tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-73433048510841199902024-03-14T02:15:47.024-07:00Decade 4All the right words, but not necessarily in the right orderBenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11965535693027179744noreply@blogger.comBlogger60125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7343304851084119990.post-14762568111087909102016-02-17T06:58:00.001-08:002016-02-17T06:58:34.705-08:00170216And like so many pheonixes...
Um, hi. On the basis that I'm now entombed here and speaking entirely to myself, which frankly was my suspicion all along, there probably isn't too much point embarking on some elaborate explanation or update. But I <i>think</i> I might be back, and more or less intact at that - physically certainly; mentally and emotionally perhaps a tad less so, but writing here can be my self-prescribed therapy.
Since Decade 4 is drawing to close for me later this year, I daresay I'll take an even more reflective tone than I did before. I'd like to unearth some creativity if I can, as well as waffle, talk about myself, and philosophise really badly. Same old same old.
And yes I did have to google the plural of 'pheonix'.
I won't invite anyone to say hi, as there's clearly no-one there.Benhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11965535693027179744noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7343304851084119990.post-24815972640130666042012-03-08T06:41:00.000-08:002012-03-08T06:45:23.249-08:00080312He sat in what might once have been called a waiting room, but was now known as a patient lounge. He thought the patient lounge was very much like a waiting room; both in function, in that it was a room in which people were waiting; and in appearance, festooned as it was with information leaflets, posters, uncomfortable-looking mal-upholstered chairs, and a smattering of people he assumed must be patients. They all looked miserable. He had long since realised that hospitals were not necessarily miserable places in themselves, but that the nature of their business meant that innumerable miseries passed through their doors, and that after a certain amount of time the gloominess, suffering, pain and despair were bound to seep into the fabric of the place. There had been too much loss, too much unhappiness, not to weigh the entire site down. <br /><br />Even the success stories, the recoveries and the miraculous cures that took place here amongst the apparently randomly scattered yet uniformly ugly buildings full of sterile and unfriendly-looking rooms, even they were outwardly-focussed – a celebration enacted by being able to be elsewhere, and by not having to return. In that sense, he reasoned, the hospital could even be described as a place of hope, albeit the hope to be in another place. But there wasn’t much hope in evidence this afternoon: just gloom, some poorly-stocked vending machines (one of which was out of order), and an untidy pile of magazines that looked as though they had never been new.<br /><br />Like most people, he had never liked hospitals. Even trivial visits for routine and unthreatening procedures were tainted by memories of past, less benign trips, and of course by the prospect of lengthier visits to come. A visit to the hospital, he concluded, was at once an echo of past anguish, and an uncomfortable glimpse into an uncertain yet inevitable future. The hospital was a place of contrast: the environment was sterile, everything was clean, hard, shiny and efficient, yet the people within were fragile, diseased and broken in various ways. The restaurant did offer an excellent rhubarb crumble on Tuesdays, but it was impossible to enjoy it whilst surrounded by pallid geriatrics, worried-looking relatives speaking in hushed tones, and medical professionals looking anxiously at pagers and watches. To make things worse, the custard was usually lumpy.<br /><br />He left the patient lounge and followed the red line on the floor back to the reception and main entrance area. “I really must stop coming here for no reason” he muttered to himself.Benhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11965535693027179744noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7343304851084119990.post-79294701213113581062012-02-29T02:34:00.002-08:002012-03-08T01:51:36.165-08:00290212Happy fifth Wednesday in February! We haven't had one of those in twenty-eight years, in case anyone was wondering. On Wednesday 29th February 1984 I was deep into a my second term at junior school, in the class of a delightfully old-school, cardigan-wearing, blackboard rubber-throwing, quiffy-haired teacher who has long since departed this world. I had a full complement of grandparents (now none), a new-found love of the most wonderful sport known to man (still have that), not a care in the world (no comment), and no idea why I had no desire to join in the games of kiss chase that took place in the playground most lunchtimes (worked that one out now). I occasionally wore jeans.<br /><br />http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/magazine-17101768<br /><br />I haven't worn jeans since I was eleven years old. I had never liked them, a fact which I had made very clear to my parents on a number of occasions. But one day the following leap year, 1988, I was presented with a new pair of jeans. I was annoyed - upset even, and decided to draw a line. Over a period of a couple of weeks my protests about the jeans became repetitive and ferocious; both qualities I rarely exhibited. One day the conflict came to a head and I was forced to wear the new jeans. Exhausted, exasperated, but not defeated, I played my trump card - I cried. This was partly calculated I suppose, but the tears were borne of genuine frustration and anguish. This was an event so rare that it shocked my parents, who, realising they had underestimated the strength of my feelings, never asked me to wear jeans again. I think the offending garment made its way to a charity shop some time later.<br /><br />The thing is, I'm not sure why I don't like jeans. I think other people can look fine in them - attractive, even, but the idea of wearing them myself has alarmed me for as long as I remember. Other clothing aversions (shorts, certain types of shirt) have come and gone over the years, but this one persists. In recent years I have worn trousers which are not dissimilar to the jean in style, yet crucially, nothing resembling denim. I can, I think, categorically state that I will never again wear jeans. I don't think it was ever a stylistic objection, and it certainly isn't a phobia. My family and friends wear jeans and always have done, so there was no apparent reason for me to develop such a strong aversion to them. Perhaps it was merely an extravagant way for the eleven-year-old me to prove a point to my parents, which has grown into a lifelong habit. Either way, I'm jeans free since 1988, and staying that way.Benhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11965535693027179744noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7343304851084119990.post-85268576806627493152012-02-20T07:25:00.002-08:002012-02-20T07:55:44.650-08:00200212I don’t know why I haven’t posted for a while. I’d like to say I’m lacking in inspiration, but that’s something of a default state for me, so can hardly be used as an excuse. If anything I’ve felt lately as though I ought to be coming out with something weighty, something profound, maybe even something worthwhile. I’d like to move or inspire people rather than provoking a half-smile and another whimsical exchange (that’s not to say that I don’t value the whimsical exchanges – they are frequently the highlight of an otherwise uneventful day).<br /><br />It’s very chicken and egg, this whole civil service business. Does the nature of the work and the reputation civil servants have attract dull, lifeless individuals who can not imagine any life other than forty years behind a desk; or does the grinding repetition and endless procession of bland days, trips to the photocopier and cups of tea chisel away at the will, the individuality, the very soul of those who strayed too close to the flypaper and became stuck?<br /><br />I’m about ninety-three per cent certain I would have been more fulfilled doing something else, yet I have very consciously decided every day for sixteen years (the anniversary is this week) not to do something else. It’s difficult to say whether my creative faculties would have calcified in this way had I sought employment in a different field. I’m sure I was brighter twenty years ago than I am now. I can see that it’s alarming, yet I am totally relaxed about it. It only occasionally annoys me very slightly, and even then only because I am aware that other people think I ought to be annoyed by it. In truth it feels natural, and comfortable. A kind of self-medication, if you will. And I don’t think I’m settling for what I have because of the effort that would be involved in changing course (although I concede I wouldn’t relish it). Neither do I think I’m scared of failing in any attempt to start afresh (although now there’s a high probability I would). Neither do I categorise my attitude as defeatist, or as being resigned to my fate (no caveat needed for this one – I’m really not). No, not any of those. In the end it always boils down to where I assign importance in my life. Up to this point the answer to the subconscious question “am I happy enough?” has always been “just about”.