End

So; 2012 is fast approaching an end. Time to stop and reflect on what has been achieved, and what, despite one's best efforts, has been less successful. Friendships gained and lost. Opportunities grasped courageously and those allowed to slip shamefacedly away.

It has rained a lot.

I watched quite a bit of sport, what with the Olympics, and Euro2012, and the Tour de France; and somehow managed to complete my first ever 10km run. Though stroll may be a fairer description. Otherwise, for a while I made more of an effort to get out on my bike; though this has fallen sadly by the wayside with the arrival of winter. And rain.

I read quite a few books, preferring to buy the old-fashioned paper copies rather than those new-fangled electronic versions (which, mark my words, will never catch on). In particular, working my way through the complete Sherlock Holmes has been a highlight of the last few years. I had another go at Proust but am starting to despair. I've still made no progress whatsoever on beginning my own novel. It would help, I think, if I had the faintest inkling of what to write about. The old adage of writing about what you know best is hardly inspiring when I stop to consider the uneventful life I lead. Unless I can somehow work computational chemistry and learning to play the lute into the plot. And rain.

I have managed to stay in employment, which is always a good thing in such difficult economic times. The bank balance is never as large as I would like. I am not sure what to do about this.

Notable are all the things I haven't done nearly as often as I would have wished. Like travelling to distant lands, or even distant corners of the land I'm in at the moment; or trips to the concert hall or cinema; or installing a new kitchen; or doing something creative with the garden; and lots of other things too numerous to mention. I could make them all into resolutions for 2013, but that might be a bit too ambitious. Better to pick something simple that I have some chance of achieving. Not the Teach Yourself Ukrainian then.

Plague

– You look rough.
– Thank you. It's only a cold.
– Right. Even so, you have to keep an eye on these things. They can turn nasty.
– They can?
– Well, they can spread to the chest, can't they? And from there it's a short step, anatomically speaking, to your liver, and spleen; and brain.
– Do colds spread like that? I thought it was more like a few days of snuffly noses; that sort of thing.
– Well, it's down to viruses, you know: they can multiply and invade local tissues like – like viruses. Mutating as they go.
– Sounds a bit grisly.
– It's best to be prepared, I find. Have you seen a doctor?
– No...
– Probably not worth it. Not now.
– What do you suggest I do?
– Just take it easy, I guess. Try not to do too much. There's nothing so important that it won't wait a few weeks till you get better. Or if I can be of any help, let me know, and I'll try to take some time off work. February will probably be quiet for me if you're still going by then.
– Thank you.
– And I always find hot drinks to be a great help; and a high energy diet. Such as mince pies.
– That sounds good.
– Yes. I'd be happy to join you if you were thinking of getting some out.

Sprout

– Well, that's another Christmas come and gone. All those months of preparation (or so people tell me; I must have put in a solid week myself) and then it's over before you notice.
– I don't know. There do to seem to be fewer festive lights around the streets today. And I noticed a lady in a shop window taking down her tree this morning, which was a little sad. But I always think the celebrations should carry on for a good few days.
– Twelfth nightish.
– Yes. It somehow seems more appropriate than it all going flat by Boxing Day, and everyone being swept away by the sales. Let alone the sales beginning online on Christmas Day itself.
– Certainly have enough food to last well into the New Year. Still can't open the fridge without things falling out on top of me. And hardly made much of an impact on the pudding.
– I rather like the way these things last. Certainly helps with menu planning for the first few weeks of January.
– So did Christmas go smoothly?
– I guess so: more or less. There is always so much to do: you rather lose track of the days.
– Thursday.
– Sorry?
– Today's Thursday.
– Yes. I meant you tend to lose sight of the bigger picture: get too bogged down with the details: how many hours to cook the sprouts, that sort of thing.
– At such times, all you can do is to try your best. And hope the sprouts are edible.

Eve

– All done?
– I don't know. I'm running out of steam. It's getting late. Maybe time to call it a day.
– Best not to attempt stuffing the turkey when you're tired. The consequences are too dreadful to think about.
– Probably. If I get up early enough tomorrow, I should have time before breakfast.
– Nothing quite like manhandling a dead turkey on an empty stomach.
– Perhaps I'll get up early enough to have breakfast first.
– It will be Christmas Day. You should have a lie-in on Christmas Day. Gone are the days when small children would start leaping on your bed at 5 in the morning.
– Indeed.
– What time does the cat wake up?
– About 5 in the morning.
– Well, it'll be just like having small children running around the house again. That'll be something to look forward to. Especially as the cat won't be as demanding: a bowl of food and a warm radiator and she'll be fast asleep for the rest of the day. Small children, on the other hand, need to be entertained for hours before they crash out. And the cat will be happy to hoover up stray bits of turkey. Whereas children tend to grumble if you feed them on nothing but scraps.
– There are also some bits of wrapping left to do. Nothing urgent. But it never feels right to be wrapping Christmas presents on the day itself. Let alone on Boxing Day. I ought to do some now... You know, there's a carol that keeps going round my head.
– Probably a sign of intense fatigue. I would keep away from the scissors if I were you.
– Then why should men on earth be so sad?
– That's a difficult one to answer. Why do you ask?
– No, that's the carol that keeps going round my head.
– Right. You should definitely keep away from the scissors.

Turkey

Not many days left. Today was perhaps a little disappointing in terms of gift shopping, but more productive with regards to food. To tell the truth, there are not many gifts left to get; but then again the sands of time are rapidly running out. Not much you can do about the sands of time: they have a mind of their own. Unless you can find some slow-running sand somewhere. There is an opportunity waiting to be developed there.

On the plus side, I am now the proud owner of a turkey. I have had them before. The previous one didn't last all that long. This one is safely installed in the fridge, oblivious of the fate that awaits it. Although the jar of cranberry sauce on the top shelf might give it a clue.

I don't mind turkey. Some people seem to be less enthusiastic about it, as if it were just a chicken with delusions of grandeur. But there is something inescapably Christmassy about it, although that may be more to do with the folk wearing paper hats sitting around it, pulling crackers and hiding sprouts under their plates. It's true you can get to eat quite a lot of turkey over the Yuletime period, if you put your mind to it, but it is a versatile ingredient that can enliven so many dishes. I ought to write up a few of my favourites as I go along. Posterity would be all the poorer without them.

Cranberry

We are entering that awkward run up period to Christmas: the final few days of preparation, when you have to start thinking in earnest about whether you have bought all the presents; or indeed any presents. And the food shopping: that's quite tricky to get right. Do you go early to avoid the queues, only to struggle for several days with your fridge completely taken over by an irate turkey? Or do you play it cool – wait till the last minute, late on Christmas Eve, when everyone else is at home breaking into the mince pies, only to find there is just a single sprout left at the supermarket?

I've been buying bits and pieces of food over the past few days. With a rough prototype draft of a shopping list in front of me, for inspiration, you might say, but not necessarily to be followed slavishly. This may be a problem when I end up on Christmas morning with a selection of fifteen different cheeses but very little else to eat. The other problem will be finding the things I have bought. The general lack of storage space in the house means that the fridge and cupboards get filled very quickly, and all the additional festive items have to be squirrelled away in whichever nook and cranny comes to hand. So on the big day I will spend hours searching for the cranberry sauce that I know I purchased weeks ago but which will do its utmost to hide itself away till I stumble upon it at the back of the bathroom cabinet some time around Easter.

A flying snowman. Actually, it's hanging on a thread.

Age

– Well, I guess it's nearly over.
– Yes... These things are gone before you realise. Another day. Another birthday.
– You don't look any older. Which is good.
– Thank you.
– In fact, given your age, you're holding up rather well.
– Again, thank you; I think.
– Though I suppose there's no point deluding yourself. There comes a time when you have to acknowledge your age.
– In what way...?
– You know, realise your limitations. Look after yourself: start to take things easy: conserve what little energy you have left.
– Of course... Actually, I don't feel so very different from yesterday. I don't feel as if I am about to fall to pieces.
– Glad to hear it. It's always best to keep a positive attitude. Once you start to give way to despondent thoughts, it's a downward spiral. So they tell me.
– I'll do what I can...
– That's the spirit. Of course, there is always a limit to what you can achieve. Boils down to genetics, in the end.
– Right...
– But don't let that put you off.
– No; not in the least. Always good to have goals in life.
– Just make sure they're not too long term.

Tree

So the Christmas tree is now up and running. I put it up yesterday evening; a bit late compared to most of the neighbours, some of whom have been illuminating the night sky with their external decorations for weeks now. I always like to involve the children in these things, thinking it will make them feel Christmassy and generally cheer them up. But only my daughter was around, and she settled for sticking a few snowflakes around the new living room mirror, and then sat down again. But it's there now: looking a lot like it did last year, and the year before, and quite possibly the year before that; especially as it's the same tree, which lives in a box in the loft for most of the year. I ought to get around to getting a real tree again; but I get put off by wandering around garden centres trying to find the perfect specimen; and forcing it into the car when it doesn't particularly want to go in; and lugging it into the house, leaving a trail of needles everywhere; and then unwrapping it to find it isn't such a perfect specimen after all but is missing something on one side, and leans worryingly. I go for a fairly subtle and understated style of tree decoration, mainly because I don't have all that many decorations; but the ones I have display a certain quiet and dignified charm. As long as the cat doesn't take a shine to them, they should last many years to come.

