Happy New Year

So that’s it for 2011, then - we’re about to close the books.  Even though 31 December/1 January is an entirely arbitrary date, it’s as good a point as any to sit back and reflect on the past twelve months and perhaps make some plans for the next twelve.  I’ve spoken enough about my plans for 2012; I’m just busy working on them and trying to overcome the obstacles (mental and physical) between me and it.  But there are one or two things I’d like to say about 2011 before we leave it behind for good.

The quiet work situation, among other things, mean that I had a lot of time on my own and when I’m on my own I tend to think way too much! Apart from the Laceys, who have done more for me than they could possibly know and for which I cannot possibly repay them, two things kept me sane (just about) in 2011:

The gym

I may complain about going down there but once I’m there, I love it.  There’s something about it that is very soothing.  In fact, there have been times when, if it wasn’t for the gym, I wouldn’t have needed to leave the house for weeks on end.  I tweeted recently that I have often regretted not going to the gym but I’ve never once regretted going.  No matter how bad I felt beforehand, I always feel better afterwards and the ache that I feel in my muscles the day after - like the ache I’m feeling today - feels great.  When I have time away from the gym, it feels odd not to have stiff muscles somewhere (no sniggering at the back).

For the last year or so, I’ve also been focussing on nutrition and the results I’m seeing keep me motivated.  It’s not just the size of the weights I’m lifting: last year, I bought some 30 inch waist jeans in HK.  Despite being about 8kg heavier now than I was then, those jeans still fit perfectly.  T-shirts have started to become tight in all the right places.  I have a proper man-cleavage for the first time ever! At 45, without wishing to toot my own horn too much, I’m in the best shape of my life - it’s just a pity there’s no one else around to see it!

Twitter

That’s right - the second thing that kept me sane this year is you.  I’ve all but given up on Facebook and I never really got started with Google Plus but Twitter - oh, how I love you! I’ve had replies or retweets from Karun Chandock, Alistair Campbell, Seth Macfarlane, Noel Clarke and Graham Lineham among others - which doesn’t make me special but just makes me chuckle to think about because they’re all people that I admire.  Twitter connects people in a way that simply wasn’t possible before - and not just with celebs.  

I follow about 330 people but when you weed out the celebs, humorous accounts, news feeds and people who just don’t tweet any more, I reckon there are probably around a hundred “real” people.  Of them, I’ve had some contact with 25 or so and pretty much every one has been great - funny, supportive and kind.  Whether it’s been words of encouragement, jokes, recommendations of music, it’s so cool to know that there are other people out there, listening.  And that’s the really big thing about Twitter, I think, the reason why it’s so popular.  Without wanting to get too deep, we all want to be heard: all of us on Twitter use it because we want to know someone out there is listening, that someone - even a total stranger - is paying attention.  

I think that’s why retweets make me smile: it’s evidence that, whatever the tweet was, someone read it and liked it and wanted to share it with other people.  I especially enjoy it when I post links to articles - very often I’ll have someone in mind, someone I think will like it, and the times when they’ve retweeted it, or commented it or marked it as a favourite are a great little boost.

It’s not all been a bed of roses and Twitter can be a scary place, in a way. I remember once setting up a fake account in the name of a spider (it’s a long story - I was bored and in a hotel for work) and being terrified when I woke up the next morning to find that this spider had collected nearly 400 followers in about 8 hours.  There have been times when the pain in someone’s tweet and my inability to help them in any practical way has made the contact we’ve had seem very poor and very slight.  I’ve been bluntly reminded on a couple of occasions that I have somehow become very old in the eyes of people I like, even though I don’t feel it.  I’ve blocked my share of spammers, bots and trolls.  I’ve unfollowed people because of what they’ve said or what they appear to believe and I’m sure people have done the same to me.  

Overall, though, Twitter has been brilliant.  I’ve met some of you in real life - some deliberately, some by wild and freakish coincidence - and I hope to meet more of you before I go.  So, thank you very much for ever Tweet you wrote in 2011: give yourselves a big round of applause and have a drink on me!

Happy New Year.

A family mystery...

As I think I’ve mentioned, my great-grandfather was from Denmark.  For reasons I’m not entirely clear on, I’ve always felt slightly proud of this and have had a small inclination - when it suited me - to consider Denmark the “old country” and to passionately love The Killing. My ancestors were Vikings, which means they probably look down (or up) from Valhalla with a slight sense of disappointment at how the family line has turned out but having Viking ancestors is nothing to be sneezed at.  And if you do sneeze at it, I may well come round your house and pillage it, just for old time’s sake.

His name was Rasmussen - other famous Rasmussens were Prime Ministers of Denmark (at least two different ones), several football players and assorted poets, writers, film directors, singers, artists and architects.  I could be related to any one of them - or possibly even all of them; after all, Denmark is only a small place with only 5.5m people and less than 2% of them are called Rasmussen.  That’s only 110,000 people, roughly - surely the odds are good? 

The story was that he left Denmark in search of work in the early 20th century and moved to Wales, to work in the mines.  Given my current plans, I’ve felt a great deal of affinity with great-grandpappy Rasmussen, even if he did change the family name to Smith.  I was, I happily told myself, following in my ancestor’s footsteps - striking out for pastures new, to make a new life in a new country.  There was something very satisfying about it, a sense of completion.  The family lived in the UK for about a hundred years and then moved on to a different part of the world.

I say “the story’’because I can’t remember who told me this and, memory being plastic, there is a faint chance that I may just have made it up.  So I decided to check with my dad, just for confirmation and to see what else was known about his grandfather.  I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t asked.  The email I got back said that, as far as dad knows, great-grandpappy Rasmussen was in the Merchant Navy; his ship was sunk, probably in the Channel, and he settled in Wales.  

This is, I’m sure you’ll agree, extremely unsatisfactory.

This will not do. It can’t be that he just ended up here by accident, surely? That doesn’t fit with my idea of the past at all! It also raises more questions than it answers: why did he stay? How was he able to settle here?  What about his family in Denmark, presuming he had one? If he had been separated from them by accident, why not go back? 

I’d like to find out more but where do I begin? Anyone done this sort of thing before?

New Year's Eve

Well, that’s Christmas out of the way; in the end, it wasn’t so bad - spent time with my blood family on Christmas Eve and (one of) my family of choice on Boxing Day, with the small social interregnum on the day itself filled with whiskey (the “e” is deliberate - it was Irish) and chocolate and Mark Cousins’ glorious Story of Film, about which I have been gushing on Twitter for several weeks now.  There was a lot of driving - from 23rd to 27th I covered over 500 miles, which the maths experts will quickly spot equals roughly 100 miles a day) - but that’s what you get for living miles away from everyone else.

