La Plume de ma Tante

Each morning I receive an email giving me my 'Word of the Day' in Spanish. I'm always surprised by what I receive because although I have a reasonable vocabulary in Spanish, I usually get delivered with a word I've not before encountered. However, it's quite amusing to discover the context in which the authors decide to place the word – it's normally a sentence so obscure and bizarre that it's hard to envisage a circumstance in which it might be used. The other day I had 'tiznar' which means 'to blacken' and the phrase was "If the kitchen containers become black from the smoke of the flame, the combustion isn't good". Hmm, I suppose if I'm sitting in a tapas bar in Madrid I could always pop my head into the kitchen and call out to the chef: "Oi, Pedro! Here's a quick tip for you - si los recipientes de cocina se tiznan por el humo de la llama, la combustión no está siendo buena". I suspect that I'd probably get a handful of patatas bravas thrown at my head.

Today's word is 'vinagre' which means 'vinegar' (quel surpris, as they would say in France). And here's the context: "More flies fall in a drop of honey than in a barrel of vinegar". Yes, I can easily understand the value of learning this phrase. Imagine sitting at a shaded table outside a small Valencian restaurant and being troubled by flies. On the table is a jar of vinegar. How impressed my travelling companions will be when I can turn to the young camarero and say "Oi, Pedro! Remove this vinegar and replace it with a drop of honey on the tablecloth. For don't you know, young man, that caen más moscas en una gota de miel, que en un barril de vinagre?"

I am teased by the promise that tomorrow's word will be 'alcista' which means 'upward trend.' I can't wait to see what essential phrase I'll be learning about that one. Olé!

A Winter's Tale

Lots of my friends have been complaining recently about the cold. Poor heating, presumably - or poor insulation perhaps - causes them to take to their beds with hot water bottles, nightcaps, scarves, mittens and even fur coats, in an attempt to stave off the biting temperatures. I can picture them now – their little red noses poking out from the duvet; icicles forming like miniature diamonds on their brittle eyelashes; their bones chilled to a degree where they feel they could snap.

I hold the dearest sympathy for them – my apartment is so warm that I rarely have to wear any clothes at all whilst at home alone, and it is a more rare event indeed when I have to switch on my heating (even if I knew how to). My gas bills must be the lowest in the western hemisphere. I'm not quite sure why this is, but I suspect it may have something to do with sitting on top of a Chinese restaurant, and being sandwiched between (and beneath) other apartments whose occupants presumably burn faggots in their hearths night and day, winter and summer.

I wasn't always so fortunate, of course. I remember spending Christmas in my brother's North Yorkshire farmhouse one year, and it was so cold that trying to keep warm involved taking a hot bath, fully clothed (and even then, one needed to break the ice off the surface of the water). The situation wasn't helped by my brother's pet goat Gertrude, who insisted on eating the putty from the outside of the window frames, causing all the panes of glass to fall out just as the snow blizzard hit the side of the house. The closest we got to being warm that year was when the howling gale, raging through the glassless windows, dragged the flaming brandy from the top of the withered Christmas pudding and set fire to the tablecloth. That was a treat indeed.

And now I hear that the arrival of an unusually large number of waxwings from Scandinavia heralds an equally unusually cold winter ahead for us. See the picture above - don't you think it looks rather a cross little bird? Maybe that's because it objects to being given a name that sounds more like a beetle than a bird. I'm sure it would prefer to be called the 'Greater-Crested Cilla' or something like that. Anyway, no-one is really sure why these birds have begun to migrate here in such large numbers, but on the Continent these mysterious "irruptions" (as above-normal levels of arrivals are called by the bird-following fraternity) used to prompt superstition and fear amongst the population. In some areas, waxwings were named "plague birds'' because their visits were said to coincide with epidemics (of what type, it is not reported) but in Britain, large numbers have traditionally been linked to a cold, hard winter. Ladbroke's have already heeded this information and have slashed the odds against us having a white Christmas.

Oh crumbs – don't tell me I'll have to put some clothes on at last. It's less than a month to go until the Solstice, remember. Winter draws on.

Healing Times

I've spent the entire weekend up to my armpits in wallpaper paste. My siblings and I decided to offer to decorate our parents' sitting room as a Christmas gift. It's useless trying to buy them anything because they have everything they want or need, so this seemed like a good idea. We could, of course, have engaged some professional decorators to do this – but it seemed like more of a meaningful gesture for us to do it ourselves. We had two days in which to complete the task and – although it was a bit like 'Changing Rooms' at times – we achieved it ahead of schedule. Hurrah! My parents were delighted to see their children working in cooperation (we're usually always falling out) and were so pleased with the result that they treated us all to lunch in a local hostelry - probably costing them more than it cost us in materials, but hey ho. It was immensely satisfying to do some physical work for a change and very gratifying to see the completed job, all neat & smart, at the end. I'd forgotten how proficient I am at hanging wallpaper too!

