I 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).
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?
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”.
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.
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’ ™.
Despite dismantling and restructuring this post more than once (okay, twice), it still flows not. Fairly apt, I suppose.
Showing posts with label The Important Stuff. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Important Stuff. Show all posts
Monday, 20 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.
Thursday, 27 October 2011
271011
In 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Wednesday, 12 October 2011
121011
I'm going to start a new blog. And keep this one. From zero to two in a fortnight - quite remarkable!
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.
The new blog is entitled 'It's all in my head'.
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.
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.
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.
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.
The new blog is entitled 'It's all in my head'.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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, 7 September 2010
070910
Dear Football,
Well, we both knew this day would come, though I guess we hoped it wouldn't be as soon as this. Any relationship as strong, passionate, intense and lasting as ours is difficult to put aside, but as you know this decision has been taken out of my hands. We've spent literally thousands of hours together over twenty-five years or so - from at the time seemingly epic lunchtime matches in the playground, to a summer kickabout at the meadows, to bad-tempered indoor five-a-side sessions, to glorious league deciders on windy April mornings and cup finals on pleasant May evenings. In all your various forms, from first to last, I have loved you.
More than anything, I'll remember those countless happy Saturday afternoons. Rushing to the ground, with that pleasant twinge of nervousness in my stomach. Relishing the opportunity to renew old rivalries, start some new ones, and strive with my team mates to overcome all sorts of ridiculous obstacles: horrible weather, appallingly indisciplined opponents, a dreadful pitch, an ageing and sensory-impaired match official (or three). Into the changing room with the rickety benches. Valuables into a communal bag lest they be stolen, and out onto the pitch for a cursory warm-up. Glances to the car park for late arrivals. Eventually they pull in, and miraculously we have time for a brief team talk. The first half is a blur, over almost as soon as it begins. Oranges at half time, another team talk, and back onto the playing surface. Forty-five more minutes of exertion. The whistle blows. Back to the changing rooms. More discussion, which continues in the bar afterwards. No small amount of piss-taking. Couple of drinks. Packet of crisps, maybe a mars bar, occasionally a roll. Time to go. See you next week.
Yet within the routine, there was so much uniqueness. So much beautiful detail. No two matches were ever the same. You never lost that capacity to surprise me. I was constantly captivated by your frenetic unpredictability and your sheer energy. When I was with you nothing else mattered. Nothing else even entered my mind when we were together. It was just you and me. And twenty-one others. It was an addiction of sorts, I suppose, only one without the nasty side-effects.
From the early days as a tricky (if not quite flying) winger, darting past hapless full-backs to supply the front men, occasionally cutting inside to unleash a shot of my own. To the years patrolling the midfield. Tackles, passes, headers, up and down the pitch for ninety minutes. Finally the central defensive period. Battles with enormous or pacy strikers. Frequent facial injuries. Goal line clearances. Raking long passes. Baying instructions to team mates.
And then there were the goals - oh the goals! That Division Three match playing for the reserves when I went past five players before lifting the ball over the advancing keeper. The free-kick from the halfway line. The curling volley into the top corner. The towering headers. The thirty-five yard strike that soared with radio-controlled accuracy into the very top corner of the goal. The left-footed half-volley from similar distance that smashed against the bar, down onto the back of the goalie's hopelessly late-dive, and into the net. Hell, even that bundled effort with my stomach from a yard. Such a feeling of triumph, of elation, of release, and of the purest, sweetest joy.
I also look back on the more unsavoury moments with fondness, and even amusement. When I called that bloke a cock because he charged me in the back and the referee threatened to send me off unless I apologised. The cut nose I sustained from a punch in the face in a 7-3 victory in which I scored two penalties. That time I cut my eye whilst challenging for a header, only to meet with a flurry of punches from the guy I had collided with. The massive right hook to the chin I took whilst running innocently along in one game. Being slapped after kicking someone accidentally in the indoor five-a-side league. Being told in the early stages of an away match in the county cup "You're a long way from home, mate".
