Recursive Words

The clock ticked past midnight half an hour ago, and ushered February into existence – or at least it did for me. An old friend in Australia is already getting up tomorrow morning. Friends in the US are still sitting down for dinner. It’s a funny thing – life aboard this spinning ball of mud, and the importance we attach to the passing of days, weeks, months, and years.

While up to my neck in work last week, I recalled an article I read some time ago – that if any of us were not here tomorrow – for whatever reason – the world wouldn’t stop. Within days our work would have been handed over, and progressed by somebody else. So when we invent our mountains of stress – based mostly on the bars we set ourselves to meet – it’s good to remember that whatever we’re doing for somebody else really doesn’t matter that much.

What we do for ourselves, our families, and our friends is a very different thing.

I went out for a drink with good friends last night – and drank more than one drink for the first time since Christmas. Oh my word did I ever have a bad head this morning. It was a wonderful night out though – even if I did get ribbed mercilessly about the whole “THE Jonathan Beckett” story. I smiled, and admitted how wonderful it is to have friends that keep you so well grounded – not that I would ever become any sort of aloof idiot. I can’t stand pretentiousness.

(if you’ve not read the story, a tradesman we hired recently asked me if I was “the” Jonathan Beckett – the one on YouTube – my other half found this rather more funny than I’m entirely comfortable with – and it’s happened again since…)

I think it’s a very British thing – taking the piss out of your friends – a strange sort of endearment, or affection. I don’t think other countries really do it.

It was wonderful to catch up with everybody else’s adventures and escapades. I remarked during the evening about the trap I often fall into – of never really wanting to go out, but invariably enjoying my time with friends enormously once I’m actually out.

I’m sure somebody somewhere will have a pigeon-hole to put that personality trait into, and be able to lecture me at length about how that relates to Myers-Briggs or whatever you call the mumbo-jumbo that pigeon-hold-builders waffle on about while telling everybody else how to live their lives, rather than concern themselves with their own life.

That turned isn’t a bit of a slippery slope rant, didn’t it. Let’s just say I don’t react well to being told who I am.

Anyway…

My eldest daughter – who struggles with stepping outside the front door some days – asked if I might like to accompany her into town this morning. I pulled my shoes and coat on, and we wandered all over town together. We had a late breakfast at the pub and couldn’t decide if it was a late breakfast or an early lunch. We did discover that you can’t order half the menu before lunchtime. We had no real reason for the trip – no errands to run – and it was kind of lovely – just spending a couple of hours together.

Tomorrow morning – if my youngest daughter manages to eject herself from bed, have a wash, and get dressed – I’ll take her, her boyfriend, and their new-born baby out for breakfast too. They are still learning everything – so leaving the house with the baby is a huge logistical exercise still – preparing all the things they might (but probably won’t) need.

I need to find something to do with my middle daughter too. After being off work for months recovering from ACL surgery, she’s now working like a trojan – I’ve hardly seen her for the last week. There are signs of her existence of course; shoes, bags, and various items of clothes dumped around the house – but a curious absence of “her”.

It’s getting late.

I should head to bed. And catch up with distant friends. And put the dishwasher on. And empty the washing machine. And tidy the lounge up. And… and… and…