Remembering

It might have been the first time we met, it was dinner at his house, in total we were four and at one point he stood up behind his chair to tear into the Conservatives, party and supporters alike, before adding with a gesture in my direction “present company excepted”. I turned to my partner and remarked “Do you know, I think he’s beginning to warm to me!” Maybe, but it was certainly true to say I’d warmed to him.

We met many times, often talking politics, occasionally agreeing, always enjoying the sparring involved. Most recently was the Saturday after the election for one of the most enjoyable evenings I can remember.

The following Wednesday he died, and every sentence since is charged with unintended meaning. I'm sensible to the obvious truth that others will be hurting more, yet I will miss my new friend.

Julian Barnes wrote “the fact that someone is dead may mean that they are not alive, but doesn't mean that they do not exist”. Paul cared about the things that matter; there was a genuine concern for the disadvantaged, love for his family, compassion underneath an acerbic wit. That first night as we were leaving he said to his wife, and loud enough for all to hear “Make sure they’re gone”.

He can still make me smile.

Lost

Masturbation for the masses

Blimey Miley, that was quite a show you put on. I didn’t watch it of course and had it not been for Twitter I wouldn’t even have known it had happened. As it is I still don’t know what VMA stands for and I’m only vaguely aware of who you are, but then I’m in my late forties and not, let’s hope, the target audience. That would be a million teenage boys and girls for whom it’s good material; well, for the boys anyway for whom you give such relief. I’m not so sure what it does for your female following but I should think it involves an unhealthy body image and neutering the English language. Yes, I think you’re a poor example (I would say that wouldn’t I) but if Elvis couldn’t manage then what chance have you in stunting their growth?

I am curious as to what Miley’s Dad, who was in the same line of work - singing that is, not twerking, whatever that is - made of it all. From what I read he has a connection to one of those over-bearing parent groups with a never-ending fear of moral corruption. I however couldn’t muster the outrage, besides half-heartedly musing on a Cyrus family subterfuge; it’s all so banal. So banal I’ve just devoted two paragraphs on the subject. So trivial that after a long hiatus I choose this rather than Ed Miliband’s “Neville Chamberlain” moment. What am I thinking?

It’s a crisis of something or other - I‘d say faith only I’m not that way inclined. I have thought on it before, though with more conviction. Science tells me everything, or will, given time; the when, the how, the why; and in doing so it tells me nothing. Science endows and then strips the world of meaning; though I recognise the two are separate - the actual and the spiritual - I speak in a non-religious sense as I haven’t the imagination for much else; the world is what it is and often I’m finding that sad.

I appreciated the bluntness; his explanation that life appears to have no meaning because life has no meaning; and what do you do, asked Camus, once you’ve discovered this ‘truth’? There is no fate that cannot be surmounted by scorn, he says, and that appeals too. But enough of the self-flagellation; to deny the world a meaning is not (this atheist prays) to deny myself an internal meaning, and that can be as I choose. Kindness, compassion and companionship; and pain - it would be false to deny the pain of those I have (and those I will) hurt, though I might wish otherwise; and not forgetting love, to deny love would be the greatest sin of all. God help us if science finds a reason for that.

Happy deadline day

In an act of supreme (really?) irony, though I’m never sure what that is nowadays and after all my complaining - which I so enjoyed - at Apple’s culpability in something or other, I received an iPod Touch for Christmas. It’s not quite the latest model so I estimate three years from now I’ll find I’m repeating myself; as Apple themselves might say, three years seems like an awfully long time....

I have been busy in general but particularly this week. My now ex-development partner left for pastures new, which in addition to being a surprise was a real shame since he was great to work with. The job itself continues to inspire, overload and a whole set of other adjectives that add up to scary fun. I am at that place where several things have begun to properly click, yet in addition to ‘getting it’ I’m aware of just how much there is still to get; I like the challenge. So with unexpected news I found myself staying overnight at the north-end of the country, running through a few of those things I still didn’t get, fitting in a meeting or two before travelling home and having to stop - for I was knackered - on both the M6 and M5 for extra-shot coffee.

