Recursive Words

There’s something about being a taken on a journey. I think so, anyway.

I’m sitting in the dark of the junk room late on Sunday night, listening to Elton John and Brandi Carlile’s album “Who Believes in Angels”. When I first heard it, I wasn’t sure – but then over the days, weeks and months since it’s release, it has grown on me. I love it when music does that – when it takes a few listens.

I heard Bernie talking about Laura Nyro during an interview a while ago. Or at least I think it was Bernie, and not Elton. Back when they were scratching around trying to write their first songs, they became obsessed with her body of work – searching for her albums in second-hand record stores. While flipping through vinyl albums in HMV a few weeks ago, I smiled when I discovered several of her albums hiding among the others.

I wonder if future generations will experience albums in the same way that I (we) have? Or if albums will continue to exist at all. Everything seems to be so short, immediate, and recycled these days. There’s something about being a taken on a journey. I think so, anyway.

In other news, life stomped on me once again this week. I looked around this evening, and somehow four days had whistled past since the last blog post. The world keeps doing that. It’s frustrating.

It’s a bank holiday here tomorrow. A day off. I then have two days work, followed by a trip to to a hotel for a couple of days – a conference with work. I might end up talking – presenting – we’ll see.

Carole King is singing “You’ve got a friend”. Love this song.

I suppose I should tell the story of the night before last. Friday night. While tinkering with a system I installed on the internet some time ago – that over a thousand people had been using – I clicked an “update” button without really thinking, and OF COURSE it blew to pieces. Like, properly to pieces. The internet equivalent of flaming wreckage. I ended up staying up until 3:30am putting it back together, and then spent much of the next day tidying up the remnants.

I really am my own worst enemy sometimes.

In other news, when did the clock tick past midnight again?

Have you ever wondered if somebody, somewhere is stealing all the time?

Somehow it’s half past midnight – or “half past my bedtime”, as my middle daughter might have said when she was young.

I’m not really sure how the universe works any more – maybe I never really knew. At the end of each day I finish work, switch off my work laptop, and before I know it the hour hand on the clock has accelerated through 9, 10, 11 and on towards 1am.

Where does the time go?

There’s a little red notebook on my desk – bought during our recent long weekend away. A “Moleskine” notebook. During it’s first days in my possession I tried to forge the habit of writing in it each evening. I was quite proud of myself. And then I missed a day. And another. It’s been a week now.

I still haven’t been running either.

For a while I entertained the idea of running at lunchtime. I used to run at lunchtime quite often. But then days like today happen – where you walk into the kitchen, spend twenty minutes washing up, walk into town to get something to eat, and end up eating over your desk just before starting work again.

I swear – somebody, somewhere is stealing all the time.

Maybe I need to refactor everything. Take a step back. Stop chasing everything, everywhere, all at once. Actually take a night (or lunchtime) off from time to time – watch movies, read books, and write in the little red book. The cclothes, washing up and clutter will still be there later – it doesn’t have to be sorted out the moment you discover it (I’m talking to myself while writing this, just so you know).

Trying to run in every direction doing everything all the time is probably a good way of triggering ADHD.

It struck me – while writing in the little red book last week – how much more mental processing is required when writing by hand. In a word-processor you can pretty much empty your head, and tidy it up later. On paper, unless you want to fill the page with scribble you have to actually think first. Shocking, right?

I guess that’s half the attraction of blogging though – blog posts are much closer to the truth than carefully curated, prepared swathes of text. Unfiltered, unvarnished words – conjured somewhere between my brain and fingers. Quite obviously outside my brain some days.

Most of all, I need to make more time to catch up with friends, both near and far. I can’t remember the last time I had a proper conversation with any of them. What’s the line from the Shining? “Too much work and not enough play makes Jack a dull boy”?

I’ve been here before, of course. Many times.

Anyway.

It’s getting late. I should stop writing, post this, and go brush my teeth. The temptation to jump down the internet rabbit hole is strong, but not insurmountable.

