Really?

Sometimes you have to stop and re-evaluate. Sometimes you find what you thought you knew about yourself isn't true. For instance, I'm not the sort of bloke who...
- travels business class
- climbs really high buildings
- is confident to spend the afternoon with perfect strangers
- has a tattoo
- leaves home to work in another country.

Except, as it turns out, I am.

Funny old thing, life.

Sometimes you catch a glimpse

Jay Gatsby threw parties of such magnificence that strangers from miles around would attend. They were wild and giddy whirls of excitement, the night full of possibilities. Groups would form and dissolve, strangers become friends and the sound of laughter would hang in the night sky of West Egg.

There is another world, beyond this one; while different, it shares a lot of the aspects of our world. Like Murakami's 1Q84 it's similar but subtly and significantly different. As with Gatsby's parties, there is a sense that wild and exciting things have just happened and wild and exciting things are just around the corner. It's a life that, by and large, other people live; a world that, by and large, other people inhabit. And, like Gatsby's parties and Murakami's alternate world, it is a work of complete and utter fiction.

As I type this on my iPhone I'm sitting in a darkened penthouse apartment, looking at a 180 degree view of the lights of Sydney. It's a beautiful sight but it doesn't seem any more real to me than the Los Angeles of "Blade Runner." I've just come back from a dinner that, while utterly fabulous, cost more than I would previously have imagined spending on food in a month. This world in which I have temporarily found myself is fantastic (in all senses of the world), no doubt, but seems completely unreal. I am enjoying spending time here but I don't feel like I belong. I look around and can't quite believe I'm here. Sometimes I chuckle to myself at the extravagance of it, the luxury. And all the time I remind myself of how lucky I am to experience this, even briefly.

I'm just visiting this other world and, while I know I can't stay, I also know I'm fantastically fortunate even to be able to visit. I don't know how I managed it and I'm certain I don't deserve it, but I'm very happy to be here, even temporarily. And I know how lucky I am.

I could make a beaver eat a fish

Well, what a fantastic week it's been: starting with a few days in Sydney, we moved on to the Hunter Valley, which is a wine region, north of the city.

We stayed in a beautiful log cabin, just outside the middle of nowhere - no mobile signal, no wifi, no contact. Just the four of us, the barbecue and a whole lot of wildlife. Very, very noisy wildlife. When the sun went down, two things became very clear - just how dark it gets in the middle of nowhere and just how loud the frogs, crickets, birds and god-knows what else can be. Honestly, I've stayed in quieter cities!

I've also watched far too many horror films for my own good. Especially the ones that begin with a bunch of friends taking a road-trip into the deep countryside. The consequences of that little hobby finally came home to roost when I realised that my bedroom was in a separate and self-contained part of the cabin. Anything could happen and no one would know... I must confess that I wedged a chair against the door, just in case! I jumped at every noise outside (of which there were a lot) and didn't sleep well at all, despite the sleeping tablets. I like the countryside and it's pretty to look at but I'm a city boy at heart!

For a man who drinks so much of it, I know remarkably little about wine - which made the wine tour we took on Wednesday particularly interesting. My pallet isn't very sophisticated and I was a bit worried after the first couple of vineyards because I couldn't really tell the difference in the wines but I perked up immensely after being introduced to chilled fizzy red wine! Take it from me: it's the future. Mr L sensibly kept track of what we were drinking and the final tally for the day was somewhere in the region of 40 glasses each. Needless to say, that day was all a bit of a blur.

After a trip to the Blue Mountains on Thursday we came back to Sydney today and as I type this, we're preparing to go to the Rockpool Bar and Grill for our last evening in Oz. All in all, a holiday of a lifetime with a great bunch of people. I suspect touchdown at Heathrow next Wednesday will be a very hard landing indeed. But, before then, a few more adventures in HK to look forward to...

Wizard Oz

After a few days in Sydney, we moved on to the Hunter Valley - the place we were staying was so remote it had no mobile signal and no wifi, so the perfect opportunity to reflect on a few things. Sadly, this is going to be rather a long post, so you might want to get a cup of tea.

First, a few impressions of Sydney...

Things I like:
The centre is quite small and walkable - it's easy to navigate. There's an open-top bus tour that's worth spending an hour on, just to orientate yourself; after that - grab a map and go for a wander.

An abundance of public loos which are spacious and well kept - and remarkably free of graffiti. Perfect if you're doing a lot of walking.

