On Being Nice

I’ve decided to be more balanced in my posts. Nicer. Lately, I’ve caught myself being automatically cynical, and I’m not sure I like that. F’instance… Dutch cuisine. Now some people (and I’m looking at you, anonymous), would argue that this is an oxymoron, that a nation that revels in deep-frying almost anything possible, although possible not quite as much as Glaswegians (haggis, Mars bars, granny’s underwear), couldn’t possibly have cuisine, and that the strength of the local beer can be directly related to the local croquette density (or whatever those horrible fried sandwich thingies are called).

See that – an almost-perfect example of why I think I’m way too cynical. I’m bitching about a nation that thinks a stein is an acceptably small beer measure, a place that produced the chap who told me to chill out and stop working whilst I ate earlier, a city where the cookies that come with your coffee can be especiaaaaally niiiiicccce (No, not Glasgow, although I’m sure that’s possible in some of the artier pubs there too).

So lets start again. I will, for at least as long as I can remember, attempt to be more pleasant in my posts. To see the good side of things, the hopeful in everywhere, but – and this is the difficult part – without being too hopelessly optimistic about life, the universe and human nature. To just be. And see. And comment as fairly and positively as I can. This probably won’t outlast Christmas, so grab it whilst you can.

So. Holland, Den Nederlanden, the place with all the windmills: what can I say (without ranting). Several of the people are nice. The beer is plentiful, drinkable and comes in big glasses that make you feel 3 again (the glass, not the beer: I’m not recommending that 3-year-olds drink here). Some of the Old Master art is stunningly good, ranging from almost-photographically perfect to capturing a mood, a soul and a time in one flat space. There’s some good modern art in Den Haag’s galleries, and some of it is set in stunning old formal rooms, all tapestries of wildly-coloured birds and crafted wood with no clothes on. It’s easy to find water, even in unexpected places (including lawns, which must be keeping the mole population down beautifully). It still has enterpreneurs who believe in new red-lit hotel lobbies despite the credit crunch. And. Erm. The tulips are cute. Can I have a gold star now please?

Brrr...

So I'm now midway through a particularly brutal working fortnight of playing expert in half a dozen subjects and trying hard to stay on the bucking bronco that's standing in for my normally placid schedule. But I had most of the weekend off so I won't complain about working conditions etc., at least not til I've finished the next set of meeting notes.

Today I genuinely think that I have nothing to say. Which, in the style of most bloggers, is really not going to stop me from saying that nothing in as much excruciating detail as I possibly can. So fact 1: I'm now out of Baileys, that deceptive fluid that cleverly disguises alcohol as christmas-pudding sauce. And fact 2: I'm worked off my feet, my house is in chaos, but I'm still managing to float around on a contentedly happy cloud. I appear to have discovered (without any conscious effort) the secret of being negatively depressed. As in the opposite of depressed: not just happy, but positively blissful without any conscious effort on my part. Maybe it's a karma thing: several years of depression have just magically gone into reverse and I'm about to spend years sporting a soppy grin. Maybe the thing that soaked up all my seratonin suddenly started rejecting it and leaving way too much of it floating round my endocrine system. And before anyone points out the Baileys, this is a sober thing too (and there wasn't that much left in the bottle). It's not love because there's been plenty of time to acclimatise to that lately; whatever it is, it feels good and I am very glad and deeply happy (maybe that's seratonin etc etc) that it's happening to me. Random whittering over. Roger and out etc. etc.

How to do life - the video

I have a small plumbing problem to fix. So, since I was armed only with my laptop and a little light insomnia, I looked it up on the internet. And found a lovely little site - videojug - with helpful tips and videos on all the things your Dad would tell you if it was sociable to call and ask him about pipework at midnight. I like. I may even have to invent some problems to see if there are video-based fixes for them...

Life plan for November

Things have been a little out of synch of late. So it's time to revive the life plan again.

Sleep is a given. I need 7.5 - 8 hours a day to function normally, and I wake up at 7am on the dot every day. So bedtime just fixed itself at 10:30pm. And tracking back from there I could spend half an hour reading before I sleep every night, so physically going to bed should be at 10pm. Good. That bit's sorted. Now for the rest.

Work is also a given: 8 hours a day will happen (5 on Fridays), with a minimum half-hour lunchbreak every working day. If I build sorting-out-stuff-for-tomorrow into my evening routine, I can get to work (cycling) by 7:30am. Which means that I can leave at 4pm if I want. So work from 7:30am (with a slip to 8am if needed) and leave between 4 and 5pm. I used to spend half an hour every morning on life maintenance (washing up, laundry, sorting through bills sort of stuff) before work because that was when I was most awake and most likely to actually do it. Maybe I'll try that again too. So life 7:15-7:45, work at 8am, leave at 4:30pm; I'll give that a go and see if the life maintenance slot is constructive or destructive.

Which leaves a half-hour lunchtime (20 minute run, 10 minute shower or 30 minute walk in the sun sounds good at the moment; with a walk to the bank or shops once a week on my rest day) and from 5pm (once I've got home) til 10pm every evening. 5 whole hours! Every day! What have I been doing with myself? Well, extra work, stressing and watching television for a start. The extra work can stay, but only if it's built into those hours. The stressing and television can go. This month, I am not going to watch television on my own. It's okay if I'm with someone else and we're doing it as a social activity, but I'm not going to do it on my own. And I keep saying that, I have half a chance of not needing to cut the plug off the thing to make it happen. I've also been going to the gym in the evenings. Not nearly enough though: our almost-daily sessions have withered down to once a week with our personal trainer, followed almost inevitably by an evening of slobbing out feeling tired or eating out until we're stuffed. This too must stop: I need to get a lot more stern about my gym routine. Starting with getting my frozen shoulder fixed so I don't break myself when I get it back together. So. Head for the gym at 4:30 every night. If there's a class (Thursday) then work in the gym lounge until the class starts; if there isn't then train from 4:45 to 5:45 and get home by 6:15.

So I have up at 7 for half hour of me-maintenance, cycle to work by 8, light exercise (run/walk) lunchtime, leave work at 4:30; gym from 4:45 to 5:45, home by 6:15, bed at 10, sleep at 10:30. That's a structure; now for the plan.

Plan 1: cook weekday meals in advance unless there's a special reason to cook fresh. On Sunday nights (yes, I've noticed that this is one), sort out my clothes for the week, plan out the week's meals and cook something up for at least 3 days. This means that I can pitch in from the gym, rev up the microwave and be fed by 6:3o most days. Leaving 3 1/2 hours of time to do the longer-term things.

Plan 2: decide on my next career path and go for it. Spend 2-3 hours a night reading, writing, coding, whatever it takes to head in that direction. Allow for one evening off a week; in practice this means that I have 10 hours basic study time a week, and must use the rest of my time as carefully as I can. And work to a schedule. 10 hours is not a lot of time to spare, so I need to use it wisely. I may even have to take some of my time off (I have 6 days to take before the end of November) to accelerate this plan a bit.

Plan 3: declutter. Make a list of useful things to do with that half hour, and concentrate on reducing the number of non-core things that I have to see or think of every day. This too will help... less stuff means less stuff to put away, less stuff to think about, less stuff to pack up and go.

Plan 4: don't be upset if the plan gets disrupted. It happens. Absorb the interrupt and get on with the plan.

Life. Prrr. Grrr. Prrr.

It's been a while. Nearly three months in fact. Which probably merits a smidgeon of explanation. It's just life. Some very good things have happened to me, mostly involving slobbing out with a particularly wonderful-frustating-incredible-annoying individual, and one of the memories I will hold forever in my heart is simply being together on a sunny afternoon in Paris, watching the lime leaves tumble down as the ugliest boats in the world pootled by. And some very bad things have happened too, mostly involving individuals who to survive in one arena have felt the need to destroy the one person who stands in their way - er me, in case you haven't guessed. So between legal tiptoeing and my life being engulfed in one long firefight, between trying so hard to be normal throughout this time and the practical love of my loved ones, there hasn't been much room for anything else.

It's been a horrid time, but. And it's a big but. Indeed a hippo-sized 'but'. I have learnt so much and have been forced to think so much. To take risks, to reach out, to consider the less-thinkable, to go places that I would maybe not dare from within my comfortable suburbanizing life (it's my verb, I can do what I want with it. Ed). And I've found the courage to face the loss of everything material in my life and realise that it signifies - well, quite a lot, but by no means everything. And I've made friends again with my past self, the S that would stand up and fight for her right to be, that considered injustice and hazard and risk then waded on in anyway because making just one little bit of the world (and occasionally surprisingly some quite big bits of the world) better was more important than psychological safety. But don't mistake this for rashness. The trick to risk (as my very learned friend might say) is to understand the cost, understand the odds, estimate the returns and *then* decide what to do. And the beauty of liars and bullies is that the first have to remember more than one truth at a time (which is difficult and will almost always eventually fail and not in a small way), and the latter only survive if they have victims.

