Finale

– Another New Year's Eve... They seem to come around more quickly nowadays.
– I think they are still an annual thing. Something to do with the calendar.
– I am afraid I am worn out already, and it's still hours to go till midnight.
– You should take it easy. Sit back, eat some nibbles, crack open a bottle of something.
– That's what I have been doing all evening. It's not that simple.
– It sounds fairly simple to me.
– You say that, but it takes a lot of organising. A lot of taking things out of fridges and putting them into ovens. And taking them out of ovens at the appropriate moment. It's touch and go at times.
– It must be very stressful for you.
– It is.
– At least you can relax tomorrow. And eat all the leftovers.
– That'll be more work...
– Then don't eat the leftovers. Just leave them in the fridge till next New Year's Eve.

Twenty-fourth

But when to Bethlehem they came,
Whereat this Infant lay,
They found him in a manger,
Where oxen feed on hay;
His mother Mary kneeling,
Unto the Lord did pray:
O tidings of comfort and joy.

Twenty-third

    "Would it help your investigations if I replaced the sugared almonds?"
    "No, I am afraid not. They were a crucial piece of evidence, clearly left at the scene of the crime by the culprit himself. Who knows what clue they may have revealed to point to his identity and hasten us towards the denouement of this bizarre crime?"
    "Well, I cannot remember any particularly distinguishing features. They were simply plain white. Or pink. Some white, some pink. Quite crunchy, I seem to remember."
    "There must have been something – some subtle mark or characteristic, perhaps slightly out of the ordinary?"
    "Not that I can recall. Although there was some handwriting on the paper bag. As if the owner had been jotting down notes of some sort: names, addresses, times, dates, floor plans... Really quite elaborate, now that I come to think about it."
    "What! What did you do with this paper bag?"
    "Now that's a very good question! I wonder what I did do with it..."

Twenty-second

– I seem to have spent the day stocking up the fridge.
– I thought the fridge was fairly full to begin with.
– Yes, but not with anything particularly useful. Mainly half-empty jars of stuff well past their sell-by dates. Long-forgotten vegetables slowly turning to compost. Leftovers neatly bagged and labelled and crammed into the bottom of the freezer, never to be seen again. It's quite therapeutic to have a clear-out and make space for the turkey.
– I wondered what that was. There also seem to be bags of food scattered around the house.
– Well, not all the non-fridge items will fit in the cupboards. So I've had to be creative in my storage solutions.
– Will you be able to remember where you've left everything?
– Try me.
– Mayonnaise.
– ... We could make it from scratch.
– Have you ever made it from scratch?
– It can't be that difficult. What do you need?
– Eggs.
– ... Probably in the conservatory.

Twenty-first

We went to the German Market today, as we have done every year for longer than I can remember; possibly since they were first invented. And every year we see the same stalls, in the same locations, and, for all I know, the same customers milling about, sipping glühwein and nibbling bratwurst. Or perhaps the stalls are actually quite different, but end up selling very similar products, as if to underline the fact that these intricate Christmas tree decorations and imposing nutcracker dolls are not hand-carved by the stall owner in his threadbare garret, but are mass-produced in a modern factory on the other side of the planet, possibly by robots. But still, the main purpose of visiting the market is not to buy armfuls of gifts, but to absorb some of the Yuletide spirit and enter into an appropriate mood for the imminent festivities. And some strudel along the way does not go amiss.

Twentieth

    "Where exactly are we?"
    The professor stepped away from the console and peered into the surrounding gloom.
    "Somewhere rather dark and foggy," he said, "if that is of any help."
    "So we have been transported somewhere?"
    "No, of course not. You do not seem to have understood a word I have been saying to you. This is a time machine. We are at exactly the same location where we were a moment ago. But we are at a point in time perhaps many centuries, if not millennia, before. Or possibly after."
    His calmly pedantic manner only fuelled my growing sense of unease.
    "You do not seem very sure about any of this," I snapped.
    "There are more important concerns than such trivial details," he replied. "Does it really matter what exact year we happen to have arrived in?"
   "I would have thought it was of some relevance," I said. "It might help to explain what that is over there, coming out of the fog towards us."

Nineteenth

– When you stop to think about it, some of the traditions we have at Christmastime are a little bit odd, don't you think?
– How do you mean?
– Well, things like putting large trees in a corner of the living room and decorating them with random shiny baubles. Covering the outside of your house with gaudy displays of twinkling multicoloured lights. It's not really the sort of thing you do in the normal course of events.
– But that's the point: it's all about doing something a little out of the ordinary in order to celebrate the joys of the season. Otherwise you would just be doing what you would do any other day.
– Like having a sensible-sized roast chicken for lunch rather than a bird the size of a small dinosaur?
– Precisely. Where's the fun of just having chicken when you could have a small dinosaur?
– And sprouts.
– Sprouts are not so extraordinary.
– They are for me. I can't abide them.

Eighteenth

Only a week to go to Christmas. I suppose this is always a tricky period, this final run-up to the festivities. Having spent the last few weeks rushing around buying food and gifts, you get to the point where you feel surely all the preparations are completed, or if not, then they will just have to do. And then you remember there are a few minor items still missing, such as everything you need for lunch on the day itself, and even presents for relatives you've somehow managed to forget about.

But you determine not to spend the remaining days in a mad panic, but to take a few deep breaths, make a few lists, annotate with priorities and suggesting timings, and glide effortlessly through your outstanding tasks, taking some time along the way to put your feet up with a cup of tea and a slice of cake and your favourite book of poetry. And yet – despite all your efforts – you have a sneaking suspicion that perhaps it will end up being a mad panic after all.

Seventeenth

    "I'm not sure I understand you. What do you mean, we can travel back in time?"
    "Precisely that. To whatever date you care to choose."
    The professor's innocent expression did not waver for a second. Either he was a brazen liar or he had actually begun to believe in his tale. Perhaps the years of solitary study were finally taking their toll. I glanced at the unpromising assemblage of dials, cogs and levers in front of us, for all the world like the workings of a huge clock that had been torn apart and rebuilt inside out.
    "And this contraption is a time machine?" 
    "Please," chided the professor, "it is not a contraption, as you put it, but a complex and delicate apparatus, the product of my life's work. I would be grateful if you showed it the respect it deserves."
    "I apologise for my scepticism. But surely you understand why I find all this – a little hard to swallow." 
    The professor shrugged. "It is what I have come to expect, although I had hoped you would be rather more open minded. Perhaps there is only one way in which I can convince you. Would you care to take part in an experiment?"
     If it was all fiction, it was time to call the old man's bluff.
    "What have I got to lose?"

Sixteenth

My birthday, if you have been following the story to date, is now only hours away. When I was young I would try to stay awake till midnight, watching the clock by my bed tick the minutes away till the new day had begun and I could wish myself many happy returns. Now that I am older, and tend to go to bed later, waiting up till midnight is not such a significant event, and if anything I usually have to make an effort to put my book away and switch off the light before the hour arrives, knowing I will struggle to get up in time for work the next morning. To avoid this last problem, I have had the foresight to take tomorrow as holiday, so that at least I can have a more leisurely start to the day, lingering over breakfast, browsing through the newspaper, rather than rushing about trying to make the sandwiches while feeding the cat. No wonder my sandwiches sometimes taste a little odd.

Birthdays come around so quickly nowadays; the years keep piling up, in a relentless sort of a way. It would be nice to have a break now and again from time's wingèd chariot: perhaps to stay put at a particularly interesting age for a few years, and then maybe skip through some of the less attractive ones a little more quickly. Tomorrow I will be – well, whatever: not a very enthralling age, though at least a prime number, which doesn't happen all that often. But then they don't seem to sell greeting cards saying Happy Prime Number Birthday when they sell so many other obscurely personalised cards. A gap in the market if ever there was one.

