layard, Geoff Mulgan and Anthony Seldon discussing the Movement for Happiness (Sunday 30 May, early evening): We attended this for a mix of professional and personal interest reasons - as if those things could so easily be separated. It was reference to what this movement's aims might yield - in terms of an approach to education - that drew us in. In short, the movement - as it is being referred to - seeks to provoke people into thinking and acting their way into living in both more personally fulfilling, and socially conscientious ways. Discussion of this raised enormous questions regarding the political, economic and psychological affiliates to what initially sound like radical changes to how we live - or rather why we live how we live. Many questions were discussed, rather than answered - and herein lies the central challenge to the happiness movers (and to many other fantastically worthwhile and creative intellectual endeavours). Translating big thinking into coherent, digestible, points for practicable action is not always so straight forward - although Seldon did articulate a 5-point list that I didn't make a note of. We'll be watching and listening and making some contribution to the furtherance of ideas that were presented, as we work on through 2010 and beyond.

One more point on the above session: Rosie Boycott, entirely open in her manner and (stand-in) chairing of this discussion, made interjections which seemed to naively lay bare the kinds of personal dissonance and social discord that will occur when a critical mass of individuals pursue lifestyles that are largely, if not entirely, self-serving. In suggesting that our domestic economy and broad social behaviour would become 'just a little boring' were they to more closely resemble those of, say, Denmark, the example of the individual chasing down 'some hot-shit media job' and all of the prizes that go with that (read personal wealth, reward, and an enhanced sense of self... self self), Boycott provoked a murmur of disapproval and a more glaring sense of cultural disunity within the room. Anthony Seldon seemed to observe that it was exactly such a profoundly self-oriented caricature (as was perhaps chairing the discussion) that was anathema to what the Movement for Happiness sought to inspire. Whilst not righting off personal ambition, the suggestion was that this might be most socially progressive were it wedded to (what I read as) an Adlerian sense of gemeinschaftsgefuhl - simply put, a sense of community, or social interest. That said, perhaps the entirely self-oriented individual will read their own progress as absolutely a matter of broad social interest. And so it goes.

Audrey Niffenegger in conversation with Lisa Allardice (Monday 31 May, morning): The author of The Time Traveller's Wife, and Her Fearful Symmetry, proved to be an elegant, engaging, and wry discussant of her motivations, passions and working practices. This was most in evidence as the hour-long session was opened up to questions from the floor. For the 25 minutes up to this point, I was reminded of how good an interviewer Jim Naughtie had been on Saturday afternoon. Whilst Allardice' editorship of the Guardian Review is no doubt high office, it probably demands a different set of qualities than does the task of being a stimulating literary interrogator. At times, Niffenegger appeared justifiably bored by the fawningly fannish initial questioning.

And that, was that.

distinction

2010-06-02T14:38:00.007+01:00

Jim (cat) has gone missing.

Whilst being a cat of distinction, a man-cat of routine and strict habit, I like to think of Jim as my OneTrueColleague.

This morning, I felt some degree of empathy towards those people who distribute 'lost cat' posters.

Alex is with his Dad, and their extended family. This is his longest break from us, ever (Day 5, of 9 days). Come Sunday, I'd rather he be returning to the household as was, rather than as was minus cat.

We shall see.

----------------------

UPDATE:

Jim-Cat Is Returned!...

Quite unscathed, not saying a word about where he's been, unwilling to meet my eye.

I think he may have found himself a woman*.

* Old, living alone, a generous feeder - my archetypal nemesis figure.

fowl

2010-05-25T08:10:00.003+01:00

We have become friends with a really rather cool mother and son, plus grandparents, who live in a massive, rambling, tree-lined property that's close to us. Having done a lot of running about last week and over the weekend, by Sunday afternoon I felt the need to unwind. So we took up an invite to join said mother and son, at their place - for drinks in the shade.

As I looked over some outbuildings, Emma was given the formal tour of the gardens, and Alex took a turn towards the vast hen enclosure (later showing off at being able to gently gather up the more dull-witted of hens). Later, as we exited Rambling Manor, I mentioned that I'd needed that break. The Lady of the Manor seemed glad for the remark.

Then. Yesterday evening. Just before bed-time.

Alex: (casually having a wee) Shane.

Shane: (pasteing up the toothbrushes) Mm?

Alex: Y' know when I was with the hens yesterday?

Shane: Mm.

Alex: Well, now don't tell me off for this cos it wasn't my fault -

Shane: (not impressed) What did you do?

Alex: I didn't do anything, it was the hen.

Shane: (oh Lord) What?

Alex: Well I needed a wee, so I went down to the bottom - behind the shed, near the weeds. I weed in the weeds.

Shane: Did a hen peck your pecker?

Alex: (amused) No. It tried to peck my wee.

Shane: What?

Alex: The hen tried to peck my wee! And I ended up weeing on its head.

Shane: (he weed on the hen's head!) A tiny bit funny, but really not very cool.

Alex: It wasn't my fault! It was too lazy to go up to the water buckets, so it tried to drink my wee.

Shane: That's foul. And that was it, was it?

Alex: I turned the tap on for it, but it ran back up to near the gate, so I turned it off.

Shane: Hmm.

It is with the 'Hmm' expression that I convey the moral significance of non-human animals. This, I imagine, is what The Boy reads from the Hmm, too.

If you were out, I hope you wore sun-block.

witness

2010-05-19T12:10:00.006+01:00

Emma and I take our seats in the theatre, for illusionist and mentalist Derren Brown's 'Enigma' show. All about us, there is an adrenal air of anticipation. Behind us, a young couple take their seats. With thoughts towards the seeds of likely tricks, the young man speculates to his irony-free companion.

Man: Back there, in the foyer - I bet there were loads o' subliminal messages an' that.

Woman: I didn't see any.

I smile to myself.

The show turns out to be excellent - as much for Brown's mastery of the stage, as for the mental mechanics of the acts that we witness. We were sworn to secrecy, so I'll say no more than that.

unhurried

2010-05-07T11:29:00.005+01:00

I'm taking a measure of the atmosphere, and the result demands a light note on which to end the week.

We are to move house, to not very far from where we are now. Until a week or so ago, I'd asked both Emma and Alex to not go broadcasting this information - keen as I was for the move to seem more definite before any public notice - as I say, that was until a week ago.

About a fortnight ago, collecting Alex from school, a rush of his classmates spill out into the area where their parents and so on gather to collect them. Immediately, a huddle of boys gather about me.

Boy1: Hi Shane.

Shane: Hello Boy1.

Boy2: Can Alex come round mine on Thursday?

Shane: Thursday, Boy2? Hmmm, I don't know about Thursday - I'll have to check whether we've got anything else on. He'll be able to let you know himself tomorrow.

Boy2: Okay.

Boy3: Thursday - Alex can't on Thursday - he's going to an estate agents'.

Shane: Is he? (There was never a plan to go to any estate agent on Thursday.)

Boy3: Yeah. He told us.

Shane: Who's us?

Boy3: The class. You're moving to Canal Road.

Shane: Oh, right. So it's sorted then?

Boy3: Yeah.

As per usual, Alex is one of the last to leave the building - quite unwilling to be hurried. He passes his bag to me.

Alex: I made everyone laugh today.

Shane: How did you do that?

Alex: I told them that we won't even need to get a lorry when we move house - we can just carry our stuff to Canal Road. I said, 'We'll be like an army of ants - ants carrying pants'. They all laughed.

Shane: Mm. Didn't we say that we'd not tell people about this for a little while?

Alex: Did we?

Shane: Mm.

Alex: I wasn't listening.

Shane: Ah. That'll be it.

Alex: Mm.

We walk home, glancing left down Canal Road as we pass it.

decisions

2010-05-04T11:28:00.004+01:00

There is a definite buzz about Thursday's general election, the suggestion - a whiff in the air - that something quite unusual - historic, even - might be about to unfold. With the many and varied social media platforms awash with soundbite proclamations of political support (and apathy) and the mainstream media peddling slightly fattened versions of much the same, I will add a side note to the political aligning that is quite reasonably au fait.

On the back of the expenses scandal (in my view, the scandal being the light touch with which party leader/s were handled, and the throw-away 'we've all had our problems over expenses' euphemism), I remember raising an eyebrow at talk of one or two famous folk lining up to contest parliamentary seats. In particular, Esther Rantzen standing in Luton South seemed to get a lot of coverage. A radio programme (possibly BBC Radio 4's PM, or BBC Five Live's Drive-Time) invited discussion of the pros and cons of this kind of independents-in move. Clare Short MP, whilst acknowledging the well-meaningness of many likely candidates and the understandable public anger at the expenses furore, was not supportive of the independents' rising star/s. In short, her challenge was that independents - whilst not being aligned to any major party - could not be readily associated with a set of core principles and values, beliefs or policy intentions. On the surface, a fair criticism, it seemed - so the public would have to ask questions, or read a little deeper into independents. A problem? I didn't think so. But Clare Short's comments stayed with me, they seemed to be premised on a flawed set of assumptions.

When it comes to distinguishing between the mainstream parties we can refer to history (recent and not so recent), we can look out for specific policy pledges, and we might ask what is the fuel (political, economic, moral) that drives Party X's agenda. All sound so far. But where does this take us? We are still resting on the hopes and assumptions of candidates sticking to what they've promised, to understanding what they've promised, and to 'filling in the gaps' positively for us. I don't believe that there are many voters who would deeply believe their election choices to amount to a 'Me versus Society' play-off, even though part of my occasionally reactionary way of thinking would tell me that that is how I hear some politicians. My point - getting back to Clare Short's assumptions regarding the oblique presentation of independent candidates: the biggest variable upon which people will make their voting decisions is trust. Plain and simple. And what this does, is it somewhat undermines the need for detailed policy presentation and party affiliation. It is for this reason that we have would-be prime ministers being analysed (by 'serious political commentators') for whether they looked into a television camera, or whether they made reference to the names of people who've asked questions. It's light, it's superficial, it's ephemeral. It seems that we are next door to - if not entirely in the land of - talk of 'gameplans', and mass readings of body language. And on these terms - the terms with which ordinary punters, such as we are, come to distinguish between political leaders - independent candidates are no different from those who carry higher profiles. We will analyse them - should they get as far as the starting line - in terms of how far we might trust them to do the right thing, whilst in office.

I do not need to know what every policy initiative would look like - that would be an unreasonable ask. What I want to believe, is that under whichever administration is formed over the coming days, that those who are most vulnerable in society will be best looked after. I want government to be big enough to be paternalistic, to be strong enough to be interventionist, and to be responsible enough to not simply allow the 'natural forces of the market' to steer us to wherever. At the level of the individual candidate, there are individuals from all major parties, and several minor parties, who convince me of their goodness of thought and spirit, that would inspire my trust in them. And sadly, there are individuals who might be aligned to broad political churches with which I am comfortable, who fail to inspire such feelings.

At risk of completely losing my thread, I will round off. On Thursday, I will vote. I won't feel any strong sense of what the next four or five years might have in store for any of us, but I will vote. And the thing that will determine who gets my 'X', will simply be that bloke (for they are all blokes) who I most believe could be relied upon to approach problems from a sound social and moral standpoint. It's not religious, it's not borne of any profound economic or even political ideology, it's just simple, human and humane.

I hope that anyone who glances over this missive will be voting too, regardless of where their X may land.

See you on the other side, perhaps for a collective sigh. Perhaps.

economics

2010-04-19T15:53:00.005+01:00

I have just engaged in an economic transaction. On reflection, this is how it feels like it went:

Shane: Hello. I need a quote for a windscreen replacement.

WomanOnPhone: Okay. Make and model?

Shane: Oh, I don't know, just an ordinary windscreen - whichever is most popular. Or cheapest. And safe.

W.O.P.: No, no. The vehicle.

Shane: Oh. VW Passat.

W.O.P.: Registration?

Shane: Yankee Doodle Zero Blah Echo Dandy Beano.

W.O.P.: Great. And have you currently got sensors?

Shane: ('Like daleks?') Er.

W.O.P.: Rain sensors. Do the wipers come on themselves when it rains, sometimes?

Shane: ('Well, yeah. But that can't be sensors in the windscreen - I'd've seen the wires or sensor pads, surely. Must be just under the windscreen.') Er, no. I don't think so.

W.O.P.: Okay. And you'd want it doing today?

Shane: Yes please. Do you come to me? ('Or do I risk being lacerated in the face, by coming to you?)

W.O.P.: We can come to you. Where are you?

Shane: I'm in BlahBlah. ('Shit. I bet she adds More Pounds because of that.')

W.O.P.: Ok. Well that's coming out at Some Pounds.

Shane: Some Pounds? Ok. Let's do that.

W.O.P. and I agree a time at which A Man will come to me.

Later, A Man arrives and looks over his task like a true Windscreen Professional.

Windscreen Professional: Did she give you two prices?

Shane: No. Just the one for Some Pounds.

W.P.: Mm. It's just that you've got the rain sensors, see? (points at very obvious and highly visible rain sensors)

Shane: Yes, mm-hm. ('But of course, the rain sensors of obviousness')

W.P.: So that'll be More Pounds.

Shane: More Pounds, oh that's fine. ('Not that I'm rich or anything, you understand.')

W.P.: Right then, if you could pull the car forward - I'll need to open both doors. I'll get on with it.

Shane: Okay. And would you like a drink?

W.P.: No thanks, I'm not gay.