And speaking of which, something quite amazing happened today. I was bullied every day in my mid-teens. Twice a day every day going to and from school; more if they could catch me in-between. It got more than a little wearing; I can vaguely remember doing exams and O levels, and my first snog outside the maths classroom (oh, and some serious research into the linguistic origins of Dorset placenames and the note structures in Belshazzar's Feast and lots of other interest things), but most of my school memories are of ridicule, damage, fear and the feel of rosethorns in my back whilst a much older boy hit me from above. And behind all this was one girl, one person I'd stopped bullying a friend in primary school years earlier (girls are wierd: they immediately became friends and ignored me completely) and who'd seen an opportunity when I joined a new school on my own at 14. Oh, the amazing thing? She's contacted me. Which given I've changed my name and moved from place to place for most of my adult life must have taken a not insignificant amount of detective work. 10 years ago, M tried to apologise to my mother (who responded with the maternal version of 'sod off'), and maybe just maybe she's feeling the need to tidy her feelings now. I've sent a not-unfriendly note back; we'll see what develops from here. The curious thing personally is that, despite the effects of what she did, I feel no malice at all. Not even the psychologically-buried variety. Not a smidge. I feel sad for the child that I was and the child that she was (she'd moved school because she herself had been bullied - mother dated headmaster, 'nuff said), but there's no anger or pain there anymore. If she needs closure and I can give it, then I will. I suspect we could even, in the right circumstances, become friends. But the most curious thing is that I find myself now, 25 years later, in exactly the same situation. Except the thing at stake isn't my exam grades (I passed, but didn't get the 14 A*s that were predicted; that's still a big thing to employers even now) but my livelihood. And again I have a scared little girl with a powerful gang of friends shoving me into the rosebushes because it's easier than facing up to and living with her own self (which probably isn't as bad as she secretly fears). I still live with the effects of the first girl - the lost opportunities, the life I didn't have (not that that's so terrible; I had a pretty good alternative one instead, just one with less easy opportunities) - and I need to deal with the second before that too gets out of hand. After all, I'm not sure that I have 25 more years to spare on the effects of this one. That said (and like buts, there is always a 'that said'), a disaster is always a thinly-disguised opportunity for those who have the courage and the heart to take it. So onwards. And a little more blogging this time.

Love. Grrr.

Two-way things are two-way. Obvious, yes, but also quite easy to forget. Having someone in my life that I could not bear to lose usually means that they could not bear to lose me too. Oh, I know there are exceptions, and I seem to know several of them (maybe it’s the semi-dangerous activities I do, but they do seem to attract danger-seeking types, and there is nothing more dangerous than a clique of semi-ex-girlfriends): men and women who inexplicably attract people who would do anything for them, will put up with almost anything to be with them, will fall in love and cling on even when the sane world (including usually some parts of themselves) is screaming “get out now”. Maybe that’s an overcompensation: a good relationship is one based on trust mixed with expectation: I trust you to try not to harm me, but I understand your behaviour enough to anticipate and respond to what you do; when you remove trust from that equation, there is only anticipation and response “if I’m very very good, then maybe you’ll respond in the way that I hope” or “I know what you’re going to do next, there’s nothing I can do about it, but I’m going to hope anyway”. And hope being the cheerleader of emotions, the ra-ras carry you through until your soul is thoroughly broken.

But that’s not what I’m writing about today. I’m writing mostly about the good stuff, the person you would do almost anything for because (but not just because) you know they’d do almost anything for you too. And a little about how easy it is to forget sometimes that love goes both ways. I’m still on friends month. And somehow, subconsciously (or perhaps because some of them do talk to each other sometimes), people in my life seem to be crawling out of the woodwork and contacting me themselves (maybe it’s that time of year). But this weekend brought a contact from someone in my past. An innocuous contact, a friendly question, but to me a subtext that I don’t want to see. And so here, in grey and not-so-grey (or maybe my screen’s just a bit dirty), a message to anyone who knows me and is even considering romantic intentions: I have someone in my life. He completes me in ways that I had not dared hope to have (like cooking – stop sniggering in the back there, I don't always burn things), and I hope –believe- I complete him too (although in many ways he’s plenty able to complete himself already). I would love to make contact and spend more time again with my old friends, and am always happy to make new ones (you can’t have too many good friends or opinions), and you are all welcome in my heart, but there is room for only one love in my life. Understand that, and (go some way towards being able to) understand me. Make any attempt to usurp him and I will ignore you 'til you either come to your senses or go away.

August is No-friends Month

Yes, really.

I haven't been getting out enough on my own this year. I work, I sleep, I watch bad television and firefight my life inbetween, with trips out with Hwsgo punctuating the exhaustion/ tedium of this. I live in a place where people like me don't naturally gravitate, and have to make an effort to find each other. And its making me really rather lonely. So having dedicated months of my life to sorting out parts of my life, I don't see why August should be allowed a relaxing beach holiday instead. I hereby dedicate August to rebuilding my relationships outside work and love. I'm going to visit friends I haven't seen for too long and try to contact those I've been too embarassed about my situation(s) to talk to. Heck, I'm even going to get myself out doing stuff so I can join the few like-minded souls around here. So that's a plan. Made a little easier/ more difficult by me being away for the first week of August (diving with friends: good for spending time with those friends, bad for having weekends to visit others). But a rough plan is...

• Finally get round to writing to my grandparents. I used to do this every month, but somehow I never had enough news, enough things to say to them to make them proud anymore. Sometimes people just want to know that you care enough to write and that's enough. It's easy to forget that.
• Visit Rob near Bristol (my longstanding invitation to help tame his new garden is in serious danger of turning into an invitation to view the finished garden complete with established trees). Whilst I'm there, drop a book back to my bearded friend, see his eco-roof and find out how Cap'n Jim and the gang are doing. Visit Vicky and Andy in Somerset on the way back.
• Write to Lynne via her parents. It's stupid: she lives a couple of miles from me (having lived round here all through the years that I was travelling) but we lost contact and she's the type of person who will and does take offence at not receiving a christmas card. And make sure I get Lynne and Tasha back together: Tasha had a rough time when her mum died and has been trying to make contact ever since.
• Consider dropping into Edinburgh for a weekend: I've messed up working at the Festival this year (double-booked it with my diving holiday), but that doesn't stop me from spending some time with the theatre-building crowd (Big Guy, Dave, Tom etc). Heck, even volunteer for the unbuild week?
• Get my bum up to Wolverhampton for the weekend. Spend more time with Lizzie. Visit Mal near Herefordshire on the way back (go for walk on the hills?).
• Make contact with Alastair and Rob in London. I worry about them both, and they haven't been around long enough to worry me even more than usual.
• Spend more time in the gym with S. a) we get fitter, and b) we spend some girl time together. Keep trying to get little S into the gym with us too. Go to some of the Fish parties.
• Get my paper addressbook in order and put all my numbers into my phone addressbook too, so I'm not in the situation of being near a friend's house but not being able to contact them again (so many of them are ex-directory).
• And contact (write, phone, visit) 2 people at least each week. This doesn't sound like much, but it all mounts up over time. I think I suggested something like this to someone else earlier this year: maybe I should look up this plan.
• Join in. Go to the local conservation group days (btcv, gatwick, canals) and get muddy. A week on Lundy is looking good at the moment: maybe I should suggest it to some of my more camping-friendly friends like Spiros and co. Get out with some groups: find a more traditional running group than the racing snakes at Crawley (where 7 minute miling is slow) consider hashing again, get out on the local CTC cycling trips. (all of these need me to get a bit fitter. Luckily that's one of my holiday plans. Along with fit into wetsuit better).

The time I have available for this plan? Well, every day on holiday I could write a postcard or two; and I may be away for the first weekend but it's a 5-weekend month so that leaves 4 weekends to plan for: 9-10, 16-17, 23-24, 30-31st August (although this may need to expand into September too). Although at least one of those should be dedicated to Hwsgo: I shouldn't neglect him whilst I'm reaching out again. And like all the other plans, a month should be enough to set patterns that work for the rest of my life again.

So yes, a plan. And something to do for myself for yet another month. Much more of this, and I'll be thinking I'm important to myself soon.

On a silly note for the day, I wrote a shopping list on my kitchen blackboard midway through writing this post. Halfway down, my subconscious nudged me: I noticed my handwriting was slightly spikier than usual, but it wasn't until the last line that I realised I was writing with my right hand instead of my (usual) left. Legible text, at normal writing speed: maybe I'm subconsciously switching?

Small cool thing

A church sign generator. With proper fading on the text. What next?

No buy month - June 2008

It's nearly the end of June. And the tally for the no-buy month is as follows.

Things I didn't buy but wanted to: lots, including clothes, books, toys, tools.

Things I did buy:

• three books (mathematical finance, coding) £80
• cards and birthday presents for nephews £80
• two phone chargers (one utterly-useless one-off charger £5; one car charger and handsfree set £5
• one bottle (now) extremely rare whisky £21. I have no excuses for this one, except it's a one-off, there were only 2000 bottles made and hwsgo is very fond of it. And the last rare whisky I bought for £20 is now retailing over £100 per bottle. Investment, honest guv.
• Haircut £50.

Things I learnt about myself in the process:

• I have more resources than I thought, both mentally and materially. Case in point: the long dress. I needed a dress for a formal dinner. Usually, I'd go out and buy a dress especially for an occasion like this. But I already had a formal dress: a 1950s vintage gown that fits me perfectly (and makes me look like queen E circa 1950); what was driving me to go buy another dress was a misconception about how the gown that I already had looked. It was fine, it did what was asked, and I felt no guilt about playing mess rugby in it.
• I will often buy my way out of trouble. This is a bad thing. Case in point: I was planning to dig up some potatoes on my allotment yesterday but forgot to put a garden fork in the car. Normally, I would go buy another cheap fork; this time, I just didn't dig up the potatoes. Often there is a choice between planning and spending; I've learnt to plan a bit more, and build in a bit more contingency (like packing a few more clothes rather than assuming that I can always buy more if needed).
• I treated shopping as a leisure activity. This is bad. Example: I went to Edinburgh this week. During the sales. Now normally that would be good for a couple of hundred pounds worth of shopping. This time, I noticed the sales were there but ignored them.
• I buy things without thinking about what I already have. I have too much stuff: some of it is useful, some not. But some of it is repeated and exists in my cupboards only because I have a mental note to buy X without checking whether I already have X. And if the place is packed with stuff, it's more difficult to find out.
• Not buying things paradoxically makes you more likely to tidy through and get rid of excess stuff. Things have value. Not being able to buy more brings this value into sharp focus. Sometimes the value is financial: "I bought this, don't use it but it's too expensive to throw out" (for that, there's ebay: you won't recover costs, but you won't feel quite so bad about it); sometimes it's misplaced emotional value "X gave me this, I ought to keep it" (well, the point of a gift is that it's given, and once given, it should be under the control of the recipient, not the giver). Sometimes it's panic value "if I get rid of this I might not be able to get another one" (well, hello there; if you're not actually using it, then does that really matter?). My house is now a great deal tidier and lighter than it has been in a long time: I'm finally getting back to a simpler, tidier state of mind.
• Money also has value. If you don't spend it in large chunks (as in shopping for things that aren't food or small amounts of fuel), your perception of what is a large value changes. I've found myself spending less money on food, and planning more rather than accepting wastage (I now cook up a week's supply of food at a time and leave it in single-portion boxes in the freezer). I'm more likely to cycle to work , not just because the no-car week went well (it did), but also because I resent paying to avoid my daily exercise. I've also started asking for my money back, both small (checking and correcting shop mistakes), and large (buying a railcard, sorting out my overpaid house insurance and making sure I get receipts for everything on trips away).
• Quirky is good but rarely for long. If it's fun and quirky, a picture may be enough. If I can't wear something to the office (including casual Fridays), then I should seriously think about a) whether I need it, and b) how often I might wear it, and how long before the novelty wears off. And I don't have to be fashionable to be loved. I can just be me. Make an effort, certainly, but I have my own style and it's slowly starting to re-emerge from the heaps of stuff hiding in my wardrobes.
• And finally, I value security more than stuff. Just as I value fitting into the world more than the transience of pleasant foods. Like chocolate. Smelly French cheese. And air-dried sausages. Which find their financial parallels in flattering clothes, comforting textbooks and despair-reducing cosmetics.