The following morning I was tired with a full day and faced with deadlines that had nothing to do with work. Football, blog - so that I’d have something to show for January (I needn’t say how that went) and to fill in my tax return. Aforementioned work meant leaving this to the very last day, something it seems I did last year though I can’t recall last year’s excuse. This time however I’ll fill in that form or dial that number and try to opt out of the nightmare that is wondering where you’ve put your P60. And this time, this time I mean it (© 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012 etc.)

Second sight

I decide to prove the model of iPod Touch bought all those years ago (3 ‘normal’ years = 21 ‘Apple’ years) rather than settle on indirect signs. Wikipedia’s information that a particular generation can’t be updated beyond a certain version of iOS is a strong clue, as is the rather annoying discovery that whilst this version is good enough for some apps, if the model isn’t as required you’re still going to be stuffed buying your apps whilst the device is attached rather than through the device itself; you’re allowed to purchase even though the app won’t play. Over to the Apple website where I find proof comes in the form of a model number on the back, yet I can only see the memory capacity, under which I can make out some etching indecipherable to the naked eye.

Great - another evisceration of Apple, what could be better? There’s a USB microscope on the PC next door, I can write a blog on this and I’m going to be so witty, just like the last time, only my daughter spoils it all by walking into her room and asking for an explanation, upon which she picks up the iPod Touch unbidden, looks on the back and reads out:

Model number A1288. There... now can I have my laptop back?

Santa Claus has come to town

Children are great for this time of year; before they come along the message has likely given way to parties and some much needed time off work. Once they arrive, sweeping you up in the purest joy they amplify the true meaning of Christmas, which is something to do with presents and Santa. The latter made an appearance on the weekend courtesy of our local Round Table, his arrival heralded much excitement as I swept up my daughter and headed to the front door, opening it just in time to catch the man in the bright red suit as he was strolling past. Turning, he came forward and offered her a sherbet lolly from the tin he was carrying. “Thank you, Santa”, we said, for I may have joined in, and on closing the door my daughter turns to me and says

Daddy, you are SO embarrassing.

Quiche, through and through

It was a long week. Last Sunday I finally decided to fix the car which had been SORN’d for over three and a half years. I started by replacing the battery. For reasons that I’m not going to make clear as it would make me sound like an idiot, I’m curious as to how long a never-used battery lasts after having been bought. Is it I suspect, like a not-used-in-a-long-while battery, dead unless given a charge every now and then? Let’s pass on that, on Saturday I bought another battery, and on Sunday I took over two hours to remove the dead one in the car. On the VW Polo there’s a plastic casing inside which the battery sits that wasn’t quite as described by the Haynes manual my father helpfully bought me 18 months ago. Nevertheless I felt a misplaced sense of manly achievement, though this wasn’t enough to fix the car.

Three and a half years and I confess the main (only?) reason for this effort was the knowledge my Ford Puma - 117,000 miles on the clock with one not-so-careful owner - had about as much chance of passing its MOT as I have of reading The Busconductor Hines, which was Friday’s Kindle Daily Deal. This of course was a purchase with the noble purpose of understanding how the other half think (other readers that is) and at less than the cost of a prawn sandwich I couldn’t go wrong, though on reflection I should have bought the sandwich; given that it’s set in “Thatcher’s Britain” I only have myself to blame.

On Monday I called the RAC. My heroic and ultimately successful struggle with replacing the battery had not been enough; the engine turned as if from a slumber with no intention of waking up. It was time for the professionals. Mine spent hours in the rain with me watching him doing something with coils and spark plugs and fuses, several times he removed and replaced the engine cover - I didn’t know you could do that, I didn’t even know it was a cover - at one point he used a hair dryer and hit the base of the car with a screwdriver. Was an oxyacetylene torch involved? It may have been. Yet even an expert wasn’t enough; at a cost of £90 (since it had no MOT and therefore wasn’t covered) I had to have the car - the good car that is to replace my crappy car - towed to the garage.

To Rockhampton; a small village that can be reached along the back roads from my not so tiny town, there you will find Woodward Motors. An essential part of my motoring life for several years and the one on whom I was reasonably sure. It could be the fuel pump, was their guess when I handed over the keys, and a phone call the following day confirmed it to be the case; this, some rusted up brakes, a service and an MOT accounted for an impressively large bill, impressive for a VW Polo. I wasn’t impressed; I’d deserted the car and gotten my just desserts.