Christmas is a picnic compared to what’s coming up, though: New Year’s Eve.  I’m not trying to be grumpy (I don’t have to try, it just comes naturally) but I really do find New Year’s Eve/New Year’s Day to be the most depressing time of the year.  The endless reviews of the year just gone, the reminders of the triumphs and the tragedies, the relentless pressure to celebrate what is, essentially, just another day, the “resolutions” that everyone knows will have been broken by the end of the month... When I was married, a lifetime ago, we used to go and stay in a local hotel on New Year’s Eve; they had a dinner dance which solved the problem of what to do quite nicely but for the last... I can’t remember how many years, I’ve spent NYE at home, on my own. I don’t think I was even awake at midnight last year.

Little ‘Un’s with me this year (his mother and I alternate) and he wants to stay up - last year he watched Jools Holland, apparently, and wants to do so again. (I really can’t think where he gets his musical taste from, bless him!) So, I’ll be up at midnight, raising a glass.  Not to 2011 - which was not a great year either for me or for some of the people I care about - but to 2012: the possibilities and the potential. I hope that 2012 will see some massive changes for the better for me - and for you, too.

Just to say...

I've noticed, from the stats that Google produces, that I'm getting readers from all around the world, which freaks me out a bit (but in the nicest possible way)! Thanks for reading and let me take this opportunity to say С Рождеством, Gelukkig kerstfeest, Frohe Weihnachten, Veselé Vánoce or Joyeux Noël! Please do feel free to say "hi" in the comments...

Who are you?

I was in the supermarket the other day, loading my stuff into those lovely hessian bags that Tesco sell instead of disposable one and the lady on the checkout commented on my packing.  It was an offhand comment - amusing enough and a nice bit of customer relations - but it stopped me in my tracks and made me think about what I was doing.  I was, very carefully, loading everything into the back like it was some kind of Tesco tetris.  

I never used to load bags like that - everything got chucked in as it came off the conveyor belt, in any old order; I pack that way because that’s the way an ex used to pack.  I started to think about this a bit more and noticed something interesting: I recycle pretty much all of my packaging because that’s what another ex used to do.  I have phrases that I use which are directly from former girlfriends.  Thinking about it more made me realise that it’s not just former girlfriends.  There are things I do, things I say, that I can attribute to specific friends - I’ve picked them up, consciously or subconsciously, over the years.  

Which started me wondering: are these things “me” or are they things that accrete gradually over the years, masking “me?” Or do they eventually become “me” through sustained usage?  Perhaps this pattern goes all the way back to when I was born, picking up the habits and practices of my parents and sister before I was even conscious of it.  If that’s the case, is “me” - or “you” for that matter - just the sum of all the individual transactions and relationships that we’ve had over the years? Is there even a “me?”

At this point, the lady on the checkout reminded me that she had other customers to serve and that I was holding everyone up.  But it makes you think, doesn’t it? Or is that just “me” - whoever that is...

Podcasts

I’ve just finished my last bit of study for my TEFL course and so I’m sitting here, in my dressing gown, wondering what to do.  I have nothing more to study; no homework, no assignments, no set reading... I didn’t realise what a comfort the TEFL stuff was when my degree finished! I’m no longer a student - for a while, at least.

So what do I do now?  How do I fill my time? While I’m pondering that, I thought I’d pick up on something I mentioned in a former post about podcasts.  So here, for all those of you who* asked, is my list of the top five podcasts you should check out:

In Our Time (BBC)

Here’s the deal: once a week, Melvyn Bragg gets a bunch of experts into a room and they talk about a subject for about forty-five minutes or so.  There’s no dumbing down, there’s no gimmicks - just the benefit of their expertise, with Melvyn to guide you through.  It shouldn’t work but it does, brilliantly, every time.  It’s impossible to listen to one of these podcasts and not come away knowing something new.

Mark Kermode and Simon Mayo’s Film Reviews (BBC)

Know to the cognoscenti as Wittertainment at its finest, this ninety minute weekly podcast edition of the good Doctors’ Radio 5 show is a must for anyone who likes films or listening in on an old married couple bickering.  Mayo is the perfect host (check out the podcast More Mayo for, not surprisingly, more Mayo, from his Radio 2 show) and Kermode an always entertaining critic.  Agree with him or not (and I mostly do) he’s always wittertaining. Hello to Jason Isaacs, love the show, Steve.

Savage Love (The Stranger)

Definitely NSFW and very definitely not for the faint hearted, Dan Savage’s weekly phone-in advice column on sex, love and relationships (mostly sex) is never less than brilliant.  Savage is warm, funny, human, empathic and, occasionally, savage - whenever I’m not sure about something, what would Dan do is a good question to ask. Almost impossible to describe, I’ve been listening to this podcast since it started - way back in 2006! I have every episode and, if I’m feeling bad about the state of my love-life, a few hours with Dan in the background normally sorts me out. (Savage also started the “It Gets Better” project on YouTube for which alone he deserves your attention.)

12 Byzantine Rulers (Lars Brownworth)

Technically no longer podcasting, this one is still around and still worth listening to.  If you thought the period between the fall of Rome and the Renaissance was a dark age, this podcast is for you.  Telling the story of the eastern Roman Empire through 12 of its key emperors, Brownworth weaves a compelling and fascinating story. I fell in love with Byzantine history thanks to this podcast.

This American Life (NPR)

This is a recent one for me but I’ve quickly grown to love it.  It’s a simple premise: true stories. That’s it - often told by the people involved, sometimes funny, sometimes quirky, sometimes scary, sometimes sad. Real stories from real people.  Essential for those of us who forget, sometimes, that there’s a world out there.

So that’s it, my top five.  I could’ve included The Archers, The Word Podcast, Peter Day’s World of Business, Arts and Ideas and a special mention for Sidepodcast for those of you who are F1 fans, because they’ve been kind enough to mention my tweets a couple of times and because Christine and Mr C are brilliant. But if I’d have mentioned those, it wouldn’t have been a top five. 

*ie nobody; not a single person.  But I’m not letting that stop me.

So here it is...

I have a confession to make: I don't like Christmas. I know, I know - it's a magical time, peace on earth, goodwill to all men, all that sort of thing. I just don't like it.

I'm not religious, so it has no spiritual meaning for me; my family's not close so it's not a big time for getting together - in fact, I've spent the last three or four Christmas Days on my own and that's okay: it's just another day as far as I'm concerned.

Perhaps it's because I have some not particularly happy memories of previous Christmases; perhaps I object to the rampant commercialisation and the pressure it puts on families. Perhaps it's because I'm lonely and have no one to share Christmas with; perhaps I'm just a Scrooge. Whatever it is, I just don't much like it and I'll be a little bit relieved when it's all over for another year.

I happened to mention this to someone recently and he looked at me like I'd suggested I do something unspeakable to his pets. So generally, I keep my opinion to myself - except here, of course, where there's no one listening anyway. I have no objections to you celebrating Christmas - if you like it, knock yourself out. I join in with the present-buying and that kind of stuff, I'm not out to spoil anyone else's time... I just don't like it.

