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.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Friday, December 11, 2009
Footnote
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.
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.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Unremarkable
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.
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.
Monday, December 07, 2009
Lapwings
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.
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.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Class
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Caring
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.
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.
Monday, November 09, 2009
Friday, July 31, 2009
Harbour
Seahouses, Northumberland.
Unassuming and lo-fi, a place for the occasional Sunday afternoon out, when I was a kid - (whispers) when Dad was capable.
A couple of decades later, I could see more to Seahouses than I had done as a child. It stood as an invite to slow down, unwind, recharge - not a place of noise or garish colour, full of slateish greys and deep seaweed greens. It was, perhaps, a bit rude of us to go intruding on those who might call the town home.
But then again, if one's freedom can be bought (temporarily) for the small yet alluring sum of a bag of bacon bits, then perhaps the onus should be on a little more fishy self-restraint. Still, no harm done.
From our digging and sand-piling, The Boy and I turned a tad artful. A few days earlier, we'd stopped off in Durham for breakfast, and to watch Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince (not quite as dark and doomy as I'd imagined, pleasing for Jim Broadbent's Professor Horace Slughorn and Evanna Lynch's Luna Lovegood, overall quite restrained - a breathing space before the final chapter, the filmically two-parted final chapter). I suspect there were echoes of The Dark Lord, clouding our direction, as we got down to our sand-etching.
The Boy's work (above), and my own (below).
Try as he might, The Boy's sea-beckoning did rather fall a bit flat.
But lo and behold, when that tide turns, it does race in across those sandy Northumberland plains. And thus we did bear witness to the inglorious destruction of our work. It was gradual, it was wet, it was what we'd wait for. Which reminds me of something, well, elsewhere, that I read recently. Each unto his and her own in this wee family of t' 'net. Back in the land of wholesome goodness, and my, see the creation come a-tumbling down:
It turned out to be a more relaxing week than I'd imagined it would be. Emma was with us for much of it, which helped. My family dropped by to join us for some puffin-spotting - not overlooking the razorbills, guillemots, shags, arctic terns, seals and more, about the Farne Islands. It was good.
The Boy and I caught (and were rather pathetically scared by) a pipefish - well how was I to know that the damned thing would wriggle out of the bucket?! The Boy was impressed (and amused) at my delicate flick of said specimen, back into the harbour. And so it goes.
That was all a week ago. The Boy has been with the paternal clan, in Abersoch, this week - he gets about. I miss him. But his Dad timed their trip well, very well indeed... Emma grinds on, with what she must.
So, this week, I have been sustained by Wallander, Taking the Flak, Psychoville, and by the silly silly game that is XpertEleven. Couldn't quite bring myself to write (like, proper big really selfish stuff) or get out much.
As I write this, trickle-down grind reaches me, and so to it must I turn. Must I. I must.
Hope you're catching some summer... relaxation, that your bearing is positive, and that you (the visible, and the quiet ones) are well - simple but effective, seems reasonable enough.
.
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.
.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Histories
The Bed-time Blues.
Shane: It's late - you really need to brush your teeth now.
The Boy: But I'm not tired.
Shane: But you still need to brush your teeth.
The Boy: I'm hungry!
Emma: (fails to withhold snigger)
Shane: Look! It's li-ke... past nine o'clock.
The Boy: It's li-ke... a biscuit.
Shane: No! And don't be cheeky.
The Boy: Ohhhhhhhh.
Shane: I'm out of patience. I'm tired, I'm hungry, and I need you to brush your teeth and get into bed.
The Boy: Should I get you a biscuit, too?
Shane: Brush your teeth!
We are less than one week from the official summer not-a-holiday. Many events, many places, await. As a family unit, we are ill-prepared. As a family unit, as for so many others right now, we're having a tough time - a crunchie time - nothing to do with credit, though. Friends and family ask delicate questions and they invite us to hang in there. Some promise change. The audacity of hope - that's how it feels, that's what I hear.
Parting at the school gate earlier, The Boy chirruped, 'Shane! This time next week! Puffin Cottage!' 'That's the spirit', I thought. Got to work towards that same frame of mind - hope springs internal.
He did brush his teeth, and he did sleep well. No biscuits.
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.
Wednesday, July 08, 2009
Handling
Such a lot going on, such a lot.
Anyway.
I find myself talking to a couple of actors - a married couple, nice people. And they're telling me about how he has to do a parachute jump as part of a film project that they're working on. He strikes me as the sort of chap whose likeliest form of exercise would be the run to beat closing time at the off-licence. I can tell that he didn't wash his hair this morning. She washed her's, though. Neither of which hair observations are related to jumping out of aeroplanes, but there you go.
We talk about their funding and about timescales. And then, dimly, distantly, I recall:
Shane: I think the strangest thing about parachute jumping was watching the ground get further away through the space where there should have been a door.
Him: The aeroplane doesn't have a door?!
Shane: No. It felt stable, though - tiny but stable. Bit breezy.
Him: No door?!
Her: (to Him) You didn't have to agree to it. Say you've changed your mind.
Shane: Thing is, after a day of training, I had such absolute faith in the people training us, that I felt very few nerves - it was just about doing what they'd said to do. And actually, the movement, as you come down - putting on the brakes - the side-to-side - kind of swinging down in great graceful arcs - even if you were a big ball of fat, it could feel like the most elegant thing you'd ever done.