I don't think I've finished learning things about myself and money yet (although in truth, I think I'm relearning several of them rather than learning them as a surprise for the first time). And although I promised to do this whilst less than sober, I am currently alcohol-free and still committed to this: the no-buy month is being extended to also cover July 2008. This should be a continuation of an interesting ride.

Not aching head

Have found energy again... isn't it strange how a couple of manic days can make life seem somehow more even again.

Aching head

I'm not sure what happened, but I ran out of energy yesterday. I discovered last weekend (via the canteen soup) that large doses of monosodium glutamate at the wrong times create an up (high for half a day) then down (low for a day) effect; I'm not sure if this is still a part of that, msg in wednesday's lunchtime buffet or just overstressing or overdoing it a bit on the exercise, but it was very very difficult to cycle home yesterday. So I got home, ate, fell asleep, and woke up this morning with the biggest migraine since my teens... a full-works, turn-the-world-down, flashing-lights, 3 sets-of-Migralieve monster of a migraine. I think I'll keep an eye on it. Or drink more beer so I have a better excuse for it happening.

End of an ambition...

Today, I cycled to a meeting. Not extraordinary in itself: people regularly cycle in the city, and it's a good way to get around. But it was an external (i.e. different companies) meeting in a faraway town, and on the way home I realised that it was more significant than I'd thought. For the last few years, I'd been moving slowly into management. I still did my technical work: the teams I had were generally young and not familiar with the technologies and techniques that were needed on my projects (I tend to pick up the more difficult, less charted areas of work. In fact, I can't remember when I was last asked to design and build something that had been done before; it's possible that that hasn't happened anywhere outside my education), so I'd teach them, pick up the bits that were too hard to learn quickly, and manage the workload as well. And so, reader, I tried to do all the things (except golf) that made me fit into the management miasma: wore the right things, went to the right meetings, fought my team's corner. Which in retrospect was a mistake: in doing these things whilst trying to do real work as well, I left myself wide open to management politics. And lost: which is all I'm ever going to say about that particular fiasco.

Anyways, I ramble. The significance of cycling today is not just part of my return to a simpler life (less stuff to worry about, more time to concentrate on work and play), it's also a symbol of my return to my techie self. My management politics days are over, and now I can get down to some serious work. I still dress smartly whilst there, but I'm no longer afraid of the image implications of turning up to a meeting on a bicycle. It's a lovely day out, I got 4 hours work in on the train instead of being bored witless on the M25, and I got some much-needed exercise out of it too. Period. And if anyone has a problem with that, they can ask themselves whether they'd rather have their systems designed by someone who genuinely thinks about them, and has thought about their impact on the world, or someone who just looks that way. And if they choose the second answer, then they really do get what they deserve.

Enough: I have life to sort and coding practice to do. With a small coda: a good manager knows how to tell their team what to do; a good leader understands what it is and gives their team the encouragement and space to do it well. We need more of those.

Things I didn't buy today

Not a lot really (helped mainly by continuing to spend lots on my project at work). It's interesting to see what's happening around me though. I live in a relatively poor town (I chose to be able to cycle to work over having access to a good social structure: possibly a bad idea), and have watched the locals spending like crazy over the last couple of years; if I'd been blogging here then, there probably would have been a rant sometime about how much the local banks were prepared to lend. And now it's coming home to roost big time: the pubs are almost empty, it's easy to get a taxi because they're all waiting at the station with very few fares each evening (2 in 4 hours for the driver I talked to this week); none of this is happening in the less-poor town nearby. And then there's the supermarkets. The short-dated shelf (what I call the 'dead and dying' shelf and Hwsgo called 'God told me to eat') up to now has been an interesting source of short-dated raw ingredients at stupidly small prices: great if you just want to grab some quails eggs for that evening. Not any more. The shelves are almost empty, the stock there is low-to-mid price and there are always people hovering, waiting for new things to go near them.

The trolleys, however, are still full. Not mine though: this virtue in spending seems to be creeping into the rest of my life too. Tonight, I spent just over £10 on my week's shopping, half of which was to replace my flatmate's shelf in a recent freezer defrosting unhappiness. Not £10 because I bought cheap things, but because I've finally organised my food cupboards. I'm now dealing with the things that have been loitering in these cupboards because I'd rather buy something else than eat them: anything I really don't want to eat has left the cupboards and I'm cooking my way through the rest. So I currently have a freezer full of self-cooked one-person ready meals (courtesy of the defrosting), a shelf full of basic lunch ingredients and a big box of cereal: that's dinner, lunch and breakfast sorted for every day for over a week. I still have ingredients in the cupboards, so today's shop was for things to supplement that: chorizo to add to the white beans, cream and onions, cheese and tomato soup for those evenings when I really can't be bothered to cook (which goes with leaving work at 9pm) and peas because I just happen to like peas and they add vitamins to the ready meals. So that's another set of ready-cooked meals and snacks. Nothing less, nothing more (and certainly none of the tempting ice-cream, even with a £1-off offer). And it feels surprisingly good.

Oh, and I now know the price of fish. Just over £2 for smoked mackerel, £4 for lumps of fish (haddock etc), £10 for the good stuff. Which is quite a bit more than it used to be. I played the £2 game tonight - see how much fresh meat I can buy for around £2 - and the answer now is surprisingly little; quite a difference from playing the same game last year. I do have a small problem with the newspaper though. It's not food or transport, but it is important to know what's happening in the world sometimes. Maybe if I chewed a corner I could re-classify it as food? No, I think the Guardian is too important to put on the banned list, so July 2008 is now a no-buy (except food, travel and newspapers) month. Not magazines though: I went past the girl magazine rack and suddenly realised that the main reason I buy them is to look for interesting clothes and shoes to buy. Duh.

Things I didn't buy today...

Things I didn't buy today:
* Flights to Newquay (for the light and the sand)
* Evening gown (for dinner with S)
* Small desk (for working away from the sofa)
* Solar-powered colour-changing coasters (for the heck of it)

Things I did buy:
*Lots of seriously cool minature electronics components (for work)

The no-buy experiment

Okay, continuing on with the experimenting where other people have experimented before theme, I've started myself on a no-buy month. It's a little like a financial version of a diet, but instead of asking myself "do I really need these calories", I'm asking "do I really need these things". This question was triggered by another pair: "why is there so much unnecessary stuff in my house" and "what exactly am I spending my money on", neither of which I have a polite answer to.

So, for June 2008 (and this started on Monday already), I shall attempt to pay only for food and travel. Nothing else, although I may have to negotiate for essentials (list to go here: prescription medicine, for example). And every time I think about spending money on something, I'll list it here, possibly also with the reason I don't need it... so far, the list of things I didn't buy is:
* 1 book: my life as a quant. Recommended by my currently favourite author and possibly useful for future career. But I have plenty to read right now, and Hwsgo's and the programming books will probably be a lot more useful
* 2 t-shirts from my favourite t-shirt company. Can't remember the name, but they helpfully put their website address in my unicorn t-shirt. I have enough cute t-shirts: I just need to lose a little weight to get into some of them.
* 1 blue book (title as yet undetermined) to fill in a gap on Hwsgo's bookshelves. He has enoguh books, and there are better ways to be sweet (like delivering food parcels to the sick...)
* 1 whiteboard, for listing all the things I have to do at home. I've simplified the freezer and can use the freezer whiteboard for this instead.
* 1 cheap printer, for the 2-3 pages I need to print at home every month. It will only encourage me to print more at home, especially stuff I don't need to keep.
* 1 work top, because I'm currently failing to lose enough weight to get back into my shirts. Just lose the weight: that's what the gym subscription is for.
* 1 pair Foo Fighters concert tickets. I have the cds.
* 1 pair flower show tickets. I'd rather visit the RHS or the national fruit-tree collection.
* 1 pyrex cooking bowl. Very impressed by what Hwsgo can do with chicken. But I have a glass bowl; I just need to check if it's pyrex.

I expect this will hurt, and I'll forget I'm doing this at least once during the month. But it will be an interesting experiment nonetheless. Ah... already a modification: the list of things I did buy:
* 1 ticket for a day's paintballing with work mates. Prior commitment. £15.
* 1 train ticket to Wolverhampton to see little Bro household and the most evil cat in the world. £51.50 (of which £50 was the ticket, £1 the posting fee and 50p the card booking fee, neither of which were optional online).
* 1 ticket to mess ball with Sara £45 (to bring in tomorrow).

