Chimes

– It's nearly midnight. The start of a new year.
– Whatever. It happens every year.
– Well, yes it would. But that doesn't diminish the significance of the moment.
– Should I break open the fizz? Maybe a bag of dry roasted?
– It's not just about shallow celebrations – although, yes, it is time to get the drinks out of the fridge – but it represents a pivotal point in your life, a moment for reflecting on the achievements and tribulations of the previous twelve months and resolving to be a better person in the future.
– Or there are some prawn cocktail crisps here...
– Prawn cocktail? I never buy prawn cocktail.

Lull

There is another slightly awkward period now, between Christmas and New Year. One series of wildly unbridled celebrations is over and the next is yet to begin. In between, we have a few days off work, during which we survey the ruins of the Christmas festivities scattered around our living rooms and ask ourselves where we go from here.

The days have slipped by very quickly. Given all the time I had on my hands, there is little to show for it: perhaps the fridge is a little tidier than when it was tightly crammed from top to bottom with turkey only a few days ago, but I've not made any progress with all the various household tasks I had planned to see to over the holidays. You manage to persuade yourself that it's better to take some time out and relax properly, so that when you get back to work next week you will feel rejuvenated and literally bubbling with enthusiasm. But you suspect that the bubbles will pop fairly quickly, and you will find yourself counting down the days to the next holiday.

I should make some resolutions before the old year shuffles grumpily out the door. I'm never very good at that sort of thing: thinking up original and life-enhancing resolutions, and having the perseverance to maintain them for more than a few hours. It's not as if there were nothing worth improving in my life: if anything, there are so many things needing fixing that it rather deflates you to go through them all and prioritise which should be done first. Perhaps the trick is to not be too ambitious. Finishing off the Christmas pudding might be a good place to start.

Wrap

– You know, this is when I really begin to look forward to Christmas: the end of a busy day, just to put your feet up and relax on the sofa with a mince pie and a glass of port, and take a moment to admire the decorations on the Christmas tree. You should try it, instead of all this constant rushing around.
– The idea had occurred to me. Unfortunately, there is a pile of presents to wrap. And the house needs tidying from top to bottom. And there are things to clean that haven't been cleaned since last Christmas. Incidentally, you're dropping crumbs from your mince pie.
– I am doing my best. It isn't easy when you're trying to juggle a couple of remote controls. But fortunately I've been recording all these interesting programmes which you're missing.
– Thank you.
– It seemed the least I could do. So when you have a spare 50 hours or so, you could catch up on your favourite shows.
– I shall look forward to it. But there's probably not much chance of that before Christmas Day.
– It's a pity. I will have to clear some space off the hard drive to record all the Christmas movies... Sometimes I think there are just not enough hours in the day.

Shortest

It's that slightly awkward period between my birthday and Christmas. You would like to use the time to take stock, to reflect on the momentous event just gone and the wild celebrations to come. But instead you find yourself in a flurry of last minute shopping, cramming more food into the fridge than is healthy, either for the fridge or for yourself, and waking each night in a cold sweat wondering what gifts you have forgotten and who, in consequence, will be mortally offended and refuse to have any future association with you. Clearly, you know that is not the appropriate spirit with which to greet the festive season, but it is difficult to put these things in perspective: there is such a lot to organise, and, worse still, to actually do, so it is inevitable that the accumulative stress begins to weigh you down.

I need some sort of schedule to coordinate present wrapping and food preparation activities. In previous years I have made valiant efforts at writing out something of the sort, in particular a detailed minute-by-minute timetable for cooking the Christmas lunch. But as with the best laid plans, it tends to fall to pieces before it's barely got going, notably when some minor hiccup, such as losing the potato peeler, or even losing the potatoes, throws everything into a disarray from which it never recovers.

Today is the winter solstice: the shortest day. With the weather remaining dismally grey and wet, the day was particularly short. But at least things brighten up from tomorrow.

Probability

It is almost my birthday – less than an hour away. It seems to come around so quickly nowadays. Perhaps that is a sign of advancing years: once, each birthday was a major advance on what had gone before, but now there is the feeling of things having plateaued a long time ago. Which is not the most inspiring thought: you rather hope that you still have many more years ahead of you, but you would prefer to be soaring to new heights rather than simply staying put, twiddling your metaphorical thumbs. Perhaps I need to be more proactive: go out and make things happen, rather than sit back and wait for them to walk up to me, grab me by the arm and drag me to a better place.

But that, I'm afraid to say, is pretty much the story of my life. I pride myself on taking a long-term view of things, but unfortunately this usually equates to the principle that something useful will turn up quite by chance, just as long as you wait long enough. On the other hand, you instinctively know that some outcomes, like winning the lottery, are so rare that you have to wait a very long time indeed; particularly if you never actually buy a ticket.

Windows

– Over halfway there.
– Over halfway where?
– Christmas. We have passed the mid-point of Advent.
– How can you tell?
– Quite simply by the number of open windows on the Advent calendar. It is proving its worth already.
– And is there a special name for this day?
– Not that I know of. But I agree, it deserves some sort of title. The tension is certainly mounting.
– What tension?
– The anticipation of the special day.
– Of course. I think I am feeling a different sort of tension:  more to do with rushing around trying to finish the shopping.
– You should try to relax. It'll either get done or it won't.
– I had worked that out for myself. That's the reason for the tension.

Self-portrait

Stew

The weather has been wild in recent days: fierce winds and torrential downpours. At least we have been spared the flooding seen further north. The storms have eased off today, so there were leaden skies but not much in the way of rain. And not much in the way of daylight.

We could do with a bit of bright winter sunshine. Cold, crisp mornings, a sprinkling of frost. Sleighbells ringing, chestnuts roasting. Perhaps it will be like that by Christmas, rather than this bleak grey Novemberish weather. As long as the snow doesn't get too deep.

For no particular reason, I baked a fish pie for dinner. Not something I bake very often. Nor pies in general: they always seem more work than is strictly necessary, as you can have a perfectly serviceable meal once you've got past the stewed meat stage, without having to go the whole hog and smother it with pastry. Fish pies are a little easier to justify, as the stewed fish stage doesn't look all that appetising, and perhaps benefits by being smothered with something.

Likewise, I never get round to making lasagne any more. Too many stages.

Steam

– What do you think? A beauty, isn't it?
– Sorry? What am I meant to be looking at? The shirt?
– The iron. I've got a new iron.
– You have? It looks like the old one.
– It is nothing like the old one.
– It's the same overall shape.
– It's the shape of an iron, agreed. But there are subtle differences in the styling. Do you want me to go through them with you?
– Not really. Was this an early Christmas present?
– The old one stopped working. But it had given many years of service, so the time was right to treat myself to a new one.
– Perhaps you were overusing the last one. I'm sure my iron has survived since – a long time ago. Maybe you've been doing too much ironing. I try to minimise how much I do, for this very reason.
– Well, I only iron what needs ironing, so it's difficult to see how I could do any less.
– Sometimes a crumpled shirt can look – casual.
– I don't think so.
– ... You should let me know if you ever run out of clothes to iron. I might possibly be able to help out.
– Thank you. I'll keep that in mind.
– Don't be afraid to ask. It's really no trouble. 

Thanksgiving

It is, they tell me, Black Friday today. Indeed, they won't let me forget it, with every email arriving in my inbox blaring out some unbelievable never-to-be-repeated price-slashing offer or other. I guess it would be a good day to buy all my Christmas presents, not to mention every item of clothing or household appliance or heartfelt gift that I might need over the coming twelve months. But I gave it a miss. There seemed better things to do than spend all day trying to get online at the websites of my favourite stores, or fighting through the crowds at the local pound shop.

I suppose this all started, as with much else, in the Americas, when they had nothing better to do on the day after Thanksgiving. Much as our January sales were the start of a barely controlled shopping frenzy once we had managed to recover from Christmas lunch. But then the sales moved to Boxing Day, and then Christmas Eve, and year by year earlier and earlier. Where will it end? Will every day be a sales day apart from one or two days a year when the price is horrendous? Rather like when I was looking to buy the kitchen.