Today I have just participated in a thread that my friend Martha posted on Facebook. You had to grab the nearest book to you (no cheating; no searching for something highbrow and impressive) and record the fifth sentence on page 56. The book nearest to me was 'The Pretender' written by my friend David Belbin (you can read about it here) and was close to my laptop because I'd put it there after David's book launch last week. I was a little unsure what the fifth sentence on page 56 was – I didn't know whether to include the half sentence that the page began with, or whether 'Sales Rep Wanted' (the contents of an ad) actually constitutes a sentence, so I plumped for this: "I was surprised to find that it was still going". It has a lovely feel to it, that sentence. I'm constantly surprised to find that anything is still going, so it holds a certain resonance for me too. Anyway, it will be interesting to find what other people post to this thread. So far we've had a line of political theory, something in French, and a line about the Tunnel of Fudge lovers. Hmm.

I have lost count of the times that I have started a new life. It's probably the same number of times that I have tried to stop smoking, or decided to think of kittens instead of thinking of unpleasant people. However, today I need to start again. I haven't yet worked out what the new life is going to be, but I'm about to embark on a process of evaluation and I'm hoping to emerge from that with a solution. A dear friend gave me a healing lamp yesterday – it's made from crystalline rock salt and it's meant to support and improve my creativity, while at the same time positively add to my joy of living. Since I'm in desperate need to change my thinking, and an even more desperate need for some joy of life, this could be the very thing I need to help me on my way.

I'll keep you posted.

Jingle Bells

Now, it's well known amongst my friends that I don't like Christmas. I don't even like Christmas at Christmas time, but I particularly don't like Christmas in November. However, I was persuaded to go down to the German Market in Nottingham's Old Market Square last night and there, Christmas was already in full swing. There was a seasonally-bedecked choir singing carols for all it was worth; the giant Norwegian Pine was fully illuminated; we had fake snow billowing around in the cold night air; and Jack Frost was springing around on those strange springy feet that some people wear in order to make themselves appear bionic. Someone was even dressed up as a Christmas Pudding, although Santa was conspicuously - and strangely - absent.

So really, I should have hated it all – it represented everything I usually find distasteful and furthermore, it represented it all just way, way too early. However, I enjoyed myself – perhaps because I was with some nice people, and perhaps because I can no longer be bothered to raise a grumble about things which aren't really worth grumbling about. The media gives us quite enough harbingers of doom to ponder upon, without me inventing any more. So, I milled around the market, stuffing my face with burgers, garlic mushrooms and rosti whilst swilling (rather weak) Glühwein served in tiny earthenware Steins decorated with Alpine scenes. All in all, a jolly excursion, and the best bit was the sight of a real-life Polar Bear which had travelled all the way to Nottingham for our amusement (see picture).

Today, provided I get my skates on, I am off to a Beaujolais Nouveau event at Shaw's. The fun kicks off at 9:30 a.m. whereupon we are promised a 'meaningless' talk about the origins of the Beaujolais wine, after which we will be served with a full English breakfast and – to start proceedings and set the tone for the day - a half bottle of the aforesaid beverage. Hmm, I suspect this will probably lead to the imbibing of larger quantities than a mere half bottle before the day is out, so who knows what carnage will ensue later on Broad Street? Ah, Broad Street – all the world is there and yet, apart from a few struggling fairy lights that Edin decided to erect in his window as long ago as September, there is no sign of Christmas. Hurrah!

Right – I'd better get those skates on. What a pity we didn't get more of that fake snow stuff last night, for then I could have skied down the (albeit short) hill to Shaw's. Bring it on!

An Englishman's Home

I had a lovely evening tonight. I met Alexei Sayle – he was doing a reading and a book-signing at the Broadway and because it was a Nottingham Writers' Studio event (I'm on the board, and part of the profits go to us), I was fortunate enough to have a drink with him and his publicist from Hodder & Stoughton. He's a very witty and laid-back sort of guy (Alexei Sayle that is, not the publicist, who was nevertheless an awfully pleasant person). He was extremely self-effacing and very surprised and grateful for being where he is now. After the session we had to wait for a while for him to join us because he was on the phone to his mum – how normal is that?

Tonight's events were in complete contrast to last night – I had some maniac (who claims to be a friend) hammering on my apartment door demanding to be let in "or else". I never discovered what the "or else" would constitute because fortunately, he gave up the fight and left before I had need to call the police - although not before disturbing my neighbours with his obscene threats, shouted through my letterbox. I was surprised to discover my own reaction to this situation – my apartment is my home, and yet sometimes I (and certainly others) forget this. Most of the so-called friends I have appear to view my apartment as some sort of drop-in centre for the egotistically challenged – somewhere where they can park their massive egos and imbibe of the free alcohol that's usually on offer. Well, this has to stop.