I think I may have a bit of an answer here already: the money seem to go on seeing my friends. Maybe I should persuade them all to take up cashless hobbies, like, say, long-distance cycling?

Timeshift, yippee

Well it's been a strange time of late; huge passions and hopes and quiet revelations. But enough of that; back with the getting-life-on-track thing. And first with the getting-tv-at-the-right-time thing too. Now I'm not stupid, I know i'm not stupid, but I do have a strange attitude to the flashing box in the corner. If I read the tv schedules I'm either in despair at the rubbish on and the fact I just missed something I'd have liked to watch, or make plans to watch something specially (classic line: "sorry I can't talk but Torchwood is on") and mostly miss it altogether. Hwsgo has a box thingy that records programs easily, of which I'm most jealous... or at least jealous until I can find a workman to come round and point my TV aerial in the right direction for receiving channel 5 without the permanent snowstorm special effect. But there's hope: I've also found bbc iplayer, which wonderfully has just allowed me to watch this week's episode of Dr Who curled up in bed with my laptop (I do like David Tennant as the Doctor but not in *that* way, okay) well after the event. I shall be looking for similar... Oooh, oooh: Five Download. Back issues of CSI *and* pre-screening copies too: heaven! Not so excited about Channel 4 downloads, although Dispatches, Scrapheap Challenge and How to Look Good Naked (any help is very welcome in that department) may have something there. And ITV catchup? What's on ITV again? Oh gawd, I've just re-read the order I put the channels into, and I've finally turned into a Guardian reader...

Oh, and timeshifting. I had this with my video recorder back in the -ahem dark ages before the internet took off- I keep forgetting that I have control of the recording. Do silly things like open up another page whilst it runs in the background. But at least there won't be any advertising breaks for me to run to the bathroom in. Honestly, I sometimes wonder if the brain that can dissect part of the universe and make sense of it is inhabiting the same head as the fool that does that sort of thing...

Slightly better shape for book?

Well, novels have arisen from smaller seeds before... I see a body dangling precariously from that dropped ledge in the foreground, a message fluttering uselessly down towards the sodden dirt; evil lurking within the tower and a crane-driver who keeps finding himself in the middle of trouble. And there should be collar-turned up raincoats and dark dry heat; lurking thugs, shots heard outside in the night, mysterious phonecalls...... a fair description of this trip really...

Old and new?

I think this would make a great book cover... I just need to get round to writing the book! I could write lots of arty nonsense about the Metropolis-style tower rising up out of the 19th-century decay and the apparent mundanity of the rest of the shot. But I won't.

You play with fire...

All the crises are over. I have played with fire, been burnt and since I cannot make amends, all that is left is for me to see if I can learn something from this experience.

First, it is not a bad thing to be single. Single does not mean alone, nor does it necessarily mean "looking for someone to make life complete"; it just means single. Responsible for oneself, and, if one can or must, those around oneself.

Second, if you have a desperately difficult choice to make, then either make it or walk away. If that choice involves hurting other people, then make it quickly with as much information as possible, then have no regrets about it: this applies also and specifically to implicit choices too. If that choice involves hurting yourself, then make it in the acceptance that you are responsible for your own life and you created the paths that led to that choice needing to be made. If you're responsible, you accept consequences. Period.

Third, love comes in many forms at many times in your life. And an overwhelming passion can be just that; something that pushes aside all the quieter loves that you both receive and should give. I have not spent enough time with my friends or my family, not acknowledged the support that they offered or the advice that they quietly tried to give. Although I'm not sure how many of them said "go to Philadelphia" knowing that this would bring everything to a head and into focus, I suspect some of them knew (and I might thank them later. Much later).

And fourth, you never really know someone 'til you've been through the mill with them. And even then you don't. We are the sum of our actions not our gestures, and bluff threat tease promise have no validity on their own except to change the mindstates of others and be played out over time.

And last, I do have moral boundaries. I'm too blind or stupid to see them sometimes, but when pushed, they're there. I have reset my moral compass; I am not proud of my recent behaviour but it has happened, I have learnt from it and the onus on me now is not to forget. That, and to repair whatever damage I can and then never ever forget who I am again.

Test words for a Google AdSearch

Not that I'm silly first thing in the morning, but... well... just typing in "green tea" as suggested seemed a little, well, lame...

The purple pheasant is a hesitant beast.
It stutters and mutters and thinks on its feet.
Be sure when you see it, it's running away.
And no purple prose will entice it to stay.

The standard AdWords keyword set wasn't too sure what to make of this, although "it's running away" did trigger a little bit of response. Astoundingly, the "additional keywords" set did pick up that this was supposed to be funny with "funny thinks" and "funny prose"; the word 'prose' in the above was probably a bit of a clue. I'm not sure where the suggestions "who is", "see out", "my you" and "see up" came from though.

Anniversary

I never wrote for you. Too shy perhaps, or busy living before death. Then after. No words, then too many, all about you not for. Every day telling you that I loved you; nights crying because you could not hear. And no surprises left, no exaggerations, no wild wild stories save those I could raise myself. Your spirit lived; in me, in others, sometimes fainter than soft rain on lilies, sometimes exuberant with colour and life. And now I make my own stories. Live, remember, let go, hold truth and see its own rainbows. I hear you laugh at me, my predicaments, you who lived so much in so little, whose years were forever and only time was now. I have years, decades, choices that last longer than we could dream, but I won't forget. Happy anniversary darling; rest in the wildest afterlife you can find.

Wife or Girlfriend?

I've been asked to make a choice. Well, we all make choices every day; what to eat for supper, what to wear, which point to cross the road at, what colour pen to use. But this is a choice with a capital C; one of those points in my life at which, though recoverable with much effort, the path in my life can split in several different directions.

And so the choice. Do I become at last, possibly, the girlfriend of the other most amazing man I've ever met (reader, I married the first) and become all I can be to match him, or become the wife of the man who could finally bring my restless heart to peace ('girlfriend', 'wife'; these are shorthand not literal at the moment). These are high stakes; do I potentially sacrifice my creativity for my sanity, or potentially sacrifice my sanity for my creativity; it's not quite that stark a choice, but these are the poles involved. Live fast, die young and leave a good-looking oeuvre, or live long and leave a happy microworld. Canapes or fairycakes, smart or wise, intellectually or physically active, totally independent or totally rooted; women have faced these choices since long before ladies in frilly crinolines started writing about them, and sexual independence has done nothing to make them any more rare or less difficult. This is of course my head talking; my heart has an entirely different take on the matter, composed mainly of past hurts and current passions with a small side-order of hope. Wife or girlfriend? Either might work, either might fail, either might give a few months or a lifetime of happiness and unhappiness for a pair of people, either might slowly become the other. All I know now is that I don't know enough about myself to know which one I really am, but I'd better sort it out soon before I cause too much damage, even if I have to say 'neither'.

On complaining...

I complained about something last night. Not just grumbled a bit to myself and people round me, but went back and complained to the place in question. It was a small but annoying thing; I'd bought two packets of the same cereal (the dreaded special K) on a two-for-£4 deal but I'd been charged separately (£2+) for each of them. I always keep a mental tally whilst shopping and had that niggling feeling whilst I was walking out the store, checked the receipt but kept on going in a 'bloody people I don't want to come here again' sort of way across the carpark. Then stopped. And thought 'I can get annoyed about this, or I can ask someone to fix it. And if they don't fix it, then I can get annoyed, but not til then'.

And that was quite an enlightening moment; the act of complaining moved from seeing myself as a petty pain for complaining to being someone who had a small problem but was making that small problem into a bigger problem (i.e. not wanting to go to the store again) for both myself and someone else (said store). Now Sainsburys will survive without my occasional visits, people will continue to shop, I will continue to buy my groceries and the world will continue on, but there seemed to be something bigger than that going on. I had an emotional response to a problem. But instead of feeding that response, I bundled up my natural shyness and did the one instant thing I could to either abate or justify it. I've always thought of complaining as a rather juvenile activity, but now it seems that the grown-up thing is to acknowledge and address a complaint rather than shelve it with the other niggles of life. Although I doubt whether I'll go the whole American hog of shouting loudly and insisting that I'm the most important person in the place right now right here.

The upshot was that I'd accidentally bought two different sizes of cereal (375g and 500g packets: why bother with such a small difference?), and with no fuss and a fair bit of till effort, it all got sorted out by the day's duty manager. And strangely, I walked away feeling faintly guilty that I had considered not giving the store the chance to fix this problem (especially since it turned out to be my bad after all). And I thought: maybe this applies to the rest of my life as well. Maybe if instead of getting upset and feeling powerless, I give people a chance to fix problems, then the choice is not to walk or not walk away but to be helped or justifiably annoyed. I think I may try this. Starting with work...

Oh yeah? Enough with the depression already...

Interesting article about depression in the Grauniad today... two things in it sparked thought. Now most stuff about depression should be taken with a large pich of salt; until we can do real hard experiments, it's all theories and observations, but the idea that the brain is triggered to grieve, then learns to grieve on its own without any triggers is an interesting one. Which leads into the second idea that it's possible to be continuously depressed ('low-level depressed' is my own phrase for it) with occasional bad episodes providing enough contrast to hide the underlying depression. It's also possible to over-self-diagnose (hence the title of this post), but there is a real sense of 'how the heck do I get out of this one' going on at Maus Villas today.

Actually, I feel pretty okay this morning. Although I may be worse when I get vertical. The aspartame doesn't seem to have completely wiped me out, my brain is... well, it's not supercharged, but it is at least here. And last week's gloom seems to have finally lifted. What I really need is a day off to sort out all the small things that have gone awry of late. My ironing pile seems to contain more clothes than I thought I owned, which is slightly worrying, especially since I'm not sure what the Schwartzchild radius of ironing is and may inadvertantly get stuck in the middle of it sometime (it's mainly black, so the hole analogy is holding up well today). My washing-up is nothing that can't be fixed with the dishwasher, and... erm, that's it. well, if that's all that's holding up my day, then to the ironing-board! Allez!

