Ruth

The anniversary of Ruth's death is 27th March, and I wanted to repost this, originally written in June 2012, in her memory. May her words and thoughts and deeds live forever in our hearts.

Ruth died on Tuesday 27th March 2012 at seventeen minutes past 10 in the evening. She had been suffering for just under a year with pancreatic cancer, and had been diagnosed with Alzheimer's Disease some years prior to the cancer being identified. It isn't my place to go into too much detail about her life, but I feel the need to write a tribute to her.

She was a remarkable woman, who played a major part in my life from around the age of 17 or 18, when I swam into the orbit of her family. Just like anyone who ever met her, I'm sure, I will never forget her for her ready laugh and sometimes outrageous sense of humour; her strong but (generally) kind personality, and her immense but largely unrecognised writing talents. Her poetry had a light touch, and could be extremely funny, but poignant too. Some samples of her work are here and a book was produced in 2011. Her literary love was Dylan Thomas.

A great player of parlour games, she had a fondness for Trivial Pursuit when it was at the height of its popularity, and there was always a Braille Scrabble set around, as well as the letter cards from Lexicon that she could use for anagram games - beng able to make out the letter shapes in their large format.

In a world of timidity, there were few things she was scared of, and few things she wouldn't face by tackling them head on, before brewing up another pot of tea and blasting Tosca out of the stereo in the kitchen at full volume. There aren't many people I can remember having such laughs with, and even when I saw her last, with the Alzheimer's in full swing, we still spent a good part of the day roaring hysterically.

"I like him," she said, "He makes me laugh!" And how good did that make me feel?

Her eyesight began to deteriorate at the onset of adulthood, and continued to worsen throughout her life, so she would always be seen out with a white stick and (in later years) a guide dog. I remember that she loved Eastenders, and would sit virtually on top of the TV set following the plot. When making tea, she would put the tip of her finger over the rim of the cup to ensure that it was poured to the right level. This absence of vision did not however prevent her from living a full life, nor from bringing up a large family, each in their own way as remarkable as she was. As well as working for talking newspapers, she also advised special access groups on provision for those with sight disabilities, read her poetry from memory at various venues, and was a source of help and inspiration for almost anyone (and believe me, there were all sorts) who came to her door.

"And death shall have no dominion
Under the windings of the sea"

Febrile

It's a living thing, wrapping its tendrils around my carotid and squeezing gently. Ever so gently, but relentless; cinching closer with every passing second. It will not let me go, will not relax the choking grip until the very breath is driven from my lungs.

I know that I am powerless, know that there is no sense in struggling, but cannot stop myself from fighting the muscular clasp. Hope is not it. Not hope, but grim determination that forces me to clench my teeth and ball my fists against the top of my thigh. Foot to foot. Rocking, swaying, whimpering, crying and snot dribbling.

There are 10 more posts to go till 500.

A Day in the Life

No doubt he took the tube/bus/train/bike as he always did. I can't say if he had bacon and eggs, or porridge, or just a cup of coffee and a rueful cigarette as part of his normal breakfast routine; can't know whether he might have popped into a Caffé Nero or a Starbucks or a Fitness First before heading into the office. I don't even know if he had a wife, husband, kids or a dog to give a kiss to as he headed out the door, or if he stared at his reflection with a grin or a scowl while brushing his teeth or letting them stay stained - just for today, or most days - because he was sleeping on a friend's sofa.

There might have been a long wait for the bus in the rain, or a steady walk to the tube station - unseasonably warm as it was; alternatively, he was given a lift, dropped off perhaps with a kiss. Or not. Always a chance that he stood on the train all the way, cramped and pressed against others' sweaty frames, holding his nose or holding in his own foul breath to blot out the smells around him or from him. Maybe there was a raised voice, a small increase in the tension of the commuters from some real or imagined slight that served to changed the tenor of the day. Or else he was blessed with a safe middle seat as soon as he got on, able to read his Metro or his Dostoyevsky - his James Patterson or his Daily Star amid the blissful racket of the clattering wheels against the rails.

Maybe someone who knew him would have detected a difference in his demeanour, something not quite right about him. Perhaps he was sweating, agitated, quick to anger or suddenly sullen. But if no-one on his tube or train carriage or bus had ever seen him before, or had perhaps only glimpsed him on the odd morning - a slightly more familiar face in the relentless faceless crowd, but nothing more - then who could have had a clue that today would be any different to the hundreds of other days which had gone before? Only him, maybe. Unless at home, the significant other fumed or fretted, raged and texted and fruitlessly called, cried and wailed, plotted and schemed, laughed and derided...