Shane: Okay.

He gets on with being A Man, and I leave him to it.

It didn't feel like a balanced transaction. Definitely a sense of being all at sea on that one.

Will have a look over the OU website later. They probably run courses on Manning Up.

seven survey*

2010-03-20T08:54:00.003Z

Having listened to his appearance on BBC Radio 4's Book Club, with James Naughtie, I've been reading Alexander McCall Smith's 44 Scotland Street.

It's been a while since I experienced such a thing, but I think I've been struck by a case of Man Love. And from this (below), I think it should be easy to understand why:

Good day.

* references the Chapter Seven title of 44 Scotland Street: The Survey.

six movements

2010-03-17T18:32:00.007Z

Friday evening:

'Did I tell y' about the doctors' surgery?' asks mother.

'No', says I.

Soon after, I'm looking at this:

...And my sister and I are laughing at the very twenty-first century apology, from So So Sorry, of Spennymoor, that appeared on the local newspaper's website. (It was his kid wot dun it, apparently - burned the doctors' surgery down.) Confirming the gravitas of the blaze, mother grimly adds, 'They had to close Asda'.

On Saturday, my mother laid some flowers in the walled remembrance garden at the crematorium, in Durham. It was a bittersweet moment. She cried, I patted her back.

Later, in Durham, sister and I were on a Day-Before-Mothers-Day mission.

'Do we need wrapping paper?' I ask.

Sister locates the wrapping paper in Waterstones, swears, and re-directs us. 'Haway. Indoor market'll be cheaper.' A daughter's love, a daughter's economy.

Later still on Saturday, I recognise some things about mother's life in the small town that I'd previously undervalued. As she's describing the trials and tribulations that various friends and faces have been dealing with, I ask where she gets all of this information from. Seems that a walk through town is sufficient. People on the street. Tiny details, good for the soul.

Sunday, we went out for lunch, prior to my drive back. In the family restaurant, it seemed like tattoos were en vogue. But then I notice that many of said tattoos have that slightly blurred - stretched - quality. And I listen to how some of the fellow diners are speaking. 'More on rogue, than en vogue', I decide, admiring the line, but choosing not to share it. Wouldn't want to offend, see. Or get beaten up.

I get back to Stoke-on-Trent at around 6:45pm, and Emma gives me the lowdown on her weekend. 'I missed you', she adds. Fifteen minutes later, The Boy - returned by his Dad - steps in, throws his arms open and around me for a big hug, and says, 'We didn't win the talent show, but everyone laughed when we mixed the cat food into the rice pudding. And Miss Stokes asked who wrote our script. She wants you to help her with something, I think.'

And not to miss out on this lo-fi reunion, the cat wanders in, heads for the fireplace, and starts to bite the tulip stems.

Kettle on.

five star

2010-03-12T10:13:00.005Z

Early 2010 featured far too much death and distraction for me to commit to being anything more than a punter at the second Stoke-on-Trent Pecha Kucha event. Pecha Kucha: Japanese for chit-chat. Here, taking the form of a presentation, over 20 slides/images, each given 20 seconds - total presentation time: 6 minutes and 40 seconds.

The Fat Cat Cafe Bar, on the edge (the best bit) of Hanley, was a very good venue - its subterranea being sufficiently lounge-like and ill-lit, to foster a warm, relaxed atmosphere.

With Anna Francis' cool hosting, presentations began with local photographer, Mark Brereton, on responses to the Haitian earthquake. With this, there were related historical references to architecture and global network-based fund-raising efforts. A gentle opener.

Taking on the baton, was Nottingham-based Andy Clark, whose disarming moustache-fronted opening paved the way for a wry discussion around men's health. The timing, content and all-round intelligence of this presentation justified the rapturous response that the speaker received. Personal trials with prostate cancer were the background to what was effectively a health education message that the crowd actually wanted to listen to. Of course, self being self, I had to later daydream about the vast monies that are spent on getting such messages out, but with nothing like the appeal or flair that this self-effacing speaker achieved. Andy's happening to have the family in tow for the evening, was a warm detail that wasn't lost to me. I spotted his wife say, 'Proud of you', following his post-presentation kiss. Lip-reading, eh, whatever next.

From this, Gemma Thomas shifted us towards 'Collaboration'. Ultimately, a workish presentation, that was a little light on the trials of working in collaboration, or in partnership. Here, I have to acknowledge that whilst the desire and optimism attached to the 'Wouldn't things be better if we could all work together' sentiment, is attractive, I've known far too many collaborations and partnerships - in-depth - to know that the detail of such working arrangements, can create a lot of additional work in and of itself. A point that was oblique, here.

In discussing folk memories of the city (Stoke-on-Trent), Darren Washington (another local photographer), drew upon his own archive of images, along with spoken word recordings made around the Potteries. The pacing of this presentation, and its meandering content, was sufficient for many of the crowd to appreciate the humour in lo-fi everyday reflecting.

During a break in proceedings, throughout which local electronic musicians bITjAM provided the background music - agreeably non-disturbing, I talked with a fellow north-east exile about his recent move south, and about the university course that he's now leading.

Perhaps the most surprisingly entertaining talk came next. Anwyl Cooper-Willis, visiting from Bristol, provided a most elegant account of the grand architecture attached to the electricity sub-stations of Stoke-on-Trent. To many, this might herald a 'Y' wha'?!' response, but this was really about paying attention to and seeing the merits of those details of our everyday backdrops that we don't always see. I would fail to do justice to Anwyl and the sub-stations, were I to try to say more.

The one technical glitch of the evening occurred next. One speaker's presentation images were lost to the stomach of a laptop and so he had to stand down. I hope he returns, next time there's a Pecha Kucha event. Hearing reference to this SpeakerWhoWouldHaveBeen being from my part of the city, I was quietly excited - hoping that he was about to add a dimension to this most local of locales, that would have undermined some of my dearest prejudices. He looked like a decent sort.

From that hiccough, to Nantes, and Celine Siani-Djiakoua's reflection on the semiotics of her former home ('Where are you from?') city. In the imagery, advertising hoardings and text about the streets of Nantes, Celine discussed the traces of the city's historically pivotal role in sustaining the slave trade. Altogether, the narrative was fragmented, but such a patchwork quilt of talk was strong enough in its detail to hold interest.

And finally, they'd been spotted about the building earlier, Denim and Leather were to play 'Live!'. Stepping up to the microphone, the duo's manager, Hugo Nowhere, presented a 6-minute 40-second introduction. Recounting his boys' past tours, their achievements, and the underlying philosophy of these most fashionably unfashionable ne'er-do-wells, 'Rock is a three letter word', we all knew which S-word he was talking about. But lo, but behold. Due to their rockish excess, Denim and Leather failed to make it to the stage. Images suggested that their non-specified binges had led to unpleasantness in the toilets. The crowd were disappointed, if taken aback at such antics - on a Thursday. One suspects that they'll rock on, to make a difference at other performance events. Nowhere struck me as a man not to be trusted, though. Debauched.

By 11pm, I was back at the ranch, and settling self down for some really odd dreamsleep. I blame Hugo Nowhere.

four tits

2010-03-10T11:57:00.004Z

From recent observations, a gentle audit:

Blue - simple, pretty and common.

Great - 'Fat Blue Tit, with black belly stripe', I think to myself.

Coal - my favourite - a demure wee thing.

And now, Marsh - as we approached Doxeys Marshes, I saw the fleeting wag of a tail and proclaimed, 'Long-tailed tit' - really loud and professional, like. But on closer, quieter inspection, The Boy put me right, 'It's a Marsh Tit... (whispers) punk ass fool'.

Sunday felt like Spring, and the beginning - proper - of 2010.

three moments

2010-03-06T13:12:00.001Z

Eleven days ago.

Ahead of the recent cremation of my grandmother, I'd had a falling out with my sister - nothing more than a brief flare-up, but this was unusual - Sister and I generally get on well. Leaving the north east, prior to my return for the cremation, we'd not healed the rift. Unsatisfactory, but something that we could both live with.

On my return for said cremation, about to enter the familial home's front room, I wondered what kind of atmosphere awaited. As I move into the open doorway, Sister spotted me, suppressed an embarrassed smile and raised an eyebrow at me - a quiet 'Hello'. In response, I stick two fingers up at her and ask, 'Cup of tea?'.

That's how we don't deal with issues.

After the cremation service and an entirely pleasant afternoon, spent with relatives who I'd not seen in years, I requested a lift to the station from Sister, and she obliged. En route - a 15 minute hop, we discussed our mother, and strategies for helping mum - mam - to move on from our grandmother's death. Broadly speaking, we were as one. On reaching Durham, I stepped out of the car, took my bags and said thanks for the lift. Sister replies, 'Y' alright'. And then, as I have my hand on the door - about to shut it, she calls out, 'Oi! Git!' 'What?' I ask, leaning back in. 'Thanks for doing that today', she said, to which I nodded. 'See y' next month', and closed the door.

That's how we draw lines under issues.

two dramas

2010-03-04T18:01:00.004Z

Walking into the Riverside Studios, Hammersmith, last Friday, I was reminded of the Green Room, Manchester - large glass frontage, confident contemporary air to the space, and just a hint of middle-browness.

I was there with The Professor, to see a Love and Madness production of Sam Shepard's Fool for Love.

Reviews had been mixed, and the particular hook for drawing me in was the knowledge that this was Carl Barat's first professional acting gig. Walking into the theatre space, we enter at stage level, with the cast already in position - Barat (as Eddie) sits, head bowed. On a nearby bed, Sadie Frost (as May) is curled up. Gerard McDermott (as the Old Man) is half-way up a staircase, amongst the one-tier bank of seats. A small amount of additional seating is at stage level. The capacity looks to be around 300. As the play begins, I count 23 of us and immediately make the mental note to not spend the next hour or so (it's a short play) doing arithmetic and getting distracted by the economics of such a production.

(Photo: Luke Varley)

Soon, we are immersed in the messy, alcohol-fuelled relationship of Eddie and May. There is an undertow of violent potential - with drawled cat calls and deep southern swagger the order of the pair's clashing over Eddie's time away. The motel room environment is claustrophic.

(Photo: Luke Varley)

About twenty minutes into the play, I think to myself, 'It's not entirely obvious where this is going'. By now, we've had the addition of the Old Man's third-party perspective, narrating against the main protagonists' conflict. The Old Man is drunk, and has a different kind of energy to the younger actors. The professor will later comment, that 'He held the whole thing together'. Looking at the text of the play, it would be easy to take the same view. Thus far, each of the three characters have presented the further challenge for the actors of 'doing drunk', or 'doing drinking', but they're getting by.

(Photo: Luke Varley)

Whether by design, or fluke, McDermott's Old Man makes good use of the light in the space - stepping into and out of the shadows, and at one time, resting amongst the audience.

(Photo: Luke Varley)

As the play moves on to further disrupt the Eddie-May dialogue, with Neil Sheppeck's Martin - a humble man with a romantic interest in May - entering the fray, we build to revelations surrounding the identity of the Old Man, and the conequences of this for the doomed duo. Martin, meanwhile, is a character that hardly develops - aside from deciding that he wants to get out of there.

(Photo: Luke Varley)

In all, the production was competent - unremarkable, but certainly not bad. My guessing is that some of those mixed reviews would have warded off a good degree of shot-in-the-dark footfall, and so our two dozen get to do theatre intime. Through the course of the production, I wondered at the processes that may - or may not - have been undertaken, by way of casting. I wondered about the extent to which voice coaches would have worked with the cast. And I wondered how the cast would have felt, before, during and after the play's run. The experience of playing to a packed house would surely have generated nervous energy, but might smaller audiences risk the demeanour of going through the motions. I don't know - and the answer to the question wasn't obvious from any of the performances. The one technical criticism, that I would put forward, would be regarding the use of the whole body - and movement - through the play. The Old Man gave it 120% swagger, the awkward Martin was very much a stiff character, but - especially with alcohol in the air - I found it hard to imagine that Eddie and May would have been quite as static - quite as hands-off (despite the second photograph, above), were we in the real world. But perhaps this is a detail that we can forgive, given the revelations regarding the Old Man. See how I don't spoil.

If anything, Fool for Love was drama - writ large.

And so onto Saturday, and Bette Bourne and Mark Ravenhill, presenting A Life in Three Acts at the Soho Theatre.

(Photo: uncredited)

As this image attests, the staging of A Life in Three Acts was quite a different affair to Fool for Love. I'd seen Bette Bourne about a decade ago, playing Quentin Crisp, in Tim Fountain's Resident Alien. From that show, I'd deduced a warmth and charm to Bourne, that instilled confidence.

The Soho Theatre - on a Saturday afternoon - was packed. Maybe 200 folk, covering a broad white-only demographic, sat down for the one and a half hour show.

Ravenhill bounces onto the stage and speaks to us, explaining that a year ago, he began to interview Bette, and that with the assistance of a transcriber, a picture researcher and a long self-editing process, he and Bette had reduced those interviews down into a stageable, digestible form. And that, as the title of the piece suggests, the life of Bette Bourne - and with that, a rich seam of social, sexual, identity and performance history - was the central subject matter. And so we welcome Bette Bourne to the stage. Aged 70, he had a quiet charisma, if not an entirely lithe physique. Refreshingly, there was an honesty to the production - the process through which it came about, and the matter of the performers have the 'script' in front of them, was there for all to hear and see. The professor later commented, 'Within 30 seconds of his being on stage, I was with him'. It also happened to be the case that within 30 seconds of his being on stage he was recalling - and self-parodyingly performing - boyhood amateur dramatics, undertaken with his mother, as his father was at war.

