Cultural conditioning
Barney woke up first, as he usually does, and wandered into our room in search of a mummy or a daddy who might be willing to get up and make him some breakfast.
Mummy got up, as she usually does, and through the landing window saw the snow covering everything outside, and still falling softly from above.
“Look Barney!” she cried. “Look at the snow!”
Barney couldn’t really see, because he’s not tall enough to see out of that window yet. Kate had to bend down and pick him up.
“Look at that Barney! Everything’s covered in snow. Wow, isn’t that exciting?”
Barney’s face lit up with a huge grin. His eyes shone.
“Snow!” he said. “It must be Christmas!”
Brain dumpings
I’m getting bored with the template for this site. I want to keep it broadly looking like it does (one column, minimalist, horizontal elements rather than vertical ones) but perhaps with a little more … you know … p’ching. Then again, maybe I won’t bother. The built-in Blogger templates make my eyes water, I can’t use those. I dunno. What do you think?
Having got a very exciting commission for an article, it appears that all of the world’s knowledgeable experts on the subject in question are either on holiday, permanently in meetings, or just painfully busy. The article would have been written hours ago, if I only I could talk to someone. Tooth-crunchingly frustrating.
The new mattress we had delivered today smells odd. I wonder if this is its way of flolloping. I’ve left the bedroom window open to air it a bit. I’m hoping it might say “Voon”.
Things I learned from the woman standing behind me in the queue for the car park ticket machine
- That Viv’s man had been unfaithful
- That Viv was thinking about having him back again
- That she considered this “Bloody crazy,” and
- “The last thing she should do.”
- Also that the fella concerned was “a twat,” and
- A “slimy bastard”
- That Viv had recently been shopping for new shoes
- Which were quite nice actually
(Written in respectful homage to Meg, who overhears more interesting conversations and writes more entertaining things about them.)
Labels: life
Positivity flippy floppity
Feeling positive about all sorts of things today. I’ve had an enjoyable, ego-boosting week full of compliments and kind words from friends and strangers.
Work is looking good too, with a commission from a national newspaper and some other interesting potential projects looming; I’d better not say what they are because none of them are fully confirmed yet.
Also my web site has gained some unexpected attention; my son has delighted me every time we have a conversation; I’ve managed to keep up fairly regular exercise, despite the weather; and I’m enjoying my weekly singing more than ever. Today, life feels good.
Excitement and adventure by the Kennet and Avon Canal
Despite the horrific weather, with fences toppling all around and the force of the wind pushing rainwater through the seal around Barney’s bedroom window (true - it was raining inside his room at 7 o’clock this morning), I thought I’d go for a run this morning.
Partly because the tow path is nice and flat, and partly cos I fancied a change, I went running by the canal. The wind pushed me along for the first 10 minutes, at which point I turned, panting with the effort, and headed back towards town again.
As I turned a corner, I saw one of the narrowboats had broken its moorings and drifted across the canal at a 45 degree angle, one end touching each bank. It completely blocked the canal. In summertime, when there’s a lot of tourist traffic on the canal, this would cause problems, but today the only problem was for the boat’s owners.
They were an elderly couple and as I ran closer, I could see them hauling pathetically on a piece of rope that they’d attached to the boat’s mid-section. I stopped, offered to help, and reached out an arm to grab the rope.
That was when I noticed the bloke was dripping. He was soaked from head to toe.
Turned out that moments before I’d come running around the corner, he’d been trying to pull on the rope by himself, and a gust of wind had pushed the boat further from the bank, consequently dragging him into the water. Yikes.
So bloke, bloke’s wife and I pulled like animals on the rope. God, it hurt. Canal boats, I can report, are incredibly heavy. We were pulling the boat into the wind, and for every metre we pulled it closer, a fresh gust of wind pushed it half a metre away again.
Finally, gasping at the effort, we pulled it alongside the bank. The bloke climbed aboard to find a metal pin he could hammer into the bank - something to tie the rope to. Bloke’s wife and I chatted.