When he walked past the security guard on arrival at the office, showing his pass as required, it might have been that a gentle half smile, perhaps a word or two, were exchanged. And it might have been that there was only the almost unnoticeable flash of recognition that the pass had been seen and that he was clear to go through. His co-workers on the 4th floor could have wished him a good morning, chatting about last night's telly amid the clatter of kettles, and milk taken from fridges, waste bin lids opened and closed. Or on an early shift, he might have been alone at his desk, reading emails and answering calls.

As he typed, he may have felt the itch of needle marks in his arms, or the familiar nagging pain of the tumour in his belly, pressing against his ribcage; may have confronted again whatever demon had hold of his mind - debts, disease, religious fervour, loneliness... And the hours would have passed - no doubt - the hands making their relentless circuit around the face until lunchtime arrived.

He took the lift the last two flights up and stepped out to look over the balcony, where he saw the usual hubbub of a Friday passing on the floors below; straddled the balustrade and lifted his leg over the top... Then he pitched himself forward and down the 80ft drop to the hard tiled floor, smashing his body apart in front of the groups who were sitting eating their sandwiches.

Falling Apart

Image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons - uploaded (as far as I can tell) by someone called Patrick Gijsbers in 2007

It's all falling apart, isn't it?

Just finished William Leith's book of a similar name, and he really says it all, writing as he was from the viewpoint of a man only a year older than I am. Ironically, given that its theme is (partly at least) decrepitude, I took the book to the park with the kids at the weekend (intending to read it a little later on the bus, just in case you might think I would read in the park with the kids. Perish the thought! I actually played cricket with them. And won, as it happens) and ended up leaving it on a bench there, not realising until we had walked the 15 minutes or so up to the high road. If it hadn't have been a library book, I might well have left it lying where it was, but I didn't want the hassle or expense of buying a new one.

So I deposited the kids in McDonald's with milkshakes and started to lope/jog back down to the park, feeling fairly confident that the book would not have been half-inched in the meantime - due mostly to the inclement weather. William Leith says he could probably run half a mile if pushed, and I guess that the 15 minute walk (I feel I must debunk the old chestnut of walking speed being 4mph, especially when there are two kids walking with you) would be equal to about that. Let's just say that, though I wasn't suitably dressed for running, I didn't actually manage to make it all the way to the park before running out of puff. Since then, I have been feeling rather old, what with the lump on my foot and a pain in the kidneys; perennially blocked sinuses; occasional toilet problems, etc...

Though rather frightening, and sadly looking to be always topical, the other theme of interest in the book is the state of the global economy. Leith uses the cod as an analogy of the way in which our system is doomed to certain failure. Cod - he says - have a survival strategy of, well, just getting really big. This works pretty well in the prime of their lives as their sheer magnitude protects them from most predators (humans - as always - excepted) and they grow quickly to become fierce hunters of the sea. In the end, though, their size works against them, causing them to become unable to survive. Or something. This mirrors the edifice of global capitalism, which continues to rush into its own destruction in pell-mell fashion. Style of thing. In any case, I was seduced by the argument, like Winston Smith I suppose, enjoying most the books which tell me what I already know. It is self-evident - despite the profit announced by Apple - that year-on-year growth is simply not achievable, and the flimsy facade of promises looks perilously close to crashing down on all our heads. This argument is given added resonance of course because of the decimation of cod stocks across the world.

With the United States on the brink of being unable to pay its soldiers, with countries like Italy and Spain all but financially collapsed, with the UK establishment daily being further exposed as a stinking cess-pit of corruption and cronyism, it will be a wonder if we make it through to August 7th and the Community Shield, where Agűero will probably line up alongside Tevez and JÔ's name will not be on the team sheet.

Education

I'm part way through a training course about health & safety. It's one I really should have taken at least 10 years ago, and - even worse - I sort of passed up the opportunity around that time once, in the distant days when I somehow felt I was in control of even a tiny particle of my own destiny. But I digress.

It's a very good course, I have to say, even taking into account the human propensity to appreciate any (learning) opportunity as we grow older, and it is also extremely demanding. No less than two hours' homework per night is required, answering recycled questions from previous exam papers. This highly challenging schedule naturally coincides with about a million other things going on in my life at the same time, as if my particular boat has floated out of some drowsy bayou into the maelstrom of a fully fledged mid-Atlantic depression, all at once. But no matter; that's the way things go sometimes.