Of white working class stock, Bourne was one that got away - or was, perhaps, rescued by himself and by the good fortune and direction of one or two of his tutors. In a life that spanned intimate and sexual relationships with men and at least one woman, a life that saw Bourne at the fore in the Gay Rights movement, and that saw his Bloolips performance troupe play through Europe and New York, Bourne had much to unfold. Beyond the drag and the suggestion of often larger-than-life self-characterisation, there emerged a thoughtful, quieter, more comfortable-in-his-own-skin individual. Particularly insightful moments came about as he discussed his decision to leave a commune, as the drug scene therein became too much, too negative, for him. And furthermore, in discussing the early 1980s, AIDS, and those who fell to it, he portrayed an individual who was fully aware of the tragedies that he had lived through. In discussing a relationship with a woman, which came to an end as he had to explain 'I'm not straight, I'm not bi, I'm a gay man', he acknowledged that he had at times been complicit in more local tragedies. 'I hurt her', he said quietly.

But heavy and profound as much of this was, there was - is - an air to Bourne, that reminds us that life goes on, and that we should make the best effort to get the most out of life. Ravenhill's discreet interventions - moving the narrative along - was a wise production decision - a constant visual reminder of the relational quality of biography. After all, what is a biography without a reader, a listener, or anyone who cares.

If anything, A Life in Three Acts was drama - writ deep.

one view

2010-03-03T10:01:00.008Z

One week ago.

Mentally, I'd prepared. And I'd prepared. There were the words - mastered them, but moreover, there'd be the faces - taut, teary, and the small gestures - hands to hands, and further tissue comforts - these could be my undoing.

Following a potted biography of Elspeth, and a brief spiritual (biblical) line - during which I'd been observing the gorgeous leafy vistas from where I sat, I accepted the introduction of HeWhoI'dInitiallyRecoiledAt, for what he anticipated would be a more personal account of Elsie.

Slowly stepping up to the podium, taking the script from the inside pocket, I thought, 'Right, you will do this - a wobble or two is fine, but you will do this'. And, with the addition of a few unscripted lines - [marked as such] - it went something like this:

(I glance at those gathered - there is a general stoniness. My cousin proffers a smile - though I may not have seen her in a decade, her non-verbal support is invaluable. She hasn't changed much in the past decade, despite the children. I lay the script before me - a useful prompt, a steadier of nerves, a safety net.)

'[I've a friend in Staffordshire who advised me against looking at any of you who might be having a hard moment during this piece - your tears possibly being my undoing, kind of thing. Right now, I'm feeling that that friend was exactly right. So if you'll forgive me, I may be speaking to the carpet, at times.]

The few words words that I have to say come from a perspective of having seen a lot of my grandma for the first twenty two years of my life, but having seen much less of her over the past twelve years. These words were put together during a couple of long train journeys, just over a week ago, after speaking with my mum, dad, brother and sister, about qualities that typified Elsie - about who she was, and how she was - to us and for us.

As HeWhoI'dInitiallyRecoiledAt has [so elegantly] recalled, Elsie was a giant when it came to the care of my grandfather. That itself was a commitment that spoke more deeply and loudly of the kind of woman that she was, than could any words that I'd generate for you today. [That said, I'll not be put off trying.]

I think it's entirely fitting that George should be invoked, now, as I think that to a lot of us, Elsie at her best was Elsie with George not far away. And vice versa. To me, it's pleasing and romantic to imagine their being reunited somehow - catching-up - in good health and good cheer, probably sharing a late fish and chip lunch somewhere.

But not only was Elsie a chip-eating giant when it came to the care of her husband and family, for whenever the sporting moment allowed, she would describe herself as having been something of a giant on the netball court too - 'I was a goal shooter', she'd say, with an accompanying arm action and sound effect that I'm sure spoke only of sporting prowess. [And as small a detail as that may seem, it's an important one. As perverse as it may seem, upon hearing of my grandma's death, there was something oddly freeing in how I thought of her - it was like I was suddenly reminded of what a well woman - a vital woman - she'd been for the vast, vast majority of her life. No longer were my thoughts of her tied to the woman with the ailing frame who'd seen her days out at the community hospital and latterly at NineFields.] I mention the netball - we used to catch-up on various sporting matters, but as has been said already, her real passion was family and friends. That was the subject that generated the easiest and most energised talk. From my catching-up with the old bird, over the past decade or so, I'd like to share a few thoughts:

(From practicing, I knew this would be the toughest 'wall' within my piece.)

(A pause, a long pause. I can't look at the family. For a moment, I wonder whether my mum is fidgeting and about to suggest that I throw the towel in on this. That thought produces sufficient resistance to that idea, to nudge me on - slowly.)

[This, for me, is the hardest part of the speech.]

My grandma saw my brother, Mac,...

(Pause)

[In my head, right now, there's all kinds of violin music and... I don't know what.]

She saw my brother, Mac, for exactly what he is... he is big and bluff, and he was superb at entertaining an ailing elderly woman. Elsie would often remark on how he made her laugh. This was of immense importance, in ensuring that she would retain a kind of dignity and humanity, especially in recent years, as her body began to fail her. It was much the same sort of thing that she'd assured for George, through his final days.

Of my mum and dad, and Richard and Jean, she almost didn't have the words to express how glad she was of all of your love and all-round support - which I know came in many forms, could be tremendously taxing, but was always given over without hesitation. I can recall, quite vividly, our sitting in the front room at Roseberry View, and her mention of 'They're good to me' - and I know that she felt the understatement of those words. [I also remember her once whispering - not even so much to me, but more as a thinking out loud, 'I want them to know that' - the kind of line that stays with you, stayed with me. I know you know all this, but I don't think it does any harm to have it mentioned out loud.]

When it came to my sister, Amy, there was something quite broad that was communicated. Simply put, it was happiness - she seemed to be quietly impressed and amused, as she recounted the latest from my sister's time in Sunderland and Newcastle. That amounted to a definite pride in the independence - it produced the kind of glow that I'd earlier witnessed in her commentaries on Jayne (Elsie's second granddaughter - died 1998, aged 24).

And that pride thing is important - the thing that enabled her to walk tall and stand tall - that never left her. (Holds photograph aloft) It was captured perfectly in this photograph from Daisy (eldest grand-child) and Tom's wedding - here on the left, the well turned-out woman, standing tall. [I like this picture, too, for the fact that it has George in it.] [The photograph is also testament to the fact that, with age, Tom's hair improves.]

And finally, I'd just like to share one further object with you. (Holds aloft small knitted doll - niece who created it scrunches face in embarrassment.) [Bianca has no reason to look embarrassed - as with the photograph, it's not about the object, it's about what it represents.] I know that this doll was created by Bianca, and was given to Elsie as a gift. I know this, because during the last couple of visits that I made to my grandma, despite her having little strength or energy to talk, she let me know who made this, and how much she appreicated it. More broadly, this reminds me - reminds us - that my grandma really did appreciate those acts of thoughtfulness and kindness that came her way - whether [flowers from her sister, Joan,] a knitted doll, or the old-skool good neighbourliness of her neighbour, Diane, in Church Hamlet. I notice that Diane is here, today, and I'd just like to say that not only was your support valued by Elsie, but it was also a big comfort to many of our family, knowing that you were looking out for my grandma. So, thank you, Diane.

With that, before we end the service with the imminent closing of the curtain, and outplay music, I will state something that is entirely obvious. We're here today, to say a final farewell to - and to give thanks for, and to, Elsie - a proud woman, a woman of good humour, and a woman who deeply weeply appreciated family and friends. Amen.'

(I raise my head, glance over at the coffin, and on cue, the curtains close and the music plays.)

As I step down, HeWhoI'dInitiallyRecoiledAt shakes my hand and pays a compliment.

I join the procession exiting the crematorium, alongside one of my cousin's children. There is a fervent tap on my shoulder. I turn to see the outstretched hand of Richard, my grandmother's son. I put my hand into his, and he says 'Excellent, absolutely excellent'. That meant a lot.

wrong

2010-02-19T23:08:00.006Z

It's been a strange week, it's going to be a strange week.

In seven days time, I'll be in London.

Between now and then, I'll have part-presided over a cremation service - a new experience.

I'd like to adopt the swagger of, 'I'll try anything once, me', but it's not quite like that.

I think it was somewhere between being shocked and appalled at the original choice of minister - my brother knew what he was doing when he mentioned it to me, and my own upsetting of my mother and sister, that I may have said, 'I'll do it'.

Later, after I'd had time to think about what obvious alternatives there would have been to Minister Choice #1, I decided that some moderation, or negotiation, would be appropriate. But with this, sister spotted weakness, and the threat of back-tracking. Thus, I'm hit with a tirade that featured the term 'priorities'. That really pissed me off. For a moment, I simmer. Then I snap back - something about attitude and respect and being out of order, and about me being the only one to give voice to what everyone in the family was thinking and feeling, but that no-one had had the bottle to say out loud. Mother and brother suggest a calming, but by then, it's merely a question of whether I will actually foam at the mouth. A few seconds later, my tension is diminished, but the bite-back has seen my sister - and mother - depart the scene in different directions, both in tears. Not pretty, not a proud moment.

Days have since passed. I've written the speech that I'll be giving, and I've walked through it a couple of times. Though 'speech' is the wrong word. Homily? Tribute? I don't know.

The subject is, of course, the dead grandmother. But listen closely, and you'd hear that it's not really about the old bird. It is, as I guess these things often are, a not especially oblique tribute to the people who I'll be speaking to - mostly family, about how they sustained Elspeth.

My fellow presider, on Wednesday - He Who I'd Initially Recoiled At, well he's read the blurb that I've prepared. And he's provided feedback.

He seems like a decent sort - maybe my grandmother was wrong about him.

touch

2010-02-16T12:14:00.006Z

Saturday 13.02.10

Elspeth is dead. She'd been in residential care for the past year.

The call came at 8:40am - the mobile said 'Dad', and I knew before he spoke.

'Bit of upsetting news, son.'

'Go on', I say.

'Your -', he wasn't clear - emotional, 'Y' grandma died this morning - died in her sleep - in the home. We were with her, like.'

A pause. 'Mm. You alright?'

'Aye - we came up in the night - Matt brought us.'

Bleary eyed in a Manchester hotel room, 'I'll be up later', I say.

'Y' don't have to come up straight away.'

'I'll phone you later.'

'Aye, do that. D' y' wanna speak t' y' mam?'

'Yeah.'

'Hello?' she whispers.

'Y' alright?'

'Ye-es, uh-huh. Died in her sleep.'

'Best way to go, really.'

'Oh yes - she didn't suffer.'

Didn't suffer. It's too early for me to hear the nonsense of that statement.

'I said I'll call later -', I say.

'Yeah, let things settle down a bit, here. Mind, y' don't have t' come up straight away.'

'I'll talk t' y' later.'

'Alright, son.'

Click.

I think for a moment.

'Elspeth is dead', I say. And I'm remembering September 2002 - walking round to Ashford Street, after hearing of George's death. I remember a feeling of love, and of touch, and the colour purple.

It is now 11 hours later, and I'm on my third train of the day, heading east through West Yorkshire, writing this.

morse

2010-02-12T18:19:00.000Z

Online morse code translator.

Could be useful. You know, for when the revolution starts and all that.

In the mean time:

.-. . .- -.. . .-. -.-- --- ..- .-.. --- --- -.- .-- --- -. -.. . .-. ..-. ..- .-.. - --- -. .. --. .... -

onion

2010-02-10T13:46:00.003Z

Derby County 3 - 0 Newcastle United.

Sitting amongst fans of the home team, I was the outsider within. Hoping to see Newcastle play a kind of football that would suggest pomp-approaching-glory, things didn't pan out that way. For all of Newcastle's 'clever' play, and their mazily tripping over of the ball, Derby played genius football - simple and effective. Very Clough. The scoreline did flatter Derby, but the honesty of their play, and the commitment of Robbie Savage, saw my non-partisan status become eroded.

Fumbly phoney photo-work, there. Fair to say, it was cold. The old lady beside me did not share her blanket.

It felt good to be lost in 90 minutes of utter nonsense.

On exiting the stadium - two minutes before the final whistle, I caught a note of burger van fried onions in the chill night air. It was a moment for huddling, for moving briskly, and for missing people.

On leaving Derby, I thought about canal boats and ceramics - traces of an earlier meeting, still occupying my mind.

And so it goes.

pride

2010-02-08T13:48:00.007Z

It feels like quite a while, since I was 'myself'.

The context for this is simple and clear. It has become the norm, for me to put others' interests ahead of my own. Or to imagine those others' interests to be my own - which, in part, they are. Fine lines. But I've known, for quite some time, that I have to re-take Shane (what foul foul wording), if I'm to content myself. And so, small steps though they are, I've let Emma know that I'll not be joining her and Alex at a festival in late August - a festival that I'm sure would be good, but one that would also become lost to me, as I'd end up being far more occupied with other peoples' children, rather than the much more interesting adults who'd be on hand. So I've said 'Thanks, but no thanks' to that. Alex' Dad will also be around, along with various other friends and relatives, so there'll be no shortage of bodies.

And I've booked in a trip to London, end of the month, when I'll be getting to the Riverside Studios (Fool for Love) and Soho Theatre (A Life in Three Acts).