I have my original laptop back from the repairers; which means I can type several orders of magnitude faster than on my old laptop, the one with the missing letters. I remember, as a child, a watch repairers, where we would take watches, and even clocks, to be repaired. These were clocks that worked by clockwork, and hence could be repaired by a little old man with a hammer and a screwdriver. Nowadays these things are practically disposable: it's barely worth the effort or the cost to replace the battery. And it's the same with computers: they are becoming disposable, with a year or two's shelf life at most. It seems wasteful: high-tech gluttony, gorging ourselves on far more electronic calories than we need to survive.

Cheer

I suppose today must in some way be auspicious, the date being 12/12/12. Not the sort of thing that happens very often; and certainly won't be happening again in my lifetime. I didn't notice anything special, I'm afraid; and wasn't even aware when it turned 12 minutes past 12; at which point you would have thought people would leap out of their seats, wave their arms frantically in the air, let rip a raucous halloo, and then calmly, but contentedly, sit back down and continue with their lunch. I just continued with my lunch. But that is a recurrent problem of mine: I never know how to celebrate in an appropriate manner. I am just too reserved for my own good. Had I noticed the clock, I might have come out with a sober cheer, keeping my voice down, of course, so as not to disturb the other occupants of the office. But the chance has gone now. For ever.

But if you are keen on these things, you can always find more subtle patterns to brighten up an otherwise lacklustre day: perhaps sequences such as 10/11/12 (which you missed last month) or palindromes such as 21/11/12 (ditto, unless you write your dates in the North American fashion, in which case it doesn't really work). The possibilities are almost endless.

Deer

It seemed bitterly cold all day today: perhaps the pain is a price worth paying if it helps to put you in a suitably festive mood. A friend at work has gone to spend Christmas in Australia. It's just not the same, nibbling turkey sandwiches on the beach. Turkeys, like penguins, belong to polar climates. I guess you could always turn up the air conditioning to make it feel a little more Christmassy. Provided you remembered to bring a portable air conditioning unit with you to the beach.

Whereas here you can revel in the fast-approaching winter solstice, and, as I did yesterday, go for a walk somewhere suitably bleak and desolate late in the afternoon as the sun is beginning to set. It was Tatton Park, which you may not normally think of as either bleak or desolate, but on a cold winter's day, under glowering grey skies, with chill winds whipping up the grim black waters of the mere, and few souls foolhardy enough to venture out, it can seem positively Wuthering Heights-ish. And they shut the gates fairly early, too; which adds to the sense of dread and impending doom as you begin to wonder if you'll be locked in over night, left to survive the elements as best you can, and somehow avoid being devoured by the vast herds of wild and unruly deer.

Advent

It is Advent; has been for a week or so, depending how you reckon it; whether by the Liturgical calendar or the Advent calendar; the difference between the two being something I find myself explaining to my children each year, without them ever showing any sign of remembering; which might reflect my inadequacy at expounding essential points of canon law; or the overwhelming logic of the chocolate variety. I didn't get around to getting myself an Advent calendar this year, although my daughter persuaded me to get one for the cat. Which sounds mildly sacrilegious; though you never know, Cat may be quite devout in her own way. And probably doesn't care too much on what day it begins.

The Christmas concert went well this evening, with a selection of carols by the choir and some others for audience participation, as well as some cheery orchestral items. It is a good idea to have the audience joining in: it keeps them on their toes, and helps them to appreciate the immense effort involved in singing Christmas carols in tune, while simultaneously getting the words right. We sang some Buxtehude, too; which is always nice for a change. No idea what the words meant, but I made my best effort at a baroque German accent. My daughter's school play was an even greater success yesterday: she was a lion in the classic Shakespeare play about lions. And walls.

Frost

Maybe it is to be expected, but it seems to be getting colder. With bits of ice here and there, as if to underline the point. And there is talk of impending snow. Definitely wintry.

I'm not sure what the cat thinks of all this. It must be confusing for her, this sudden drop in temperature. At least we humans are reasonably well-prepared: we notice the appearence of Yuletide gifts and foodstuffs filling the shops, and we know autumn has arrived. And sure enough, within a couple of months Christmas is here. But Cat presumably cannot pick up on such subtleties. Does she remember winter from last year? How long does a cat's memory last? Granted they don't have much to think about at the best of times: you might imagine a simple memory might hang around for quite a while before anything better comes along to displace it. I will have to observe her closely when I put up the Christmas tree: see if there is any flicker of recognition. I seem to remember she left it alone last year; probably terrified of the lights and baubles. Or just disgusted by my lack of taste and obvious inability to colour coordinate the decorations. It is demoralising to have your best efforts at interior design ridiculed by a cat.

Mosaic

– Computer still not working?
– No. As you can see.
– You ought to get it fixed.
– Yes.
– Or get another one.
– Thank you. You have been a great help.
– Sometimes it takes someone on the outside to cast light on a thorny problem: sometimes you can be just too close to see the solution.
– Indeed. That has made everything so much clearer. It's not that I want to change the subject, but look at this:

– Interesting picture. What is it?
– I don't really know. It was on a stone.
– Some kind of primitive art? A relic of a long-forgotten civilisation?
– Perhaps.
– Where did you find it?
– Macclesfield.
– Well, there you go, then.

Cold

Now it is winter. The temperature has fallen. A few degrees, but it makes all the difference when the few degrees are below zero.

The house is cold. It is even colder outside, though not by much. The cat has taken to sleeping by the radiator. The radiator is off, but she is trying to make a point.

The laptop is still no happier. I've given up trying to fix it. It may require specialist treatment. Or I could try thinly veiled threats.

Crash

This is getting difficult. I am having problems with the computer. It is not keen on booting up. Eventually I get in, and last night decided to have a go at reinstalling everything. But it went wrong again this morning. And although I am now in (after another system restore), I am not confident whether this is permanent, or the briefest of brief respites. But such is the problem of being so reliant on technology: you feel somewhat helpless when it goes wrong. Especially when it is the sort of technology that doesn't respond well to being thumped.

I have another laptop for emergencies, but it is pretty ancient. The wireless thing doesn't work. Neither do the letters A and S. You can cope for quite a while without the letters A and S; in fact, it becomes something of a challenge to see how far you can go. But eventually you run out of synonyms. And patience.

Tombola

It's been a busy few days. Though not busy with anything particularly exciting. There was a trip to the dentist, for example. Dentists are okay, I suppose, in their own way: they provide a useful service to the public. Gone are the days of string and doorknobs, thankfully. (Hard to imagine how you can actually tie a piece of string around a tooth, unless folk were particularly gappy in earlier times.) I don't particularly dread the visit to the dentist; but then, nor do I look forward to it. It is just one of those things that you have to put up with. Like buying new tyres for the car. Or de-worming the cat. It must be quite demoralising to be a dentist sometimes, and to think that the public perception of your professional career is on a par with de-worming the cat. Talking of which, I actually did try to de-worm the cat this weekend. I had bought some tablets that were larger than the usual ones, and tried my usual ploy of hiding one in the cat food. Cat spotted it instantly. She is too clever for her own good. She is able to recognise the flea treatment on sight, too. I just need to keep one step ahead of her. Somehow.

It is a month till Christmas. I have been to a couple of Christmas markets already, but then they do tend to spring up all over the place nowadays. They are useful for instilling a little of the Yuletide spirit, even if it is only November. But this didn't stop the local church hosting their Christmas Fair yesterday. You would have thought that the Church would be a little stricter on these matters, and would only hold Christmas Fairs a day or two before the big event. But no, commercialism is seeping into every aspect of our public life. On the plus side, I did win a bottle. Some sort of drink. Bottles won at these events are rarely worth drinking. They tend to be things not on sale in shops, but only available for distribution via church fair tombolas. It is an unusual marketing strategy, but uncannily lucrative.

Bond

Sometimes you just feel you need a holiday. It's been a long time since the sweltering days of summer. It's even longer till next summer. And somehow I have accumulated four weeks of holiday at work, which have to be taken before next April. Next April sounds a long way off, but it can be hard to drum up the enthusiasm for a fortnight's holiday in a cold and bleak February, particularly when you can't afford to go anywhere not cold and not bleak. So I will begin by taking tomorrow off. It is Friday, after all. I could take off every Friday for the next five months, now that I come to think of it. Or perhaps just take off the whole of  December. That way I might just about get the Christmas shopping done on time.