Fifteenth

    "I am glad to report some promising developments in the case over the last few days. I feel confident that we are on the verge of a successful conclusion to the mystery that has baffled us for so long."
    "That is excellent news. Can you now point to the culprit?"
    "One step at a time, I'm afraid: if we pounce too soon, all will be lost. Indeed, we must exert the utmost care to spin a web around our prey from which there will be no escape."
    "I am intrigued to know how you have disentangled this conundrum."
    "Well, what is remarkable is how the entire case has turned on one apparently insignificant event."
    "That is astonishing! May I inquire–?
    "You remember the bag of sugared almonds? How it inexplicably went missing?"
    "–The sugared almonds, you say?"
    "Exactly. I kept thinking it made no sense for them to be taken. And then it dawned on me – everything suddenly became as clear as crystal."
    "Ah – I must apologise. I don't know what came over me."
    "I beg your pardon – apologise for what?"
    "The sugared almonds. A weakness of mine."
    "You took the sugared almonds?"
    "I thought that was what you had deduced?"
    "No, no, not at all..."
    "Oh... Well, please continue..."

Fourteenth

– And are you feeling better?
– Don't know. Not much.
– You should have stayed in bed all day.
– Don't like staying in bed.
– But it is a proven method to heal all manner of ailments. That and hot sweet tea. And chicken soup. I hope you've at least had some chicken soup?
– Yes.
– Good... You're not being very communicative.
–
– I suppose it's not easy to be chatty when you're feeling under the weather.
–
– Luckily I'm not the sort of person who takes offence easily.
–
– Well, I'm sure that will be some consolation to you.
–

Thirteenth

As if to underline my advancing years and the fast approaching birthday, I have been stricken by some itinerant germ, with the unpleasant symptoms of coughs and sneezes and generalised malaise. This is not a good time to be laid low, with the impending festivities requiring a high degree of planning and coordination. So if this ailment persists, there will be no presents under the tree and nothing to eat in the fridge and Christmas will be ruined for everybody, although considerable cheaper for me.

Twelfth

– I thought you said you had put up your Christmas tree?
– I have. There it is, in the corner.
– Of course. I don't know how I missed it.
– It is unobtrusive, certainly: I didn't want anything too showy.
– It is not definitely not showy. And yet, sometimes Christmas trees can get away with being a little bit showy. Tinsel, decorations – they work quite well on a Christmas tree. Even fairy lights, normally not the sort of thing you would want to drape around your living room, somehow suit it.
– Do you think I've gone for too muted a look?
– Sometimes it's best to make a bold statement. The blobs of carelessly scattered cotton wool are charming in their own way, but maybe it just needs something extra.

Eleventh

    "So, you think it is such a simple matter to escape? I can assure you the castle is impregnable. Your friends will never break in. And you will never break out."
    The captain's words echoed around the cavernous guardroom. His hands now securely bound, the prisoner sat slumped in the chair, seemingly resigned to his defeat. But a quick glance around his cell had given him an idea. The odds were stacked against him, the chance of success vanishingly small, but he had no choice. How quickly could the captain draw and fire his revolver? There was only one way to find out.

Tenth

It is nearly my birthday. Not that I expect you to care, let alone to rush out and buy me something; but rather it's helpful to remind myself of it, particularly at this time of year, when it is far too easy to be swept along by everything else that is happening. December is typically spent frantically buzzing around, worrying about all the stuff you have to buy, and wrap up, and put into the freezer. (Not necessarily the same item, you understand: else the wrapping paper would go soggy.)  Sometimes you have to call a halt to it all, and try to find a moment of stillness to reflect on the passing of time and the relentless approach of yet another birthday. Unfortunately for me, the stillness is often broken by the disconsolate wailing of the cat, who clearly wants something, but never quite lets on what it is.

Ninth

– Let me get this straight: you bought an Advent calendar for your cat?
– You say that as if there is something odd about it. Lots of people buy Advent calendars for their pets. Well, for their cats and dogs, at any rate. I can't say I've ever seen any for a goldfish or a gerbil, but, who knows, perhaps they sell them.
– And does the cat have any concept of the meaning of Advent, or Christmas, or anything for that matter?
– Well, that's a difficult question. I think sometimes we underestimate how much animals actually do understand. Clearly, the cat has never shown much interest in organised religion, but then neither do many people, so I'm not sure what that proves. And on the other hand, she certainly looks forward to the daily opening of another window on the Advent calendar, and indeed some days tries to open it herself.
– Only because she has learned that it contains treats.
– Well, that's a very mercenary interpretation. Perhaps she genuinely enjoys the sense of anticipation, the discovery of something new behind each window.
– Do they all contain the same treats?
– Yes, but she doesn't know that.

Eighth

    "Any progress with the case? I am beginning to fear we will never get to the bottom of it."
    "There has been one rather bizarre development since we last met, but I am afraid it compounds the mystery rather than sheds any light. It is really most perplexing."
    "Whatever has happened?"
    "This morning I was reviewing the evidence we had collected, in light of a new hypothesis I had formed, when I was surprised to discover that some of the evidence has disappeared."
    "No! This is astonishing – who could have tampered with it? Has much been taken?"
    "Only one item – the bag of sugared almonds."
    "– Really? You don't say... The sugared almonds...?"
    "Yes. That is what I cannot fathom – why the sugared almonds?"
    "Ah, yes... Indeed... I cannot imagine..."

Seventh

– You've bought a Christmas cake.
– Yes. It seemed somehow appropriate. Of course, I may not cut into it for a while: perhaps wait till the day itself.
– But you could have made one yourself, for a fraction of the cost.
– I don't know... The recipe probably requires hundreds of different ingredients. And also highly specialised equipment, such as a cake tin. Have you ever looked in my kitchen cupboards? It would cost me a small fortune and weeks of effort to assemble everything required.
– But what about the sense of achievement you would get from your own craftsmanship?
– Unfortunately, I know from past experience the limitations of my craftsmanship when it comes to baking. At the end of the day I want something that's edible, and preferably tastes nice. Else I might end up with a large fruity doorstop.
– At least it would be festive.

Sixth

Silently, he edged towards the open doorway. Ahead lay the window and the route to freedom. Within the guard room, voices grew more animated. He risked a quick glance. Four – more than he expected, but at least absorbed in a rowdy card game. With any luck, they wouldn't notice a thing. But there was no point in weighing up the odds – it was now or never. He slipped past the doorway, then stumbled as a shot rang out behind him. Shouts came from the guard room, chairs flung back, footsteps running towards him. He hurled himself at the window.

Fifth

1. Presents
2. Tree
3. Food

– Is that it?
– Well, just about. It is succinct, but covers the main necessities.
– It is not very specific for a shopping list.
– I don't like to be too constrained. But with this you can just wander into a shop and be out again within minutes, whereas if you were looking for a very detailed list of items, you would be there for ever before you found everything.
– I suppose that makes some sense, in a worrying way. Although I should think that the tree might be problematic depending on what kind of shop you wander into.
– You are allowed to take some liberties. So, in place of a tree you might pick up some other decorative items, such as some tinsel, say, or a box of Christmas crackers.
– That is quite a liberty. Especially if you actually wanted a tree.

Fourth

Lost: large brown bear. Answers to the name of Daisy. Approximately 6' 2¾" tall. Weight: probably quite a lot. Last seen in the travel section of Didsbury public library. If found, please approach with caution, and under no circumstances offer chocolate. Generally has an affectionate nature, but may easily become upset by thoughtless and insensitive comments.

Third

– Uncle Arthur?
– Is he still alive?
– Very much so.
– A bottle of whisky.
– We bought him that last year.
– I am sure he has drunk it by now. He doesn't have many interests in life.
– Should we encourage him?
– He doesn't really need much encouragement: he's very self-motivated.
– Chloë and Ben?
– A posh bottle of wine?
– Chloë and Ben are still at school.
– Are they? I thought they both had jobs in the City?
– They are ten and twelve years old respectively.
– So who am I thinking of?
– Goodness knows.