Her: (mildly amused eyes)
Him: (murmurs)
Shane: Assuming the straps aren't digging into your arse, of course. There was one jumper - a woman -
Him: Yeah. I've heard it can be a bit uncomfortable.
Shane: It's like fastening your shoe laces. Too tight - loosen off a bit. Too loose - tighten up. The whole thing can be fairly profound... I'm not a scientist, but I found the stuff to do with movements of warm air - the thermals that'll lift you right back up as you cross over a heated runway - to be absolutely fascinating. Got to play with the brakes - the toggles - a bit as you're coming down, though - to get the measure of them, to trust them for the landing.
Her: Mm.
Shane: Mm. Wouldn't want to brake too early and go smack-down on your face.
Him: (frowning) You're not helping.
Shane: (thinks sideways, thinks about this chap being an actor) When I was a kid - through the teenage years, up to about twenty - I hated public-speaking. I mean hated - panic attacks, nausea, no belief. I ended up realising that it had to be dealt with and that only I could do that, otherwise I'd be really pissed off with myself - so I just flooded it. Any opportunity, I stepped up and spoke - I became a Master of Illusion - scared shitless for the first few goes but got away with it - quickly felt the circularity of the whole thing - fake confidence, get away with it, breed real confidence. But the nerves that I had to handle to get through that, I promise, they were off the scale compared to the jump 'plane going up.
Her: (raised eyebrows)
Him: (thinking) Yeah, but you see, public-speaking versus jumping out of an aeroplane - there's only one of them that...
Her: ...could kill y'?
Him: Yeah.
Shane: Mm. Strange, isn't it. Like I said, the whole thing can be quite profound.
This felt like a rare kind of conversation - one of those where you don't really know the person or people who you're talking to, but you sense that there's something slightly deeper going on - there's a... a puzzled warmth. It felt good. They said I could be in their film.
Okay, so I did ask to be in their film - which isn't cool, but I was joking. I was, really. But they weren't, I could tell. I'm not an actor, I don't want to be an actor, but I'll be in a film - it's something to tick-off. There are more important things to tick-off, but it'll be something.
I'm going to Morecambe tomorrow. I've never been to a Morecambe, before.
.
Anyway.
I find myself talking to a couple of actors - a married couple, nice people. And they're telling me about how he has to do a parachute jump as part of a film project that they're working on. He strikes me as the sort of chap whose likeliest form of exercise would be the run to beat closing time at the off-licence. I can tell that he didn't wash his hair this morning. She washed her's, though. Neither of which hair observations are related to jumping out of aeroplanes, but there you go.
We talk about their funding and about timescales. And then, dimly, distantly, I recall:
Shane: I think the strangest thing about parachute jumping was watching the ground get further away through the space where there should have been a door.
Him: The aeroplane doesn't have a door?!
Shane: No. It felt stable, though - tiny but stable. Bit breezy.
Him: No door?!
Her: (to Him) You didn't have to agree to it. Say you've changed your mind.
Shane: Thing is, after a day of training, I had such absolute faith in the people training us, that I felt very few nerves - it was just about doing what they'd said to do. And actually, the movement, as you come down - putting on the brakes - the side-to-side - kind of swinging down in great graceful arcs - even if you were a big ball of fat, it could feel like the most elegant thing you'd ever done.
Her: (mildly amused eyes)
Him: (murmurs)
Shane: Assuming the straps aren't digging into your arse, of course. There was one jumper - a woman -
Him: Yeah. I've heard it can be a bit uncomfortable.
Shane: It's like fastening your shoe laces. Too tight - loosen off a bit. Too loose - tighten up. The whole thing can be fairly profound... I'm not a scientist, but I found the stuff to do with movements of warm air - the thermals that'll lift you right back up as you cross over a heated runway - to be absolutely fascinating. Got to play with the brakes - the toggles - a bit as you're coming down, though - to get the measure of them, to trust them for the landing.
Her: Mm.
Shane: Mm. Wouldn't want to brake too early and go smack-down on your face.
Him: (frowning) You're not helping.
Shane: (thinks sideways, thinks about this chap being an actor) When I was a kid - through the teenage years, up to about twenty - I hated public-speaking. I mean hated - panic attacks, nausea, no belief. I ended up realising that it had to be dealt with and that only I could do that, otherwise I'd be really pissed off with myself - so I just flooded it. Any opportunity, I stepped up and spoke - I became a Master of Illusion - scared shitless for the first few goes but got away with it - quickly felt the circularity of the whole thing - fake confidence, get away with it, breed real confidence. But the nerves that I had to handle to get through that, I promise, they were off the scale compared to the jump 'plane going up.
Her: (raised eyebrows)
Him: (thinking) Yeah, but you see, public-speaking versus jumping out of an aeroplane - there's only one of them that...
Her: ...could kill y'?
Him: Yeah.
Shane: Mm. Strange, isn't it. Like I said, the whole thing can be quite profound.
This felt like a rare kind of conversation - one of those where you don't really know the person or people who you're talking to, but you sense that there's something slightly deeper going on - there's a... a puzzled warmth. It felt good. They said I could be in their film.
Okay, so I did ask to be in their film - which isn't cool, but I was joking. I was, really. But they weren't, I could tell. I'm not an actor, I don't want to be an actor, but I'll be in a film - it's something to tick-off. There are more important things to tick-off, but it'll be something.
I'm going to Morecambe tomorrow. I've never been to a Morecambe, before.
.
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