I got round to seeing the latest James Bond last weekend. At the cinema, I mean. It's quite an achievement for me to make it to the cinema: my social life is generally so brimming with activity that I miss the few films that I want to see. But there are always some for which I make the effort to rearrange my hectic schedule. (Which usually just means doing a larger supermarket shop the day before.) Clearly, I can identify, to some extent, with the character of James Bond: moody, mysterious, living life on a knife edge. That's me, to a tee. Maybe not so much the knife edge, perhaps: I probably veer towards a more placid lifestyle, to tell the truth. And I'm not really one for fast cars; especially not with ejector seats. They are an accident waiting to happen.

Harumble

It will be a relief to you, if you were at all concerned by the previous post, that nothing unpleasant has happened. I was beginning to worry about the cat: whether her inscrutable nature was a flimsy disguise for some sort of hidden agenda, perhaps something along the lines of world domination, starting with my house. But I am still here, which is good. I am always a little uneasy with leaving Cat alone in the house during the day; you never know whether she will work out how to change the locks; and, to add insult to injury, turn up the central heating to full, and leave the television on all day, and empty the contents of the fridge. But either I have completely misjudged her, or she hasn't got the hang of the remote control yet.

It's worth mentioning the return of Bleak Expectations to Radio 4: a heart-warming Victorian costume drama, which, being on the radio, probably doesn't bother with the costumes. But at least it has a hero by the name of Pip, and evil villains by the bucketful. The following definition may be helpful:

Harumble. An exclamation of delight, to be used in place of words like Huzzah and Hoorah, but not in place of words like cauliflower or mattress.

Anniversary

This is not easy: writing a post on the laptop, with Cat sprawled over my knees. Despite being far from spindly, my knees were not designed to support a cat and a laptop simultaneously. In addition, she seems disturbed by my typing: either by the noise (which is barely audible, to tell the truth, unless her hearing is particularly sensitive) or by the lack of attention I am giving her (tapping away at an inanimate lump of plastic instead of providing her with reassuring pats) or, by some feline intuition beyond human understanding, she is deeply embarrassed by what I am writing about her. To prove the point, she has sloped off now, and refuses to talk to me.

It is a year to the day (almost) since Cat arrived. She had little choice in the matter. Perhaps that is not strictly true: I suspect she used her whiskery wiles to influence us when we first met her at the animal rescue centre. Perhaps all the time that we thought we were methodically assessing each cat in an objective and highly scientific matter, she was actually working her way into our affections by means of purring amicably and wiping her nose on my leg. Perhaps she chose us, rather than the other way round. That makes me feel a little uneasy, but ties in with other things that have happened since; for example, her habit of gradually taking over the whole house rather than be content with the cat basket in a corner of the living room; almost as if there were a masterplan that was being implemented, so slowly as to be imperceptible. And, for that matter, where is she right now? What is she plotting?

Leaf

Not quite sure whether this still counts as autumn, or whether it's slipped into winter. These things are presumably difficult to clarify at the best of times. At the moment, there are not many leaves left on the trees. The evenings draw in early. The little yellow light thing on the dashboard warns me that there is a risk of ice on the roads. I've started wearing my winter coat (at least, when outdoors). The year seems to be drifting towards its end.

Trees, leaves, etc.

"I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived."  

            Mr H.D. Thoreau, Massachusetts

Medicine

- But it must be exciting to go to a conference? Cutting-edge stuff from eminent professors, and all that. Unforeseen announcements of ground-breaking research that send ripples through the audience. And are reported in the national press. You know the sort of thing. Doctors discover cure for apathy. World saved. Of course, I'm simplifying somewhat.
- Yes. It's not always quite like that, you know.
- Of course. I realise these things are not every day occurrences. Maybe not even every other day. But still, occasionally, every now and then. Cure for ingratitude and lack of sense of humour. Combined. That would be useful.
- I'm not sure you quite appreciate how science progresses. Or the type of conditions for which drugs are discovered.
- That surely is the crux of the problem facing the pharmaceutical industry today. They are not targeting the ailments that really concern people. Such as extreme competitiveness, congenital inability to read between the lines, and morbid punctuality. Those remedies would sell. At any rate, I would buy a few, and give them to people I know. As presents, but with the aim of improving the imperfections in their personalities.
- That's very thoughtful of you.

Stout

- Another Monday. Back to work after a weekend of inertia. Difficult to believe that a week ago I was many thousands of miles away, basking under foreign skies.
- Dublin, wasn't it?
- Yes.
- Only a couple of hundred miles away; at best. And I thought it wasn't basking weather.
- It was dry, mostly. With occasional sunny spells. But I take your point. I was just trying to add a little exotic colour. All the same, a fine city.
- Did you get to see the sights?
- I saw a lot of posters; and sat through many lectures; but not much else. Such is the burden of having to attend a conference. Otherwise a few aimless strolls around the streets of Dublin. Mostly looking for something to eat. I mean in a restaurant. Not just on the street.
- Of course.
- But sometimes it's nice to get away. Visit somewhere new. It is abroad, after all. So similar to home, and yet somehow so different. Road signs; currency; post boxes: all different.
- It helps if road signs are different. They are not so useful when they are all identical. Especially those offering directions.
- Yes. And the cuisine, too. Particularly the beer.
- It is always advisable to sample the local cuisine.

Dream

We are the music makers,
And we are the dreamers of dreams.

So the concert went well. Better than that: almost sublime at times, which doesn't always happen. Not because of my singing: it was sublime despite my singing. Hopefully I was lost amid the other members of the choir for most of the time. And drowned out by the orchestra for the rest.

It can be a moving experience to be part of a choir. All those weeks of rehearsal, building up to a single unique performance. Getting more and more deeply involved in the notes, till they echo around your head in the middle of the night and when you first get up in the morning and for much of the rest of the day. Overcoming the technical challenges, painstakingly picking your way through obscure chords and tangled cross-rhythms. Feeling the nuances of the music, the shifts in emotion, so that it begins to take shape as a performance. And then, despite the stress of having to face an audience, you can lose yourself in the music and let it carry you away.

Yet we are the movers and shakers
Of the world for ever, it seems.

Parkin

- Hard to believe it's November already.
- Yes...
- It's as if we are careering helplessly towards the close of the year.
- I suppose so.
- I don't know where the time goes. What happened to autumn? Gone before you realised it was here.
- Mmm...
- And soon enough, it'll be the mad rush of buying presents, and stocking up the fridge, and –
- Good grief. This happens every year. It's only November. There is still an age till Christmas, if only you would step back and consider it calmly.
- But they've been selling decorations and stuffing and wrapping paper and mince pies for months already. And I haven't bought a thing yet. There will be nothing left at this rate.
- Nonsense. You are being led astray by the hyperactive marketing ploys of the major retailers. They are determined to start the Christmas season earlier each year in order to extract as much money from you as they can. It is all so unnecessary. You should stand firm, and not even think about Christmas till December arrives. One afternoon of strolling calmly around the shops, and all your preparations will be done.
- But –
- But nothing. You should relish the joys of the present day rather than worry over the distant future. Try to look forward to the unique charms that November has to offer. The sombre feast days of All Saints and All Souls. The delights of eating treacle toffee and parkin while watching some dubious celebration of effigy burning on Guy Fawkes Night.
- Of course. You're right. Now that you mention it, it's only a couple of weeks till the German Christmas Markets open in Manchester.

Pumpkin

It's that time of year again. Not my favourite, perhaps. I'm fond of autumn in general, though sometimes you feel they ought to make more of an effort to tidy the leaves away, but Hallowe'en and Bonfire Night always leave me with mixed emotions. Perhaps it's something to do with been dragged by my children out of doors on cold wet evenings and being made to do things I would rather avoid. For example, ferrying them around the neighbours' houses, begging for sweets. Or watching the local scouts' somewhat haphazard firework display. These things don't happen quite so often now that the children are grown up, but they have marked me deeply over the years, and some wounds take time to heal.

In particular I have bitter memories of pumpkins. They look pretty enough in their own way: cheerily stout, and bright orange; though as they get larger they tend to become more disturbing, even before they have had a creepy face carved into them. But it's the scooping out of the pumpkin which saps my soul: they contain such a quantity of unpleasant orange slime, with a characteristically unedifying aroma, which works itself up your sleeve as you try to scrape it all out. And it's not as if you can do anything with the slime once you have extracted it. Yes, I know there is such a thing as pumpkin pie; and pumpkin soup; and doubtless pumpkin rissoles and crumble and trifle and so on; but over the years I've tried all of these, and have suffered as a consequence. They are not meant to be eaten. So I have stopped buying them now. And if not quite deliriously happy, I'm getting close.