“Keeps you fit, this boating life,” she wiffled. I’d have made better conversation had I not been grunting and moaning, trying desperately to hold the boat in position while the bloke hunted for his pin. A particularly strong gust tugged on the hull, which moved inches, dragging me across the path. I yelled out: “Hurry up mate!” and crouched down as low as I could.
My arms felt like they’d explode from my shoulders. My legs were twitching. My hands had gone numb from gripping the wet rope. Finally, the bloke re-emerged with his pin and a mallet, and swore while he frantically bashed it into the ground. From nowhere, a dog appeared and jumped up at me, helpfully putting its muddy paws on my running trousers.
At last the rope got tied to the pin, and I could let go. My muscles collapsed en masse and I just stood, breathing heavily. I am by no means very fit, let alone very strong, and I could tell straight away that I was going to suffer after-effects of this little episode.
The couple thanked me with big smiles, and I walked slowly away through the rain and the drizzle.
Only at this point did it occur to me that perhaps the bloke could have solved the problem by climbing aboard the boat and starting the engine.
Labels: life
My victory over the washing machine
The day before Christmas Eve, Kate noticed a strange smell coming from the washing machine. I went to take a look, noticed the smell, and some smoke too. The washing machine appeared to be cooking our clothes rather than washing them.
Of course our first instinct was to call out an engineer, but the last chap we called out three or so years ago said something to me which made me stop and think this time round.
He said: “Washing machines aren’t complicated. Once you poke your nose around inside, you can see that a lot of the stuff is pretty easy to take apart. You could have fixed this yourself, if you’d known what to do.”
So he showed me what to do.
Three years later, his words came back to me and I decided that I would at least try to fix the machine myself.
First step was to grab a torch (it’s dark inside the washing machine) and have a good look inside. I suspected the motor, and I was right. Dark smoky stains were visible on the armature, the central column that spins inside the motor and drives the belt that turns the drum around.
My first thought was that perhaps the brushes inside the motor needed replacing. That was when I went online, and to my delight found some instructive videos on YouTube showing me exactly how to remove the motor, and offering tips on brush replacement. So far, so good.
By this time, though, it was already Christmas Eve and no-one was going to sell me a new brush, or a new motor, for at least two weeks. That’s why we ended up visiting relatives over the festive holiday with a suitcase or two full of dirty washing. Barney’s various grandparents did a super job of keeping him in clean underwear for the duration.
When all the useful shops re-opened, I headed to one in a quiet alley in Trowbridge. At the end of it was a small shop. It was like something out of the 1970s, complete with a man in blue overalls behind a counter. He was terribly helpful, and could tell from a single glance that I was not the kind of person with lots of experience inside a washing machine. He gave me more useful advice on the fitting of brushes, so I went home and fitted them.
Turned back on again, the machine’s motor made ominous clicking noises. As it started a spin, sparks began to zap around inside it. Clearly the brushes, while worn and due for replacement anyway, had not been the cause of this problem.
I called the helpful man in Trowbridge again. “Bring the motor here then,” he said, “We can fit a new armature in it for you.” Which he did, for just a tenner’s worth of labour charge (the armature itself cost 40 squids).
The most rewarding part of the whole adventure was the re-assembly. Having dismantled and re-mantled the motor’s fixings several times, putting everything back together with a shiny new armature fitted inside the motor was amazingly easy. It really did take just a few minutes. I called Barney and Kate to admire the Grand Switching On, and stood back feeling pleased with myself.
This Further Adventure in the Realm of Real Man-dom was brought to you by a cup of tea and a large adjustable spanner.
Labels: life
I want backspace in my pen
Today I had to do some editing of several lengthy documents. The only sane way to do work like this is to print it out, sit in a comfortable chair with good natural light and a hot cup of tea, and crack on.
But the downside was the need for me to make notes in the document margins. I found myself struggling to write anything that other people would be able to make sense of, because my handwriting has grown steadily more terrible as my use of computers has increased.