<br /><br />There’s certainly no shortage of people here who claim to have joined ‘as a temp for the summer’, only to remain a decade or three later. I am here because I’m from a time and place where that was what people did when they didn’t know what they wanted to do. That time is gone, and it no longer applies in that place, but thousands of us remain – relics of a time when you could wander into employment, dull as it was, without so much as a decent A Level to your name, let alone any kind of higher education. And yet even in these austere times, relatively few of my colleagues seem to value their career here. Applications for recent voluntary redundancy schemes have been massively oversubscribed, and not entirely due to the ageing workforce. These peoples’ experiences here are very similar to mine, but their tolerance levels obviously differ from mine. They have decided to leave in search of something different, something better than the life I continually choose to endure.<br /><br />There was a stat doing the rounds a while back claiming that civil servants ‘enjoyed’ the lowest average post-retirement lifespan of any profession, at roughly eighteen months. I have no idea if this is true, but I suspect some jealous pensionless individual in the private sector made it up. Nevertheless, that didn’t stop me from writing ‘have a good eighteen months’ in one or two retirement cards. It’s in my nature to trivialise. That’s my defence mechanism. I convince myself the things which matter to other people don’t matter to me. I’m brilliant at it. I whistle so that people think I’m cheerful. I am always on hand with a flippant remark, laced with just the right amount of black humour. If I were to release a fragrance, it would be called ‘Futility’ ™.<br /><br />Despite dismantling and restructuring this post more than once (okay, twice), it still flows not. Fairly apt, I suppose.Benhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11965535693027179744noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7343304851084119990.post-22424017358513421192012-01-30T05:07:00.000-08:002012-01-30T07:31:27.418-08:00300112I've had a flurry of cinema attendance since the turn of the year, with mixed results. For anyone who feels they might share my taste in films I thought I might jot down some thoughts.<br /><br />Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, The<br /><br />This being the English language version starring Daniel Craig. Ridiculously, I have yet to see the original film (which even my mother-in-law has seen!), so I came to this without a bias towards either that or Stieg Larsson's novel. I did come to it with a less-than-healthy opinion of Mr Craig, who despite someone once telling me I look like him (I don't), has to date struck me as possessing the emotional range of a common house brick. Not that that quality isn't suited to this particular role - I just don't think he needs to be THAT understated THAT often. Mara Rooney comfortably outshines him here in the title role, and Christopher Plummer's typically assured performance is worth a fair chunk of the admission fee by itself. As remakes of Scandinavian films go, I get the feeling that this isn't as successful as the 2002 Pacino/Williams version of Insomnia, but that doesn't mean this is a bad film - just a slightly pointless one, perhaps. I should warn that some of the action is fairly graphic, but although I don't think it quite reaches offensiveness (though one or two scenes do come close), I wouldn't recommend going to see it with your mother-in-law. Take mine instead.<br /><br />Iron Lady, The<br /><br />This has ignited an interesting debate about acting versus impersonation. Meryl Streep is apparently nailed-on for Best Actress at the Academy Awards, and hers is undoubtedly a superbly observed portrayal well worth seeing no matter what your views on Margaret Thatcher. However, it seems to me there is some merit in the view that acting is really about creating a fictional character from scratch, or at least from a personal interpretation of the vision of a director and/or screenwriter. After all, Michael Sheen's performances as David Frost and Brian Clough (possibly Tony Blair - not seen that one) are equally remarkably caricatures, but I don't see any Oscars on his mantelpiece. On the other hand, I wouldn't dare to suggest that Ben Kingsley or George C Scott should be stripped of their acting awards for Gandhi or Patten. Not that Scott accepted his anyway. And on another other hand, those films were conventional biopics whereas The Iron Lady certainly is not. <br />I triple-digress. It's a good film. Could be better, but still good. I don't know how successful the dementia-angle they took with the film was - it makes for one of Jim Broadbent's more superfluous appearances as the hallucinated Dennis - and I think I'm with those who would have preferred more focus on 1979-1990.<br /><br />War Horse<br /><br />Once again, I must declare that I haven't read the novel, nor have I seen the play. Sorry about that. Actually though, I'm almost glad I haven't, since I'm reasonably sure this film would have been a disappointment to me. As it was, I thought it was watchable enough, though utterly ridiculous. Rural pre-war Devon was full of hopelessly depicted cartoon-like characters, the events of the film seemed to span a couple of months at most as opposed to the more than four years of the war, and in general Mr Spielberg's schmaltz-meter must have suffered a spectacular malfunction. For sheer unbelievability in a semi-historical yarn, I'm not sure I have seen anything to touch this. On the plus side, Jeremy Irvine. Yes I did mean to conclude that sentence quite so abruptly.<br /><br />Descendents, The<br /><br />This is the kind of film I get on with. No far-fetched stories about murder or adventure, or even romance. No special effects. No fluffy animals, talking or otherwise. Just actors acting. Pretending to be real people and telling a human story, of events that could conceivably happen to you or me, albeit probably not in Hawaii or in the context of a multi-million-dollar land deal. Well, I didn't say it was perfect, did I? The theme of past (and now irrelevant) infidelity put me in mind of Death of a Salesman, which has to be high praise, doesn't it? The child acting is remarkable, Clooney is excellent, the locations are at times spectacular. My pick of these four by a distance.<br /><br /><br />I suppose there was a spoiler or two amongst the above. Sue me.<br /><br />Question: One of the four films mentioned moved me to tears three times. One (just) did so once. The other two did not. Can you guess which is which?Benhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11965535693027179744noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7343304851084119990.post-35107476113586593452012-01-05T03:02:00.000-08:002012-01-05T03:09:02.959-08:00050112(The time is now. The setting: a pseudo-converted farm building on the edge of an unfashionable overflow town close to a fashionable city. We can see two rooms. The first is a multi-purpose living space, with a TV and sofa to the left foreground, and a dining set and shelving to the right foreground. Behind is a kitchen area, delineated by a breakfast bar and stools. There is a high window on the back wall. On the left-hand wall are two doors, the nearest of which is open, and leads through to a bedroom. In the bedroom, a man lies on the left side of a double bed. He is dressed in a t-shirt, propped straight-backed against several pillows; his lower half beneath the bed covering. He is reading a book, and has a drink in a mug beside him on a small bedside table. There is an identical table on the other side of the bed. The bedroom also contains two wardrobes, but is otherwise large, and empty. It is evening, and each room is lit only by a single standard lamp.)<br /><br />(Two men enter the living area. The younger of the two removes his coat, and hangs it on a stand beside the right-hand wall. He points the other man towards the rear door on the left-hand wall.)<br /><br />YOUNG MAN: It’s just through there.<br /><br />(The two men make their way across the room, until they draw level with the bedroom door. The man in the bed looks across at them, but does not get up.)<br /><br />YOUNG MAN: Andrew just needs to use the bathroom.<br /><br />(Andrew and the man in bed exchange simultaneously awkward ‘Hello’s. There is a momentary pause, before Andrew continues to the bathroom door and enters, closing the door behind him.)