Clock

Summertime ends tonight. Always a sombre occasion, bidding farewell to another season, particularly one associated with sunshine and holidays and long balmy evenings. Especially when the weather was fairly ropey for most of the summer: you don't quite feel you had your money's worth. Already the temperature is dropping stone-like, and nights drawing in alarmingly early. And it will only get worse: tomorrow everything will happen an hour earlier: it will be getting dark before you have quite finished afternoon tea.

It is always confusing, this clock-changing palaver. It is somehow counter-intuitive: you have to stop and think quite hard about what is going to happen. What are you meant to do with your clocks? All of them? And which bit of the day, if any, gets lighter? And what about the cat – does she have any concept of British Summer Time, or will she expect to be fed an hour earlier? Or later? Perhaps it's just me: maybe other people can cope with these mental gymnastics. And am I meant to go to bed an hour later tonight? Or sleep in an hour longer tomorrow morning? They never tell you these things.

While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day.

Oatcake

I know these things seem trivial, merely the drab minutiae of one of the more colourless and humdrum existences you are likely to have the misfortune to bump into, but they can have a surprising significance for me. There are hidden depths of meaning and deafening resonances in the most ordinary of events. Goodness knows how I will ever cope with the truly momentous when I spend so much time trying to fathom the mundane.

I bought some oatcakes today. Not the small, crisp, Highland variety; but the large, floppy, Staffordshire version. You know the type. Or if you don't, use your imagination. I don't buy them very often: I can't quite remember when I last did. But there was a time when I used to buy them frequently. In large quantities. And take them down to the bed & breakfast where I was staying during the week while working in the Deep South (or actually South East). It was fortunate I was never stopped by the police on one of these journeys: it would have been difficult to provide a convincing explanation of why I was smuggling large quantities of Staffordshire oatcakes across the country. The truth was, as always, fairly dull: the landlady of the bed & breakfast was a native of Staffordshire, who could fondly remember oatcakes being sold from street corners in traditional oatcake outlets which have now all but vanished, and who was downcast that it was not possible to find this delicacy in darkest Essex. (Although I did spot them in the local Sainsburys occasionally; probably a wayward delivery.) But I have to say that during those bitter years I ate more oatcakes than was good for me; and therefore the unhappy association between my dismal commuting life and the innocent oatcake is deeply ingrained by now. So having bought them, I probably won't enjoy them.

Quartet

- Sometimes, I'm sure you will agree, you just have to be grateful for Schubert.
- Of course. Yes... Sorry? I don't quite follow you.
- Schubert – the composer, you know? Sometimes you just have to be grateful.
- Yes. That's what I thought you said. Any reason in particular?
- No... Just when you are feeling worn out, and a bit down in the dumps – tonight, for instance – listening to him can have a remarkable effect.
- Making you feel better?
- Yes. What else did you expect?
- Nothing. Just wanted to be sure. And any piece in particular?
- Tonight it was Death and the Maiden: the string quartet: in D minor: Deutsch 810.
- Right. Not the most cheerful of titles. Not one you would necessarily think of turning to if you were glum.
- And yet – title not withstanding – it is such an optimistic work: full of invention, slipping and sliding between the melancholic and the dramatic and the joyful.
- A bit unfocussed, then?
- But that's the charm of Schubert.
- Of course. I suppose it's testament to the redemptive power of great music.
- Exactly.

Moose

October seems to be moving along at quite a brisk pace; which is always worrying, as, before you know it, the months fly by, Christmas arrives, the summer holidays, another Christmas, and so on until the arrival of a long and happy retirement. I'm exaggerating, perhaps, but you get the idea: But at my back I always hear Time's wingèd chariot drawing near; that sort of thing. It is nice to be able to slow everything down now and again: have a chance for a bit of quiet reflection; re-charge the old batteries. Which is probably my excuse for taking things easy at the weekend and minimising the time and effort I spend on irrelevant tasks such as grocery shopping and housework, and devoting myself instead to the appreciation of Nature and the Arts; and, particularly, Food.

Encouraged by some warm autumn sunshine, I dragged my daughter out to Lyme Park yesterday, to look around the hall. I suppose it is a fine hall, in its own way; nice paintings on the wall, wooden panelling here and there, decorative ceilings, the occasional moose head, all the usual things one might expect to find; though looking around these grand houses I can never help reflecting on my own humble dwelling, and how it would fit quite snugly in the servants' quarters or a corridor or possibly even a broom closet. But this is mere envy; I should be grateful that others have the good fortune to live in such opulence and finery; and have bestowed on me the opportunity to view it for a small fee.

I am sure it must get a little tedious living in such a place. Hundreds of visitors wandering about from room to room just when you want to put your slippers on and watch the television. All the dusting. Deer, not put off by the moose's head on the wall, pressing their wet noses up against the windows and steaming them up with their breath. A massive library full of books which you're not allowed to touch in case they fall to pieces.  The library, incidentally, seems to be my daughter's favourite place, if only because you are encouraged to choose some of the more modern volumes and sit on a nice sofa and read. Though she always picks a Harry Potter and then doesn't budge for hours.

Whale

No real reason for writing, other than to acknowledge today's Google doodle, celebrating the 161st anniversary of the publication of Moby Dick:

With thanks to Mr. Google. Who I hope doesn't mind me using his nice picture.

I have to admit that 161 is a somewhat arbitrary anniversary. Almost as if they were looking for an excuse to use this picture. They could easily have left it till the 162nd anniversary, and, to tell the truth, nobody would have minded.

But it is one of my favourite novels, which I have read umpteen times since I was a teenager, so is worth celebrating whenever you have a chance. And the film, too: the John Houston version, with Gregory Peck as Ahab: wonderfully atmospheric, even if the whale looks a bit rubbery. But it's the audacity of the book, the wildness, the strangeness, that makes it stand out; so that it's not simply a story about some folk trying to catch a whale, but – goodness knows, I've never quite worked out what it's about.

Flap

There seems to be too much weather around at the moment. Sometimes you could just do with less: have it spread more evenly throughout the year; smooth out the peaks and troughs. Maybe it is to be expected: a few rainstorms; a few gusts of wind; it is autumn, after all. When the sun is out, it all looks rather picturesque, with antique gold leaves littering the pavements. Though when the clouds roll over, everything turns duller and damper; and drippier.

I'm not sure what Cat makes of it, if anything. She wasn't around this time last year, but living a life of luxury (if constrained in terms of space) at the animal sanctuary. (It would be interesting, by the way, to know how cats describe to each other their confined living quarters: not enough room to swing a mouse, perhaps.) You would have thought the recent colder and wetter weather would discourage her from going out, but she doesn't seem to mind getting moistened occasionally; and, to tell the truth, she never bothered to go out much in the height of summer either, but preferred to flop on the conservatory floor looking too exhausted to make the effort. Perhaps she is just too domesticated to pay much attention to the call of the wild beckoning her to go roaming around the neighbouring back gardens, but happier to stay put, hogging the sofa, so as to be ready for action whenever there is a chance of food. And there are times, like this evening, when she comes racing back into the house, followed by an alarming flapping of the cat flap, and accompanied by a lot of hissing; suggesting something unpleasant was chasing her. Bravely I stuck my head out of the back door to frighten away whatever was there, assuming it was just another cat. But you never know: it could have been something bigger and fiercer; the sort of thing that might send me, let alone Cat, scurrying back into the house. As it was, there was nothing to be seen in the garden; though I decided not to look too hard.

Camera

What with the charms of wall-to-wall social networking, music downloads, text messaging, and a television channel showing nothing but Australian reality shows featuring a typical day in the life of customs officials, it is sometimes difficult to get my daughter out of the house and into the great outdoors. Which is a shame, seeing that gentle exercise is generally considered a good thing, and autumn is as good a time as any to brave the elements and admire the bronzed foliage before it plummets to earth. But thanks to the somewhat underhand ploy of luring her with my camera, we managed to get as far as Alderley Edge, and wandered around the woods for a while, and admired the views. And took a lot of photographs; mainly of trees. But that is the beauty of photography: you can capture objects (trees, in this case) in all their glory and to your heart's content. Particularly when, like my daughter, you are of a mildly artistic inclination, and enjoy taking a vast number of snaps of anything and everything. But mostly trees.

I still remember my early forays in film photography: how on a day out I would take only a handful of pictures, and patiently wait weeks or months before I got round to having them developed. By which time I would have forgotten what the lighting conditions were like, and what aperture and shutter speed I had used, or why I had wanted to take a picture of whatever it was I had taken a picture of. There is still part of me that thinks analogue rather than digital: I am not used to shooting a whole roll – I mean, memory card – of images in one go. It still seems so wasteful – of pixels. Clearly my daughter shows no such inhibitions. At least where trees are concerned.

Ink

I was reading an excellent article in the Sunday paper the other day (not necessarily on Sunday, as it takes me a good few days to get through it, and I find myself still finishing the crossword on Saturday morning, even though it is meant to be the quick crossword; so I don't even begin the cryptic: life is just too short) on the subject of handwriting. In particular, how it is a uniquely rich and expressive form of communication, and yet is in danger of disappearing under the digital deluge. And how we should make more of an effort to apply our handwriting whenever we can, and not to let it slip away.