When writing with a pen nowadays, I’ve become very lazy about spelling and grammar, far more so than I would be if I was typing the same text. It’s because I’m so used to having the chance to backspace and correct my errors as I go along - consequently, I don’t worry too much about the errors in the first place. I expect them to happen, my brain allows me to make them, smugly assuming that it can save itself from public embarrassment during the final edit.
My handwriting isn’t just a mess; it’s a chore. I am appalled at the thought of it. The simple solution would be to practice regularly by writing proper old-fashioned letters to friends, instead of flinging half-hearted texts and emails their way every once in a while. But the first solution that popped into my head was: “I want a backspace in my pen.”
Happy Feet was rubbish
Nice animation, but blimey, they really struggled to decide which film they were making, didn't they?
"Let's do a musical, with dancing penguins!"
"Yeah! And! Ummm - let's copy that scene from the wildlife documentary, where the whale played with the seal pup by flicking it into the air over and over again!"
"Yeah! And let's put in some environmentalism!"
"Yeah, cos that's hip, right?"
"Right. And right at the end, we'll do something about overfishing!"
"And zoos! Zoos are bad!"
"Yeah! But not too much badness."
"No, not too much. Can't lay it on too thick. Family movie."
"Family movie, yeah."
This video may have saved me £80
YouTube was made to make DIY easy. Soon it will overflow with video tips on the proper way to put up shelving, solving the mysteries of the sand/cement mix, and how to make sure that things stay straight after you remove the spirit level.
Stagnant
I’m feeling creatively deflated, have been for a couple of weeks now. Work has calmed down a great deal since the insane busy spell I had from September to November, and I was rather looking forward to having some time in which I might indulge in some creative writing for my own pleasure.
But it’s been impossible to even start. Despite hours in front of the computer, expecting the words to come, I’ve been unable to come up with anything approaching even a half-hearted idea. And that’s after trying out some of my own tips for inspiring creative thinking.
It’s probably time to have a more thorough break, to immerse myself in some books and some much-needed DIY; and hopefully returning to a more creative state of mind in the New Year.
Growing old fitfully
There was a time, years ago, when I’d study festive “Best albums of the year” lists and congratulate myself on owning most of them.
I’d snort at the chosen albums that I considered below par, and shamefully update my “Albums to buy” list with some of the more highly-recommended ones that I’d somehow overlooked.
Things have changed. Looking at Pitchfork’s Top 50 albums of 2006, I recognise only three of them, and have a copy of just one.
What’s more, I don’t care. My Amazon wishlist remains chock-full of 80s and 90s stuff that I used to listen to on cassette, and that I now wish to own on CD. I’m middle-aged, and I’m proud.
A long walk to a long barrow
Barney and I went on a cracking walk, and made a little vid when we reached our destination...
Oh, and then we remembered something else we'd meant to say...
Great radio
- Mark Radcliffe, Radio 2, week nights
Mark’s eclectic mix matches my mood, the contents of my record collection, and sparks my interest in new stuff in equal measure. - World Tonight, Radio 4
I love the way the news seeps out of this show and into my brain, even when I’m not listening very carefully. - In Business and World Business Report, Radio 4 and World Service
I met Peter Day once, and he doesn’t look like his radio voice. But I greatly admire him as a broadcaster and journalist. His detailed investigations into the world of business (and through it, the worlds of science, medicine, sport, technology - you name it) are always educational and well-explained. - Mapping the Town, Radio 4
A bunch of historians gather in the rain (it’s always raining) and take the listener on a guided tour of a town, exploring its history through the geology, the architecture, and the environment. - Charlie Gillett, World Service
Only half an hour, but packed with songs and music the likes of which you’ve probably never heard before. Educate your ears. - Late Junction, Radio 4, week nights
Quite simply, you have no idea what you will hear next. It’s not always easy to get through an entire show and enjoy every piece they play, but for an adventure beyond your normal horizons, it can’t be beaten. - Tom Robinson, BBC 6 Music
What evening indie pop radio should be. Indie. And pop. - Gideon Coe, BBC 6 Music
The same, but for daytime listening. Always guaranteed to play something from my music collection, including the likes of Cocteau Twins, Madder Rose, or PWEI. - Stuart Maconie, 6 Music and Radio 2
I used to be a fan of Maconie’s writing when he contributed to NME in the 80s and 90s; I still enjoy his music shows and documentaries.