Second

    "And so, what do you conclude? Now that the evidence is before us, what is your opinion of the matter?"
    "I have to confess I cannot make head nor tail of it. It appears to be a crime without the slightest motive, with not a single intelligible clue to point towards the perpetrator, but only a series of bizarre and inconsequential red herrings to obscure our progress."
    "But take those red herrings, as you so eloquently describe them, one by one: is there no thread, however slight, that connects them, and thus may lead us to the correct solution?"
    "I am afraid to say I am totally at a loss. The evidence you have accumulated is meaningless to me – completely random, as far as I can tell."
    "Really? Is anything ever truly random? What do we have? A rolled-up black umbrella, flecked with blood, and with a handle bearing the teeth marks of a small unidentifiable rodent not indigenous to these shores. A copy of the Times, dated exactly twenty-five years ago today, in pristine condition apart from the word "perambulator" written in green ink in the right hand margin of the first page. Two first class railway tickets to Margate. An Amazonian blowdart tipped with curare. A quarter of a pound of sugared almonds. I hardly think that this constitutes a random collection of items."

First

– So, is that an Advent calendar?
– Yes. Rather sweet, isn't it?
– Maybe a little – twee?
– Well, they do tend to be on the sugary side. It's just the nature of these things.
– You bought an Advent calendar?
– Why not? It's a traditional way to mark the countdown to Christmas. All those little windows. With pictures inside. It's a design classic.
– And containing shapeless lumps of unappetising chocolate?
– Well, they seem to have swamped the market. Quite hard to find ones without chocolates. Of course, you don't have to eat the chocolate. You could just throw it away. And admire the pictures.
– Perhaps you could find a less calorific way to mark the passing of December. Such as writing a post every day. Each one celebrating some thoughtful aspect of the season, eschewing crass commercialism.
– And chocolate?
– I'm afraid so.

Noir

– So, are you planning to write about nothing but Christmas for the next month?
– What? No, no, of course not. Not at all.
– Because it is a long way away still.
– Yes, of course.
– And to witter on about nothing else will begin to get wearing.
– I quite agree.
– When there are so many weightier topics of current interest which are worth discussing.
– Indeed... I noticed on the news–
– Yes?
–  That it was Black Friday today, with desperate crowds besieging supermarkets in search of bargains.
– I hope this has nothing to do with Christmas?
– No, not in the least. I am sure they were just keen to go shopping to celebrate Thanksgiving. Belatedly.

Larder

– And is that it?
– How do you mean?
– Is that the sum total of your Christmas food shopping?
– It's a stollen. They eat them on the continent. Somewhere.
– I know. I meant, is that all you bought?
– Well, it's a start. I wasn't in the mood for traipsing around the supermarket trying to fill several trolley loads. So I thought if I just buy one festive item and put it at the back of the kitchen cupboard, that will be a start. Although there is a risk I'll forget where I put it. But hopefully I will remember in time for Christmas Day, and there it will be, in pride of place on the Yuletide table, a fitting treat to welcome all who may visit.
– It's not very big.
– It was the only one they had.
– If more than one or two people come to visit, you could be in trouble.
– But by then I will have bought some other items to accompany the stollen. Next time I visit the supermarket, I will see what other festive bargains are to be had. And so it will go on, bit by bit, till the larder is full, and, I daresay, the freezer also. Although admittedly the freezer is pretty full already.
– Then this is the time to start eating your way through the contents of the freezer.
– Why would I want to do that?
– So that you can re-stock it in time for Christmas.
– That seems a little pointless. Although, now I come to think of it, quite a lot of the freezer is filled with leftover turkey from last year.

Panic

– It's getting towards that time of year.
– What time in particular?
– You know, shopping and presents and overeating. And snow.
– Christmas?
– Yes.
– But it's not for ages yet.
– Not for ages? It's only a matter of weeks away.
– Well, that's alright. Plenty of time.
– It's hardly any time at all. The weeks will fly by. You will get increasingly panicked by the amount of stuff to do and the lack of opportunities for doing it. The days to come will all be a blur till one morning you will wake up and realise it is Boxing Day and you've missed it all. But then you'll remember you need to start preparing for New Year.
– You have a pessimistic view of all this. You should relax and look forward to it. Relish the unique charms of winter and the chance to make merry with friends and family. And if you spot the odd gift worth buying to show someone close how much you appreciate them, all the better. Anticipate the joys of the season to come and help to bring some happiness into the lives of your fellow men.
– ... Did I mention snow?
– Yes.

Torches

So the choir and orchestra performed The Armed Man by Karl Jenkins last night, after many months (at least two) of arduous rehearsal. The audience seemed to like it, or perhaps had been brought up to be polite and not show their true feelings; we shall never know. But the performance went well enough, and there was a lot of hearty applause, so hopefully it was the former.

It is such an emotional work, pulling together texts from many sources for its graphic depiction of war and its aftermath, and ending with a moment of consolation and hope for a better future. The message is timeless, reminding us that conflict has been a sad feature of our history for centuries past, and is unlikely to disappear in the near future, given the tensions blighting so many parts of world.

Today I feel physically and emotionally drained by it all: after all the weeks of effort, it is over and done with. It always leaves you a little deflated, but that is really just a consequence of the emotional high of the performance. These things take you out of the humdrumness of the daily routine: the highs and lows are what makes it all worthwhile.

Poppy

It is sobering to be reminded so often this year that it is the centenary of the outbreak of World War I; in particular, this week's services of remembrance have taken on a special poignancy. The display of ceramic poppies at the Tower of London, 888,246 of them sweeping across the moat to mark each life lost from these shores, has caught the public's imagination, even if some art critics have been scornful. But it is not difficult to see why the installation has made such an impact, emphasising the scale of the loss in such a dramatic and personal way.

Sometimes we need to be reminded of things we too easily forget amidst the noise of daily life, and the simple idea of a flood of red poppies has succeeded in creating a deeply emotional response. The transience of the display adds to the impact: slowly building up over the summer and autumn, it will now start to fade away till, like first-hand memories of the Great War, nothing remains.

Pyrotechnics

– You wonder how they get all the colours, don't you?
– Sorry?
– In fireworks. All the colours. Especially compared to the ones we had when I was a child, when I'm sure things looked less exciting than the big displays you get nowadays.
– Chemicals. It's just the chemicals they add to the firework. Metals burn with a characteristic colour, as you will remember from school chemistry lessons.
– I'm not sure I do. I don't think we were allowed anywhere too close to a Bunsen flame for health and safety reasons.
– I suppose chemistry laboratories are dangerous places. But even so, explosions and pungent smells are part of the attraction of science. Without them, what chance of encouraging students to become the chemists of the future?
– And I was never that keen about dissecting frogs.
– I am sure the frog was not wild about it either.

Bath

Yesterday I had my first bath in years. It is not as bad as it sounds: it's not that I've been wallowing in unspeakable dirt all this time, but rather I've relied on a quick and bracing shower first thing in the morning, rather than a slow and luxuriant bath. Partly this was driven by some odd peculiarity of the plumbing, which has now fortunately been fixed, so that I can actually get enough hot water out of the boiler to fill the bath were I ever in the mood. And then it happened yesterday morning that the shower refused point blank to work, just at that delicate time of the day when you really want everything to go without a hitch or else you might as well collapse back into bed and try again tomorrow.

So I still did not manage a slow, luxuriant wallow: it ended up more as a brisk dip, as I find mornings to be quite rushed at the best of times, especially when you want to be out of the house before the traffic builds up. But it may be that, inspired by this minor yet still somehow significant achievement, I will one day progress to a more serious attempt at bathing, with appropriate background music and scented candles, and seek to banish the stresses and tensions of the working day. Which you never quite manage in the shower.
 