Le Moyen Morte

I feel like death today. The day started well enough; relaxed, refreshed, positive. Continued in the same vein. But something went a bit wrong this afternoon (I've identified it now; it's a food problem again) and the black thoughts started closing in, taking my active working brain and making it immobile again. So it's been hurting. My heart; my soul, both deathly sore, and me sitting on my hands, going through the motions, trying to survive long enough to sleep and feel better in the morning. I ate aspartame today; the big baddy... normally I check everything that goes near me, but my bf bought me a drink and I was partway through before the alarmbells started ringing. So that's it for a while; I already feel chemically down, and I'll just have to wait and see if my body can cope with it physically yet without shutting itself down.

And the heart? Part of something else. Self-reliance is a sometimes forgotten activity; it's too easy to look for external answers, external support when what you really need is to girn your loins, set your face, gather up your heart and work it all out for yourself. It's not a bad thing to have someone there, especially if they're that person in the world that you really want to share it with, but first you need to find the strength inside before sharing. As I also keep saying, you can't help anyone else if you can't look after yourself first. So onwards...

Restartng the twins

I cowrote a book once. The story of Keld (hello Sparks if you ever find this), a rollocking yarn in a fantasy world, with lots of stories weaving in and out of each other. And I think it's time to retell some of them again now. The man that I love unconditionally has finished his novel, and is needing less support by the day (see haikus), so it's time that I came good on my promise and wrote one myself. And since this is cyberspace, and I live here at the moment, I'm going to do i here. So lets begin. With some of the back story from the other book.

Sometimes we wake up, look around and wonder what we've done with our lives (I did this this week; first tears, then paralysis, and now writing. I'm hoping sanity is next on that list). Sometimes the next thought is what did someone else do with it. And sometimes too there's a wierd disconnect, as though we've stopped living altogether and are merely existing whilst our doppelgangers are awake and alive. One of the threads in Keld is the story of what happens when two very different twins both end up in the right environment for the other one. Throughout history there have been people reported as being able to read the thoughts of others; the StarTrek empaths are only a small thread in a long line stretching back through centuries of seers and saints and ladies in black fringed shawls. And maybe there's some truth in that; a knowing of another person without verbal communications and beyond the clues signalled out by the body. And I wondered if, somehow, two very different neighbouring kingdoms could evolve, one with the seer gene dominant and the other with it absent or dormant; a giant ghettoisation into those who could mind-read and second-guess, and those who mistrusted them.
I had a lovely time evolving social systems and rules for both of these societies; for example, it must be difficult to be a close personal assassin when even thinking a bit too hard will warn off your potential victim. But people are people, despite their talents, and they will always find a way.

And the two societies have grown. Without telepathy, the Pearl Kingdom has skipped the industrial age and gone straight to powerplants that look nuclear, but without a real understanding of their physics. The telepaths in Duin are still in an older, more feudal age, but are well-protected with the ability to concentrate and phase the minds of anyone who tries individually to attack them. Which hasn't happened yet, because the two countries maintain a discreet courtly dialogue: neighbours must have, possibly covertly, some form of diplomatic relations, even if it's to chuck a brick over the wall occasionally or to actively ignore each other across a border (see Cyprus). Sometimes the sons and daughters of power are brought along on a state visit in the hope that they will learn something, and sometimes what they learn is that they really quite like the younger members of the opposition. And then all hell breaks loose. Heck, let's just tell the story...

haiku day

Haikus on the death of an affair.

Yin to my Yang, you are
Contentment. Enough, for
Now it is Spring.

Yin to my Yang. You are
Contentment Enough. For
Now it is Spring.

Yin to my Yang. You are
Contentment Enough For
Now. It is Spring.

Text

Words sting and comfort. Unguarded presence, his text to my yearning in a moments sigh. Am I unloved or is now? Can I comfort the then of him in my tomorrow, or is there no tomorrow? I taste love, pain, desire and turn again to read.

I'm tired; haven't slept properly for days. But I want to capture this feeling, to remember it when it's gone away. I ache. I really almost physically ache. It comes and gos, and at its ebb I just want the pain to go away, and in the floes I forget that its there, and smile and laugh and listen and try to help other people to take away their own pain. But I hold it, because for now, until I let it all go away, the pain contains hope. And there is nothing more exquisite, more beautiful, than the hope of love. And now I've put my pain onto the page and the sensible part of me returns to tell me that I'm a soppy git who ought to be watching my cooking. It's like... it's like the water coming into a harbour that's slowly silting up and becoming land: the transient waves on top of the waves of tides on top of the slow movement to there being no tides there anymore, just the flat calm of drying mud, the first sprinklings of growing seeds and the first birds drifting singing above them, claiming new territory with their songs.

the Grief Cycle

I always have so much to learn about life. I've been watching someone precious go through parts of the Kubler-Ross grief cycle. Which I thought I understood: y'know, denial, anger, negotiation, depression, acceptance, ta-da and some forward rolls to end. But it's more complex than that.

The notes in changing minds describe an 8-stage process, not the 5-stage one I thought I knew. And it has a lovely (clickable) graph of this, which I've unceremoniously copied onto here. So, the 8 stages are (I've pegged these to an event, but it could be a state of being, e.g. illness instead):
* Stability: the status quo before the event
* Shock: immediate, apparent disbelief that the event has happened; emotional paralysis often with no outward reaction, twinned with classic physical shock symptoms
* Denial: longer-term evasion, pretending the event hasn't happened, regardless of evidence.
* Anger: the big explosion (or more usually the series of explosions) about the event or even vaguely-related events or circumstances, often with blame (of self, others etc), sometimes with classic grief
* Bargaining: trying (through actions etc) to make the event or its consequences go away... false hope, if you will.
* Depression: accepting the event has happened, but not having the resources (yet) to deal with it. Often desperate loneliness twinned with refusal to be helped.
* Testing: first tentative steps towards resolving responses to the event; trying small parts of possible solutions and accepting that they might help.
* Acceptance: knowing and accepting that the event has happened, and moving on from it.

Changing minds is good in that its pages contain notes not only on the cycle, but also on how to support people going through the cycle. The cycle itself is a construct to help understand the processes of grief. Everyone goes through it differently, but the stages are broadly right; some people go through some of them very quickly, others slowly; some people get stuck in cycles (e.g. anger-denial-anger); others get stuck at single stages (e.g. anger), but mostly, 99% of the time, the stages above are how it happens.

Other useful posts on the grief cycle include businessballs. The post on gettingpastyourpast is a real cracker on relationship breakdown, in language we can probably all associate with.

Degas' Dancers

Posted from JFK airport, autumn 2007.

I've seen a lot of art this vacation (big hint: if you want to see modern art in NY, go direct to the Met or the small galleries; the other museums just aren't worth it), and the more I see, the more I imagine the stories that go with it. I know there are in fact real stories, and already there are made-up stories (the girl with a pearl earring for instance), but it is so tempting to add just one, to go with Matisse's dancers (in the Met; 2nd floor, modern art section).

George was getting thoroughly fed up. He had Ann holding his left hand, which was normal, them being married, and Mary holding his right, which was also normal but unusual behaviour in front of Ann. Ann's hand was clasped firmly above his; a possessive hand, pulling him around across the dance. Mary; now, Mary's hand was warm and soft, promising later tendernesses with the subtle shifts as he led her round, her light step leaping to his. And Fred; well, Fred was his normal self; comforting and jolly and unbothered with his status as person added to make the circle large enough to paint properly. Fred could be pretty dumb; a big labrador of a man, all happiness and no brains, but always pleased to see you, sometimes so much so that he knocked over the furniture and drooled on the carpet. George retracted that thought immediately; it wasn't so much that he couldn't imagine Fred drooling, more that the thought of Mary's husband spilling bodily fluids, and especially spilling them anywhere near Mary both disgusted and spurned him, although he couldn't resist staring at the corner of Fred's mouth (open slightly with the sheer concentration of the dance) just to check.

No drool. George wondered how the painter was getting on. They'd all been switching this way and that on-and-off for hours now, letting the great man (Mary's friend, of course) catch the right angles and feel for the right shadows. Or shades. Or shapes. Or something anyway; George knew nothing about art apart from: it was a good way to interest women, and all artists were randy bastards who really ought to be contained when they weren't doing their other essential job of livening up parties (noticably never thrown by themselves) and making everyone else feel more sensible. They were probably due a break soon. George had noticed during the dance that the painter only really used yellow at the start of the dance, and switched to other colours pretty quickly. This fact was only really important if you had seen the painting, even for the second before the painter distracted you away and talked about flowers. Fred's chair (blue) was there; the garden (not yellow), the sky.

George wondered about the painter and Fred. The large yellow streak to the left of the painting had more than a hint of Fred the labrador. And then the chair. Fred had sat chatting to the painter; lounging in that added-gravity way that large men do on vacation, as though the effort of staying upright for so many months had to be balanced by an equal effort of stillness once sat down. But why, once gravity had been overcome, had the painter left the chair? It wasn't a photograph, there was no effort in calling a maid to move it: why the chair? One-two-hop; one-two-hop; George started to feel a little better about the possibilities of Fred. Perhaps, just perhaps there was something more here; maybe a reason to talk long and deep into the night with Mary; possibly an excuse to console her tearful nights with a manly shoulder (as he would gently explain to Ann before shouldering that terrible duty). George moved his right fingers a little, flexing them gently against Mary's wrist. She responded in kind, and he gave a little hop, a spring of joy. The painter picked up his yellow brush.

Found poem

I found this on my PC, dated 10th September 2007. Thought I'd leave it here for posterity.