I have a right to feel secure and safe in my own home, and I have a right not to be violated and abused therein (unless I choose to be, of course). Somehow, somewhere along the way, I seem to have forgotten Voltaire's golden rule: "Nobody can make you feel inferior without your consent" and I have allowed myself to give that implicit consent without realizing that I have done so. Well, fuck you mister. It's my own field of kittens from now on.

You heard it here first....

We Can Have It All

I'm drinking Earl Grey tea at the moment – I have these delicate little tea-bags that were part of the food hamper that my lovely daughters sent me earlier this year for Fathers' Day. They're made from a kind of fine chiffon-like material, as opposed to the bland paper ones that we get in this country, and presumably they're expensive. There aren't many of them left, but that doesn't matter because the point is, I have some now. Who cares about the future? What is important in life is what we have now; and for now – I have an abundance.

This leads me to think about the axiom that says we should always look for the joy in the current moment. We should not look backwards, nor even forwards, but take only from life what we are experiencing at this very point of consciousness. Many bad things may have happened to me in the past (although I've never really had anything go seriously wrong in my life), and I may have committed many flawed actions in life myself – but that doesn't matter. What is important to remember about the past is that it has only ever brought me to the point I am at now, and that point is only the starting block for what is to come, so both can be disregarded. It is this singular moment – yes, this very one – which gives me the power I require to achieve the rest. The real secret of power is consciousness of power.

I once read a quote in a book somewhere. It was from Henry Ford and it said: "Whether you think you can or think you can't, either way you are right." I believe this actually says it all – I've nothing more to add. It's all in the mind, you see. Plato was right.

Armed with this knowledge, I'm setting out today full of energy; full of the potential to use that energy to make the world a better place. In this single moment, I have sufficient power to change myself, and everything else too.

There – now don't you all feel better already?

Keeping Up The Fight

Today, I had to give myself a good talking to. It's not an easy thing to do, to lift one's heart when it's heavy with anger and bitterness. But such emotions – if harboured there – only beget more of the same, so they must be banished. Banished and replaced with joyous thoughts and images of fields of kittens instead. Yesterday I was in a really good mood – I had a fabulous journey back from Geneva after spending a really lovely weekend in Switzerland. I'd had the most pleasant of times which had made me so happy – I did lots of sightseeing and spent some really quality time with my daughter Imogen and her boyfriend Olivier. I was feeling relaxed and happy, and then my return journey to the UK was trouble-free and most amusant.

Unfortunately, returning to Nottingham life did not bring its own joys when later, I was ill-fated enough to encounter several people in Broad Street who presented me with negativity and bad karma. This was most unpropitious, and definitely not in keeping with my new spirit of optimism and bliss. I am forced to admit that I was temporarily blown off course – temporarily, I stress. Today I decided that I needed to whistle that happy tune once more, and invite only nice people into my life. I thought it was all going well until suddenly, I encountered a dark demon lurking in a penumbral cavity of my heart and I found myself plunging into bitterness and anger once again. This is when I recognized the requirement for a good self-talking to. "All that we are is a result of what we have thought" – so said the Buddha. How right he was. Or, if you believe in what quantum physics tells us about the space-time continuum, how right the Buddha is.

So, only happy thoughts from now on – and happy chances that those thoughts will bring. I have so much to be thankful for and I am one of the luckiest people alive really. Let me tell you about something that happened to me on Friday. I'd had lunch with Imogen who then had to return to work before meeting me later. I went for a stroll on my own and after walking for less than five minutes, I suddenly came upon Geneva's famous Jet d'Eau, thrusting its way skywards before me. This immediately transported me back to my childhood when I used to watch a TV programme called 'The Champions' starring Alexandra Bastedo, William Gaunt & Stuart Damon. These three played a team of secret agents working for a Geneva-based organization called 'Nemesis' and they all had superhuman powers (albeit limited) as well as exceptional intelligence. It was glamorous, cosmopolitan and stylish and a stalwart of 1960s British TV. It was also a forerunner of today's 'Heroes' (which I have never seen but which I understand has attracted a similar cult status). Anyway, the opening credits of this programme featured the three characters standing in front of Geneva's Jet d'Eau which is a giant single-jet fountain on the edge of the famous lake.

As a shy & lonely working-class boy, I would dream of standing on that same spot and of being as smart & attractive as the characters in the programme. Back then, it seemed impossible to me that I would ever stand in such a spot – how could I? How could someone like me, from the backstreets of Naples, ever hope to follow in the footsteps of 'The Champions'? And yet I did. And here is a picture to prove it.