When I were a lad...

Many years ago, when I was just a lad (this is the point in my stories at which Little ‘Un’s eyes begin to glaze over), there were only three television channels and four, maybe five, radio stations - most of both run by the BBC.  Someone, somewhere (mostly at the BBC) decided what was on and when it was on and you were either in front of the TV or radio when it was on or you missed it.

While that was rather limiting - and quite a pain if two things were scheduled against each other or you happened to be out doing something else when the programme was aired - there was also something quite nice about it.  Those were the years of 24 million plus audience figures for things like The Two Ronnies or Morcombe and Wise.  There was a sense of occasion about certain shows, a sense of sharing something with the rest of the country.  All of us of a certain age can remember the Christmas EastEnders when Den served Angie with the divorce papers; it’s not exactly a Kennedy assassination moment, but it’s pretty close.

And then something happened.  In the eighties, video recorders became commercially available and cheap enough to be within the reach of my family.  After much nagging, my father eventually relented and bought one - a top-loading VHS machine with great big, chunky, lever-like buttons.  It was a revelation.  We went from believing that this machine was an impossible luxury to quickly being convinced that it was a complete necessity.  In fact, how did we live without it?

Somewhere, deep in the bowels of the BBC and ITV, people stirred nervously.  they still scheduled what we saw but they were beginning to lose control over when we saw it.  Now we, the viewer, had control over that aspect: we could record their programmes and watch them whenever we liked, at a time convenient to us.  It was the beginning of what is known today as timeshifting and it has drastically changed the way we “consume” media.

Fastforward to today.  I have a Sky Plus player.  This is, without doubt, the pinnacle of human civilization and it is completely impossible to imagine life without it.  I exaggerate, of course, but only a little.  It has completely changed the way I watch TV.  Nowadays, the only things I watch when they’re actually broadcast are the Formula 1 races and new episodes of Doctor Who - and only those on every other weekend, when Little ‘Un’s around.  The rest I watch whenever I have time and what I usually do when there’s a series on I want to watch, is set the “series link” option, forget all about it, and then watch the whole series back-to-back, like wading through a box-set of DVDs.

The same hasn’t really been possible for radios until a few years ago, when I discovered podcasts.  The BBC make available for download a whole range of excellent programmes, as do the World Service, the Guardian and a whole bunch of other providers, covering just about any and every topic you can think of.  Quality programmes, available for the princely sum of... nothing.  Free of charge.  All you have to do is subscribe to them and iTunes will do the rest.  And so, just like I did with the TV serveral years ago, I’ve all but stopped listening to the radio - the programmes I want to hear are delivered to my iPod, for me to enjoy when I want to.

That little man in the BBC is all but redundant for me, now; I control the schedule, whether it be TV or radio.  And that’s great - it’s the freedom to choose exactly what you want, when you want it.  But I can’t help but feel that, in all this freedom, a little something has been lost.  It’s harder to generate that sense of occasion that some programmes had, that sense of sharing something with everyone else.  Fortunately, it still happens to a degree. I didn’t watch the programme but I had an awful lot of fun watching Twitter watch the X-Factor final this weekend! More fun than I would have had actually watching the programme, I suspect!

Thought for the day

Unlike most of my usual ramblings, this post is about something that really matters.  For a little while I’ve been volunteering for the RNIB and as we approach Christmas, there’s something important that I’d like you to think about.

There are about two million blind and partially sighted people in the UK.  That’s a difficult number to imagine, so think of a city the size of Birmingham.  And then double it: that’s roughly two million people.  Every day, all over the country, a hundred people of all ages begin packing to move to that city because every day, a hundred people begin to lose their sight – and of them, approximately 50% lose their sight needlessly.  Imagine that on January 1st, 50 people were blinded in accidents; and then the same thing happened on January 2nd.  And again on January 3rd.  What date do you think it would it be before something was done?  That gives you a sense of the scale of what the RNIB deals with.

What did you do last night? Did you catch up with the latest Strictly... or EastEnders? Go to the cinema? Curl up on the sofa with a good book? Flick through a magazine?  Imagine being unable to do any of those things and you can begin to imagine the isolation and exclusion that blind and partially sighted people experience, every day. Not through any fault of their own but simply because they can’t see as well as you or I. That gives you a sense of the scope of what the RNIB deals with.

The RNIB’s talking book service began in 1935 but the first talking books were produced in the 1920s to help ex-servicemen, blinded in the First World War, who wanted to read but found Braille difficult to learn.  Over the years, the technology has changed but the principle has remained the same: to make books available to blind and partially sighted people. So that, just as fully sighted people can, they can have the simple pleasure of getting lost in a good book; of learning from a text book.

All books recorded by professionals – actors and broadcasters who volunteer their time - in the RNIB’S own studios and are played on a special player.  The whole process is supported by volunteers and subsidised by the RNIB and, as you can imagine, it provides a lifeline for people who have lost or are losing their sight.  It’s just one of the ways that the RNIB seeks to bridge the gap between those of us who are lucky enough to be fully sighted and those of us who aren’t.

Right now, today, a hundred people of all ages are packing for their journey to that city.  The RNIB provides vital help and support for those on their way and those already there.  They can’t do that without your help.  They’re a charity and get no money from government so, of course, I would love it if you could donate some money this Christmas, so they can continue with their work.  It would be fantastic if you could volunteer some of your time - there’s a great need for volunteers of all types.  But there are so many other demands on our time and our money these days, so if you can’t contribute and you can’t volunteer you can still help, simply by spreading the word – if you know of groups who’d be interested in a talk from the RNIB or if you know anyone who might need their help and support, please pass on details of the RNIB helpline: 0303 123 9999.

Thanks for reading.

Breaking up isn't always hard to do

I’ve just done something that I’ve only done twice before in my life - I’ve just “broken up” with a friend.  

All relationships are supposed to enhance your life; whether it’s a friend or a lover, that person should make your life better (even in some small way) by being a part of it.  I’m not talking about 100% of the time - everyone goes through difficulties, everyone needs support, everyone has their own stuff going on.  The main purpose of a friend can’t just be to make your life better - they have their own life to lead.

But when you repeatedly contact them and they don’t reply; when you repeatedly try to organise seeing them but it never happens; when you realise that the only time you ever hear from them is when they want something; when you start to feel bad because you never hear from that person... well, then it’s time to accept that the relationship has run its course and it’s time to say goodbye.