Maybe the first change I make should be grabbing a book at bedtime, rather than any sort of internet connected device.

They were so preoccupied with wether or not they could, they didn’t stop to think if they should…

A little while ago – after receiving feedback that subscribers to my blog weren’t altogether happy with Substack marketing things at them – I tried switching to “Ghost” – an alternative online publishing platform.

It seemed like a good idea at the time – building my own castle on the internet. My house, my content, my rules. The interesting thing? As time went on I received feedback that perhaps Substack hadn’t been so bad after all. Quite a lot of feedback.

I kind of agree with them.

While it’s wonderful fun building an island on the internet, you do lose something through not being part of something bigger than yourself. While a community can be annoying from time to time, it can also be tremendously supportive.

There’s also Ian Malcom’s observation about Jurassic Park to weigh; “they were so preoccupied with wether or not they could, they didn’t stop to think if they should”.

With all of that in mind, earlier this evening I built a Calvin and Hobbes inspired “transmogrifier”, and set about resurrecting the blog as it had been not so long ago. If you’re reading this from an email, you’re already subscribed – there’s nothing you need to do.

Anyway.

Enough writing about writing.

Today was a good day.

I managed to export everything off a rather recalcitrant old work laptop, and will upload everything to it’s replacement tomorrow. I had hoped to buy the old laptop for my daughter, but after asking the question at pay-grades higher than mine, got a resounding “no”. For all sorts of very good reasons that I can fully understand our work laptops get professionally wiped and re-cycled rather than risk anything that might have been on them getting into the hands of anybody that might have been interested.

Throughout the day I have been checking in on Hopalong Cassidy (my other half who sprained her ankle of Friday) – making her cups of tea, and offering to fetch and carry things for her. She’s ridiculously stubborn and independent though – so expecting her not to try and do things is somewhat challenging.

While writing this I’m sipping a glass of leftover wine from the Eurovision night-in, and listening to Spotify. Eric Carmen just started singing “All By Myself”. Now I want to go watch Bridget Jones singing it into a hairbrush. I love the piano break in the middle.

I guess I should hit the publish button on this before rambling on any more incoherently than I already have. While resurrecting the blog, Norah Ephron’s words came to mind – that blogging is kind of like an exhale. She wasn’t wrong.

Deep breaths.

For me it’s an escape – a leveller. It’s about our common love of music, and at the end of the day each other – because without each other, we wouldn’t have anything to sing about.

I’m not really sure when we started watching Eurovision. It’s become a “thing” that we do each year – setting the evening aside with a few drinks and some food to enjoy the various countries performances.

I’ve had to describe “Eurovision” to a few friends in the US over the years, and it’s been difficult to relate just how big it has become – especially to people living in a country that has become increasingly insular in recent years. I typically end up comparing it to the Superbowl – the audience for the live Eurovision broadcast typically far outstrips the Superbowl, and is not only shown but voted for across all the nations taking part.

The funny thing? We (the United Kingdom) never expect to do well – but that’s not really the point of it all. For me, it’s an opportunity to see people from perhaps 25 different countries (nearly 40 if you include the semi-finals) singing, having fun, and presenting the best version of themselves, and their culture – wherever and whatever that may be.

I was surprised to see a conversation on Facebook this year – between an old school friend and his friends – trashing Eurovision, and everything it promoted. Apparently it is “woke”, “gay”, and a number of other predictably derogatory terms. After posting a photo of the drinks and snacks on our table, and the show unfolding in the background, the ring-leader of the “it was better in my day” brigade reacted with a “wow” emoji.

Yes. Wow. I was almost in disbelief at how small-minded some people have become – or how deaf they have become to their own prejudices. What harm is really being done by a “competition” (it’s really not a competition) that champions differences?

As you can tell – it riled me somewhat.

I love that we come from different countries, have different histories, perhaps different genders, values, and prejudices – but that we are also so similar. I love that a song in a foreign language by a stranger can elicit an emotional response. It’s kind of wonderful really.