Leak

The weather seems particularly dismal at the moment: cold and wet and grey, with barely enough hours of daylight to make it worthwhile getting out of bed in the morning. And it's a long walk into work from where I park the car – not miles, I mean, else I would drive a bit closer, but a good 10 minutes' walk, which is about as close as the double yellow lines let you park – so that I end up soaked and miserable when it's raining hard. My feet have been suffering more than they deserve, but then I realised that there was quite a large hole in the sole of my shoe which was letting in water.

I am not looking for sympathy here: perhaps I do tend to hold on to items of clothing longer than is decent, but that is more to do with a reluctance to go out shopping rather than my wallowing in abject poverty. But if you feel the need to make a contribution, please do. Though preferably not by sending actual pairs of shoes, as I did manage to nip out the other weekend and buy a pair. Black. And, as far as I can tell, water-tight.

Anthem

There's a storm brewing outside. Apparently, it's called Barney, as we have now taken to naming storms along the lines of the Americans naming hurricanes. I don't know where the name Barney has come from. It's not one I would have chosen myself. A bit too casual, low-key. You need something that commands a bit more respect: Boris, perhaps, or Brunhilde. It would be embarrassing to have your fence blown down by a Barney.

I was watching the England v France game this evening, in what must have been a difficult experience for players and spectators alike. Certainly, it was deeply emotional to watch, to hear the massed singing of the Marseillaise, the respectful observation of the minute's silence. A symbol of solidarity, of defiance.

We take for granted the values that define a liberal, democratic society. But these values can seem so fragile at times, so vulnerable to attack by those bent on destroying civilised society, who want to fuel division and conflict. At times like this, it seems there is no obvious route forward to repair these rifts: that is what causes the despair.

Paris

Pie Jesu Domine
Dona eis requiem. 

Beans

– You seem to be taking a long time to get over the jet lag.
– I think I must be particularly sensitive.
– Not what I would have expected, but I'll give you the benefit of the doubt.
– It is quite a shock to the system: the dramatic changes in time zones, the loss of a night's sleep, the in-flight meals.
– All those little bags of pretzels really take it out of you.
– And the conference schedule was fairly punishing, with hardly a break from endless lectures and poster sessions. I've never been a fan of working breakfasts.
– Goodness no. Breakfasts are a time to gently re-establish contact with the world, not make small talk with senior management over a Danish pastry. But I suppose Americans are very keen on that sort of thing.
– They do tend to be generally more enthusiastic about everything.
– Extraordinary. But how was it over there? Boston, they say, is an exciting place to visit.
– Yes. I believe so. Not that I saw much of it. The convention centre was pleasant enough. Quite a large auditorium. Not the most comfortable seating.
– Was that it?
– I did get out one day – had a little wander around the historical sights. They seem quite keen on history. The Boston Tea Party, the War of Independence, all that sort of thing. Almost seem to resent the British.
– Well, time is a great healer.
– Is that so?
– I think so. But I would still keep a low profile if I were you.

Spook

I seem to have got off quite lightly: not all that many trick or treaters came round this evening, although that may in part have been due to me disappearing for an hour to take my daughter to a Halloween party. And perhaps also to the dearth of decorations outside the house, compared to the glowing cavalcade of gory horrors next door. Still, a few hopeful souls braved the dismal and gloomy path to my front door. (I hadn't done anything particular to the path: it just looks pretty miserable at the best of times.)

One the plus side, I have a large bowl of treats remaining, which I suspect won't keep till next year.

Bag

– You can never find one when you need one, can you?
– Sorry? Find what?
– A bag. A plastic carrier bag. For carrying shopping. Home from the supermarket.
– Of course. It can be quite entertaining, supermarket shopping. I ought to give it another go sometime.
– Yes. I wish you would.
– They probably have carrier bags in the store. They're usually quite good about that sort of thing.
– But they charge now. For each bag. An exorbitant amount.
– Really? How much?
– 5p.
– That's not so bad.
– But I usually come away with a couple of dozen. I like to ensure breakables are well protected.
– Well, if you can't find any bags, there are some empty cardboard boxes at the bottom of the stairs.
– You want me to walk around the supermarket carrying a couple of cardboard boxes?
– If it's easier, you could collapse them flat, then reassemble them with some sticky tape at the checkout.
– I think I will just pay for the bags.
– Or – you could just pile everything into the shopping trolley and then run all the way home with it before they catch you.
– ... I think I will just pay for the bags.

Fall

Autumn is now firmly established, the trees still for the moment interestingly adorned with colourful foliage, but perhaps not too far away from becoming grimly stark as winter's icy hand approaches. Or something along those lines. As if autumn wasn't enough, I am soon off to experience fall in New England, or at least I hope it will still be fall by the time I get there. But I'm not sure how many trees they have in downtown Boston: lush forests may get in the way. And the leaves would need a lot of sweeping up.

To get myself in the right frame of mind, I went to see The Crucible at the Royal Exchange the other night. It was very impressive, dark and emotional, uncomfortable (and not only because of the seating), and perhaps after all not the best preparation. But hopefully things have moved on by now.

Drain

Life seems to have hit a bit of a lull, after the heady excitement of kitchen installation. Days which were carefully planned to the nth degree have been supplanted by a vaguely directionless existence, the dully repetitive routine of dragging myself out of bed in the grey dawn only to slump all day in front of an unresponsive computer screen at work, and then, at home, to sweat over the cooker all evening. On the plus side, at least the cooker is new.

But that brings its own stress, as it is clearly impossible to cook even the simplest of dishes with getting the new cooker and the new worktop and the new floor spattered by a shower of flying specks and oily globules erupting from the frying pan. Even the humble toaster somehow manages to deposit a slurry of crumbs of at least twice the volume of the slice of bread that went in. And gone are the days when I could wash the dishes in a few seconds, leaving everything to dry on the draining board for the rest of the week: all of a sudden I am compelled by some mysterious force to dry dishes and pans and cutlery and put them back in the cupboard, and not only wipe down work surfaces but even apply polish to bring out their lustrous character. My life is no longer my own.

Bin

– It must be a good feeling, to see the back of all the building work. To have your house neat and tidy again, your life back to normal.
– Yes. Well, as far as things ever get back to normal. At least the fridge is back in place: it was becoming quite irritating having to wander into the dining room every time I needed something. But there are still things to do, little finishing touches. The walls look a little bare. And I've still not worked out what to do with the bin.
– I noticed it was in the conservatory. Again, slightly awkward for the sudden emergencies when you need immediate access to waste disposal facilities.
– I know. I think this is a minor flaw in the kitchen design.
– It is easy to overlook these things. Perhaps you could fit a small one in somewhere.
– And then there's the recycling container I used to have. That's also currently sitting in the conservatory.
– I wondered what that was when I tripped up over it.
– And my collection of wines and beers. They need to go somewhere. Not to mention the boxes full of kitchen utensils and crockery and pots and pans which I've still not found a home for.
– Kitchen design is a tricky business to get right, isn't it?

Paint

The kitchen is complete – was completed two weeks ago now – or at least complete apart from an edging strip between the kitchen floor and dining room floor, which I suspect the builder has forgotten about. And the painting – that's not quite done, but not far off. I started painting the ceiling and walls a couple of weekends ago – spent all day Saturday and Sunday at it, getting covered in paint for my trouble – and going through several colour schemes, as each one came out slightly disappointing. They were all supposedly shades of white – but then white can come in so many shades. So this weekend I did the walls again – two coats, yet another off-white shade – which may have to do, as I've run out of patience (and whites).

The problem was the units – stone-coloured, they said, though from my experience of stones they can come up in quite a broad spectrum of colours – which made it awkward to find something suitable for the walls – not too similar, not too wildly contrasting, not too dark and sombre (it is a small kitchen). I downloaded an app on to my phone which can paint your walls in real time. Not actually paint the walls, which would have been welcome, but simply colour in wall-shaped regions on the screen; which was entertaining and usefully distracted me from getting started with painting but was perhaps not much use in selecting a colour.

In summary, the skirting boards need to be glossed over (preferably in white) and then it will be finished, and I can move the fridge-freezer back in. There are still boxes scattered around the house containing various items of kitchenware, though I have emptied the obviously useful ones and am now faced with the odds and ends which I wonder whether I actually need or whether they may be safely committed to the bin. Not to the skip, you notice: it was finally taken away last Saturday, leaving a sad brown patch on my front lawn.