As I said, health & safety is the name of the game. NEBOSH no less (NGC1) and always interesting when learning about legislation to see the disconnect between best practice and the real world. The trainer is firmly of the opinion that the Health & Safety At Work Act (1974) is good legislation, because it is worded in such a way that all possible eventualities relating to safety in industry are captured. Testament I suppose to this view is that the legislation is still active and relevant after 37 years, even though of course the detail of the Regulations and Approved Codes of Practice relating to it have changed as the years have gone by. This is the beauty of the primary legislation, which pins a duty of care on employers without being proscriptive and thus painting itself into a corner. And, an even better argument, witness that the number of workplace accidents has decreased markedly (a figure of 1.4 fatal injuries per 100,000 in 1992/93 was as low as 0.5 per 100,000 in 2008/09) since the Act was introduced. From that angle - and despite tragedies like the Herald of Free Enterprise, Piper Alpha, the Gulf oil spill and others - it's really hard to argue with.



Everyone of course still hasn't got a fucking clue about what the legislation really means, and persists in the pathetic 'elf 'n' safety gorn mad' cant about the smoking ban (actually brought in under the Health Act) and all manner of hackneyed shit, without realising what a great job this law is doing on their behalf.

Fiddling About

The end of another decade. Happy new one.

Having almost recovered from my illness (the worst I've had for many a year) and whilst hallucinating powerfully in my sleep (think epic 2 hour dream timescales involving spiking Xeni Jardin's vegan noodle soup with parmesan cheese and my mum being arrested for trying to break into a Government building, to worrying about the mess a dead goose leaves if not cleaned off the carpet quickly enough, and you will see what I mean) due to the intake of Champix I have been fiddling about with the layout of this thing. Hope you like it.


I was concerned that things were getting a little stale and that I was almost being held to ransom by my own creation, so I am actively considering which direction to take. Any suggestions gratefully received.

In the meantime, City till I die of course, and things are looking good for 2011 in that regard, despite our inability to put more than one past Holloway's corsairs. I just can't believe that that twat Neville got away with murder again yesterday, and shurely there must be shome jushtice somewhere in the world. Onward to the Emirates for the first real test we'll have faced for quite a few weeks.

Crotchety

There's a guy across the road. Thankfully, he's not about every night, but when he is, you don't half notice it. He stands in some unseen walkway of the sprawling block of flats near my house smoking and expectorating. Loudly. At intervals of between 5 and 10 seconds, he sucks in what sound like large quantities of mucus and flobs them on to the small patch of grass beneath his hidden perch, like a repulsive metronomic bird thing.



Unsuspecting people (some of them occasionally reasonably attractive-looking) are often surprised by the noise, flicking a quick glance upwards as they walk by, and then directing their gaze towards the ground where the large green object has just slapped itself.

My own feelings are of a creeping nausea, slowly turning to revulsion and anger. I like to sleep with the window open - even on chillier nights - and this utterly disgusting soundtrack turns my stomach. What can I do?

I am amazed that somebody could have reached this point in their life, and almost harbour a sneaking sense of admiration for the invisible phlegm producer. It must, after all, have taken some effort to reach this point in the man's life - to find it somehow acceptable to stand on a concrete walkway repeatedly spitting on the floor throughout the night. This is a special kind of dedication.

Reg

I write in tribute to an old friend - Reg - who has not, let me hasten to add, shuffled off this mortal coil just yet. Though he has endured a slightly littler death, i.e., retirement. If my rudimentary maths are correct, Reg has just achieved 40 years of service at the House of Mouse, retiring last week. I feel bad because I was (at least partly down to laziness on my behalf; though there are other reasons - to do with a sense of inadequacy after my being made redundant from there - for my unwillingness to make the pilgrimage to Hammersmith) unable to attend the party.

Reg is a man of true heart and soul, and I feel privileged to have made his acquaintance. Historian, writer, romanticist, fixer, boozer and carer. Viking, alternative universe-dweller, Terry Pratchett fan, Baloo the Bear costume wearer and (not quite. But this is what makes us human, the 'not quite' bit, isn't it?) all-around good guy.

Reg is a human. Long may he reign.

Miracles

A graph from the Office for National Statistics on age profiles. Interesting how it resembles a Rorschach blot, don't you think?