Jeans shorts. Very short jeans shorts. On women, in particular. Need I say more?

The weather, which has been mostly glorious and has resulted in a lot of pink skin. Especially on the top of my head; it's worth investing in a hat, even if you have a luxurious head of hair like mine!

Things I don't like:
The near impossibility of finding an off- license. Honestly, how hard can it be? And, when you find one, the cost of wine and spirits is eye-watering (roughly £40 for a bottle of gin). When we did, eventually, find one the service wasn't exactly welcoming.

The near impossibility of finding a bar open on a Sunday evening. Seriously, Sydney? Were we in the wrong part of the city or something? It was like the UK 25 years ago. My suggestion of going to the Kings Cross area was vetoed, possibly due to all the strip clubs.

Things I don't get:
Why the women all seem to dress up to the nines but all the men appear to live in vests, shorts and thongs - flip flops to you and I. And honestly boys, take a shower once in a while - the Sheilas will appreciate it, I'm sure.



On Monday, we did the biggest touristy thing it's possible to do in Sydney - the Harbour Bridge walk. Basically, if you picture the bridge, you walk up the semi-circular bit, reaching something like 130 metres above the surface of the bay at the apex. This may not sound like much of an accomplishment but if, like me, you have a fear of heights, this is A Very Big Thing Indeed.

I was (in the nicest possible way) bullied and blackmailed in to it and there were a couple of points on the way up when I seriously didn't think I'd be able to go on. However, knowing that I was holding up another eight people behind me was quite an incentive to keep moving, no matter how scared I was. And make no mistake, I was scared. I did it, though, and as we trudged towards the top I started to feel a lot better and more confident about the whole thing. The view from the top is stunning, I'm pleased I did it (as I was told I would be) and I'd recommend it.

During the bridge walk, I got chatting to a Korean girl called Minju and when the walk was finished, we went for lunch and then for drinks, while Mr & Mrs L and A went to Bondi beach. I have to say (and I know they'll probably read this, so I'm choosing my words carefully and with a smile) I took some ribbing for this when we all met up again in the evening but it was worth it.

For a brief while - four hours or so - I had the best "first date" I can remember for years. We talked non-stop, found loads in common, despite very different backgrounds, and spent the afternoon laughing and sightseeing. We both knew nothing was ever or could ever come of it but it was just fun to be in a strange city, making a new friend. We exchanged email addresses and parted with a kiss on the cheek. For an afternoon, I didn't feel unattractive or lonely or like I had to watch my behaviour or feel like a third wheel; I'd forgotten what it felt like to enjoy someone's company like that. I spent the afternoon with a beautiful woman and it did wonders for how I was feeling about myself, after the job rejection.

She did something really sweet at the meal; the waiter brought our drinks and set down my bottle of beer and a glass. Minju immediately picked up the bottle and poured the beer into the glass for me. I know that doesn't sound like much but I found it truly touching. Other people have done bigger and grander things, I know, but that small gesture got to me in a way I can't fully articulate.

Speaking of touching gestures, one of you did something quite lovely after my last blog - you wrote a blog of your own, for me. I felt quite chastened reading it and I've thought about it a great deal since. I have a sneaking suspicion that I burble on far too much in this blog about my love life, or lack thereof. There are only so many times one can say they are lonely before it becomes tedious for those listening and I suspect I passed that point long ago. I'm going to try not to talk about it anymore - I think it's becoming as boring for me to say it as it is for you to read it. There are many other aspects to my life with which I am perfectly happy; there is no need for me to dwell any longer on the one aspect with which I am dissatisfied.

(One final point of clarification, lest there be any doubt: I have to say in the strongest possible terms that Mr & Mrs L have never, ever done anything to make me feel like a third wheel or, indeed, make me feel anything other than hugely welcome and I love them for it. It's just that, when you tag along with another couple, no matter how thoughtful and accommodating they are, it's hard not to feel like a gooseberry sometimes.)

Some slightly more mature reflection

It would have been convenient, that's for sure. Having a guaranteed income, courtesy of a regular job, would have made the move to HK a much less scary prospect. Not having it - only having the offer of associate work - makes the whole prospect that much more insecure. I'd be giving up a fairly secure associate income in the UK - together with everything else I have in the UK - for an uncertain income in a foreign country, working with groups that might not respond or even understand my style at all.