Oh, and I've not done anything like enough football over the past few months to keep me spiritually right. So tomorrow evening, I'll be at Pride Park, Derby, for the visit of Newcastle United.

And just in case you're wondering, I haven't gone all dip trip fantasia - 'spiritually right?'. I mean happy. It's simple stuff, that just happens to get waylaid sometimes.

boobs

2010-02-05T15:11:00.003Z

I am being befriended by a DadAtTheEdgeOfThePlayground - only occasionally AtTheEdgeOfThePlayground, truth be told - he works in sales, 'away a lot'. The man's son is Alex' best friend - both boys bright and quirky.

For practical reasons, it's been necessary for DadAtTheEdge' and self to have one another's phone numbers for quite a while. But today, I received a 'comedy text message'. It read:

BREAKING NEWS: John Terry Update - Fabio Capello has released a statement clearing the England captain, 'I don't know what all of the fuss is about... Everyone knows if a full back leaves a hole, it's the job of the centre back to fill it!'

That was it. The comedy text message.

I'm feeling a bit intimidated. Might have to make up some joke about boobs or something, next time I see him. You know, all laddish and that.

I

2010-01-28T18:26:00.008Z

(With updates, below)

From a very young age, I had a sense of 'power relations'. Whether concerned with big public institutions - schools, police, family, or with social microcosms - teacher/pupil, mam/dad, copper/youth, I had an interest in how and why things were the way they were. In common with this, I found any kind of serious debate engaging - as much for the way in which arguments were substantiated, as for which way they were won, lost or left undetermined. Remaining the case, I would go on to read of rhetoric.

At school in the mid-late 1980s, I sat in a year group assembly, with around 150 of my peers, and began to listen to some bloke (not a teacher) talk about 'politics'. I imagine that he was an officer from some ill-thought-through local authority scheme - through which young minds were to become switched on to matters political. Over the course of the man's talk - thirty minutes at most, I found myself becoming more and more engaged. This was countered by a murmur, that became a rumble, that became outright disruption, from at least 100 of my fellow audience members. At the time, I realised that the speaker's task was thankless, and his approach - reasoning with us - ambitious. These were the days before drama and dance and hip-hop were taken to be the way to reach errant youngsters. I also guessed that the man at the front was 'the kind of person who didn't shout at children'. During what was probably a fairly grim half hour for him, he lobbed a few questions at our braying mass. Some fell into no man's land, others didn't get that far. I still don't know why the bystanding teachers left it until after he had departed to berate us - their own kind of theatre, perhaps.

That day, the point at which I noticed the background noise came a moment after I'd answered a question that the visitor had called out. To have answered at all was a bit out there, but to have to repeat myself felt a bit much.

'Tony Blair', I repeated, for he was our MP at the time. Fresh-faced, ambitious, going places.

As irrelevant or as dull as such talk may have been to so many of us back then, I'm minded to wonder about how many of that assembly were later touched, destroyed, or otherwise supported or ground down, by decisions and alliances forged on Tony Blair's watch. I'm also wondering what became of that day's guest speaker - people don't plan to go in for that sort of punishment, surely.

Tomorrow, I'll listen to Blair's evidence to The Iraq Inquiry. And later, I'll listen to the maintream fall-out from it.

----- ----- ----- -----
UPDATE (Fri, 11:35am): I found myself recalling being examined for the Ph.D., this morning - something to do with semiotics and seating arrangements. The Inquiry panel seemed to be more visibly nervous as today's session began. Blair also very tense to start with - seems to have relaxed into it. The pre-session Five Live phone-in was predictably grim. I sometimes wonder whether they sift out those callers who might seem to be possessed of balance and articulacy (...regardless of their bottom-line position).

UPDATE (Fri 4:19pm): Getting towards the end of the session, and I'd say that there's little that hasn't been heard before being aired. The nature of the questioning and answering has made me reflect upon contrasting styles of interrogation - the hard-headed, in-your-face journalist versus the stealthy, catch-you-with-defences-down approach, versus something that is a bit more zingy - something purely about fact-finding, rather than generating news, or a peformance, or a political blow. That's about it.

UPDATE (Fri 6:03pm): Early summaries and reactions - 'analysis' would be an overstatement - as broadcast on Five Live, have been fairly narrow in their focus. Despite close to six hours hours of contextual description, and accounting for the political and diplomatic balancing act that led to the second invasion into Iraq, the detail that gets the featured coverage is the lack of an apology from Blair. Predictable, not something that offends or bothers me personally, but it's easy to appreciate how and why others have reacted as they have. There seem to me to be three main sources of anti-Blair sentiment, namely: the Tories (Blair having upset the blue apple-cart, and led government, as the Conservatives navigated dire straits); the grieving (in the absence of a sense of hard, unequivocally clear evidence of attempts to avoid military intervention); and the old left (when Labour got New, others became old/grey/disenfranchised, by default). And so it goes.

H

2010-01-28T09:14:00.004Z

Short film on the panart hang (musical instrument), and one of its players (a thoroughly nice chap who I met a couple of months ago).

[Upon first embedding the film, it wrecked the formatting of the blog, hence linky link link.]

O

2010-01-23T17:29:00.000Z

The early part of a new year beckons a bit of a clear-out.

Shane: I got rid of all those black bags.

Emma: Where d' y' take them?

Shane: Samaritans.

Emma: Did they start rifling through them before you'd left?

Shane: Yep.

Emma: (amused) Treasure-hunters, those old ladies - they knows gold when they sees it.

Shane: Mm. They asked if I knew how to open that old jewellery-box-type-box, as I was leaving, but I didn't - didn't seem to be a key with it - must have fallen out in the bag.

Emma: Jewellery box?

Shane: Mm. Like a small shoe box size, kind of off-white, with a small floral motif - pretty ugly really.

Emma: You sure that was from our stuff?

Shane: Yeah. She had the black bag on the counter - it was the first thing she took out of it.

Emma: (confused) (thought lands) (eyes widen) You didn't take all of the black bags, did you?

Shane: Ye-es. All of the black bags that were from the clear-out.

Emma: Oh no. Oh no! (seems horrified) (begins to laugh)

Shane: What?

Emma: Two of those were for the rubbish.

Shane: What?

Emma: To be thrown out. Oh no-

Shane: What?

Emma: That box was... it was in the same bag as that nasty old toilet brush that I'd thrown out.

Shane: I just donated a toilet brush to the Samaritans?

Emma: (laughing) And a knackered vibrator.

Shane: (winces) Oh-, not good. Not good at all.

One did one's best. For a good cause.

Q

2010-01-21T17:38:00.002Z

I had a really good day last Friday, I mean really good - exhausting, exhilerating, massively affirming, and the kind of day that will stay with me for quite a while. It was also all about work - although it was really about the responsiveness of the people who I was working with, to my work.

Apart from getting a few dozen grown-ups to go on a longish walk in icy woodland conditions (they suffered, but they enjoyed), and to later gad about various eateries and drinkeries (they enjoyed), I got them to take on a seriousish photographic task (they enjoyed), but more interesting to me, I had them tackle a couple of playful but tricky questions - one from the archives, plus a new one (for me). Those questions were:-

Q1. [From the archives] Think of an occasion when you took a risk. What was that risk?

Q2. [New] You may be aware of the TV programme, Come Dine With Me. (If not, someone will explain.) You are to host a most amazing supper, at Le Chateau Imaginaire. Your guests are to be three famous/ish people - all from different walks of life (i.e. no trios of any particular professional or source of notoriety), plus one non-famous person, who is neither an existing friend or relative. So, who are your guests?

The final part to question two (the non-famous person) had the potential to unseat a few of our riders, but no, they played and they played fair.

And after that, I had them return to Q1. But this time, I asked:

Q3. [New] Think of an occasion when you avoided taking a risk. What was that risk?

This was a question that relied on my players to already be working well together, as it would require some teasing out - its meanings and possibilities. But you know what, they were fantastic. I gave them a good time, and they delivered.

So good, so very good.

If you've any thoughts on any of the above questions, feel free to share (I am interested) - whether you're a familiar to the comments box, a one-off wanderer, or someone somewhere in-between.

A

2010-01-20T11:19:00.005Z

'It's a bit of cliche, but children are not brought up properly nowadays', explained some blunt instrument on Radio Five Live.

Later:

Alex: I've written another thank you letter for my Christmas presents.

Shane: Good man. Who is it this time?

Alex: Your mum and dad.

Shane: Good. They'll be pleased. What have you written?

Alex: 'Dear ShaneMum and ShaneDad, Thank you for the Transformers DVD for my Christmas present. I've already watched it about five times. Here is a line from Transformers - I really don't like that guy. He's an asssssssssssssssssssss hole. Love from Alex.' (smiles)

Emma: (Laughs)

Shane: Funny. What have you really written?

Alex: That!

Shane: Show me.

Alex: (shows letter)

Shane: So you have. Good man.

Emma: (now weeping with laughter)

We seem to have forged an approach to (not) dealing with sweary language. So long as it's not gratuitous, out of anger, or too casual, there tends not to be any issue. Fact is, there rarely is an swearing (an interesting concept, really). Alex' dad happens to be more of a stickler - mentioning the odd word that he's heard that he doesn't want to hear again - and maybe that's no bad thing. But I do like it when The Boy and I find ourselves having conversations about swear words. It's at such times that he shows his grasp of many social distinctions - public/private, appropriate/inappropriate, literate/illiterate, and so on.

This post came about as I read of a chap's homily - brief, but gorgeous - to his deceased step-dad. It set me about wondering quite how I came to find myself effectively Alex' main care-giver, and quite how he'll recall these times in later life. In being highly sensitive to his well-being - a matter that doesn't and shouldn't translate into being all-round protective - there are pros and cons. Each of which, are the stuff of my everyday.

R

2010-01-15T02:00:00.005Z

I was at an aunt's funeral, this past week, in the town of Bishop Auckland (County Durham).

It was the first time I saw a coffin lowered into a grave.

It was also the first time in about a decade that I saw my Dad's older brother, and his step-son (whose mum had died).

It wasn't until the pair of them began to really show their grief (a hand to the dipped head, the body shaking to a silent beat), that I began to show any feeling - quietly, discreetly.

They live in a massive house, with a big labrador. They lost the mother and wife who brought their gorgeously uncouth triumvirate together.

The closeness of fathers and sons, and the implications of that - cuts right to the core of my being. 'Cuts' is the right word.

Listening, I learned stuff about my own Dad, and about the Dad that his older brother continues to be - both to a step-son, and to my Dad - however awkward that younger brother might seem to feel about that. [A garbled sentence, but I know what I mean.]

It is late.

Z

2010-01-11T12:09:00.002Z

In light snow, I drop-off The Boy at his school. He is excited at today's visit to a local theatre, 'We might be there all day' he mentions. I feign jealousy, remind him that I'll be away for a couple of days, and say that I look forward to seeing him on Wednesday. Super-efficient, this morning, I dodge all manner of trendy mums and wholesome dads, as I make a quick get-away for a dart across the city.

A different school:

The reception area, a 9:20am whirlwind of children and their parents (or folk assumed to be their parents):

There is some confusion as to the identities of one or two late-comers. In the office, someone questions whether at least one of the children may have just returned from a lengthy spell overseas. Recognising the challenge and the absence of the regular home-school liaison (translator, to you and I), the headteacher steps up to the hatch, to help out a couple of stretched secretaries:

Headteacher: (pronouncing clearly) Has he been away?

Parent: (frowns, not understanding)

Headteacher: Have you been on holiday? Pakistan?

Parent: (pause for processing) Lost jumper.

I move off to speak with twenty or so of their colleagues, with whom I have business on Friday.

Later, as I depart, one of the secretaries is taking a list of names from a girl, who has just led her three younger siblings into school. Again, there seems to be some confusion as to who and where these children should be.

Secretary: How do you spell that?

'Four-day week' I chime to this secretary.

She smiles, 'See you Friday'.

Driving away, I think ahead to discussions that I'll be having later this term, about tracking pupils' progress - an action not without hurdles, especially where the tracking of names is not to be taken for granted.

The light snow now seems to be mixed with rain.

X

2010-01-09T23:36:00.001Z

Maybe I'm beginning to see what so many others, so long ago, saw in David Tennant's Time Lord.

E

2010-01-07T12:54:00.009Z

Years of culinary poverty mean that I'm not a credible foodie, but I do enjoy extending my repertoire of dishes - for cooking and eating. I've rarely invested time into desserts, but last night, following a noodley, gingery, sea bass stir fry, I finished it off with something sweet - as garnered from Valentine Warner.

Shane: There.

Emma: Let's see.

Shane: (shows his piece)

Emma: Eton Mess! You made an Eton Mess!

Shane: Mm, but not quite. That would be meringue with cream and a strawberry-based puree. This is raspberry-loaded. And besides, I couldn't quite bring myself to offer up anything good that brings David Cameron to mind.

Emma: So what is it, then?

Shane: (ponders the words Eton and Mess) (whispers) It's a Stoke-on-Trent Fuck-Up.

Emma: It's good.

Shane: Good. I've learned much this evening about whipping. Whipping is great. Isn't air fantastic.

Emma: (is ignoring Shane from this point - is back to watching Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade with my young sous chef)

I look out of the window and notice our quiet man cat, dancing about in the snow. I wonder what's got into him.