Oh, and pretty much anything on Radio 4. Except You and Yours and The Archers.
Foons Direct
I’ve been a First Direct customer for years, but this week’s announcement about new account fees has put me this close to shifting my account elsewhere.
Thing is, I don’t think the fees will apply to me - only because I already have a savings account with them (which I think has a balance of about £6). That’s just luck, though. If I didn’t have that account, there’s no way I could promise to have a minimum of £1,500 worth of salary being paid into my account every month.
Why not? Because I’m freelance. My income is wildly variable. Some months I will do amazingly well and pack away thousands of pounds. Other months I’ll earn practically nothing.
The ability to call First Direct any time of day or night to pay a bill has always been very attractive to someone as disorganised as me. But even though I think I’ll qualify for “free” banking under their new rules, I find the approach they’ve taken less than sensitive. I think I’ll go off in search of a bank that welcomes my money in any amount, at any time, rather than one that insists on trying to impose order on the chaos that is my (and almost every other freelancer’s) income.
Eggs on bed
There was a storm late on the Saturday night, one of those endless storms that floats low over the town and broods for hours. The thunder woke everyone up, including Barney.
Most of us managed to get back to sleep again, but he couldn’t. He was wide awake and hungry and just wanted to get on with the day, even though it was still the early hours.
He came into our room several times:
“Can I have some breakfast now?”
We sleepily muttered that it was far too early, and that he should go back to bed.
After a few attempts at persuading us an early breakfast was a good idea, Barney must have decided that if the parents were too sleepy or too grumpy to provide it, he might as well go and get breakfast by himself.
So he quietly padded downstairs. Mummy and Daddy snoozed on, oblivious.
Barney knows his way around the kitchen very well now, so he did the sensible thing and aimed for the fridge. This meant dragging a stool across the room to stand on, and balancing precariously on it while opening the fridge door.
Having opened it and got himself positioned, he gazed inside. Hmmm … what to eat?
Ah! Eggs!
Impressively for a four-year-old, he somehow managed to extract the egg box, open it, remove two eggs without breaking them, put them down somewhere, close the box, put it back in the fridge, and shut the door.
Now armed with his eggs, he faced a problem. He doesn’t know how to make eggs into breakfast. Thankfully, he didn’t try operating the cooker, but instead wandered back up to his bedroom.
What to do with two eggs?
Put them in the bed of course!
Now what?
Hmmm.
Fancy a bit of jumping.
Boing. Boing boing boing.
A little while later, Kate woke up enough to wander into B’s room and ask him if he wanted to go downstairs for breakfast with her.
“Yes please,” he said.
Kate spied something suspicious.
“What’s that wet patch on your bed?”
Barney looked at her as though she was an idiot.
“The eggs,” he explained.
And there they were, mashed into a shelly, eggy, soggy mess all over the duvet and the sheets.
Here come the Limbersnigs marching along
I can't remember where my copy of The Limbersnigs came from, but it's been on my bookshelves since I was a very little boy.
Beautifully illustrated, it tells the story of the eponymous island race and their plucky hero, Prince Kebole, born a tiny baby and only saved from certain death by the dodgy-sounding dietary remedies of mysterious apothecary Gogo.
Having saved the Prince's life, Gogo promptly decides that the young Prince is nothing but trouble and needs to be bumped off. The rest of the story is all about Gogo's various plots and the cunning ways Kebole avoids them.
I loved this story when I was little. I spent hours pouring over the incredibly detailed drawings, themselves packed with slapstick humour and gags. At the front there's a cross-section of the Limbersnig king's castle; at the back, a fantastic map of Limbersnig island and its capital city, Sigficil.