But that's not all of it. The kicker is, this is the second time that I've been rejected by a company that has said, effectively, we'll let you work as a trainer for us, but we don't believe you have to credibility to do anything more. It's the same trap that I've been caught in, really, since I first started training - I'm a capering monkey; okay for amusement but incapable of anything more.

I like training, I really do; I like being in the room and working with groups. But I don't want to do it forever. This job offered the possibility of doing more and I believe I'm capable of more. Sadly, at the moment, I seem to be the only one that shares that belief.

Earlier this evening, I was down at Sydney harbour. The bridge, the Opera House, the lights coming on as the sun went down - it was magical. And while it was lovely to be there with kind and dear friends, it struck me that I really wanted someone special to share it with. And that person isn't here and there's no sign of them arriving.

I know I'm lucky - I have my health, I have friends, I have my family... but there's so much about my life at the moment that leaves me feeling unhappy, empty and hopeless. As much as I tried not to, I pinned a lot of hopes on this job - I'm pinning an awful lot of hopes on a move to HK: when I move to HK I can make new friends, spend more time with old friends, less time alone, meet someone, be happy...

Plan A has fallen through; Plan B relies on being granted a visa and then taking what feels like a huge gamble. And I'm not a very good gambler. Twice now, people have said I'm not good enough to do more than just perform at the front of the room. Perhaps they're right. A dozen women have said I'm not good enough to stay with. Perhaps they're right, too.

Damn

So, I didn't get the job - the email confirming it came through about half an hour ago. Too good to be true, I suppose; it would've been convenient and would have made the move to HK so much easier and safer but it obviously wasn't to be. Nothing I can really do about it - well, nothing I can do about it at all. I suppose it's better to know, one way or the other. Just wish it had been the other.

A land down under

So, we're off to Oz. As I write this, it's Friday 20th, which is the start of the big getaway for Chinese New Year, so everyone is going home. It cost an extra HK$40 to get a taxi to take us down to the airport train, compensation for the terrible inconvenience of making the poor chap open the boot for our suitcases.

Mr and Mrs L, with whom I'm traveling, travel business class and I decided, after much consideration, to stump up for a business class seat, too. In fact, I'm sat in my business class seat - cocoon would be more accurate - as I type out this part of the blog.

Business class is another world: it's a glimpse into a way of life that's almost utterly alien to me. The space, the service, the endless champagne - discrete lounges, solicitous stewardesses serving roast duck on china plates. We flew with Thai Airways and it's not every day that my lunch is served by a supermodel.

After an hour or so in Bangkok, we fly on to Sydney, which will take eight hours or so. Despite having spent so much money and wanting to enjoy every moment, the fact that we're flying overnight means I'll be forced to spend time unconscious. Still, I'll be horizontal, thanks to my cocoon!

(Later)
Meanwhile, time has moved on - now we're in the Thai Airways lounge in Bangkok. Our flight was "rescheduled" (as opposed to delayed) and Mrs L suggested that we take advantage if the complimentary foot massage in the Thai Airways Spa. This trip is ruining me for the journey back to Heathrow , when I'll be back in economy class.

Hong Kong Day 2

Random building works

Me trying to be arty

Trying to be arty again

There were three floors of this

Dragons

I had nothing planned for the day, so I ran a couple of errands for H&M.  Armed with my trusty “Time Out” map of the city, there was nothing to stop me.  First up was a quick trip down to the HSBC bank, in the centre of the city, to change some money.  It’s Chinese New Year in a few days (we’ll be in Australia) and the custom is to give a red envelope with some money in to to... well, seemingly to everyone you know!  However, it’s not just any old money - it should be brand new, perfectly ironed notes, hence my trip to the bank to do a bit of money laundering.

After doing a few other bits and pieces, I settled down for a coffee in Starbucks and got chatting to a Canadian woman who has lived here for the last couple of years with her husband, an Italian.  She was telling me how she found it, especially in comparison with Tokyo, which is where they lived before.  Her impression was that the two were largely the same, especially in cost of living (ie, sky-high) but that the people were nicer in Hong Kong.

I was hungry by this time and decided to have a bite to eat.  Following my nose, I ended up in a Chinese restaurant (hey, when in Rome, etc) which was absolutely rammed full.  I was seated on a table with four other people - two couples, unknown to each other - and it was only after the waiter disappeared that I realised that (a) I was the only white person in the restaurant and (b) everything was in Chinese! Fortunately, one of the couples took pity on me and explained the drill, so I ended up with some very nice shredded pork, mushrooms and noodles, washed down with lemon tea. It was good food, the restaurant was packed, noisy and chaotic and I had a great time.