V

2010-01-04T09:25:00.004Z

Into the shop, I headed directly to the fridge for my standard of skimmed. Moving to the queue, the Professor Sprout being served was in much too much of a flighty, circumspect quiver, to look up for polite acknowledgements.

And through my Monday morning daze, I see and I understand.

A purchase to explain the 'ruddy complexion', and to pop the illusion of 'outdoor type'.

First day of term. She'll need it later.

Weltanschauung

2009-12-28T13:42:00.008Z

It was Christmas Eve, babe:

Manc.: (bright-eyed, amused) So? Which Premiership manager d' y' reckon it is, then?

Shane: Is what?

Manc.: Y' haven't heard?

Shane: No.

Manc.: Some Premier League manager has been caught leaving a brothel - hasn't been named, though. When I heard, my heart sank. I just thought 'Pulis'.

A conversation ensues, in which I explain that I can't believe that it would have been the Manc's beloved Pulis, manager of Stoke City.

Manc's Wife: The article said he was wearing branded sportswear as he left the building - which was on an industrial estate.

Shane: Sounds a bit Midlands, could be anywhere, though.

An alternative festive game develops, in which we compare guesswork and thinking. Our collective intellectual might forms a pointless Poirot.

Shane: So from what you tell me, we can identify three characteristics of the punter... he's high profile, with a lot to lose - so he's a risk-taker. We can assume that he's able to be fairly amoral about paying for sex, or the sex economy. And we know that he's the sort of man who's willing to be out in public in branded sportswear.

We narrow the field to six or seven.

Manc.: So if you were a Premiership manager, would you have been ruled out yet?

Shane: Great question. Risk-taker - I can be. Amoral as regards the sex economy - tricky, but yes, I can be that. Out in public in branded sportwear?

Manc's Wife: That's the one, isn't it?

Shane: I wouldn't be out in branded sportswear - no way.

Manc.: That's the measure of a man, isn't it. Who'd be willing to be seen out in branded sportswear.

Shane: It's one measure, that's for sure.

I spend moments through the rest of the day wondering about how the story - such that it is one - will be played out elsewhere. In various football managers' households, in pubs and clubs, and in the 'wider press and public', I imagine many shrugging shoulders. Later, I notice in the Daily Mail coverage, a reference to the brothel as a 'Scene of Disgrace'. 'Disgrace' in what sense, I wonder.

Icy

2009-12-28T01:54:00.005Z

Just 'done' five episodes of The Wire.

Feeling a bit light-headed.

It was a bit cold up north... weather, family, family, weather.

Brother's girlfriend, 'Sue-Ellen', was on good form... utterly deluded, but on good form.

Brother's silence speak volumes.

There was no obvious moment for opening up to Dad about his brother...

Moments of inaction confirm My Own Private Tradition.

Sighs

2009-12-18T12:25:00.007Z

Yesterday was a good day. A monkey on our back was cut right down in size, and though this was explained to The Boy (for he has felt it, as we all have), and although he gave his Mum a hug, I doubt whether he yet understands the collective weight that was unburdened. And nor should he, he is only eight years old after all.

But I was so pleased with him, and for him. I gifted him the Simon's Cat book - important, as I felt it was, to mark the day somehow. He was pleased and gave implausibly emphatic thanks.

Earlier in the day, his mother had spoken the words:

'No, you don't need to give me a moment, I'm going to cry through this anyway', as good news was detailed.

At bed time, The Boy and I flicked through about half of the Simon's Cat book, recognising many of the wry illustrations.

And after reading a couple of chapters of The Fire Thief, we chatted for a while. We talked about how when you're a child, it's hard to imagine who you might meet later in your life - which new friends you'd make between the ages of eight, and say... thirty four and exactly one half. This chat led to his explaining that Daddy would like to get married, and that he uses match dot com - for meeting new people and for setting up dates. Feigning naivety, I asked questions, listened, and suggested examples of what my profile might look like on match dot com.

The Boy: It'll find people for you who like the same stuff as you. So you put in things like... your favourite colour -

Shane: Green.

The Boy: Mm. And... what you like -

Shane: Chicken in gravy.

The Boy: (hesitantly) If you like.

Shane: Mm. But what if all of the other people who like chicken in gravy live in... Africa?

The Boy: You have to put in where you live as well.

Shane: Oh. Is it best to meet people who like the same stuff as you?

The Boy: Yeah.

Shane: Is that so that you can go to a restaurant that you both like?

The Boy: (sighs, rolls his eyes) Something like that. You can put the light out now.

Shane: Alright. See you in the morning.

The Boy: 'night.

He slept soundly. I didn't... the residual thought of what might have been.

The next week or two should see some relaxing of the mind, and the shoulders.

Amen.

Hallelujah

2009-12-14T21:36:00.005Z

Context: A couple of years ago, I discovered that my Dad's missing brother had died more than twenty years earlier. My Dad didn't know this. I chose not to tell him. With that, I always end up daydreaming about the sharing that has not been, whenever I'm due to see my parents.

I discussed all of this, with Franglaise, at the weekend. He was a good one to be discussing this with - reluctant as he was to jump to any quick assertion about what would be best or inevitable. In the course of talking, I mentioned that my initial inclination - to tell - was opposed to that of my brother and sister. Wondering if that was still the case, I spoke to my brother. From which:

Shane: ...think about it, though - if you went missing - even if we hadn't been getting on or whatever, I'd still want to know if you had... y' know, died.

Brother: That would be different. You wouldn't need to be told.

Shane: But if we'd lost contact, how would I know?

Brother: Cos I'm considerate. Just to let you know I was alright - even if I thought you were a total dick, I'd post y' some dog shit every Christmas - just t' let y' know I was thinkin' of y'. So when the dog shit doesn't arrive, that's when you have to mourn 's, like.

Shane: (impressed) That's very creative.

Brother: Cheers.

Footnote

2009-12-11T10:40:00.004Z

The Boy is eight years old. He'll be nine in January.

Alex: Right, today at school, the teacher read part of a story then just stopped. And she said we had to write the rest of the story, but that we weren't allowed to write about anything that was violent. We had to describe how people were feeling.

Shane: Mm.

Alex: But I said to her, 'Well, Miss, this story might have to have a little violence in it, because my new character is going to be a boxer.' She laughed at that.

Shane: Good. Laughing is good.

Alex: Mm. But then, I asked her, 'Is it ok if I use footnotes?' And she laughed! I mean, what's funny about that?!

Shane: Did she say anything?

Alex: She asked how I knew about footnotes, so I told her. She said it would be fine.

Shane: That's good. I think there's a lot of adults who wouldn't know about footnotes, so she was probably surprised more than anything.

Alex: Mm.

Shane: Mm.

Alex: You know with footnotes, do you always have to start with number 1.

Shane: Yeah. Some people start from number one on each new page that has a footnote - one, one, one two, one, one two three, one, and so on, others will keep going up by one regardless of the page - one, two, three, la la la.

Alex: Mm. I only had one footnote.

Shane: That's fine. You only needed one footnote.

Alex: Mm.

Shane: Mm.

Unremarkable

2009-12-10T23:00:00.003Z

As the festive period - are we there yet - rapidly approaches, I begin to imagine the brief foray into the Up North. I think of Boxing Day as Up North Day. Tradition has it that the day will be bitterly cold, yet the family will collectively haul frozen ass to some sporting non-event - maybe a football match, possibly a horse racing fixture.

This year, things could be a little different. Boxing Day morning will see me visit the ever-ailing maternal grandmother. As I explained to Birthday Colleague, earlier, a September or October death would have probably been the best thing that could have happened (I think I used the word 'convenient'), but that hasn't been the way.

I'm wondering whether some bracing outdoor walk, maybe a forest, or the coast, would be a better alternative afternoon 'trip out'. I think that would risk the further fragmentation of the clan, though. Siblings, and their plus ones, would likely miss the eleven against eleven, or the chance of a flutter. We also share the quiet humour of how unremarkable our Boxing Day sport can be, and I'd miss that.

This is what I've been wondering about.

Lapwings

2009-12-07T10:29:00.006Z

Soft shit, I'm a bit of a soft shit.

Stanley Matthews Way is a road that takes pressure off the A50 through Stoke-on-Trent, close to the main football team's Britannia Stadium. It's a road that offers an escape to the south, towards Stafford. I often use it as a short cut when heading north for the University Quarter. Ordinarily, it's a massively unaffecting corridor, with its industrial units, anonymous modern office blocks ('To Let') and JCB markers of devastated grasslands by the Trent and Mersey canal.

Accelerating off a roundabout, heading north along The Way, all it took was the glimpse of a father and son, walking hand-in-hand, to produce an emotional spike. Within seconds I was past them, but I still had open road on which to ponder how utterly ridiculous I can be... all it was, was a man and a boy, walking. No. Big. Deal. Yet I manage to contrive something poignant and gorgeous, troubled and troubling from that. I mean really, what a fuck-up.

I didn't used to be like this. I used to go to lots of random football matches, in peculiar backwater places. Every minute of every day, I'd be doing something that was ultimately about what I wanted to do. I lived for no-one, but myself. Maybe I exaggerate a bit, but I'm sure there was none of this high-sensitive paternalist lark. But you know what, it's actually not only about paternalism. In that scene, where the boy and his Dad are just walking along, all casual and big coats, I think it's the possibilities of 'But where's Mum?' that pricks at me. Maybe they walk to meet her, as she finishes a shift at the factory, maybe they're off to spot lapwings, as Mum has Saturday morning to herself, maybe maybe.

I reach my destination, the local Tesco enormo-mart. It's as I'm scanning for tomato puree that I slide by a couple, both hollow cheeks and skin that's aged beyond their years. A young boy, gazing into the distance, sits in their trolley. And another emotional spike is thrust from within. By the time I locate the double concentrate, I'm tremendously distracted and realise that I need a break. I gently place the basket on the floor and leave the store.

I take a different route home.

Class

2009-11-30T14:21:00.004Z

I receive some text messages from a London-bound chum:-

1. (On the platform)
Am sharing a carriage with MP Rob Flell0. It's Monday, it's Westminster.

2. (Journey begins)
Another politician joins our carriage - it's MP J0an Walley. Am listening in on their conversation. This is just like The Wire.

3. (Well on the way)
And now former mayor Mark Mered1th gets on - though he's in a different carriage. This train is the opposite of a political vacuum.

4. (Journey's end)
I shared carriage with Noddy Holder. Just helped him get unstuck from automatic door. Best journey ever! First class is class!

Entertaining nuggets that break up the morning, though the main theme seemed to get lost somewhere at the end there.

Caring

2009-11-24T22:32:00.003Z

Whilst reading Rebus, earlier, I was reminded of the times when, as kids, we would makes ramps for our bikes. A plank of wood from the garden and one brick - easy, two bricks - getting serious, three bricks - one for the crowds. The crowds would generally have been my brother - 'No, just one brick - you're too small for three'. I was caring like that. And the more impressive stunt-rider for it.

Mm.

And also earlier, in a rare moment of thinking 'Lordy, I'm being a good professional right now', the chap who I was speaking to caught me quite off-guard. He'd said that he had to go back into hospital... back into hospital. And so having forgotten the detail of his previous hospital trip, I murmured a cool murmur and asked if it would be a long stay. I asked out of caring for the man, nothing to do with 'This has the potential to be damned inconvenient'. And before I know where I'm at, he's all 'big ones', 'internal', 'haemerrhoids' - but I didn't ask, man, I didn't ask! The arse.

As these blog posts have become much more rare, I think it's important that when I post, I should post with gravitas, with thoughtful purpose.

Mm.

I think the word julienne is gorgeous. Words like julienne make me want to cook. Properly - no cheating with gadgets that do the art for you, I mean proper hand-crafting of the food - careful and caring. Julienne.

Onwards

2009-11-09T12:40:00.001Z

Life goes on.

Mostly.

Harbour

2009-07-31T14:53:00.009+01:00

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.
.

Histories

2009-07-14T10:00:00.006+01:00

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

2009-07-08T20:05:00.001+01:00

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.
.

Awkward

2009-06-27T09:21:00.008+01:00

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.
.

Apostrophes

2009-06-24T19:00:00.005+01:00

Greek god of irritating grammar and nuisance punctuation?
.
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

2009-06-24T10:03:00.006+01:00

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

2009-06-19T00:16:00.006+01:00

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.

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.
.

Arseholes?

2009-06-05T07:12:00.002+01:00

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.

----- ----- ----- ----- -----
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

2009-06-02T07:05:00.001+01:00

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!'.

Leafy

2009-05-30T00:27:00.004+01:00

On Friday evening, I acted against my own prejudices, I stepped into the unknown, I watched men fiddle with balls.

On Friday evening, I engaged with the world of village cricket.

It was really rather pleasant.

Lashed

2009-05-26T17:10:00.000+01:00

The British Artists' Football Tournament:

Saturday, 23rd May, 2009.

We played well - won 4, drew 0, lost 2, during first phase of the tournament. Both defeats were to the eventual finalists, 0-1 and 0-1. The wins were 3-1, 2-1, 6-3 and 3-2. I scored twice (one back heel, one outrageous first-time lash - following good team play down the left and a quick squared cross). Largely, though, I played a defensive, sweeperish role. In the semi-final, we drew 0-0 against Eastside Projects (Birmingham), then lost on penalties (*whispers* though I scored mine - hard and low). And so we were knocked out. We call that an honourable exit - for self and team (AirSpace). It was pleasing to hear newfound and amusing support from the sidelines. As with all teams and most players, our attitude was good, '...appreciate the effort that others have put in to making the day happen, now get on with it and play fair'. The tournament was won by another Birmingham team, 'Jibbering' - a collective of street artists and DJs - they played well, and used their squad intelligently. As we drove back up the M6, the mood was good - we'd done ourselves justice.