Flooding meant a delay of a few days; it wasn’t until Friday when I could pick up the car from a sand-bagged garage. I had only the car tax left which at ‘only’ £135 was cheaper than before. On the point of applying online, being prepared to wait a few more days before I could drive, I remembered something called a post office and thus only 15 minutes later I had a legal car, one I could drive once I get rid of the smell.

If car tax was the second, the first saving was insurance. A worthless car costs more to insure than one with value, this despite the insurer only replacing to the market value of the car. My father reminds me this is because I am seen as more likely to have an accident in a 1.7L Puma than I am a 1.2L Polo, though as anyone who’s seen me drive will know, I am no more likely to have an accident in one of those cars than I am the other. I can’t possibly be blamed for having been hit three times, though there was that one time I span off into a ditch. Oh, and the time I swiped the concrete pillar in the car park, accounting for a large dent over the rear wheel arch. Yours, for less than the cost of a cheap tablet computer. Though on reflection....

Zombie apocalypse preparation update

“The best place to hide” I mused some time ago whilst waiting by the fountain in The Mall at Cribbs Causeway - where all the cool kids hang out - “the best place to hide in the event of a zombie apocalypse would be John Lewis”. A rather childish thought I realised on a subsequent visit to their top floor; whilst the escalators to the food hall are easily blocked off, I hadn’t taken account of the elevators. “Can zombies operate elevators?” I wondered. I still do, I can’t remember from The Walking Dead whether they can even use doors, but I think the thing is, with all those flailing arms someone - or rather something - is going to get through unless you lock it up/down.

And then there are the emergency exits. And staff access. We’re going to have to do something about that.

Four years ago

Because four years ago I took my then six-year-old daughter swimming, having had to drive to Bradley Stoke rather than walk to our local swimming pool. Back then there was no family changing at Thornbury Leisure Centre; even now, if the plans are accurate - and I should check this - it’s not much better. I suppose it’s logical; any refurbishment not involving a 100% conversion to family changing will result in a bias towards the female changing rooms; which is a shame as I’d like to take my daughter more often.

Four years ago, on a Friday evening, we jumped into the Bradley Stoke pool and before I can make my usual suggestion of warming up with a couple of lengths, she’s off. Flying along with a ragged front crawl she’s half way before I can even respond, turning back she switches to the breast stroke. Then again, this time more streamlined - she always was the better swimmer; lessons, you see - and I have to make an effort to keep close. On this occasion there was no letting her touch home first, and when she did so my daughter looked back at me with a big smile. “You’re keen!” I said on catching up. “I’m Rebecca Adlington” she replied, “and I’ve just won the gold medal.”

Pet cemetery

The goldfish is dead; long live the (other) goldfish. At 6pm on the evening of April the 7th, the father of Miss Ruse was called to a fish tank in a bedroom north of Bristol, there to pronounce Minnie the fish ‘dead on arrival’; dead on my arrival, it’s not like the fish could go anywhere. I’d expected a body afloat, not a ghost floating through a former home. Unsure of what should follow I asked my daughter, who fishing out her former pet requested a burial alongside Humphrey (the guinea pig) for the following day, Easter day, which entailed an overnight period of lying in state for the deceased. I can recommend Tesco re-sealable sandwich bags.

I am on the downward slope of my extended weekend yet nowhere near the arbitrary schedule imposed to complete Tender Is The Night. Unexpected deaths aside, I’m not too concerned as it’s achieved the desired effect of making me read, and when finished I can decide on Gatsby, recently read and Fitzgerald’s most famous, or this last and less well received of his novels. Of course I don’t really have to choose but I’m tending towards the latter. It’s decline and fall repeated; though extrapolated from where I am in his story, Dick Diver’s descent looks terminal in comparison to that of Logan Mountstuart whose own decline, whilst it might sometimes have been self-induced, was mostly one that afflicts us all.