Cities can be lonely places when you’re on your own - they are, after all, full of people you don’t know and who don’t know you and that can really bring home a feeling of isolation.  Fortunately, three strangers made it a much easier day.  I think that probably happens a lot.  I’ll try to post some random pictures. No shots of the food, though - I was too embarrassed!

Hong Kong by foot

So, my first fully day in Hong Kong and I spent most of the day walking. H&M, the friends with whom I'm staying, have moved to Happy Valley, just by the race-course, and this is my first visit to their new home. So, having only an appointment with my HK accountants scheduled for the day, I thought I'd have a bit of a wander, to try to get my bearings. 

I should have known better, really.  Walking in HK is a bit like me trying to get a date - sounds good in theory, it’s an interesting challenge in practice; you start off thinking you’re going to get somewhere but ultimately it’s all quite frustrating and never goes the way you planned it. There are three main reasons for this:

Firstly: population density. Think of a lot of people in a small space. Then double the number of people, halve the space and you're close to imagining walking in HK. so that means that walking anywhere is a problem because there are a lot of other people doing it at the same time and, at any given point, 50% of them aren’t looking where they’re going because they’re texting or reading emails on their mobiles phones.  The sheer quantity of people poses a particular problem when you are, like me, a gweilo. Gweilo is Cantonese slang for foreigner and means “ghost.” I can only assume that locals have taken this literally and believe they will magically pass through me, rather than bothering to make the effort to go around. 

Not that going around is all that easy, given the state of the pavements, which brings me to the second factor: HK pavements aren't designed for walking on.  No, they're there to sell things from, to protest on, to push pavement-wide trollies piled precariously high with boxes along and as storage space for your building materials, scaffolding, parcels for delivery and so on. And while some people may look slim believe me, they are the widest people in the world when you want to get past them.

The third factor is that the people who plan design the city (assuming there are such people - I'm not convinced that it doesn't just grow randomly in the night) clearly don't like pavements. Which might explain why there are so many overhead walkways, connecting buildings and shopping arcades. With a bit of effort it would probably be possible to walk from one side of the city to the other without actually touching the ground. Which, I find, makes getting lost really easy, because one branch of Armani looks much the same as the next to me!

I must confess, however, that there is a fourth obstacle: HK contains approximately two stunningly attractive women per square meter, on average, so I was frequently disoriented after being distracted by some heart-stoppingly beautiful woman or other.  This, I can assure you solemnly, has no bearing on my desire to live here, by the way. None at all. However, it didn’t make walking any easier.

My plan, such as it was, was stroll down to the accountants, sign a ton of forms, catch the tram back.  Simple.  Two hundred yards out of the apartment building and I realised I had no map.  No matter; I have my iPhone.  Three hundred yards out of the apartment building and I realised that roaming charges would bankrupt me if I tried to use Google Maps.  Too far (or too lazy, take your pick) to walk back, I bravely walked on, thinking with the over-confidence born of ignorance, “how hard can it be?”

It took me a while (about three hours, give or take) but I found it and met my accountant, Doris.  I’m sorry to (a) any accountants reading this and (b) anyone called Doris reading this.  My accountant Doris (who I’ll refer to as MAD, because it’s easier) looks like neither any accountant or any Doris I have ever known or imagined.  God alone knows what I signed (and whatever it was I signed it about a dozen times) but I would happily have transferred all my worldly goods to her - I may quite possibly have already done so, come to think of it.  She was very friendly; would it be creepy to see if she wants to go for a drink?

Anyway, the plan for getting back was cunning.  Stroll a bit, hop on a tram for a longer bit, hop off the tram and then - because I had no idea where the apartment building actually is in comparison with everything else - get a taxi for the last leg.  Perfect.

Did the strolling (possibly on air, having spent time with MAD) and then got a tram.  HK trams are seriously great. If you come here, ride the tram, they’re terrific.  It costs about 20p to go as far as you like, they’re so old-fashioned as to be positively antediluvian and trundle along at about 5 miles an hour.  They’re fairly narrow and have this great way of working, which is that you get on at the back and then slowly work your way to the front (not easy, as trams are usually rammed with people) in time for your stop. Pay for your ticket (you pay when you leave the tram, not when you get on), hop off the tram and the job’s a good ‘un.

