Once upon a time, there was a TV program about an old man who had a time machine. As this was the 1960s and Britain, the program was black and white and a bit rubbish and featured cardboard aliens and many trips to the past to reuse props made for other, historical dramas made by the BBC. But the writers were inventive, and the series offered a bit of (metaphorical) colour and adventure on a Saturday tea-time. It didn't take itself too seriously: it was just...fun.
Then the man playing the central character got a bit too old and tired and the people making the program had a brilliant idea. By the time I caught up with Doctor Who, Jon Pertwee had taken over. He had a ring (he also had a tattoo, which the Doctor never seems to mention any more) and so I took to wearing the rubber tyre from a Lego wheel as a ring. He was fond of calling people "old chap" and so I adopted the same mannerism - either an endearing or an irritating thing for an eight year old to do. I think I secretly craved a frilly shirt and a velvet smoking jacket back then - I know that I do now.
Despite all that, Pertwee was never what we are now supposed to call "my" Doctor - "my" Doctor was Tom Baker.
I fell in love with Doctor Who because of Baker: all wild eyes and wild hair, eccentric and unpredictable, funny and brilliant. It was fun: he was fun. The stories, at least at the start, were fantastic and my nan's friend knitted me a twenty-foot long scarf, just like the Doctor's. Sadly, she'd never seen the program and so used pastel colours which must've looked ridiculous but didn't stop me wearing it everywhere.
As I grew up, I began to lose touch with the series: Peter Davidson was okay; Colin Baker never really stood a chance. I had a brief flirtation with the series when Sylvester McCoy joined but, by then, I'd really moved on. I was sad when the series ended but not really surprised. It was part of my childhood and the time had come to put away childish things, as someone once said.
Then an odd thing happened. The series, just like the Doctor, came back from the dead. And, just like the Tom Baker days, it was brilliant and funny and moving and scary. By this time, I had a son and could share it with him and, much to my pleasure, he loved it too. The Daleks were scary again; the Tardis (or should that be TARDIS) looked great and the Doctor was convincing. I looked forward to watching it with Little 'Un - it was something we'd try to watch when it was broadcast, rather than timeshifting it: it was event TV for me.
But I started to notice something: as Eccleston gave way to Tennant, the Doctor started to get a bit... messianic. The program started to take itself seriously, trying to root itself in reality. The writers and show-runners began to realise that they could do increasingly complex things but not really have to explain them because, hey - time travel, right? Wibbly wobbly timey-wimey became an excuse for sloppy writing and deus ex machina.
And now we're up to date. I watched The Snowmen, the latest Christmas special, the other day. It was okay - had some nice touches. Matt Smith does a good job and sometimes the old magic is there. But something's missing, and I'm starting to wonder whether I'm just growing away from the series again. First we had Rose, who absorbed the energy of the Tardis and destroyed the Daleks, then there was Donna, who saved the universe, then there was Amy and the whole River Pond thing and now we've got a new companion, who has supposedly died twice. I guess it's meant to be intriguing but it just makes me feel exhausted to think that we're going to have yet another series-long mystery. Everything feels so bloody portentous and, yes, messianic again: perhaps I'm getting too old but I miss the days when it was just... fun.
Sunday, December 30, 2012
Thursday, December 20, 2012
What's the point
My post yesterday reminded me of a piece I wrote for another website, a few years ago, and I thought I'd reproduce it here, should you be interested:
In 1996, astronomers at NASA decided to try an experiment using the Hubble Space Telescope. They chose a patch of the night sky that appeared to be “empty” and focused the telescope on that patch for ten days. It wasn’t a very big patch of sky – roughly the size of a ten pence coin when viewed from 75 feet away – but what it revealed was astonishing. Within that patch of sky, Hubble photographed approximately 1,500 galaxies. Yes, you read that correctly: galaxies.
Our galaxy, which is thought to be average, as these things go, contains approximately 200 billion stars. When you think of 1,500 galaxies each containing an average of 200 billion stars, the numbers start to add up. Astronomers calculate that, as the universe is uniform, that tiny, “empty” patch of sky is representative of every other patch of sky in every other direction. Space, as Douglas Adams wrote, is big. Really big.
