Countdown!

We've all had those dreams (some may call them nightmares) where we are trying to reach a deadline of some kind, but are being repeatedly thwarted by constant setbacks, prevarications, delays and frustrations. In my experience, I usually waken before the deadline is ever achieved, thereby leaving me with a sense of being unfulfilled and saddened. Such dreams are quite common, I know, and thankfully that's all they are - just dreams. However, I regret to inform you, dear reader, that the reality of my daily life has been trapped in exactly such a format for the past two weeks. I've had a massive deadline to meet (completing the sale of my late father's house), but as the unstoppable date hurtled towards me with the force of a runaway train, I was presented with obstacle after immovable obstacle. It was all horribly frustrating, and totally time-gobbling. Hence the absence of a recent posting on here - with apologies.

And now, another deadline fast approaches to cause us all continued and crushing stress. I'm talking about the debacle that is Christmas, of course. Even though I always claim to dislike Christmas, nevertheless I usually get carried along by the festivities and make a reasonable stab at complying with the demands of polite society. I normally prepare appropriate lists and draw up suitable plans to ensure that all the accepted milestones are met. I buy cards and write them, slipping in a newsy note to those whom I haven't seen for a while; I buy and wrap a series of gifts for a select list of close loved ones; and I stock up on alcohol and food in readiness for cheery guests. But this year, because of the horrid tasks that have befallen me in recent weeks, and despite there being only five days to go, I have done none of that.

Those of you who were reading this blog a year ago will remember that I posted (across several days) an account of a dismal Christmas I once spent in the company of my Great Aunt Dolores at the home of the Earl of Maugersbury. That year we had little more than a tin of spam and a bottle of cheap brandy with which to celebrate, and so I feel that if I survived that, I can survive this year's rather hasty last minute arrangements. For a start, I simply won't be sending any cards to anyone. If you think about it, nobody will probably notice until mid-January anyway, by which time I will have had the opportunity to drop them a New Year's message explaining why they were missed off the list. As for the gifts - well, some people apparently rush out on Christmas Eve and purchase everything then, and as I have a very limited number of people to buy for, that idea seems both feasible and achievable. I can pop into a supermarket in the week and get the required provisions, and I have a little foot-high Christmas tree in a box which I can whip out by way of decorations, and hey presto - I shall be ready!

The only fly in the ointment to this cunning plan is this: Because of it being (as we are told) the 'Festive Season', there are countless other distractions to create obstacles to next Saturday's runaway train. I'm talking about all the invitations to parties, dinners and drinks that come flying my way at this time of year. It already started about a week ago and I have been out on the town every evening since. The coming week offers no respite from this either - most days offer clashes of social functions too, such that I shall be an exhausted alcoholic at the end of it all. Add to that the various financial, domestic and business chores that face me this week, and it's going to be quite a ride.

And the tear-jerking tragedy to all of this is that, as ever, I shall be taking that ride alone. Oh yes, surrounded by dozens of lovely friends and acquaintances, true - but as I slam my front door at the end of each hectic and dazzling day, I shall still be quite, quite alone. That's probably the real nightmare in all of this.

It's a little bit funny, this feeling inside......

Oh, How We Suffer!

So, we have survived the last week of cold weather and snow. Here in Nottingham, nestled as we are in the warm bosom of the cosseted Midlands, we rarely get extreme conditions - and so it proved to be this time. Other parts of the country suffered far worse disruption than we did, with much heavier falls of snow. I delight in this privilege; although I appear to be in the minority in this, if the comments on Facebook are anything to go by. It would seem that nearly everyone was hoping for a bigger dump of snow than we actually received, and most were expressing childlike joy when the first flakes appeared from the sky, followed by miserable disappointment when the first covering was deemed as insufficient, and when the second covering disappeared within a few wet hours. Don't get me wrong - I do find snow to be visually appealing, and of course it is most welcome when I've spent money on travelling to Europe for a skiing holiday - but when business has to be conducted, snow is an absolute pain in the neck.

However, there is another area of winter life from which even here in the Midlands we cannot escape; and one which for me is even more difficult to endure. I'm talking about the Festival of Christmas. I hate the whole thing and only ever used to acquiesce to its pervasive presence in the past because it meant that I would get a week off work (in the old days, when I used to work for a living, that is). Apart from that, as far as I am concerned, the entire event is an unwelcome and unnecessary inconvenience . That the whole laborious process begins in early November is an even bigger irritant - it's as if people have nothing better to do than to wish part of their year away. Messages appearing on Facebook immediately after Bonfire Night such as: "Only eight weeks to go until the big day!" or "Wooh! Heard Christmas Carols in the Broadmarsh today! Yey!" are pure anathema to me. Then we get the endless pressure to spend more than we ought to; the shops start filling up with mindless vulgar crowds from early December; invitations to more and more pointless festive functions start flooding in; and then worst of all - we are continually exhorted to 'cheer up', because it's "Christmas".

Cheer up? Why should the impending arrival of some futile commercial festival, totally lacking in taste and sensibility, induce us to 'cheer up'? December is always a busy time for me anyway, so the last thing I need is more pressure piling on - pressure to buy Christmas cards and presents; pressure to plan menus and shopping; pressure to clean my apartment in readiness for entertaining the many visitors who will descend upon me. There is nothing 'cheerful' about any of this - it all represents nothing more than a burden of disagreeable chores in my view. And for what? Christmas means nothing to me - even the Christians don't know what it's all about anymore. It's just an excuse to be over-indulgent, over-sentimental and over-excited.

However, there is a tiny twinkle of clemency for all of this - something that has slowly crept up on me, unspoken. My two lovely daughters will be spending the holiday with me this year. Arriving on Christmas Eve, they will stay with me here in the apartment and we shall be spending the 'Big Day' here together. This will be truly delightful - even though they might be disappointed by the total lack of Christmas decorations (I won't be putting them up), we will nevertheless ensconce ourselves within these four walls, eat, drink and play backgammon, or some similar diversion. We shall no doubt have champagne in the morning, and whisky with The Queen on Radio 4. I might even buy some crackers - the sort that go with cheese, that is, not the sort you pull open in order to make yourself look ridiculous in a flimsy paper hat, or delight in a plastic water-pistol (that doesn't work) and a cheap, tacky joke.

This year (2010) has been particularly unpleasant for me so far - and its final closing cloak of despair (December) couldn't really be any worse. All I have to do though, is to shut my eyes, hold on tight, and wait for the arrival of my girls. Ooh, I'm getting quite excited about it after all!

All together now: "Chestnuts roasting on an open fire...."

Je m'accuse!

Oh dear, gentle reader - I have been neglecting you again. I've just been rather busy recently, completing year-end accounts for two of the companies for which I am financially responsible. So, I've been knee-deep in paperwork, invoices and receipt, and wishing that I could afford a PA or similar - someone who would perform all these tedious tasks for me. I seem to spend most of my time on administrative matters, and there's hardly any time for being creative. There was a time when I would write something every day (I'm not talking about this blog here) because it was almost a need in me to do so - now I meet up with writer friends and they ask me if I'm writing anything at the moment, and I have to answer "No, nothing".

This simply won't do at all. I still have that need to write, and so to frustrate that need by continually becoming submerged in the burden of administrative matters (and other work), is inflicting an unhealthy amount of stress on any sense of well-being that I might otherwise achieve. It's simply not fair - and if I had a dummy in my mouth right now, I would spit it right out. The trouble is, in today's accusatory society where we are always trying to seek redress from some authority or other when things go wrong, in this situation there is nobody to blame but myself. I take on far too much responsibility - I always have - and the result from this is that I am constantly chasing my tail trying to satisfy all the various people and organisations to whom/which I have made some previous commitment.

It's not as if I receive any recognition or thanks for most of what I do. On the contrary. Usually, I can be minding my own business and just trying to get on with things, when all of a sudden I find myself caught up in accusations and recriminations about all manner of things, most of which I was previously not even aware. It's almost as if other people instinctively know that when something goes wrong for them, and they need to cast around for someone else at whom to throw the culpability, they see me as an easy touch. Everything - whether I am responsible for it or not - seems to stick to me.