Rise and shine, readers

Yesterday, having woken at an ungodly hour I remained such for hours, until close enough to an alarm that getting up made no difference. I was tired, so much so that driving into work occasioned one of those “where am I” moments similar to when, having driven from Bristol to Manchester, I failed to remember Birmingham. This time it was an eerie one minute tumbleweed along what later transpired to be the M48, but that’s motorways for you; and my excuse for the second - and definitely not the last - latte and cinnamon Danish combo of the week. It wasn’t enough to protect from a malcontent office air conditioner, but then what is?

Today starts a long Easter weekend in which to recover, eat chocolate, repent, think about fixing the blog, laugh at Ken Livingstone’s predicament and finish that book. Hopefully not in that order; I can laugh at Ken anytime and I’m committed to Tender Is The Night which, though brilliant, teases with the possibility of becoming annoying or worse, ordinary. I have four days, and no excuses.

Notes on a car

Take them down, take them all down

Tuesday morning, 1 A.M.

It took me a while to find some sleep last night, until early into the morning, to the point of being able to mark off the time at which I realised I could now breathe more or less properly; my cold can be downgraded to a sniffle, and I always seem to have those. My daughter is back in school and I am back in work - at least she gets half-term and a long summer holiday. However, despite this and my latest cold wiping out the latter part of Christmas, the sheer relief leaves me wildly optimistic I can complete the week in one piece - well, it’s only four days.

I shall use the calming/chloroforming power of television, a long list of unwatched DVDs and a plea that we didn’t get round to watching much - to extend the festive period for one more week, or until I finish season two of The Wire, whichever comes sooner. In-between I plan to sneak in more of The Misfits, Friday Night Lights and Blu-ray presents Das Boot, The Wild Bunch and all those films I always say I’ll make sure to watch on iPlayer but somehow never do. Unrealistic wishes aren’t just for Christmas, though I think I can safely say I’ll finish those mince pies.

Steady

It is a certainty that any extended time off work will be accompanied with whatever cold/bug is available. So it has been this Christmas, where I first started to feel off-colour Christmas Eve, kept “it” at bay for the larger part of the main day - helped by a paracetamol and ibuprofen combo, but finally succumbed Boxing Day where I spent most of the time stumbling around, bent over, waiting to throw up. I am back on the upward slope, full of cold - or the after-affects - and food. My in-laws were particularly generous; clothes I will actually wear, Blu-rays I will actually watch and a large box of chocolates I will actually... well, it’s chocolate isn’t it.

I’ve watched a few films - not many; I was surprised to like The Young Victoria as much as I did and Son of Rambow lived up to its reputation. I caught up on three series of Fringe, the first series of The Wire, Misfits is terrific and there’s a new series of Friday Night Lights waiting. I’ve even started on a new book. So I've relaxed, eaten a huge amount and I’ve suffered too; I may even have lost weight - an illness can be unpleasant, but it’s effective. Yes alright, maybe not.

The goldfish lives

My last day was also the most tiring I can remember; I was overwhelmed with a need to sleep, and not a drop of drink contributed to that feeling - well, maybe a little. The first day following was dropping off presents and picking one up - a goldfish. I successfully avoided the cat; I can only hope this alternative will prove less expensive after a frightening amount spent on a tank; it cost so much it ought to clean itself.

The next day the guinea pig died. Grief - if that’s not too strong a word - is so difficult to witness in a child, but a garden burial, a Jaqueline Wilson book and a day to remember has eased the loss, if not all the tears. I’m sure I read somewhere of pets being useful in teaching children about death. This time I didn’t mention heaven, though I have in the past. In the time we have - I tried to say - we love those around us and are loved in return; we love and are loved, that’s what life is.

An infinite number of redesigns

Today was my last day at work, for the year. Not quite sure when my actual last day at work is but judging by the state of various economies, you do wonder. Is it my imagination or have shops been quieter than usual? I loathe shopping during the festive season though the last three trips haven’t been too bad; not too much traffic and easy to park, that can’t be good. Despite all this, and a few other things besides, I shall do what I can to enjoy because, when it comes down to it, why worry about that which you can’t influence? Christmas will soon be upon us, my daughter is becoming more and more uncontrollable as the day nears; and I’m becoming more and more nervous because I haven’t bought any presents.