Hob

We are getting there. Admittedly, this is Day 11 of the great kitchen reconstruction, so it has not been the speediest of processes, but there are some things which are best not rushed: they just take as long as they take. Although if it gets done before I run out of clean clothes, all the better.

Today the kitchen is pretty much all in place: the units are in, the worktop too (despite having to be manipulated indoors through the kitchen window), floor tiles on the floor, ceiling lights on the ceiling, under-cupboard lights under the cupboards; the sink and all the appliances installed and functional with the exception of the washing machine which is still sitting in the living-room (unless that happens to be its intended final resting place). So I had a go at cooking a modest meal this evening: very modest, inasmuch as I simply heated some soup in a saucepan. But at least I heated it on the new hob, using gas for the first time in many years. (Previously, I was stuck with electric hotplates which I always found to be infuriating to use, although useful as an excuse for occasional cooking disasters.) And then I washed the dishes in the new sink (one and a half bowls), rather than in the bath, which I've never found particularly well suited for washing dishes.

I feel a little wary about putting everything back into the kitchen: the upstands (whatever they are) still need to go in, as well as the odd plinth; but really I don't want it to look a mess too soon. At least not until I've managed to paint the walls.

Plaster

The kitchen has not yet returned. I would like to be able to say I am getting used to living like this, half the house crammed into the living-room, subsisting only on what can be heated up in the microwave or toasted in the toaster (or occasionally what can be bought from the takeaway), washing the dishes in the bathroom, observing the availability of wearably clean clothes diminish at a worrying rate.

But at least things are slowly taking shape. Everything that needs to be ripped out has been ripped out. The plasterer was here the other evening. Five hours it took him to plaster the walls. For pretty much all that time I stood chatting with him. There's not much I now don't know about plastering.

The units are, I hope, being installed tomorrow. The floor units are already standing loosely in position, lacking doors and drawer fronts and the necessary appliances, but at least giving an idea of how things will eventually look. The kitchen was quite spacious when entirely empty: you can't help thinking all these cupboards will only get in the way.

Sink

The kitchen has gone – has made the short trip to the skip on the front lawn. It was torn out, unceremoniously and with a hammer, leaving ragged half-plastered walls, pock-marked where the tiles were heartlessly chiselled out. Pipes cut off in their prime point aimlessly into empty space.

Exquisitely sensitive to the slightest disturbance to her normally placid existence, the cat is distraught, partly from the deafening racket proceeding from the kitchen all morning, and partly from the chaos that has descended upon the soft furnishings, with all her favourite resting places hidden under boxes or moved somewhere obscure. Even her food is not where she expects.

In a futile attempt to counteract the stress of the last few days, here is a calming and relaxing picture of boats:

Kitchen

August Bank Holiday. Cold and wet, hardly the sort of day to encourage you to venture outdoors. Fortunately – or unfortunately – I had to stay in to clear out the kitchen, with the builder coming tomorrow to begin installing the new one. It has been years in the planning, or so it seems, not helped by my not really knowing what I wanted, other than some cupboards, preferably with matching doors, and things like sinks and cookers and washing-machines, though ideally only one of each.

You might have thought that clearing out the kitchen would be a relatively straightforward task. But it involved clearing out most of the rest of the house in order to make space for what was in the kitchen. I don't have much space spare upstairs, and even less downstairs, so it required some careful juggling to get everything to fit. There are now pots and pans and bags of groceries stashed away around the house in every available nook and cranny. Goodness know how I will find anything again. Tomorrow's breakfast may have to be limited to whatever edible item I come across first.

Phone

– Is this going to work?
– What?
– Trying to write a post on a smartphone instead of on the laptop?
– It's always good to try something new. Exploit modern technology.  Push the metaphorical boat out.
– It seems somehow risky. And slow.
– Try making more use of the automatic word completion thingy.
– But I may come out with complete nonsense.
– Hardly. These things are getting much better nowadays. And will probably make more sense than your usual posts. In fact, you could consider just letting the phone write it from scratch while you do something more useful with your life.
– Such as?
– I'm sure Google could suggest something.

Smart

The holiday is almost upon us. I worry that I ought to be doing something about it, such as packing, or ironing, or at least thinking constructively about ironing, rather than trying to deny it exists.

The recent downturn in the weather hasn't helped to focus me: lightweight summery outfits or waterproofs and winter woolies? This is not as big a decision as it sounds, as I tend to wear pretty much the same things regardless of the season.

I bought a smartphone today, mainly in case my laptop expires its last while on holiday, which seems a possibility. It is the first smartphone I have owned, which only goes to show how behind the times I am, but given the problems I had getting to grips with my previous definitely unsmart phone, it is understandable that I should have developed a deep-seated fear of modern technology. It seems to do a lot more than I would have expected a phone would want to do, but that is probably why it's called smart.

Thinking about it, smart also has a derogatory sense, as in too clever for ones own good. A warning, perhaps.

Wiped

– There you go – didn't I tell you?
– Tell me what?
– That it would be a simple matter to fix your laptop and stop it crashing continually.
– Not sure I remember much about what you suggested. In the end I just wiped everything and reinstalled Windows.
– Exactly.
– Which I'm not entirely sure was one of your recommendations. However, I do remember your comment about flinging it into the dustbin and buying a new one. And I think before the flinging into the dustbin there was something about the hearty application of a large hammer, along the lines of demonstrating to the laptop that humans were intrisically superior to machines and would no longer tolerate being made fools of in our own living-rooms.
– That was perhaps more to vent your frustration and give your self-confidence a bit of a boost, underlining that you were in control of the situation, and that sort of thing. Clearly, the laptop isn't capable of understanding what's going on.
– I think that was apparent after you had shouted at it for a good half hour.
– I wasn't sure if you had any speech recognition set up.
– No. For the laptop's sake, I'm glad I hadn't.

Fratres

Despite the many benefits of having a deep-seated interest in classical music, there are a few notable disadvantages, such as being ridiculed by friends and colleagues when you admit to having no idea of who's in the Top Forty, or even that you're not sure whether the Top Forty still exists, or why they ever thought forty was a particularly auspicious number for the top of anything. Another disadvantage is that many of your heroes – for instance, the great composers – all walked the earth many centuries ago, and your only opportunity to pay homage is to visit their birthplace in Vienna (it's usually Vienna) or admire a hand-written manuscript in some dusty museum (probably also in Vienna).

But last weekend I had the rare opportunity to see one of the great composers of the present day, when Arvo Pärt appeared on stage at the end of the concert devoted to his music at the Manchester International Festival. I was lucky to be in the audience, seeing that the concert had sold out when I first looked online, but then noticed a handful of extra seats appear a few weeks later. It was the first time I've seen the audience give a standing ovation at the Bridgewater; perhaps again a disadvantage of going to only a certain type of concert, not typically featuring anyone anywhere near the Top Forty.

Lake

I managed to get home early for once, helped by a lack of anything particularly urgent to do at work (or at least if there was anything urgent, nobody told me about it, or at least not often enough for it to register) and by avoiding stopping off at the shops on the way (which I seem to have done every evening this week, partly because I have needed to buy birthday presents, which takes ages at my usual rate of buying one small item per shopping trip, if at all, as well as having got into the habit of purchasing only the minimum quantity of food I require at each visit to the supermarket, rather than stocking up for six months in advance, which would be much more useful in case of unexpected hurricanes or alien invasion).

And having got home early, and eaten my dinner promptly (a salad, for which fortunately I had enough ingredients hanging about in the fridge, left over from when I last ate salad, which luckily wasn't that long ago, seeing that these things tend to wilt rapidly), I managed to summon up enough enthusiasm for going out for a drive into darkest Staffordshire, and then, at the end of the drive, a gentle walk by the side of a lake.

It is a pleasant way to spend a warm summer evening, watching the boats bobbing placidly on waters, a few birds swooping here and there, a few insects trying to get out of their way. There were not many people about: some salty old sea-dogs securing their craft for the night, and couples wandering hand-in-hand or pushing pushchairs or walking dogs. I had my camera with me and, despite the rapidly fading light, took some pictures of boats.