Us, a we, unity. Together.
Apart alone, a lone one twice apart.
From held arms round a willing neck.
Twisted lust, straight love.
Dark black hearts, bright red souls.
Burning up, deep black hot, pyrometric.
Beyond sanity, beyond life,
beyond the boundaries of right, wrong, now, then.
Til reality brings us back apart.
Again the wait. Again the pain of no pain yet.
Again the sharp tenderness of you not you, me not me.
Again the sweet smell of melting rubber sex.
and the soft warmth of trust.
Yours, ours, our own, my own.
The first drops of a life's ocean.
The first swirls of fumbling mixture, from black to white to infinite greys.
I am yours; you are mine. We will learn what that means.

More found words

Dated 6am, 3rd August 1994

Chapter 1

It’s a fact of life that there have always been nameless wars, with heroes forgotten by all except their enemies and a select band of controllers and comrades, hidden from the disapproval of the masses they protect. Each has, each is, a story. Stories come in many forms: some, condensed lives, miniatures with beginnings and ends. Some stories are just continuations, chapters in larger novels, each leading neatly onto the next. Such are these lives.

Rain slithered across her face, snaking its way to stop gingerly at her clothes, the touch of an inexpert lover. She felt the darkness around her, not seeing anything but the lights of the grey stone cottage, not hearing anything but the hum of wet pylons and the ticking of her watch counting away his life second by insistent second. She felt her head swim with the fear, felt the familiar aura take hold, fought against the weakness as she willed, pushed herself towards the cottage and away from the dark taking hold of her, creeping into her soul.

All my life, I’ve been waiting for something to happen. All my life, there’s been a pattern in the background, the subtle electricity of a storm yet to break. I try to break away from the pattern, but whatever I do is part of it, woven into my self as surely as if my destiny had created me. Here, now, as I sit is part of that destiny. Here, as I write, I can feel the threads of my present weave into the spiders’ web of my future, and sat at the centre of that web lies my controller, pulling a thread here, lengthening another there, creating me to its own perfection. There are three constants in my life: an overwhelming sadness, the controller and the trains that I pass through life on, each journey measuring part of my own. At least now I know why I am sad. I cannot explain the trains.
Sometimes in life, you meet someone so heart-wrenchingly special, so wonderful that you’d exchange your own life just to be with them. Sometimes two people feel that way together. And then the trouble starts.
It’s human nature to feel incomplete. It drives us: the all-compelling need to find a part of ourselves that is hidden, that is not quite there but always, tantalising, on the tip of our conciousness- a word, no, the mere sound of a word to describe all that we are not, giving us the self we desire if only we could remember its name. Perhaps that’s why opposites attract - because we have a better chance of finding that missing gene, that missing link: call it what you will, but it’s there, that nagging sense of loss, of the drifting, shapeless part of our being. It is as though we need only one more mental lens to make us see clearly; to understand; to be our own Renoir, Einstein, Da vinci and self at once. But woe betide us when we find that last syllable in our nameless name, because then alone we are dead, for that is the point when need, form and the relentless desire for love become only self and the nullness of truth. We need to have lost that part, need to know our own incomplete humanity, for without this we may join the suburban accountants and collectors of taxes, the dead souls waiting at East Croyden at 7am, for we should have no more passion, no love, no hate - only the tedium of eternal perfection or the mindlessness of ignorance. Pity those who have found their missing self, for their path can only be downwards, and their bliss only temporary. But do not pity me, for I have lost, and can still remember the joy of being whole with the passion of grief, and the conviction of a truth half-known.
At first glance, we were opposites: the extrovert politician, the quiet writer. The mothers’ son, and the girl with no roots, save the temporary stays put out at each new temporary port, each temporary life. Perhaps that was the attraction. But sometimes God in his infinite humour creates doppelganger souls, and sprinkles each with its own little facets, each with its own hidden flaws. There’s a nice theory to expain creation: you can create two identical particles out of nothing, but only for a very short time before they find each other again and remember together that they’re supposed to be a void- but if you lose one of them in that brief period of existence, if by some quirk fate forgets to pair them off again, then reality can’t catch up and you’ve got something big, in fact something universe-sized on your hands. Those occasional special people who are let loose on the world tend to be cancelled out quickly in case fate gets embarrassed, or go mad trying to understand, so I suppose it’s amazing we lasted as long as we did. I blame the trains: British Rail can even make the grim reaper late. It made me too late to save you.

Not that I’ve stopped taking trains: I’m writing this from yet another carriage in yet another landscape. There’s something about travelling up the East Coast that makes you think it’s all a big British Rail joke, that you’re cruising round in a huge circle, past the same wood and the same flat fields (run-down barns optional) and the same bloody great big power station until the music stops and all the trains have to find themselves a station. That’s why some of their super-efficient trains still break down - they can’t admit they’re the odd-train-out, and they’re sulking until the next game of musical stations starts (and Waterloo station plays music in the mornings just to keep the trains running). Aha! a Tesco’s: could this be a stop? No- it’s the same flat redbrick town we passed twenty minutes ago- I recognise the churches. Da-dur-te-ta, Da-dur-te-ta, and the train music goes on, and my search for you across the rail-routes of my world continues.

Medaeval knights had chargers, the Spanish ships, Hannibal was different and used elephants - I have my trains. My quest? To find that part of myself that once had your name, your form, your life, and now does not, except as a memory here, a cutting there. I need to understand you, to understand you by being, to become that part of me that was you, to become you, to risk my own soul if that is what I must do to find you. And I desire- oh, how I desire and love and hate. Loss is measured by what you have loved, and I have lost a world- yours and mine both. Hate is measured by the revenge you are prepared to take, and my hate for the man who took you is equal only to my love. Always just one more train ride, one more piece of you, one more contact, and he too shall die the long slow death that I have these past two years, these long, lonely years. And so it goes on.

Monday
Clean cat-tray
Tidy kitchen
Pay window-cleaner
Meet I.

Warts have very deep roots: deep into the skin, tracing the history of where a blemish came from, forcing the surface to return to being a wart, whatever is done to it alone. Trace the roots and you understand the wart, give or take the odd freckle. Of course, some people call them beauty-spots. Meet I. Another piece of the puzzle. Another piece of your past. Another step closer to you. Child of your father, father of our unborn children, it is not natural that life should be this way. Your father would...but you can explain to him yourself, you’re together now. Just don’t tell him he knows nothing about inheritance - it’s too late for that now.

Train game number 1: reverse blinking. Close your eyes then blink them open 1 2 3 4 5 6 blink: a little red chapel tower, complete with bell 1 2 3 4 5 6 blink: a lilac bush breaking up the green 1 2 3 4 5 6 my god! a station! A real station, with real railings and real clocks: the music must have stopped!

Chapter 2
This story begins a long time before you and I, but I begin with you and I, so that’s where I should start. Another train, another destination, another lifetime ago. A pair of green eyes, green with the ageless knowledge of Jade, sparkling with the cold of Arctic snow. I close my eyes and see them now, not as then, but with the warmth of love, and the colour of summer’s turquoise sea.

Sleeping Over

Another thing lying around: a play, dated 7th September 2000. I know it's not good literature, but it's mine, I'm clearing out my drives, and I want to leave this somewhere it can be found in, ooh, maybe 30 years when I'm too old to remember what it feels like to be young and foolish. Onwards...

Sleeping Over

Cast
David
Sam - David's fiancee
Fudge - David's best friend
Justin - David and Fudge's other friend
Waiter
Nurse

Synopsis

Scene 1: everyone arrives at the cottage

[Friday night. Justin's holiday cottage. Two big sofas. Posters of guns and tanks round the walls. Papers littered on the floor. An opened box of beercans in the corner. David, Sam and Fudge sat on one of the sofas, sitting very close together and chatting. Their heads are together as they do so. David and Sam are cuddled up together, holding hands. Sam's legs are draped across Fudge.]

D And then he gave you back her knickers and offered you a bottle of whisky.

F Well, it was a good whisky. And anyway, he's fucked every other woman who's come through that door. Why should Jenny be any different?

S Language, Fudge.

F Sorry Sam. Screwed.

S Forgiven. For the moment. So what happened to 'one for all and all for one', David?

D That was never meant for girlfriends. [pauses] Except you, D'Artagnan. [Pauses again] You didn't, did you?

[S looks at F.]

D With him?

S Don't be so bloody silly darling. [She gets up and goes through the kitchen door]


D You're my best man. But I don't want Justin to feel left out. Do you mind if I ask him too?

F Well, it's a little unusual, but you always were a bit different. Okay, good by me as long as he gets to do the speech. Has Sam forgiven you for asking me first yet?

D Shhh. She's only next door. Ask me about something safe. Like sex.

[Sam returns with a drink and two glasses. She hands one each to the boys]

S I heard that. Any trouble and I marry one of the best men. So Fudge, what are you planning to do this weekend?
F Walk. Drink. Do a bit of thinking. Decide which job to take. And you?
D Stand for election. [Fudge makes a face] No, seriously; I've got the forms in my case. It's time. I'm settled now, nothing should stop me.

[Justin walks through the doorway. Everyone sits up and shuffles a little further apart on the sofa.]

J Typical. I'm the last one in and it's my bloody cottage.
H [to J] Shouldn't work so hard then [quietly, to F and S] Probably trying to get away from Emma. [They nod]
J Glad you made it though. Sorry I'm so late.
F We started the beer. Thought we'd have to drink it all for you.
D Remember the time we locked Justin out and drank his whisky?
J You told me you'd lost the key!
D You didn't expect me to tell the truth did you? We left some beer on the doorstep for you.
J So what did you put in the bottle? No, don't tell me.
S Boys, boys, let's stop fighting and start celebrating shall we?
J Celebrate? What? You're running away with Fudge?
F You're pregnant?
D No, I'm not pregnant. Honest [pats belly, rounding it out as he does so]. We're getting married.
F Oh, wow! [Hugs David then Sam] Can I borrow your fi-an-cee for a bit? I'll give her back, honest!

[F leads S to a sofa, J,D sit down on the other. They all start to drink.]