Take this morning, for example. My landlord had arranged for some of the wooden flooring in my hallway to be replaced. There was a leak from next door's bathroom which had caused some of the flooring in my apartment to become warped. This sounds quite a simple exercise, I'm sure, and nothing (you would think) for me to worry my little head about. Until, that is, the builder had finished his job. The section of flooring that he had ripped up with such hunky, masculine energy was subsequently replaced by wood which clearly doesn't match the original. The result is a complete mess. Well, it's a neat enough job (the builder was very conscientious and very thorough), but the visual outcome is a stylistic disaster. My landlord, of course, blames me for this. He thinks I should have barred entry to the builder chappy, or at least prevented him from despoiling the former clean lines of the hall. The problem was that I had to leave the apartment while he was doing it - I had a committee meeting to attend (another of my many commitments that yesterday, I could have done without) - and by the time I had returned, the evil deed was complete. I could hardly ask him to rip it all up and start again; the poor lad was exhausted, and it wasn't his fault either - he was only working with the equipment with which he had been supplied.

No, this is clearly my fault again. Everything always is. As I write this, I can see from my window that it is snowing heavily outside. Hmm, this will no doubt cause all sorts of problems for the transport and communication infrastructure of this city, and everyone will start complaining and looking around for someone to blame. I wonder who's sorry head their beady eyes will settle upon this time? Yes, you've guessed it - little old me!

It's not fair!

Irritating People

So in my last posting, gentle reader, I said that I would be getting angry with myself. I haven't done that yet - although sadly, I have been getting angry with other people. This is not good - it is neither beneficial to one's health, nor is it useful for attracting good karma. The trouble is, some people can simply be so irritating sometimes, and then it becomes difficult to avoid the red mist descending before one's eyes. I'm not entirely sure why I let other people's silly actions affect me but just occasionally, I do. Oh, I know what you're thinking - you think that a truly good person would overlook the foibles and iniquities of others; he would dismiss other people's shortcomings and failings with an optimistically indulgent approach. And you'd be quite correct in this, dear reader - which means, therefore, that I am not a truly good person. We must aim to correct this unfortunate position as soon as possible.

Right - here's the plan: First, go to sleep every night with a coat hanger in my mouth so that I always wake up with a smile on my face. Next, give up the booze so that I never get my otherwise razor-sharp judgement clouded again (awareness is everything). After that, have my ego surgically removed (can I get that on the NHS?) so that the fragile shell of my so-called dignity never gets cracked again. And finally, move to another city where none of these irritating, toxic people whom I encounter here will presumably be encountered! Hmm, I somehow wonder whether my approach to all of this is actually the right one? On reflection, my cunning, brilliant, amazing four-point plan does seem a tad shaky, to say the least.

So how else can I rectify this position? Well, a dear friend of mine gave me one of those lucky cat things the other day. She said it would 'change my life' (and presumably she means for the better), so perhaps I ought to forget the plan and just rely on my new paw-waving companion to save me? I actually feel a little better already, just thinking about it. In fact, I'm waving at you now, dear reader - can you feel the benign benevolence flowing your way? I hope so. Ooh, this is going to easy.

I wonder what my Great-Aunt Dolores (she who was run over by a lorry but survived, and who later took up playing the xylophone, only to die within two years by throwing herself over Niagara Falls in a barrel) would have made of this? Dolores's motto when faced with irritating people was: "Don't get mad, get murderous" (she once bit the ear off a woman who had stepped off the escalator in front of her and had failed to move out of the way quickly enough), so I doubt if she'd approve of my lucky cat at all. She once gave me a .25 Beretta Revolver as a Christmas present, so she would definitely have viewed my arm-waving lucky cat as rather "cissy".

However, I still think I'll give it a go. I might also stare at a rather beautiful painting of a cat - and I think I know where I can find one - and reflect on the peace and harmony therein.

Rise Up! Rise Up!

Amidst a week of turmoil and despair, there comes some hope. Protestors against the increase in student tuition fees in England rose up last week and caused violence. This is (despite violence being something that one should always condemn) both a good thing, and a bad thing. It is a good thing because it illustrates that the British character is not quite as lily-livered as our French counterparts would have us believe, but it is also a bad thing because by rioting, the students have inadvertently exposed the manipulative nature of our evil government. You might argue that this too is a good thing, but my point is that when such violence erupts, it becomes all too easy to distract attention away from the real cause of the disquiet. I suspect that the attack on Conservative HQ was tolerated (perhaps even encouraged) by the authorities because it meant that any outrage was then directed at the mob, rather than at the government's disgraceful policies. So, it is my view that last week's incident was actually welcomed by the government (who deliberately under-policed the event) because the sure way to silence people who are saying something you don't like, is to put them in the wrong.

But enough of politics. What of other matters that have graced the previous week? I had a delightful visit from my daughter Sophie and her two lovely friends. The city of Nottingham displayed its magnificent charms to the visitors - charms that included a performance from one of our best bands (Long Dead Signal); an exhibition of contemporary art as part of the British Art Show at both the Gallery and at Nottingham Castle; a bizarre tribute to Rolf Harris who popped into the Davenport Shop of Originality to pose for photographs with a group of didgeridoo players; plus shopping, eating and drinking galore. We had a marvellous time - but as ever, it was all over too quickly and my visitors have now returned to their respective countries, leaving me to ponder my dismal future, alone again. I have been looking this morning at my 'list of things to do' and it is as long and as daunting as ever. Priority number one is to find some work because since taking a couple of months off to deal with my late father's estate, I have had no income at all, and unfortunately more than the usual amount of expenditure. As Mr Micawber was always so fond of telling us, this does not create a good balance for remaining solvent.

And what of affairs of the heart? Ha! That's a laugh - I think my days of romance are long over. This is a shame because I do try to take care of myself, and friends tell me that I'm still reasonably well-preserved; that I dress well; and that I'm a lively and interesting person with a caring heart. My friends tell me that I would make quite a good 'catch' for someone. Hmm, be that as it may, I still don't seem to be able to make a connection with the right people. I don't suppose there's anything wrong in being single - in fact, up until very recently I was always declaring that the single status is exactly what I prefer - but I do sometimes miss the easy comfort of always having someone around to share life's pleasures with. I guess I feel a little bit as if I'm being left behind. Most people I know are in relationships; even my ex-wife has moved on and is planning to set up home with her new partner. Also, up until only one year ago I still had two parents - and now I am orphaned. I do feel a certain sense of abandonment about my current life, and wonder what will become of me? Of course, all this leads me to conclude that more than ever before, it is now time for a change. Change is good - apparently, the universe has to move things out to allow the better and more wonderful things to appear. We are told not to resist change because change means that something even better is coming through. This is most encouraging - and most welcome too!

So, maybe I need to launch a riot on my own life? Smash a few of the windows that look into my comfort zone; tear down the trappings and hangings of my current defensive thought? Why yes, as I've already said in this posting - sometimes, violence can be good; sometimes it is necessary to bring about a change. Watch out, gentle reader - I am about to get angry with myself!

Inappropriate Clothing

I actually don't like Hallowe'en, so why I agreed to get dressed up in the most ridiculously undignified costume on Sunday, I don't know. I had an idea that I should attend the party at the Davenport Shop of Originality dressed as a warlock. However, not wishing to spend good money on an appropriate costume (I'm terribly mean like that), I decided to improvise with items to hand. I have a magnificent authentic Chinese kimono which - adorned as it is in shimmering black satin, adorned with a resplendent red and gold dragon across the back - I reckoned would pass for a warlock's magic cloak. I painted my fingernails a malevolent dark purple (quite evil-looking), and the outfit seemed to be coming to shape.

The mistake, I think, was adding a green satin basque and a witch's hat encrusted with pink, glittery spiders. Somehow, these items seemed to steal some of the darkness from the image I was trying to create. The final result (because I couldn't resist going completely over the top by applying copious amounts of eyeliner, thereby totally spoiling the effect), was that I resembled something half-way between a character in La Cage aux Folles, and Dame Edna. Oh sigh, these things just never seem to go right for me. Nevertheless, the party was huge fun and as the alcohol flowed more generously as the afternoon wore on, I gradually began to divest myself of various items until - by the time the shop had closed and we had headed off to the pub - I was dressed in normal weekday clothes, but still had on the eye makeup. This must have puzzled the somewhat sober and perfectly correct barman who served me later, although he didn't bat an eyelid.