Then the downright ridiculous. Drawing 1-1 in a cup game with only seven players with one of my chaotic Sunday teams, then losing the replay a week later, again with seven players, 14-1. Losing my first ever organised match as a ten-year-old, 20-0. Playing in winds so strong that the ball would blow back towards you and over your head after you'd tried to clear it. Getting changed in car parks, barns, fields. Being too shy to use communal showers. Getting cramp whilst driving a thirty-mile return journey after a match.
I cling to my memories of every incident like precious newspaper clippings and photographs of old friends and beloved family members. Right now there is a virtually limitless supply of recollections, anecdotes and mental pictures, but it saddens me that as time goes on I may not be able to preserve them all. It devastates me that there will be no more opportunities for us to create new ones together.
So many places. So many people. Soaring highs, crushing lows. Anguish, regret, happiness, disappointment, determination, disbelief, injustice, camaraderie, laughs, anger, torment, pain, release, joy, always joy. Thousands of shots, thousands of tackles, thousands of headers, thousands of passes, hundreds of goals. Fleeting moments of absolute perfection. About a dozen bookings - all but two or three for sarcastic comments to referees. No sendings off. Not even close. Why would I want to miss one second of one match?
You are perhaps the one true love of my life. Sure, you took a great deal, but you gave me everything. I am more grateful than I could possibly express. Thank you so much. Just between you and me, I'm not sure I'm going to be able to manage without you.
The mitre ultimax-shaped hole in my life may never be filled.
Love always,
Ben.
Well, we both knew this day would come, though I guess we hoped it wouldn't be as soon as this. Any relationship as strong, passionate, intense and lasting as ours is difficult to put aside, but as you know this decision has been taken out of my hands. We've spent literally thousands of hours together over twenty-five years or so - from at the time seemingly epic lunchtime matches in the playground, to a summer kickabout at the meadows, to bad-tempered indoor five-a-side sessions, to glorious league deciders on windy April mornings and cup finals on pleasant May evenings. In all your various forms, from first to last, I have loved you.
More than anything, I'll remember those countless happy Saturday afternoons. Rushing to the ground, with that pleasant twinge of nervousness in my stomach. Relishing the opportunity to renew old rivalries, start some new ones, and strive with my team mates to overcome all sorts of ridiculous obstacles: horrible weather, appallingly indisciplined opponents, a dreadful pitch, an ageing and sensory-impaired match official (or three). Into the changing room with the rickety benches. Valuables into a communal bag lest they be stolen, and out onto the pitch for a cursory warm-up. Glances to the car park for late arrivals. Eventually they pull in, and miraculously we have time for a brief team talk. The first half is a blur, over almost as soon as it begins. Oranges at half time, another team talk, and back onto the playing surface. Forty-five more minutes of exertion. The whistle blows. Back to the changing rooms. More discussion, which continues in the bar afterwards. No small amount of piss-taking. Couple of drinks. Packet of crisps, maybe a mars bar, occasionally a roll. Time to go. See you next week.
Yet within the routine, there was so much uniqueness. So much beautiful detail. No two matches were ever the same. You never lost that capacity to surprise me. I was constantly captivated by your frenetic unpredictability and your sheer energy. When I was with you nothing else mattered. Nothing else even entered my mind when we were together. It was just you and me. And twenty-one others. It was an addiction of sorts, I suppose, only one without the nasty side-effects.
From the early days as a tricky (if not quite flying) winger, darting past hapless full-backs to supply the front men, occasionally cutting inside to unleash a shot of my own. To the years patrolling the midfield. Tackles, passes, headers, up and down the pitch for ninety minutes. Finally the central defensive period. Battles with enormous or pacy strikers. Frequent facial injuries. Goal line clearances. Raking long passes. Baying instructions to team mates.