The map is filled with amusing notes and captions: "The vasty ocean"; "No gold or gems found here"; "No fishing here, nothing but nasty octopus". It's just a joy to read. I'll be reading it to my son very soon.
I found out this evening that this is a very rare book indeed, and if mine is a first edition (I think it is), it could be worth as much as £120. Blimey.
Not that I'm thinking of selling it. Barney deserves to enjoy it; and I'm looking forward to enjoying it with him.
Yay and yay and humbug
X-ray: "Normal."
MRI brain scan: "Normal."
EEG electric activity scan: "The brain waves on the right side of your brain look slightly different to those on the left; the significance of this is uncertain."
Riiight.
When the doctors told me that I really shouldn't drive for a while, at least until the cause of my mysterious fainting episode had been established, I arrogantly and naively thought I'd be able to manage just fine without access to a car.
"I'm a relatively fit, active young man living in a small town that has easy access to everything essential for day-to-day life," I thought to myself. "I can get by."
And I did, for a while. But after a few weeks the frustration started to grow. The recycling piled up in the utility room, because I didn't do my monthly trip to the recycling centre to get rid of it. My newly-constructed office remained half-decorated because I couldn't, on a whim, drive to appropriate stores to get the paint, shelving and other bits and bobs I wanted to use. Our season ticket to Longleat sat unused on the microwave, because I wasn't able to take Barney there for day trips as I'd planned. And while the hot weather wilted everyone in sight, I failed to be organised enough to get on the train to the seaside for a day.
It turns out that I'm not nearly as radical as I thought I was, and every bit as lazy as I wanted to think I was not. Living without a car turned out to be time-consuming (endless hours waiting for buses), expensive (I pay about £5 for a return to Bath, nine miles away), and annoying. Sure, I could get to most shops for most things, I could get to a pub and a post office and visit most of my friends, but I couldn't transport any objects, I couldn't carry heavy bag loads of stuff. Despite my fondness for thinking myself environmentally friendly, I'm still a car-dependant consumer like everyone else, and found it very hard to change my ways.
Now I've been given the all-clear, and things are looking brighter. I have a long list of things I want to do in the car, and an enhanced admiration for people who really have taken the radical step of ditching cars completely.
That said, I've re-kindled my fondness for cycling, and the constant treks up and down the hill into town on the bike have, I'm sure, helped me get a little fitter than I might otherwise have been. I've no intention of using the car for short around-town journeys; indeed, I'm determined to make an effort to think harder than ever before about getting in the car in the first place - "Do I have to drive, or am I just being lazy?"
As for my funny episode back in April, no-one really knows what it was. I've been prodded and x-rayed and scanned and tested many times since, and everything has come back saying I am as normal and as healthy as a 35-year-old part-time freelance writer can be expected to be. So yay for me, yay for the NHS, yay for cycling, and yay for coming to terms with just how easy it is to be a lazy so-and-so when you've got a car key in your hand and a tank full of petrol. Brummmmm.
Prologue
It began, for me, on the platform of London Bridge Tube station. Northbound, approximately twenty past eight in the morning. I can't remember if it was a Monday or not, and I suspect the cliche about Mondays being so awful was just created by employers to make you feel good about the rest of the week. Whatever day it was, the platform was packed. A mass of black-coated backs.
That's something you don't notice about commuting in London until you've been doing it long enough to raise your eyes from your trashy free newspaper and actually look at your hapless fellow commuters. Everyone wears dark colours. Even in summer, when their officewear might even be bright and gay, over the top they wear a dark jacket. In winter, it's even more pronounced. The platform in this case was entirely covered in black and grey coats. I could see hundreds, possibly thousands, of backs turned towards me. As though each of them was a desperately miserable message from its owner, saying: "See. See me, an intelligent, loved person. I am reduced to this. I am reduced to my animal instincts. I am so sad."
I wore a bright yellow hiking jacket.