<br /><br />YOUNG MAN (hushed): What are you doing in bed?<br /><br />MAN IN BED (also hushed): I just thought I’d wait for you in here. How was I supposed to know he’d be coming in? (He gestures in the direction of the bathroom. There is another pause.)<br /><br />YM: He’s using the toilet, that’s all! He’ll only be a second.<br /><br />MIB (frosty): Well why didn’t he use the one at the pub? Or wait until he gets home? He only lives fifteen minutes from here, doesn’t he?<br /><br />YM: I don’t know. What difference does it make? He’ll be gone in a minute.<br /><br />MIB (still suspicious, but warming): Okay, well….. did you have a good time, anyway?<br /><br />YM: Yeah, fine. It was only a couple of drinks. He’s having a hard time at the moment.<br /><br />MIB: Where did you go?<br /><br />YM: That new place in town. It was fine, pretty quiet.<br /><br />MIB: And the rest of your day?<br /><br />YM: Yeah it was alright. Went shopping after work, watched some TV, went for a run – normal stuff. How about you?<br /><br />MIB: We had a nice time. I left work early so got to my parents’ around four. I opened my presents, then later we had a takeaway. I got back about nine.<br /><br />YM: Oh yeah, happy birthday again by the way. What did you get?<br /><br />MIB: Cash from my parents. (He picks up the book from the bedside table and shows it.) This book from my brother. Clothes and vouchers from the minor relatives. Just like any other birthday, really.<br /><br />YM: Okay.<br /><br />(The bathroom door reopens, and Andrew emerges to stand next to the young man.)<br /><br />ANDREW (to both of them): Thanks for that. I’ll be off. (To the man in the bed) Nice to meet you.<br /><br />MIB (with badly feigned sincerity): You too. Bye.<br /><br />ANDREW: See ya.<br /><br />YM: Okay, see you tomorrow.<br /><br />(Further ‘bye’s are exchanged as the Young Man sees Andrew out of the house, before returning to the bedroom door.)<br /><br />YM: That was rude.<br /><br />MIB: I was not! You took me by surprise. I was half-asleep and a strange man walks past the bedroom door. How am I supposed to act? I was polite.<br /><br />YM: You call that polite?! And it wasn’t a strange man, it was Andrew. I’ve told you about him loads of times.<br /><br />MIB: Yes, but I’ve never met him, have I? And from what you’ve told me, he’s pretty weird anyway.<br /><br />YM: I’ve never said he was weird. He’s just confused, and really upset at the moment.<br /><br />MIB: Perfect drinking companion then!<br /><br />YM: He needs someone to talk to. Anyway, it was better than staying at home by myself!<br /><br />MIB (guilty): I suppose.<br /><br />YM: You didn’t even get out of bed!<br /><br />MIB: Well I don’t have any trousers on, do I?Benhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11965535693027179744noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7343304851084119990.post-63897943978282890212011-12-23T00:23:00.000-08:002011-12-23T01:50:20.573-08:00231211It's always the same with Christmas. I'm a child at heart, and my energy levels noticeably rise in the days leading up to the holiday period. This year the build-up seems to have been longer than normal, so I've gradually whipped myself up into my own version of a festive frenzy. That sounds more impressive than it is, and really only comprises of talking to people I wouldn't ordinarily talk to, whistling slightly more than usual, and tuning the kitchen radio to a station that only plays Christmas tunes. Even so, by my own standards I've been lively, playful and, goddammit I'll say it, happy. Despite a succession of late nights I've comfortably maintained a regimen of early morning rising, have so far maintained admirable dietary discipline, and even remain motivated to exercise each day.<br /><br />Yet I can feel it upon me. The slump is approaching. Of course Christmas day itself is an anticlimax for many, consisting as it typically does of an initial whirlwind of gift exchange and food preparation and consumption, followed by a slow descent into dull games, generic TV, and more food, interspersed with snoozing. But I'm okay with all that. I can cope with seeing the uncle I don't like, pretending to be grateful for the third packet of Licquorice Allsorts, and watching Oliver! for the fifty-seventh time. What I struggle with, and always fail at, is keeping myself from slipping into introspective mode. All celebrations do this to me. I find myself withdrawing to a corner, watching, reflecting, sometimes brooding. I suppose sobriety doesn't help matters, but there's something about witnessing key moments in people's lives; in my own life, that breaks my heart. Perhaps it's the knowledge that the moment is about to be lost forever. Perhaps it's some kind of response to the desperate futility of it all. It could be that I am touched by the ability of my family and friends to cast aside all the hostility and cruelty in the world and concentrate for a few precious moments on the love they share. <br /><br />Or maybe I'm just a miserable bastard. I don't know, but either way I inevitably reach this state of Christmas paralysis. I become a rather sad-looking and distant observer. And that's not me. It's not me at all, though I think many people believe it is.<br /><br />The moroseness has been hastened a little this year by a comment one of my ex football team mates made at the pub the other night. We were being told that another chap from the team had been busy lately decorating his new house, and the first chap made a mischievous enquiry about whether he lived alone, or with a 'friend'. There was a moment of awkwardness, then someone else told him to 'behave', and the conversation moved on. I can't be certain, but I'm fairly sure the comment was directed at me.<br /><br />To clarify, I don't really regard myself as closeted, but neither have I made any explicit statement about my sexuality to this particular group of friends. For some time I have been working on the assumption that they all know I'm gay, and whilst none of them were invited to the civil partnership ceremony earlier in the year (see how I subtly revealed that?), several of them have seen me around town with my partner, so I assumed that any speculation or gossip that may have taken place in the past had long since ceased.<br /><br />I'm surprised and annoyed to discover that this should still be a subject of interest for any of them. The individual who made the comment is someone who I like, and having mulled it over for a couple of days, I don't think my opinion of him has changed as a result of this. I suppose I resent being reminded of my embarrassment about those times in the now distant past when I was evasive about my sexuality. I wonder if I continue to avoid making certain proclamations because, deep down, I fear some of the prejudices it might unleash. It's possible that I am ashamed to admit to myself that perhaps I even share some of those prejudices.<br /><br />Christmas specific bi-polarism, that's what I've got. Ho ho... oh!<br /><br />Until 2012, over and out. Merry Christmas all.Benhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11965535693027179744noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7343304851084119990.post-32364192346219459112011-12-20T06:49:00.000-08:002011-12-20T06:54:17.094-08:00201212I'm not in the habit of directing people to other web pages, but please visit the below if you have the time. It's a favourite of mine.<br /><br />http://www.dooyoo.co.uk/food/morrisons-chunky-plaice-fillets/1201663/Benhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11965535693027179744noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7343304851084119990.post-32100879624689255032011-12-05T04:58:00.000-08:002011-12-05T07:32:38.721-08:00051211A couple of blog-portal-space-location thingies I frequent have touched recently on the subject of not knowing how to react to compliments. That’s familiar territory for me, so I thought I’d chip in…<br /><br />In life it's sometimes easier to fly beneath the radar; to dress anonymously, to reveal no opinions, to avoid distinctive cologne, to nod and/or smile at the appropriate moments. I have certainly been guilty of this kind of behaviour for large tranches of my life. <br /><br />Yet whilst I may not go out of my way to impress others, I suspect I am not alone in preferring that people in general think well of me. It's affirming and confidence-building to know that people recognise and appreciate one's efforts and abilities. If people must notice me and form opinions of me, I concede that I'd much rather those opinions were positive ones. <br /><br />And yes, sometimes compliments have come my way. Someone will say "you're funny", or "you're clever", or "I wish I could think up stuff like that", or even (once or twice) "you look nice". How generous of a fellow human being to offer words of encouragement! How validating to hear that one is considered relevant, useful, worthwhile! What joy to know that one is contributing to the happiness of others by simply being! Well, not quite.