Porridge Is Toast

I like porridge for breakfast. Porridge is supposed to be very good for you; apparently it helps to reduce cholesterol in the bloodstream. However, this probably only works if you make it with water and salt. I make mine with milk, and I only add a tiny dash of salt. Then – shock horror - I go and spoil it all by pouring cream on it before I eat it. This, I suppose, cancels out any goodness it might have otherwise have provided.

In the meantime, I'm a big fan of the writer David Mitchell. I really rated his Cloud Atlas and thought it definitely should have won the Booker in 2004 when it lost out to Hollinghurst's terminally dull writing-for-writing's-sake Line of Beauty. However, there is something about Mitchell's most recent novel Black Swan Green that left me feeling rather uncomfortable, and vaguely cheated. Yes, it is a beautifully told story in many ways; and yes, it's beguiling, funny and keenly observed for the most part. But there's something rather cynical about both its setting and its voice. For example, how closely timed was it to coincide with the evocation of memories that the general media would inevitably inspire in respect of the twentieth anniversary of the Falklands War? And for that matter, did we really need a whole chapter that was basically a de facto history lesson? This was expositive to say the least, albeit perhaps in the loosest sense. And then there was the curious episode of the exotically mad woman in the vicarage. Amusing and well-drawn maybe, but what did it do to move the story forward? I suppose I shouldn't be too surprised because Mitchell does have a propensity for this sort of thing (I'm thinking of the novel-within-the-novel in the middle of number9dream), but it still doesn't make it palatable.

And the voice – a very convincing thirteen year old boy, I admit – but it seemed to be cosily playing up to the successes of both DBC Pierre and Mark Haddon. Am I being overly cynical myself, perhaps? I won't even start on the sentimentality of the novel either – in that respect it was almost as bad as Alice Sebold's The Lovely Bones.

Nevertheless, I found it hugely enjoyable and I'm glad I read the book. I just feel that a very good novel that could have been so good for me - and could have improved my life - was slightly spoiled by a bit of over-indulgence on behalf of its creator. A bit like putting cream on your porridge, I suppose.

Ticket To Ride

I was once deported from Holland. Well, not actually deported as such; it was more of an 'assisted exit'. I'd been staying in Amsterdam with the parents of an old college friend from my Oxford days (she was Dutch). Their house was quite peculiar really – I seem to remember it was an apartment on the ground floor of a tall, old building but the spare bedroom (which I was allocated) wasn't in their apartment at all. To get to it I had to take three flights of stairs, go out onto the roof, and enter through the window into an attic bedroom of the house next door. Not a huge inconvenience, you might think, until you wake up in the middle of the night dying for a slash.

Well, the parents of this girl suddenly decided to evict me. This was fair enough, I didn't have enough cash with me to pay for either a ferry or plane ticket (this was in 1973 – long before the time when everyone had credit cards), so they called the police and told them there was an 'alien' in their home. Hmm, ET I was not, but I suppose they had a point. I was eating their food after all.

I was delivered to the local police station at about 10:00 a.m. and spent the rest of the day in the custody of a series of friendly (but rather puzzled) young men in uniform. They put me in a room with a glass door – it had no handle on the inside. I had to bang on this glass door every time I needed a light because although I had nearly a whole carton of cigarettes with me, I foolishly had left my lighter in the attic bedroom of my friend's parents' neighbour.

These long-haired police officers brought me coffee and cakes before putting me into the back of a grill-windowed black van and transporting me to a second police station in a town about an hour's drive from Amsterdam. Here a new set of policemen fed me with chicken pie and carrots (which I reckoned was distinctly un-Dutch), and even gave me a beer. Then, like in an AA Relay system, I was moved to another town, then another – each time being generously fed and watered and given lights for my cigarettes – before arriving at the Hook of Holland at about 9:00 p.m. The harbour police locked me in a cell for an hour, but it was no hardship because I was still allowed to smoke and, by then, one of the officers had given me a small book of matches.

A fresh car then whisked me to the dockside and I was escorted up a special gangplank of my own. I looked across at the passenger gangplank further along the ship and saw a massive queue, so I felt quite privileged. This must be what it's like to be a celebrity, I thought.