DISCLAIMER. This post was due to go live tomorrow, but I've been looking through my archives and realised that I have posted on 2nd February in each year since I started this thing (I only began in June 2007, and could not have done so in that year, even if I'd wanted to) so the anally retentive numerologist in me just had to make the change to today. For that reason, the piece may not be as (ahem) exquisitely crafted, and adherent to Aristotelian Unities as you would normally expect, so please forgive me, but here goes.

As I watch my life ebbing away to the background of Bargain Hunt and re-runs of Top Gear, I realise that all the current noise about ageing, death and all that brouhaha is becoming increasingly relevant to me. A terrifying spectre punctured the fog of my cold-infected brain the other morning as I listened to Today on Radio 4. Somebody was speaking about the population profile of the UK, and came up with an image of certain towns in this country only being populated by pensioners as our inevitable march towards immortality (though it looks set to be an immortality of almost total lameness, propped up by countless interventions and cocktails of drugs. No thank you) continues. I'm no spring chicken, as you are doubtless fully aware, but the thought of living only among the over 60s in such circumstances is not an attractive one, to say the least. I've nothing against the older generation per se, and as with any age group, I do try to speak as I find. There are of course as many curmudgeonly kids as there are sprightly OAPs. But I digress.

What I wanted to elucidate was the feeling of confusion I have over medical science in these marvellous modern times. We are proving ourselves increasingly able to defy nature and prolong life (in whatever condition said life may be) almost indefinitely. Don't misunderstand me, I have no ethical objection to stem cell research or any of that good stuff, and I can too completely understand why any family would wish to try and keep someone alive for as long as possible. I also respect those who (on the flip side, if you will) wish to push the boundaries of legality and question the status quo when it comes to the right to die. Terry Pratchett is - and we would expect no less - making a fine stand on this point, as I'm sure you will have heard. It is a complex issue, no doubt about it, and open to some SERIOUS abuse, which is why I feel that English law (though an ass, let's face it) is perhaps for once best suited to dealing with it - i.e., on a case-by-case basis. If only the media could be kept at a distance, we might see some sense. But that ain't gonna happen.

So (once again trying desperately to return my thoughts to the original argument) I really want to talk about the disparity between what we are capable of when it comes to keeping people alive, thanks to increasingly sophisticated treatments (along with - naturally - much hand-wringing to accompany them) and our inability to safeguard the health of children for the want of the most basic care in countries less fortunate than our own.

I have a problem understanding where we're going with this, and begin to question the point of it. Why do we expend so much money and effort in developing procedures and medicines which can fight almost any disease (even the most fundamental disease of growing old) and injury when we allow millions of kids to die from malaria (I'm sure Ashton Kutcher is well-intentioned and all, but it won't really cut the mustard, will it?) and malnutrition every year? Especially when the treatments are only available to a - in relative terms - select few. In much the same way as Barack is diverting vast sums from the 'folly' of space flight to pay for some much needed basic stuff back home, perhaps we could think about doing something similar with the extraordinary sums pumped into prolonging what is often already a lost cause on the hospital wards? Easily said, I know.

Act On

Watching Joan Ruddock on the telly the other morning made me realise how far things have come, and how far they have yet to go. Smack bang in the middle of Corrie is an ad featuring (I think) Nigel from Eastenders about the crimes of carbon production. "Does it have a happy ending?" the nauseatingly cute girl asks Nige. Well I doubt it my dear, but let's wait and see. I have dutifully searched online for Act On CO2 and have become enormously embiggened by the whole cromulent process.

Joan is of course relatively close to my heart, along with Ed, and the other cronies who have made such sterling efforts to contribute to carbon reduction measures over the past year. Also close to my heart has been the Climate Camp, embroiled as I was in the protests at Whitehall Place a month or so ago. I was - to all intents and purposes - on the wrong side of the fence, facing the crusties as they sat in their canoes and chanted their slogans, while I fretted about the creature comforts of the SCS and the contract lead. I am following them on Twitter - even to mobile device level - but this is largely so that I can prepare to defend against, rather than mobilising the tent and the Special Brew so that I can join in another swoop. What can I say? I am a whore, like the rest of them. That includes you, by the way.

If we talk about sustainability (for what else is there when asking about climate change?) then we must take a holistic view. We have all (now, I guess anyways) seen the plantations of palm trees replacing the indigenous flora, partly to satisfy our insatiable need for recycled packaging, but mostly to feed our even more vampiric desire to defy the natural processes of life - i.e., ageing. If we can't accept the fact that we as humans are not sustainable, but that life itself must ultimately be so, then we are in big trouble.