It was that morning, standing behind the queues of sad commuters waiting for a train - no, waiting for dozens of trains, for that was how many would be needed to empty the platform of people - that I suddenly realised I was the sole speck of colour in the whole place. I almost blushed. Looking right and left, I could see more computers (commuters are, after all, just following a daily routine just as a computer does) rushing down the stairs and escalators into the hallway, as though those hurried steps would get them anywhere any faster, and they too were all in black and grey.
I was a bright spark of sunshine yellow, alone in my underground world of misery and despair, and I was afraid, probably without reason, that I was standing out. That, of course, is the fear of any London commuter. No-one wishes to stand out, to be the object of any kind of attention. Every single one of the millions who come into London every morning, and leave it every evening, wants to do it as quietly and unobtrusively as possible, as if perhaps doing so will make them feel like they are completely both journeys alone. Being noticed means you must acknowledge your own presence on the train to hell, and doing that forces you to acknowledge the presence of the 100 other people on the carriage around you.
It forces you to apologise to the woman whose bust you brushed past as you squeezed aboard, but there was no way around it because you had to duck under the be-newspapered arm of the City worker, pristine in his pin-stripe and obstinately standing in the doorway, arm aloft to hold on to one of the straps dangling from the ceiling. He couldn't move either, because the group of schoolchildren to his side were standing in a tight circle, quietly gossiping and breaking out into occasional cackles of delight. Theirs was the only human noise on the whole carriage, and you were glad of it because at least it disguised the deathly silence of all these people, all these human beings who were determined to stay quiet on a commuter train, because that's what everyone does. These same folk who would cheerfully become human again in a pub or even a McDonalds, could sit together, a hundred of them, and have not a single word to say.
It forces you to acknowledge that you are part of it, and that you hate yourself for being one of them.
That thought bounced around my brain as I waited near the platform. I couldn't get on the platform, because there were queues. London Bridge's Northern Line platforms are either side of a central hall, but instead of opening up the entire structure in the manner of modern station design on the Jubilee Line extension, the designers here had decided to make the place a homage to its past. They wanted the Underground to be more like ground. So they linked the central hallway to the platforms with a series of tiny, thin tunnels. Each one barely wide enough for two people to stand side-by-side.
With the platform completely full, and nowhere for anyone to go until the next train pulled in, queues had formed in these little tunnels. People stood there, silent, staring at the back of the person in front, possibly unaware of the millions of tonnes of soil and concrete curving over their heads above the tunnel roof. Behind them, in the hallway, the queues continued, losing their structural and moral integrity and becoming vague wanderings of newcomers, the pathetic finalists in this race for work. I considered the lucky ones at the front, the ones who must have arrived at London Bridge on overland trains from the south 10 minutes - 20? even 30? - before me. They must have stood at the very edge, their faces within centimetres of the side of the alleged train. One good push from here, at the back, could send them toppling, domino-style, onto the tracks.
In my bright yellow coat I shivered. A train pulled in, announcers told the crowd how to behave, and the queues shortened slightly. The train left, and the brief minute of activity gave way to the same endless, screaming silence there'd been before. Another train arrived soon afterward, and the cycle was repeated. Again, everyone moved forward. I found myself in the mouth of one of the little tunnels, and I gazed upward at its curved tiles. I looked around me, behind me, trying to see through the coat-covered forest with its shrubs of newspapers and paperbacks, its insect life of tsk-tsking personal stereos.
Something in my head clicked, turned, moved from one form to another.
I said, aloud, I think, but there was not enough surprised reaction from any of my fellow travellers for me to be sure: "That's it. I've had enough of this."
I turned, abandoned my place in the queue, walked past the living dead waiting for their trains, up the stairs to the exit.
This is the story of what happened next.
Finding Floyd
Ian and Steve were a couple of musical misfits, fixated on Pink Floyd, Hendrix, and oddly, Chris de Burgh.
They took me under their wing (I'm not sure why I needed to be taken under anyone's wing, nor why they thought it should be theirs) and we hung out at break times, talking music. There was a Pink Floyd lyrics game they played:
Q: "Fourth album, side 1, track 2, line 12, word 3."