I’ve been too busy redesigning the blog, the ultimate exercise for pleasing myself - perhaps I should rephrase that? Based on my own ratio of items read to items subscribed, I estimate I have 0.2 regular readers; New Year’s resolution - let’s see if we can boost that up to half of one before the arrival of summer! Not so much the content; I have been swayed by the “menu bar” approach of Twitter, Facebook and Google. It’s clear they influence each other - I often mistake the (currently) black Google bar adorning so many of their products, for the Twitter bar - and I’m pretty sure Facebook fixed their blue bar (rather than have it scroll with the page) not long after Google+ was released. So now I have my own grey (appropriately enough) menu bar, fixed at the top with a lovely shadow effect when you scroll the content “underneath” - my 0.2 regular readers are going to love that.

I really like it, but then I really liked the last look - right up to the point where I was sick of it. It’s minimal and promotes the content, though at the expense of a “visual identity” - the large image occupying so much screen space at the top of many a blog. It’s interesting therefore to find the new Facebook timeline design - for which you can sign up early - merges the two; underneath the menu bar is the user selected cover image. It’s the visual element distinguishing one profile from another, and it’s huge. I’m not sure I’d go that far but it’s enough to make me think again.

The life worth of others

...a deliberate intervention undertaken with the express intention of ending a life, to relieve intractable suffering.

It’s an act I can understand in theory, yet one that on examination leads to a worrying question. When we talk about euthanasia it’s often in terms of a right to die for the seriously ill, but who decides on what is meant by “seriously ill”? Is it a terminal illness or - more contentiously - a severe disability? Assurances that it’s the patient making the decision for him/herself are unsatisfactory. If the patient determines the definition, it is a right conferred to all as the definition is meaningless; and if it’s society as a whole, in doing so is it not making a value judgement? What message do we send to those who qualify for assisted suicide?

Kind and helpful creatures

I had an unexpected experience yesterday. On searching for some winter images, the results left me feeling contrary; pictures of snowy landscapes - clichés to be sure, but usually the thing to remind one of magical times. It was as if a premonition for later that evening when Little Miss R informed me “I’ve asked Father Christmas for a cat... and if he doesn’t get me one I’ll ask Mother Christmas... then the elves”. There are various reasons - which I can’t explain - for not getting a cat. I couldn’t explain them to my daughter either, and though the request was funny, I went to bed worried with the prospect of disappointment.

I woke up in the middle of the night with a cold, laying for an indeterminate length of time with my eyes closed, a wandering mind, wondering how long I could last before seeking out some paracetamol. My mind was fixed by the bedroom door opening, followed by light steps around the side of my bed and a gentle shake. “I had a nightmare”, she said. It took a cuddle and a glass of milk to settle, ending with a smile; it took me a cup of tea, and an hour and a half or more to do the same. I read The Accidental Tourist, and then I read the Christmas letter again. “A cat or other pet” said item one, and I could smile too.

The red versus the white

An old debate reappeared recently. I’m not sure how, perhaps some innocent comment, like me wondering whatever happened to the white poppy? It’s a dislike of mine, though not for the usual reasons. I’ve no disagreement with those who remain unadorned, and the criticism of Jon Snow for not following fashion seems counter-intuitive to what the poppy should achieve. ‘Fashion’, I should be careful how I use that word. I expressed this concern to my father after having seen the occasional t-shirt with a stylised poppy-print; and my reaction to Robert Fisk’s recent article in The Independent was much the same as that of my Dad all those years ago - what an idiot. Fisk’s article continues a worrying tradition in believing after reasoned argument we must naturally come to the same conclusion. I respect his reasons for not wearing a poppy, but those of us who don’t should afford the same for those who do. It’s obvious really; poppies on the England kit or worse, as hood ornaments on cars, it’s all horribly commercial and not in the true spirit. But suspecting foul appropriations is no reason to besmirch the best intentions of so many others.

I should allow the same for white, but my heart tells me different. An absence can be explained by people choosing to remember in their own way, or deciding the past is the past; an opinion I can understand, but don't share. The white poppy however feels elitist, a suggestion that their proclaimed sentiment - the desire for peace - cannot be found elsewhere; an “up yours” gesture to the rest, a symbol of one’s own beliefs more than a remembrance of the past.