The malaise spreads far and wide. Countless millions of tiny plastic bottles, made from a myriad of different oil-derived materials, line our shelves. Waitrose remove the word 'REDUCE' from the sustainable triangle, and even a hint of a drop in production levels causes unprecedented global panic in the 'money markets'.



Wherein, needless to say, lies the rub. While Cameron and Brown fall over themselves (actually, Brown probably falls over himself more - slap me!) to crow about their cuts, pay rates at executive level continue to be 'sky rockets in flight'. None of us can swallow that.

Open up the medicine chest

I couldn't identify more with a song unless it had 'this song was written for Alan Myers' splashed all over the front cover.

Terrible

Like a recalcitrant child, this thing has started to develop a mind of its own. Which is something of a relief as the one which sits in the cranium of this particular Doctor Fronk-en-steen has more or less seized up entirely. In a little over a week, I will be celebrating (if that's the right word) two goddam years of spouting this drivel. It has been real, even if it's been cyber.

Two years of pissing in the wind (what follows and indeed precedes these words is strictly tongue in cheek, btw. Just in case anyone was thinking that I am a sad ungrateful twat or something) with few signs of any human connection and less than 10,000 hits in total.

But am I bitter? Am I fuck! The good outweighs the bad, as we all have to admit lest we stare into the bottomless pit of our inevitable mortality, and it has been great to interact with at least some fellow travellers (you know who you are) and to have a laugh or two.

So here's a test.

Not that I'm insecure. Not that I look at my slowly elongating features and rapidly emerging aural hair in the mirror. Not that I feel permanently terrified of failure and ending up sleeping on a park bench or anything like that. Just... I guess I would like some affirmation in these dangerous times is all.

If anyone names a subject for me to write about before next Wednesday (the 24th of June) I will do my best to provide. I can't promise loaves and fishes or rose gardens, but I will try.

Now, I refuse to go to bed or eat my greens. So there!

La La La

(And... Here we go with a pre-cursor to a Sunday lunchtime hammering by the Smilers, but it was fun while it lasted. Not saying anything against SWP BTW, but I seriously thought that Daddy Dick deserved man of the match tonight)

As I have suddenly got to prepare for an 'interview' tomorrow, and as the 'interview' is for an as yet (to me anyway) undefined job, meaning that I will have to ditch the usual Friday clobber and dress UP even MORE than usual, inviting the inevitable questions about why I'm wearing a tie on a Friday, or else stuffing a change of clothes into my bag and lugging it across town, and will have to try and prepare for... Christ knows what, I thought it was high time for a musical post. The days of new albums seem so far distant, yet brought to life by the jogging of scents, that I marvel at how far we have travelled, and at how I would now no more consider buying a CD than I would a fine pony.



Like many other things in this crazy world, my relationship with music has changed beyond all recognition. Time was (and what a time it was) that TOTP was the pivot of the week. Not anymore. This change in perception is not solely down to ageing, as the total absence of the show from the TV schedules, and - more tellingly - the recent impasse between the mighty Google and the PRS, clearly demonstrates. Is there a music chart these days (that was a rhetorical question, by the way) and who is at Number 1 (that was a genuine question...)?

I have, like millions before me, trodden the path of:

the sudden realisation that music can be digitized, sent across the intarwebs and downloaded buckshee on to one's home computer (though via a dial-up connection, it was a labour of love, I'm sure you'll agree) through the ownership of an MP3 player, to Bluetoothing tracks between mobiles, to an iPod, through the Hype Machine and onward into the nirvana of Limewire on a broadband connection (though this relationship has turned sour with the release of the latest version and its incompatibility with the faithful old Mac Mini, with its Power PC chip, on whose wheezing torso I am beating out the tattoo of the very letters which appear before you) On to nuTsie, on which I have blogged before. It was irritating in its own special way - based on online versions of the tracks in your library, and often bowdlerised versions at that, but it was a great goodness to grok for a time. I haven't bothered with it since I don't know when.

Then came BlipFM via Twitter, with which I have been - largely - enamoured despite its occasional foibles on search. I like the 'props' idea and enjoy discovering tracks that I would not otherwise have heard about.

The final note in the scale has been Spotify. Ah, it is a beautiful thing, rich in its musical and visual tapestry. But, and you know what I mean, I was desperately seeking God. By Mr Lennon. And it was nowhere to be found. My curiosity pricked, I reached my tendrils towards Julia, and she was not there either, only her plain sister with a vile karaoke dress on.