We drank far too much, and ate far too much while scoring each act on no more scientific basis than “I think they’re great” or “maybe not…”

My other half rapidly gathered that as long as a given act involved pretty ladies in sparkly dresses, I would forgive quite remarkable absences of talent. I countered that she seemed to judge the half-dressed male acts in a similar manner.

I made it half-way through the voting (after having drunk far too much wine) before falling asleep on the sofa – and got prodded by an elbow.

“Go to bed”.

I checked the news early this morning – and discovered an outcome that flew in the face – rather happily – of what I thought might happen. Given recent events in the news, I wondered if particular countries might be shunned by the public vote. I was happy to see that people can still separate politics from the arts – and can still support somebody putting the best version of themselves forwards – regardless of what chaos and mayhem may be going on in their home countries.

Very few of us have a hand in the idiocy that unfolds around us – but we have to live with it. It seems to me a little escapism can go a long way – shining a light on the road ahead, should others see far enough to take it.

I think perhaps that’s what I’ve always loved about Eurovision, and continue to love. For me it’s an escape – a leveller. It’s about our common love of music, and at the end of the day each other – because without each other, we wouldn’t have anything to sing about.

I love people watching – and hospitals are right up there in terms of providing perhaps the most random cross-section of society to watch.

I answered an SOS call on Friday morning from a neighbour. Their internet was being “a bit rubbish” (their words), so rather than headbang the wall for several days answering support emails before summoning an engineer from wherever internet service providers hide engineers, they sent me a message.

I picked up the nearest computer – a chromebook – and an ethernet cable before wandering over to their house – not really knowing what I might find. I pressed the doorbell. I waited. I pressed the doorbell again. And I waited some more. Then the penny dropped – the doorbell probably needed the wi-fi to be working.

After being accosted by their wonderful young golden labrador, I realised the chromebook had no ethernet port on it – so returned home for my work computer. There is method to this madness, if you’re wondering. When a computer is plugged directly into the “access point” – the hardware where the internet comes into the house – if it can get an internet connection there, then the problem isn’t with the access point. I could get the internet.

After a couple of minutes, and a bit of googling, I connected directly to their wi-fi router, and got it back up and running. After a celebratory cup of coffee, and a fuss of the dog, I went on my way.

An hour later my other half arrived home, and invited me out for lunch. A quick lunch at the big pub in town. I nodded, pulled my shoes on, and off we went – finding a nice table in the sunshine, and enjoyed a lovely lunch together.

Then… on the way back to the car, she somehow managed to trip over a kerb stone, turned her ankle, and combat-rolled in-between two parked cars. Ouch.

After sitting in the middle of the car park for a few minutes I helped her to her feet, and we continued on home. After getting home we took her shoe off, and a really quite impressive swelling appeared within minutes. Our youngest daughter asked “should we call an ambulance?” – and started calling without receiving an answer.

After answering 101 questions about herself, my other half was informed that there was an unusually long wait for ambulances at the moment – that it might take three hours to arrive – but that we could get ourselves to hospital if needed.

Half an hour later we arrived in “Accident and Emergency” at our closest hospital – and prepared to wait.

Four hours.

It took four hours for a doctor to look at her.

Four hours of sitting in the hospital waiting room along with the great and good of the locally accident prone society. I love people watching – and hospitals are right up there in terms of providing perhaps the most random cross-section of society to watch.

For some time we sat opposite a girl in her mid-20s that I think had been involved in a fight. She was pretty stoic – with a bandage over her eyebrow.

A Ukrainian couple arrived an hour or so later – he took endless phone calls while she sat quietly.

A little while later an entire Indian family arrived – seemingly to bring their matriarch to see the doctor. While the old lady barked instructions and observations at her small army of grand-daughters in whichever Indian dialect she spoke, they whispered to each other in English. I couldn’t help smiling as an old Indian man a few rows further away rolled his eyes to the ceiling at their histrionics.