Mind

– I've been thinking about thinking.
– You mean, in terms of finally doing something about it? As in, you'd like to start thinking sometime soon?
– No – that would make no sense at all. I mean I've been thinking about the process of thinking: how the brain works, that sort of thing.
– And do you know how the brain works?
– Well, no, not exactly, but that's beside the point. I find it helps to forget that the brain is some sort of mysterious, omnipotent being, encapsulating your very essence, the temple of all your innermost thoughts, and so on, but rather that's it just – say – a man-made mechanical object, one which does some things amazingly well, but is a bit useless at other things, and tends to get distracted and tired and run out of ideas now and again.
– I'm not sure man-made mechanical objects ever get distracted or tired or whatever.
– Perhaps the analogy is a little weak at that point. Maybe not a mechanical object, then, but something else... Like a muscle: the same way the muscles in your arm or leg need progressive training to build up their capability, but can get tired through overuse.
– But muscles don't ever run out of ideas. Or get distracted.
– Again, the analogy is not perfect. Think of – of – the cat.
– Why the cat?
– It's a simple example of something with a certain degree of intelligence, quite obviously, but is also, to be honest, a bit dim. For instance, every time you open the fridge, it expects to be fed. It's a simple Pavlovian response. Whereas higher species –
– To tell the truth, every time I open the fridge, I also expect to be fed.
– ... I rest my case.

Storm

It's been very hot recently. It is July, after all, so perhaps it should not be a surprise, other than the weather having been generally unexceptional so far this summer. So the sudden arrival of a sweltering heatwave has caught us all unawares. We began by welcoming the blistering sunshine, only to discover that sitting all day in the office was not much fun, and trying to get to sleep at night was even less. But then yesterday the rains burst upon us, and everyone complained that summer was over already. And then today it started getting warm again. Looking ahead, Sunday – that is, half of the long-awaited weekend – is predicted to be beset by numerous thunderstorms and fearsome lightning strikes.

This was not intended to be a detailed weather forecast, which, in a blog post, is of limited utility, given that in a day or so the forecast will no longer be a forecast but history, and probably wildly inaccurate history at that. But it highlights the importance we attach to the vagaries of our weather, particularly when the rest of our lives are remarkably dull and uneventful in comparison.

Tube

– It is sobering when you come to realise that some careers are not for you.
– Indeed. But I would have thought that this must be quite a common occurrence.
– You mean I'm unsuited to a wide range of careers?
– We all have our unique skills. Which usually means we're useless at everything else. So what is today's failure?
– Repairing the bicycle. In fact, not even a proper repair, but just changing tyres and inner tubes.
– I suppose it is a fiddly business.
– You would have thought they would be able to design a bicycle tyre that doesn't take hours to remove and put back on again.
– I think they've invented that already. People who know about these things can probably do it in a couple of minutes.
– Whereas it takes me all evening, struggling to get everything back together again without puncturing the new inner tube. And as for the back wheel, with the chain wrapping itself around you, it's just a nightmare.
– Did you particularly want a career as a bicycle mechanic? Think of all the oil and grease. And the little nuts and bolts and valve caps which go missing the moment you put them down. And the faff of having to repair punctures. It's a hard life.
– You've persuaded me.
– Did you need much persuading?
– No. Not much.

Formula

– You realise, I suppose, that it must be all of three years by now?
– Of course... Three years of what?
– Of your writing this blog.
– Is it? Are you sure? It somehow seems – longer...
– And yet, you could say the years have flown by. Who would have thought we would still be here, three years and three hundred and thirty-odd posts later?
– Indeed... Do you think they get a bit – samey?
– Well, there are certain recurring themes...
– Of course.
– Which recur quite often.
– Do they?
– But that's not necessarily a problem. After all, once you've hit on a winning formula...
– Do you think it's a winning formula?
– I suppose that's really something for your readers to answer.
– I'm not entirely sure I have any readers.
– Well, I think you've got your answer.

Gown

I am worn out: more so than usual, which is saying something. It has been a busy couple of days, attending my son's graduation ceremony at Cambridge, which involved a lot of getting dressed up (which is never easy), eating and drinking (which is a little more welcome) and standing around in the sunshine (alright up to a point, and then just about tolerable when combined with the eating and drinking). And it is not often that my knowledge of Latin comes in useful.

There is a complex mix of emotions. It is poignant to see your offspring get to the end of their university career and prepare to step out into the real world (ignoring the bits of the real world they have already stepped into). You remember – hazily – your own university years, the hopes and dreams you had built up, your enthusiasm for carving out an exciting career, and wonder where it all went wrong. You note, in these troubled times of migrants risking their lives to reach this country, only to be blamed for all society's ills once they arrive here, that your own parents were migrants who managed through hard work to build a life for themselves here, and whose grandchildren have now succeeded in scaling the heights of the English education system. And in particular, the sense of relief, tinged with a little sadness, that after six years you will no longer have to drive back and forth to one university or another at the end of each term to drag your sons and all their belongings back home. Or at least not until your daughter heads off to university in a couple of years' time.

Charter

– It is the 800th anniversary of Magna Carta. And the 200th anniversary of Waterloo. These are momentous events in the history of these isles.
– They're about the only bits of history that I can remember. To tell the truth, I couldn't tell you a great deal about Waterloo. And if Magna Carta didn't involve Robin Hood I may have got the wrong end of the stick about that, too.
– But these are the events that have shaped our modern society: on the one hand, establishing the foundations of democracy and the rights of the common man, and, on the other, preventing Europe being overrun by the French. It is difficult to say which was the more important.
– I was never very good at history at school.
– Clearly.
– I think it is because it is so full of facts: names, dates, battles, treaties, and the like. Whereas I wonder whether my intellect is more attuned towards comprehending abstract ideas and generalised concepts.
– Such as?
– Well, lots of things. Just as long as they don't involve dates or battles.

 

Bright

– There's been a lot of daylight recently.
– No more than is normal for this time of year, I should think.
– Perhaps it's just because the weather has been dull over the last few months, and then has suddenly turned spring-like, if not early-summer-like, this last week or so.
– Perhaps.
– Especially first thing in the morning. I seem to get woken up at all hours by blinding sunlight beaming in through the bedroom window.
– Try drawing the curtain.
– You don't seem very sympathetic.
– Whatever.
– And you can't get any sleep at night because of the soaring temperatures. And if you leave the window open you get plagued by flying insects. And during the day you get smothered in pollen and end up a heap of uncontrollable sneezing.
– You don't appear to enjoy this time of year particularly.
– I quite like getting out to the garden now and again. Though admittedly it's a pain to have to keep mowing the grass. Which doesn't help the hay fever.
– You could just try hibernating till summer is over.
– Isn't that something you do over winter?
– I thought you could try it all year long.

Laundry

– You know, you begin to suspect there is some truth behind the rumours.
– Rumours? Which rumours?
– This FIFA business. Widespread corruption – bribery – money laundering. Who'd have thought it?
– Yes, it's hard to believe.
– And that Mr Blatter. Seemed such a jolly old chap.
– Yes...
– Of course, it may all blow over – or turn out to be a simple misunderstanding.
– Indeed. These things sometimes have a perfectly rational explanation. Who hasn't misplaced the odd million from time to time?
– Precisely. And anyway, what's all the fuss about hosting a World Cup finals in Qatar in the summer?
– I should think you're guaranteed some sunny weather, if nothing else.

Album

I was putting together, last weekend, an album of photographs for my son's impending birthday, featuring snapshots from when he was a small baby (which was a long time ago) to the present day (which is fairly recent). I don't know if he will appreciate it. Perhaps it will be a source of embarrassment, or even possibly reignite long-suppressed painful memories. Clearly, as a birthday present, neither outcome is desirable, particularly the latter, so it is to be hoped that he will get something positive out of it.

Rarely do we get the chance to take a moment out of our hectic lives to reflect on the years that have slipped by and revisit the significant moments of our youth. I suspect these photographs will not be much help, but may be of some passing interest to demonstrate how much, or indeed how little, his wardrobe has changed over the years. Perhaps for me the process of assembling the album was more therapeutic: sorting through hundreds of old photos, deciding which ones best captured whatever it was I was trying to capture, and working out how to stick them into the album without getting glue everywhere. There is much to be said for actually printing off photographs now and again rather than leaving them as digital files on some device or other, and actually going to the trouble of putting them in an album or hanging them on the wall. Or possibly even printing them on a mug or mouse mat or 10,000 piece jigsaw to give to your friends and relations as thoughtful gifts.