I've never been good at getting it right where the correct attire for the occasion is concerned. I remember a particular incident when I once attended a ball many years ago at some Embassy or other in Lisbon. It was when I was working as a cabin-boy on a Swedish container ship. Our regular route was from Stockholm to Cape Town, stopping first at Lisbon and then various ports on the West African coast along the way. For some strange reason, I wasn't allocated my own bunk on the ship, but had to share a cabin with the Lithuanian chef - he told me that it was because I was his 'favourite' and he was always very generous towards me, although I was so naive at the time that I didn't even realize that some of the 'rewards' he gave me were actually illegal sexual practices.

Anyway, there we were in Lisbon one night, and Vitali (for that was his name) said he had procured two tickets for a posh embassy ball to be held ashore. He had managed to bribe one of the officers on board to lend us a couple of dress naval uniforms, so off we set for what I was hoping would be a very grand night of elegance and luxury. I felt so handsome in my crisp white uniform with its glittering gold buttons; I felt sure that all the ladies would want to dance with me. I was very good-looking in those days (if a little boyish) and had naturally blonde hair. We drew up outside the red-carpeted entrance of a very grand colonial-style building and were soon ushered inside by liveried footmen who I noticed were strangely wearing fishnet stockings and high heels.

Imagine my shock however, when we entered the opulent ballroom and were confronted by a scene straight out of Dante's Inferno! There were men hanging from chains in the ceiling, others were shackled in cages or strapped to racks, some were being led around the room on dog-leads, and nearly everyone was barely clothed. What clothes most of them were wearing seemed to comprise of a few pieces of studded leather, or items of very restrictive rubber. I felt very conspicuous indeed, over-dressed as I was in my smart officer's uniform. As far as I could see, there were absolutely no ladies present, and certainly no-one was in a ball gown. What a strange ball this was. I felt rather disappointed.

Then Vitali (who had often told me always to prepare for the unexpected), suddenly ripped off his outfit with surprising ease, to reveal underneath a studded leather harness and a leather posing pouch. A man in a rubber cat-suit (crotchless, of course) then urged me to do the same, but how could I? I wasn't even wearing any normal underwear underneath my outfit, let alone anything adorned with spikes or shackles. I told him that unfortunately, however inappropriate my outfit might appear to be compared with the others, I would have to keep it on. The party was in full swing now, and drinks were pressed into my hand by Vitali, snatched from trays attached to the bare nipples of the semi-naked waiters. That looked terribly painful for them, to me.

As embarrassing as it was, I decided that I would wear my uniform for the remainder of the evening because, even though there were no ladies present, I thought it might be even more embarrassing to remove it and to stand there naked. However, Vitali had other ideas.....

I just never seem to get these things right. I might give up the whole fancy dress idea in future - I should have learned my lesson back then.

Watching The World Change

Whilst listening to a programme on BBC Radio 4 the other day, I was struck by an observation that was so straightforward that it had actually passed me by. The programme was 'Saving Species' and the article was about the recent demise of some British birds. It was reported that many species of birds are in decline in this country, and the experts were putting forward various theories about why that should be. One suspect is the decline in insect life which means, of course, that there is less food for the birds to eat - hence fewer birds. There were several ecological speculations as to why insect life should be in decline, but meanwhile one scientist made the observation that you don't need expensive technical equipment to measure the volume of insect life (although of course, they do), you just need to take a drive across the country.

It's true - I hadn't noticed this myself until it was pointed out to me, but whereas twenty years ago a journey from say, Nottingham to Coventry would have resulted in the bonnet and the windscreen of my car becoming coated with the flattened corpses of dozens of insects, these days such wholesale slaughter is almost minimal. I spent this summer batting up and down the M1 motorway at high speeds, daily - but it failed to come to my attention that the death toll that such journeys had often caused in the past, had been greatly reduced. Thinking about it, I now see that to be the case.

It is very strange when we are suddenly made aware of environmental changes by things that we can witness ourselves and without needing to absorb the details of the scientists' technical data. I saw something similar a couple of years ago while I was on a skiing holiday in Argentière, France. There is a glacier in the valley, the extent of which can easily be seen with the naked eye. In the foyer of the hotel where I was staying, there was a photograph of a group of skiers taken in the 1930s. In the background of the photograph, behind the skiers' grinning faces squinting into the sun, the glacier is clearly visible. Glaciers - as you may know from your geography lessons - either grow in length, or they retreat. Comparing the scene in the photograph with the scene I had viewed earlier from the piste, it didn't take any scientist's data to tell me that the glacier had receded up the valley by at least a kilometre - in just seventy years! Quite chilling (or not, as the case may be).

So perhaps we should be wary of the mass of scientific data that we are presented with by the boffins. We often hear contradicting reports in the news - global warming is on the increase due to mankind's carelessness of consumption; global warming is not happening at all, but temperatures are just naturally fluctuating. The sun is getting hotter which strangely, will cause the earth to cool; the sun is actually cooling, which will cause the earth's gases to heat up the globe until it is out of control. It's all very contradictory and confusing - so maybe we should look with our own eyes if we want to know exactly what is happening? Well, of course there is a problem with this - sometimes, without the guidance of the experts, we run the risk of mis-interpreting the results we see. For example, if I had even noticed that the number of flies on my windscreen had reduced over the years, I might have concluded that this was as a result of the presence of more birds which were therefore eating up the normal insect supplies. This would have been wrong, of course.

I have been standing on my balcony this morning observing, the three dozen or so pigeons sitting benignly on the opposite rooftop. What does this tell me? That foodstuff for pigeons (often the detritus so carelessly cast down by the riff-raff of Nottingham) is on the increase, thereby allowing the pigeon population correspondingly to increase? Or is it simply that there are no young boys around with air-rifles anymore? Or maybe it is neither of these - perhaps it's just that one of Nottingham's many film-makers is shooting a re-make of Hitchcok's 'The Birds'?

Perhaps I should just start studying environmental issues instead, and become an expert myself? Stranger things have happened.

Join Me!

I was out filming all day on Monday, which is why I didn't update my blog. It was a pleasant day, if a little tiring - there were the usual frustrations of having to wait around for hours just to achieve about five minutes of usable footage, but there are always nice people to chat to during the wait, so it was all fun. We were in what Terry Wogan used to call the 'Lost City of Leicester' - a charming city of leafy walks and pretty shopping lanes. The weather was perfect, and we were very adequately fed and watered too! So, a good day indeed.

Now I am in hiding - the mad social blur of my life has taken its toll of course, and I just need a few days of rest and recuperation. You'll be pleased to know, however, that I have been behaving myself quite well and that there are plenty of empty cells in the naughtiness spreadsheet. This is all about awareness - most of us behave badly because we are not aware of our actions. Take people who throw litter in the streets - they're not actually evil people, and they're probably not even that stupid - but they are totally unaware of what their (lazy) actions may bring about. If you could train these people to think about what will happen when they have randomly thrown down their detritus - that someone else may slip on it; that someone has to clean it up; that an animal or child might be endangered by it etc. - then they may think twice about their actions. It is like this with all types of behaviour. It is easy to be thoughtlessly rude to someone, and just as easy to say something embarrassingly stupid in front of other people, but if we simply give some thought towards the repercussions of our next act, it can have the effect of stopping us in our tracks. As with all things in life, planning is everything.

We often make errors of judgement when we are drunk. Okay, so not all of you, dear reader, will know what it is like to be drunk - so for the benefit of those who don't, I will explain: The manufacturers of alcoholic drinks put something strange into their products. I don't know what this particular ingredient is, but it has the effect (for me at least) of bringing about impaired judgement. Well, not so much impaired judgement perhaps, but definitely a lack of the ability to plan. So, when a few drinks have been taken, even though we might subconsciously know that it is inappropriate to make that mistaken sexual advance or to send that insulting text message, the mystery ingredient in the drink seems to stop us from looking beyond the act or from seeing its possible outcome. The awareness quotient becomes somehow diminished, and before we have had time to think about what we are about to do, we have done it. As I have said, planning is everything - so the trick is to begin the plan earlier than required. Instead of blithely expecting that we can plan our actions once we have drunk seventeen pints of lager, it is far better to set out by planning to drink fewer than seventeen pints of lager. It's that simple - and this way, the emergencies that usually ensue sometime later in the night, will not arise. I think that I have discovered a remarkable and unique strategy for life, and I can hardly believe that nobody has ever thought of this before.

I am going to begin a campaign of awareness for the general public. I think this might make me rather famous because I will soon be seen as a saviour of social behaviour. I see a TV show; I see national coverage; I even see a cult following. As a first step, I am going to get some badges made up:

"Drink less; err less. Plan more; fun galore!"