Now and again a pretty lady accompanying a bear of a man got up and walked to the drinks machine. She appeared to be wearing a form fitting summer dress, and didn’t have anything on under it. I’m not going to tell you how I figured that out. Let’s just say she was tremendously confident, and maybe a bit chilly.

Anyway.

After four hours of watching this all unfold, and wondering what these people’s home lives might be like, we were finally called.

We got the foot x-rayed, and then received consultation over the course of the next half hour. No bones broken. A bad sprain. We could go home.

Half an hour later we were home, and I was ordering dinner to get delivered.

Today has been an exercise in washing clothes, washing dishes, putting things away, going grocery shopping, and (in a few minutes) making dinner. While out and about I bought a LEGO kit to cheer up hop-along Cassidy, which she’s doing right now.

I guess I’m also thankful that we have a national health service – where we were able to wander in, get seen, get x-rays, get painkillers, get a consultation, and walk out without any sort of payment changing hands.

I probably need to go make dinner.

After dinner we’re watching the Eurovision Song Contest. It’s become an escape from everything that’s dull and weary in recent times. I wonder if we might try and go one year – visit the host city throughout the time the contest is being held – I don’t even want to think about how expensive hotels might be though.

A close friend messaged me recently, worrying that I was burning myself out. She was probably right. I can’t keep this up forever.

Do you ever have those moments where you look away, and several days pass?

I’m trying to remember what on earth I’ve been doing all week – obviously such important things that I didn’t get as far as writing anything in the blog.

I keep meaning to take lunch breaks to either go for a run, or get some writing done. Unfortunately every day this week I’ve been met in the kitchen by a sink full of washing up, and a dishwasher full of plates, cups and glasses to put away. I know I could leave them, but a little voice on my shoulder tells me that will just mean more to do later.

Last night I cut the lawn. A thankless task at the best of times. I’ve suggested to my daughters that they might like to help in the past – but spent so long tidying up the massacre they visited on the grass that I tend to just get on with it myself now.

This evening I took most of my family to the local pub for dinner, and then for a wander around the supermarket to get food for lunches. Somehow I ended up paying for the meal, drinks, and groceries, then carrying them home while everybody else tried to break the slow-walking world record. I ended up leaving them behind.

I’ve been working on content creation every night this week so far – catching up on lost time from the weekend away. You should have seen the eye-roll while holed up in a cottage half a country away when an email arrived announcing the arrival of four aircraft in the simulator – four aircraft I would be expected to write procedures for and demonstrate.

I’m starting to feel a bit like that famous Scottish test pilot – “Eric Winkle Brown”, I think his name was. He flew hundreds of different aircraft during his career. While pretend aircraft aren’t quite the same thing, it’s still a bit mad. Over the course of the last few weeks I’ve been either pretending to fly, or documenting everything from a Boeing 777, to an Airbus A320, a variety of EARLY 1980S Piper planes, and a Supermarine Spitfire.

A close friend messaged me recently, worrying that I was burning myself out. She was probably right. I can’t keep this up forever. I need to start putting brakes on trying to do everything all the time. Look at now for example – I’m sitting here in the dark at 1am writing this, and will be back up in 6 hours – getting ready to start writing code again.

It’s nearly the weekend. I need to keep telling myself that. And maybe kick back a little. Read some of those books I bought. Now THERE’s a good idea.

Now I just need to re-engineer the universe to allow me to read all the books, write in the new notebook, start running again, record content for YouTube, do all the chores, and somehow work.

After waking a little after 8am this morning, and packing our belongings into the back of the car, we took a final stroll into our temporary home. Along the way we happened upon quite the most spectacular bookshop you can possibly imagine (the photos are on Instagram), and then fed our faces with poached eggs on toast at a wonderful café just around the corner.

The irony of discovering the best bookshop on the final morning after a weekend wandering around a town filled with bookshops wasn’t lost on us. We probably saved ourselves a considerable amount of money through not discovering it earlier.

Now I just need to re-engineer the universe to allow me to read all the books, write in the new notebook, start running again, record content for YouTube, do all the chores, and somehow work.