Interlude

I can't believe where May has gone. The month, I mean, not someone by the name of May. And I know I say this every month, but this time it is particularly true: May has just vanished, slipped away without leaving a trace, without even a parting glance, as if May had never existed. Clearly, this would have been particularly amusing if I actually did know someone by the name of May, although, on reflection, if I did, and they had actually disappeared, it would probably not be such a light-hearted matter but one worthy of involving the local police. But you get my point.

It hasn't helped that the weather has been a bit iffy. There have been moments of sunshine, but only as frustratingly brief interludes within long unbroken days of cold and damp and occasional hail. The meteorologists may complain that I am exaggerating and it hasn't been anywhere near as bad as that, but they are obsessed with their charts and weather balloons and computers the size of a small planet, and don't always take the trouble to stick their heads out of the window to see what is actually happening out there. Anyway, as a consequence, the flowers in the garden are looking a little jaded, as if they were hoping for a little more spring sunshine to perk them up, and I have not been able to make much of the light evenings, given that they have tended to be obscured by gloweringly leaden skies.

So we shall have to see what delights June brings tomorrow. The month, I mean, not the person.

Ballad

– This is relentless. How much longer does it go on?
– Sorry?
– Eurovision. How many hundreds of songs are we expected to sit through?
– Well, they've whittled it down somewhat through the semifinals. These are the remaining best twenty-seven, I believe. It may seem a lot, but there are a lot of countries in Europe nowadays.
– They seem to take the definition of Europe fairly loosely.
– I think it's about being inclusive.
– Australia?
– Well, I agree perhaps that's taking inclusivity a little too far. But I think they were feeling left out. It's good to see so much enthusiasm for wanting to be part of Europe. Especially considering the efforts some politicians go to to take us out of Europe.
– Perhaps I am starting to see their point. Some of the songs are decidedly odd.
– It's refreshing to celebrate the cultural diversity across this great continent, rather than have everything sound like a bland imitation of western pop music. Even if sometimes they are a little – unusual. It's a pity that more countries don't sing in their native tongue.
– Yes. I don't get many chances to try out my Hungarian.
– The songs are almost over.
– Thank goodness.
– Yes, it's always exciting when the voting starts.
– That's not what I meant.

Grade

We are in the middle of the examination season. Hopeful young adults, my daughter among them, are sitting their GCSEs. Day by day, week by week, a relentless succession of papers. The stress is palpable.

I struggle to remember much about my O levels. It was all so long ago, and I suspect the mind has a knack of repressing such painful memories. We seemed so less well prepared in those days: we were taught stuff during lessons, we went away and learnt it, and then regurgitated as much as we could under examination conditions. But now youngsters are coached on exam technique, practise on endless past papers, have private tutors if they can afford them, re-take modules till they get them right, and even have teachers who actually murmur encouraging comments rather than ignore them entirely, or, at best, lob pieces of chalk at them across the classroom. And they probably don't even have chalk any more.

Perhaps this is just a consequence of my advancing years, a stubborn refusal to believe that any generation could possibly have had a harsher upbringing than mine. Perhaps I envy today's young adults the information they have at their fingertips, accessed in a moment on the internet, and the resources and support network available to them. Or perhaps I still haven't come to terms with the C grade I received in History.

VE

– It's funny how these things all happen at once, practically.
– Yes... What things, exactly?
– These great national events. The 70th anniversary of VE Day, when the people of this proud nation took to the streets to celebrate the end of long years of hostilities. And then the arrival of the Royal baby Princess Charlotte the other week, bringing heart-warming good cheer across the land.
– It is certainly inspiring to see the mood of the country uplifted by these events.
– And, of course, not to forget the election of the new Prime Minister.
– I thought it was the same one as before.
– Well, superficially, maybe, but this time he is on his own. Rather than being in a coaltion with someone else.
– And is that a good thing?
– Only history will tell. And that won't be for a while. That's history for you.
– And are people celebrating on the streets as a result?
– Well, not so far, but sometimes these spontaneous things take a while to arrange.
– I suspect people are still reeling from the surprise outcome. A Conservative majority against the odds; Labour wiped out by the SNP in Scotland; the utter collapse of the Lib Dem vote.
– I suppose it wasn't the best of days for the pollsters. The dozens of polls over the last few months were all way off the mark. You can never trust statistics.
– I have to say I'm a little uneasy the way it's all turned out.
– It'll be fine. What can possibly go wrong?

Cross

– Well, here we are: the day before the General Election. The country's future gets decided tomorrow. Only a matter of hours till the polling stations open, and the first votes are cast in the most unpredictable election in living memory. We are stepping into unknown territory – a once in a lifetime decision. Who knows how it will all end?
– That seems like quite a lot of clichés.
– I try my best. I think it is compulsory at times like these. Perhaps I have been watching too many election broadcasts.

Rosette

– You know, I've not been canvassed yet this year.
– You haven't? I wish I could help. But I'm all out of – canvas. Not even a scrap of  tarpaulin to hand, I'm afraid.
– Usually parliamentary candidates like to engage with their constituents by accosting them on the high street or the doorstep.
– I'm not sure I would be very keen on that – Mr Cameron or Mr Miliband turning up at my front door.
– It's unlikely they would turn up themselves: at best you might get your local MP. Or some callow youth delivering leaflets.
– But even so, what would you say to them?
– I think you would find they have plenty of questions. They would ask your opinion on all manner of local and national issues.
– So they would take my opinion seriously when it comes to deciding on future policy?
– I doubt it. The main reason for knocking on your door is to convince you to vote for them. If they pretend to listen to your complaints, it's only to persuade you that they are on your side. Which in practice they rarely are.
– Do I need to invite them in? Make them a cup of tea or something?
– Not unless you are particularly keen on them, or there are television cameras hovering in the background: it's become quite popular in this election to be filmed in your kitchen.
– Only I don't tend to keep that much in – though there's usually a packet of biscuits at the back of the cupboard.
– I'm sure that would be fine. If you're too hospitable, you will never be rid of them.

Vote

– Only a week to go.
– Till?
– Till the General Election.
– Of course.
– You hadn't forgotten?
– Not at all. I've been looking forward to it. Counting down the days till May the...
– Seventh.
– Yes. The excitement of staying up through the night, waiting for each constituency to declare. The disappointed faces of MPs staring defeat in the face. Waking up on the Friday morning to discover the identity of the next Prime Minister.
– Only that's not going to happen.
– Well, I suppose there is a chance I won't wake up till the afternoon.
– I meant, discovering who is Prime Minister. There won't be one on Friday morning. It will take days, perhaps weeks, for discussions to take place between the party leaders, for a deal to be thrashed out, for a coalition government to be formed.
– You make it sound as if we are hurtling towards some sort of chaotic political vacuum. If that analogy makes any sense.
– I'm not sure it does. But it's a pretty good description of what is going to happen.

Cherry

I don't know where the time goes. But it certainly goes somewhere, and pretty briskly to boot. The days are slipping by, and all I do is slump exhausted on the sofa and, somewhat perplexed, watch them disappear.

I still think of 2015 being in its infancy, and yet April is nearly over, with little achieved on my part to show for it. My list of books read this year is very terse, though I can blame David Copperfield for hanging around since Christmas. I have talked to several people regarding a new kitchen, which is an advance over the previous seven years, but at this rate it looks as if nothing will get decided in the near future.

The weather recently has alternated between balmy summer evenings and chilly wintry mornings. Indeed, snow and hail made brief appearances today, before the sun came out. Inspired by nature springing to life all around me, I've doused my feeble excuse for a lawn with stuff to made the grass look greener and the moss and weeds disappear. Nothing has happened yet. I keep expecting to step out of the house one morning and find all the grass has shrivelled up.

But all this is just shallow levity, something to cheer myself up. I would, if asked, all too easily bemoan my lot in life: the lack of time, the constraints of work, the unflinching mortgage. But, really, what have I to worry about? The news reports have been dominated by tragedy upon tragedy in recent days. Thousands have died in the Nepal earthquake last weekend. In previous weeks, many hundreds of immigrants have drowned in the Mediterranean attempting to cross to Europe. Civil war in eastern Ukraine rumbles on. Too much sadness to think about. And hence the shallowness.

But the blossom is pretty at the moment.

And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are little room,
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.