Kind of catchy, eh? I am a genius!

The Happiness Factor

I wrote on Facebook this morning that today, Monday, is the 8th day of the week. It certainly feels like it. Last week was just so ridiculously hectic that I was barely able to cope. There were award ceremonies, launch parties, theatre trips, drinks, dinners out and dinners in - it was the most action-packed week in my diary. And it was all undertaken whilst in the grip of a debilitating illness too. My poor weak body has had no chance at all to recuperate, nor to fight off the onslaught of germs. Needless to say, there aren't too many empty cells in the naughtiness spreadsheet either. Oh dear, the shame of that!

I've also paid a few visits to the 'Davenport Shop of Originality' - a new addition to the retail scene, located in Nottingham's fashionable Flying Horse Mall. Housing an eclectic mix of design treasures, there's everything from jewellery to corsets to fabric to furniture. It's all local treasure too - just goes to show that when people think that Nottingham has nothing to offer, they are wrong because there are dozens of talented designers here, all bristling with innovation and style. The shop is attracting a lot of attention too - I'm sure I saw Vivienne Westwood browsing through the corsetry with professional interest, and on one visit I found myself rubbing shoulders with international design-guru Marcel Wanders who was showing a keen interest, it seemed, in the Davenport 'Table of Collaboration'. If he is thinking of collaborating with any of our own home-grown talent, then the shop will have done its job, and more. You should check it out if you're in the area.

In the meantime, Yours Truly is still failing spectacularly at trying to achieve anything worthwhile. I am meant to be finishing my novel, finishing my play about the 'Great Tullamore Balloon Fire Disaster of 1785' (in which the entire theatre has to razed to the ground for effect - it's a 'one night only' play in most cities), finishing my film script in time for the centennial anniversary of the Sarajevo shooting, and a whole host of other writing projects. Instead, I seemingly produce nothing at all. The only thing I do seem to be any good at these days, is upsetting people. I am forced to make more apologies than there are grains of sand on the beach which is, if you think about it, unsustainable behaviour. Whereas most people do forgive me for my misdemeanours, it is regrettable and reprehensible that I should make them in the first place. It doesn't take a psychologist to understand that bad behaviour stems from only one thing - unhappiness. Yes, gentle reader, this may come as a shock to you but I am deeply unhappy with myself. Few people would recognize this since I am usually fairly good at presenting a sunny disposition to the world - but Smokey Robinson had it about right, didn't he, when he sang his song?

So, let us instead make today, Monday, the FIRST day of the week, not the eighth. Let me become a 'happiness magnet' instead of the inwardly crippled monster that I often am. Yes, that's how to do it. I can't put right the iniquities of the past, but I can do something about the future. Before I can stop failing other people, I have to stop failing myself.

Here goes......

The Fight Between Good and Evil

Well, the chart is being filled in accordingly each day. The naughtiness chart, that is. As I suggested in my last posting, I have designed a 'naughty' spreadsheet where I am able to record different categories of foolishness on my part, and so when I notice that I have done something wrong, I make an entry into the appropriate cell. The aim, of course, is to end up with more empty cells than full ones - thereby indicating that my overall behaviour is improving. The Buddhists have this notion that awareness is everything, and that although we can't always avoid behaving badly, to be mindful of our behaviour is everything. When we become mindful, we can then take action to modify what we do. It makes sense if you think about it - how often do we recognize bad conduct as being "mindless"?

I can report to you now, gentle reader, that after a very optimistic start, the spreadsheet has become to look depressingly overcrowded in recent days. I behaved so abominably poorly on Sunday that I had to tick more or less every box on the chart. I can't say that anything I did was identifiably evil, but the mindlessness that motivated my iniquitous deeds was disappointingly evident. This being a family show, I can't go into too much detail here about the sordid and distasteful acts that I became embroiled in, but it is sufficient to say that they involved alcohol, drugs, squalid sex and all-round inappropriate debauchery. There would actually be nothing wrong in such behaviour if it were contained only to the deeds themselves, but we all know that there is always an aftermath to be dealt with when such things happen. Yesterday (Monday) was completely written off as all I could do was lie on my sofa attempting to recover. Today hasn't been much better either, although I have at least engaged in some domestic matters such as changing the bed, cleaning the flat, baking some bread, putting on some washing and dealing with some urgent paperwork. But there has been nothing creative happening, nor any attempt to earn any money.

The disappointment about all of this is my seeming inability to take heed of my somewhat grubby actions. What is the use of the spreadsheet if I simply ignore its lessons? I take a crumb of comfort from the fact that all self-improvement measures will inevitably show peaks and troughs in the graph of progress. The trough that I see before me - this pit of depravity and despair - will hopefully serve as a reminder that an even higher peak can be attained in the coming few days. We'll see.

Before I start slashing my wrists about all of this - and before you start castigating me with disapproval - I will give you a couple of quotes to think about:

"It is absurd to divide people into good and bad. People are either charming or tedious." (Oscar Wilde)

"When it comes to the point, really bad men are just as rare as really good ones." (George Bernard Shaw)

Perhaps there's hope for me yet.

Out Damned Spot!

Am I to be forever in the quest of self-improvement? I was listening to an article on Woman's Hour (BBC Radio 4) which said that we should embrace the times when we are wrong, and so learn from them. Some woman has written a book about how we should deal with being wrong - that we first of all have to admit that sometimes we can be wrong but moreover, that being wrong shouldn't be seen as an indictment of our moral worth. We are told to remember that because we have swift-thinking minds, it is inevitable that we will sometimes make mistakes when we are reacting to the fast-changing world around us. We have to accept that mistakes will be our life-long companion, and that the more ready we are to accept those mistakes, the more likely we are to avoid making them in future.

This isn't rocket-science, of course. "Learn from your mistakes" is an oft-heard maxim throughout everyone's life. But how many of us do just that - heed this aphorism? I am as ready as the next man (often readier) to acknowledge the frequent lapses of judgement that befall me, but do I actually learn from that? Some guy on the programme suggested that we should write a diary of our errors, so that we might more easily identify where and how and why they are made, and then to use that as a framework for our future behaviour. Blimey, this would be one hell of a diary in my case! I'd have writer's cramp from this, sans doute. But nevertheless I might give it a try because as I said at the opening of this entry, dear reader, it would seem that I am doomed to be forever in search of self-improvement and never seem to be in a position of self-satisfaction.

Take this recent weekend, for example. Having had one hell of a few days running up to it, during which I was knee-deep in paperwork and other legal matters surrounding the execution of my late father's estate, I decided to relax on Saturday and to treat myself to some 'rest and recuperation'. All well and good, you might say, and probably well-deserved - but the problem is that it is now Tuesday and I haven't yet re-started! I have been spectacularly lazy since then, and have only performed the barest minimum of chores in order to preserve some semblance of a ship in working order. My father's affairs still languish; there's been no writing done at all; I haven't attended to any matters relating to my crushing personal finances; and apart from buying a (relatively useless) rice cooker and subsequently cooking (and then eating) some rice to test that it worked, I haven't eaten anything. I have only been able to sustain the engine of my body by taking in calorific value from other sources - the scatter of empty whisky bottles and empty wine bottles can testify to that.

So, this is clearly wrong - and as per the advice from the bloke on Woman's Hour, I aim to write this information in my diary. I don't want such information to get muddled with other items in the list - such as sending inappropriate text messages while under the influence of alcohol, or trying to get the wrong (and equally inappropriate) people into bed when it is clear that they would never indulge me in such things - but muddled it will no doubt become. So, as a born administrator, I think an Excel ® spreadsheet is called for. Along the top, the days of the week; down the side, categories of foolishness. And rather than simply putting a tick into a particular cell to identify when some oversight in behaviour or attitude has been encountered, I will put a brief description of the precise misdemeanour that I have committed. A weekly review of this chart will then hopefully induce such shame and humiliation in me, that the following week's chart ought to look thinner, with more white space.

Unless of course, as each particular ignominy then becomes eradicated from the pattern of my iniquitous life, I find more and newer disgraces with which to discredit my pitiful self. Oh dear - how far does one need to sink before one can begin to climb out of the mire? Pity me.

That's Entertainment!