F So how's little Sammie then?
S Hey, less of the little...
F Big, then?
S Stop it you rat: you know what I mean...
F Okay, okay. So how's the blushing bride to be? How's David?
S Swap you for telling me about your latest girlfriends.
[They sit giggling and drinking together on the sofa]
F Do you ever miss it then?
S Oh. Sometimes. We tried it a bit, but I don't think David sees the point.
F No, for him sex is just something plain.


J [looking at Sam and Fudge] Do you think there's something going on there then?
D I don't think so, he's my best friend. [Embarassed] Well, apart from you anyway.
J That's okay. I can cope with being second place. For a while, anyway. Don't you ever worry about how close they seem?
D He's her best friend too - why shouldn't they be close?
J But they're alone together - doesn't it worry you? Look mate, I know you want to marry her, but think about it: how many times has he stayed over when you were away? Don't you ever wonder what they do when you're not there?
D But he's gay. Everyone knows he's gay: he hasn't been out with a woman for almost as long as I've known him.
J Would that be as long as she's known him? Think about it...
[D sits looking at his beer. J opens up another can and settles into the sofa]

[S and F are sat heads together, whispering]
S Look, about the announcement. There's something else, but I want to surprise David tomorrow... swear to secrecy? Girls' honour?
F Do I get to wear a dress? Oh go on, please! Oh all right... girls' honour, scouts' honour and any other excuse I get to dress up honour: okay?
S Cross your heart and hope to...
F Yes, yes, the bra too... so what is this amazing secret? You're not pregnant are you?
S You've spoilt it now: I wanted to be really dramatic when I announced you were going to be an uncle.
F Oh please - an aunt, or I won't be able to wear the big hat at the christening. I'm sure David made me best man so I wouldn't wear a dress to your wedding.
S You are awful
[They hugtightly]
S Love you, Fudge
F Love you too Sammikins
[They are all very drunk by now. David rises from his seat and stares at S and F]

D What the hell do you think you're doing? Groping my own bride in front of me? Do you think I'm really stupid? Do you think I haven't noticed?
F What the...
D Pretending you were gay, you bastard? Well, I'll show you...
[D rises to hit F. J stands behind, and restrains him]
J Don't get upset about it - I'm sure there's nothing doing [whispers] don't let him see you get upset...
F You're pissed as a fart. Yes, I love your wife, and I don't know what the hell's upset you but we can sort it out when you sober up.
D [struggling] You bastard...
F Okay, okay, I'm going now. [Picks up his coat, opens the door and leaves, walking backwards through it]
S What the hell did you do that for? I haven't seen him for months, we were having a lovely time: what the hell did you do?
D [Tears starting to run down cheeks] I don't want to talk to you. Just leave me alone. Just go...
S But...
D Go!
[S leaves via an internal door, starting to cry.]

J Come on, mate. [Moves D over to the sofa and slumps him down against it. D starts to cry, holding onto J. A clock ticks in the backgroud. Blackout]

Scene 2: Justin takes David

[Same place, an hour or two later. Is lit only by the blue of the tv screen]
S David? David?
[S opens the door and puts on the light. J is sat naked on the floor behind D, arms around him and one hand holding his penis]
S [Screams] David?
D [Very slurred voice] It's okay. I can handle this.
S David?
D It's okay. Go back to bed.
[J smiles victoriously at S. She turns around and walks slowly back through the door. Blackout]

Scene 3: Breakfast at the cottage
[Sunday morning. Justin's cottage again. Sam and David wander into the room, together but not touching each oter.

Scene 4: Breakfast at the cafe
[Climbers' cafe. Sam and Fudge are sitting watching the waiters wandering past]

S It should be such an insignificant act. You put this bit [holds up finger] in that bit [holds up thumb and finger to make a ring, and slides the first finger into it]. So what? Why does it matter so much?
F You know that's not the point. Well [slightly dirty grin]. But seriously, it's never been about sex.
S Power?
F He didn't have a choice. It's a shame they didn't do it before you appeared. But then, you never screw your mates.
S You don't think David meant to?
F No, he's too screwed up by it. Even if yo'd caught him at it, he'd never be this upset. You'd have dealt with it between you.

S So why did Justin do it?
F Nobody comes out and says 'I'm bisexual'. It's ridiculous. You mum will say 'yes dear' and your best friends will ignore it til you've decided. He doesn't exist outside porn films and a little letter in LGB.
S It's never bothered David. David never raped anyone.
F David isn't a big macho army officer with a girlfriend who'd kill him if he looked at another woman. Except he isn't. And he idolises David. Everything he's had has always been newer or faster or better than David's, but David's always had what he wanted.
S Like hair, you mean?

Act II. Later that month.

Scene 1: Sam and David talk
[Sunday lunchtime. Sam and David are walking alone on the hills.]

S Someone tried to rape me once.
D Oh for Christ's
S No David, please listen. I need you to hear this
[D nods]
S I was at the blues bar. Was chatting to the bouncers as I left, knew them all from the gym. Bill offered me a lift home. He was the quiet one. Sweet guy, with a lovely Welsh accent and a steady family at home. We chatted about the weather, and the guys he saw me at the bar with me. It was a while before we stopped and I realised I was lost. Somewhere out in the countryside, I think. I was tired, slightly drunk, confused and then he was on top of me. Holding me down and pulling at my jeans. It wasn't a request. He didn't even try to kiss me, and that probably saved me. I talked. It had happened before and I'd always thought it was my own fault. And now I had a chance to find out. So I looked up and asked him why he was doing it. And he started to cry. Was terribly upset about his baby dying and his wife just turned her back on him and he was desparate for some contact, any contact with someone. And I was there, being friendly. And bringing so many blokes to the club that I must have been a tart, right. Wouldn't have minded a bit of extra that night. The strangest thing about rape is that it's often so non-violent. You know the person doing it, and you're transfixed. You don't do anything about it because you don't believe it's happening.

D I'm scared. That I wanted it. That I encouraged it. Scared of aids, scared of cancer, scared of losing you.

Scene 2: Sam and Fudge slip away
S A small flat somewhere. A job I believe in. Somewhere to write and listen to music. I'm not sure I want to be loved. Not sure I need to. I don't know.
F That's rubbish and you know it. Do you know how lonely you'd be without David. Even in this mood? Give him a chance.
S I've been giving him a chance for months. That bastard has taken over our lives. I want my life back. I want my husband back. [Starts to cry]
F How's it going?
S Fine, fine... two more big orders, some more stuff in the pipeline.
F Busy at work then? Lots to do?
S Yeah. Yeah. [Looks distractedly about her] That waiter's taking his time
F Sam, it's me. You know, the person you told about your abortion. The one who stood beside you all night when your dress split on the side. The only person in the world who knows how he ticks. Don't hold out on me now.
S [sits up straight] You have no right to...
F Please?
S [sagging a little] He won't let me near him anymore. We're sleeping in the same bed, but he's always somewhere else. All I want to do is just hold him and make it better, and he can't even bear to be near me. And the worst thing is when he forgets: sometimes we'll be giggling on the sofa, just like it was before, and he's round me and stroking me, and something stops: the shutters come down and he's not there anymore, and he's off making tea before I can even hold his hand and talk to him. He won't even let me listen, can't see any problems. And everyone tells me how perfect we are, and how lovely we seem, and I have to face that bastard Justin tomorrow and it's my appointment and [starts to sob. Fudge pulls her head over to his chest]
F Whoa there little sister... [lets her cry for a little]...

Scene 3: The stagnight. David goes back to Justin.
[Fudge and David cuddle up on the floor together, still wearing all their clothes. Blackout.]

Scene 4: The morning after
[Sun's coming up. Fudge and David are still cuddled up on the floor together, except they're now head-to-foot with each other. Fudge stirs and wakes David with a pillow round the ear]

F Wake up lazy. [Comes to a bit more and pushes David's feet away from his face] God, your feet smell.
D [grinning] At least I wasn't farting all night. Do you want coffee?
F You okay? [David nods]. You did know about Sam, didn't you?
D I'd guessed. That's why we were still getting married.
F I think you'd better go and talk to her. You've got a lot of ground to make up. And some ceremonies to arrange. Go on, shoo.
D [pulling on his shoes] Justin?
F I'll tell him when he wakes up. Shoo.
[David walks out quickly. Fudge picks up two mugs and wanders off towards the kitchen].

The end.

Tears in the Rain

Another foundling, this time from 26th August 2000.

Like tears in the rain

I'm not bitter. I'm depressed, confused, scared and angry, but I'm not bitter.
Shit. I am bitter. Since I found out I've hardly slept. To sleep and lose consciousness would be too close for comfort. I don't know what to do. There is nothing to do. I can only wait.

I can only wait.

I've decided to get my thoughts on record. As far as I know, nooone else in the world is going to do what I'm going to do. Nobody has done it for over four hundred years. I'll be the first. Hopefully I'll be the only one. Or one of the very few.

I'm going to die.

That isn't so exciting these days. Nearly everyone dies sometime. Illness, accident, it still happens. But it's easy to recover, a week or so and they're back in the land of the living.

I'm going to die permanently.

My doctor told me a week ago. It's taken that long for it to sink in. I knew I had cancer - it showed up in my annual med-scan. I was't too worried about it. I decided not to get it treated. Well, why go through the difficulties of treatment when I could regenerate if it got bad enough to be a problem. My friends said I should deal with it; not to let it get out of hand. But I believed in the great miracle.

I believed.

And I think I wanted to know what it felt like to come close to death. I've always wondered if it would be different. Well, I'm going to find out now. Big time.

Eventually the pain started. I booked myself into a regen unit: in for a few days, then back to my life. All the standard checks, my brain scan recorded, DNA extracted, personality saved as a backup on the mainframe, everything as normal in the assumption? The hope? That I might have changed slightly in the last year.

And so I went into the unit.