Number of teams who participated: 7
Number of teams who failed to show: 3
Number of instances of dissent / bad attitude: 2
Number of my legs experiencing thigh strain (Sunday - Tuesday): 2
Best kit design of the tournament: AC Tortured Birmingham (white polos, with AC-style logo)
Best team name of the tournament: Real Worcester
Number of natural left-footers in our team: 2
Number of miles to venue: 42.7
Mark out of 10 for satisfaction with the day: 10
Minutes delayed in getting to venue (Bank Holiday traffic): 20
Number of people who've seemed interested in my in-person reportage: 3
Number who haven't...: 3

There was a photographer on site for the whole tournament, though I have yet to get access to their handiwork. Thus, you'll have to imagine it... no no no, more attractive than that, surely.

Embodied by self, Saturday was a good day for north east football(ers in exile).

Sunday wasn't.

[ - Photographs may follow - ]

Left-sided

2009-05-22T13:48:00.004+01:00

I'm feeling a bit nervous - got a football tournament tomorrow, which offers three possible outcomes:-

A - Creditable display by self and team (have been trying to pace physical exertion this week, for fittest finest preparation), leading to feelings of contentment.

B - The whole thing is a badly organised shambles (teams from all over England will converge on the West Midlands for it), leading to feelings of frustration.

C - Our team just doesn't gel on the day (we bomb), leading to feelings of frustration (variety II).

Aim: Eat well, sleep well, be sure to take footballing brain as I leave the house in the morning.

If Tuesday's training session was anything to go by, we just might be ok.

Logo

2009-05-18T15:36:00.004+01:00

Alex missed school today - truly, a heavy cold, albeit with exaggerated symptoms.

After lunch:

Alex: I didn't much like the tuna mayo.

Shane: I thought you liked that.

Alex: Well, I do, but I added some raspberries** and it wasn't good.

Shane: Tuna, mayo and raspberries...

Alex: - not good.

Shane: Mm.

He'll be back at school tomorrow, and so I'll not be setting number quiz challenges, justifying jigsawing 'down-time', or contriving logo design work* for an eight year old. I will miss him, though. His singing about not being allowed to play on the Playstation or to watch any more television - all to the tune of Eye of the Tiger, well that was the high point of the day. I believe the term is 'LOL'.

* We support creative endeavour...
** Up to a point.

Litigate

2009-05-09T23:47:00.005+01:00

I've changed my mind.

That series of reflections that I was going to post (about reacquainting with The Artist), well they'll have to be sidelined - perhaps to be revived and immersed, veiled or otherwise fronted, in future blog posting, or some such. Now is not the time to write of those reflections. Ongoing dialogue is shifting what and how I understand of my meeting with The Artist, of what we did and what we didn't talk about. Trying to write about this would be hard, and trying to read that would be really frustrating.

And so, more learnings.

Apologies for the obliqueness - episodic and thematic. Maybe one day I'll start writing really crisp, no-holds-barred, let it all hang out type stuff. One day, maybe.

In the mean-time, just be glad that I'm not clubbing you with poetry.

Love

2009-05-07T11:51:00.006+01:00

Oh, forgive me. It's just that, well, I've had a week or so of being all in touch with my feelings. I think this comes from peak, or rich, emotional experiences.

I've embraced the past, I've stroked the head of a dying old bird, and I've come to understand things that I hadn't realised that I'd misunderstood. And so it goes.

Where am I going with this? Where indeed. Ah yes... For this month's posts, I'm going to pepper you with tiny extracts - dialogue, oddments of reflection, insights, and the stuff of general gaping, that came from my meeting with my old pal - The Artist, as mentioned previously.

As a starter, I'll say that we met up in Manchester - last Saturday - a warm, sunny day. We met at eleven on the dot, in the top floor cafe of Afflecks Palace, where we drank earl grey and ate toast, before moving on to the first of a few pubs. Approaching from the right (I hadn't spotted the second entrance to the cafe), The Artist called out my name and offered an open hand. I smiled, chorused back his name, and opened up for a hug. Already, 15 years on, things had changed.

Kith

2009-04-28T00:15:00.005+01:00

I'm becoming reacquainted with a friend from the past - one of those ones that you should never lose touch with, and that you did kind of seems bizarre. To me - not on Facebook, blogging under a pseud' - this is a big deal.

Related, there has been emailing. I've received the gift offer of a pastel drawing of my sister that was done in 1993, when she was a small 8 year old - it's her 24th birthday today (the gift offer came from the old friend, An Artist).

It seems that a meeting - in Manchester - will follow. Men will hug.

Kingdom

2009-04-20T12:29:00.007+01:00

Particularly Relevant to the Beautiful People.

Perhaps overdoing it on the Take-Opportunity-To-Get-Away-And-Relax-Goddamit-Relax front, my return from the north east was but a stepping stone to a dive south (just don't even go there, sniggerers).

On Saturday morning, I took breakfast at Pembroke Lodge in Richmond Park - with its leafy green outlook to the west. Deftly egg-dipping a hash brown, I was roused by an unusual bird call. And thus, I spotted - clear as the blue sky - my first ever wild ring-necked parakeet. There were many of them. And later, a trio came and perched in the tree of a property next door to where I was staying.

It's good when the Red Deer faces competition for my weekly 'Most Favourite Bit of Nature' prize.

Other observation, of human nature: In the cosmopolitan centres - Manchester, London, Stoke-on-Trent, it is easy to feel surrounded by the body beautiful. On fine sunny days, the work that goes into the body beautiful is there to be seen - the doggedly determined clomping round the park, the gritty extra lap on the 21-speed racer, the comedy of the power walk. Maybe it's because much in their lives is taut, and edgy, and competitive, and all a bit brow-furrowing, but a lot of these Body Beauties look like they ought to relax a bit. Look at the ring-necked parakeet or the red deer, their's are paces that seem to be much more well-adjusted - culturally-speaking.

I'm also liking deadwood - it's likely to be a contender for this week's prize. Never to be overlooked, though, is the mid-evening goldfinch rhapsody.

Keepin' On

2009-04-16T18:02:00.005+01:00

Alex joined his Dad on Tuesday, so I took the opportunity to visit the clan up in County Durham. Meanwhile, Emma continued to fend off the rockets and shells of writing hard stuff, and of herself. County Durham seemed like a safe distance.

The Wexford siblings converged on the parental home and, as ever, I enjoyed the ferocious banter and acidic put-you-downs that we count as love.

As sister and brother discussed music festivals that did and respectively didn't interest them, I recalled something utterly inconsequential that I thought might interest them.

Shane: You know Neil Tennant?

Sister: Mm.

Shane: He's got a house in County Durham.

Sister: How d' you know that?

Shane: He mentioned it in an interview that I listened to. In fact, it's an interview that's upstairs right now - on the iPod that's under my pillow.

Sister: Hold on! You've got an interview with Neil Tennant - from The Pet Shop Boys - under your pillow?

Shane: Yeah. It was from Front -

Sister: Other Brother, Shane's got an interview with Neil Tennant under his pillow!

Brother: I did wonder, like.

Shane: It was from Front Row.

Sister: Mutha, (pointing) that one's got an interview with Neil Tennant under his pillow.

Mother (distractedly): It's 2009 - each unto his own.

Shane: Hold on a minute. I just -

Sister: Fatha - Shane's got an interview with Neil Tennant under his pillow.

Dad: Who's Neil Tennant?

Sister: Never mind.

It amused me.

It was also amusing to hear that an old familiar of brother and I was currently appearing on The Apprentice. Sister crossed paths with (not so) young (any more) Phil, in Durham, at the weekend. A nice lad.

And apart from foregoing Porto versus Manchester United (0 - 1), in order to take in Durham City versus Woodley Sports (5 - 0), the only other item of note concerned maternal grandmother.

I've got used to the further extensions of frailty that the old bird exhibits - each visit presenting new expressions of vulnerability, fallibility, fading - very much reminiscent of her husband's end of life. Entering the second week of a stay at Bishop Auckland's General Hospital, the violence of grandma's Parkinson's Disease - the tics, the strains, the jolts and jerks, they seemed to show no mercy. Memory was playing tricks, too. I felt like I was talking to the echo of a person.

This morning, on the drive back to the Midlands, the subject of jolts and jerks, tics and strains returned. Would I like to join Alex and his Dad at a local theatre, to watch Thriller Live - this evening. It was one of those questions where what the boy wants to hear, is probably the best answer. So here I am, jaded of an early Thursday evening, waiting to Beat It. Meanwhile, I hear another shell fall as Emma grinds on. The theatre seems like a safe distance.

Killer

2009-04-03T08:08:00.004+01:00

On the phone:

Dad: ... aye, there's a load o' people 'round 'ere that's died recently - not old either.

Shane: Mm. It's these hard northern men, and their hard northern lives.

Dad: (sagely) Aye.

Shane: With their hard northern kids, and their hard northern wives.

Dad: (pause) I dunno about that bit, like.

Knotted

2009-04-02T07:03:00.004+01:00

It has been a week for challenging people.
But today, today could be really difficult.
I'm told that the mindset should be about just getting through it.
But no, elated or deflated - it's going to be one of them.
Hopes versus reality, me versus myself - one of them.

--- Update (23:03) ---

Getting up at 5:40am, that felt raw.
Leaving the house, calm descended.
Mid-morning, the going was good.
Late afternoon, suns were shining.
Me versus myself - I won.

Camp?

2009-03-25T20:20:00.004Z

This past weekend, Emma and I headed south on a long ago booked trip. In the here and now, the timing wasn't great.

As we made for the station, the city rose to clear blue sky. That afternoon, the Britannia Stadium would bounce to men, women and children singing 'Delilah', a song that features the line 'I put my dick in her hand, and she laughed no more'. Where to begin, where to begin... Perhaps best to not begin at all.

The paltry offerings in the station's Virgin Lounge ensured that we were at the platform well before the 10:12 to Euston rolled in from Manchester.

What would our trip feature. Healthy-living and broadsheet analysis?

Perhaps.

Approaching midday, Tottenham Court Road was as clear as the Potteries had been. We made our way directly towards Monmouth Street, off Shaftsbury Avenue, in the hope of an early check-in. Staying at the Radisson Edwardian Mountbatten ensured that this trip into the capital - my second in three days - could pass without need for bus, tube or taxi - a quiet victory for good planning (and liberal dolings of sterling). In terms of cultural tastes, this was very much World of Emma, just shy of Wince of Shane.

In the thrall of the techno-snacks, I forgot to take pictures of things like the main fixtures and fittings of the gaffe. But instead, I did get a sign on the discreetly located 'Interactive Minibar'.

Touch those Pringles and They Will Know.

Saturday afternoon was spent in and around Neal's Yard - small boutique shops - green teas, sitting in the sun, sauntering. That was after we'd taken lunch in Covent Garden - some bistro in a cellar - good food, but really not the day to be underground.

Back at the hotel, brief lounging, a change, and out for dinner - to Soho's Bocca di Lupo. I'd remembered Matthew Norman's review. This paid dividends.

Sitting at the bar, overlooking the main hubbub of food preparation area, good choreography came to mind. Welcoming the ethos of good, simple food, prepared well, Emma opted for a red prawn risotto.

I chose the grilled sea bream.

And then, the main event:

Priscilla - Queen of the Desert, at the Palace Theatre.

This was our first visit to this theatre. I knew that we were heading for good seats, as we headed up the stairs to Dress Circle Row A.

The curtain hid an incredibly clever, albeit mechanically simple set. Reviews have not made enough of this - despite their generally holding the show in high regard.

Though no further shots can be shared (I'm sorry, I dared to forget myself), all praise for costumes, cast, script-updating and direction is justified - a big successful production. No sneering rejoinder to be added, here. Whereas Abba were heavily referenced in the screen version of Priscilla, Kylie was now the wholly lauded - an entirely bearable shift - especially with Mamma Mia (((shudder))) playing just round the corner.

Overlooked in many of the reviews - something that is easy to understand amid such high campery, has been the matter of Priscilla being underscored by two fairly weighty relationship dramas. Within the first 5 minutes of the show, I was welling up at the clearly signposted Father-Son denouement that we were headed for - Jason Donovan's Tick (Mitzi) is off to meet his son for the first time. His drag act trio's provision of a stage show for his wife's (yes, wife's) resort hotel is the hook for the group's road trip from Sydney to Alice Springs. That's the story. But also, the ageing drag queen - Tony Sheldon's Bernadette - charts a course that is, at its heart, about accepting oneself, showing trust in others and redirecting the lifecourse. As I write this, I'm feeling partisan. For reasons that I can't fully unpick, or neatly clarify, Priscilla is a production that touches me.

During the interval, Emma waxed lyrical about the show - the scale of production, its values, the audience. This was all pleasing - the whole trip was very much a one-off, designed to please. Smiling, she then queried:

'Does it not make you feel even a bit gay?'

Amused, puzzled, appalled, I gently queried.

'What do you mean?'

'I mean, the whole thing. It's fairly amazing, isn't it.'