But, I didn’t know what stop I wanted, so I decided to take pot-luck: I rode the tram until the tide of passengers pushed me to the front, hopped off and set about looking for a cab.  Slightly bad timing because the schools had just kicked out, turning the pavements into a sea of sailor uniforms (yes, they really do that, it’s not just a fetish) and empty cabs were few and far between.  No matter, I confidently reassured myself, one will turn up eventually.  And, eventually, one did although he turned up just long enough to kick a bloody great hole through my plan by refusing to take me where I wanted to go; just a flat “no” a wave of the hand and then he was away, leaving me lost by the side of the road.

I don’t know why he refused: I assume that it’s like some London cabbies, not wanting to go south of the river; perhaps he didn’t want a gweilo in his cab. Whatever the reason, I gave up on the cab idea and decided to walk. It’s a relatively small city, I thought - I’ll find the place soon enough. Long (very) story short, I made it back eventually although, looking at the map now, I went the long (very) way round.  All in all, a perfect day.  Now where did I put MAD’s business card..?

The view from 30,000ft

20:20 London/ 04:20 HK
As I type this, I'm high - not in a good way, you understand, but in the normal strapped into a pressured metal tube, hurtling through the air at 600 mph kind if way. I'm on a slightly shabby 747, about 45 minutes into an 11 hour journey.

To keep myself amused, I'll probably come back to this a number of times and it's keeping myself amused that I want to think about now. As I tweeted earlier, I brought 2 magazines (Vanity Fair, trivia fans) 3 books (not included the stacks of mags and books on the iPad) plus half a dozen films and TV programmes. The man sat next to me appears to have brought nothing.

Who does that? I swear, if he wants to chat for 11 hours, he'd better pray there's a sky Marshall on board!

03:30AM London/11:30 AM HK
Two films (Troll Hunter and Enron:The Smartest Guys in the Room), one TV programme (American Dad) and about two hours of sleep in to the journey. I think we're about half way there.

Crisis averted with the next-door neighbour (who is fast asleep, lucky guy) and now I'm sat in the dark, listening to the Archers. I want to write something witty and interesting (for a change) but my brain refuses to produce anything.

14:20PM London/22:20PM HK
I think I got about two hours' sleep in total last night and I am completely banjaxed now. Isn't that a great word? Banjaxed? Auto-correct recognises it too, which is awesome. I am so fricken tired I can barely see straight but it is brilliant to be back.

Have a trip to the accountants tomorrow - in the afternoon, thankfully, so I stand a chance of being coherent when I sign a ton of paperwork!

My manhood (oo-er)

Given as I am to existential noodling, one of the questions that has always intrigued me is “what does it mean to be a man?”  Men, it has always seemed to me, have been much poorer at answering that question than women have of answering their equivalent question.  There are many different ways of being a woman, many different types of femininity, many ways in which women may orient themselves to the world.  But what of men? How do we answer that question?  What is a man? What does it mean to be a man?

To judge by advertising, a man is either a sexist boor - think of the WKD, Lynx or Pepsi Max adverts - or a hapless buffoon - think of just about every other advert featuring a man.  Perhaps I’m deluding myself but I don’t think that I’m either of those things - although I’m capable, at times, of being a sexist boor and a helpless buffoon, those characteristics don’t define me, nor do they define my gender.

This is a question that women have had to deal with for far longer than men.  Women have, to some extent, always had to face in men a gender that appears to categorise them into one of two extremes - Madonna or whore.  In part (and here I’m out of my depth, so please don’t shoot me if I’ve got this wrong) it seems that the process of equality for women has been, in part, their escape from this polarisation, so that men will see them as individuals, rather than archetypes.

This is partly relevant to me because I’m a man but also because I’m partly responsible for bringing one up, in the shape of Little ‘Un.  What type of man should I be, to provide a good role model for him?  I don’t want to be either of the examples I’ve recounted above but I’m not entirely sure that being myself would be good enough, either.  I am, after all, a man who has been known to shed a tear a Gillette commercials - although, in my defence, I was very ill at the time and feeling terribly sorry for myself.

I have a colleague who has set himself the target of being a “cool dad” but I’m not entirely sure that I think that’s a good thing. It smacks a little too much of trying to be your children’s friend, rather than their parent.  As a “part-time” dad, many people have told me that I’m lucky because I can be Little ‘Un’s mate but that’s not what he needs: he’ll choose his own mates but he’ll only get one father.  And sometimes, as a father, you have to be the bad guy.  I also wonder whether parents are there, in part, for children to rebel against (I’m sorry, I know that’s horrible grammar) and so trying to be a “cool” dad essentially robs them of an authority figure to mock and react to.  