The duration of our lives, the years we spend growing up, on projects, on learning, on building a home and a family for ourselves, doesn’t even register on the cosmic scale. The nearest galaxy to us is the Canis Major Dwarf Galaxy (just a tiny one – only a billion stars) and light from that takes 25,000 years to reach Earth. The light we see now left Canis when pre-civilisation, primitive mankind still shivered in caves in the grip of an ice age. In the face of this incomprehensible scale, our actions are meaningless: nothing we do or say can have even the slightest impact on the universe. So why bother doing what you do? Why struggle and strive; suffer pain and heartache and sacrifice and the occasional, fleeting, joy or happiness? Why do you even bother to get out of bed in the morning? What is the point?
Before you think that I’ve become completely nihilistic, the point I’m making is that we all need a point. And as the universe clearly doesn’t provide one, we have to create one for ourselves. We have to create meaning and purpose in what we do – otherwise, we lose touch with it and simply give up. For some people, it will come from an organised religion; for others, their children; for others, music. It’s intensely personal and it is essential to living. Many years ago, I was a Samaritan; I heard plenty of people tell me that their life had no meaning or purpose but nobody was ever happy about it. Having no meaning or purpose – to anything we do, large or small – robs us of any reason to do it.
It’s an obvious point but so often overlooked. It applies at the macro level of our lives and it applies at the micro level of every task we do at work. If there is no meaning and purpose to the job we do – or the job we ask others to do – then we have to seriously question ourselves on what the consequences of that are. Our lives do matter: the work we do, the actions we take, the time we spend all matter. But we have to make them matter.
So you tell me: what’s the point?
In 1996, astronomers at NASA decided to try an experiment using the Hubble Space Telescope. They chose a patch of the night sky that appeared to be “empty” and focused the telescope on that patch for ten days. It wasn’t a very big patch of sky – roughly the size of a ten pence coin when viewed from 75 feet away – but what it revealed was astonishing. Within that patch of sky, Hubble photographed approximately 1,500 galaxies. Yes, you read that correctly: galaxies.
Our galaxy, which is thought to be average, as these things go, contains approximately 200 billion stars. When you think of 1,500 galaxies each containing an average of 200 billion stars, the numbers start to add up. Astronomers calculate that, as the universe is uniform, that tiny, “empty” patch of sky is representative of every other patch of sky in every other direction. Space, as Douglas Adams wrote, is big. Really big.
The duration of our lives, the years we spend growing up, on projects, on learning, on building a home and a family for ourselves, doesn’t even register on the cosmic scale. The nearest galaxy to us is the Canis Major Dwarf Galaxy (just a tiny one – only a billion stars) and light from that takes 25,000 years to reach Earth. The light we see now left Canis when pre-civilisation, primitive mankind still shivered in caves in the grip of an ice age. In the face of this incomprehensible scale, our actions are meaningless: nothing we do or say can have even the slightest impact on the universe. So why bother doing what you do? Why struggle and strive; suffer pain and heartache and sacrifice and the occasional, fleeting, joy or happiness? Why do you even bother to get out of bed in the morning? What is the point?
Before you think that I’ve become completely nihilistic, the point I’m making is that we all need a point. And as the universe clearly doesn’t provide one, we have to create one for ourselves. We have to create meaning and purpose in what we do – otherwise, we lose touch with it and simply give up. For some people, it will come from an organised religion; for others, their children; for others, music. It’s intensely personal and it is essential to living. Many years ago, I was a Samaritan; I heard plenty of people tell me that their life had no meaning or purpose but nobody was ever happy about it. Having no meaning or purpose – to anything we do, large or small – robs us of any reason to do it.
It’s an obvious point but so often overlooked. It applies at the macro level of our lives and it applies at the micro level of every task we do at work. If there is no meaning and purpose to the job we do – or the job we ask others to do – then we have to seriously question ourselves on what the consequences of that are. Our lives do matter: the work we do, the actions we take, the time we spend all matter. But we have to make them matter.