<br /><br />There are a number of potential responses when one receives a compliment:<br /><br />1. Gratitude. A simple acknowledgment of the kind thought, and a heartfelt thank you for the sentiment behind it. Example: “What a lovely thing to say – thank you”. Probably the best way to react.<br />2. Reciprocation. Responding with a compliment of one’s own. Example: “And you are looking rather resplendent today too.” Also a gracious and pleasant response.<br />3. Agreement. Where one reinforces and even bolsters the compliment. Example: “Yes I am rather splendid, aren’t I?” A little unseemly, I’d suggest. <br />4. Fishing. Where one attempts to pull ever greater words of praise from the complimenter. Example: “Oh really, what makes you say that?” Possibly even worse than Agreement.<br />5. Deflection. Shifting the praise onto someone else. Example: “Ah, but I had a good teacher”.<br />6. Rejection. Denying the validity of what has been said. Example: “You obviously don’t know me very well!”<br />7. Diversion. A silly or bizarre comment aimed at quickly changing the subject. Example: “[Insert Dad’s Army character impersonation here]”<br />8. Ignorance. Carrying on as if the compliment never happened. Usually borne out of embarrassment.<br />9. Silence. Pure, inept, eye-contact-avoiding silence.<br /><br />On a very, very good day I might manage a version of Number 1 above and force out some mumbled acknowledgment. Normally I’m a combination of 7, 8 and 9, and mostly 9. It’s awkward. I blush. I stare blankly. I shuffle uncomfortably. What should be a moment of celebration and bonding is quickly swept away because I am paralysed by a fear of being thought immodest, unfriendly, ungrateful, ill-mannered, smug or ignorant. And this from a man who can, I think, more honestly than most claim not too be too preoccupied about what people think of him.<br /><br />Examples, you say? It just so happens that I can offer three:<br /><br />Exhibit A. It is 1994. I am in the upper-sixth form (Year 13 for younger readers). A young lady from the lower sixth / Year 12 arranges for her friend to pass me a note. Whilst I no longer have said note in my possession, the words contained therein are so memorable I have no trouble in recalling them verbatim after all this time. It was the young lady’s belief that I was “Clever, witty, handsome… a bit of alright.” (The last bit probably sticks in my mind because ‘a bit of alright’ was a long outdated phrase even then.) My reaction? I’m somewhat ashamed to say there was no discernable reaction. I remember being shocked, having hardly spoken to the young lady before, and of course flattered, not to say amused at the ‘handsome’ bit. But I made no effort to respond to the note. I read it and disposed of it. Now of course, one might be forgiven for assuming that her gender played some part in my silent rejection of her advances. On reflection, I’m reasonably sure that had the letter been authored by an equivalent young man, I wouldn’t have been able to cope any less inadequately than I did. Katherine, I’m sorry.<br /><br />Exhibit B. The story of another misguided female admirer. The year is 2000. A young lady in my office is clearly taken with me. I’m not the quickest at recognising such situations (largely because, contrary to the pattern emerging in this post, it has hardly ever happened), but the young lady is not subtle. Whilst she doesn’t go as far as to put her feelings in writing, she is noticeably pleasant towards me, seeks out my company, and, memorably, on more than one occasion, seductively sings the eponymous title lyric to the Britney Spears song “I was born to make you happy” as we pass in the corridor. Once again, I ignore the compliments; carry on as if the situation were normal. At one or two social events I recall letting people think we were an item (what the heck, she was pretty hot), but we never were, though I think (hope) by this time had the young lady been a young man I might have fought back the compliment-related discomfort enough to properly respond.<br /><br />Exhibit C. Again, the year 2000. On reflection, quite a year for admirers (which does leave me puzzling whether I am 11 years past my best). I have just played a highly competitive and enjoyable game of football. My team lost 1-0, but unusually, I am in no way deflated, such was the high level of collective and personal performance. My dad tells me I played ‘brilliantly’ – a biased opinion if ever there was one, but nonetheless a descriptor he has never used before or since. A senior team mate whose opinion I respect refers to my performance as my best ever. Again, nice to hear but hardly impartial. Then in the bar after the game, the opposing team manager seeks me out. This is a man who spent several years in the professional game as a player and coach, and ought to know what he’s talking about. He tells me I was the best player on the pitch, and would have a chance of playing professionally. I stand, open-mouthed, like a total buffoon, for fully ten seconds. I have never been so lost for words. Eventually I mutter something nonsensical and unintelligible. He wanders off, presumably thinking I am some kind of brilliant football-playing deaf-mute.<br /><br />Sorry about mentioning football again. It does tend to find its way in no matter what the subject.<br /><br />I’d like this paragraph to draw together my thoughts and make some conclusion or other, but it so rarely does. But then I never promised to resolve or throw light on anything, I only said I’d chip in.Benhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11965535693027179744noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7343304851084119990.post-24726360854814570672011-11-29T05:40:00.000-08:002011-11-29T06:01:00.919-08:00291111Wonder doesn't rhyme with ponder.<br />Yonder rhymes with ponder.<br />Wander rhymes with both of them,<br />But not gander.<br />Gander rhymes with slander, blander, brander, dander, Evander, lander and even candour,<br />And almost with panda, but not quite.<br />Panda rhymes with oranda.<br />My friend Amanda had an oranda,<br />But not a panda.<br />She wanted one, but they're difficult to get hold of,<br />Being as they are confined to the Chinese provinces of Shaanxi, Sichuan and Gansu, none of which rhyme with anything.<br />They also belong to the People's Republic of China,<br />Who won't give you one unless you're a country.<br />And Amanda isn't one of those.<br />This is only the giant ones, of course.<br />Red pandas are a different kettle of fish.Benhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11965535693027179744noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7343304851084119990.post-75328102180975434862011-11-16T02:04:00.000-08:002011-11-16T07:44:49.460-08:00161111Now that I've had the birthday, which sped by despite being awake for twenty hours of it (it was the only birthday I am ever likely to spend in three different countries), I am thirty-five years old. A little less young than before, but as I've already pointed out, none the worse for that.<br /><br />A confession: I am highly prone to sentimentality. Endings cause me difficulty. It's not that I fear or habitually reject change; in fact I can sometimes embrace it. But I do cling to the past in lots of ways, and one thing that horrifies me about having somehow let thirty-five precious years slip through my fingers in the blink of an eye (fingers and eyes in one sentence - how 'bout that?), is the feeling that of all the great stuff I've done, a large percentage has overflowed my memory bank and been washed away in the murky waters of time.<br /><br />Like everyone, I am an amalgam of the various influences I've been exposed to over time: phrases I've borrowed, styles I've co-opted, beliefs I've acquired. Some consciously, but, I suspect, the great majority without very much thought. The only original thing about me is the precise recipe in which all the exact measurements of the constituent parts are blended together. So in that respect at least, nothing I ever did or knew is lost. In some imperceptibly small way, everything I have ever experienced is retained and used every day just by being me, by reacting to and interacting with my current life in my own unique way. But this isn't the same as being able to recall details of people and places from years past. I dread endings not because of the upheaval itself, but because they mark the start of a long process of erosion, of sharp and highly specific memories being degraded, dismantled, blurred and eventually either lost completely, or, perhaps even worse, distorted and lumped together into generic and vague representations of those original memories.