I wonder where I might find one of J K Rowling’s time turners? Actually – scratch that – I would only worry that if I used it too much I would end up considerably older than those around me. Living several lives in the time it takes most to live one still means you’ve lived them. Nothing is free.

I probably think too much.

Einstein’s theory of general relativity proposes the more you move relative to others, the less you age relative to them. Maybe that would counteract a time turner?

I really do think too much.

Anyway.

The journey home was fine. We left late in the morning and arrived home mid-afternoon. Within minutes the car was emptied into the house, the washing machine on, and the dishwasher loaded with everything we found in the kitchen (a predictable present from the children).

An hour later I fired up the computer – causing somebody in the clouds to belch out a belly-laugh of epic proportions – forcing updates to anything and everything I dared look at. How dare I step away from the computer for a day or two. I can almost imagine a note being passed across an officious desk, noting my re-appearannce on the internet, followed by several pink slips marked “mandatory update” being stamped by a strict looking troll of a man with a worn suit, and thick eye glasses.

While writing this I’m contemplating staying up ridiculously late to avoid the arrival of tomorrow. I know I will lose, but I’m hanging on to the tail end of a wonderful few days away by my fingernails.

Wish me luck.

If you ever worry that the literary world is diminishing, tell people about a small town in the Welsh borders called Hay-on-Wye, where a literary festival quietly attracts Burning Man numbers.

After waking a little after 8 this morning I performed the inevitable gymnastics around the holiday cottage to have a shower and shave without punching windows, or drop-kicking deodorant cans, toothbrushes, or toilet rolls around the rooms like ping-pong balls.

Once downstairs – miraculously in one piece and with no damage to the cottage – I put the kettle on, opened the windows, and fetched milk from the fridge in the summer room (yes, the fridge is in the summer room, on account of the kitchen only being big enough for borrowers).

My better half arrived perhaps half an hour later – just in time for a second coffee. She seems to have no issues navigating the cottage. A foot difference in height makes a LOT of difference.

I’ve headbutted the upstairs landing light fitting six times so far. I’m surprised it’s still attached to the ceiling. I could probably have scored a pretty good goal with it on more than one occasion.

Today’s escapade or adventure (depending on your point of view) took us for a walk the hell away from all the bookshops – first to a network of footpaths called “The Warren”, and then over a bridge and along the opposite river bank towards a neighbouring village.

If you were interested in modern farming techniques, the walk would have been wonderful. The footpath followed the fields, rather than the river-side. We talked at some length about how neat the rows of ploughed and prepared furrows were in a field the size of a small country that we found ourself circumnavigating.

We spied a farmer cutting grass on a huge flat field – in preparation for the literary festival that arrives next week. While stopping for a drink at a cafe discovered along the way we asked about the festival preparations.

“All the campsites and grass fields within about 30 miles will be covered in tents”

“30 miles!”

“Yep”

So… if you ever worry that the literary world is diminishing, just tell people about a small town in the Welsh borders called Hay-on-Wye, where a literary festival quietly attracts Burning Man numbers for no other reason than people love reading, and want the chance to meet their literary heroes.

Of course the literary festival doesn’t attract the same sort of press coverage as the black rock desert, because the attendees aren’t half naked, dressed as steam-punk armageddon survivors, or riding home-made bicycles across the playa.

Anyway.

While picking our way along the river-bank we happened upon a number of animals carved from fallen tree-trunks. At first they freaked us out a little, but all too soon we found ourselves hunting them out.

It was a good day. A quiet day. A day staying the hell away from the bookshops.

Let’s just get this clear – there’s nothing wrong with the bookshops. They are wonderful, lovely bookshops. And that’s the problem.

Following further research, it turns out the Hay Literary Festival is at least TWICE as big as Burning Man. Who knew!?

I’m six foot three inches tall. The cottage we are staying in was built several hundred years ago – when people were at least a foot shorter.

I woke a little after 8 this morning in the grip of the memory foam matress that had mysteriously absorbed my body during the night – forming an odd blacmange mould of my entire frame.