A very civilized nation, the Dutch.

Just In Time

I love the bit in Buddhism that says the dharma is not something to believe in, but something to do. I go for that – in fact I go for anything that isn't a belief system, stifled by fear and doctrine. I was encouraged to undertake a course in Buddhist teachings by a good friend of mine. He's such an ace guy and he knew it would be right for me when he suggested it. And he was absolutely spot on – I'm already feeling happier than I thought I could be, so it has to be right. So my friend caught me from falling, just in time.

I went out to dinner last night with my family, to celebrate my sister's birthday. It was a bit of a boozy do but I made the mistake of telling them that I was taking this course (was it a mistake? Perhaps not). They all fear that simply by attending the course, I will become a shaven-headed loony and start begging in the street. Who knows, I might – but it's unlikely. It's more possible that I will simply stop losing my temper, stop feeling sorry for myself, and start smiling more. Heraclitus said: "You could not step twice into the same river; for other waters are ever flowing on to you" and I guess he was right. Change is good, when it's necessary.

Mind you, Franklin D Roosevelt was also right when he said: "When you get to the end of your rope, tie a knot in it and hang on." Good advice.

Wot, me worry?

The great Indian scholar (and Buddhist, possibly) Shantideva said:

"If there is a way to overcome the suffering, then there is no need to worry; if there is no way to overcome the suffering, then there is no use in worrying."

How very true. In fact, it reminds me of another song I used to listen to when I was young. Maurice Chevalier – another old favourite of mine because he looked exactly like my grandfather (or the other way round) – sang: "I don't worry; worrying don't agree!" This is exactly as it should be. The main thing that worrying stops us from doing, is to act. And action cures fear.

Here's a good writing exercise: Describe a recent journey and include all the sights, sounds and smells you experienced; even include your own thoughts and feelings. But invent one small detail about the journey that isn't true, but that perhaps could be. Let someone read the story and see if they can spot the bit that isn't true. Someone did this once and described a journey where amongst all the other details, they told of how they were passed on the road by a yellow truck with a grizzly bear sitting in the back. The obvious question is: Why would a grizzly bear be sitting in the back of a truck? Ah-ha, that must be the invented detail, you might presume. But no, for in truth, a truck did pass them and it did have a grizzly bear sitting in the back. But the truck was white, not yellow.

May those who have suffered, be happy.

Well I never!

Someone once told me that when coincidences start to happen too often, it's a sign that the loose ends of one's life are being drawn together; drawn towards a possible conclusion. A cheery thought. Hopefully, the coincidence that happened to a friend of mine last night is an isolated incident, and has nothing to do with loose ends at all.

I took this friend to dinner in a Nottingham restaurant – there must be seven billion restaurants in Nottingham, but I chose the very same one she had been taken to by someone else, only the night before. But what's more – her dining companion on that occasion was also called Richard (I don't know this other Richard, so she knew that there was no way it could have been planned). But, but, but, what's more – she and this other Richard were allocated exactly the same table by the waiter! How spooky is that?

I asked her if she'd chosen the same meal on both evenings, but she had not. Sigh of relief. Poor girl – it must have seemed like a very, very bad case of déjà vu.

On a different matter, I'm annoyed to see that Lionel Shriver has a new novel out about a woman who exists in two parallel worlds; one where she leaves her husband for her lover, and one where she does not (a bit like 'Sliding Doors'). This is annoying because I too am writing a novel about two parallel worlds – one in which a young woman dies, and one in which she does not. I suppose the only difference is that in my novel, you could say that the woman does not exist in both worlds; only in one. The fact that she did exist at one time though, is of enormous significance to those she left behind.

I don't know, eh? There's nothing new under the sun, is there?

What is the Key?

My mother once told me that I was a 'horrible little boy', and I've been trying to live up to that ever since. No seriously, I suppose the truth is that I've been trying to seek approval from people ever since. The trouble is, I so often fail.

I used to listen to a song on the radio when I was young – I can't remember what it was called, but the chorus went something like:

I'll tell the whole darned world,
If you don't happen to like it,
Deal me out, thank you kindly, pass me by!