Pumpkin

– It seems to have quietened down.
– Yes... In what way, exactly?
– The endless procession of trick-or-treaters beating down the door in pursuit of sweets.
– Of course... There weren't that many.
– There were enough.
– And most of them were quite young: mere infants.
– They start them early nowadays. But it's no excuse: if you give in to them, they'll only come back for more next year.
– But if you don't treat them, they may play some unwelcome trick.
– I'd like to see them try.
– I'm not sure you could do much about it. Especially when you're outnumbered. Perhaps discretion is the better part of valour. Just bribe them and they will go away.
– It is for their own good. They need to learn that you cannot make a success of your life through threats and extortion. And, besides, all that sugar will ruin their teeth.
– You could try healthier treats. Raw vegetables are good for you, they say.
– Do you think they would take kindly to a selection of cruditiés?
– Perhaps not. Or try hard cash. You could encourage them to begin saving for their old age.
– But again, is that the lesson you want to impart? That they do not have to work for their financial security, but that it will just be handed to them for nothing?
– Not quite for nothing: they do make an effort to get dressed up. Usually as something gruesome, but at least it shows willing.
– But still, it's hardly a serious profession.

Nightingale

– It seems to have gone very dark.
– That'll be the clocks. They went back yesterday.
– Even so, it should only be as dark as it would have been an hour later. Or do I mean earlier? Whatever it is, it shouldn't come as such a shock to the system. You feel as if you have been plunged into the middle of winter. With nothing to look forward to, but ever-shortening days and ever-worsening weather. Where are the songs of summer?
– Or possibly of spring, to quote Keats.
– If you say so. I am trying to express something on a grand and universal scale, without being fettered by unnecessary details.
– Or facts.
– Keats did not constrain his poetic muse by worrying over facts.
– "Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all
    Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."
– My point exactly.
– I am sure Keats will be reassured that you are both of the same opinion.
– Only because we have shared an experience common to all men.
– Such as bemoaning the weather?
– I mean, to be dragged down by the cares and frustrations of the world.
– "Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
     And leaden-eyed despairs."
– Precisely. That's what I was trying to get at.
– Does this traumatic experience happen every time the clocks go back?
– It's not much better in the spring: then I worry about losing an hour of my life.

Holes

There seem to be roadworks everywhere. I know this has become a common feature of modern life, but at the moment there are far more of them obstructing the road network than we could wish for. Or perhaps the current number of roadworks is actually lower than the average: it is just that they are clustered in one narrow location, namely the route I drive to work. And perhaps the motoring population in general are collectively rejoicing at the minimal disruption they encounter in their daily commute; whereas a small group of us, feeling victimised and unappreciated, have to bear the brunt. I suppose I should take some solace from the knowledge that my selfless sacrifice benefits the rest of society; but I can't help thinking that the gratification should be spread around more evenly.

I do my best to take avoiding action, navigating ever-more circuitous routes to miss out the worst of the endless queues, the most unyielding of the temporary traffic lights, but there is a limit to what you can achieve without turning up to work halfway through the morning. Sometimes you just have to grit your teeth and put something soothing on the CD player. I am currently working my way through a box set of Mahler symphonies, which are just about long enough to get you through the worst of it.

Mooc

I am beginning to struggle. It has been many years since I last attended a lecture course, and my early enthusiasm for embarking on this one is starting to wane. The conferences I occasionally go along to don't really count, as they only last for a couple of days and you are generally consoled by staying in a smart hotel, with nice views and adequate catering. Things are different when you try to take an online course from home, particularly with respect to the views and the catering. The video lectures initially look quite modest in scope, but then you realise how little spare time you have in the evenings, what with the daily struggle of preparing dinner, general household chores and entertaining the cat. And they do insist on you submitting assignments on time, week after week, which seems a little unreasonable given you have volunteered to do the course out of the kindness of your own heart, and for minimal personal gain (unless you agree to pay for the certificate).

But knowledge is a precious gift, one which would be even more precious if it didn't have a habit of fading away almost as soon as it is acquired. I can readily sympathise with my daughter for managing to forget all the things she has learnt at school by the time she gets home.

Stellar

– So, have you ever considered entering a talent contest?
– Why do you ask?
– Well, they are very popular nowadays. Especially on TV. Saturday nights seem devoted to shows involving hopeful amateurs trying to become famous, or even minor celebrities seeking to revitalise a sagging career. It seems all you need is a modest degree of talent in singing, or ballroom dancing, or just about anything, really.
– And you thought I seemed a likely contestant?
– You must be good at something. It could turn out to be a lucrative new career.
– I am flattered you think I have the makings of a future star, but I am not sure what to suggest: I can't think of any particularly distinguishing talent I have.
– It was only an idea. I thought it might lead to a life-changing moment, with you becoming an overnight success and gaining immeasurable wealth.
– Do you think it is possible?
– Maybe, although I'm thinking I might have a go myself. If so, you would stand no chance.

Damp

– There you go: you make a point of mentioning how warm and summery the weather has been and then suddenly it all changes.
– It did get a bit wild this morning: wintry gales upending some of my flower pots. But it'll probably pass soon enough.
– I had to jump ahead in my outdoor wardrobe.
– Sorry?
– I had still been wearing my lightweight summer jacket, and was looking forward to moving on to a more substantial version better suited to the mild autumnal chill. But instead I had to get out my waterproof early winter coat.
– You seem very organised.
– No more than the next man–
– Probably a little more than the next man...
– It is just common sense to update your outer wear according to the weather.
– I suppose so.
– It is almost as if you don't think this is important.
– Do you have a late winter coat in addition to the early winter coat?
– Of course. Don't you?

Wilt

– I wonder if it is set to continue, this late burst of summer sunshine we have enjoyed recently. Or are we about to be plunged into a damp and depressing autumn?
 – I guess we have been lucky with the summer; although it seems to have gone by quickly. I remember making so many plans for what I'd like to do: places to visit, that sort of thing.
– And?
– And I don't seem to have achieved much; if anything.
– It can't be helped, when you're busy enjoying the sunshine with your feet up in the garden.
– But that's the point: I didn't do much of that either.
– But then the cat doesn't help: the way she comes outside when she sees you relaxing in the garden; and complains.
– I've never understood why she does that. After all, she spends most of her day likewise lounging about. It's difficult to see why she should become so self-righteous when someone else has a go.
– Maybe it's a territorial thing: you are invading her personal space.
– You mean the entire garden?
– Yes.
– As well as the entire house?
– Sometimes they just need a lot of space.

Bake

– At least it's edible. In places.
– But you wouldn't want to eat much of it?
– Maybe not a whole slice, no. But it has an intriguing flavour. Apple, did you say?
– Perhaps I should give up with baking. It is just one failure after another.
– I am sure you are making steady, if slow, progress. Remember the lemon drizzle cake?
– I'd rather not.
– There you go: you've moved on significantly from those dark days. It is just a matter of time, and frequent practice.
– But that's the thing: the more I practise, the more I accumulate these unpalatable slabs of cake that nobody wants.
– I am sure you could find a good home for them. Or try baking something smaller. And anyway, winter will be here soon: think of the hearty nourishment your cakes will provide to the garden birds.
– I suspect they will turn their noses up at them.
– Or at least their beaks.

Poll

It is a historic occasion: not the sort of thing that happens every day. Indeed, it may never happen again, depending how the vote goes. And note, by the way, I prefer a historic rather than the commonly encountered, but unsettling quaint, an historic. Just as I tend to refer to a history exam, or at least I would if I was unfortunate enough to have to sit one. It has been many years, incidentally, since I last sat a history exam. And I only got a C, which was disappointing, and rankles to this day.

Getting back to the point, today has seen the momentous referendum on whether Scotland should be an independent country and separate from the United Kingdom. After years (if not centuries) of fervent discussion, the poll has come and, in the last few minutes, gone. The results may start to come in at any moment, or, more likely, during the early hours of the morning, when hopefully I will be fast asleep. The polls have narrowed over the last few weeks, with perhaps only a couple of percentage points now separating the two camps. So either the final result will turn out to be very close, or we will discover that the Scottish people do not take opinion polls seriously and deliberately give misleading answers.

Either way, the future composition and governance of the whole of the UK will change after tonight. Potentially Scotland will go its own way, leading to several years of a difficult untangling and prising apart of Scotland from the rest of the UK. The Yes campaign has the advantage of a certain romantic idealism about it, whereas the No campaign has inevitably a negative pallor: it's difficult to sound positive when recommending the status quo, especially in the current economic climate. But we shall see. No one has asked my opinion. Probably because I don't live in Scotland.