I saw the worst film I've seen for a long time last week. Written and directed by Frenchman Gaspar Noé, it's called 'Enter the Void'. I suppose the blurb about the film should have warned me, at least of something: "A post-mortem hallucination likely to induce seizures even in the non-epileptic". The film is shot almost entirely from the point of view of someone who has been shot dead (which doesn't sound too outlandish, on the face of it), and what attracted me to it was the phrase in the blurb about it "floating through the neon miasma of Tokyo like a woozy ghost." That's the bit that should have set an alarm bell ringing, I suppose.

Because, apart from the first hour of the film when the action is actually happening, that's about all we get - we are forcibly floated through a 'neon miasma' of hallucinogenic special effects, stomach-churning camera-rolling, repeated split-second flashbacks of horrific scenes, but little more. Sure, the film was pretty enough to look at, and possibly if I'd been watching it under the influence of some mind-bending narcotic I would have found it even prettier to watch, but there was scene after scene after scene where the director simply failed to move the story (such as it was) forward. I began to get fidgety after about an hour-and-a-half when I started to suspect that the scene I was watching was just another regurgitation of a scene I'd been watching a few moments before. Then another, and another, and yet another. True, each scene was shot slightly differently, and each may even have contained different characters, but the uneasy truth was dawning on me that basically, there was nothing new happening. This was either a display of lazy editing, or an act of gross self-indulgence on behalf of the director. I suspect it was both, but more strongly the latter. Gaspar Noé simply didn't seem to know when enough was enough. There were many, many points when he could easily have ended it, but no - he laboriously chugged on with more and more psychedelic images (some containing the most gratuitous and pointless sex I have ever seen), none of which did anything to develop the story. After one hour and fifty-five minutes, and when I gradually remembered that I had a life to be getting on with, I walked out. There was still another twenty minutes of this rubbish yet to run, but I urgently had some paint to watch dry. Not recommended.

On another evening this week, I went to watch a fairly reasonable stage performance of Shakespeare's 'Much Ado About Nothing'. This was a mainly amateur production at Nottingham's Arts Theatre, and although some of it showed the cracks between the professional curtain and some of the performances were a bit flaky, the company made a rather good stab at presenting the light and bubbling froth that this play is mainly about. After the dire and spirit-draining experience of watching Noé's film, this light satire on the tribulations of false wooing and social bungling, was the just the tonic. I also saw Billy Ivory's 'Made in Dagenham' in the same week - something else which is billed as having the 'feel-good' factor. It has some cleverly and sensitively scripted moments true enough, but the 'touch' of the whole film is depressingly stereotypical of many British 'underdog' comedies which - despite Billy's often strong and witty script - the director turns into a cliché. Worth seeing though.

Killer Shrimps!

I was reading today about a sailing event (that I wasn't attending anyway) which was cancelled because of the discovery of the presence of 'killer shrimps' in the water. I kid you not, dear reader (for would I lie to you?). No - the gammarid shrimp, Dikerogammarus villosus, common name ‘killer shrimp’, has been found at Grafham Water, an Anglian Water reservoir in Cambridgeshire. This is the first time the shrimp, which is classified as an invasive species, has been found in this country.

Before you start assuming that the sailing community is made up by a load of wusses who would be frightened off by the prospect of capsizing into a shoal of marauding shellfish, I will tell you that it is Anglian Water who imposed the cancellation of the sailing contest. Apparently, nobody is quite sure how these shrimps have managed to invade what is basically an inland water, so the precaution has been put in place to prevent further dispersal of this dangerous animal (although they don't look too harmful in the picture, do they?). One suggestion is that they can be carried into and out of the water by boat, and so the Authority has decided to ban any boats doing just that. The shrimp has already colonised parts of Western Europe, affecting a range of native species such as freshwater invertebrates, particularly native shrimps and even very young fish, altering the ecology of the habitats it invades. Insects such as damsel-flies and water boatmen, common sights on British lakes and rivers, could be at risk, with knock-on effects on the species which feed on them. Serious stuff indeed.

What I find so puzzling about such accounts though, is this: If such an aggressive species as this is so virulent and so invasive, how come it exists anywhere in small pockets only, and hasn't already taken over the world? Dikerogammarus villosus is a non-native shrimp that has spread from the Ponto-Caspian region of Eastern Europe, and is believed to have invaded Western Europe via the Danube. It has spread across most of Western Europe over the last 10 years, and tends to dominate the habitats it invades, sometimes causing the extinction of native species. I am therefore surprised that there is any other kind of aquatic wildlife left - surely, everything else should have been eaten by now? It's a strange world indeed. Prawn sandwich, anyone?

I have a full programme of events coming up this week. It's a good job that I'm temporarily excused from the salt mines, because otherwise there wouldn't be time to fit it all in. I have a meeting with Nottingham Contemporary about the arrangements for a writing event that we're holding there (by 'we' I mean the Nottingham Writers' Studio); a private pre-release screening of Billy Ivory's new film 'Made in Dagenham' (with Billy Ivory); a meeting of the ScreenLit Festival Committee at the Broadway; and then a launch party for 'First Story' as it begins its first foray into Nottingham. I can see that there will be little time for the usual festivities, which is a good job really because unrestrained, I can't be trusted to behave with any amount of decorum these days (or so it would seem). I've just had the most excessive weekend for a long time - well, for about a week in truth - and I could do with focusing a little more closely on the more serious sides of life.

Now, I notice that my terrace has become slightly flooded in the rain. I was thinking of going out there to un-block the drain but I suddenly noticed a prevalence of small pink heads bobbing about in the water. Hmm, better put on my steel-capped boots.....

Families, eh?

If you are a regular reader of this rubbish, then you may be forgiven for believing that there was only one relative in my life to influence the development of my formative years - my Great Aunt Dolores. This is not the true picture, for actually I come from a large and diverse family. We are a disparate lot - and as such, we rarely have anything to do with each other. I have twelve first cousins, yet I would have trouble recognizing more than a handful of them if I were to pass any of them in the street. There are fat ones, thin ones; rich ones, and poor ones. Some are probably pleasant people, some are undoubtedly not the sort of people I would ever seek as friends. I have no uncles left alive, and only one aunt - and she is blind and hates me anyway. So really, living within a large family is certainly no guarantee to living within an extended family.

However, besides Dolores there was another family member who had an influence on me during my upbringing. My father's cousin - a strangely Quixotic character by the name of Géraint de Braose - was the first person to teach me to appreciate classical music. You might think that there is nothing unusual in this, but in my immediate family there was little appreciation of anything but popular music throughout my early years. Whereas I knew the lyrics of everything Doris Day, Frank Sinatra or Perry Como had recorded (for example), I didn't know my '1812 Overture' from my 'Unfinished Symphony'. Nobody in my immediate family did. And then one day, Géraint dropped by - he pulled up outside our tiny house in his massive and gleaming pre-war open-topped Jaguar saloon, and breezed into our sparsely-furnished living room carrying a record under his arm. Without a word to my parents, he removed the disc currently sitting on the turntable of our ancient gramophone (I remember it was a recording of "Hold Out Your Hand You Naughty Boy" by Alma Cogan), span it onto the cushion of a nearby chair with an almost disdainful casualness, and replaced it with his own.

What came blaring next from the tinny and highly inadequate little speaker had me immediately spellbound and captivated. The recording that he had decided to impose upon us on that spring Saturday morning, was the 'Háry János Suite' by Kodály. From the very opening, with its mischievous musical "sneeze" (a device from Hungarian folklore that, according to Géraint, indicates that everything to follow is not to be believed - I now suspect he may have got that the wrong way round), to the majestic and sweeping grandeur of the finale 'Entrance of the Emperor and His Court', I was totally mesmerized by the outrage and audacity of this previously unheard-of music. My father, presumably thinking it was all a load of rubbish, went off to the kitchen to peel some potatoes and my mother, presumably of a similar disposition, decided it was time to scrub the front doorstep. My siblings (all eight of them) scurried away into the woodwork like frightened mice, presumably to entertain themselves elsewhere. There was only me, awestruck, left alone in the room with my second-cousin. We sat in near silence while the record span its way to its conclusion, interrupted only by a brief explanation from Géraint to the meaning of each movement as it began.

"You like that?" he asked, when the record had stopped spinning. In response, I nodded enthusiastically. "Then there's more. Lots more. I will send you a parcel in the week - let me know how you get on with it, will you?"