Poll

With the general election only a couple of weeks away, it has been fascinating to follow the fluctuations of the opinion polls. Or at least fascinating in the way that they don't change significantly from day to day, or even week to week, or even over the last couple of months. Although polls from individual polling organisations do bobble about by a couple of percentage points, putting the Conservatives in the lead one day, Labour the next, the BBC's rolling average has remained stubbornly immovable since the start of the campaign. Clearly, they could simply be massaging the data in a peculiar way, but one hopes they have some on-the-ball statisticians on hand who know how to calculate an average.

This may indicate that political campaigning is mostly a waste of time, in as much as voters' opinions were pretty much formed many months ago, and all the lively speechifying and confrontational debating and pointed interviewing and satirical lampooning is only so much water off a duck's back. To illustrate this, I have included a picture of a duck (below). You have to use your imagination for the water.

Cad

– It can't be that difficult to design a new kitchen. You seem to be taking a long time over it.
– There are a lot of things to decide on. And some tricky technical challenges. For instance, it all has to fit.
– Surely the kitchen stores employ highly trained specialists who know how to do this sort of thing. With their computer-aided design software. You go along, describe vaguely what you would like, and, before you know it, you have an impressive 3D plan. With, ideally, everything fitting.
– Yes, I've gone through all of that. It is a fascinating process. And yet, somehow, deeply traumatic. Seeing your future mapped out before you.
– Not your entire future: just your kitchen.
– It's all the same. It's another little slice of your life that's been parcelled up by other people, no longer in your control.
– You could try telling them what you would like. Then it's not out of your control: instead, you get your heart's desire. It's rather like an allegory of life itself.
– I'm not sure there's room to fit in one of those.
– One of what?
– An allegory. Unless you can get a slimline one.

Manifesto

– It is always exciting to see the party manifestos published. Makes you feel that the election campaign is actually under way.
– Did you think it wasn't?
– Well, to tell the truth, nothing very exciting has happened yet. I notice various politicians making pronouncements on the news programmes, and some of what some of them say sometimes makes sense. Though not always. But the manifestos are always worth looking forward to: they can be an entertaining read.
– And have you read them?
– Not exactly cover to cover. So far I've tended to skim through them to get an initial impression. Basically, just looking at the pictures. But a picture is worth a thousand words. Unfortunately, they tend to include quite a lot of words too, which seems to miss the point of having so many pictures.
– They tend to be a little one-sided.
– Yes, I've noticed that. It would be nice to see them discussing both sides of the argument, but they do come across as blowing their own trumpets. Metaphorically.
– Glancing through the manifestos, it's sometimes difficult to tell them apart.
– The Conservative one has a lot more blue.

Recuperation

– So, what exactly have you been up to this week?
– Well, as I said, nothing much. But nothing much in a deliberate and carefully planned way, rather than just idly lounging about.
– But the net result is pretty much the same.
– To the inexperienced observer, perhaps. But the underlying intention is quite different. I think the word is staycation.
– Is that a word?
– Apparently. It is simply a holiday – or vacation, if you will – where one stays at home. I would have thought homecation was more accurate, but then doesn't rhyme quite as neatly.
– So you are basically using your week's holiday to sit at home?
– Far from it. I have been out and about, visiting local beauty spots, going on bracing walks. If anything, I am quite worn out, but in a healthy, invigorated sort of way. Like going away on holiday, but without the travelling.
– And the expense.
– That is a minor consideration, but, yes, it does work out noticeably cheaper. But the main advantage is that it takes away all the hassle of packing suitcases, sorting out travel arrangements, finding yourself in an uncomfortable hotel room, being unable to find a sun lounger next to the pool, succumbing to some exotic bug that your immune system has never encountered before, – you get the idea.
– But that is what makes going on holiday so exciting: you never quite know what's going to happen. Whereas for you, everything is fairly – predictable.
– True. Perhaps I should introduce a random element: plan my day by drawing suggestions out of a hat. Invite complete strangers around for dinner. Hang around the doctor's surgery to see what mysterious germs I can pick up. Yes, that would make it much more fun.

Egg

It is Easter Day. The sun came out this afternoon, while I was out walking on a hilltop overlooking the town. To tell the truth, the town is not all that pretty at the best of times, so the sunshine helped brighten things up, intensifying the golden yellow of the daffodils and gorse. It is a difficult thing to photograph, gorse: all those tiny yellow flowers. You would think at least one of them would be in focus.

I looked through the wine cellar to pick something to complement the lamb I was cooking for dinner. (I am not sure why lambs have to bear the brunt of Easter dining: perhaps they just have an unfortunately high profile at this time of year, with all that gambolling around. If they had any sense, they would keep their heads down until it blows over.) My wine cellar comprises half a dozen disparate bottles that I have somehow accumulated over the last few years. I think they must have been gifts, or possibly won in raffles: I don't recall buying any of them. Though I don't recall being given them, either. Selecting the right one to accompany lamb was beyond me, so I reverted to picking the oldest, the one with the thickest layer of dust, on the grounds that although fine vintage wines doubtlessly improve with age, I suspected my more modest bottles would soon reach their sell by date.

Folly

– It's as if we have collectively lost our sense of humour.
– Sorry, I wasn't listening.
– Thank you. I was saying that there seemed a dearth of amusing April Fool's pranks this morning.
– Was there? I didn't notice.
– Precisely. You could always rely on the BBC to conjure up a few tall stories, scattered amongst the serious news items.
– There was that amusing report about major business leaders writing a joint letter in support of the Conservative party.
– That was an actual news story, not an April Fool.
– Are you sure?
– Pretty sure. Though you never know for certain. Likewise, at work there was a noticeable lack of jollity.
– That's probably a good thing. Once people start larking around in the laboratory, it is a recipe for disaster.
– I never go into the laboratory.
– Well, even in the office environment, it is always wise to heed health and safety regulations. You wouldn't believe the number of people hospitalised by staplers each year. 

Dissolution

– So, the clock starts ticking. There are only 38 days left.
– I thought Easter was this Sunday? Don't tell me I have to give up chocolate for another five weeks?
– Till the General Election.
– Oh, right. That's crept up on us out of nowhere...
– Other than we have known it was coming for the last five years, ever since the coalition introduced fixed term parliaments.
– Did they? Whatever was the point of that? It was always the most interesting part of the process, trying to second guess when this entirely random event would occur. Other than it was always the first Thursday in May, and either four or five years after the previous one. But otherwise, it was entirely random.
– They say this promises to be the most unpredictable campaign in modern times.
– Did they predict the outcome of the last one?
– Well, not exactly, but this one will be even more unpredictable. This is off the scale of unpredictability.
– Is there an actual scale of unpredictability?
– Clearly. Perhaps you should write an election diary, capturing the key events day by day.
– That sounds like a lot of work... Has anything significant happened today?
– Of course. Today all the parties officially started campaigning, in order to get their message across to the electorate, rebut the opposition and sway the floating voter.
– And tomorrow?
– Probably more of the same.
– And the next month?
– Well, it tends to carry on in the same vein. But there will be highs and lows, surprise developments and embarrassing gaffs.
– I will look forward to those, especially the gaffs. You will let me know when they happen?

Bosworth

Today saw the interment of the Richard III, some 530 years (I think) since his ignominious death in battle in the Wars of the Roses. It is remarkable that his skeleton was ever found, seeing that someone had inconveniently built a car park over the spot, and that they could prove it was him, and that the general public has pretty much taken him to its collective heart. Admittedly, some members of the general public have raised issues of princes in towers and the like, and clearly Shakespeare did not have that high an opinion of him, but that only goes to prove that history is rather messy at the best of times, and we frequently have difficulty in knowing what to believe, in separating fact from fiction.

In a similar vein, today also saw the first televised debate of the forthcoming general election, with David Cameron and Ed Miliband not having a head-to-head debate but having two separate debates, one after the other. Which seemed something of an anticlimax, compared to the livelier confrontations of the last campaign. And rather like deciding whether Richard III was a Good King or a Bad King, it ends up being a fairly subjective judgement of which politician is worth voting for. Presumably neither will be particularly fondly remembered in 500 years' time.

Eclipse

There was a solar eclipse in these parts last Friday morning. Some of us nipped out of work to stand shivering under bleak grey skies waiting for something extraordinary to happen. And then the clouds thinned obligingly at the appropriate time to yield a glimpse of the momentous event.