After extracating myself from it’s marsh-mallow embrace, and tip-toeing clumsily into the bathroom, I wrestled with a shower cubicle so narrow that washing my hair became an origami exercise in elbow folding to avoid either clattering the window blinds on one side, or the folding glass door on the other.

Out of the shower, drying myself with the towel became a similar logistical exercise – turning this way and that to avoid punching bottles off the edge off the sink, or clattering the towel rail, or folding divider separating the bathroom area from the landing and bedroom.

Perhaps I should explain. I’m six foot three inches tall. The cottage we are staying in was built several hundred years ago – when people were at least a foot shorter. I have to duck throughout the entire cottage. Every doorway. My legs don’t even fit under the dining table.

Don’t get me wrong – the cottage is wonderful. A picture postcard embued with every expectation we might carry about an ancient dwelling in the shadow of a victorian church in a historic town in the Welsh borders. A time portal.

In writing “victorian church”, I should perhaps also volunteer that the parish records show that a church has existed on this site since the 1100s. Nearly a thousand years ago. Properly ancient.

My other half appeared a few moments ago – asking why I didn’t wake her. Being a foot shorter than me, she wandered into the room without ducking, and sat at the table without clattering her knees against it. I’m almost jealous.

I have my uses though – lifting heavy things – reaching high things.

I am reminded of the “law of the giants”. If you’ve never encountered it, it goes something like this:

“As a tall person I cannot offer to reach something on a high shelf for a stranger, yet if they ask me I must oblige. This is the law of the giants.”

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have an old Hemingway book, a glass of wine, and an armchair in the sunshine waiting for me.

After leaving home mid-morning and stopping at an oddly soul-less rest area en-route, we arrived in Hay on Wye early in the afternoon. Against expectations – while wrestling with a navigation app on my phone that seemed intent on navigating us backwards towards our destination, we somehow navigated directly to the front door of the cottage we are staying in.

We arrived a couple of hours early, so set off on foot towards the town – a trecherous journey of – ooh – perhaps 150 yards. It’s a small town. Small enough that I consciously looked up if it should be termed a village or a town. It has a market – which makes it a “market town” according to the history books.

Hay on Wye is everything I had expected and more. You know how sometimes you build a picture of how somewhere might be in your head, and are left ever so slightly disappointed? Not this time. The rabbit-warren of narrow streets through the town center are lined with cafes, bookshops, pubs, bookshops, charity shops, and more bookshops. More bookshops than I’ve ever seen, anywhere.

We stopped at a quiet pub in the sunshine and grabbed a snack for lunch before setting off in no particular hurry at all to look around some of the bookshops – along the way passing a grocery store and filling a bag with everything you might need if you’re not planning on eating in at all (so wine, snacks, cider, and more snacks). The lady at the counter said it looked like we were all set for a wonderful weekend. Smiles broke out all around.

On the wander back towards the house we passed the “Cinema Bookshop”, and got sucked into it’s magical gravity field. Imagine an old cinema with mezanine floors, and endless rows of bookshelves stacked from floor to ceiling with any and every subject you can imagine.

Bliss.

I set off into the labyrinth in search of Ernest Hemingway – to fulfill a promise to return to the classics, and find something of consequence to read. More by luck than judgement I found my way to “A Moveable Feast”, and pulled it from the shelf to read the synopsis. I had heard of the book before, but didn’t really know what it was about.

Who knew that the Paris visited by Gil Pender in “Midnight in Paris” is the Paris described in Ernest Hemingway’s “A Moveable Feast” ? Of course it is. Gil Pender (Owen Wilson) yearns to visit a place he has only read about – through Hemingway’s book. If you watch the movie, you’ll understand.

Anyway.

A good friend joked that the suspension of our car will fail on the way home, given the payload of books it will return home carrying. I’m starting to think they may have been right.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have an old Hemingway book, a glass of wine, and an armchair in the sunshine waiting for me.