Silence

– Haven't you forgotten something?
– Have I? I don't think so...
– What about the last two months? The absence of posts? No apologies or heartfelt farewells, just silence.
– Oh that. Yes... I was busy...
– For two months?
– Well, not for the full two months. But you know how it is: holidays come along, and you decide it would be nice to have a break from the relentless drudgery of having to churn out deeply meaningful posts ever other day. And then, before you know it, the holiday is over, and you've kind of got into the habit of enjoying the absence of blogging – the long summer evenings are still beckoning, you feel the prime of your youth slipping silently away...
– Wasn't that quite a while ago – the prime of your youth?
– Well, in my case, probably, but I was trying to speak more figuratively. I think. But you get the idea: when you are trying to extract the utmost meaning from life, to suck out all that marrowy stuff, and you don't want to get bogged down in the dull and humdrum.
– And did you?
– I don't know. The summer seemed to disappear before I realised. Not sure there was ever that much marrowy stuff left to suck. Apart from which, I've never been all that fond of that sort of thing: pumpkins, courgettes...
– I'm not sure that's the same marrow that the quote is referring to. But I see your point. They all get a bit soggy when overcooked.

Flat

I have been making my own furniture these past few days, having decided that, for example, a bedside table would look nice next to my bed instead of a couple of cardboard boxes with an alarm clock on top. I would have liked to have started with a solid block of English oak, to be whittled into something appropriately shaped, with drawers and everything, but decided it would be quicker, and involve less sawdust, to buy one from Ikea.

It's been a while since I last tried my hand at assembling flatpack furniture. There is a certain charm about how Scandinavian ingenuity manages to reduce a sturdy household item into a pile of assorted chipboard with strategically placed screw holes, and a myriad of uniquely shaped fixtures to hold the thing together. And it somehow all comes together, at least most of the time, to reveal a stylish and useful piece of furniture. Although I notice they seem quite concerned about their furniture falling over, so they are forever reminding you to nail things to walls, and find a way of preventing small children climbing up them.

Thinking of Scandinavian construction kits, the joy of Lego is the ability to take it to pieces and build something novel that no one else has ever dreamed of. You could extend the same idea to Ikea, and try going around the house dismantling every item of furniture, mixing up the components, and seeing whether you can design an object that has never been seen before. Especially one which can offer a useful storage space. And doesn't fall over.

MH17

It's difficult to know what to say about the recent events in Ukraine: the horror of civil war over the last few months, culminating in the shooting down of Malaysian Airlines MH17. To add insult to injury, the accusations and denials, the deliberate obfuscation, the truth buried under layers of propaganda. Is this how Russia wishes to be seen by the world?

Behold, we know not anything;
    I can but trust that good shall fall
    At last—far off—at last, to all,
And every winter change to spring.

So runs my dream: but what am I?
    An infant crying in the night:
    An infant crying for the light:
And with no language but a cry.

Desolation

– It's difficult to get back into the daily routine.
– How do you mean?
– Well, you know: dragging yourself out of bed in the morning; the long drive to work; trying to concentrate all day in front of the computer; the long drive back –
– Yes, I get the bit about the daily routine. But the difficulty?
– Nothing, really; only – well, there's the gaping emptiness, you know?
– Not quite. I can think of many sorts of gaping emptinesses, many of them due to missing lunch, though I suspect this one is somehow related to the recent World Cup.
– Well, it takes up so much of your life –
– Only because you spent all day in front of the TV.
– And then suddenly it's over. It takes a while to get over it.
– Perhaps it would help if you try to keep busy: stop thinking about the lack of football and the empty vastness of your evenings, but instead take up a new pastime or hobby. Or even consider housework.
– I suppose so. I could give it a go. I mean, it's only a few weeks till the start of the new season. I might just make it.

Race

Only a few days in, I've already watched more of the Tour de France than I've managed in previous years. Perhaps it's merely another symptom of terminal laziness, but I like to think that it's the sign of a burgeoning interest in competitive road racing. Not that I have any intention to compete myself, as it looks quite a lot of effort, and not without an element of danger to boot. There have been a number of crashes on the tour this week, which look pretty nasty given the speeds the cyclists go at, and the lack of give of the average French road surface. And today they had to contend with cobbles, in the rain. It cannot get much more hazardous, unless the race officials let loose an occasional irate rhinoceros to help spice things up.

But it must be nice to leap on your bicycle and tootle off for a couple of hundred miles or so and end up on the other side of the country. Especially if at the end of it you were still capable of walking. You would get to see so much of our towns and countryside, feel at one with nature and all that sort of thing; be able to stop off at characterful inns to sample their local brews, or the cream scones at picturesque tea rooms. Clearly, the Tour de France competitors do not quite have the time to spare for all this, and probably would have a hard job finding a decent cream scone on the continent. Which is probably the reason why I am reluctant to take part competitively. However, they do get given lunch bags so that they can feed in the saddle. Although a cream scone would be a little messy.

Tour

– We were lucky with the rain today.
– Yes. There were enough sunny spells to do a bit of gardening.
– I actually meant there were enough rainy spells to stay indoors.
– Wimbledon?
– No, the cycling. Le Tour de Yorkshire. Quite inspiring to see the mighty peleton soaring over the lush green hills and dales, doing their best to avoid stray sheep spray-painted yellow, and spectators falling off dry stone walls.
– It should encourage you to leap upon your bike and sprint up the nearest hill.
– Yes... To tell the truth, I'm not so good with hills. It's something about the gradient that doesn't quite suit my riding style.
– That's a pity, living where you do. Perhaps with practice.
– Perhaps.

Replay

– There seems less football on the the television nowadays.
– And more tennis. It's the way of these things. One of the fundamental laws of the universe. Something about the conservation of momentum.
– I'd rather have the football. Although, having said that, the last few weeks have been intense. I am nearing saturation point.
– And then what happens?
– I don't know. It's never happened before. I've always known when to stop.
– And this time?
– It's just too easy to record stuff on the box thing. So I no longer have to miss anything due to being at work.
– It can be inconvenient, work.
– And instead I can spend my evenings watching several matches at my leisure. And the advantage of watching recordings is that you can fast forward through the boring bits: the pre-match analysis; the national anthems.
– I quite like the national anthems. Interesting to hear what other countries have chosen. Generally fairly staid and sombre tunes in Europe; and jollier stuff in South America. Makes you want to pick something livelier for our own anthem.
– A bit of Elgar maybe.
– I was thinking more along the lines of Andrew Lloyd Webber. Something from one of the shows. Then at least if we lose at the football, we will have had a good sing beforehand.

Date

It is, they tell me, one hundred years to the day since the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand in Sarajevo. In a year of many significant centenaries, this is as momentous as they come.

The fact that I have heard of it at all testifies to its importance, my knowledge of history being patchy to say the least. It is probably due to so much of history occurring before I was born, and hence having little direct impact on me; although, to tell the truth, the bits of history that have occurred since are also somewhat murky. I think the problem may be that history is not really my thing. It is heavily weighted towards facts, and events, and dates, which all have to be accurately regurgitated under exam conditions. Perhaps I prefer somewhat fuzzier subjects, for instance where the numbers don't quite matter so much as long as you make a reasonable guess at them and are in the right sort of ballpark. Whereas, in contrast, being a year or two out when referring to the start of World War I is deemed unacceptably lax.

And I am always a little concerned the way history has a habit of changing. You would have thought, having happened, it would stay the same for the foreseeable future. And yet it's never quite like that, with opinions shifting over time, and eminent professors arguing passionately about whether such and such an event actually occurred, and what it meant if it did, and what it might have meant if it didn't. You would think they would be able to agree on these details, but everything seems up for grabs. Apart from when I last sat an exam paper, when suddenly all the facts had to be accurate. But why shouldn't I have my own opinion on the date of the Battle of Waterloo, or the number of wives collected by Henry VIII? It is always good to think creatively, rather than just follow the crowd.