There comes a time when “I’m hopeless at staying in touch” just doesn’t cut it as an excuse anymore.  No, you're not hopeless at staying in touch, you're just lazy or thoughtless.  There's the phone, text messaging, Skype, Facebook and LinkedIn - there's no excuse not to be in touch, other than not wanting to be.  You can’t be a friend to someone if you never have any contact with them, so perhaps I’m not doing anything other than accepting a fait accompli.  Either way, deleting them from Skype, Facebook, LinkedIn and my contacts book felt pretty damned good...

Absorbed

Over the last few weeks, I have been completely absorbed by Murakami's 1Q84 trilogy. I know there's a lot of hype around it but on this occasion, I think I can say it's justified. I've loved every page and I can honestly say I don't want it to end. It's a slow burn but by the end of book 2 I was so hooked by the "cliffhanger" that I had to download and start book 3 immediately.

I like reading but this kind of obsession doesn't happen to me very often. There was Kafka, when I was a teenager, and for a while I couldn't decide whether Max Brod was a hero or a villain. Then I went through a Martin Amis phase in my twenties but lost interest around about "Money." Since then, there have been only occasional books that have gripped me.

There's "The Great Gatsby" of course - there's always Gatsby, which I tend to read about once a year. Recently, "Wolf Hall" and "We Need to Talk About Kevin" obsessed me, as did Colm Tóibín's "The Master" - a book so lambently beautiful that I dare not read it again, in case it doesn't live up to my memory of it!

So, as 1Q84 approaches its end, I'm surveying my pile of unread books and wondering what to pick up next. I have a feeling that, whatever it is and however good it is, it will only be an anticlimax.

Hospital

It's only in hospitals, I think, that you can truly understand the terrifying range of disasters, large and small, that can befall the human body and mind. And it's in hospitals that you can begin to comprehend the kindness that we are capable of.

As I type this, I'm in a hospital waiting room. For nothing serious, thank goodness - Little 'Un broke his little finger a few weeks ago and this is just a check up. Sitting opposite me is a young man - late 20s/early 30s. He has a bandage on his wrist but he has more serious challenges than that: he repeats himself incessantly, becomes easily agitated and aggressive, finds things hard to understand. The girl sitting next to him looks younger - sister, lover, friend, carer? - and I watched her, watching him.

I'm a fairly articulate guy but I lack the words to express the emotion I saw on her face and in her eyes. Some combination of pain, patience, love, sadness, weariness and something else, something stronger than all those other emotions put together. It was deeply moving; I know I'm a bit of a drama queen at the best of times and especially now, when I'm feeling generally a bit fragile but even I was surprised to find tears in my eyes.

Perhaps it was projection, or empathy, or a realisation that, deep down, I doubt I could cope with a situation like that: whatever it was, it was a touching moment. They left for their appointment before we did and I'll never see either of them again. Without wishing to be melodramatic, I don't think I'll ever forget them, though.

Once is happenstance...

So, you’ll know that I got some emails from E recently - I think I might have mentioned it.  This weekend, I also received another email from C.  What both of these emails had in common, apart from the fact that they were both from ex-girlfriends, is that they were both apologies.  Now, I don’t remember much from my A-level maths but I do remember that you’re not supposed to extrapolate from only two data points.  But if you had to, what do you think it means?

七転び八起き

One of the things that has helped me immensely, over the last few years, has been going to the gym.  On the days when I’m not working - and so would have no particular reason to leave the house otherwise - it can be my only reason for getting dressed. And, on some days, my only reason for getting out of bed!  

The health benefits are obvious and, I learned this week, physical exercise actually helps the middle-aged brain (which, I suppose, mine now is) create new brain cells and stay sharp.  That’s not the only way in which it’s good for me mentally; exercise stimulates the release of endorphins, which are the body’s natural happy drugs, so exercising can often change my mood for the better.  The other thing I’ve learned by going to the gym, however, is that as powerful as the mind undoubtably is, it’s often the weakest muscle in the body.

The kind of training I do relies on progressive overload - lifting heavier and heavier weights, until failure.  What that means is I’m looking for a weight that I can press or lift until I physically cannot lift or press it again - usually after around eight repetitions.  This training to failure relies, obviously, on picking the right weight and then lifting it until you cannot lift it again.  That’s the failure part - you just don’t have the physical strength to do another rep.  I stress physical because the thing I’ve noticed is (with me, at least) the mind gives up before the body does.  

There have been so many times at the gym when my brain has been crying, “enough, no more” but I’ve pushed through that barrier - and it is purely a mental barrier - and found that I’ve got another one or two reps left in the muscle.  The flesh was willing but the spirit was weak.  I think the thing that’s taught me is the importance of mental resilience.

Now, I am not the most resilient of people and I’ve been fortunate in my life that I haven’t really had to be.  I have friends who have been through far worse things - cancers, the loss of loved ones, terrible betrayals - and they have come through.  I’m honoured to have them as friends and I think of them as role models.  That helps at the times, like now, when I find I need to be resilient, when my mind is saying “enough, no more!” because my problem isn’t really with the outside world, it’s with my head. I know that and I understand that - I don’t have circumstances worse than anyone else, it’s just that sometimes I lack the resilience or resources I need to handle things as well as others might.

I want to give in but I’m not going to.  I’ve had enough but I’m going to keep coming back for more.  As crap as I feel, I am not going to stop.  Even if I have to do it on bloody autopilot, I am going to keep going until this gets better.  I saw a sign on the underground once that read “if you’re not happy with your life, change it” and I’m going to, no matter what.  And no matter how bad I feel, no matter how much my brain tries to trip me up, I am not going to give up.  Fall down seven times, get up eight.

The rest is silence...

So, a week ago I posted a piece about being contacted by E.  I had some very supportive comments on Twitter and a great deal of support from the ever-lovely @spicelearning and the Laceys.  Ultimately, though, I had to decide what to do and I thought carefully about the best way of replying.

In the end, I settled for telling the truth about how I felt.  This is not much of a decision for some people but with me it’s sometimes tricky.  I worry that telling the truth will mean that people won’t like me; I’ve learned in the past, as I’ve written elsewhere, that I try to manipulate people by sometimes being selective with the truth.  But I decided that I would try to apply what I’ve learned and just be honest about how I felt.

And so I did.  Last Wednesday evening, I crafted a heartfelt email that explained how I was feeling.  I also explained that I believed that she did not feel the same and that while one day I would want to be her friend, right now that was too difficult because I wanted more and she didn’t want to give it.  That being the case, I said I thought it would be better if she didn’t contact me again although (triumph of hope over experience) if I was wrong about how she felt she should obviously let me know.

I’m not expecting to get a reply and I haven’t had one.  The fact that I wasn’t expecting one hasn’t made it any easier and the last week I’ve felt quite upset; it’s stirred up a lot of things that had settled over the last few months and I’m afraid the storm came in quite quickly this time, just when I thought it had receded.  It’s not the worst thing in the world, I know that.  Unlike previous occasions, I think I have a sense of perspective and a sense of humour about it that is helping me cope: I’m Googling the crap out of reactance theory, for a start! It’s just that some stuff has been stirred up and I suppose I just have to wait for it to settle again.