<br /><br />There are those who keep diaries. Diaries which record notable events from each day or week. Whilst I accept that it might be a good thing to have volumes of memories on a shelf somewhere, this is something I don't seem to have done up to this point, suggesting that I lack the discipline to maintain such a record. Some bloggers use spaces such as this one to document notable events in their lives, but I've so far shied away from anything quite so uninhibited. Whilst that kind of blog is, in my opinion, quite the best kind, for nothing is so interesting to people as other people, my reason for being here is not to record, but merely to reflect. Besides, even a detailed written record can never recreate a feeling or an experience. It might jog the memory, paint something of a picture, and take the reader to the same psychological avenue as the original event, but the event itself is gone. For that reason I'm not sure I would even bother to re-read old diaries had I ever made the decision to keep them.<br /><br />To re-plot the course of this blog entry back toward endings, here's an example of my behaviour in response to them: earlier this year I moved offices, from a place which had been my location of work for a little over two years, to a new office. Sadly, I'm not generally able to derive a great deal of pleasure from my work, and most days I'd certainly much rather be doing something else. My office was a scruffy one, in a shabby 70-year-old building that was widely considered ugly even when it was newly-constructed. I had a ripped chair and a desk adorned with antique IT hardware adjacent to a window which had a dusty ledge and from which there was no view save for the identical office not ten yards away. The carpet was worn and stained (not by me, I hasten to add), the overhead strip light occasionally flickered, and the room could be either very hot or very cold, but never anything in between. It was a place for which it was all but impossible to have affection - a place I went to in order to do something I didn't want to do in surroundings I wouldn't have chosen. Yet in the closing days of my time there I collected a few souvenirs, and took some photographs of that same desk, that same office, and the view from that same window. From somewhere I manufactured a sadness of sorts, not motivated by the loss of those things I have described, but by sentimentality, by the ending itself, and by the passing of the time I spent there.<br /><br />Given my reaction to the end of something I didn't even much like, you might imagine the magnitude of my reaction to the still relatively recent news of the state of my knee, meaning that I am unable any longer to actively participate in the sport I love. I can state without trace of exaggeration that the end of my time as a football player has been the single biggest threat I have ever faced to my psychological wellbeing. Apart from demonstrating that I have led an ultra-sheltered life, I think it also shows just how bad I am at endings, less still premature ones.<br /><br />I have a third example of my sentimentality with regard to endings. Whilst it goes against my professed reluctance to recount events from my personal life, it is certainly the best example, so clearly merits inclusion here. It's actually something I'm a little embarrassed about, and something I have only ever told one person, so let us also consider it a reward for anyone who has read this far. In the early stages of our relationship, I visited my partner's home town for a week. We stayed at his mother's house, went to some local tourist attractions together, visited places he used to live, went to see his old schools, and viewed a few other places of significance to him. When the week was over, I drove home while he stayed on to spend some time with his family. I sobbed like a baby for ten solid minutes as I drove away. Not out of happiness at having found someone so wonderful with whom to spend my life. Not even out of sadness at being temporarily separated from him. I cried because the week was over, and because the special memories of the most fantastic week of my life would soon start to dissipate. I wanted that week never to end.<br /><br />I know that my best ever family holiday as a child was in 1991. I know who was there. I know where we went. I am able to access one or two fuzzy pictures in my mind of the places we went, what the weather was like, and how those twelve days made me feel. I can even look at the photos, and reminisce with my family. It pleases me that we were able to share those times together. But I still feel troubled that I can't picture the hotel room in my mind, or remember the expressions on faces, or recall conversations at the end of each day where we reflected on what we had done. The sum total of possibly the best two weeks of my childhood is "that was a great holiday". That feels less than adequate, somehow.Benhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11965535693027179744noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7343304851084119990.post-55789606463731277332011-10-27T00:52:00.000-07:002011-10-27T01:59:52.154-07:00271011In a conversation with a friend the other day, I mentioned my upcoming birthday. He made one of those comments which younger people (he's more than ten years my junior) are sometimes given to, gently poking fun at the fact that I'll be moving further away from youth. It was something like 'enjoy your old man-ness', if I remember. No offence was intended, nor was any taken, our friendship long having reached that happy stage where we may merrily rip one another to shreds all in the name of a cheap gag. We both know that's there's virtually nothing one can say to the other that would cause upset.<br /><br />It got me thinking though. There does seem to be a perception amongst some younger people that older generations are, or should be, jealous of youth. Maybe there's some truth in that belief, but it's always seemed a strange idea to me. My reply was something along the lines of 'It's a fair system. We all get to be young. If we're lucky we get to be old too.' Of course there are advantages to being young. You are given more leeway - room to play, to experiment, and to make mistakes. There are fewer responsibilities for most. But those who are not young any more have already been young, and carry with them the wisdom and experience that brings, not to mention the joy and sense of fun they always had, even if for some it is exercised less often, or less extravagantly.<br /><br />I've never had the slightest pang of jealousy of someone based on their youth. Youth is to be celebrated and lived and enjoyed. There's nothing more beautiful than seeing human beings develop through the whole gamut of experiences offered by our society, and by life. If there's any less than positive thought that enters my head regarding young people it's fear. Fear that the opportunities previous generations had will no longer be there when they are older. Fear that the mistakes the human race has made, and continues to make, will make the road ahead less clear, more hazardous, and potentially even impassable. It's important that those who used to be young give those who still are the space to grow, the basis for some optimism for the future, and the resources to take up the mantle when the time comes. If that cycle were ever to be broken... well, it hardly bears thinking about.<br /><br />You may note that I categorise myself as neither young nor old. By most definitions, including statistical ones (in this country at least), I remain a youngster, at least for another couple of years, and certainly anyone who knows me well would describe me as childish. I've never yet been worried by a year being added to my age, nor a line to my brow, nor a pair of spectacles to my face. Unsightly nasal hair is another matter, but it's not such a hassle to remove it now and then. I'm not sure whether I was building up to a point here or not. I suppose I'm just saying that it's not youth that's precious, it's life. Whenever I list the things that excite me, interest me, make me feel most alive, I realise that hardly any of them require youth. That is one of my favourite, most comforting thoughts, actually.Benhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11965535693027179744noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7343304851084119990.post-53082411581245092182011-10-20T02:23:00.000-07:002011-10-20T02:39:50.866-07:00201011The day’s congregation was rocked<br />When a priest whose advances were blocked<br />Chased a boy from the choir<br />Halfway up the spire<br />And had to be quickly defrocked<br /><br />To my mind, that's the best limerick I ever wrote. But for some reason, nobody wants limericks about paedophile priests.Benhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11965535693027179744noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7343304851084119990.post-13714166121035334402011-10-14T02:10:00.000-07:002011-10-14T02:49:25.708-07:00141011I often think people take swivel chairs for granted these days. When I was a child, they seemed such exotic and grown-up items, and it was a real treat to be able to pilot one for just a few seconds. I was especially fascinated by the chairs which swivelled clockwise to raise the height of the seat, and anti-clockwise to lower it.