So you tell me: what’s the point?
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
Out there, right now...
As I think I've mentioned somewhere before, I lost my faith many years ago and so the transcendent has to happen for me outside of the religious sphere. (Wow - how pretentious is that sentence? Keep reading, it gets better.) Sometimes, it comes from doing things like standing by the sea shore, looking out at the power of the ocean, but most often it comes from looking at pictures like this one, which is from NASA's Cassini mission.
About fifteen years ago, NASA launched the Cassini probe and right now, over a billion kilometers away from where you're sitting, reading this, that little probe is taking astonishing pictures. There are many, many other wonderful pictures on the official website, which you can find here, and I can't recommend it strongly enough.
The news this last week has been full of tragedy, misery and horror but the thing that struck me when I looked at that picture was that this is happening, right now. Out there, literally a billion kilometers away, this strange and beautiful plant orbits in silence. It is utterly indifferent to everything that happens here; it will continue to orbit after you and I are long dead, unchanged in any way by our living or our passing. It exists wholly independent of anything that happens on this faraway, insignificant planet.
I find that both terrifying and strangely comforting. Oh look - I got all pretentious again at the end.
About fifteen years ago, NASA launched the Cassini probe and right now, over a billion kilometers away from where you're sitting, reading this, that little probe is taking astonishing pictures. There are many, many other wonderful pictures on the official website, which you can find here, and I can't recommend it strongly enough.
The news this last week has been full of tragedy, misery and horror but the thing that struck me when I looked at that picture was that this is happening, right now. Out there, literally a billion kilometers away, this strange and beautiful plant orbits in silence. It is utterly indifferent to everything that happens here; it will continue to orbit after you and I are long dead, unchanged in any way by our living or our passing. It exists wholly independent of anything that happens on this faraway, insignificant planet.
I find that both terrifying and strangely comforting. Oh look - I got all pretentious again at the end.
Friday, December 14, 2012
Every new beginning
For the last eight - nearly nine - years, I've been self-employed. It wasn't really something I chose: I never had a great desire to run my own business or be my own boss - working freelance was just the quickest way of getting myself working again after finding my role in a large insurance company suddenly made redundant.
Much to my surprise, I made a go of it. In fact, for nine years I was able to feed and clothe myself, pay for holidays and pay my rent and various other bills which, when you consider what the economy has been like for the last few years, is quite an achievement. I even managed to find some clients of my own, rather than solely relying on other companies to put work my way.
Working freelance tends involve feast or famine: you're either fantastically busy or wandering around the house in your underpants, looking for something to do. In the past, that freedom has allowed me to study and get my degree, as well as enjoying a lot of time off and giving me to freedom to spend time in the holidays with Little 'Un.
When I moved across to Hong Kong, the business model was fundamentally the same. I had to be a bit more official about it - registering my own company (bizarrely, I'm actually a director now) rather than working, as I had in the UK, as a sole trader, but it was pretty much the same - periods of crazy business followed by longer periods of sitting around.
But all things must change. The attraction of sitting around has begun to pall. The days have started to drag. I'm starting to feel... bored. I have things to do but there are so few of them on my list that I'm not really interested in doing them. It's one of those odd things about life: when there's no time, there's loads to do - when there's loads of time, suddenly I can't be bothered to do anything.
And so, after the best part of a decade of being my own boss, of working from home, of taking days off whenever I like, of deciding not to bother doing anything when I wake up in the morning, it's all coming to an end. I am joining the ranks of the gainfully employed and accepting a job.
Of course, I'm excited about it: it's a great opportunity and a chance to do something slightly different. It also adds some much needed security, knowing that the money will be coming in regularly each month. But as well as being excited, I also feel nervous and a bit sick; I'm getting that slightly sickly trapped feeling that I get when the MTR stops in the tunnel.