Just when I thought I was out...

I am rather pissed off.

The Godfather Part III is not a great movie. It's spoiled by a lot of things, one of which is Al Pacino's hammy acting but there is one scene that seems relevant to me at the moment. It's the scene in the kitchen where Michael Corleone, suffering from diabetes but not realising it yet, and wearing a very un-Godfather (but quite fetching) burgundy cardigan, roars "Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in!"

In between all the shenanigans with C, I dated - for a over year or so - a woman called E. Timing was not kind to us; when she wanted me, I was ambivalent towards her (actually, I was a bit of an arse). By the time I'd sorted myself out and realised that I wanted her, I'd alienated her to such a degree that she didn't want me. So it goes. It was the end of that relationship and the (drama queen alert) mini breakdown I had as a result that really made up my mind to leave the country.

Anyway, there was a period at the start of the years where I would plaintively hold up my little heart and E (who, to be fair, had her reasons and her own journey) would pick it up and then put it down, pick it up and put it down until, after a series of increasing fractious messages, made it clear in no uncertain terms that I shouldn't involve her in whatever fantasy I had going in my head about our "relationship." I apologised (and meant it) and got on with the business of getting on with it.

I would think of E, often and with regret: regret at the way I had behaved, regret at the squandering of a chance for a great relationship, that sort of thing. But, I reasoned, she'd made it abundantly clear how she felt (or didn't feel) and the fact that she was no longer in touch meant that she didn't want to be in touch. Leave it alone, I thought. Learn your lessons and move on. So it goes. I was, I thought, over all that. It was a missed opportunity but one of perhaps many. Maybe it was my last opportunity, maybe it was my best opportunity - whatever, it was over and I was over it.

Guess who emailed me this morning? Guess who has spent all day parsing a 42 word email, trying to work out what it means, if it means anything, and what I should do. I am not, it would seem, as over E as I had thought.

And so, as I sit here in yet another airport (I like airports - did I mention?) I am pissed off. Not with her but with myself, as usual, for being upset and getting my hopes up and being uncertain and a whole bunch of other things. And I'm wondering: what do I do now?

I love Nigel

When I went freelance, one thing I told myself was that it would probably only be for a couple of years. The travel involved, I imagined, meant that as a job it would have a very short shelf-life. Well, here I am, seven years later, and the one thing that I'm definitely not tired of is the travel: in fact, after all these years, I still rather like it.

Sure, it can be a bit of a pain to be away from home, and some hotels I've stayed in have been rather insalubrious but on the whole, it's still quite an adventure. For someone as generally lacking in confidence as me, it's been a great lesson in self reliance.

Occasionally, I get to travel abroad - Saudi Arabia, Denmark, Germany, the USA - which is fun because I love airports (I'm in Heathrow as I type this) but most of the travel is within the UK. And that means I get to do one of my favourite things in the world: driving.

Not long before I left my last job, I bought a car. Having had company cars prior to this, I was a little nervous about buying but I went ahead and bought a car being sold by a colleague. She needed a new kitchen and so was selling her car which she'd bought new, eight months previously. Which is how I met Nigel and fell in love.

Nigel is a dark blue Mini Cooper, with a Union Jack roof decal. In all the years since I became self employed, as I've moved towns, as relationships have come and gone, through good times and bad, Nigel is the one constant. He and I have travelled over 150,000 miles together. If you assume an average 40 miles an hour, that means I've spent in the region of 3750 hours driving: that's just under six months, constantly driving a distance roughly equal to six times around the world. And still I love driving and, in particular, I love driving Nigel.

No matter what my mood, no matter how crap things have been, no matter how rocky my love life or how precarious my business, Nigel never fails to bring a smile to my face. He's just so perfect to drive, so responsive, so much damned fun, that I swear to god I've laughed out loud with pleasure driving down some (invariably twisty) roads.

I'm not a fan of anthropomorphising but Nigel (named after Mansell, because of the Union Jack) clearly has a character of his own. If you spend six months with someone, constantly, you'll get a pretty fair picture of anyone's personality. He's a boy because sometimes I lust after other cars and that would feel weird if Nigel was a girl, obviously. Because nothing else about this post is weird, is it?

On depression

I’ve noticed a lot of articles about depression on the internet recently.  The best, by far, is this one and if you haven’t looked at it yet, I can’t recommend it highly enough.  The quality of pieces like that is part of what’s stopped me talking about my own experience - what more could I possibly say and how could I possibly say it, that would express my feelings better than the piece I’ve just linked to.  The other part of the reason is that my depression didn't seem bad enough to bother talking about.  

Of course it didn't - after all, it's perfectly normal for me to feel like dying, more often than not; it’s perfectly normal for me to feel a kind of squirming insecurity and belief that I am Just Not Good Enough to be around other people. Given that it’s perfectly normal, why bother talking about it?  It’s only recently that I’ve started to appreciate that other people don’t feel like that - other people look horrified and embarrassed when I tell them how I feel.  Which, ironically, produces a feeling of shame in me and makes me even less likely to say anything!

It seems that other people (perhaps you, for instance), feel differently. They don’t have days when they're one wrong word or thought away from sobbing but don't know why; they don’t have the almost overwhelming desire to give up on everything.  They don’t have the self-loathing that comes from not being able to pull themself together; to just cheer up; to just deal with it and get on with things. They don’t have the special kind of feeling bad that comes because they don’t have things bad enough; other people have it worse.

Like the Hyperbole and a Half article, there’s no particular “reason” for me to feel depressed.  Which sort of makes it worse; if there was a reason, I guess I’d be able to do something about the reason.  I’d at least have something to point to, a justification.  To be able to say “I feel depressed because...” and be able to give a reason that people could understand, could empathize with, would be such a relief.  It seems so pathetic to feel depressed but have no reason for the feeling, no justification; it’s embarrassing and it just adds to the depression.  

That lack of reason, I think, is part of why I used to cut myself.  I wanted people to take how I was feeling seriously even though I would have been mortified if someone had asked; I wanted to externalize the pain, to show it in some way, to express it.  All that, plus the guilty little secret that many self-harmers share, the real underlying reason, I suppose: we feel better having done it.  It’s a relief.  It’s not practice for suicide, it’s not seeking attention (I’m really embarrassed if people notice my scars) it’s just the only way we can think of to feel better.  Or sometimes it’s the only way we can think of to feel something.  I haven’t done it for years now, although I’ve been tempted.  I don’t think I’ll do it again, but never say never, as they say.  