As momentous events go, it was perhaps a bit of an anticlimax. As the sun was not completely obscured, but only a half-hearted ninety-something per cent, we were unfortunately not plunged into opaque blackness, which would have cheered us all up enormously, and to tell the truth it was difficult to tell whether it was actually any darker than previously. Eclipses ought to be dramatic: a minor earth tremor, perhaps, or the odd plague or two would not go amiss. In ancient days, they were omens of cataclysmic events: the birth of kings or the demise of empires. Nowadays they are an excuse for bunking off work for ten minutes.

Brief

– You just have to write more quickly.
– That's not much of a solution.
– Well, it makes sense to me. If your laptop is crashing every five minutes, you simply need to write more quickly. Or write shorter posts. Whichever works best.
– It's something of a constraint on my artistic ambitions.
– I think great artists manage to rise to these challenges. Brevity is an important skill to have. After all, you don't want to be churning out massively dull tomes by the cartload, do you?
– Don't I?
– Think of the great poets: crafting exquisite sonnets in a mere fourteen lines of perfectly formed pentameters. Or limericks: they're even shorter. And haikus. I could go on. But the point is that being succinct is not a hindrance to expressing whatever profundities you had in mind.
– Or I could get the laptop fixed.

Mischief

– I seem to be under siege at the moment.
– Really? I hadn't noticed. In what way exactly?
– There are wild animals trying to break into the house.
– They do that sometimes. It is their nature. You can't stand in the way of instinct.
– I've tried closing the cat flap. That seems to work.
– So, would I be right in assuming that these wild animals are, in fact, cats?
– Well, feral cats, for all I know. Or if not actually feral, certainly impolite. And bold: they try to creep in during the middle of the day, or even when it's obvious that there are folk about.
– Perhaps they are just inquisitive. Cats are naturally inquisitive. They will be company for you.
– My own cat is company enough: I don't really want all the neighbourhood cats as well.
– Do you think it may be something to do with the cat food you leave next to the cat flap?
– Well, possibly. But that's where the cat food lives. If I were to move it, my cat would get very confused.
– I'm sure she would cope. Cats are very resourceful. If nothing else, she could probably nip around to the neighbours' and steal their cats' food.
– It's like a vicious circle, isn't it? Where will it end?

Wedge

There is noticeably more daylight nowadays, compared with the long drab winter months. It is always a more inspiring start to the day to leave the house in daylight, rather than to skulk out in the dark, when all the neighbours are still comfortably asleep. And it is not as if you can look forward to watching dawn breaking during the drive to work, as it never turns out to be a particularly glorious daybreak when you're stuck in the traffic, trying to avoid cyclists overtaking you on every side. And it doesn't help that I drive vaguely north to get to work, so am never in quite the right position to see a glorious daybreak if one were ever to arise. At the moment I am at least leaving work in daylight, even if it's dark before I get home. But the day will come soon enough when I will be tempted to stop off on the way home in order to take a stroll somewhere picturesque, typically involving trees.

I still try to get out at lunchtime to go for a walk around the institute. There is not much to see, other than the usual urban sprawl, but at least it is a useful form of healthy exercise, even if not particularly uplifting on an emotional level. The local high street, typical of many of our town centres, seems to have broken out in a rash of pound shops. I went into one the other day in search of a door wedge, and came out with a pack of five. For a pound. It was a bargain. I only needed one, but sometimes it is useful having a few spare. Or I have been considering selling them on for a small profit. That is how many entrepreneurs got started. Re-selling things at a profit, I mean, but not necessarily door wedges. Although there may well be a untapped market there.

Wrapping

– It's intriguing to think how flatbreads have taken over modern cuisine.
– I didn't realise they had.
– Well, what about the pitta, and the tortilla, and the chappati? Even the pizza, I suppose, now that I think about it. They are all-pervasive.
– Are they, though? I go for weeks without eating any.
– But what are sandwiches, if not two flatbreads, sandwiched together? With a filling.
– I'm not sure sandwiches count. They are surely only thin slices of a thick loaf.
– But only because our unimaginative British cuisine is yet to invent a true flatbread. So we have to make do with making unflat breads and trimming them down to size.
– I never thought of it like that.

Sweet

– The weather doesn't seem to be able to make its mind up: are we heading into a sultry spring or back towards a dismal winter? At least the shops are getting more festive.
– I suppose so...
– Having just bidden farewell to Valentine's Day, we have Mothering Sunday to look forward to, and then Easter. It's just one excuse after another to fill the shelves with chocolate and confectionery.
– Yes...
– I suppose your resolve hasn't broken yet?
– My resolve? You mean to avoid chocolate in all its many and varied forms for the six long weeks of Lent?
– Yes. That one.
– No. Not yet...
– But then we are only a week into it. Hardly any time at all.
– No. Not at all...
– At least, compared to the long weeks ahead till Easter arrives. I imagine it must get tougher as time drags on, to resist the temptation to indulge in something chocolatey.
– It's not easy. It's not been easy this week, to tell the truth...
– With all the shops, as I said, filled to bursting with delicious things to eat.
– Yes...
– And people around you insensitively snacking on treats all day long.
– That doesn't help, certainly...
– But I admire your commitment.
– Thank you...
– Not many people can demonstrate that level of self-control.
– They can't?
– Not at all. I wish I could join you, but I just give way too easily.
– You do?
– But don't let my weakness influence you. I'm sure you'll make it through to the end.
– Thank you...
– Anything you'd like from the shop, by the way, just while I'm down there?

Narcissus

There was a feeling of spring in the air today. Admittedly, there was also some snow, but it melted within a couple of hours, and you always know that spring is on the way when the snow melts within a couple of hours.

I have some daffodils on the kitchen window: the yellow ones. As opposed to the yellowy-white ones, which never quite manage to look as exciting. There are none in the garden yet; but that's okay: there's plenty of time.

I ought to do something about the kitchen: get someone to measure it up, get a few quotes. But there are too many things to decide: not only the cabinets, but handles (there are so many handles) and taps and wall tiles and flooring and everything. It's as if you can have any combination (within the boundaries of good taste).

But at least spring is on the way. Regardless of snow storms.

Ashen

– So I had a go at making pancakes last night.
– Pancakes?
– Shrove Tuesday. It's a traditional thing. Other nations celebrate with exotic carnivals and extravagant feasting, while all we can manage is a plate of tepid pancakes.
– Of course. Maybe the idea is to feast extravagantly on pancakes.
– I did my best. But I always find there is a limit to how many you can cope with at one sitting. Especially when the first few don't turn out quite right.
– How do you mean?
– Well, there is a knack to getting the batter just right. And the temperature of the frying pan. And the amount of batter you add. And – well, you get my point. It is only by trial and error that you get to the perfect pancake.
– And last night there were a lot of trials and a lot of errors?
– Unfortunately. But at least nobody was permanently harmed.
– Well, that's good, isn't it?
– It's an improvement on last year, at any rate. Although we did omit the pancake race this time. On the advice of the police.

Aorta

– It's Valentine's Day. Again.
– Indeed... The shops have been awash with pink for weeks. Positively aglow.
– You're not busy this evening?
– No, no... Thought I'd just have a quiet night in.
– Of course. It's good to have a few hours by oneself: get away from the crowds.
– Yes. I've never been one for crowds. The noise, the bustle.
– And restaurants are awkward around this time: if you're not in a couple. Restaurants seem to be expecting couples. Around this time.
– But then, who wants to go out dining all the time?
– Exactly. Now and again, fine. But all the time, hardly.
– Although –
– Although?
– Although now and again would be nice.

Snow

Pitch

It is that time of year when the Premier League sloshes around millions of pounds in transfer fees and mere billions in television rights. I have to date resisted the temptation to invest in Sky Sports, partly on the basis of exorbitant cost and partly the concern that new-fangled technologies such as satellite TV are likely to be passing fads that will be here today and gone tomorrow, leaving you with a useless satellite dish attached to the front of your house. Incidentally, I do already have a useless satellite dish, albeit attached to the side of my house, but there are only so many you feel you can put up with before they begin to look untidy. But I have been blessed with receiving BT Sport instead, more by accident than design to tell the truth, and have been watching more live football than is probably good for me. And if I were to subscribe to Sky as well, I would probably not do anything in my spare time other than sit literally glued to the box.