All of which I sympathise with; but then I look sadly at the shabby scrawl that my handwriting has now become, as it deteriorates year by year. But perhaps that itself is the result of being out of practice: it seems that I only pick up a pen to scribble notes at work or lists of things to do at home; always scribbling in a hurry, rather than taking the time to try and make it look more presentable, a truer reflection of who I am and what I want to say. And then things looks so much neater when typed on a computer screen: I take pleasure in formatting text smartly on the screen, choosing my favourite fonts, repeatedly editting till I am happy with the flow and rhythm of the words. To write things out once seems a terrible restriction; and to cross things out and write them again seems unbearably messy.

But I keep trying. The right implement helps: I am not all that keen on ballpoints, but rely when at work on pencils (because they are soft and grey and readily erased) or some ultra fine liquid ink rollerball thing (because it is ultra fine, and inky), and have even dug out my old fountain pen at home. And that is itself telling: the fountain pen that I received for 10 years service at a previous employer; which I fill from an actual bottle of ink, a rare item in the modern world. And is it a coincidence that the colour I have chosen for the headings in this blog is a shade of inky blue-black?

Directory

I returned home this evening to find that the latest edition of the Manchester South telephone directory had been pushed through my letterbox.

I know: that makes no sense whatsoever. It is not physically possible to push a telephone directory through a letterbox, at least not without reducing most of the door to splinters in the process. Telephone directories are left on the doorstep, where they will cheerfully absorb a large quantity of water if it is raining. Or they are deposited in the porch, if you are fortunate enough to own a porch, and have remembered to leave it unlocked at the time of year when directories are being delivered. Or behind the dustbin, or underneath the garden gnome, or anywhere, really. Mine went through the letterbox.

Telephone directories are not what they once were.  They used to be hefty deadweights of flimsy grey paper, printed in a painfully tiny font, and peppered with uninspiring adverts which only managed to catch your eye because the rest of the page was so unremittingly dull. Circus strongmen would demonstrate their prowess by tearing them in half (in between inflating hot water bottles). They could be used to press wild flowers, build tunnels for model train sets, and wedge doors open in a stiff wind.

But – sadly – no longer. The modern telephone directory is sleek, compact, svelte. It fits through a letter box. It practically fits into your jacket pocket. It would not be a particularly onerous task to memorise the contents from cover to cover, and hence dispense with the hard copy altogether. I presume this is a consequence of the preponderance of the internet, and multiple telecommunications companies, and the coalition government, and the like. But while you applaud the preservation of a few forests-worth of trees, you can't help feeling that a part of our national heritage is slipping away. By this time next year it will be reduced to something you can slip into your wallet.

Rhubarb

There was a welcome splash of sunshine today, reminding you of what autumn can be like when the rain clouds keep away. I was inspired to get the bike out and tackle the Middlewood Way, which was pleasant enough; though, being a defunct railway line, there isn't always much of a view over the cuttings, save for occasional glimpses of fields, and the odd cow. (I mean an infrequent cow; not one that is particularly unusual in its appearance; although there may have been a few of those around too: when cycling I tend to be quite focused on the potholes in front of me; and may occasionally miss a passing cow, however odd it may be.)  It was another of those cycle routes which are helpfully straight and flat, which is a great advantage at my age. There were several cyclists with expensive-looking mountain bikes, and expensive-looking cycling gear. In contrast, I deliberately cultivate a less formal style, and ride a somewhat unglamorous bicycle, trying to be coolly understated; as if I could make the effort if I really wanted to, but I somehow find it more chic not to bother. Though whether anybody else accurately picks up on this is hard to tell.

I bought some rhubarb today. I presume it must be in season. I never really know when fruit and vegetables are in season, other than there tend to be more things in the supermarket in summer than in winter. Except when they get flown in from the other side of the world, in which case they are there all year round. Clearly no-one bothers to fly rhubarb in from the other side of the world. Maybe it doesn't travel well; or it doesn't thrive in sultry foreign climes; or they can't find any overseas farmers who are inclined to cultivate it, thinking no-one in their right mind would want to eat such an oddity. I bought it on a whim, as it seems years since I last bought and cooked any (clearly not helped if I don't know when it is in season). I didn't get as far as preparing a crumble, which would have necessitated a greater degree of strategic planning than I felt capable of, though I did remember to buy some custard.

Missile

Talking of the number 50 (as we were the other day), there seem to be lots of anniversaries being celebrated at the moment. It is 50 years since the Beatles' first hit record. It is 50 years since the first James Bond film. It is 50 years since the Cuban missile crisis. And it is probably 50 years since many other things as well. 

I am at that awkward age where I have technically lived through these momentous events but have no memory of them. It was to be several years before I realised who James Bond or the Beatles actually were. And probably another couple of decades before I quite fathomed the Cuban missile crisis. But it is still interesting to have lived through these great moments in history, even if they passed me by, and to think of the impact they might have had on family and friends. But then people at the time would hardly have believed that we would still be listening to the Beatles or making James Bond films 50 years on. It rather makes you wonder what crumbs of contemporary culture will still be going strong in another half century. What will the world of 2062 be like? Jet cars? Transporter beams? The Archers still on Radio 4?

As an antidote to such turbulent thoughts, it seems appropriate to post a calmingly monochromatic picture:

Pebbles. Rocks. Stones. Who knows...

Cannon

- Well. Here we are. The fifty-first post.

- Sorry?

- Post number fifty-one.

- Yes, I heard you the first time. I meant: haven't we been here before?

- How do you mean?

- Didn't you start the last post this way?

- Yes; now that you mention it.

- And?

- And?

- And you're going to do it again?

- Well, I thought it worked quite satisfactorily last time. So, it is maybe worth revisiting a winning formula.

- You don't think it might seem a bit – samey?

- No. Not at all. It is a winning formula. And I could always introduce a little variety.

- Such as?

- I could introduce – something – a little more varied.

- Good. You've clearly thought about this.

- Yes. I don't jump in without considerable preparation. I don't just make it up as I go along.

- Of course. 

- Is there anything you would like to see?

- In the post?

- Yes: in the post.

- Well, I'm flattered you should ask.

- I believe in giving my readers what they want.

- That's very commendable. You think you have some readers, then?

- Well, it's hard to say. Some people seem to look at the blog. Though for all I know they may actually be automated spambots.

- Still, it is exciting to have readers. Even if they are not human.

Fifty

- Well. Here we are. The fiftieth post.
- Fiftieth?
- Yes. Post number fifty.
- Right. I hadn't really been keeping track...
- It is quite an achievement. Don't you think?
- Of course, of course... Fifty, did you say?
- Yes. You don't seem that impressed?
- Goodness, no, on the contrary. An achievement, definitely. I mean – well, fifty. Not everyone can say they've chalked up fifty.
- Quite.
- Fifty posts?
- Yes.
- As in – this blog thing?
- Yes. What other posts were you thinking of?
- That's impressive. Definitely. An achievement.
- Thank you.
- Only...
- Yes?
- It's not as if –
- Yes?
- I mean, it's not as if – well, it's not exactly War and Peace. Is it?
- Well, no. Clearly. But then, it's not meant to be.
- Of course.
- Not quite conceived on the same scale. Just meant to be a few idle comments. About life. And things... You know.
- I didn't mean – After all, it's fifty posts more than I've managed.
- Quite.
- It's just that it might be a bit more lively with a few cannons here and there.
- I could try introducing some cannons if it would help. An occasional battle scene?
- It was just an idea. Think about it.

Illumination

There are moments in life when one has to confront the unknown: peer over the edge of the abyss and dip a tentative toe in the water; sometimes while simultaneously grasping the nettle. Facing up to great challenges, and overcoming them, and, importantly, surviving the ordeal in one piece (or at least in a relatively small number of pieces) can be a life-enhancing experience.

I changed a headlamp bulb this morning. This does not sound like much of an ordeal. But the first time, on a new car, can be daunting. Especially as my previous car was a 2004 Ford Focus, which was specifically designed to inflict severe flesh wounds whenever you dared to insert a hand into the inch or two of space between the engine and the back of the headlamp fitting; a particularly dangerous task as it was impossible to get your head into any position under the bonnet where you could actually see what you were doing and so had to work completely blindly with surgical precision. And it was not just me: I heard tales from work colleagues – men of robust character who could take a car to pieces in minutes and re-build it without leaving anything out – how they had suffered long hours to change a bulb on a Focus, removing the battery in their frustration, and seriously considering tearing out the engine, too. I once managed to persuade – to my shame – one of my children to have a go, on the basis they had small, nimble fingers, and were oblivious to pain. In the end, with my tail between my legs, I would find an excuse to take it along to a garage, and bashfully ask for assistance. And the garage mechanic, without a moment's hesitation, would deftly replace the bulb with the manual dexterity of a small octopus with an interest in car maintenance.  However, after several years of effort, in the end I did manage to succeed on my own, thanks to the purchase of a small mirror. Which only goes to demonstrate the value of actually being able to see what you are doing.