'The costumes, the dancing, the set design, the dialogue, the easy affection and charm, the barbed wit - garish, but all attractive. I'd love to be able to sing and move like some of those people on stage. But as for wanting to put specific bits of my body anywhere near any other men's bodies - even those men's bodies, well, that's a kind of gayness that doesn't appeal. But thanks for asking.'

Seemed a reasonable enough response. She wouldn't have asked if she'd have thought there was the possibility of any other kind of answer.

At the standing ovation, I noticed the four occupants of one of the boxes - two men (in their 30s, together), and two older women (both in their 60s). I gauged a mother and friend, plus son and his partner. The son figure hugged both of the ladies, whilst partner leaned in to ensure that a good evening had been had. It looked like an important moment.

Dodging the boas, the mincing and the people like us, we strolled back to the hotel, and thus turned into the straight that would lead us back to the West Midlands.

Sunday breakfast was as it should have been - hearty, if a little too neat.

Emma's:

Only 5 / 10, for presentation there.

Shane's (Part I):

Square.

I didn't picture the rest - what kind of weirdo goes around taking pictures of his breakfast.

Back out into the streets, Emma managed to turn the short walk back up to Euston into a mini research exercise. Over-riding my disdain for such gross opportunism, I played along as best I could.

Obscene, unsightly, gratuitous and ghastly - the lot of them.

If there is a grindstone, then now, we are very much back at it, but still we may daydream (a link for added non-gayness).

The word from above is that (work) things should get easier in late June, and at such a time, then this kind of trip should occur more casually. If they don't, then I shall just have to ~~bugger~~ naff off on my own.

Comic

2009-03-15T12:04:00.006Z

Throughout Friday, I witnessed attempts at being 'funny for money'. Yes, Comic Relief. With many a motivation good and proper, it's hard to be (publically) critical - try as I might.

Let us turn back the clock.

It is evening, almost 9pm. We are wound-down, following a tough week. We are watching BBC One. Alex is curled into his mother's arms, and I'm wondering about the costs and multiple revenues of this television production.

A genuinely moving short film ends with the narrator stating:
.
'It is your continued support that enables Comic Relief to keep on helping these children of alcoholic parents'.

Contemplative silence. Broken, thus:

Alex: What about chocaholic parents?

Emma: (stifles laugh)

Shane: Hmm. I don't think it's quite as tough for those with chocaholic parents.

Alex: Mm.

It's the funniest thing I've heard all day. I promptly donate.

(I did also enjoy the short film from Outnumbered. Claire Skinner, as the mum, is really good.)

Crikey!

2009-03-12T19:07:00.004Z

Yes, alarm.

Shane: Blah blah blah workish blah blah blah.

Emma: Mm. Or maybe, something a bit more Web 2.0?

Shane: 'Web two point oh'?

Emma: Mm. (pause) What?

Shane: Where did you learn to speak like that?

Emma: Like what?

Shane: 'Like Web 2.0'.

Emma: I read things.

Shane: Well, what are you on about?

Emma: Y' know, new technologies, new media, new ways of communicating - Facebook, Twitter, 3G technologies -

Shane: Whoaaaaaaa! Just calm down for a minute, there!

Emma: - You know you're going to have to.

Shane: Och och och and och!

Emma: Am I right?

Shane: Maybe.

Especially spurred on, I think, by Stephen Fry's everywhereness and his prosthletising about the many merits of Twitter, people who I would not have imagined playing along with such sports, have been. (*whispers* And yes alright so maybe it does look a bit fun). But do I really want to start something that I really don't think that I'd sustain? And isn't it all just going to turn out a bit Facebook. And - most pertinently - what is it that people are getting out of all of this? I mean, really getting out of it. Apart from the warm glow of feeling connected - in an acceptably mundane sort of way. I mean, apart from that, what is it?

I'm feeling archaic, like a bit of a dinosaur, like the sort of person to whom the idea of public lists of his friends or 'followers' would feel odd. What about the uncouth and the deranged - the ones not on the list? Now, if Jesus were alive today... well, 'whale of a time', he'd lap it up - fish to water, duck to pond, Hart to Hart. But I'm not Jesus.

(blog posting interruptus)

I've just watched a short film, 'Twitter in plain English', on the Twitter site. It was... it was... it was really nice - when Carla discovered that Steve had a passion for baseball, and when she discovered that Julia was reading a new investment book, and when everyone - yes, everyone - discovered that Carla - herself - had a new passion for Van Halen!

Too good, just too good. I felt all warm inside. I want that feeling. I want that feeling that Carla had.

Perhaps when I've got a moment one weekend.

Coats

2009-03-09T20:55:00.004Z

Home-time: a two minute walk from the front door to Alex' school.

It's blowy, not quite a gale. The hedge reminds me that it needs cutting back. 'I know, I know', my eyes tell it. Wisps of litter - toffee crisp, regal, lotto - pirouette down the road. This heralds the main act: The Considerate Drivers - the ones who ignore the parking notices. Whirring past, there's good reason in those darkened windows. I ponder the kinds of mindset, lifestyle and plain idiot that will again overlook instructions to not block children's sight-lines. Having passed the turning for the canal, I'm well-placed in today's 3:15 chase. Fat dawdling women lumber up ahead, we call them 'The Coats'. They'll bunch up at the first gate, for single-file procession down the ramp. Better for me to take an outside line - hit the main gate, approach the waiting area from the far side - avoids the crush - social, psychological. The tall thin woman with the pushchair, she takes the same course. I wonder whether the tiredness in her general air - that same tiredness that she's been carrying for at least four years now - is just about the kids. I once asked her about her previous life: 'Scientist'. You could have knocked me down with a chocolate-bar wrapper. Waiting, the Chinese man - older than he looks - is in his usual spot. I like him. He once tried to convince me that everyone should try EuroDisney, 'at least once, just for experience'. I meant to nod - polite, like; but all I could do was crunch my neck in a bit - tortoise-like. Within earshot of the school, the excited clatter of putting-away-time slaps me awake. It's the sound of brace brace for Act I Scene I of the next 12 days. The scientist proffers a smile. I raise a half-smile. I imagine an anthropological study of school drop-off/pick-up times, I see a mainstream film of lives that cross but don't cross - people you know but who you don't know, it all feels so transient. A bell cuts through my reverie.

--------laterthatsameday--------
I just received an e-note to say that my American friend, Gene - OldHorsetailSnake, has died. I never met him. This, I regret. A lady called Vicki writes, '...politics, the environment, his running fashion commentary and his love of dung beetles were regular themes'. A natural born educator exits blogstage right.

Coasting

2009-03-07T07:54:00.006Z

A ten minute drive from the southside to the city centre.

Pulling up at traffic lights, I clock two bikers in the rear view mirror. Driving side by side, they're coasting to a halt. I notice that they're chatting. Assuming that it's a man and a woman - partners, lovers, petrolheads - it's an image that strikes me as quite mundane, but beautiful all the same. As they halt, I notice that it's two men. The lights go green and I take a right, up Stoke Road (above).

Passing the college, a couple of young women look like they've just left one of their Beauty Therapy classes. The uniforms may be crisp, but the deep orange trowelings of their own make-up brings to mind the young man who said that he'd be joining a construction course. 'Make-up'. Make what up. The objective of this course, is for you to become expert in helping other people to look minimally idiotic. There will be occasions when this proves to be an objective too far.

Through Snowhill, it makes a pleasant change to note a lack of emergency service vehicles.

Curving towards the city centre, the junction with College Road ahead to my right, I note St Marks church. There's a bus shelter with a shatterproof plastic 'window' in it. Therein, there's a great big hole. I think a wordy thought about 'holy' and a possible photograph - one that I won't return to take.

Thick traffic, where to park, time to concentrate.
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Effortless

2009-02-25T20:53:00.014Z

(All images taken with a not-top-of-the-range phone)

I went up north this past weekend.

On Friday morning, on a whim, I decided to take the M6 route - up to Junction 38 (Tebay Services), then across (A66), then Barnard Castle, Raby Castle, the Aucklands, on and in. The A50 > A38 (skimming Derby) > M1 > A1 > A167 alternative just isn't the same without those big industrial chimneys near Sheffield.

Listening to: The Quiet Curse of Demolition, by Everywhere Looks the Same.

It was somewhere in the low 30s junction numbers that the horizon really began to change, and the simple raw beauty of the Pennines caught me by implausible surprise. I'd driven this route dozens of times, albeit not at all in the last few years.

Approaching the westerly-most reaches of Durham, through fog, there they were - snow-flat-capped hills. Had I been holidaying with a lovebird, then maybe a lay-by, a stretch and chill deep breaths would have been on. Instead, the herbal tablets, the CD changer and I cracked on.

Listening to: Somewhere Bound, by Kirk Merrington for Lunch.

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As with Terence Stamp, grey but gorgeous nonetheless.

Not many miles from the family home, I was taken aback in Tindale. Even here, the architectural equivalent of impetigo did its thing.

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Amongst family, I forgot about pictures and blogging and all else. I sat back and laughed along to the sweet ferocious banter of the other Wexford offspring.
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Prior to Saturday's football trip, sister and her copper girlfriend, their dog and me, went for a walk by the rec' in Kirk Merrington - near to where the last grandparent lives.
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Over to the south east - some 30 or so miles away, Roseberry Topping dominated the horizon, just as it had on the Sunday afternoons of my childhood. To my right, a small dog wrestled with a tennis ball at the feet of copper girlfriend.

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Though I'm not really a dog person, I did quite like the hound's mindless zest.

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The playground, where we would compete to see who could jump furthest from the swings.

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And the roundabout, that I always thought seemed a bit dangerous.

Later, there was the football - a nil-nil draw between Middlesbrough and Wigan - not as bad as it might sound. Middlesbrough were light up front, but otherwise fine. Wigan were generally square of shoulder, and blunt in attack.
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Before the game, the ladies settled themselves - Teesside spirit.

After a Saturday evening meal out, at the Duke of Wellington pub, we all returned to the parents' house. The dog - the cute one whose name that I've forgotten - appreciated playful attention. But oh my no my - it posed the pose of a truly mentalist dog - what with its big teeth and glaring eyes.

I wondered how much effort would be called for, in order to contrive an image that would be really spooky.

Really not much effort at all.
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My family are nice people - honest. Not like those people who have crazy dogs that eat people or anything. Besides, sister and the copper and the dog live in Gateshead - I reckon it's probably a bit rough over there.
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On Sunday, I returned south and west for a testing, stretching week.
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Faith - the dog was called Faith.
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Listening to: His Body, by Man En Route to Bed.

Elegiac

2009-02-17T16:03:00.012Z

I'm going to Middlesbrough on Saturday. It's not punishment or anything. I want to go. It's all part of the broad cultural experience of visiting my family.
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Over the Christmas break, I decided to see more of the blood relatives this year. And so I'm wondering, will brother and his partner seem any more well-matched. Will sister and her copper girlfriend (now she would have been ideal for brother) continue with their appallingly modern charm (they actually take walks on the beach with the dog - bitches*). And on Friday, will I dare to 'go out' in Durham - you know, where people from the past lurk.
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And when it comes to late Saturday afternoon, I know that I'll fancy going out for food that evening. And so I'll mention it to brother and sister, and they'll likely concur. And we could ask our parents. But then I'll want to nudge them in the direction of somewhere that they've not been before, like say, for a Thai or an Indian or Anything At All That is Just a Tiny Bit Different From What They're Used To. But then I'll anticipate their discomfort, and I'll wonder whether it's wrong to try to confer my tastes onto them - like for the few years before they begged me to stop buying them theatre tickets for birthdays and Christmas presents.
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On this occasion, a draw would be welcome,
As welcome as a frustrating home win.
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* affectionate.

Evening

2009-02-13T18:52:00.004Z

At 8:10pm, Emma arrived at Alex's school for her parents' evening meeting with his teacher, Mrs Jay. Meanwhile, Alex and I trogged through bath-time, pyjama-time and then we settled into a few games of pre-bed-time chess (he has been teaching me 'castling').

By 8:45pm, Emma was back. She entered Alex's bedroom with a half-suppressed smile on her face.

Emma: Well, would you like to hear what Mrs Jay said?

Shane: Yeah.

Alex: Let's hear the good stuff.

(There couldn't really be any bad stuff, could there.)

Emma: ...so you're doing well, and she says that you're a pleasure to have in the class.

Alex: Mm. So that's it, then. Good.

Emma: But she also said that she knows that you can do more than you sometimes do.

Alex: What does that mean?

Emma: When you talk to the teacher, she says that you come out with some beautiful words - so she knows that you've got a good vocabulary.

Alex: Mm.

Emma: But sometimes, she says that you seem to just want to write enough to ensure that you don't get into trouble.

Alex: Obviously.

Shane: Whoaaaaaaaaaaaaa! Wait there, young hound. You should be showing her how amazing you can be.

Emma: That's right. She says that today when she asked you to develop some of your sentences, you pointed out that you were already ahead of some of the others -

Shane: Did you really?

Alex: Mm, I was*. [* Such an objection would have seemed way off-the-scale when I was that age]

Shane: Nice one, young bud' (holds out side-on fist for chummy fist bump).

Alex: (Fist bumps) (Smiles)

Emma: The point is that it's not about the others, it's about what you're capable of and what you actually do. So let's see you trying to wow Mrs Jay with your writing from now on, eh. Let's see if you can write as well as you can talk.