For the first time in nearly a decade I have to get up every morning and go into an office, which is going to be a little bit painful for a while. I don't expect anyone to feel sorry for me about this - I know that most people do it - it's just another change that 2012 has brought. I've been fantastically lucky over my time in self employment and, who knows, maybe I'll go back to it one day although I enjoyed the lifestyle far more than actually running my own business. If only I could find a way of being paid to do nothing. I must dig out that half-finished novel...
Much to my surprise, I made a go of it. In fact, for nine years I was able to feed and clothe myself, pay for holidays and pay my rent and various other bills which, when you consider what the economy has been like for the last few years, is quite an achievement. I even managed to find some clients of my own, rather than solely relying on other companies to put work my way.
Working freelance tends involve feast or famine: you're either fantastically busy or wandering around the house in your underpants, looking for something to do. In the past, that freedom has allowed me to study and get my degree, as well as enjoying a lot of time off and giving me to freedom to spend time in the holidays with Little 'Un.
When I moved across to Hong Kong, the business model was fundamentally the same. I had to be a bit more official about it - registering my own company (bizarrely, I'm actually a director now) rather than working, as I had in the UK, as a sole trader, but it was pretty much the same - periods of crazy business followed by longer periods of sitting around.
But all things must change. The attraction of sitting around has begun to pall. The days have started to drag. I'm starting to feel... bored. I have things to do but there are so few of them on my list that I'm not really interested in doing them. It's one of those odd things about life: when there's no time, there's loads to do - when there's loads of time, suddenly I can't be bothered to do anything.
And so, after the best part of a decade of being my own boss, of working from home, of taking days off whenever I like, of deciding not to bother doing anything when I wake up in the morning, it's all coming to an end. I am joining the ranks of the gainfully employed and accepting a job.
Of course, I'm excited about it: it's a great opportunity and a chance to do something slightly different. It also adds some much needed security, knowing that the money will be coming in regularly each month. But as well as being excited, I also feel nervous and a bit sick; I'm getting that slightly sickly trapped feeling that I get when the MTR stops in the tunnel.
For the first time in nearly a decade I have to get up every morning and go into an office, which is going to be a little bit painful for a while. I don't expect anyone to feel sorry for me about this - I know that most people do it - it's just another change that 2012 has brought. I've been fantastically lucky over my time in self employment and, who knows, maybe I'll go back to it one day although I enjoyed the lifestyle far more than actually running my own business. If only I could find a way of being paid to do nothing. I must dig out that half-finished novel...
Sunday, December 09, 2012
Otsuichi
I like it when people who know me recommend things. I like the fact that they know enough about me, and the thing they're recommending, to put the two of us together. Recommend a song and I'll take a listen; recommend a film and I'll give it a look. The only exception to this rule (there has to be one, it's a rule) is when it comes to books. For some reason, books are so personal (and reading takes up so much precious time) that I'm loathe to take recommendations, although I'm more than happy to dish them out.
The one thing that we all have in common is that one day all of us will wake up for the last time. When our eyes open that morning, we probably won't know we'll never do that again - although we live with the fact of it, death comes as a surprise to many of us, I think. We are the only thing on the planet, as far as we know, that lives with a knowledge of its own mortality. Our cat doesn't lay awake at night, wondering if she's wasted her life, feeling every twinge and ache and wondering if it's a symptom of something terrible.
I have no faith, so there's no afterlife for me to look forward to. No one knows what happens when we die - perhaps I'm wrong and there is an afterlife - but I'm pretty certain that we just wink out, cease to exist. Like a candle flame that existed for a brief time, illuminated the small space around it, and was then extinguished. I'm fascinated by the idea that one day all of this - look around you for what "this" means - will all stop. There's a lot of talk at the moment about the end of the world and, while it probably won't happen in 2012, the world will end at some point in the next thirty to forty years. Because I'll die in the next thirty to forty years and the world will end when I die.