As for the suicidal feelings, that’s mostly what we used to call in Samaritans a “passive” wish - it’s not an active desire to be dead, as such, but more of a desire for everything to just be over, for everything to go away.  A lack of desire to go on, rather than a desire to stop.  I’ve thought about it a lot - methods and so forth - but never felt sufficiently bad to do anything.  I think it’s more a comfort to know there’s a way out, if I need it.  

I haven’t had the kind of epiphany that HaaH did: perhaps my depression has never been quite as severe or it’s of a different nature.  It just lurks in the back of my mind and sometimes it comes to the front.  I don’t really know what causes it; maybe nothing at all, maybe it doesn’t even need a reason.  I can just feel it coming, like a storm front rolling in. I see it from a distance and know that it’ll be here shortly.  I can feel myself slipping into it.  Occasionally it disappears - the storm clouds evaporate before they get to me - but more often than not it arrives, stays for a while, and then slowly fades.  Sometimes it’s short and severe, sometimes it’s a long, constant drone that lasts for weeks.  Churchill called it his black dog: it’s my own little brainstorm.

It’s not wholly debilitating and it probably won’t kill me (he said, with a wry smile).  It’s not the worst thing in the world; it’s not terminal cancer or quadriplegia or any of a dozen other terrible fates that can befall people.  I’ve been fortunate enough that, no matter how bad I’ve felt, I’ve always had enough strength of will to drag myself into work and cover it up long enough to allow me to do my job.  I guess it’s partly made worse by the amount of time I spend alone - I have a tendency, as David Walliams said about himself on Desert Island Disks, to unpick myself when I spend too much time alone, so I’m trying to change that.  Although convincing myself that it’s okay to spend time with other people can be a challenge, too.

Exercise helps.  It can be a real struggle to get myself out of the house and to put the work in when I get to the gym but I invariably feel better having done it; the mood lightens for a while.  Sometimes going for a walk can help, too - what C (who was completely unable to understand it, even though she had suffered from depression in the past) used to call getting a change of air.  I’ve been promising myself a good long walk in the country on one of those cold, hard winter days - I’m quite looking forward to that.  Other than that, there doesn’t seem to be much that I can do to prevent the storms or dispel them when they arrive - at least, I haven’t found any ways yet.

So why am I writing all this?  Well, to be honest I don’t really know - mostly, I felt compelled to say some of these things and, having done so, it feels like a bit of a release. It’s sort of a return to my earliest posts on this blog; an exploration primarily for myself. And, I’ve found, that by writing about these things it has helped me understand them a bit better and, in this case, accept a part of myself.

I suppose that, if you know me, these storms sometimes cause me to act in particular (and peculiar) ways.  For instance, if I don’t want to go out or if I seem hesitant to join in, I’m not being rude or aloof: it’s because I genuinely think that you’re only being kind and don’t really want me to come along and I don’t want to be a burden.  You probably have no idea how hard it is sometimes to accept the idea that someone might want to be with me, might enjoy my company, and how pathetically grateful that can make me feel when it happens. 

If I don’t know you, I guess I want to add my voice to the increasing number of people who are being honest about how they feel.  To try to remove some of the stigma around depression, to try to help you understand how depression feels to those who suffer it and to put in a little plea for your understanding.  Not your understanding of me, of course, but of those of your friends who may be suffering even now.

Postscript

This has been sitting on my computer for quite a while now.  It’s gone through a few revisions but mostly superficial - it hasn’t really changed much from the first draft because it all came out pretty much in a torrent! The reason I didn’t publish it immediately was that, having read it, that part of my brain that seems to work with the depression immediately started to sneer and mock.  It’s pathetic to feel this way; you’re pathetic to feel this way.  Stop moaning and get on with it. You’ve got nothing to complain about.

So let me say this: I’m not complaining, I’m not saying I have things worse than anyone else and I’m not making a case for any particular special treatment. This is the way I am and, while I’d rather not feel depressed, I’m fortunate enough not to feel it all the time.  The last few years, I seem to have felt it more often than not and that’s been difficult, to be honest, but I feel like things are slowly getting better, I feel like I’m starting to feel more like myself again.

Optimism

When did we stop being optimistic? I suspect it was a some point in the 1980s so, like many of my generation, I blame Thatcher. But I digress; when I was a kid, I read a lot of science fiction and, by and large, it told me that the future was going to be better. Reinforcing that view was a wonderful TV programme called Tomorrow's World, which basically showed you all the different ways in which life would be better in just a few years' time.

Robots would do our work; we would live on the moon; gradually we would work our way into space, settling on Mars, mining the asteroids. Technology would eradicate disease and suffering; hypersonic jets would cross the Atlantic in a couple of hours; better communications would usher in a new era of global peace.

Life, in short, would be better.

So, what happened? Sure, there were a few dystopian stories, a few Maltheusian nay-sayers, but we were optimistic, we were hopeful. I'm not saying that all those predictions were realistic or that they should have come true by now (although I am still impatiently awaiting my flying car) but the attitude nowadays has changed.

Now it's all doom and gloom; all we seem to have to look forward to is an overpopulated, overheated planet, with a devastated economy, where the poor have little option but to eat each other while the rich live on in splendid luxury and isolation. That's if the terrorists haven't blown us all to kingdom come, of course.

I miss the old, optimistic, days. They may not have been realistic but it was an awful lot more fun and I could sleep at night.

I'm okay... I guess?

Perhaps it's just me but I have this tendency to think that everyone is more together than I am. They are slightly better organised, slightly more sorted than I am. They know exactly where they're going and what they're doing whereas I'm just bumbling along, still trying to figure it all out.

It's nonsense, of course. Other people tend to be just as insecure and uncertain as I am - when it comes to having things figured out, I'm no better and no worse than anyone else. I don't want to imply that I enjoy other people's pain (I certainly don't) but it always comes as a bit of a relief to find that someone else, someone I thought had everything sorted, turns out to be a bit of a mess, too.

I wish I could remember that fact more than I do. It would only help to remember that we're all just trying to get along, as best we can.

Working

I'm a freelance trainer, which means I run those courses that are so beloved of most employees. No, wait - let me start again. I'm a freelance trainer, which means I help you with your business or personal development. No, that's not quite it, either. I'm a freelance trainer which means I am, to all intents and purposes, effectively unemployed. Yes, that's the one. Nailed it.

I jest, of course, but only just. Think of me like a tiny hotel, with one room to sell. Factoring out weekends, my room is available for about 250 nights of the year. Take out six weeks for high days and holidays and you're down to around 220. Even in a busy year, this little hotel is very unlikely to get anywhere near selling every night. In fact, it's doing very well if it can sell every other night, on average, so you're looking at a maximum of 110 nights, more or less. And that's a busy year. The last couple of years have been far from busy. So, for probably three quarters of the year, I don't work - which mostly means staying at home.

Which sort of sounds like fun until you experience it. As I'm single, and most of my friends live either at the other end of the country or another country entirely, it actually means spending the vast majority of my time alone.