Lowered into the tank. Naked and slightly cold. Green gel surrounding me, starting to fill my nostrils as it washed above my upturned chin. I panicked, tried to hold my breath as it invaded me.
"Relax and breathe normally. The gel is oxygen rich. You will be able to breathe perfectly well. Relax and breathe normally".
The slightly metallic voice with a slight edge of brogue washed across my brain.
"Relax and breathe normally".
I tried to relax, opened my mouth to swallow the gel. I choked as the jelly substance filled my lungs. Fought the panic reflex as the anaesthetic worked and I slowly lost consciousness. I'd like to know why they don't put you to sleep before you're immersed. Must be some reason. I made a mental note not to die too often as I went under.

I should be more careful what I wish for. I'll remember that in future. Ha bloody ha.

I woke up in a plain white room. Sterile. Gentle hum of machines monitoring my body functions. Lungs breathing in perfectly-balanced air. I slowly opened my eyes, letting flourescent lights flood my senses. I was alive and well. The cancer was gone. My existence ongoing.

A soft voice murmured my name.

Something wrong. Something trickling into my conscience. It didn't sound right. The voice again.
"Are you awake?"
Still something wrong. I thought I was dreaming. The same brogue as before, the same soft reassurance. But no metallic edge. I was listening to a human. What was a human doing in a hospital? I was in regen. I always thought that you didn't dream during the process. But I must be dreaming. I tried to ignore the voice but it was insistent. Getting louder. I turned my head away from the lights and there she was. A doctor. A human doctor.
"Mr Phillips".
She smiled slightly, the reassuring smile that the robots used when you visited hospital. I wondered briefly if she was just a better robot, but then that voice came again.
"There's no cause for alarm".
What an understatement. I'd never met a human doctor. I knew they existed. The last bastion of human control. They didn't often see patients themselves: they oversaw the robots, did research, sorted out problems.

It was the sort out problems bit that stood out in my mind.

I tried to force the words out of my mouth. They sounded like an unoiled cog in an old motor. Grinding and squeaky at the same time. She held a glass of water out to me and I took it, allowing the fluid to lubricate my throat before trying to talk again. Words gushed out in a torrent of questions that needed to be answered.
"Who are you? Why are you here? Where's the robodoctor?"

She did that smile again, smoothly, automatically, but just a little too lopsided at the edges to be believable.
"Relax. I'm your doctor. Doctor Price. I'll be dealing with your case from now on. There's been a"
She paused as if trying to find the correct word.
"A complication".
I closed my eyes and a series of images passed before them. Not nice images, but I didn't panic. With the medical expertise we have we could deal with everything. Even death. So at worst I would have to stay in hospital a little while longer before going back to normal. But that didn't explain why I suddenly had a human doctor.

So I wasn't worried when I asked the question. Just curious.

"What's wrong?"
I wasn't expecting the answer I got.
"We're not exactly sure. In simple terms, you're allergic to regel. Your body wasn't affected by the treatment."
A sense of dread started to creep through my body. Toe to head, just like the gel. Did this mean?
"The cancer? Was it removed?"
Her eyes broke contact with mine. Bad news when the doctor forgets to reassure you.
"No. The generation didn't deal with it. We considered the old-fashioned cures, but it's too advanced. If you'd had it treated earlier, we might have been able to help you."
Even her smile had faded. She looked terribly young. But I still didn't want to believe the truth.
"What's going to happen?"
Simply, plainly, a small helpless voice.
"You're going to die".

I laughed.

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

And that was a week ago. Since when I've had my examinations re-examined, my body re-examined, my cells re-examined, the gel re-examined, my parents re-examined and still nobody understands the truth.

I'm going to die.

Permanently.

I can't swim. The silly, hopeless thought. I can't swim, I don't swim, I'm never going to learn to swim. I thought I had eternity, forever, an infinite lifetime of sometimes when I could do whatever I wanted to. And now I'm never going to learn to swim. Ever. Someone once said that man is huge compared to zero but tiny compared to infinity and now I'm going to learn what it is to be human. He's dead. And so, soon, am I.

Pascal. We learnt about him in school. Silly sod who believed in gods and spent time worrying about what happened if you did things for eternity. Started the Triangulars - no, was made honourary president of the Triangulars. Posthumously, of course.

The Triangulars. Strange bunch of people. Wierd sect that started in the Jupiter fields near Earth. Kept trying to kill themselves. Went on about how infinitely breeding people would eventually populate an infinite universe, or something like that. Called themselves after Pascal's triangle, but they couldn't even get that right: any mathematician could tell them it was a Fibonacci sequence they were talking about. They'd find some way to kill themselves, leave a big red triangle behind and then get pissed off when the councils regenned them. Stupid bastards don't have a clue about what death's really like. But I will.

I'm going to die permanently. I'm going to die.

It doesn't matter how many times I say it, it still doesn't make any sense. I'm going to die. But then what? I just stop existing? Hang around the databases until someone works out how to regen from my DNA and pops my personality back in? How do I know when I'm dead? Is it when someone stops trying to regen me? When they forget about me? If someone accidently deletes my records? I don't know what happens.

Maybe I should look up some dead people. Access the library. Hope that there's something amongst the geniuses in funny clothes to tell me about how to die. What to wear when I do it. What I ought to be doing. I wish I'd paid more attention to history class now. Hadn't scribbled notes to the girls while I was supposed to be listening to facts about fighting. And colonisation dates. And mining rights. And air-mixing systems. I don't even know if I get a choice about what to be doing. I'd listen harder in my re-school. Except I'm not going to live to be there. Or join the breeding program.

Ah well, one small chink of daylight in the darkness then.

Horatio's Big Day

This one was written 6th July 2005 for my eldest nephew. It has pictures, even...

Horatio’s Big Day

Everyone was busy on the Sloop family mooring. Horatio’s Mum was tidying the jetty, and Horatio’s Dad was cutting the weed from the piles and wiping some oil smudges off his hull, because Horatio’s Grandma Yawl and Grandad Ketch were coming to visit.
Horatio was excited because today he was allowed to go out as far as the old brick fort to meet them. ‘Bye Mum’, ‘Bye Dad’ he called, and sailed off down the creek.

…and saw his friend Sam and Sam’s mum coming towards him very very slowly. ‘Hi Sam’ shouted Horatio, and Sam went a little bit red, then a little bit redder, then something very very red and wobbly slid across his cockpit and Sam keeled over and almost capsized…

… but Horatio hauled in his sheets to make himself go faster, dashed forwards and caught Sam by his rigging just in time. ‘Close thing’ said Horatio as he helped Sam’s mum put him upright again. ‘What are you doing with that jelly on your deck?’. Sam went red again and muttered ‘learning to sail very slowly and carefully’ before concentrating so hard on the jelly that Horatio couldn’t talk to him again before they passed each other (port side to port side, of course).

Horatio carried on sailing out towards the entrance to Cow Creek, carefully keeping out of the shipping lane so the big boats didn’t collide with him. ‘That’s funny’ he thought. ‘Why are all the happy boats wearing hats and blowing whistles?’ The happy boats were the little boats that weren’t quite big enough to go out without a grown-up yet. ‘Maybe they’re having a play day at the nursery’ thought Horatio as he rounded the harbour wall…

…and nearly bumped into his Grandma Schooner. ‘Good afternoon Horatio’ said his Grandma. ‘And how are we today?’ ‘Why are all the happy boats wearing hats?’ asked Horatio, who hadn’t quite got the hang of answering grown-up questions yet. Grandma paused for a second. ‘Because it’s hot and they don’t want to get sunburnt’ she answered. ‘And blowing whistles?’ ‘Because they might get lost, and the whistles help the grownups to find them’. Grandma made a very strange clinking sound. ‘Oh, my stays’ she said ‘I must get my baggywrinkes replaced’ and dashed off towards the harbour.

Horatio had reached the old brick fort, so he let his sails fly and waited for Grandad and Grandma Ketch to arrive. But the day was just getting stranger and stranger. Something pink and yellow and purple was heading towards Horatio along the coast of White Island. It came closer… and closer… and closer… until it turned into George and Sally Jetski, each towing a big big bunch of pink and yellow and purple balloons. ‘Hello’ brmmed Sally. ‘Helllo’ brmmed George. ‘Hello’ flapped Horatio, who was starting to get a little suspicious about this very strange day. ‘Where are you going with those balloons?’

‘Errrrm…. We’re just playyyinggg’ brmmed George. ‘Yes, playing’ brrred Sally, and she went round and round and round in circles to show Horatio how close to the water she could get the balloons.

… and got so excited that she let go of the string! “Eeek!” cried Sally. “Whoops” went George, and “Oh dear” said Horatio…

…and caught the runaway balloons in his big billowing jib. ‘Thank you’ brmmmed George and Sally together (because they were twins, you know), and ‘Oh, there’s Grandad’, and off they went at a slightly more cautious pace. Brmmmm… brmmmm… brmmm… Horatio filled his jib again, went about to watch Bryan the Ferry hoot hello as he went into the harbour, and thought that since it was such a strange day, he wouldn’t even think about why Brian had a big white box tied across his stern.

‘Hello Tacker’ said a friendly voice. Horatio went about again and saw his Grandad Ketch and Grandma Yawl sailing towards him. Grandma Yawl had the biggest cake Horatio had ever seen on her aft deck, and Grandad Ketch was letting off little things that threw lots of paper streamers all over the water. ‘Have you guessed why we’re here yet?’ said Grandma. ‘Well’, said Horatio. ‘Jelly, and hats, and whistles, and balloons, and cakes and streamers. Is it a party? Am I invited?’

‘I hope so’, laughed Grandma Yawl, ‘it’s your birthday party’. ‘Happy Birthday Horatio’ shouted Grandpa, who was very excited. And they all sailed back to the visitor’s moorings by the ferry terminal, and everyone ate sandwiches, and Sam’s big red jelly, and Grandma Yawl’s cake, and Bryan the Ferry’s ice cream, and drank Grandma Schooner’s lemonade, and wore silly hats and blew whistles, and held balloons (except Sally, who lost hers again), and let off streamers all over the water, and everyone had a thoroughly joyful time and went to bed tired but happy that evening.

Happy Birthday Horatio!