The best description I've ever found of this experience comes from a short story by the Japanese writer Otsuichi, called Song of the Sunny Spot. It's contained in a book of his short stories called Zoo, translated from Japanese by Terry Gallagher. Perhaps I'm just in an especially reflective mood on a Sunday morning but I highly, highly recommend this book and this story in particular. You can find it on Amazon, here.
The one thing that we all have in common is that one day all of us will wake up for the last time. When our eyes open that morning, we probably won't know we'll never do that again - although we live with the fact of it, death comes as a surprise to many of us, I think. We are the only thing on the planet, as far as we know, that lives with a knowledge of its own mortality. Our cat doesn't lay awake at night, wondering if she's wasted her life, feeling every twinge and ache and wondering if it's a symptom of something terrible.
I have no faith, so there's no afterlife for me to look forward to. No one knows what happens when we die - perhaps I'm wrong and there is an afterlife - but I'm pretty certain that we just wink out, cease to exist. Like a candle flame that existed for a brief time, illuminated the small space around it, and was then extinguished. I'm fascinated by the idea that one day all of this - look around you for what "this" means - will all stop. There's a lot of talk at the moment about the end of the world and, while it probably won't happen in 2012, the world will end at some point in the next thirty to forty years. Because I'll die in the next thirty to forty years and the world will end when I die.
The best description I've ever found of this experience comes from a short story by the Japanese writer Otsuichi, called Song of the Sunny Spot. It's contained in a book of his short stories called Zoo, translated from Japanese by Terry Gallagher. Perhaps I'm just in an especially reflective mood on a Sunday morning but I highly, highly recommend this book and this story in particular. You can find it on Amazon, here.
Thursday, December 06, 2012
Back to school
As Asian cities go, Hong Kong is pretty "western-friendly" - by which I mean it's relatively easy for westerners to fit in, mostly because there's a lot of English written and spoken here. That's obviously a legacy of the British involvement in Hong Kong over the last century or so and it is changing - slowly, Cantonese (the local language) and Mandarin (the "official" Chinese language) are reasserting themselves. It's very unlikely that English will disappear at any point in the foreseeable future, given HK's profile in the business world and the use of English in business but if you want to fit in and get around a bit more easily, it's good to know a little bit of Chinese.
S is teaching me a whole variety of useful Canto phrases, and so I've been learning to speak and read Mandarin, with the help of an excellent website called Memrise, which I highly recommend. Mandarin is tricky because it's not based on an alphabet like a lot of western languages. Not only do you have to learn the sounds of words (and the correct tones) you also have to learn to recognise the symbols and also their pinyin spellings, which is the way that the sounds of the symbols are translated into a western alphabet. It sounds complicated, and it is, but what this means is that for the first time in nearly 45 years, I'm learning to read all over again.
I think S is getting a bit tired of me stopping in the middle of the street, pointing to signs, and excitedly pointing to the one symbol I recognise, but it's great fun for me. I'm also realising that learning to speak Mandarin is not just a case of translating from one language to another. For instance 小 means small and 心 means heart. Easy, right? Put them together, however, and you find that 小心 means caution! Obviously. I think this explains some of the bizarre "Chinglish" tee shirts that I've been seeing!
S is teaching me a whole variety of useful Canto phrases, and so I've been learning to speak and read Mandarin, with the help of an excellent website called Memrise, which I highly recommend. Mandarin is tricky because it's not based on an alphabet like a lot of western languages. Not only do you have to learn the sounds of words (and the correct tones) you also have to learn to recognise the symbols and also their pinyin spellings, which is the way that the sounds of the symbols are translated into a western alphabet. It sounds complicated, and it is, but what this means is that for the first time in nearly 45 years, I'm learning to read all over again.
I think S is getting a bit tired of me stopping in the middle of the street, pointing to signs, and excitedly pointing to the one symbol I recognise, but it's great fun for me. I'm also realising that learning to speak Mandarin is not just a case of translating from one language to another. For instance 小 means small and 心 means heart. Easy, right? Put them together, however, and you find that 小心 means caution! Obviously. I think this explains some of the bizarre "Chinglish" tee shirts that I've been seeing!
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