How I always wanted to be able to live by that adage. It sounds good, doesn't it? "This is me, take it or leave it."

But things ain't always as simple as that in real life, and we often try to bend ourselves to fit in with others. This can only lead to unhappiness, so we're told – but what happiness is there in being rejected and disliked by people whom we would really like to love us? I can't immediately see where the middle ground is in this, but I suppose it must be a question of being so comfortable with yourself that in fact, you somehow become a person who other people will like. So, being comfortable with yourself (and all your warts) without being complacent or arrogant about yourself at the same time; that must be the key.

Although, quite possibly, 'Fear is the Key' (according to Alistair MacLean)

Party Time

Yesterday's sailing exploits reminded me of my Great Aunt Frederica. The last thing she ever did was to hurl herself over Niagara Falls in a barrel. I'm not sure what the barrel contained before it housed Great Aunt Fred, but neither it (nor her body) was ever seen again. This was in 1927 I think, maybe 1928. It was before my time anyway.

However, I remember that we held a great party on the fiftieth anniversary of the great event. This was in 1981 and it was on the same day that Prince Charles married Diana – we just discreetly added a few tables onto the end of the row that had already been set up for a street party, and someone else from the street provided the food. My family was good at that sort of thing - getting away without paying. We drank a toast to Frederica and all sang our own version of "Kiss" (which was the song Marilyn Monroe sang in the 1953 film 'Niagara'), and we pretended that the other 200 people at the table were joining in. How we laughed; it was a great day.

It's only a few years until we celebrate the centenary of the event in 2013. Can't wait. Mind you, if neither Wills nor Harry gets hitched in the same year, we might end up having to pay for our own food this time. Not so good.

Apres moi, le deluge

It's strange that I put a picture of my boat on my previous posting. I should have done that today because I've just spent two days sailing in the most 'orrible of conditions. Yesterday we had rain and high winds. Rather foolishly we capsized the boat twice, both debacles occurred at crucial points in the race when we were seriously in danger of moving up a place (you will understand from this that we didn't win). Today was freezing temperatures, less wind, but more (much more) rain. Cats and dogs; stair rods; buckets – nothing could describe the deluge that deluged us today.

Still, we had fun and it's the first bit of exercise I've done since Thursday, so it must be good. My body is aching and pained; my hands are stiff and raw. At least I'll be able to sleep tonight (which is more than I can usually say). I'm a bit too old for this, and definitely too old for Purple Turtle which is - if I dare (or care) to admit it - a young man's boat.

I think I'll go yachting next. It's much more leisurely.

Bling

I have some new bling. Today I had a new crown fitted to a tooth and it's gold. I feel I don't have the face for it - I'm not really menacing enough, or mysterious enough, and definitely not macho enough. Still, I like it.

The image next to this post is not bling; it's my racing dinghy which is called Purple Turtle. That's me standing next to it.

It is forbidden to laugh at my legs!

Debris

No I don't plan to make this a daily thing – I think people who do that probably have an overrated view of how interested in their lives other people are. But because it's new, I'm adding something today.

Alcohol is the thief of time, of course. I went to a barbecue yesterday – despite the greyness of the day – whereas I should really have been cleaning my flat. Several bottles of red wine and several large whiskies later, I sit here this morning regarding the disarray that I have allowed my living space to become.

Oh dear, I'd better get on with clearing out the debris from my life.

Lord Carrington

I feel a but like Lord Carrington during the Falklands crisis in 1982.

Michael White - Saturday April 3, 1982
The Guardian
The Government last night rounded off a day of spectacular military and diplomatic humiliation with the public admission by the Foreign Secretary, Lord Carrington, and the Defence Secretary, Mr John Nott, that Argentina had indeed captured Port Stanley while the British Navy lay too far away to prevent it.

At a defensive and unhappy press conference in the Foreign Office - itself a rare event - Mr Nott denied as "ridiculous and quite untrue" rumours at Westminster that he had offered his resignation to Mrs Thatcher, and Lord Carrington rejected with a shake of his head any suggestion that he might resign.


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