Exit

– You seem unusually quiet. Verging on pensive. Not writing your usual reams. Not writing anything, in fact.
– I know... Too many distractions. Too many disappointments. Too much heartbreak –
– This is about the football, isn't it?
– A writer needs to be able to distance himself from the trials and tribulations of daily life, and sacrifice himself selflessly on the high altar of his art, but sometimes it proves too difficult. The façade cracks. The mundane breaks through.
– We didn't do so badly. Admittedly came bottom of our group, but there was a bit of flair and fighting spirit on show. Occasionally. And we scored a couple of goals.
– Two. We scored two goals.
– There you go. Two more than – teams that haven't scored any.
– Iran. Only Iran hasn't scored. And they've only played two games so far.
– But we should think of our team as a work in progress. Think how much better we'll be in 2018. Or 2022, when I think, we planned to win the competition. It will all be worth it. In 2022.
– I think that was a target to aim for: it is not guaranteed. Besides, it is a long way away.
– The time will fly by. Try and take something positive from the England performance. Remember, it's not always about winning.
– I thought it was. I thought that's how these competitions worked.
– In a narrow sense, yes. In a more inclusive, holistic sense – well, still yes. But losing with style still counts for something.

Gush

Having watched a lot of football over the last week, as the World Cup continues to serve up a feast of thrilling goal- and controversy-strewn matches, last night was something of a shock to the system when I watched practically nothing. To tell the truth, I did manage half of one game, but compared to the vertiginous heights of recent days, that still represented a positive famine. Instead, I was entertained at my daughter's high school production of We Will Rock You, the classic heart-warming stage musical based on the majestic rock anthems of Queen, held implausibly together by the faintest sniff of a plot.

At this point I begin to realise that my skills as a theatre critic are as abysmal as my skills as a sports commentator. Go easy on the adjectives, they say, and chuck out adverbs altogether, along with the semi-colon and the subordinate clause. Keep it simple and direct. Appeal to the senses. Preferably limit yourself to one sentence per paragraph.

I try my best. But it is not easy writing about things you like: glowing praise rapidly starts to sound gushing. Perhaps that is why critics tend to spend most of their time tearing things to pieces: perhaps it is simpler. And you get to use juicier adjectives.

Goal

– You could make the most of this opportunity, I mean with the World Cup on at the moment, to hone your skills as a sports journalist.
– I don't really have the time: not with trying to watch three games a day.
– Precisely. So, while you're watching, you could be writing. A ball-by-ball commentary; some deep insights into innovative tactical ploys; speculation about the summer transfer market. That sort of thing.
– I suppose. But I wouldn't really know what to write. Other than copying what the commentators are saying, which I think would come over fairly dull if you wrote it down word for word.
– True. You don't seem to get many books along the lines of greatest football commentaries of all time.
– And besides, I'm pretty slow at writing.
– With a bit more practice...
– I mean, slow in terms of producing a final polished draft. I'm forever tweaking and correcting, moving sentences around, searching for the mot juste, the appropriately nuanced phrase. That sort of thing. So I could never keep up with a live game.
– You could try a post-match analysis.
– But then I'm watching the next game. It would all get too confusing.

Lost

– So you see, it's not the easiest thing to do: just to stop a stranger in the street and ask them "Where am I?"
– It's a simple enough question.
– But is it? It immediately conjures up alarming connotations. Am I suffering from a sudden bout of amnesia and have no idea how I appeared here? Perhaps I have managed to escape from agents of a foreign power who held me captive in an unknown location? Or even beamed back down to Earth following an alien abduction? None of these explanations are particularly reassuring.
– Or you could just tell them what actually happened?
– You mean that I was idly walking along the river, along a path that I had followed many times before, expecting it to lead me out near where I had started, only to find myself suddenly in the middle of a housing estate which had mysteriously appeared out of nowhere?
– You know, if you go easy on the details, perhaps you might be able to pull off the alien abduction.

Lettuce

– The great thing about this time of year is that you are not tied to the cooker: you can just throw a salad together and sit happily in the garden to enjoy the light evenings.
– Apart from the thunderstorms: there have been quite a few thunderstorms recently.
– Well, of course, you wouldn't particularly want to sit outside during a thunderstorm. Certainly not with a fork in your hand.
– And I still seem to be tied to the cooker when preparing salad.
– You're obviously doing something wrong.
– There was the quiche.
– Excellent eaten cold.
– And the potato salad.
– I suppose raw potatoes offer an interesting texture, but, yes, are probably even better cooked. But these things can be prepared ahead of time.
– When?
– Well, during the thunderstorms. Think of all the time you had this weekend for preparing potato salad, yet you wait till the sun is out.
– Perhaps I was uncertain whether the sun would ever come out again.
– Potato salad will always come in useful.
– But it is disheartening to be sitting indoors, watching the rain stream down the windows, with nothing to eat but cold potatoes in a soggy mayonnaise dressing.
– A handful of chopped chives also works well.
– I'll try and remember that.

Beach

Watching today's D-Day commemorations, it is sobering to think that seventy years has passed: a lifetime. And to think that the veterans returning to Normandy today were once young men in their teens and early twenties, thrown into the maelstrom of battle: some to meet their end on the beaches; others to survive and live out their remaining years haunted by the memory of those days.

My own life seems so uneventful, cosseted, in comparison: never being called upon to put my safety on the line, never being in a position where everything I know is crumbling away before my eyes. Looking through old wartime papers and photos belonging to my parents, I sometimes glimpse that world, but it is so far away from the life I lead. And all I have are scraps of clues, which hint at what once happened but leave out so much detail.

Penalty

– Not long now till it all kicks off.
– Sorry?
– The World Cup.
– Hence kicks off.
– Yes. I quite like to add a few colourful allusions as I go along. Makes the conversation sparkle. A bit.
– Of course. Yes, not long till it kicks off, as you say. The media seem a little subdued, perhaps, compared to previous tournaments.
– I think it is a reflection of a more realistic outlook.
– You mean no-one expects England to do very well?
– Yes. It sounds harsh, but perhaps it is preferable to the wild optimism of past campaigns.
– When we would convince ourselves at the start that we were certain winners, only to suffer the humiliation and shattered dreams of an early exit?
– Exactly. Whereas this way, any victory, no matter how humble the opposition or fluky the winning goal, will seem like an immense achievement, and we can hold our heads up high as we catch the early flight home.
– Sometimes in life it is better to be optimistic, even though you run the risk of failure and its associated heartbreak.
– Yes, but in this case the risk of failure is quite high.

Talent

With the long light evenings, you feel you ought to be outdoors doing something, perhaps involving a barbecue, or at very least a lawnmower. There are festivals breaking out locally, things going on in parks. Even the cat is reluctant to stay in more than she has to. And yet what do I do? Stay indoors to watch interminable semifinals of Britain's Got Talent and preview programmes for the World Cup, in anticipation of spending most of June and July watching the World Cup itself, and Wimbledon, and the Proms, and the summer is gone before you have managed to dig out the slug pellets.

I ought to get out more. It is alright for Cat: she can just wander in and out as the whim takes her, with an endless supply of food on hand to sustain her prowlings, and presumably an endless supply of entertainments to divert her in the garden. Whereas I clearly have various responsibilities to attend to, which take up most of the day, and the onerous duties of cooking my own dinner, which takes up most of the evening. At which point I have lost all enthusiasm for flighty al fresco activities, but prefer to vegetate on the sofa. Such is life.

Democracy

– Well, that's the Euro election over with. For another five years, I think. Though I'm not sure.
– Somehow they never seem quite as dramatic as the UK parliamentary elections. They lack the feverishly extended build-up and nail-biting finale.
– I have to admit that, before the election, I couldn't name a single one of our MEPs.
– And now?
– I still can't. But at least I have a better idea of what parties they represent.
– But do you need to be able to name any of them?
– Well, one day I might want to contact them.
– About?
– I don't know... Uneven pavements?
– I'm not sure your MEP will be that interested. I suspect he or she will be more concerned with European matters. The price of milk, that sort of thing.
– But not uneven pavements?
– I don't think so.
– Potholes?
– They are a bit like pavements, aren't they?
– There seemed to be a lot of parties on the ballot paper.
– Indeed. Many I hadn't heard of.
– Perhaps I could start my own.
– I think, in a democracy, you are entitled to. Will it have anything to do with potholes?
– There seems to be an unmet need.