The following week I duly received a package - the first time anything had ever arrived at our humble house addressed specifically to me - and I eagerly tore off the wrapping. Inside was a magpie's hoard of sparkling treasures: Mozart, Beethoven, Chopin, Tchaikovsky and Wagner - all names of which at that time, I had never heard. The only trouble was that I had nothing on which to play such delights - the indulgence that my family had offered towards Géraint's intervention was not to be repeated towards me, nor to my pleas for a monopoly of the gramophone. In fact, my elder brother threatened to smash the whole collection if I so much as whispered a suggestion of Mozart's 'Violin Concerto No. 4' ever again. In the end, I had to "make myself useful" to an old Polish widower who lived down the road (the term "child abuse" hadn't been coined in those days), and as a reward he bought me a second-hand Dansette record player which I was able to keep at his house, and on which I was allowed to play anything I chose while he grunted and spat his way to a climax.

I was on my way!

Convalescence

This posting will not reflect my true state of mind (which is one of appalling contrition and shame). No, I will only write about the positive aspects of my recent life, and I will avoid recounting to you the sorrowful outcomes of some of my more extreme and ignominious deeds. It all began when I motored down to Cornwall for a few days of relaxation - I had a lovely trip down, with none of the usual tiredness I normally experience on long journeys. Once I had crossed over the Tamar Bridge into the land of the Kernewek, the sun was just too inviting, so I put the top down on the car and drove the rest of the way with the "warm wind in my hair".

Cornwall was such a pleasure - no sooner had I arrived than I was ensconced in the rooftop garden of my friends' house with a glass of beer in one hand, and a cigarette in the other. The remainder of my stay was whiled away by meandering around the harbour shops, walking along deserted beaches, trekking through the Cornish countryside to take tea and scones in the woods, and lingering over relaxing dinners, eating good food in the company of good and restful friends. A most uplifting sojourn indeed.

When my visit was over, I drove back across the Tamar Bridge into Devon to attend the wedding at Salcombe of some old sailing friends of mine. This was by far the most stylish and lavish wedding that I have ever been too - look out for the photos in 'Hello' magazine, I'm sure. We all had such a lot of fun catching up with old faces - scattering ourselves across the elegant lawns of the hotel, discreetly surrounded by an army of formally-dressed servants handing out canapés, Pimms and champagne galore. Then to the wedding breakfast, served amidst the diaphanous drapes of the graceful dining room - one hundred and sixty guests sat down to a delicious five-course banquet and as much wine and champagne as we could drink. Thereby hangs my downfall of course - and once the dining and speeches were over, our genial and generous host opened up a free bar which, for a dilettante libertine such as myself, is a sure recipe for disaster. As I said, I will not dwell on the reprehensible results of such indulgence, but I think I can safely predict that I will not be invited to such an event again.

I drove home the following day - a long and tedious journey, only made bearable by the knowledge that my dear friend Richie Garton was waiting for me; waiting to start another round of debauched and decadent drinking. This was not a sensible thing for me to do of course, because I then proceeded to continue with a total lack of self-control (where behaviour in polite society is concerned, I mean); a self-indulgence which unfortunately lasted for the next two days. Oh, when will I ever learn?

Duties and chores await me - impatiently drumming their fingers on the table-top; sighing in resignation that yet again, they remain unattended. Despite the very best of intentions, I have failed once more. The only thing to do is to remain inside my apartment, alone. I can hardly cause myself any more embarrassment if I do that, and it may also give me the opportunity and motivation to attack the list of 'things to do' (which is now as long as the Turin Shroud). What's more, it might even give my poor, wrecked and ruined body a chance to recuperate from the sordid excesses of recent times.

So, it's 'goodbye' to polite society for a while, and 'hello' to sobriety, industry and diligence. My next posting will hopefully be a record of such productivity, and you will be amazed at the transformation in my circumstances.

Watch this space.

Ever Fattened

Oh, even though all the stress is meant to have gone from my life, there's still too much to do! I've been very busy tying up loose ends and getting bills paid, and other stuff - people demand so much of my time that I might as well be back at work, really.

Anyway, you will be pleased to know that I am putting up "two fingers" to it all and am taking myself off to Cornwall for a few days. There I will be able to do absolutely nothing and can be pampered by my dear friends while the spinning, chaotic world of responsibility tumbles away behind me. My aim is to go fishing on the sea, eat ice cream and Cornish pasties, and drink lots of red wine (oh, by the way, I'm drinking Swiss vodka right now - I don't know if you've ever drunk Swiss vodka, but it's absolutely delicious - who knew that the Swiss could make vodka better than the Russians or the Finns?). So yes, some serious R&R is in order, and I don't care what happens back home.

The trouble is, I aim to be leaving home at about eight o'clock tomorrow morning and it's nearly midnight now and I haven't packed a thing. I'm also attending a very smart society wedding on Saturday (in Devon) so I should really be thinking about packing some smart attire. And planning my route too. Oh, bugger! It would seem that I can't get the badly-needed R&R right now. More stress.

I went over to cut my dad's lawns today (he died recently, and although that should have relieved some of the stress, I still have to tend to his garden - accidentally I have killed his tomatoes in the greenhouse, which I am sure he would be cross about). We've had such deliciously hot weather today that it brings to mind the phrase "Indian Summer" although of course, such a thing does not exist.

I'll update you from Cornwall. No doubt with a much-expanded waistline!

Toodle pip!

The Play's The Thing!

Everyone likes a good play, don't they? Well, not exactly everyone perhaps - my Great Aunt Dolores for example (she who was run over by a lorry but survived, and who later took up playing the xylophone only to end up dying as she threw herself over Niagara Falls in a barrel), hated going to the theatre and thought it was a total waste of one's time. The only time she would step foot into a theatre was if she were performing in a play herself. The trouble with this was that on those occasions, everyone else considered it to be a waste of their time by attending - believe me, Dolores was no Sarah Bernhardt (I still remember with embarrassed shame the disastrous run she did at the Comédie-Française in Paris, playing the lead role in Racine's Phaedre). But apart from my dear Great Aunt and her occasional, unfortunate audiences, nearly everyone else like a good play.

You will recall that I helped to produce a spectacle de théâtre here in Nottingham, in June. We staged nine different, specially-commissioned plays over a three day festival. It was a big success at the time, and all the hard work we put into it was certainly worth it in the end. I was reminded of this yesterday evening when I had dinner with some friends, one of whom announced that she had been in the audience for one performance - undoubtedly the "jewel in the festival's crown" - the most excellent 'Thanks To His Sister' written by Cumbrian playwright Robin Acland. Everything about this performance was first-class: The script, the acting, but most importantly of all perhaps - the expert direction given to the actors by the brilliant and talented Mr Paul Sellwood. The marvellous thing about this play was that it was both intellectual and comic at the same time. The intellectual bit was quite subtly and mischievously done, in as much as it was able to massage the egos of those in the audience who enjoyed catching the familiar quotations from Worsdworth (for it was he who was the play's main subject); and the comic bit came about in the tongue-in-cheek nod at the obsessions of some less than humble intellectuals. An achievement for a writer indeed.

However, as in any stage production designed to make an impact on its audience, it was the timing that was all important in this. The cast worked tremendously hard at getting this right - the effervescent Liz Smith, the exuberant Leah Burrows and the inimitably eloquent and charismatic Rob Ferguson as the historical characters; and the sultry Sarah Lee and comic genius Tom Spencer as their modern counterparts all did an outstanding job. But in my view, timing is something that cannot be fully achieved with really tight, enthusiastic and controlled direction. And in this, the superbly talented Paul Sellwood (aka "Tall Paul") performed the most admirable and first-class magic.

It's a pity that most of you missed it really, for it will not be repeated ("Shame!" you should all cry at this point). This was theatre at its very best, and it was just such a shame that this was not the play we took to Edinburgh. If we had, then perhaps we wouldn't have lost the small fortune which, as a production company, we most surely did. Oh well, there's always next year.

Break a leg, darling!

Blood Pressure

As I write this missive to you, gentle reader, I am drinking a cup of nice hot tea. It is important for you to know this, because the cup of tea is the first oasis for me in what has been a failure of a day so far. Last night I was horribly drunk and made an idiot of myself in front of some friends. I'm sure they are very disappointed in me, but this reminds me of a quote from Marilyn Monroe: "I'm selfish, impatient and a little insecure. I make mistakes, I am out of control and at times hard to handle. But if you can't handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don't deserve me at my best."

