Happy 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.
http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/magazine-17101768
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.
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.
Showing posts with label Nostalgia. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Nostalgia. Show all posts
Wednesday, 29 February 2012
Wednesday, 16 November 2011
161111
Now 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Friday, 14 October 2011
141011
I 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.
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.
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.
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?
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.
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.
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?
Monday, 3 October 2011
031011
Not having a blog isn't working out, so I'm kind of back.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Hmmm.... didn't expect this post to go where it's ended up.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Hmmm.... didn't expect this post to go where it's ended up.
Wednesday, 1 December 2010
011210
Earlier 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.
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!
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
The end.
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!
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
The end.
Thursday, 25 November 2010
251110
It was late. Somewhere, an owl hooted....
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.
'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)
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.
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.
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.
'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)
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.
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.
Wednesday, 24 November 2010
Monday, 15 November 2010
151110
I 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Thursday, 4 November 2010
041110
'Live for the moment'. Interesting concept, isn't it?
I know it's basically meant to mean you should take every opportunity you have to experience and enjoy whatever life throws at you. Squeeze every last drop from every last moment, because it might be your only chance. Taken to extremes, this maxim advocates the abandonment of consideration for both the past, and the future. There's obviously room for interpretation though, and the extent to which we remember and learn from past experiences is up to us. Likewise, most people would think it wise to remain cognisant of any implications our actions today, may have on tomorrow.
Nonetheless, living in the moment is something I've always practised, it seems to me, more literally than most. As a child I would always put off chores or schoolwork until the last possible day, even the last possible moment, favouring instead a walk, the TV, or that game I invented which involved trying to fling those little sachets of soy sauce or ketchup you get in Pot Noodles, into the small oval-shaped opening in an empty tissue box positioned against a door on the other side of the room. The thought that I was better than anyone in the world at propelling a 5x4cm condiment-filled plastic envelope with devastating accuracy some ten feet across my bedroom, seemed vastly more important than anything Mr Whatsisname might have set me for homework.
I'd still do the homework, most of the time at least. Getting into trouble was drawing unnecessary attention to oneself. There was the occasional calcuated gamble that a deadline would be extended that didn't pay off, but I could always talk my way around any punishment. I had one detention during my entire school career, and that was for the ridiculous misdemeanour of forgetting to bring in my Bible one day. No, the homework would get done. But it would be rushed, and vastly inferior to that of which I was capable. None of which mattered to me. I limited the amount I did to the bare minimum which was permissable, boxes were ticked, the years passed.
This wasn't laziness, you understand. It wasn't the mere rebellion of a young boy who thinks he knows better. I could see the viewpoint of my teachers, of my parents. Good education = good job = successful life = happiness. It was just that I never agreed with any of it. Can't remember a time when I did. I don't remember any kind of epiphany or realisation that it was all bullshit. I just always knew that it was. People lived for a while, then they died. What happened in between was really neither here nor there. Just get from one end of the piece of the string to the other without encountering too much resistence. That was my philosophy as a five-year-old just as much as it is now.
On occasion, I recall chuckling to myself at the huge amount of work I was going to have fit in next week in just a single evening as a result of my indifference, as if that person who would be struggling to do the work next week was someone other than myself. When the time finally came to do the work, neither would I curse my selfish, work-shy, good-for-nothing self of a week ago for making hay while the sun shone, at my expense. He was my kind of guy, you see. If anything I admired his devil-may-care attitude.
Using the sauce sachet and tissue box game as an example, the fact is that I have always taken a perverse pleasure in spending disproportionate amounts of time on obscure tasks I know full well to be completely pointless. It's my own little way of thumbing my nose at a life which, if I am honest, I believe to be pointless in its entirety. I can't identify with people who work hard, who pursue ambitions, who set goals and spend months, years and even lifetimes in their quest for some perceived state of perfection. So long as there is nothing wrong NOW, at this very point in time, I'm satisfied. Even if there is something ominous on the horizon, even if it is around the corner, so long as it is not HERE, NOW, I remain serenely unaffected.
Often, the ominous will recede, or turn out not to be so bad after all. On the rare occasions that something that looks bad turns out to be every bit as bad, or even worse, I either pedal like hell to remove myself from the situation, to find as direct and trouble-free a route as possible to my default position as a bemused and uninterested spectator-cum-semi-participant in the world; or I carry on regardless, oblivious to any threat.