Gravity

– It is easy to forget, sometimes, how some of the most ordinary of things in life are also the most remarkable.
– I suppose so. Were you thinking of anything in particular?
– I don't know... Perhaps, if I was forced to give an example, there is the moment in the evolution of our species when our ancestors first stood upright, and indeed walked forward boldly on two legs.
– I do that all the time.
– But that's the point: we now do it all the time. But imagine the thrill of those first faltering steps. We take for granted the complexity of it all: the coordination of muscle and sinew required to haul our flimsy frames up against the crushing force of gravity.
– Is this anything to do with your accident?
– It wasn't really an accident–
– More just tripping over the pavement.
– Well, yes. But it just goes to highlight the immense achievement of being able to walk. And the difficulty of navigating pavements.

Cryptic

There has been a lot of discussion about online security in the news recently; especially the issue of the integrity of passwords, and the antisocial activities of hackers who try their darnedest to infiltrate the accounts of hard-working folk who never did anyone any harm and only want to surf the internet to keep in touch with distant friends and relatives and enrich their knowledge of the world about them. And, instead, they are forced to change their passwords to protect their privacy. Which sounds a simple enough task, other than we are all burdened nowadays with hundreds of passwords to hundreds of different accounts, some of which insist that you update your password at frequent intervals, and not just to the name of your favourite pet but to some immemorable string of random alphanumeric characters with the odd punctuation mark thrown in for good measure. There comes a point, quite soon on for some of us, when all this starts to fall apart, and each new password ejects an existing one from long-term memory, and then in time ejects several, until all that is left is a meaningless jumble. And you are driven in desperation to write them down on small slips of paper that you secrete in obscure places for safety until you realise you cannot even remember where you secreted them, and you end up plastering them to the front of the refrigerator with a selection of novelty fridge magnets. And so much for online security.

Stroll

– It seems to be getting warmer. Lighter evenings. Trees in leaf. Almost as if–
– As if spring is here.
– Yes: that's it.
–  Maybe. Who knows? It's been like this before. And then got cold and wet again.
– But this time? Perhaps–?
– Perhaps. We'll just have to wait and see. And take advantage of the weather while we have the chance.
– It's quite pleasant to go for a walk in the evenings when it's like this. Somewhere pretty. Experience the gathering dusk. Birds. Singing.
– I suppose it is one of the most beautiful moments of the day, dusk. That and dawn, of course.
– I've never really been one for dawn. It never quite arrives at the right time of day for me.
– In that you tend to be asleep?
– Yes. I could, at a stretch, get up early to see it, but I don't think I would appreciate it. Not having got up early.
– It's a pity, really.
– Yes...

Elijah

– So you missed Eurovision? The greatest musical event of the year?
– I was busy. At the second greatest musical event of the year. Or so I would like to think.
– What could be worth missing the Eurovision Song Contest?
– The choir. It was our choir concert.
– Was it any good?
– I would like to think so. Although it can be hard to tell from the back row: it's not easy to appreciate the overall effect when you're at the back of the choir and orchestra. You try to gauge it from the audience's expressions: absorbed or bored. Or angry. Or asleep.
– At Eurovision the audience tends to look quite excitable. Lots of flag waving. Though it's hard to know why: to be honest, the songs tend to get a bit predictable. But then they do go over the top on the production: that probably gets the audience worked up somewhat. Maybe it's something you should consider for your choir concerts.
– How do you mean?
– Well, you could try fancy lighting effects. A few dancers, perhaps.
– I'm not sure that would go down well. Wouldn't quite fit in with the story of Elijah. The odd earthquake or thunderbolt, however, might be worth thinking about.

Azalea

The bank holiday weekend has been and gone (although another is near at hand). I did a bit of painting (as in the inside of a cupboard, rather than a landscape or a still life, but the principles are more or less the same) and a bit of gardening, and watched, on and off, the snooker world championship on the television, which I've noticed always tends to be on during the early May bank holiday, almost as if they planned it this way.

Within this hectic schedule of events, I somehow managed to fit in a few walks, taking the new camera with me whenever I felt up to lugging it around. That is the only problem with a DSLR: you cannot readily slip it into a back pocket, especially if you want an extra lens or two, or tripod, or whatever. But I suppose that is the price you have to pay in order to take great photographs. Or, in my case, mediocre, under-exposed, blurry ones.

As it was, the light wasn't at its best when I went out, with the sun reluctant to show itself. I went along to Hare Hill to look at the rhododendrons, which were mostly in their prime, with a few looking a little faded, and a few more which hadn't really got going. They are perhaps not my favourite plant: while the flowers are delicate and colourful, they tend to grow quite large and threaten to take over your garden if you give them half a chance. For this reason they seem to have a bad reputation nowadays, with people frowning on their tendency to invade our quietly unassuming countryside and wipe out the indigenous species. And they don't flower all that long, which doesn't help, either.

Blossom

– I suppose I ought to do something about the garden. It's that time of year, isn't it, when you do things to gardens.
– Some people tend their gardens all year round, perhaps with the exception of the depths of winter.
– I'm sure they do, but I'm afraid my gardening efforts tend to be a bit more haphazard. It rather depends on my busy working schedule. And the weather. And whether I can think of anything more interesting to do.
– You don't seem that dedicated to horticulture?
– I try my best. But it takes time, and expertise, and an ability to tell one plant from another, all of which I am sadly lacking. So I dabble, as best I can, in the hope that I can add a little colour to an otherwise drab garden, and perhaps make the world a slightly more beautiful place.
– And do you?
– Yes and no. Overall it's still pretty drab, but in places a few blossoms manage to survive.
– I suppose it takes time to create a mature garden. Years of nurturing.
– Years? Are you sure? There must be a easier way.

Pint

It is getting to the time of year when the football season draws towards a thrillingly edge-of-the-seat finale. Especially so this year, where things have been too close to call both at the top and the bottom of the Premiership. It makes for an exciting season for the fans, apart from those who fear their team is about to plummet towards the relegation black hole; or for those who expected their team to surge triumphantly towards the title but look like stumbling at the final hurdle; or for those who see their team languishing frustratingly in the middle of the table, where they have ended up every season in living memory. All in all, perhaps not that many fans do enjoy the Premiership, apart from the neutrals who don't really care one way or the other.

I am not quite in the latter category, though I am the first to admit that neither am I the most fanatical of fans, the sort who despises every other team in the Premiership with a fervent and unassuageable hatred. I like to think of myself as quite even-handed, one who can see the positive side of any particular team, one who is generous enough to applaud a decent display of skill and effort. Clearly, this attitude causes problems for me in the presence of more single-minded fans, especially the sort who bellow their support at television screens while carelessly spilling their pint over the carpet. I suppose I do my best to keep my head down at such moments, and tactfully direct the conversation towards less inflammatory topics, such as religion or politics.

Folio

– And did you get up to much on St. George's Day? Join in any celebrations?
– I find it difficult to know what to do. How are you meant to celebrate it, without coming across as disturbingly nationalistic? I'm not really one for flag waving. Don't even own a flag, anyway.
– I suppose it can seem a little over the top. Especially on your own. Perhaps you could think of other ways to celebrate the spirit of England. Our great poets, for example.
– It was Shakespeare's 450th birthday.
– There you go. You could recite a bit of Shakespeare.
– Anything in particular?
– I don't know. Something short, perhaps. It can go on a bit. And cheese, of course.
– I'm sorry?
– Cheeses are very characteristic. Their very names conjure up the magic and mystery of England's ancient regions: Stilton, Cheddar, Double Gloucester, Wensleydale with Cranberries.
– They are certainly evocative.
– To be honest, you could ditch the Shakespeare, and just concentrate on cheese. But remember the crackers.