Mind you, on the subject of new-fangled technologies, I've never quite understood why my telephone company is supplying me with televised football matches. You would think they would have enough to do trying to stop nuisance phone calls selling me new boilers or enquiring if I've been involved in an accident in the past three years.

Pet

– The cat doesn't seem to be in a particularly good mood.
– No... I suppose it can't be easy.
– What can't be?
– Being a pet. Being the possession of an uncaring owner who imprisons her away from her natural environment.
– She is free to go whenever she wants. The door is always open. Or at least the cat flap. It's hard to get her to go out, if anything.
– Only because you have made her dependent upon your meagre generosity by feeding her scraps.
– I doubt she would have stayed very long if she had had to make do with scraps. She's quite fussy about what she eats. Not really into scraps.
– Perhaps you need to spend more time with her; share some common interests.
– She has no interests. Apart from eating and sleeping.
– As I said: share some common interests.

Drift

– The snow is lingering. In patches.
– I should go out with my new snow shovel.
– You bought a snow shovel?
– It seemed somehow appropriate. There was all this snow. And I didn't have one.
– And have you tried using it yet?
– You noticed the path up to the front door, how spotless it was? That didn't happen by accident.
– The drive is still pretty snowy.
– Well, there was a lot more on the drive. You can't always do it all in one go.
– Why not?
– There wasn't anywhere to put all the snow.
– Surely you could just pile it in one spot. In a pile, say.
– But after a while, these things become unstable. And when they collapse, you're in a worse position than when you started. Potentially buried underneath. Have you never heard of avalanches?
– Surprisingly, yes. And they rarely begin with snow shovels.

Snow

There has been a flurry of snow, the worst this winter to date. It must be something to do with my rapidly advancing years, but perhaps I do not look forward to the snow as much as I did in my youth. Then, I would cheerfully throw on some boots and head out for a walk, just for the pleasure of stomping through the unsullied whiteness and hearing the welcoming crunch under my feet. Nowadays I tend to worry about whether I will manage to get the car out of the drive, and the number of meals I can construct from the contents of the fridge in the nightmare scenario that all the local supermarkets are temporarily out of action; which usually is quite a small number, the meals, I mean, on account of never keeping that much food in the house at any one time.

I am afraid I would be useless in the event of a nuclear war or a zombie apocalypse. Perhaps I should make more effort to hoard large quantities of tinned food and bottled water for just this kind of emergency. Unfortunately, I  am not so very fond of food out of tins, perhaps with the exception of baked beans, or tuna (though rarely at the same time). Especially tinned vegetables: they just don't work for me. But I am probably being too fussy: when zombies are attacking, I doubt you are too concerned whether your tinned potatoes are a smidgen water-logged. The bigger problem is where to do the hoarding: I am not blessed with a cellar, or even that much cupboard space. And I don't fancy stashing tins of sliced peaches behind the sofa or under the bed.

Now that I come to think of it, tinned sliced peaches are rather nice, especially served with tinned evaporated (or do I mean condensed?) milk, but it's not something I have eaten since, perhaps, my childhood. But we live in different times: the world has moved on. Best not to hanker for the past. I suspect if I went out to buy some tinned peaches and evaporated milk (zombies permitting), I would be sadly disappointed.

Cathedral: plenty of storage space for hoarding tinned food.

300

– So are you impressed?
– With what? That you've kept going?
– Well, yes. Three hundred posts. I thought it seemed quite a significant number.
– But it has taken you years to get there. Had you managed three hundred posts in, say, three hundred days, that would have been more remarkable. Or in only a month or two would have been pretty amazing. But as it is, you basically write a few lines and then decide to take the rest of the week off to recover.
– That's hardly fair. Writing a blog is an arduous activity, requiring selfless dedication and  unflinching commitment, endless hours of concentrated effort to nurture the creative spark and watch it grow into a work of intellectual rigour and emotional depth. And then painstakingly to craft three hundred of them at the drop of a hat, – well, that seems something of an achievement.
– I'm sure you could get a computer to churn out random bits of text, perhaps with a few grammatical checks along the way to make sure it makes a modicum of sense, and just post that.
– But would that manage to create a work of fine literature with a message of hope and inspiration to the reader?
– Do yours?

Romance

The football pundits are talking, in the cliché-ridden way they have (although cliché-ridden is, I suppose, something of a cliché itself) about the romance of the FA Cup, in that lowly minnows (they are always minnows) can occasionally defeat the big guns (they are always big guns, despite not having much relevance to minnows). Yesterday saw a clutch of Premiership clubs bite the dust (after a while, painfully florid prose comes quite easily), most notably the humbling of Chelsea 4-2 by League One underdogs Bradford City. This is the beauty of football, as José Mourinho said yesterday, although one suspects he was inwardly gritting his teeth (again, probably difficult to grit one's teeth outwardly, unless you're blessed with dentures).

But other sports often seem more predictable, perhaps because they are won by accumulating a large number of points, so that the better team or player has a chance to shine through. Whereas football matches are often lucky to scrape up a goal or two, and even those are confounded by bizarre missed chances and questionable refereeing decisions, so that the result is, literally, in the lap of the gods. It is intriguing to wonder how far you would get by collecting a host of match statistics and feeding them into an appropriate machine learning algorithm, with a view to predicting the outcome of a game, or perhaps a whole season. It can't be any more difficult than predicting the stock market, or the weather, let alone how much I need to save in a personal pension to be able one day to retire in a reasonable degree of comfort. But I suspect these things may be beyond human understanding.

Salt

– It's not getting any warmer.
– It's certainly chilly out. Wintry, you might say. But that's winter for you. Perhaps there's more snow on the way.
– I keep getting gritted.
– How do you mean? Personally?
– Yes. They seem to be following me about, these gritting lorries.
– It can't do your paintwork much good.
– But it's also when I'm out of the car. They drive past and try their best to spatter me with whatever it is they chuck out.
– That doesn't sound too good. Have you ever done anything to provoke them?
– Not that I know. But sometimes these things are unintentional – a casual remark, taken out of context, and you have an enemy for life. An enemy with a gritting lorry.
– Perhaps you are getting a little paranoid about all this. There is probably a perfectly rational explanation. What seems to be an act of deliberate malice is probably nothing more than a quirk of probability. You'll see, chances are that you won't encounter another gritting lorry for the rest of the winter.
– Are you sure?
– You can never be sure where probability is concerned. That's what makes life so exciting.

Credit

– This is a difficult time of the year.
– I hadn't noticed. In what way?
– Well, the excitement of Christmas is over, the optimism of the New Year has faded amongst the litter of broken resolutions, you are beset by the clamour of sale offers and potential summer holidays, the credit card bills need paying... Need I go on?
– I'd rather you didn't.
– When all you want is a gentle start to the year, to be able to reflect on the months ahead, calmly plan your work and leisure time, perhaps consider a new hobby or visiting somewhere you've never been before, or resolve how to spend your hard-earned wages more wisely, perhaps even pay off a bit of the mortgage or start saving for a new kitchen... You know what I mean?
– You seem to have quite a lot of things on your mind.
– And you don't?
– Not right now, no.
– I prefer to look ahead. Think things through.
– Rather than just make things up as you go along.
– Yes.
– Perhaps you should try it. It could be your resolution. Take life as it comes. Tomorrow will worry about itself. Birds of the field not sowing, and all that.
– I think you mean birds of the air.
– Do I? Maybe it depends on what kind of birds they are? Have you thought of that?

Liberty

A week on from the Paris terrorist attacks, a week which has seen millions demonstrating on the streets of France and around the world, showing their support for the principle of freedom of speech. It has been a troubling week: on the one hand, the sinking despair as you realise that Islam and the West will continue this confrontation long into the future, with little hope of any peaceful settlement or genuine acceptance of each other's positions. On the other hand, it is inspiring to see the passion with which ordinary people in these secular times hold on to the simple truths of liberty, equality and brotherhood.

Society has to come to terms with a difficult compromise: the right of the individual to hold his own beliefs, free from censure or abuse, while at the same time respecting and tolerating the beliefs of others. And with that comes the right occasionally to offend, and the expectation that occasionally you will be offended.