Here's an example for you. A few years back, they found a growth on one of my mother's kidneys. They had become intertwined in such a way that the only thing to do was remove them both. That's a reasonably major surgical procedure, all with the spectre of cancer hanging over her at the same time. She is not a healthy woman - overweight, a heavy smoker who gets next to no exercise - not high on the list of suitable candidates for organ removal. It was not a pleasant time for my mother, or any of my family. Except for me. It slightly embarrasses me even now, but my behaviour did not deviate in the slightest, not for a single moment, from what could be described as normal for me. Not from the point of diagnosis, right through her admission to hospital, the procedure itself, and the recovery period thereafter. I wasn't sad or worried for a single moment. I love my mother a great deal. We have always been close, and even now speak every day. I will be upset when that time does come, and will miss her very much. But the me who's going to have to deal with that isn't the me of today. As it happens, I think my consistency and apparent stoicism was actually a source of comfort to her back then. But I wasn't putting on a front. I wasn't concealing inner turmoil, and fighting back the urge to shower her with sympathy and affection lest it be the last chance I got. I had no such urge.
This isn't a coping mechanism. It may have been a subconscious decision at first, but for a long time I've been very well aware that now is all that matters to me. It seems illogical to me to react to something before it takes place. Not only because it might not happen, but also, and more importantly, because allowing the possibility of something bad in the future to pollute a perfectly harmless and agreeable now, would be a crime, pure and simple. Now is all that we have, and the purity of now is fundamental to any happiness we might be able to achieve. If I feel strongly about anything (and I don't), then it's that.
More evenings than not, upon going to bed, one of my final thoughts before sleep is something along the lines of "Right here, right now, there is only me. It is dark. I am warm and safe. Nothing matters." That comforts me like nothing else.
I know it's basically meant to mean you should take every opportunity you have to experience and enjoy whatever life throws at you. Squeeze every last drop from every last moment, because it might be your only chance. Taken to extremes, this maxim advocates the abandonment of consideration for both the past, and the future. There's obviously room for interpretation though, and the extent to which we remember and learn from past experiences is up to us. Likewise, most people would think it wise to remain cognisant of any implications our actions today, may have on tomorrow.
Nonetheless, living in the moment is something I've always practised, it seems to me, more literally than most. As a child I would always put off chores or schoolwork until the last possible day, even the last possible moment, favouring instead a walk, the TV, or that game I invented which involved trying to fling those little sachets of soy sauce or ketchup you get in Pot Noodles, into the small oval-shaped opening in an empty tissue box positioned against a door on the other side of the room. The thought that I was better than anyone in the world at propelling a 5x4cm condiment-filled plastic envelope with devastating accuracy some ten feet across my bedroom, seemed vastly more important than anything Mr Whatsisname might have set me for homework.
I'd still do the homework, most of the time at least. Getting into trouble was drawing unnecessary attention to oneself. There was the occasional calcuated gamble that a deadline would be extended that didn't pay off, but I could always talk my way around any punishment. I had one detention during my entire school career, and that was for the ridiculous misdemeanour of forgetting to bring in my Bible one day. No, the homework would get done. But it would be rushed, and vastly inferior to that of which I was capable. None of which mattered to me. I limited the amount I did to the bare minimum which was permissable, boxes were ticked, the years passed.
This wasn't laziness, you understand. It wasn't the mere rebellion of a young boy who thinks he knows better. I could see the viewpoint of my teachers, of my parents. Good education = good job = successful life = happiness. It was just that I never agreed with any of it. Can't remember a time when I did. I don't remember any kind of epiphany or realisation that it was all bullshit. I just always knew that it was. People lived for a while, then they died. What happened in between was really neither here nor there. Just get from one end of the piece of the string to the other without encountering too much resistence. That was my philosophy as a five-year-old just as much as it is now.
On occasion, I recall chuckling to myself at the huge amount of work I was going to have fit in next week in just a single evening as a result of my indifference, as if that person who would be struggling to do the work next week was someone other than myself. When the time finally came to do the work, neither would I curse my selfish, work-shy, good-for-nothing self of a week ago for making hay while the sun shone, at my expense. He was my kind of guy, you see. If anything I admired his devil-may-care attitude.