<br /><br />At school, the teachers often had swivel chairs, whilst the pupils were forced to make do with those moulded plastic ones with holes in the back of the seat. At least they came in a range of pleasing autumnal hues, oranges, browns and a sort of dusky buttermilk.<br /><br />I would take every chance I got to leap into the teacher's chair and propel myself around by pushing against the ground with one or both feet, using the thing as a personal roundabout, trying to reach the highest possible speed before abruptly stopping and launching myself back in the opposite direction, in a misguided attempt to avoid dizziness.<br /><br />I have a rather nice swivel chair in my office at work, my energetic use of which has led to one or two funny looks from my colleagues. But what, I ask, is a swivel chair for, if not for swivelling?Benhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11965535693027179744noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7343304851084119990.post-5468713482043398562011-10-12T06:09:00.000-07:002011-10-12T07:08:16.799-07:00121011I'm going to start a new blog. And keep this one. From zero to two in a fortnight - quite remarkable!<br /><br />I thought about making it a series of posts on this blog, but after some inconsiderable thought, I've decided it probably belongs in its own space. The main reason to keep it separate is that I haven't made up my mind about how serious I am about believing the concepts the new blog will espouse. Another reason, the irony of which will become clear when I reveal the subject of the blog, is that I worry about what others might think of me. To mutilate a metaphor: I am an island, but I rely on certain supplies from the mainland.<br /><br />The new blog is entitled 'It's all in my head'.<br /><br />There is a theory that says all babies are solipsists; that it takes us as tiny humans a little while to work out that the people around us are separate beings with their own thoughts and experiences, rather than constituent parts of a private world generated subconsciously by the self.<br /><br />I'm not sure I ever grew out of this phase. On one level it's clearly a ridiculous belief system. But then in order to function properly and maintain some level of satisfaction with perceived experience, wouldn't solipsism have to seem ridiculous? And frankly, I haven't come across a belief system that isn't ridiculous. Many people make fun of Scientologists, but are their theories really any less plausible than those of any of the mainstream religions? Don't answer that.<br /><br />I've never quite been able to rule out the possibility that everything exists only in my perception, and lately I'm leaning slightly more in that direction than I have for a while. So I'll be exploring the implications of this over on the other blog. Let me know what you think. Not that I care of course - none of you exist.Benhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11965535693027179744noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7343304851084119990.post-58128611052663463412011-10-05T06:32:00.000-07:002011-10-12T06:09:00.187-07:00051011Here's an interesting mental exercise:<br /><br />Think of someone you love. A partner, or close family member. Picture them in an uncomfortable situation. A time when they were in a job they hated, or a situation when they felt out of their depth. Perhaps an occasion where they were humiliated or made a fool of themself. Don't you feel an overwhelming urge to rescue them? To hug them and take them away and make them feel safe? I know I do.<br /><br />Now picture yourself in a similar circumstance. What are your thoughts now?<br /><br />Mine are something along the lines of: "You IDIOT! How could you be so stupid? For pity's sake stand up for yourself!"<br /><br />Self-loathing? Being one's own harshest critic? Perfectly natural self-defence mechanism? I don't know.Benhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11965535693027179744noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7343304851084119990.post-18987733884965696222011-10-03T06:18:00.000-07:002011-10-27T02:05:53.530-07:00031011Not having a blog isn't working out, so I'm kind of back.<br /><br />I'm still not going to post very often, but there doesn't seem to be any harm in slapping in a paragraph or two when I do have something to say.<br /><br />And it's been an exciting few days. I've socialised twice in the last week, which is positively unheard of. Okay, I'll go to the pub once a week, maybe twice, but these were full-blown, special occasion-related nights out, and I really can't remember when I last did one of those. I should point out that they were, respectively, a retirement do and a wedding, so hardly scenes of outrageous debauchery, but given that my idea of a late night has become staying up for the end of Match of the Day on a Saturday night, two seven-hour sessions in a three night period ranks as something of a blowout. Honestly, my diet coke intake this week has been monumental.<br /><br />The retirement drinks took place across a number of pubs in town. There were more than 30 people in attendance at various points during the afternoon and evening, only a smattering of whom I know well enough to talk to. There was a time when integration with the unknowns within the group would not have been an option. I don't know whether I'm less shy nowadays, or have simply learned that I don't give a shit. There remains much awkwardness, but I seem more comfortable than I used to be with proceeding into the unknown. It helps that after a couple of hours everyone is drunk except me.<br /><br />To my pleasure and surprise, midway through the day I found myself having one of those conversations. You know the kind - you end up sitting next to someone with little option but to talk to them. Mutual friends have drifted home or off to another table, and you have no choice but to engage with the individual next to you. I say 'one of those' conversations, meaning one of those which seems natural and easy from the outset, despite initial unfamiliarity with the other participant. You seem to share interests, use the same kind of language, and, crucially, make one another laugh. There is some level of attraction. You're not sure whether it's physical or emotional. It doesn't matter, because it feels unusual and exotic and unfamiliar and, well, just plain great. I don't have these conversations very often. Perhaps I've only had five or six in my life. I'd forgotten how it felt. The only equivalent I can think of is the sort of crush you develop on a friend you admire at school. For only the second time in my life, the other participant in this conversation was female.<br /><br />This ties in rather nicely with the second night out of the week, since the previous female subject of 'one of those' conversations was the bride at the wedding I attended (for those who are new or have not been paying much attention, I wasn't the groom). I distinctly remember, since it was as unusual then as it is now, the speed at which we connected ten years ago. It briefly felt like some sort of romance, and it felt necessary for the first time to tell someone outright that I was gay, lest my eagerness to become friends be misconstrued. In fact I sometimes wonder if, were I perhaps 20% more heterosexual, I might have become her husband myself some day. Thankfully, I was always clear-thinking enough never to consider shoe-horning myself and others into a life that wouldn't fit.<br /><br />It was a great wedding: Medium-sized guest list, lots of good food, no speeches and a chocolate cake. The choice of song for the first dance was almost scarily like a tune I'd have chosen myself. I have no doubt that they will be jolly happy together for many years.<br /><br />I don't think I'll pursue the new friendship too far, although we have since exchanged e-mails. Our paths may cross again at work, but the truth is I don't really have a vacancy for a close friend right now. I'm settled, comfortable with my routine, and, by any conventional definition, happy.<br /><br />Hmmm.... didn't expect this post to go where it's ended up.Benhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11965535693027179744noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7343304851084119990.post-27932191669871319982011-07-27T01:30:00.000-07:002011-07-27T01:47:21.074-07:00270711So now, alas, 'tis time to go<br />I'm off to pastures new<br />And you will all miss me, I know<br />Much more than I'll miss you<br /><br /><br /><br />Just kidding. All the same, I'm done here. Take care of yourselves.Benhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11965535693027179744noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7343304851084119990.post-24523534656240314142011-02-25T05:33:00.000-08:002011-02-25T06:55:30.799-08:00250211Dr Foster went to Gloucester<br />In a shower of rain.