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.