I'm pretty good with my own company but only up to a point. When you realise that you've gone for five days without seeing or speaking to another human being, you begin to get a little stir-crazy. Or, at least, I do.

Which leads to a whole new question - one which I never thought I'd need to ask: as a middle-aged man, how does one go about making new friends and meeting new people?

Sport

I've never been a big sports fan. Although I was a fairly handy goalkeeper when I was in school, I never really got the point of football and rugby was too much like organised rioting; being tall I was constantly pushed into basketball but lacked the hand to eye coordination to actually do anything - or, at least, so my PE teacher would wearily write on my reports, year after year.  The one sport I got, the one sport I understood, was racing and, in particular, motor racing.

I could wax lyrical about the poetry of man and machine in harmony but that would be pretentious and, despite the subtitle of this blog, I try not to be pretentious too often. Suffice it to say that I grew up in the 1970s and 1980s, enthralled by the sight of Formula 1; watching the races (when they were on TV) and recreating them on Scalextric with my friend Rodney.

And then, in the 1990s, I watched in horror as Roland Ratzenberger and Ayrton Senna were killed at Imola and my taste for motor racing waned. Other things attracted my attention and, looking back, I think I was a little sickened by a sport that killed its participants.  I came back to the sport in 1999, and my love for it was as fanatical as ever.  I would watch every race.  In the off season, I would recreate the races again but this time on a PS1, then a PS2.  A few years later, I discovered Indy Racing and Champ Cars in the US, and fell in love with oval racing - the speed, the tension, the lead changes.  I had tickets for the 2005 Indy 500 and, had G not left me a few months before, would have gone - I regret not going anyway.

It took a while but I got to know the personalities of the drivers - cheery Helio Catroneves and his habit of climbing the catch fencing after a win; surly Paul Tracy, seemingly always with a chip on his shoulder about something; matey, down-to-earth Gil de Ferran; talented, quick but somehow untrustworthy Sam Hornish Jr, the IRL's version of Nando. And then there was Dan Wheldon; the Brit done good in the US. The guy who always seemed cheerful, always seemed happy, with a smile on his face and a mid Atlantic accent that was charming.

Wheldon did well; he achieved a high degree of success in the sport, winning the Indy 500 twice - including the 2005 race that I nearly saw.  Latterly, he had struggled to find a seat - Indy has its money problems like everyone else, and the sponsorship just hadn't been there - but he managed to get a few drives this year, including the Indy 500 (which he won in an astonishing race that actually left me hoarse at the end) and yesterday's season finale at Las Vegas.

Sure, I knew it was dangerous.  I watched Kenny Brack's horrendous accident in Texas in 2003 and remember going to bed not knowing whether he had survived (he did, fortunately).  But you get used to seeing drivers survive - in IRL and in F1.  Robert Kubica and Mark Webber have both had horrendous accidents in the last few years which, in times past, would probably have killed them.  I lost touch with IRL because of the later night timings of the races and Sky's sometimes patchy and rather poor showing, but I was upset when I heard that Paul Dana had been killed in a practice session in 2006.

And then there was last night.

I didn't know him but I'm genuinely sad about Dan.  I feel sorry for his wife and his two young children and for his family and friends.  Motor racing is a great sport but no one should die for a sport.  I've seen the crash, before I knew that Wheldon had been killed, and I won't be watching it again; it's horrendous and I have no desire to see a man die.  Those who say that they watch motor racing for the crashes are idiots and have no place in the sport.  And, just as I did in 1994, I'm wondering whether I have any place in watching it anymore.

Rule Britannia

My family is originally from Denmark - my great-grandfather changed the family name from Rasmussen when he moved to Wales to work in the mines at the beginning of last century. As far as we know, he was an economic migrant - he came to the UK in search of a better life. It's a random accident and incidental to my identity but I've always been secretly proud if it. I'm also conscious that had my great-grandfather been from, say, Barbados then certain elements in this country would be trying to send me back.

Anyway, all this notwithstanding, I do like being British and something I heard on the radio perfectly illustrates why. I was listening to iPM and the ever-wonderful Eddie Mair was interviewing a woman who had recently recovered from a serious illness. At one point, she claimed, despite being in a coma she was aware of the doctors discussing the possibility of switching off her life-support machines and letting her die. She remembers being afraid of this and of not feeling ready to go and, shortly after, she emerged from her coma. Despite the doctors predicting that she would spend at least six months in hospital, recovering, she was actually able to leave after three weeks. She summed it up by saying, with a chuckle in her voice, that she was "too stupid" to realise how ill she was.

I laughed (I literally lolled) when I heard that and thought, how typically British. In the face of a life-threatening illness, after a near-death experience and an almost miraculous recovery, her response was wonderfully humorous and self-depricating. What other country in the world would respond in that way? I love them (well, some of them, anyway) but can you imagine an American saying the same thing in the same circumstances? Only the the UK, I'm certain...

Revision

Yes, yes - I know I'm supposed to be revising. And I have been, I promise! I was awake at 4 o'clock this morning which was great because it meant that I was fully prepared for the F1 qualifying from Japan (which was a mahoosive disappointment) and also meant that I could get an early start on my revision.

I really don't know how to revise, though - not properly. I'm such a crap student that I forget to make notes as I go along and so I have to use the text books as revision aids.  Instead, throughout the year, I've been recording myself reading selected bits of the text books and I've been listening to them and making notes, trying to condense everything and get it to stick in my head, at least until after Monday!

Oh well, it's worked the last couple of years and it only has to work one last time.  I suppose I'd better get back to it.  In the meantime, here's a picture, mostly to remind me that I'm lucky enough to sit in the middle of this Venn diagram when I'm working:

Here's Johnny

I've got those back-from-Hong-Kong blues and today I'm mostly mooching around the house, feeling like it's seven hours later than it actually is, trying to revise and listening to Johnny Cash.  Current favourite is "Hurt" and so here are the lyrics because, you know, I'm like that.


I hurt myself today
To see if I still feel
I focus on the pain
The only thing that's real
The needle tears a hole
The old familiar sting
Try to kill it all away
But I remember everything

[Chorus:]
What have I become
My sweetest friend
Everyone I know goes away
In the end
And you could have it all
My empire of dirt
I will let you down
I will make you hurt

I wear this crown of thorns
Upon my liar's chair
Full of broken thoughts
I cannot repair
Beneath the stains of time
The feelings disappear
You are someone else
I am still right here

[Chorus:]
What have I become
My sweetest friend
Everyone I know goes away
In the end
And you could have it all
My empire of dirt
I will let you down
I will make you hurt

If I could start again
A million miles away
I would keep myself
I would find a way 

Goodbye

So that's it, then. Goodbye to Hong Kong and goodbye to C. I don't want to say goodbye to either of them but sometimes you have to do stuff you don't want to do.