As you can imagine, this experience marked me severely for many years. That car has now been ditched in favour of the 2009 model, which on the face of it offered a simpler approach to bulb changing. So this morning there was no intricate manipulation to be done, but merely the removal of the entire headlamp unit from the front of the car. Which was still unnerving, as halfway through the process you realised that if you were unable to fit it all back together, there was no way you would suffer the embarrassment of driving to the garage with the headlamp trailing on the road behind you.

Concerto

I managed to prise myself out of the house yesterday evening to take in a concert; which is not something I do very often, mainly due to laziness, coupled with an inability to make up my mind whether I quite fancy anything that's on. But I was spurred into what passes for action by seeing a review in the newspaper praising last Thursday night's concert by the Hallé orchestra, and which heartily recommended going along to the repeat performance. Given that the national press generally overlooks the many cultural delights of this part of the world, it seemed churlish to ignore so direct a recommendation to an event practically on my doorstep. Although I did actually have to get there by car. So it wasn't quite on my doorstep.

So it was well worth giving up a lazy Sunday evening at home in order to soak up a bit of culture, especially when Sir Mark Elder himself was conducting – a spectacular Brahms second piano concerto and an intense Sibelius second symphony, a couple of my favourite composers. It's a rare treat to be sitting up in the heights of the Bridgewater Hall, completely entranced with observing all the details of the performance, the subtlety and invention and passion of a great professional orchestra at work. As opposed to be sitting there for my sons' school's Speech Night, which tended to be a less inspiring affair. And lasted longer. But there are always enough intriguing architectural details around the hall to keep your mind occupied.

Kipling

It was a relief to me – as I am sure it will be to most of you, too – to find out that I did have a personality after all. Though it took some finding. But at least it's not one of those showy, in-your-face sort of personalities that, frankly, you are glad to see the back of and make a mental note not to invite next time you're organising a dinner party; but rather more unassuming and reclusive, the sort that has to be delicately enticed out of its shell. Like a snail. But without quite as much slime.

I went cycling along Lake Rudyard this afternoon; which looks quite picturesque when a low autumn sun is glinting off the water, and rowing boats and sailing boats are ploughing their gently lapping furrows to and fro. And there were ducks: always welcome to see ducks; they rather make the day complete. It is not much of a cycle ride, you might say: a straight line along the lake and back again, though you can try racing the steam train to add interest; but as it is a narrow gauge with a tiny engine, it doesn't need much effort to overtake it, provided you're not too concerned with injuring the odd dog-walker on the way. And the lake retains a certain genteel charm, giving you an idea of what it must have been like as a popular resort in the 19th century. Though I suspect the train was bigger in those days.

Personality

I have been working though a personality profiling exercise, in preparation for a team-building event at work tomorrow. Or perhaps it is not necessarily team-building as such, but more about self-awareness, and awareness of others, and, perhaps, things in general; which might be helpful in order to stop tripping over the cat when I'm not concentrating where I'm going. Especially early in the morning, when Cat demands feeding instantly and I have only just dragged myself out of bed and it's dark outside and stairs seem quite a complicated concept. So I don't yet know how the test will turn out, although having done similar ones online in the past, I have a pretty good idea. Although it will be interesting to see if it comes out differently and  I reveal otherwise hidden depths to my complex (yet readily likeable) character.

Or I may be judged to have no personality whatsoever. Which would be unfortunate, but would probably explain a lot about my life achievements to date. And at least it would give me something to work towards: obtaining a personality, from wherever you might get them. It would be interesting, I suppose, to start again with a blank canvas, and decide to become anything I wanted. Perhaps a reckless extrovert with a high degree of empathy for my work colleagues and a knack for arriving at meetings on time. It would be a difficult decision to make: deciding on a new personality, just like that. I have enough trouble choosing what to buy for tea.

Prelude

In case you were at all concerned, I managed to find, in the end, a Chinese restaurant for my daughter's birthday. (Not to keep, you understand: just to have a meal in. To receive as a present a whole restaurant of your own would doubtless get quite tiresome after a while; even if you were particularly fond of Chinese food. Though possibly you could ask the chef if he – or she – could cook anything else. You never know: he – or she – may be quite adept at wide-ranging cuisines. In which case it would probably be bearable, and even quite convenient on days when you weren't much in the mood for cooking.) As it turned out, the meal was pretty good. Which is about as far as my talent as a restaurant critic will stretch.

Though perhaps I have eaten too much; which is always a risk when you feel obliged, out of politeness to the chef, and acutely aware of the cost of the multitude of dishes you have rashly requested, to finish what's laid out in front of you, knowing your children will be of little practical help, having gorged themselves on the prawn crackers. On which subject, it is interesting to pause a moment and reflect on the pitifully weak similarity between prawn crackers and actual prawns. Not to mention crackers.

This post is meandering somewhat. Not helped by feeling listless and sleepy, nor by listening to the delicate surrealism of Debussy's Préludes. Perhaps I should try listening to something more vigorous and conducive to hard work. The weather, meanwhile, seems to be changing towards autumn; with a distinct chill in the air; and occasional torrential showers; and glimpses of the sun sitting low in the sky.

Where are the songs of spring? Answers, please.

Stream

It takes me a while, sometimes, to get up to speed with the 20th - sorry, I mean 21st - century. I seem to be always lagging behind. Things like mobile phones, and microwave ovens, and satellite navigation systems, and newspapers, tend to become commonplace before I get around to trying them out. I am hardly an early adopter. Even this blog: I thought I'd leave it a few years to see how they caught on, rather than find I was churning out volumes with there being no-one out there with the technology to read them. As it is, I can now churn out volumes in the knowledge that no-one will ever spot them in among the countless millions of blogs cluttering up the blogosphere.

I never used to bother listening to music while working on the laptop. Mainly because the television would generally be on, and listening to music while watching television and writing on the computer seemed somewhat impracticable. Although my daughter appears to manage it readily, and will even combine it with simultaneously texting a friend, eating her dinner and doing her maths homework. And videoing the cat. But such is the precociousness of youth. Anyway, I discovered recently that the entire Naxos catalogue is available online via our local library service. Which is pretty impressive, given that it stretches to umpteen thousands of recordings, and delves into the remotest nooks and crannies of the repertoire that other labels tend to ignore. So I was listening to a bit of Silvius Leopold Weiss the other day, the great master of German baroque lute music. Not the sort of thing that usually makes the Top 30. (If they still have Top 30s.)

Meanwhile, I have been trying to find a local Chinese restaurant for my daughter's birthday. Which you would have thought was an easy enough task: surely you simply need to step outside your front door and there are dozens in front of you to choose from. But it is perhaps an indication of how long it's been since I last went to a Chinese restaurant that I have had enormous trouble finding one: all the old haunts seem to have disappeared (along with most of the rest of our high street stores). There are plenty of takeaways about. Perhaps she wouldn't notice if we went for a takeaway. And insisted on sitting inside to eat it.

Presentation

- So... Have you been away.?

- Away? No. At least I don't think so. Why should I have been away?

- No reason. Other than not being here. Here on the blog. 

- Oh. Yes. The blog.

- You've not - I don't mean anything by this, but - you've not lost interest in it, have you?

- Goodness no. Hardly. Just been busy, you know. It's been a hectic week.

- Of course. Sometimes -

- Yes. Sometimes - you are just busy, you know. And a little exhausted. Work, and all that.

- Work. I understand. I remember it well.

- Specifically, too many presentations to prepare, all at the same time. Especially the one I had to give at the conference. Having to practise it so many times. Hoping it makes sense. And getting the timing right. It fairly wears you out.

- Of course. That was today?

- Yes. Today.

- And it went OK?

- Well, I am still here to tell of it.

- That's good. Good to actually survive giving a presentation. They can be stressful, I'm told. Was yours -?

- It was fine. I think. Never easy to guess beforehand what the audience is expecting.

- I imagine it can't be nice if they turn on you.

- It didn't go that far.

- Good. But that's an achievement, isn't it?

- Yes. 

- Worth noting in the blog.

- Yes.

- I'll look forward to it.

- Thank you.
- And don't feel obliged, you know.
- Obliged?
- To catch up on all the missing posts.
- Right. Of course. Thank you.
- Don't mention it.

Computer

We have been buying a laptop. There was a time when eager young students embarking on their university career would be happy with a pencil or two, a couple of biros in different colours, and the cheapest A4 pad they could find. Rulers and hole-punches were an optional extra, while a pocket calculator was the preserve of  sons and daughters of the aristocracy. Now they want a laptop. And probably feel aggrieved that they have had to wait this long to get one, when all their friends got their first laptop when they started primary school.