Alex: Cheese!** [** A juvenile reaction to anything that's especially good, bad, or worthy of note.]

Emma: Mm. But otherwise, it's good to hear that you're doing well. She also said that you've got more depth than a lot of the other boys (Alex frowns) - that means that you've a lot of interests and aren't just totally focused on one thing, or on one group of people - says that you get on with everyone. Also mentioned that other teachers have asked 'who the little boy with the dark hair and the good manners is' - seems that those pleases and thank yous that Daddy keeps going on at you about have been sinking in.

Alex: Mm.

Altogether, this was a pleasing review. I'd been disappointed at not being able to attend (kith and kin unavailable for child-minding). As I listened to Emma's commentary, I began to wonder - do I overestimate the extent to which I impact on the boy's well-being and upbringing. In a self-aggrandising sort of way, I wanted (more) credit for what good qualities were emerging in the boy.

Final chess score:
Alex 2 - 1 Shane (aggregate 3 - 3)

Edging

2009-02-11T17:01:00.004Z

In my slow-readerish way, I'm nearing the end of Catherine O'Flynn's What Was Lost. It's very tense.

Last night, I stayed up late. Locked into the book, resisting the smarter part of me - 'Put it down, you're tired', I learned that there was a historical link between the security guard and the music store duty manager. I learned that the shopping centre has sealed off corridors - this felt like a big detail, a detail to be returned to later. And I've a feeling that there's something about the other security guard - the profoundly dull one - that's, well, not so dull. Maybe he's a red herring. Or maybe I've completely missed what would be blatantly obvious to every other reader - this happens sometimes. I don't know, but soon I'll find out. And when I do find out, then I'll know.

That tension that I mentioned at the beginning, I can feel it in my chest right now.

Maybe it's just a mild heart attack that I'm misattributing.

I don't know what I'll read next. Some Howard Jacobson thing was mentioned by Emma's parents last night. They said they thought that I might like that. Then her Mum said, 'But there's some very rude bits in it... and it's called 'Coming from Behind''. Then Emma and her Mum laughed until her Mum nearly wept a tear. Her Dad and I mirrored slight frowns.

----- ----- ----- ----- -----
UPDATE: Okayyyyyyyyyyyyyy, I finished it. That was clever - bringing that one back into it (not as a baddie, though - and therein lies the clever bit). Of course, it all seems obvious now.

Having noted others' interest in this, in the past, I just had a look at the NaNoWriMo website. As per my attitude towards participatory lexicography, 'Interesting, to be encouraged, but not for me'.

Essentials

2009-02-04T20:41:00.002Z

Not to be taken too seriously, The Culture Show blog mentions that Alfred Brendel has shared his five essentials. This brings to mind the reverse of Room 101, which Stephen Fry posited as 'Room Lovely' - those things that might easily be overlooked, but that are worth celebrating. After a moment's pondering, I arrive at my Five Essentials:-

1. Good conversation. Hence, sitting amongst friends and family, and listening to lots of spoken word radio programmes and some TV too.

2. Learning (related to the above point). I know that I don't know, a lot.

3. Foul weather. Walking in the rain with loved ones, being braced against a chill wind, huddling up against the cold - it all makes the hot chocolate at the end of the road that little bit better.

4. Reading for relaxation. To have time to do this, regularly (I'm a slow-reader), is a luxury of the highest order.

5. Playing football. On occasions, this can be as artful, as evidence of a particular kind of intelligence, and as good a stress-buster as anything. In the world. Ever. Almost.

Maybe take a moment to consider your own essentials. It'll make you glow inside. Sharing welcome.

Lunching

2009-01-31T19:45:00.006Z

This lunch-time, following a morning of football practice and our game of darts-and-farts (the winner at darts gets to fart on the loser), Alex was to be collected from home by his uncle (his Dad's brother). I was looking forward to this. In the two hours that he'd be out at lunch with uncle, aunt, and cousins, I'd get to work on the bathroom (DIY blah), whilst listening to Stoke City suffer a cruel defeat at the ~~hands~~ feet of the Manchester City squillionaires.
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On cue, there came the knock at the door: no aunt, but uncle and cousins (inc. one tiny one* that looked like a Yorkshire pudding) - on foot (* with trendy pram-type contraption).
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'Walking - how healthy', I thought.
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'Alright, Shane! Fancy a pint?' spoke uncle.
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Gulp!
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Now, uncle and I get along, we're beyond civil - we're friendly - but we only ever need to be in chunks of, say, two minutes maximum. To push the boundary and take this to the level of having a pint - with three children in tow (not ideal), well that's the sort of thing that I would never have envisaged. Did I fancy a pint? Not really. Was my own lunch in the oven at that very moment? Yes it was. Was I committed to being a useful bathroom-orientated DIY kind of person?
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'Where were you thinking?'
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'Just round the corner'
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'I'll get our coats'
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And so we walked to the pub - boys talking about swapping football cards, men talking about babies. (Link credit) In the hour and a half that we were at the pub, there came a moment when my mind wandered. I was unable to imagine what reaction would splutter forth from a couple of old girlfriends, as I considered that I was in a pub - relaxed, having a pint - the manly thing, you might say - with the brother, nephew, niece and son of Ed - my partner's ex. Immersed in the family of my partner's ex. I think the most pleasing detail - or quality - here, is that (apart from this kind of blog post) the manner in which this non-nuclear family formation has emerged, has been very lo-fi. None of us are inclined to sing, dance or be particularly demonstrative about our set-up. Whilst I am open to expressions of alternative lifestyles and family formations, I am prone to wonder about (be suspicious of) those people for whom such expressions seem to be a core part of their identity - especially where they seem to be emphatically positive. I think this comes from the same perception - or maybe is the same perception - as the one about social liberals simply being different kinds of social conservatives. Mm. Much of this - not the crude social stereotyping bit - is fairly important to me.
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I'll sort the bathroom out next weekend.

Lullaby

2009-01-28T21:50:00.006Z

Sleep, Sleep Tonight
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So you see, when I can't sleep, I think things like this:
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'The alphabet - as places, with each letter/place combo also featuring the letter that is two ahead in the alphabet. Go!'
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Accrington (begins with A, also features C - which is two on from A)
Bedford (B and D)
Carlisle
D... Darfur
Easington
Fishguard
Grimsby
H... (In practice, my mind would wander here and I'd fall asleep whilst wondering if there might be a place called Hijack (there isn't)).
Ingleby Barwick
J... Jerusalem
Khartoum
London
Morocco (repels impulse to feel a bit sad)
Naples
O... No.
Peterborough
Queensland
Rotherham
Sunderland
Tel Aviv
Ullswater
Vauxhall... I think that's a place. I know it is. Perhaps the sort of place where people Operate Tridently (that's the nicest way that I can put it).
Wayne County
X... No.
Yokohama (begins with Y, and we're back to A)
Z... No.
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Then, the next day - for a fleeting moment, I'll wonder why I couldn't sleep. Whilst the problem begins to be processed, it's useful knowing that the short-term solution lies somewhere between Grimsby and Ingleby Barwick.
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Unrelated I: I'm reading What Was Lost, by Catherine O'Flynn. Though I'm only a quarter of the way in, there's already something compelling about the structure of the narrative. There's also something that feels horribly familiar about some of the less fortunate characters' lives (that's a work-related thing).
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Unrelated II: I'm watching the Patrice Chéreau film, Intimacy, in 10-minute chunks. So far, I'm 10 minutes in. I'm hoping that it's not going to leave me feeling hollow and with a dull ache in my gut... Sometimes... Actually, no.
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Libertine

2009-01-26T12:29:00.003Z

Alright, so you see, what I do is I say to myself, 'The alphabet - one word per phonetic letter... go!'
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Then I think:-
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Able (Begins with the sound of 'Ay')
Beast
Seascape
Deer
Email
Effervescent
Geothermal
'Aitch'... nope
Eyeline
Jay Cloth... no... Jade
Ceilidh
Elemental
Embrace
Enfold
Opiate
Peter
Queue
Arsenal
Estuary
Teacher
Eucalyptus
Venus
'Double-U'... nope
Exercise
Wyvern
'Zed'... nope
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Then I get up, and my week begins.
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That's what I do.
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Lord

2009-01-21T07:28:00.001Z

A shadow of my former self...
From Saturday, in fact
As the boy ran about*:

* Out of shot, with about 20 other boys. Football. The young 'n earned plaudits for a battling midfield performance - strong in the tackle, determined in his running. Best of all, the attitude was as good as it gets.
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Yesterday (Tuesday), Happy Larry had a couple of pals over after school - we're making this a regular weekly thing (I avoid working on Tuesday afternoons - my favourite half-day of the week). At around 4:30pm, I started to multi-task - knocking about with the boys (playing darts, and baseballing on the Nintendo Wii**) whilst cooking tea.
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** An electronic games console - movement-sensitive. If you're playing tennis on the Wii, then the likelihood is that you're tossing and swinging and jumping about in front of your television, with a small white handset sending a signal to a sensor bar just a few feet in front of you.
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Anyway, back to Tuesday: Stepping into the kitchen for the final push of my culinary assault, I closed the door to gamish noise and junior high jinx. Soon after, I hear a collective cheer, followed by an angelic chorus (with hints of Jerry Springer audience) of 'Go Jesus! Go Jesus, go! Go Jesus! Go Jesus, go!'. Baffled, I step back into the room. Still playing on the Wii, the boys had created a Jesus character, who - in the control of Alex - had just hit a home run.
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'Unorthodox - funny - one to avoid sharing with grandma', I thought, as I returned to the stove.
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Jesus, as recently spotted in the Potteries:

Listing

2009-01-07T18:30:00.004Z

Y' mean like...

Pre-Christmas:
We coughed, sneezed, some did worse. We drove up to North Yorkshire, spent time in a cabin in the Cropton Forest (cabin fever?), shared germs with some of the Wexford clan, returned to the Midlands ahead of Christmas Day.

Christmas-New Year:
Respite, and recovery time. On Christmas Day afternoon, I drove up to the north east to see the bloods. Boxing Day was excellent. All of the Wexford clan headed for Sedgefield racecourse - a crisp sunny day, undulating hills proffering gorgeous distant silhouettes of horses and riders as they turned from the back straight for home. And some of us were net winners - good thing.

New Year:
Has begun well - I've broken the back of a couple of really finicky tasks that I'd been putting off for a while. Alex is good - a nonchalant return to school, on the back of a good break with the paternal clan (good people), and a rejoinder with the maternal-plus clan. Emma has returned to the coalface, following a month-long break. Her next proper break is expected to be in June.

Work:
Have received communications this week from a couple of people who I'd not heard from in a while. Seems that some old projects have lived longish in the minds of some - pleased about that. Otherwise, otherwise.

Leisure:
Disappointed that Brother Wexford was unable to visit this coming weekend, for a chilly trip to Wolverhampton races. Alex has his birthday next week. A trip to the Tamworth Snowdome will feature as part of the general hurrahness of that. Alex is unambiguously a middle-sized boy, now. His most recently amusing escapade was his devising of a bath-time Water Helmet:-

- Fill jug with water
- Slam it up-turned onto own head
- See how long it takes for all water to drain from the jug - noisy, splashy, funny

The youngster suggested that I wasted yesterday by working - I '...should have gone sledging' - even though I '...would have looked weird' as the lone adult sledger about town. Elsewhere, I may have just fallen out of love with Burton Albion.

Just before Christmas, a pal gave me the graphic novel, 'V for Vendetta'. Before this, I was prejudiced against graphic novels - lots of pictures for nerdy people who can't read proper books. But it's really very good.

Sharing:
I quite miss a few things and people - Ken included. I hope he's ok.
I've got quite a few lines around my eyes, now. I don't mind this.
I really should make time to replace the car. It's beginning to look 'characterful'.

You (highlights):
Just before Christmas, I received a real treat - a Christmas card from Gene - trans-Atlantic wit and wisdom - what more could be wished for.
Thirty years ago, Pat had a date, then made some big decisions.
I'm hoping for good things for LB (recently articulated healthy perspective on stuff that's a bit shit) and The Hen (recently articulated healthy perspective on that posho who's the new Doctor Who).
If I was Prime Minister (which would be a bad thing), then Tim would be my Secretary of State for Provincial Englishness (which would be a good thing). His sole brief would be, 'Get people to see and hear beauty in the taken-for-granted'. I think he'd be good at that.
C had to grim it out a bit through the latter part of 2008. Reading her can be a bit like reading pinball. Brace brace - she's dating.
Zinnia is taking a blog-writing break. I will email her after hitting the 'Publish Post' button.
Huw and Beth have said enough to make me think that I'd really like The Wire (and it's a HBO Series, and they commissioned The Sopranos - so it must be good, mustn't it?). But I haven't got the time...
Meanwhile - that rare thing - a recently spotted blogger who I'm inclined to read. In mid-December, I met Meanwhile, as ladies undressed in the background.
Then there's Esther... or is there.

Blogging and Other Writing:
Some will happen.
Patience is a virtue.
Wagon Wheel is a biscuit.

It's snowing - real proper flakes - like what we used to get, when I was a kid.

Wonder

2008-12-31T08:55:00.002Z

I've previously linked to the following, but I feel that it's a really good note on which to close 2008. Thus, featuring a one-eyed fatty, a punch in the nose and a hat rack fire - 'ave it - probably my most favourite (short) blog post of all time.
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I wish she'd write more.
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Now then, resolutions, resolutions...
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