<br />He stepped in a puddle<br />Right up to his middle<br />And never went there again.<br /><br />I went to Gloucester the other day. It's a pleasant enough city, on the right day, though by the look of the high street the recession has hit fairly hard. I've been to Gloucester a few times before, and it strikes me as one of those small to medium sized cities that doesn't quite know what to do with itself; a glorious but mothballed industrial and maritime past, no creative industry to speak of, a bit-part player in the financial services sector, a semi-successful rugby union team. Some academics have their doubts about the future viability of large cities like Liverpool, Sunderland and Newcastle, the industrial Northern powerhouses of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Even without such strong local identities in those places though, I'd argue that their sheer numbers of people give them a good chance of sustaining and developing in the coming decades. Smaller cities like Gloucester, on the other hand, always feel a little stagnant to me. <br /><br />Another indicator of a place where people have too much time on their hands and not enough money is Gloucester's crime rate - significantly above the national average pretty much across the board, and particularly when it comes to violent crime. Which brings me nicely to my subject.<br /><br />This most recent visit was to see a friend, who moved to Gloucester a few months ago, and who now happens to live in a rather infamous street. A street which nowadays lacks a house where Number 25 used to be. I hadn't put off my visit for that reason alone (I'm just a bad friend), but I do admit that as I headed up the M5 that evening, my happiness at seeing my friend was more than a little clouded by the knowledge of where I was going.<br /><br />Cromwell Street (for those who haven't worked it out), really does have an eerie presence. I believe the local council removed the street sign from the more commonly accessed end some years ago, in an attempt to deter those with a morbid fascination from paying a visit. The house itself was demolished, and replaced with a landscaped walkway to an adjoining road. I parked my car about ten yards away from this ex-house / walkway, a featureless, silent yet screamingly obvious memorial to horrors that are now more than thirty years old. What struck me most on stepping out of the car was the lack of street lighting. The street consists of several terraces, rounds a corner, and has odd and even numbers on opposite sides of the road, so I imagine it's difficult to get your bearings even in daylight, but I found myself walking up a number of garden paths because it was so dark I couldn't see the house numbers from the street. This undoubtedly made me look suspicious, and whilst there weren't many other people around, I started to feel quite uneasy, and increasingly anxious to get in off the street. The brief eye contact I shared with a couple of other passers-by was unmistakably tinged with nervousness, hostility and even a trace of panic.<br /><br />After a couple of zig-zags up and down the road, I found the right house, and spent a pleasant couple of hours with my friend. Fred and Rose didn't come up in our conversation, funnily enough.Benhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11965535693027179744noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7343304851084119990.post-29325097739913733452011-02-18T06:58:00.000-08:002011-02-18T08:09:38.637-08:0018/02/11Simultaneous - Unfinished<br /><br />This me and that me<br />Are one and the same<br />An easy, serene contradiction<br />This scheming and dreaming<br />Is not just a game<br />And fact isn't stranger than fiction<br /><br />The bright little screen<br />Brings a world of deceit<br />All huddled in feathers and flowers<br />A chance never wasted<br />The world at my feet<br />At least for a couple of hours<br /><br />The callously casual<br />The lovingly cruel<br />Alarmingly woven in one<br />Successful diversion<br />But who is the fool?<br />And at what expense is the fun?<br /><br />I can't trace it back<br />To a single route cause<br />Leading that me and this me to merge<br />Abandoning values<br />Creating new laws<br />Letting reason be governed by urgeBenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11965535693027179744noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7343304851084119990.post-19870049443815534432011-02-04T02:59:00.000-08:002011-02-04T04:41:51.180-08:00040211Does continuing to search for something even though you don't know what it is and are pretty sure it doesn't even exist:<br /><br />A. Mean that you are a dreaming fool, detached from reality and destined never to amount to anything?<br /><br />B. Pass the time, distract from the mundanity and help you to cope with ennui?<br /><br />C. Merely demonstrate that, in spite of everything, you have managed to preserve a core of innocence and optimism?Benhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11965535693027179744noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7343304851084119990.post-8146583669344960712010-12-01T06:59:00.000-08:002010-12-01T08:12:13.616-08:00011210Earlier in the year I was selected for jury service, something I'd always wanted to do. I have a passing (perhaps passed) interest in the criminal justice system, or at least crime, so the opportunity to become involved in some small way was one I looked forward to. And not just because my employer was obliged to give me two weeks paid leave to attend. I think enough time has now elapsed for me to talk fairly non-specifically about my experience as a first-time juror, back in the summer.<br /><br />Having been told where and when to report, I arrived at the appointed time and place, bringing with me the requested identification, some lunch, and a book. The jurors' suite at the crown court was a secure area, equipped with plenty of comfy seats, a small restaurant, quiet space for work, and cloak rooms. I and the other assmbled new jurors were given some instructions and watched an introductory film. It was explained that there were a number of courtrooms, each with their own programme of trials, sentencing and other business. The clerk explained that business at court moved at its own pace, and that there would be lots of sitting around doing nothing as a result. My kind of gig!<br /><br />Towards the end of a long, uneventful day, after several juries had already been selected for other courtrooms, my name was on the next list to be read out. Fifteen of us filed upstairs to the courtroom, and mine was amongst the twelve names to be selected at random for the trial. The 'spare' three jurors were sent back downstairs. It was late in the day, so after we were each sworn in (no Bible for me thanks), there was only time enough for the Judge to explain the nature of the trial before we were dismissed for the day. It was a pretty serious offence - kind of a reckless endangerment thing with a resulting manslaughter charge. It was thought the trial would last for most of the two-week period of jury service. Wandering back to the waiting area to collect our things, it was obvious that some were not at all looking forward to hearing the details of the case, whilst others couldn't wait to find out more.<br /><br />Day two began in confusion. One of the selected jurors had declared some kind of vague familial link to the defending barrister, and after discussion the judge had decided to dismiss the entire jury and select a new one. Since most other 'spare' people had by now been selected for other juries, it was a very similar group of fifteen people who again ascended the stairs to the courtroom to be selected. As the names were read out by the clerk, my chance of sitting on this jury diminished. With each passing name that wasn't mine, a sense of disappointment grew. I had had the best part of a day to get used to being on this relatively high profile jury and didn't want to be excluded from it now. Nine names became ten; ten became eleven; then, with just a 25% chance of becoming the final juror, my luck turned. Ignoring the temptation to punch the air and trying hard not to smile, I answered "Yes" to my name and took my seat amongst the Mark II jury.<br /><br />My luck had more than turned, it turned out, as the new order of selection meant that I would be sitting next to a striking young gentleman who had caught my eye the previous day. He had worn a suit for day one, but had begun a trend of wearing fewer clothes by the day, as the weather became hotter, and it became obvious that jurors tended to wear whatever the hell they liked. He had a youthful yet chiseled look about him, with dark hair which was slightly messy in a conventional sort of way, and he wore glasses. Now that the suit had been dispensed with, it was possible to make out the contours of a frame which had obviously been fashioned through many hours in some gymnasium or other. Even through the dullest parts of the trial, it seemed I was destined never to be bored.