4/7: I think, therefore it is

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.'
.

nonsensemongering

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.

august

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
.

stayers

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.

passions

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.

fowl

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.

economics

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.

five star

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

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.

Q

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.

Z

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.

V

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.

Audio

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


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

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

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

Was the date.

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

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

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

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

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

Powered by Podbean.com

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.
.

Ass

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

For S:

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

Alex: Shane.

Shane: Mm?

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

Shane: Whoaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!

Alex: - so that would be swearing?

Shane: Yes to that. Swearing not good.

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

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

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

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

A little later:

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

Shane: Why?

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

Shane: Yeah.

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

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

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

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

Alex: But you say it.

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

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

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

Alex: So I wouldn't get told off.

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

Alex: (pause) Y' do, though.

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

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

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

Evening

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)

Wall

So there I am...


...laptop, Christmas tree, digital central heating controller yet to be afixed to the wall (small white box, left of image) - the epitome of Creative Professional at Large. Following a cursing Friday, I was coarsing through Monday - like nobody's business, or rather - like my business. As I'm calling and emailing The Great and The Good - in order to bring about a most handsome project, I bash out yet another email, to confirm The Vision. Cutting to the chase, I set about mentioning that, 'In a nutshell, the meeting is about...'. Reviewing my fine Visioning, I am aghast to note a typo - a typo that speaks of choppy waters, of contingencies, of... a darkening Vision? It reads:

'In a nuthell, the meeting is about...'

Nuthell?! Most unseemly. My continuing problems with the 'S' key on the laptop, yields a vision of allergic reactions, of working with loonies, of squirrels unwell.
.

#29: Turner

Macuga derives
Wilkes and Islam waffle-pops
Leckey plain and true
.

#23: Town

Psychogeography:
San Francisco microworld
London's just a blob (18:52)

Quantization

Last week, my young friend mentioned that he and his classmates had had dance practice. In terms of physical education, some teachers prefer to deliver dancing lessons as opposed to potentially competitive sports. At the moment of my hearing that the routine was being choreographed to Michael Jackson's Thriller, it's fair to say that the teacher's star rose.



I spent the tail-end of Friday evening watching the final moments of this year's Big Brother series. A young woman, Rachel Rice, won. From what I've seen and heard of this year's series, it was a win for niceness and moderation and the merits of self-control. As the programme closed, a montage of clips was played, the backing track to which was gorgeous. It's highly unusual that a first-hearing of a song or piece of music really grabs me, but this did. From a search based on the lyrical extract 'Throw those curtains wide', I learned that it was 'One Day Like This', by Elbow:



As you may infer from this post, I've been on YouTube. The next, final piece of music is a hugely uplifting oldish favourite, David McAlmont and Bernard Butler's 'Yes':



Tum-te-tum-te-too, a very good week to you.

Favoured

A friend of mine would like you to read this. Your helping to get the ball rolling would be much appreciated… but please note, there is to be no reference to anything Shane-related. There is no Shane.

Friends, thank you.