It also, if I’m honest, has the ring of the “trendy vicar” to it - I can’t think of anything more excruciatingly embarrassing than a self-consciously “cool” father, desperately trying to keep up with the latest trends and fashion.  When I spoke to Little ‘Un about this, his response was that I wasn’t too embarrassing but that was largely because I hadn’t seen too many of his friends. Like all children of his age, he does his level best to keep me out of his social circle as much as humanly possible.  It’s gratifying to know that, on the rare occasions - birthdays and the like - that I have met his friends, I haven’t disgraced myself or shown him up.  I promised him faithfully that I would keep this up, until a significant birthday party or wedding, at which point I would embarrass him totally, with terrible dancing and possibly karaoke. It’s an understanding we have and will probably result in him never marrying.

The event that triggered this line of thought was a meeting I went to recently with a colleague, T.  Now T is very definitely a man - he is what I believe younger women are wont to call a “silver fox.” The meeting was actually about this topic - what it is to be a man and whether men talk about their problems enough - and as I was watching T talking, I was trying to work out what it was about him that made him so... manly.  

He’s tall; well built; he has a very deep voice and the trace of an accent that one would probably call posh; he has steely grey hair.  All of these things are part of it but the key thing, I felt (and I checked this out with another man, afterwards), was the fact that T is very serious. He very rarely makes a joke; he looks... serious, if not stern.  If you put T and I together, there are a lot of similarities but I’m not what you would call a manly man and the biggest difference (apart from the gray hair - mine remains a mousy blond) is that I am usually very far from serious.  In fact, I can often be a bit of a goof.

Is that, I wondered, what makes the difference?  Is that what being a man (and manly) is all about? Taking everything seriously?  I find that hard to do and I’m not sure it’s the best response, anyway.  Life’s too serious to take seriously and I’ve often found that my humour (which I’m informed is sometimes funny to others and not just to me) has helped me enormously.  But perhaps the downside of that is that I’m not seen as manly?

I’ve always had far more female friends than male because they’ve always seemed more interesting; certainly when I was younger, the other men I knew didn’t seem to be interested in much else other than football or some other sport.  It has nothing to do with sexual attraction (I wouldn’t dream of coming on to my female friends, anymore than I’d proposition my sister) and I’ve met some very attractive men - and again I wonder whether, as a man, it’s okay to say that? 

In fact, that reminds me of a story, on which I’ll conclude this little piece.  Many years ago, I knew a guy called Roger.  Roger was a semi-pro football player and very definitely a man’s man but he liked me because I made him laugh and I liked him because - well, everyone liked him - and so we palled around together.  Roger decided to cook his girlfriend a meal for her birthday.  However, as a manly man, he had no idea of how to go about this and so he asked me to help.  Armed with a simple recipe, one that I thought he’d have no trouble following, Roger and I went off to Sainsburys one lunchtime, to buy the ingredients.

You know what it’s like in the supermarket - you fall into a rhythm with other shoppers and you see the same people again and again up and down the aisles.  Anyway, Roger and I were making our way around the supermarket and bickering, as he questioned every ingredient (does it have to be balsamic vinegar - won’t ordinary do?) and I noticed an older lady watching us.  Eventually we all ended up in the same checkout queue (she was in front of us) and Roger and I were still bickering, good naturedly.  I noticed the woman, watching and smiling benignly and it struck me what she was smiling about; I leaned over to Roger and whispered to him, “the woman in front of us thinks we’re gay.”  

Now I thought this was hysterically funny and actually a little bit flattering as Roger was way out of my league, to be honest.  And being seen as gay has never bothered me in the slightest.  It happens a lot (probably because I’m as camp as a row of tents at times) and I have gay friends with whom I happily flirt, which may or may not be a manly thing to do and might just mean I’m an attention whore.  Roger, on the other hand, was genuinely offended - offended enough, in fact, to offend me a little bit (am I really such a repulsive prospect as a boyfriend?) and enough to make me wonder, looking back, whether he was protesting a little too much.  

And I suppose that in recounting this tale I’ve stumbled on the point of my rambling: I am who I am.  By gender, I am a man but I am a man in a way that’s different to every other man in the world, each of whom is a man in his own unique way. In the way that Little ‘Un will be a man in his own way.  Perhaps I should worry less about what it means to be a man and concentrate a little more on what it means to be me.