And then there were the goals - oh the goals! That Division Three match playing for the reserves when I went past five players before lifting the ball over the advancing keeper. The free-kick from the halfway line. The curling volley into the top corner. The towering headers. The thirty-five yard strike that soared with radio-controlled accuracy into the very top corner of the goal. The left-footed half-volley from similar distance that smashed against the bar, down onto the back of the goalie's hopelessly late-dive, and into the net. Hell, even that bundled effort with my stomach from a yard. Such a feeling of triumph, of elation, of release, and of the purest, sweetest joy.
I also look back on the more unsavoury moments with fondness, and even amusement. When I called that bloke a cock because he charged me in the back and the referee threatened to send me off unless I apologised. The cut nose I sustained from a punch in the face in a 7-3 victory in which I scored two penalties. That time I cut my eye whilst challenging for a header, only to meet with a flurry of punches from the guy I had collided with. The massive right hook to the chin I took whilst running innocently along in one game. Being slapped after kicking someone accidentally in the indoor five-a-side league. Being told in the early stages of an away match in the county cup "You're a long way from home, mate".
Then the downright ridiculous. Drawing 1-1 in a cup game with only seven players with one of my chaotic Sunday teams, then losing the replay a week later, again with seven players, 14-1. Losing my first ever organised match as a ten-year-old, 20-0. Playing in winds so strong that the ball would blow back towards you and over your head after you'd tried to clear it. Getting changed in car parks, barns, fields. Being too shy to use communal showers. Getting cramp whilst driving a thirty-mile return journey after a match.
I cling to my memories of every incident like precious newspaper clippings and photographs of old friends and beloved family members. Right now there is a virtually limitless supply of recollections, anecdotes and mental pictures, but it saddens me that as time goes on I may not be able to preserve them all. It devastates me that there will be no more opportunities for us to create new ones together.
So many places. So many people. Soaring highs, crushing lows. Anguish, regret, happiness, disappointment, determination, disbelief, injustice, camaraderie, laughs, anger, torment, pain, release, joy, always joy. Thousands of shots, thousands of tackles, thousands of headers, thousands of passes, hundreds of goals. Fleeting moments of absolute perfection. About a dozen bookings - all but two or three for sarcastic comments to referees. No sendings off. Not even close. Why would I want to miss one second of one match?
You are perhaps the one true love of my life. Sure, you took a great deal, but you gave me everything. I am more grateful than I could possibly express. Thank you so much. Just between you and me, I'm not sure I'm going to be able to manage without you.
The mitre ultimax-shaped hole in my life may never be filled.
Love always,
Ben.
Tuesday, 17 August 2010
170810
Considering that this is essentially a private space, it's remarkable how difficult I've found it to be truly honest in what I write here. Anyone who knows me through this site doesn't know me in real life. Everyone who knows me in real life doesn't know about this site, apart from one, and I'm hardly in contact with him at all these days, even though he's right up there on my list of favourite people.
So what's the point of having a secret space if I never reveal any secrets? I guess I'm a little ashamed of certain things, and don't wish to share them with strangers. I may allude to them, but I doubt I could ever openly discuss them, even in writing. Perhaps shutting them out makes them less real, and renders my questioning of my own decency invalid. A form of denial, if you will.
Suffice it to say that I have, err, erred. But I know I have it in me to rediscover the right path. Sorry - religious imagery not good. What I mean to say is that I intend to make certain modifications in my behaviour from here on in. I'll let you know how it goes, in a very vague and non-specific way of course.
So what's the point of having a secret space if I never reveal any secrets? I guess I'm a little ashamed of certain things, and don't wish to share them with strangers. I may allude to them, but I doubt I could ever openly discuss them, even in writing. Perhaps shutting them out makes them less real, and renders my questioning of my own decency invalid. A form of denial, if you will.
Suffice it to say that I have, err, erred. But I know I have it in me to rediscover the right path. Sorry - religious imagery not good. What I mean to say is that I intend to make certain modifications in my behaviour from here on in. I'll let you know how it goes, in a very vague and non-specific way of course.
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