But buying computers is a chore. There are so many to choose from. And they all look pretty much the same, and they all have pretty much the same specification, and they all do pretty much the same thing; and, most importantly, they are all light-years ahead in computing power of what you need for sending an e-mail or reading a webpage or running nanosecond molecular dynamics simulations on solvated proteins of a few tens of thousands of atoms. And yet - and yet - we worry over the exact combination of processors and RAM and disk space and graphics cards, yearning for the one specification that is not commercially available, or, worse still, was available everywhere for the last 6 months but has vanished off the shelves on the day you decide to buy one.

Prom

It's that time of the year when the BBC Proms come to a close. Which is a pity, as I don't seem to have really got into it this year. I suppose there was the Olympics, and the holiday, and the light summer evenings beckoning me outside, and the cat complaining of whatever she felt was worth bringing to my attention; all of which distracts you from sitting down in front of the radio for several hours and listening patiently to a concert. It is such an investment in time. It is little use telling me that every concert is available all week on iPlayer, as there is little prospect of me ever being able to catch up, at least in my current lifetime. Perhaps someone should invent a Twitter-like service which sends you the best bits of each concert in bite-size pieces: 10 seconds here and there, perhaps enough to get the big tune without all the introductions and developments and recapitulations and the like. It sounds shallow, I know, but one must move with the times. Mahler would have understood. And perhaps would have churned out a few shorter symphonies in response.

From the few concerts I got to hear, a few highlights were Gilbert & Sullivan's Yeoman of the Guard and John Adams's Nixon in China - so similar, and yet, in many subtle ways, so different too.

Salad

There is an indefinable something in the air that suggests we have seen the last of summer for this year. Unfortunately it was a brief appearance at best, leaving us feeling a little short changed. Maybe it's the way the evenings are arriving ominously early all of a sudden, or the autumnal gusts chasing leaves along the pavements, or the fact it says September on my calendar. (Mind you, it is pretty impressive that I have changed it over from August so early in the month.)

The onward march of the year is marked in so many ways. The bronzed sheen I obtained from two sunny days in southwest Wales has all but faded. And I am less inclined to reach for a summery short-sleeved shirt when getting dressed in the morning. Indeed, it is too dark to see what I'm reaching for when I get dressed in the morning, though usually I can detect long-sleeved shirts by the sense of touch alone, and generally manage to put them on without turning them inside-out. Socks are a different matter. They do occasionally go on the wrong way round. And my colour vision is not very reliable in the dark. But I find it all serves to entertain my work colleagues, which cannot be a bad thing. I still have – returning to the end of summer theme and putting aside, metaphorically, the socks – salad things in my fridge, though I am starting to wonder about them. Wonder whether I am quite in the mood for salad, this close to Christmas, not wonder whether they are actually still salad things. Once a spring onion, always a spring onion I say.

And my daughter returns to school tomorrow. Which is probably a lot of fun for her and something she is really looking forward to. Though seeing that the school usually frowns upon pupils spending all day in their pyjamas, there is a chance I could be mistaken.

Dalek

I've been taking the bike out in the car recently. Not for the bike's sake, you understand: it's not that it's feeling neglected staying at home all day, with no other bikes to talk to, or anything of that sort. But more so I can find interesting places to go cycling in, rather than set off from my front door and see where I end up. There's nothing much wrong with that, other than there are only so many roads that lead away from my front door, and unfortunately most of them tend to be up-hill. There and back. So, for the effort of some minor rearrangement of car furniture, I can fling the bike in the boot and find myself a few more diverse locations to explore. Preferably ones that are reasonably flat, so that I can gradually get back into shape without too much strain. (When I say back into shape, you will appreciate that I was last in shape more years ago than I care to remember. There is a risk I may never return.) So I headed off for the hidden valley of the Mersey, where you can pootle along the riverbank in various directions and visit a myriad of secluded townships across south Manchester faster than you could manage by car. I've not been cycling along there since my early twenties; it can be poignant to re-visit the scenes of one's youth, provided you can remember much about them.

Talking of the scenes of one's youth, and the re-visiting thereof, Doctor Who returned to our screens this evening. I quite like Doctor Who. It's not, nowadays, what it was when I were a lad; but that's probably a good thing: the monsters look far less home-made. He's one of those rare fictional characters that have a life far beyond the original books or films or television series that created them. I used to have a couple of toy Daleks when I was tiny; how wonderful to see them still scuttling around.

Flag

It is inspiring to see the opening ceremony of the London Paralympic Games this evening. Having become quite a connoisseur of opening and closing ceremonies over the last month, I know what to look out for now. It must be challenging to be given the task of organising one of these things. The parade of athletes is straightforward enough: just a matter of ensuring they turn up in the right order. I think I could manage that, though would possibly need a little help getting the flags right. But the more artistic sections, with performers in outlandish costumes creating enormous synchronised displays: that must be quite taxing, having to think up what to do. I suppose I needn't worry too much about it, as it is unlikely that anyone will ever ask me to act as artistic director. But just in case, I ought to have a few ideas ready.

Balloons are always popular. You could have them in colours related to the national flags. Though they tend to be fragile. There are enough warnings at the start of these broadcasts advising on flashing lights that you feel the possibility of accidental, or worse still deliberate, balloon popping on a massive scale would comprise too great a risk. And if a stiff breeze were to whip through the stadium - it doesn't bear thinking about. Thus you realise that there is quite a lot to take into consideration with all of this.

Not sure what this means, but it may be important.

Giant

I stumbled upon a book fair today. These things happen: you never know when you're going to trip over one that someone has left lying around. This was in Buxton; and I should have known, because it's the sort of thing that can happen to you in Buxton if you're not careful. I'm not really into antique fairs and craft fairs and the like, and tend to avoid them as a rule; but books - particularly old books - have a certain allure that is hard to resist. So I had a quick look around at the various stalls piled haphazardly with volumes ranging from the almost brand new to the really quite old.

Although I have browsed through second-hand bookshops since I was a callow youth (and I was pretty callow in my day), and have a modest collection at home of my favourite out-of-print authors, I must say I am beginning to have mixed feelings about them. Although I like the look and feel and whiff of old books, I don't know if I prefer a nice clean untouched paperback.  (Which will look practically as nice and clean and untouched after I have finished reading it as when I bought it.) And similarly, when I come upon a literary classic which I have always fancied reading but never quite got around to, I stop and think how I might actually prefer to read it in a modern edition, bolstered by contemporary scholarship and with a thick wadge of notes at the back. But maybe what exasperates me, though partly beguiles me at the same time, is the sheer obscurity of so many of the books: volumes on such esoteric subjects that you wonder who will ever want to buy them nowadays, and are they fated to be left on shelves ignored for years to come. Presumably someone has an interest in these things, and I suppose the books I buy would seem similarly obscure, but it makes you feel that it is a world that is slipping quietly away, particularly in a marketplace being re-shaped by e-books and Amazon and the internet. And then it makes you wonder about this modern age we live in, full of its own best-sellers and blogs: is all of that fated to become similarly obscure and irrelevant?

Talking of worlds slipping away, it is sad to note the passing of Neil Armstrong yesterday; an icon from my earliest memories; who, for all his modesty, seems a more significant figure of the 20th century than many.

League

A week into the new football season, and it's still all to play for. To tell the truth, I've not yet seen today's results, so there is always a chance that something dramatic has happened that may irretrievably influence the rest of the season, for instance the entire United and City squads being snapped up at a bargain by Wigan Athletic before the transfer window snaps shut, but this seems unlikely. Particularly for Wigan. Though credit where credit's due, as they say: not many expected them to survive in the Premiership for this long.

I try my best on a Saturday to avoid inadvertantly hearing the football results, in order to add to the excitement of watching Match of the Day in the evening. Perhaps excitement is not quite the right word, but you get my point: it's not the same when you know what's going to happen. Given the way we now live our lives in the metaphorical central reservation of the information superhighway, bombarded constantly by texts and tweets and 24 hour news, it seems hard to believe that you can make it through the whole day without finding out the scores. Perhaps it reveals something about my somewhat isolated and positively antisocial lifestyle that I can manage it with so little effort.

Battlements

The holiday already seems a long time ago. You slip so easily back into the routine of work, and visiting the supermarket, and de-fleaing the cat, and all the other drudgeries that make up daily life. The cat, by the way, seems to have survived the holiday unscathed. She stayed at a cattery, which may have been a welcome break for her, or may have brought back chilling memories of her early days in the rescue centre, before we came along and rescued her for the second time. I say unscathed, but you don't really know what she made of it all. She was certainly very affectionate when she came back home, which I suppose is better than sitting in a corner and sulking.