The taxman cometh

I knew it was coming.  It happens every year at this time and, as I’m self-employed, it’s about the worst time of the year.  Time to pay my tax.

Now, I have to say up front that I don’t really begrudge paying my taxes.  Tax is the price we pay for living in society and I don’t have any great issue with either paying it or how it’s spent.  I do well enough and it’s only fair that, through the tax system, I should pay for the facilities I use as well as subsidising services for those less fortunate.

No one is going to negotiate with the Inland Revenue on my behalf, and I don’t want them to.  No one at HMRC is going to cut me a deal and let me off my tax, or reduce it.  I’ll have to pay what I owe, no question and no excuses.  I am not too big to fail; as a small businessman, I’m the perfect size to fail and have no one notice at all.  I think this is one of the reasons why stories about multinational, multi-billion corporations being let off their taxes frustrate me so much - pay tax is your duty as a citizen, individual or corporate.

So it’s not that actual paying of the tax - it’s the fact that, when you’re self-employed, you have to pay tax in two big lumps.  You get paid gross and it sits there in your bank account, just daring you to spend it.  But it’s not all yours - you’re just looking after some of it for the tax man.  And no matter how hard you try not to, it’s very easy to forget that fact.  You look at the number on the bank statement and forget that, in reality, it’s not all there - some of it doesn’t belong to you and, in January, you’re going to have to give some of it back.

When I got the call from my accountant this morning I was, for the first time in a long time, scared.  Properly, pacing around the house, sick to my stomach, not sure what to do scared.  The number was much (twice) bigger than I had expected and I’d committed one of the cardinal sins of the self-employed: I’d forgotten that that money in the bank wasn’t all mine.  Thank goodness, I hadn’t committed the other cardinal can of the self-employed and spent it.  It was just quite a blow.  Particularly as 2011/12 is going to turn out to be a bad year whilst the year I now have to pay tax for - 2010/11 - was actually quite good.

Other people have got it worse: I’m not looking for sympathy.  I’ve got the money, I’ll pay my tax.  But it was a shock and it reminded me that there really is no one else around that I can rely on or lean on.  I don’t mean to lend me the money, or anything like that; it’s just one of those times when being single is particularly difficult, I think.  There’s no one to tell me it’ll be okay, or give me a hug, or take my mind off it.  No one to make me a cup of tea and talk things through with. 

Okay, so maybe I am looking for your sympathy on that front but when you’re single, you have to do all that stuff yourself.  Or you can do what I do, I suppose - brood on it for a while, feel miserable and then complain to you!

And just like that...

So, a while ago I heard about this show. I don't remember where I heard it or even what I heard - whatever it was was enough to pique my interest and when FX decided to air the show over Christmas, I dutifully set the Sky Plus box to record the series and got on with watching other things.

I ploughed through the entire series of Braquo (French and brilliant) and then the second season of Boardwalk Empire (generally good, with some genuinely shocking moments and some terrific performances) and I was looking for something new to watch.

And there was this show: five episodes of half an hour each. So tonight I decided to watch them all, back to back. After watching the first episode, I wasn't sure what I thought and I put a tweet out asking whether anyone had seen it...

And that's how I ended up spending the evening watching the show while, at the same time, chatting on Twitter with the guy who made it. How cool is that?

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A little while after I posted this, I remembered something that happened three or so years ago. Bear with me - there's a point to this!

I was flicking through the movie channels and I came across some film or other: it wasn't a big budget movie, more like a made-for-TV issue of the week type thing. I watched it for ten minutes and, for some reason I can't remember, decided I'd look the film up on the IMDB.

I noticed that that someone had posts a comment in about 2005, asking whether anyone had a copy of the movie. I emailed the address and asked if they were still looking: they were. Turns out the film was based on a true story and they knew some of the real people involved so I was able to record it, transfer it to DVD and then post it to them in the US.

I'm not trying to blow my own trumpet here- it's nothing I wouldn't have done for anyone, really, and I'm sure most of you would have done the same. My point is, the technology that you're using to read this - that I'm using to type this - makes us incredibly connected, in ways that simply have never been possible before. Let's try to do good things with it, eh?

And on that preachy note, I'm off to bed.

Happy New Year!

I hope 2012 brings what you want, what you need, and that both of those two overlap perfectly.