Do you think this has given me superhuman powers? Hmm.....

The Glee Club

They're still at it – those buggers in the newsrooms of the world. Always trying to talk us down instead of telling us about those lovely fields of kittens; revelling in the doom & gloom that they themselves are delivering to us! It's quite scandalous, and I am seriously thinking of smashing my TV and radio (if it weren't for the fact that I'd miss the sparklingly written and fabulously acted 'Hollyoaks', and also 'The Archers'). Well, I for one am going to stick my fingers in my ears and begin to sing 'la la la' whilst skipping across the meadow with a happy smile on my face. If everyone were to do this, there would be no further black news to come and we would be saved. I've said this before – why don't these politicians and journalists understand anything about collective consciousness? We are what we think, and if we think despair, we'll have despair delivered to us. It's as plain as a pikestaff - if I can see it, why can't they?

Anyway, I'm off to Switzerland in the morning (so won't be blogging for a few days). I haven't been there for about eighteen months so I'm greatly looking forward to my trip. Switzerland is a great place to be – it's much cheaper than the Eurozone these days and everyone is very cheerful and polite. It's no myth either, that the trains run on time – they really do! I've been packing my suitcase tonight – I've never been much of a light traveller and as usual, it's been a struggle trying to stay within my baggage allowance. One thing I'm definitely taking with me is my teeth jet-washer – it's fabulous and I love it, despite the mess caused (imagine how it is when you jet-wash your car). I'm also looking forward (although shame-faced emoticon should appear here) to smoking inside bars. Switzerland – in line with most of Europe - introduced a ban on smoking in public places in July. However, it was discovered in mid-October that the parliamentary vote for this was undemocratic and the law was repealed. Apparently, within an hour of this news breaking, restaurants and bars were putting ashtrays back onto tables and immediately everyone was smoking away as if nothing had ever happened. I'm actually not that bothered, but the sheer Toytown lunacy of the situation appeals to me enormously, so I shall light up with glee!

And glee is what we need more of. Has anyone thought of telling the governments of the world that this entire so-called crisis might just have been avoided if only they'd have promoted more glee? Just a thought.... (smiley face emoticon should appear here)

I Need A Holiday

Oh dear, quite a bit of turmoil since I last wrote (hence the gap). My last report, dear diary, concerned the excellent evening's entertainment at the burlesque night in Escucha. The following evening saw us attending the launch party for GameCityThree (now finished - see http://gamecity.org/ ) which was an extraordinary affair. The most generous organizers had laid on a free bar which was welcome – although possibly dangerous – and I met some remarkable people. I fell into conversation with a chap who seemed to have a theory that we could create a black hole without any of the expense or fuss of The Machine. If his theory works, we could be in trouble.

Thursday night was meant to be quietly spent at home but instead, we were trapped in Shaw's (we never go into Edin's anymore – not since I was grossly insulted by one of the bar staff, whose customer-facing skills could do with an improvement) and I didn't get home until very late, making Friday's various meetings a little shaky. I spent the whole day rushing backwards and forwards getting the final arrangements into place for the Studio's move on Saturday. It was hectic and fractious and left me feeling drained of energy. I hardly wanted to get dressed up for Danse Macabre's private viewing that evening at 'View From The Top Gallery', but Sarah persuaded me that it would be worth it and came over to help me get ready. I ended up looking like a cross between a pantomime dame and a freak show (see picture), but we nevertheless went along. Again, the generous organizers had provided a free bar which we carefully utilized whilst viewing the absolutely stunning exhibition of art & design. The work – from a variety of different visual artists – was of the very highest quality. We moved on afterwards to the Broadway's 'Mayhem' Festival (mayhem indeed) before ending up for a riotous night of excess and abandonment in Shaw's.

Saturday (with thick head) was spent racing from one meeting to another, partly trying to get the City Council on board for 'The Building', and partly trying to get the various architects and clients to iron out what they want (it all came right in the end), as well as supervising the office move for the Studio (I was excused for the large part from carrying boxes and furniture because I had done all the organizing). That all came right in the end too. The Studio has now moved to spanking new premises in the heart of Nottingham's Lace Market and a bright and exciting future is ahead of us.

The remainder of the weekend was spent in an alcoholic haze (although I did go sailing) and trying to keep my Stray Cat #2 supplied with liquid refreshment. We met up with our Finnish friends who seem to be able to drink anyone under the table (certainly me) and the party just rolled on and on. My apartment looks like a bomb has hit it and frankly, I can't be bothered to tidy it up at all. In fact, right now would be exactly the time to create the black hole – now, what was that chap's name....?