Aubretia

Driving past the neighbours' front gardens, already bustling with the bright colours of springtime blossoms, I cannot help feeling a little saddened by the tumbling cascades of purple aubretia decorating numerous walls and rockeries. Saddened because, arriving home, I look at my own front garden and see no tumbling cascades, despite having planted some aubretia last year, precisely to be able to see its cheery lilac petals welcoming me home after a long day at wherever I spend my days.

I only noticed the omission a few days ago, when, admiring the display of yellow and violet violets in my planters, I remembered with a sinking heart that that was where I had planted the aubretia. But it was nowhere to be seen. Unlikely that some thief had snatched it in the night, I realised that I had most probably been over-enthusiastic in my preparation of the ground for the winter-flowering violets, and had cast out the faded stems of the aubretia. Possibly I had merely transferred it to an alternative location, but I have since scoured the back garden hoping to see a hearty clump, but with no success.

It is particularly galling because, being a hardy annual, I had deliberately selected the aubretia as an investment for the future, something that would appear year after year and save me a small fortune in bedding plants. Sadly, it is not to be. There is probably a moral here, something about best laid plans not gathering moss or spoiling broths. But it is little consolation.

Egg

– It's almost here.
– Sorry?
– Easter is almost upon us.
– Of course. Let's hope the weather holds up, but I think the forecast is not so promising.
– Weather forecasters! What do they know?
– Well, unfortunately, one thing they do not know is what the weather will be like tomorrow. But they do their best to predict what will happen. Hence the forecasting part of their job title.
– It's hardly a science, is it?
– I think it is. That's how they do it. By careful scientific observation. And simulations running on supercomputers. Possibly they stick their head out of the window occasionally, just to check they are not wildly off target, but I think that's basically what they do.
– And yet, for all their supercomputers, and, I dare say, algorithms, they can't manage to get Easter to land on the same day each year.
– I'm not sure that is directly related to the weather.
– It probably is: at some deep level, most things are related.

Junk

– But think of all the positive benefits.
– Of –?
– Of having to tidy the house for the new boiler. Look how smart and spacious it is, without all the clutter.
– Only because the clutter is hidden away. Open a cupboard and it will come flying out at you.
– But this becomes an ideal opportunity to restyle your life. Chuck out all the junk that's weighing you down and start afresh.
– By junk you mean my personal possessions?
– Yes, but everyone accumulates more stuff than they actually need. Ask yourself, what exactly is essential? What can you not live without?
– The clutter. I can't live without the clutter. It's why I got it in the first place. I am very attached to it.
– What, all of it?
– I suppose there might be the odd thing, here and there, which I might be able to throw out.
– There you are.
– Or maybe for the time being I could just leave it in the cupboard in case I find I need it in the future. And then if I've not had to use it for – say – a few years, I could actually throw it out, in the knowledge that I didn't need it after all.
– That doesn't really help clear the clutter in the short term.
– Maybe not, but what price peace of mind?

Geyser

I seem to have done more than enough housework in the last few days to last an average lifetime. And yet it all needs doing again. It is demoralising. I am demoralised. It sounds as if I have had my morals physically removed, which I am sure is not quite right, but you get the point. Why someone with no morals should feel particularly fed up is a mystery to me, when you might have thought they would find it quite liberating to be freed from the shackles of polite society, but maybe there are some unpleasant drawbacks that are not immediately obvious.

It was all down to having work done on the kitchen – installation of a new boiler – which required a huge amount of clearing out of the kitchen cupboards in the immediate vicinity, along with substantial decluttering around all the radiators throughout the house, itself no trivial task. But after a day's worth of drilling and lifting floorboards and dismantling pipework (not by me, but by people who know how to do these things safely), everywhere was covered in dust. And all the old clutter is still waiting patiently to be put back where it belongs.

Stitch

I was struck, watching television the other evening, by the potential for confusion between the word sewer meaning someone who sews and the word sewer meaning a receptacle for sewage: an example of heteronyms, they tell me, being words that look the same but sound different and, importantly, have different meanings. Presumably you can usually deduce the intended meaning from the context. Thus, the television programme I was watching was all about stitching and tailoring and, not to put too fine a point on it, sewing, and didn't feature any sewage that I could see, or even more than the usual scattering of litter. So, on reflection, there was very little chance of confusion. But still, it is important to be alert to these things.

The other memorable highlight of the programme was the enormous level of skill shown by the dressmakers, which only served to haul into stark contrast my own inability in this field. Not that I have much of a yearning to make my own shirts from scratch, but it would be useful to be able to fix items of clothing that are past their best, which sadly aptly describes most of my wardrobe. Perhaps if I started by darning socks, I would one day get to the stage of designing and constructing my own garments. But men's clothes are generally quite intricate and complicated designs: even socks are a somewhat awkward shape, though I can't see why you couldn't just glue together some general cloth into a vague tube-like shape, ideally open at one end, which you could drag on to an available foot. But anything beyond that seems too great a challenge.

Dust

– You know, spending all day catching up with the housework is pretty exhausting.
– I suppose it would be. Was it all day? It seemed more like a couple of hours.
– Well, it was more than I usually manage. It seemed like a lot to me.
– It must give you a great sense of achievement, to see the house all spick and span.
– Do you notice the difference? Which bit do you think looks most impressive?
– It's hard to – pick a favourite. Which bit would you say?
– I don't know. I was flitting around all over the place, trying to getting everything into shape, rather than focussing on one spot. As a result –
– Nothing actually got finished.
– True. But with housework, nothing ever really gets finished, does it? There's always more to do. Somewhere.
– I suppose that's the way it is. It's probably an entropy thing: the house is slowly but inevitably falling to pieces.
– Really? It seems to make housework a bit pointless.
– That has always been my opinion.

Conspiracy

– So you got through yesterday unscathed?
– Unscathed?
– By the annual celebration of practical jokes and tomfoolery.
– Of course. Yes, I can't say I noticed any. It was all very quiet.
– Suspiciously quiet?
– How do you mean?
– Some things can be just too quiet, you know. As if –
– Yes?
– Sorry, it's nothing...
– You were about to say –?
– No, nothing... It's just that –
– Yes?
– Sometimes you get the feeling, don't you, of things being plotted in the shadows: conspiracies; whisperings.
– By whom?
– That's the thing, isn't it? Who indeed are they?
– That's what I asked you. And conspiring about what? April's Fools pranks?
– If only it were that simple...
– Whereas it isn't?
– Who knows?
– You don't really seem to know that much about any of this.
– Sometimes these things are impenetrable.
– Yes. I'm finding that.

Hour

It may be something to do with putting the clocks forward, but there seemed to be more than the usual amount of daylight this evening. There was quite a summery feel about things as I pottered about the garden, trying to make it look less dead. And then in the kitchen, as I casually threw some ingredients together to make a nutritious yet colourful dinner, the daylight still hung around, as if it wasn't sure what to do.

The downside to all of this is that, somewhere along the line, I lost an hour of my life. This does not seem much – although, now I come to think of it, it is actually quite concerning: there are only so many hours left to any of us, and it seems a shame to waste one of them simply by taking it away, without even asking my opinion on the matter. They say, those who understand these things, that we get the hour back some time in the autumn. But by then I might have forgotten what I was planning to do with it.

Debris

Watching Gravity only served to confirm what I had long suspected, that a trip into outer space would probably not represent quite my cup of tea. (Do they say outer space any more? Or is that a throwback to the home-made science fiction serials of my youth? Outer seems a half-hearted sort of adjective for the infinite vastness of the universe. The Outer Hebrides, for example, are certainly quite a distance away from here, yet even they are not quite on the same scale as a trip to the moon.)

Clearly, there was never much chance of ever getting the opportunity to fly into orbit, short of winning the lottery and spending it all on becoming a space tourist. But even then, I suspect I would find better uses for the money that didn't involve the risk of serious injury or being abducted by aliens. I suppose I am not one of life's natural adventurers, preferring to explore the wonders of the universe from the comfort of the armchair, ideally with a couple of chocolate digestives to hand. However, I am younger than George Clooney, so perhaps there is still hope.