One highlight of the holiday was a chance to see some Shakespeare: The Tempest, performed al fresco in the grounds of Pembroke Castle. Which was certainly an atmospheric setting, especially in the early evening, sitting out in the open while dusky night slowly settled in around you. Perhaps the castle walls didn't quite convey the ship tossed in a storm scene at the beginning; or look much like an island later on; but I find one has to use a bit of imagination in the theatre. So I imagined a few trees here and there, seeing the designer hadn't thought to supply any. I tried to keep the children abreast of the plot, which wasn't always easy as it's been a while since I last read the play, and the actors did insist on doubling up on parts, which lost me at times. However, it all came off well enough. And the actors all seemed to remember their lines, which is always a good sign.

Canal

I was walking along the canal the other day. There are many canals around here; practically the Venice of the north. Clearly the cotton mills and chimneys give the game away. As do the glowering grey skies and flocks of discontented sheep. Apart from those details - and, now I come to think of it, some subtle differences in cuisine - you could be forgiven for thinking you were somewhere rather more Adriatic.

I've always half fancied the idea of taking a narrowboat down the canal, as being a relaxing way to view the countryside and local wildlife (with the possibility of mowing some of it down if it happens to be swimming along in your way). They seem to be available for hire around these parts, which saves you having to buy your own, using it once and realising it wasn't all you thought it would be and then having to stash it in the back garden. But I am not all that nautically-minded; not sure I can tell my bowsprit from my mainforetopsail.  And knots: never been very good at knots. As for locks, they seem a disaster waiting to happen. So it may be safer for all concerned if I keep to the towpath.

There are pretty houses along the canal. I noticed one with a crocodile outside; or possibly an alligator. I could once tell the difference but no longer feel confident distinguishing one from the other in an emergency. Anyway, this one was possibly not real, although realistically life-size. It wasn't moving much, if at all, but then I don't think they scurry around much at the best of times. I watched as a narrowboat came sidling slowly along the canal, and the crocodile made no attempt to attack. Not sure what I would have done if it had.

Quill

[Mr. Christopher Smart settles himself down to write.]

Time is passing! I must make a start before the day is wasted. Where was it I placed my quill? There—I have it. Quill; ink; paper—all in order. Now, let me see:

For I will consider my cat Jeoffry.

A satisfactory beginning, I have to say. You observe, Jeoffry, you are to be the subject of this verse. I trust you are flattered by the compliment. To continue—

For he is the servant—

What's that? What is the matter, Jeoffry? Your plate is there by the door, as always. See—I place a few more scraps on your plate. Be content now.

For he is the servant of the living God—

You have finished already? Well, you may stretch out by the fire and return to sleep while I resume my work. Where was I? I have lost my train of thought. What was I about to write? Confound it, how am I to make any progress today! Of course, I have it—

                                                    —duly and daily serving him.

That was it! Good. What comes next? Let me see—No, Jeoffry, off the table with you—you will upset the ink again. Off, off! Now there are paw prints all across the page! You are trying my patience today—What now? You wish to go out? This is too much—! I have to get to my feet again! There—out with you! Now perhaps I will get something done!

For—for—

I cannot think straight any longer. Distraction upon distraction.

For—

What is that noise? What is it—scratching? Scratching at the door—! Heaven preserve us!

Grades

In case you are interested, though I don't really expect you will be, as it's hardly the most rivetting of observations, the weather was alright on holiday; with one drizzly day, and a few cloudy days, and a few sweltering days; which is good, given the wildly variable summer we have had. I just mention this for the record. One day you may find the information useful.

The A level results were announced today, which will have come as joyful news for some and traumatic for others, and mildly confusing for those who don't follow these things particularly closely. I'm not sure I can remember much about when I got my own A level results, but it was a long time ago: before all this newfangled electronic mail palaver became popular (or indeed invented) and students could download the results the moment they leap out of bed (or probably access them while still in bed via a smartphone). Perhaps we had to make our way to school, and find an appropriate notice board, and huddle around, worriedly. Or maybe not; who knows? Memory can sometimes play strange tricks. Perhaps I don't actually have any A levels at all.

It was good to hear my son has got the necessary grades and hence will be off to university in the autumn. A significant milestone in his life, as he discovers the delights of higher education and living away from home. And getting massively into debt.

Conch

It is probably a mistake to read Lord of the Flies when on a beach holiday. Admittedly, I was only in southwest Wales, but still the sense of impending evil was unsettling. You never quite know what it will take for social norms to break down and unfettered savagery to be let loose. Luckily the holiday passed uneventfully.

The beach (detail).

But finding myself blogless due to a lack of wifi connection at the bottom of a cliff, I have missed out on writing daily (if not hourly) updates on the Olympic Games. I'm not sure I have the enthusiasm to catch up retrospectively, so my informative commentary will have to wait till the next time they are on. At least Team GB seemed to do well, which was good to see after all the effort of organising things and building things and the like. Granted this is not the most insightful account of the Games, but it's getting late.

Provisions

The weather has taken another turn for the worse, after the brief summery spell we had last week. The driving showers are particularly unwelcome given the imminent approach of the holiday, seeing that any level-headed person would prefer, if given the choice, a bit of warmth and sunshine if at all possible, rather than be confined indoors by howling gales and torrential storms. There is only so much Monopoly you can play. But perhaps the weather will improve by the weekend. Despite all the current forecasts.

I ought to do more packing. I've started creating little piles of clothes in various bedrooms to pack into a bag at some undefined point in the future. The little piles aren't actually that little, and are maybe more accurately described as ridiculously large, representing all the items I would like to take with me if I were going on holiday for at least 4 months and intended to visit diverse climates ranging from tropical rain forest to polar ice cap. So there will need to be a stage of filtering in the next few days, to reduce the pile to an essential minimum. And given we are going to a self-catering establishment, I tend towards taking a few essential items of kitchen equipment and food items that are unlikely to be obtainable in rural Wales. Again, it is easy to get carried away with this and cram the car with more food than you could realistically eat within a week even if you were unable to leave the house because of interminable howling gales and torrential storms, so that you end up taking it all back home with you, or consider leaving it as a gift for the next occupant of the holiday house. It is all too much stress. Holidays should be carefree and relaxing, but they come at such a hefty price.

Cauldron

So the London Games are now well under way, with Team GB picking up their first couple of medals. There is a long way to go. I've been trying to watch what I can, which is somehow not made any easier by the BBC offering so many simultaneous broadcasts on the red button thing. So I've spent most of today hopping between channels, being strangely drawn to handball (if only to try and work out what the rules are) and beach volleyball; which, being located in the prim and proper setting of Horse Guard's Parade, looked even more surreal than anything Danny Boyle threw at us in the opening ceremony.

Perhaps the highlight of Friday evening's entertainment was the imaginative transformation of 204 copper petals into the mighty Olympic Cauldron, symbolising the coming together of the myriad competing nations into a beacon of hope shining through the darkness. Or something along those lines. If nothing else, it looked pretty spectacular. And hot. And in an unexpected echoing of this event, I found myself in charge of a barbecue on Saturday afternoon. Admittedly, it was not on the same scale as the Olympic Cauldron, and not even particularly hot (hence the sausages took longer than I would have wished), but in its own modest way, it symbolised the coming together of a handful of work colleagues in Ian's back garden. And in a typically British twist of fate, the heavens opened, with peals of thunder and bolts of lightning threatening to sweep away the flimsy gazebo where I was heroically trying to cook. Somehow I pulled through, with nothing worse than a couple of singed eyebrows. 

Pandemonium

I seem to have lost a bit of a tooth. Probably due to not paying enough attention as I took too large a bite out of a French stick while watching the opening ceremony of the London Olympics. The fact that it happened at all and, more importantly, that I didn't particularly mind, is surely testament to the flamboyance and originality of Danny Boyle's engrossing spectacle. I quite liked the jiving Victorians engineers. And the illuminated beds. And the Queen parachuting in. And - goodness, it's all pretty astonishing, in a breath-taking sort of way.

As I write, the parade of athletes has just got under way. It is likely to take some time. But that's fine: good to see representatives of countries I never knew existed waving flags and sporting colourful uniforms. They should be encouraged to do this sort of thing more often. I don't think I've actually sat through an opening ceremony for many years, probably because they tend to be on in the middle of the night or while I'm at work or while I'm out buying French sticks. It takes me back to my childhood - was that the last time I watched one of these parades? There were probably fewer countries back then.

The opening ceremony does help to stoke up a bit more enthusiasm for the Games. It's hard to believe it was seven years ago when London won the bid. So it's understandable if over that time people have lost interest, or were daunted by the escalating cost, or simply forgot, or imagined they dreamt it in the first place. Having torch bearers sprinting through your living room does help to jog the memory. But here we are, seven years on, with the London Olympics about to burst into life (apart from the bits like women's foootball which burst into life a couple of days ago). So hopefully it will be an impressive and inspiring couple of weeks, and the rain will hold off. Especially as I have a holiday coming up.