That could sum me up, I suppose. Not exactly "mad, bad and dangerous to know" , but still a disappointment to my friends and to myself. So, I now need to return to life's more simple pleasures - like a nice hot cup of tea. I'm not about to launch into "Raindrops on roses; whiskers on kittens" but I would, at this point, like to mention another simple pleasure I enjoyed yesterday: I bought a new clothes airer (or clothes-horse as they were called in my day). For years I have been struggling with the pathetic little thing that I inherited when I moved into this apartment - it never had enough space to contain a full load from the washing machine, and so I was always juggling damp items of clothing around in an effort to get them dry. This has been a source of much frustration for me, but for some reason it never quite dawned upon me that the solution would be to buy a bigger, new one - until my daughter, over from Paris for her grandfather's funeral, pointed this out to me. Watching me perform a sort of origami exercise with an assortment of smalls, T-shirts and pillow-cases, she was incredulous that I hadn't simply been down to the shops to get something more appropriate.

Yesterday I was listening to the final spin-cycle of the machine and was befallen with a sinking heart at the renewed prospect of unloading the miscellaneous arrangement of laundry - I knew that I had loaded the machine with far too much to fit onto the miniscule racking that was currently available to me. In a flash of madness I ran down the road to Argos and, for the princely sum of £19.99, was soon hurrying proudly home, carrying before me a package of exceptional delight! I quickly tore off the polythene wrapping and in a jiffy, had unfolded the rods and rails and erected them into a towering scaffold-like structure that stood resplendent in the centre of my kitchen. As the washing-machine clicked its way to a halt, I could hardly contain my excitement whilst waiting for the time-lock on the door to release the contents.

Duvet covers, pillow-cases, towels, denims, underwear and T-shirts all came tumbling out in a kaleidoscope of multifarious colours, and all were swiftly allocated a suitable space on the tower. I felt rather pleased with myself.

And then I realized how sad my life has somehow become. That I could take such pleasure in what is essentially a very mundane development in my existence, does not say too much about the quality of excitement that I normally enjoy. However, I have reflected since on this, and feel that the essential word in my previous sentence is 'quality'. Is any excitement that usually presents itself to me necessarily quality excitement? I don't think much of it can be - often it's nothing more than a session of riotous and debauched partying occasionally accompanied by, if I'm lucky, a bout of abandoned sex. This sort of thing is hardly inspirational, and lends nothing of any value to my health or my peace of mind.

No, I realized that I needed to focus more on pursuits that offer some kind of reward to my life. After safely arranging my airing laundry, I pumped up the tyres on my disused bike and went out for a ride. This was greatly encouraging to my spirit. Since then I have been to the gym, and for a swim, and it is these sorts of pastimes that bring true quality to one's life. And what's more, they also help to reduce one's blood pressure, which is always a sensible and rewarding thing to do. I took my own reading this morning and it was alarmingly high - so high in fact that the stress of this realisation caused me to spark up another fag. Not good.

Life's simple pleasures then - that's the way forward for me. A nice cup of tea whilst sitting beside a new clothes airer should be enough for any man's delight, in my opinion.

The Wanderer Returns

Well, patient listener - if you're still there, and have not given up all hope of hearing from me again, I am back. It seems rather feeble to say that I have been too busy to write to you for all these weeks, but really - that's exactly how it was.

Since the beginning of July there were four main preoccupations to distract me from recording anything about my life on here: There was work, the Studio, my dad's condition, and finally Edinburgh. By far, it was work that consumed the bulk of my time throughout the month of July. Twelve hour days and a 140-mile round trip do tend to drain most of the day's energy and time.......... However, balancing work with the other three preoccupations became an almost impossible task - and one that only someone of a constitution as strong as my own could manage.

Nottingham Writers' Studio is a passion of mine and as the Chairman, is a responsibility that I take very seriously. During the period of turmoil, we undertook to recruit a new Development Director which involved all the usual labours of shortlisting the candidates for interview, arranging and conducting the interviews, making the final choice of appointee, and then defining the induction and handover programme. On top of that, I had other more routine issues to deal with, as well as preparing the year-end accounts for submission to Companies House (another of my duties). And I don't get paid for any of this, by the way!

Trying to fit all of this in whilst spending as much time as possible with my poor failing father was quite tricky. The treatment he was receiving in hospital was frankly deplorable (and I've been a big fan of the NHS in my time, believe me), so in the end my sister arranged to have him moved to her home supported by Macmillan, Marie Curie, District and Community nursing staff. This was far more comfortable and dignified for him - but he still continued to suffer far longer than the medics had predicted, eventually dying on Saturday 31st July. Goodnight Daddy - I shall miss you, but I'm so grateful for the years we had with you; years that were always a bonus.

And then there was Edinburgh. We had committed ourselves to taking a play to the Fringe, so there was no backing out of that. Luckily, the boys I had worked with on the Triliteral Festival were free to do most of the leg work, and I could thankfully take a back seat on executing the final arrangements. There was still some involvement for me however, and so whenever I had any available time I would dip in and make a contribution. When everything was in place, the Company hit the road (or more accurately, the rails), Edinburgh bound. It was quite an achievement to transport three actors, two production assistants, the Director, the Producer, a mountain of luggage and the complete set (including props) for the play - all on public transport. Quite an achievement indeed, and the boys need to be congratulated on that.

I flew up to Edinburgh after my father's funeral to join them. The Edinburgh Festival and its Fringe counterpart is an amazing experience. Apparently, as many people as already live there cram into the city for the event, and there are hundreds of shows to see each day. It was quite hard to choose what to watch during the hours when our own show wasn't being performed, or when we weren't out on the streets handing out flyers and attempting to drum up an audience for our cast. But I saw some terrific performances (none of the big names, of course - you can see those on TV at anytime), and had a very enjoyable time. The whole episode was chaotic, exhausting, expensive, but huge fun. The production company's finances are ruined forever - we lost a fortune. But, as they say ars gratia artis!

However, now I have entered a new phase. My contract in the salt mines of Northampton has finished so I no longer have to work every day; the Studio has calmed down immeasurably - with the accounts all done and the new Development Director making great strides into his new role; my father is no longer with us (although now comes the onerous task of sorting out his estate and disposing of his house and contents); and Edinburgh is already a fading memory.

Back to the real world! Unfortunately, I feel so battered by the last few weeks that I appear to have lost any spark of creativity - hence the tedious detail of this blog posting. Thank you again, gentle reader, for your patience - I promise to keep you up to date with all matters on a more regular basis from now on. And hopefully, in a matter much more entertaining than this.

Toodle pip old loves!

Normal Service will be resumed... I promise

No time to blog, no time to write my diary even. My poor lovely old dad is still clinging on but it's only a matter of a very, very short time.... I've been spending every free moment at the hospital in the last two weeks, and now by his bedside at home where he's been despatched to eke out his last few days. He has nursing care, but there's nothing more to be done.

I am sorry, gentle reader - even if I had the time, I don't really have the heart for blogging right now. It's all too painful to watch. At least when Great Aunt Dolores went (over Niagara Falls in a barrel, if you recall) we had no time to ponder upon life's great cruelties. No time even for chilling the champagne - because, unlike with my dad, her departure called for the popping of a few corks if anyone's did.

So, normal service will be resumed soon. Quite, quite soon.

Until then......

Excuses, Excuses

Oh, hell and spite - the world has gone mad, and me with it. I'm just ridiculously busy all the time and hence I keep neglecting you, dear reader. Not a wise thing to do, when one's aspirations are to be a writer, for surely - the gentle reader should be the first in line for attention. So, many many apologies!

Unfortunately, yours truly is just a dumb fool who habitually takes on too many commitments and as such, gets crushed and squeezed in between the creaking wheels of responsibility. Or maybe it's the partying that causes the problem? For of course, I still do plenty of that. This last week (or at least since I last wrote here) has been something of a blur really - not a blur of alcohol, to be honest, but more a smudged lithograph of what should have been a well-organized life. I appear to have more plates spinning in the air than one of those people who spin plates in variety shows (whatever they are called - "plate spinners", presumably - does anyone actually do that anymore? Unlikely). On top of that, my poor old dad has been rather ill again and so I've been spending time with him. I even went to watch the England-Germany game with him last Sunday - I thought it would cheer him up to have me waving my England flag and drinking lager out of a can. I saw it as more of a performance than anything else - and to be fair, I was probably more entertaining than the match (enough said).