A: "Rabbit" (or whatever the answer was)
They were surprisingly good at it. Whole lunch hours would pass by playing this, just hanging about and talking rubbish. The other two knew a lot more about music than I - they'd started exploring at an earlier age - and passed on their recommendations to me.
The two of them introduced me to progressive rock, power ballads, heavy metal and the concept of a "band practice", which involved driving out to a house on the edge of a village, wolfing down sandwiches made by someone's mum (we were only about 13 or 14 at this point), and mucking about in the garden for hours before spending the final hour randomly playing chords and bashing the drum kit about.
"You should play bass," they said. They needed a bassist. "It's piss easy, you'll pick it up in no time." I should've tried, but fear kept me back. They probably didn't mean it, anyway.
Thanks to Ian and Steve, I ventured away from the the first records I'd listened to, a bizarre combination of my brother's taste (Billy Bragg, David Bowie) and my mother's (Niel Diamond, ELO, folk and jazz). I began exploring other ideas and broadening my tastes.
I lost touch with both of them after leaving school. I've no idea what happened to Steve. Ian Betts is now a world class trance DJ, so I hope I'm not embarrassing him in public by mentioning his early interest in Pink Floyd. And I'm pretty sure the Chris de Burgh LPs were Steve's, not Ian's.
James who?
D & A were over from Canada for a few days; they stayed in Bath with D's dad, so we had a chance to catch up on old times.
D asked me: "What's new in music? What new stuff should we be buying while we're over here?"
I mumbled a useless reply. Years ago, when we were students, it made sense to ask me this question. In those days I bought NME every week, along with a ridiculous (given my income) amount of music. I was music-addicted and had to be on the cutting edge of all the new stuff. I knew what was hot, and what was not.
These days, I struggle to keep up with the times. Sitting on the loo this morning, reading through last week's Observer (because it takes me a week to read a Sunday paper nowadays), I noticed a raving profile of James Blunt. The former soldier is currently number one in the singles and albums charts, and I had no idea. I'd never even heard his name.
I sighed and made a mental note to look up some of his stuff, when I got a chance.
So this is middle age.
UPDATE: I checked out James Blunt and found his music was utter rubbish. So that's that settled then.
Find what you love
You've got to find what you love, Steve Jobs tells students at Stanford University, and I applaud him for doing so.
I think there's far too much pressure on children to map out their life at far too young an age. There are two factors that have brought me to this conclusion:
- Choosing A-levels and University degree courses at age 17 or 18
- No-one I know (myself included) has ended up working professionally in the field they studied at that age
18 is too young to decide your whole life. When you're 18, you certainly feel as though you know enough to plan your life, but as you age this soon becomes obviously wrong. In fact, the older I get, the more I understand how dumb and naive I am and always have been. As I get closer to 40, I start to appreciate that I shall never be as wise as I'd like to think I could be, but at least I shall understand how wise I'm not. Of course you can't tell people to wait until they're 40, either. My advice would be not to rush. I'd urge school leavers to consider working or volunteering or doing a bit of both - and not just travelling for travelling's sake, either - just to broaden their horizons and understanding of the world before they choose what to do next.
Colleges tend to welcome older students; don't be afraid of returning to education when you're older, when you'll have a better understanding of what you want to do and more motivation to do it.
People change as they get older. The subject you enjoyed at school, and decided to study to degree level, loses your interest. It gets overtaken by other interests, other priorities, by events and changes in society and technology. I can't think of any person I know who works professionally in the same field they studied while at university. If you want to get the most from your education, take the time to decide what it is you really want to learn.
Steve Jobs is right to tell young people to find a subject they love, something that really gets the sparks going.
"Your time is limited, so don't waste it living someone else's life. Don't be trapped by dogma - which is living with the results of other people's thinking. Don't let the noise of other's opinions drown out your own inner voice."
I can't express it any clearer than that. Place a very high value on your time. Every experience is precious; value them all.