Using the sauce sachet and tissue box game as an example, the fact is that I have always taken a perverse pleasure in spending disproportionate amounts of time on obscure tasks I know full well to be completely pointless. It's my own little way of thumbing my nose at a life which, if I am honest, I believe to be pointless in its entirety. I can't identify with people who work hard, who pursue ambitions, who set goals and spend months, years and even lifetimes in their quest for some perceived state of perfection. So long as there is nothing wrong NOW, at this very point in time, I'm satisfied. Even if there is something ominous on the horizon, even if it is around the corner, so long as it is not HERE, NOW, I remain serenely unaffected.
Often, the ominous will recede, or turn out not to be so bad after all. On the rare occasions that something that looks bad turns out to be every bit as bad, or even worse, I either pedal like hell to remove myself from the situation, to find as direct and trouble-free a route as possible to my default position as a bemused and uninterested spectator-cum-semi-participant in the world; or I carry on regardless, oblivious to any threat.
Here's an example for you. A few years back, they found a growth on one of my mother's kidneys. They had become intertwined in such a way that the only thing to do was remove them both. That's a reasonably major surgical procedure, all with the spectre of cancer hanging over her at the same time. She is not a healthy woman - overweight, a heavy smoker who gets next to no exercise - not high on the list of suitable candidates for organ removal. It was not a pleasant time for my mother, or any of my family. Except for me. It slightly embarrasses me even now, but my behaviour did not deviate in the slightest, not for a single moment, from what could be described as normal for me. Not from the point of diagnosis, right through her admission to hospital, the procedure itself, and the recovery period thereafter. I wasn't sad or worried for a single moment. I love my mother a great deal. We have always been close, and even now speak every day. I will be upset when that time does come, and will miss her very much. But the me who's going to have to deal with that isn't the me of today. As it happens, I think my consistency and apparent stoicism was actually a source of comfort to her back then. But I wasn't putting on a front. I wasn't concealing inner turmoil, and fighting back the urge to shower her with sympathy and affection lest it be the last chance I got. I had no such urge.
This isn't a coping mechanism. It may have been a subconscious decision at first, but for a long time I've been very well aware that now is all that matters to me. It seems illogical to me to react to something before it takes place. Not only because it might not happen, but also, and more importantly, because allowing the possibility of something bad in the future to pollute a perfectly harmless and agreeable now, would be a crime, pure and simple. Now is all that we have, and the purity of now is fundamental to any happiness we might be able to achieve. If I feel strongly about anything (and I don't), then it's that.
More evenings than not, upon going to bed, one of my final thoughts before sleep is something along the lines of "Right here, right now, there is only me. It is dark. I am warm and safe. Nothing matters." That comforts me like nothing else.
Tuesday, 27 July 2010
270710
There was a time, in a previous incarnation of this space, when I would go to the trouble of writing a full review of each film I saw at the cinema. In order to rate the experience as a whole, I would rate the venue as well as the film - right down to the quality of the drinks and snacks and the well-behavedness of the audience. I would even rate the company, assuming I hadn't seen the film alone.
That time has passed. Inception: 7/10. See it, if you're good at suspending disbelief and skirting around gaping plot holes. Some people will tell you it's complicated. Not true - I think you'd have to be pretty stupid not to follow what's going on. I hope I haven't just insulted someone.
I did slightly prefer Shutter Island, if we're on the subject of Di Caprio. Which we aren't. Now that we are though, he's not ageing so well. Considering I've never taken much interest in (now not so) young Leo's career, it suddenly strikes me that I've seen a remarkably high proportion of his films, and enjoyed most of them. The guy's got an eye for a script, I guess.
That time has passed. Inception: 7/10. See it, if you're good at suspending disbelief and skirting around gaping plot holes. Some people will tell you it's complicated. Not true - I think you'd have to be pretty stupid not to follow what's going on. I hope I haven't just insulted someone.
I did slightly prefer Shutter Island, if we're on the subject of Di Caprio. Which we aren't. Now that we are though, he's not ageing so well. Considering I've never taken much interest in (now not so) young Leo's career, it suddenly strikes me that I've seen a remarkably high proportion of his films, and enjoyed most of them. The guy's got an eye for a script, I guess.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)