So, today I have to be brief. My dad is now in hospital with two separate complaints, and not doing very well at all. I'm shuttling back and forth delivering essentials, and sitting beside his bed of course, trying to engage him in quizzes and crosswords. He's doing well on that score - his mind is obviously still working well, even if his body is letting him down. It's quite amazing the things he can remember. It's quite good of him to bother really, because I'm not sure that if I had his problems I would bother doing the same.

The season of killing is upon us, sadly. This sultry, sub-continental heat that we've been experiencing in recent weeks has brought clouds of irritating flies bustling into my apartment on a daily basis. I'm struggling to understand their motivation really, because they don't actually seem to hold any purpose to their visits. Either they fly in stilted squares around the middle of the room, near the ceiling, or they gather in their hordes on the walls and glass surfaces and just sit there in silence. What's the point? If my apartment were littered with rotting meats and fruits, then I could perhaps understand it. Presumably there'd be a good reason for their occupancy of my home if they were to spend their hours here feasting and gorging on the putrefied remains of my decaying waste. But just to fly around aimlessly, or even worse - to sit staring at a wall - seems rather pointless to me, and they certainly shouldn't need to occupy my home to do that. So, I kill them. I get my trusty electric zapper out, and I kill them in their thousands. After each session of slaughter, my floor looks like a dozen Garibaldi biscuits have exploded in mid-air - it's all quite disgusting. But the disappointing thing is that after each (fairly exhausting) session, I return to my desk to continue working only to discover that within minutes, the Chief Fly Controller has despatched dozens of reinforcements to take the places of their butchered comrades. Maybe I should move house.

There are lots of other reasons to move house too. I came here only for six months, just to get away from my former matrimonial home, and only until I'd sorted things out and could get my own place. Nearly four years later, and I'm still here. What a lot of water has passed under the bridge since then; what a lot of alcohol has passed through the kidneys; what a lot of cigarette smoke has wafted perniciously across the villi of my poor beleaguered lungs. Stray cats have come and gone; friends have remembered me, and friends have forgotten me. It all reminds me of a song from one of my all-time favourite albums (and one that I used to play to death as a youngster):

"People come and go and forget to close the door,
and they leave their stains and cigarette butts trampled on the floor.
And when they do, remember me, remember me.

Some of them are old, some of them are new,
some of them will turn up when you least expect them to.
And when they do, remember me, remember me."

It's time for me to move on now, I think. And so, before I take the broom to clear up the debris of the shattered Garibaldis, I post you this message, dear reader: Before Christmas, if I'm still alive (and there's no guarantee of that), then I hope to be writing to you from a different desk in a different home. And perhaps I'll be writing from a different viewpoint by then, too. Maybe by then, I'll have found my way home to Kansas. If I can't do that, then I'm lost.....

Listen To The Voice Of God

Oh god, I have been neglecting you of late, dear reader. I'm surprised any of you are still reading, more so because there isn't all that much to say really. I thought I'd have loads of free time once the festival was finished, but since then it's just been a mad social whirl and I can't even remember where I've been for the past week. Parties, parties, BBQs, more parties, work, meetings, dinners, theatre, more parties, cinema, more meetings, more parties. Oh, when will it all end?

Well not yet, that's for sure. I have a full agenda for the rest of this week and then on Saturday I'm doing a reading of my latest story 'How To Eat A Mango On A Building Site While Still Wearing Your Hard Hat' at the Lowdham Book Fair. I haven't even rehearsed the performance yet, and probably won't get time to do so (except in my sleep) which is a bad thing because presentation is everything in such matters. I don't even have a hard hat.

Now, to more serious matters. I understand that the scientists at CERN have found a way to listen to the sound made by whatever it is that their Large Hadron Collider produces whenever it collides whatever it does collide with whatever else. You can see that I fully understand the science of all this, can't you? Anyway, by capturing the sound, they will apparently be able to discover the 'harmonious noises' that are made at the moment the universe is created and from this, they will be able to identify the Higgs Bosun - the so-called 'God Particle'. This worries me slightly. Firstly, I'm not given absolute confidence that these boffins know what they're doing if all they need to discover the secrets of the universe is a pair of headphones. Aren't they supposed to have the most expensive and intricate measuring equipment known to physics for this purpose? Do they really need to listen for it?

Secondly, what are they hoping to hear that will convince them so assuredly of the presence of Higgs Bosun? Are they expecting a little squeaky voice to say: "Help - I am the tiny spark of All Creation and I am trapped inside the bosun of Higgs. If you release me, I will tell you everything..."? Hmm, it doesn't sound very plausible to me. Or perhaps they are hoping to hear the voice of god? That would give them a shock, wouldn't it? Imagine that - all the scientists are huddled around a little old radio, all sipping cups of Horlicks and all waiting expectantly for the emitted sounds of the 'particle'.... as they sit in silence, breathing heavily, they wait... one boffin nervously smooths her skirt, another straightens his tie, and yet another pushes his glasses back up his sweat-lined nose.

Then suddenly, amidst the static and hiss, comes the crackling sound of a tinny and distant disembodied voice: "So, earthlings, you have discovered how to tap into my private phone line have you? And you are hoping to discover the secret of the universe eh? Well let me tell you this, you snivelling little oiks, just exactly how this great universe of mine was created is none of your goddamned business. Now push off, the lot of you!"

Tee hee.

Well, I don't really have time to think about any of this. More parties to attend - tomorrow is the 'Midsummer Night's Dream' spectacle in the Great Ballroom of Nottingham's City Hall. Okay, so it's not exactly misdummer night, but apparently Oberon & Titania will be there to sprinkle some magic dust amongst us. Who knows? We might even learn the secret of life itself....

It's All About Me!

Okay, so you're fed up with me going on and on, blah blah blah, about the Triliteral Festival. So, all I'm going to say is that it all happened, it all went (nearly) to plan, and I'm amazed that we actually pulled it off. It was a great triumph and everyone enjoyed it. Yes, it was very very hard work - not just for the Triliteral Team, but for the actors, directors and producers too. We were all utterly exhausted after it - nine different plays in three days is one hell of an achievement - but it was all worthwhile. We all feel very proud of ourselves, I can tell you.

And so, now where do we go? Well, the first thing to do on Sunday evening was to have a huge after-show party in my apartment. The entire company, plus a couple of others, descended here for molte bevande. Several cases of wine and beer later, and everyone was everyone else's best friend. Some even became lovers - but I'm not telling you who paired off with whom. Well, not yet anyway. It was all great fun - although I think my neighbours may not have been quite as excited about the noise and revelry as we were (especially on a school night). Nobody in the building has spoken to me since.

So, back to the future. What does it hold for us, eh? Well, we have definitely decided to do the whole thing again next year (we must be bonkers, I know). We have put ourselves very firmly on the map of Creative Nottingham and we really can't stop now. But in the meantime, I have become involved in another festival with a totally different flavour. Nottingham's Broadway Cinema will be staging its 3rd Annual ScreenLit Festival in 2011 and I have been invited to sit on the festival committee. I'm really excited by this because ScreenLit is a really high-profile festival (yes, even higher in profile than Triliteral). This year's festival (April 2010) featured Armando Iannucci, Dave Spikey (of 'Phoenix Nights' fame), Peter Capaldi, Chris Morris ('Four Lions'), John Harvey - and much, much more! The committee is made up of some of Nottingham's most savvy and influential media people, so I'm really chuffed to be invited to join them. Methinks it's time for me to wave 'bye bye' to the salt mines and seek a career in the Arts. The fact that I should really be considering retirement at this point is irrelevant - and anyway, my pension is worthless (as is most people's) and I'm going to have to work until I'm 100, so I may as well make it worthwhile for the rest of it.

I notice that it's Royal Ascot this week. I went once - many years ago - but on the day I was there it poured with rain and all I saw of the Royal Procession was a white-gloved hand waving ceremoniously through a tiny window in the hood of what can only be described as an ancient, horse-drawn perambulator. I seem to remember winning loads of money though.

Anyway, a couple of Facebook jokes for you, in case you missed them:
1) "You give £2 a month to a hungry African, and what do they do? Buy a bloody trumpet!"
2) "The Americans will invade another country in the pursuit of oil, yet they complain like fuck when it's delivered right to their doorstep."

Toodle pip, old loves. I promise to be more regular from now on.....