<br /><br />I will not go into the circumstances of the case in any more detail than I already have. Suffice it to say, someone had died, and it was alleged that the accused was responsible. The individuals involved in the case had, it seemed, led fairly chaotic lives, having had all sorts of minor skirmishes with the law in the past, often associated with alcohol or drugs. The testimony we heard from the accused, and indeed from some of the key witnesses, was at times muddled, hard to follow, full of inconsistencies and, one suspected, exaggerations. Yet there were certain irrefutible facts and pieces of evidence to help us.<br /><br />The jurors were allowed to discuss the case amongst themselves outside the courtroom, and we began to congregate in a quiet corner during lunchtimes and other breaks to share our thoughts. Opinion was varied, and tended to swing from day to day based on what we had heard most recently. The consensus seemed to be that we would only bring clarity to our collective thoughts when given the opportunity to retire to consider our verdict. Some made extensive notes throughout, others hardly any. My bench-mate started to wear shorts and t-shirts, leaving less to my imagination as the trial progressed. His arms and legs really were very pleasant viewing indeed.<br /><br />Defence followed prosecution. On the penultimate day, the judge gave his summation. We jurors had expected this to bring some measure of clarity and direction to the days of evidence we had just heard. Sadly, we literally received a summary of the facts - not particularly helpful save for one or two points of law.<br /><br />And so to the deliberation room. Half a day (in our case) of talking through what we had seen and heard. Thankfully there was early agreement that most of what we had heard in the way of background had little bearing on the facts of the case. We asked to review certain pieces of evidence, and, having satisfied ourselves beyond that famed reasonable doubt, came to an agreement - a unanimous verdict of guilty. The defendant was sentenced some time later to quite a number of years in prison.<br /><br />Maybe I'm a natural cynic, or maybe I was on a better than average jury, but the whole experience far exceeded my expectations. Each individual on the jury was fully involved in the deliberative process, and each brought something to it. So far as I could see there was no prejudice, no complacency, and no lack of humanity in the way our verdict was reached. Whilst the verdict did not go the defendant's way, I believe him fortunate to have come before the group of people he did. I don't know whether trial by jury always works, but I have seen firsthand that it can work very well.<br /><br />Most of the jury, myself included, shared a couple of drinks together in a local bar after the final day of the trial. Some of them exchanged telephone numbers and facebook details, and as far as I know are still in touch with one another. I however, returned to my normal life and never contacted any of them ever again.<br /><br />The end.Benhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11965535693027179744noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7343304851084119990.post-37333044739551035822010-11-25T04:53:00.000-08:002010-11-25T05:31:28.171-08:00251110It was late. Somewhere, an owl hooted....<br /><br />Funny how groups of words stick in your head, isn't it? Those couple of sentences are (I think) taken from an episode of 'I'm Sorry I'll Read That Again', of which I had some BBC Audio tapes when I was little-ish. They appeared somewhere within a sketch as the deliberately cringesome opening lines of a not-very-scary (but supposed to be scary) story. Even now they make me smile. You had to be there, I guess.<br /><br />'I'm Sorry I'll Read That Again' (ISIRTA) was a BBC radio comedy which ran from the mid-60's through to the early 70's, featuring Tim Brooke-Taylor, John Cleese, David Hatch, Bill Oddie, Graeme Garden and Jo Kendall. This all took place a fair chunk of time before I came along, but I had a Monty Python phase around the age of 10-12, and the presence of Cleese in the cast probably caught my attention when looking to offload my pocket money one weekend in a local independent music and record store. (Would you believe it's still there?! Established 1848 and still going strong. Visit if you ever come to Bath: www.ducksonandpinker.co.uk)<br /><br />As such, the show was one of several fore-runners to Flying Circus. As well as Cleese, Graham Chapman and Eric Idle were regular script contributors. But of course the most obvious product of 'ISIRTA' was The Goodies, the TV sketch show starring Brooke-Taylor, Oddie and Garden. The Goodies never caught my imagination in the same way as Monty Python, but anyone who only knows Bill Oddie as an annoying and slightly unhinged twitcher should listen to his early radio efforts. Some of the topical and/or absurd songs he wrote and performed more than 40 years ago actually stand the test of time rather well.<br /><br />The spin-off of 'ISIRTA', 'I'm Sorry I Haven't a Clue', began in 1972 and remains a popular favourite on Radio 4. I haven't paid it much attention for years. But I still remember every word of 'The Angus Prune Tune' - the theme tune of it's parent, which ended three years before I was born.Benhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11965535693027179744noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7343304851084119990.post-59999699639643005092010-11-24T07:37:00.000-08:002010-11-24T07:43:29.763-08:00241110One of my favourite pictures of me. Upside down.<br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_cm-z1STUzH0/TO0xnKJR6gI/AAAAAAAAAAM/ka4N0yuoYeQ/s1600/DSC00108.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: undefinedpx; height: undefinedpx;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_cm-z1STUzH0/TO0xnKJR6gI/AAAAAAAAAAM/ka4N0yuoYeQ/s320/DSC00108.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5543141265170885122" /></a>Benhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11965535693027179744noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7343304851084119990.post-32435842464335208912010-11-15T07:11:00.000-08:002010-11-15T08:18:17.109-08:00151110I was six years old. The walk to school from the house which remains my parents' home is half a mile at most, but in those days it seemed far longer. First came the short walk along the front of the terrace where we lived. Then around the corner to the busy main road, which had to be negotiated with the assistance of a pedestrian crossing. My parents always warned me then, just as I warn them now, that some drivers are too sleepy, or too distracted, or too stupid, to take heed of the red light. All too often one lane of traffic would obey, only for a vehicle to hurtle past on the outside. It was, and is, a dangerous road.<br /><br />That day, as we rounded the corner, the road was uniquely, eerily quiet. The memory tends to exaggerate, but I don't recall a single car, van, lorry or motorcycle passing us as we walked to the crossing. It was one of the few occasions we were able to cross the road without the aid of the little green man. We continued away from the road and made our way up to the school via the village square.<br /><br />The next day we discovered that one of my classmates, a girl who had recently moved to the area with her mother, had been hit and killed by a lorry, not two hundred yards up the road. She and her mother had been walking along the pavement, at the bottom of a hill. The lorry's brakes had failed. The girl, her mother and the lorry left the road, smashing through a wall, down a short but steep drop into a shallow stream below. It must have happened moments before my mother and I emerged into silence a little further along the road.<br /><br />Amazingly, the girl's mother survived. After a long rehabilitation, she left the area, without the daughter who had arrived with her some months before. The wall by the side of the road was soon rebuilt, and for a few years the patch of clean bricks set against their dirty, eroded neighbours made for a silent memorial to a little girl who died suddenly, violently, in a strange place. More than a quarter of a century later those bricks can barely be discerned as any newer than the rest. There is no plaque, no bench, no tree.<br /><br />I've been to many funerals. I've visited people in hospitals and nursing homes when they and I have both known we would never see one another again; when it's been obvious that they would not last another night; when they have taken on that grey hollowness that indicates that no matter how much they might want to carry on living, their body has given up. Yet I don't think I have ever felt closer to death than I did that morning in 1983.Benhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11965535693027179744noreply@blogger.com0