The situation with C, I suppose, is of my own making to a large extent. You reap what you sow in life and I guess that's what I'm doing now. As sad as it is, I can't really complain. I've been left before, had hopes evaporate before - I'm big enough and ugly enough to deal with it and it's not like I don't know the territory.

As for HK, I'm hoping the separation will be temporary. I'm back in January and then, all being well, I plan to make some bigger changes in 2012. They're long overdue and I believe they will make me happier; I just hope I have the courage to see the plans through. The good news, for me, is that I've got great friends in HK, who'll help me. Even though I feel like everything's all a bit shit at the moment (hey, I've just been dumped - cut me some slack!) I can get my head out of my backside long enough to recognise that.

Maid in Taiwan

So, after lots of maybe/maybe nots, I booked my tickets and set off this week to visit C in Taipei. In the end, given that I was in the area to visit friends in HK, I settled on a two-day excursion. Not the longest of stays but enough to see C's home city and sample a bit if the culture. Not long enough for C, who accused me if putting my friends before her but more of that anon, perhaps.

My first impressions of Taiwan were not good. First, the national carrier EVA messed my flight up, chopping four hours off an already truncated trip. They then took 15 minutes to check me in and took off forty minutes late although, to be fair to them, they provided plenty of legroom and are the only carrier I know that has pot plants in their planes' toilets. Awaiting me at Taoyuan Airport was a vast immigration queue, serviced by an officious and unfriendly woman who moved at a glacially slow pace. The plaque she displayed which read "Priority Counter" was just a cruel joke!

This was followed by a queue for taxis which was truly biblical in proportion, inversely matched by the conspicuous absence of anything even vaguely taxi-like. Which, given that it was midnight by the time I escaped from the terminal, could possibly have been predicted. Having no obvious alternative, I joined the line and contemplated the possibility of spending my entire 40 hour trip to Taipei waiting for a taxi to complete the last ten miles of the trip.

Taipei was cold (unusually) and wet; grey and particularly charmless in a lot of ways. Perhaps I've been spoiled by HK and was expecting Taipei to be the same. It wasn't - lots of low-rise, blocky concrete buildings, covered in billboards. Where HK is narrow and twisting, hilly, Taipei is wide and flat, with broad roads and public squares.

It rained pretty much the whole time I was there; heavy, constant rain, occasionally blown sideways by howling gales that ripped the umbrella inside out and left us soaked in an instant. Given the weather, the sensible thing to do would probably to have switched the indoor activities - no, not that! I mean museums and art galleries. Instead, we trudged about in the rain, my feet squelching in sodden shoes, my mood gradually greying to match the weather.

My mood probably wasn't helped my the reason for my visit. C and I have been having difficulties and my trip, in part, was to give us the chance to talk and straighten things out. I'll draw a veil over that, if you don't mind. I might write about it later but for now I don't want to. It went okay but it still feels like there's something missing between us and since I got back things seems to have returned to "normal" - minimum, almost emotion-free contact. I wonder whether it was worth the trip.

Feet

As I think I may have mentioned before, Hong Kong (HK Island, at least) is somewhat hilly. Walking around it can take a bit of a toll on your feet/legs I don't know whether this is the actual reason but I like to think this is why there are so many pedicurists and foot massagers in HK.

Until my last visit, I'd never had a foot massage before and it took me about two minutes to become a complete convert. This time round, I had my first ever pedicure which was, again, quite heavenly. A very petite, very cute girl called Cecilia took about thirty minutes to convert my aching feet into works of art.

Perhaps it's because they don't get much attention usually, but I do enjoy having my feet felt. It's nothing sexual - I don't have a foot fetish or anything - it's just pure pleasure. The time passes far too quickly and I pull my socks back on with great regret. I'll be back.

Alcohol

It is a truth universally acknowledged (by my friends) that this young man, in possession of a few hundred HK$, must be in want of a cocktail. Which is why I find myself pecking this out very carefully and quietly, in the dark, nursing a hangover.

I am not, generally, a very big drinker. Until, that is, I get off the plane at HKIA, when I appear to be possessed by the spirit of a functional alcoholic for the duration of my stay. Which is not normally a problem - the city has many fine bars, containing many fine waiters and barmen, who are only too happy to help me. And, while alcohol has led me to wear flashing horns, dance on bar-tops and talk to random strangers (all at once), it's never led me into any actual trouble and I've never regretted it.

Until last night, that is. Last night, to celebrate M's birthday, we went for cocktails at the Mo Bar and then H treated us to dinner at the Mandarin Grill. I'm not normally given to hyperbole (oh, okay - sometimes) but it was probably the best meal I've eaten and I just wish I'd had a few fewer Hemingway daiquiris so that I could have enjoyed it more. And so that my head wouldn't hurt so much this morning.

Kowlooney

Hong Kong as a region is a collection of different areas. There's Hong Kong Island itself, obviously, the other islands, the New Territories to the north and, sprawling across the bay from Hong Kong Island, there's Kowloon.

If HK Island is shiny and posh, Kowloon is its dirtier, disreputable brother. They're both obsessed with business but very different types of business. HK Island is big, international brands and multinational finance companies. Kowloon is small, individual market stalls, micro-businesses and guys out on the streets, hustling you into their shops.

Strolling down Nathan Road, the main north/south thoroughfare, I was endlessly accosted by hawkers, pitching three main products. First there were the guys, mostly Asian, offering fake watches. I don't know what a fake watch is - I mean, it's either a watch or it's not - but I guess I know what they mean. Fight your way through them and you run into the guys - mostly Indian - selling tailoring services; shirts and suits, mostly. Should you make it past them (and they're much more persistent than the watch guys) you enter the realms if the massage parlours.

Now it's not what you think (calm down) - it's little old Asian ladies, waving laminated cards with pictures of feet on them, offering reflexology massages.

Up to this point in the blog, I was sober. For this paragraph, i'm drunk and watching X Factor US. Consequently, this paragraph will make no sense at all. Hatstand.

Typhoon Nesat

Well, plans for today were scrapped after the Hong Kong Observatory issued a bulletin around 4am, local time, raising the typhoon warning to level 8. The significance of that number is that, once it's issued, public transport in the city shuts down after two hours and citizens are advised to seek shelter.

No taxis run, shops and offices close and not a lot happens as the city waits it out. That means work for this morning is cancelled so, as I type this, we're all looking out at a rather grey and windy Hong Kong, wondering what to do with ourselves.

Of course, the irony of this is that, as HK suffers its first T8 of the year, back home everyone's enjoying a heatwave...

Typhoon Part 2

It has been brought to my attention that Stormies (correct spelling) does indeed exist and, furthermore, that I've actually been there! In my defence, jelly shots were involved, as well as a pair of flashing horns, so I may have been drunk.

Here's another random picture.