So there we have it. Up to date as far as that goes. In an echo of modern working practices, I am happy to be rootless, head in the clouds, accessing the treasure trove of whatever takes my fancy. Until the cloud breaks and I don't have any music any more.

Once more unto the...

Things don't stand still for long, do they? Apart from statues of course. And those mimes in Covent Garden. I was going to include Oswestry in that rather glib little summary, but thought better of it, as clearly (and depressingly) things do move there, if not necessarily in the right direction.

"What the hell is he talking about?!" I hear the Frank Riches among you moan. Well, in homage to my post a year ago (almost to the day) I thought I would do a catch-up on my work situation.

It is - in a word - drifting.



Yes, that sort of sums it up. I've never encountered such terrible communication as wot I'm seeing from the multitudinous management teams who seem to be involved in the major contract transition that's about to happen where I'm based. Unsurprisingly, but disappointingly, everyone seems to be doing their best to apply more and more coats of Teflon to their hides, merely making sure that they don't get lumbered with anything and can emerge at the far end safe and sound.

It's laughable that so many of the people I've spoken to over the past year and a bit have been babbling on about people being their greatest assets, and how the success of the transfer depends on understanding them, etc., but who are now desperately seeking to avoid any responsibility for the dog's breakfast it has become.

It's a cliche, but definitely true for me as I look ahead, that the only constant is change. The one thing (ahem, to the best of my knowledge) I feel I know (I do realise that I am not alone in this in these turbulent times) is that I will not be doing what I am now after 3 months. There are two or three potential roads ahead (the third is along the lines of Mel Gibson in a leather jerkin, but I won't go into that here) and I am doing my damnedest to try and force events along the road which suits me best.

I'm still holding my nerve, largely amused by the goings-on, and waiting to see how things will pan out. Or pan down at least.

Wish me luck!

Decade

Today is my eldest daughter's tenth birthday, born as she was on the eve of the Millennium. Apart from the incredulity I feel at the rapid passing of time, I look back with some pride to think that we have managed to guide her over halfway to the age of majority, though I am under no illusions that the parenting duties will end there, occasionally dependent as I still am on my own mother for at least a bit of advice or a listening ear. Nobody provides a job description for being a parent, and you make a lot of it up as you go along, extemporising the hell out of it and hoping for the best, while all the time spending more and more money that you don't have, and trying hard to do the best you can. Not to mention the day job.

I of course fear for the future, for the kind of world she and her sister will be inheriting, and have no doubt that many of the things we now take for granted will not be there in a few years' time. Personally, I am very disappointed that, well past the Year 2000, we appear to be somewhat lacking in jet packs and flying cars, which I'm sure we were faithfully promised. Email on a mobile phone is a very poor substitute, I have to say.

Will there still be Apple Computer, apples, Halifax Town, the Halifax, Channel 4 Television, television, Waitrose, online shopping, shopping, Penguin Books, penguins, intercontinental mass transportation, local mass transportation? None can tell. There are many Ozymandiases around these days to serve as reminders of our hubris.

But perhaps the world our kids will live in might be a slightly better place in some ways. Should I take heart from the fact that plastic bag issuing is down from 13 billion to 9 billion? Should I be pleased that school topics are focussed on environmental issues, and happy that my youngest has a teacher who is afflicted with dyslexia, thus reflecting an increased inclusiveness? Or should I cry in my beer over the sad reality of growing up, the slow destruction of the fairy tales we're all told when young - that everything is going to be all right? There there.

As a human, and as a father, I think I can only look forward, only hope that we will somehow muddle through and find a solution to the multitude of woes we face. And when I look at my daughter's face, when I hear her talk and see her grow, and watch her play the drums on her new Rock Band, I am less filled with fear than I was.

Raggy

Reluctant as I am to cast myself as some sort of amiable buffoon (which has been an irritating aspect of my personality for some time, as it happens) I feel the need to relate my first shaving experience. This rite of passage for us males (before anyone says anything, I do know that girls also occasionally slide the blade over their skin - it just doesn't carry the same sets of neuroses, and I wouldn't dream [incidentally] of trying to equate menstruation with shaving as life burdens either, but that's another story) is quickly forgotten because face scraping becomes such a part of adult life that it's as commonplace as brushing one's teeth.

But the first shave.

Now that's something else, as Cat Stevens was well aware. Rod, on the other hand, I assume to be one of those blond bumfluff merchants. I could be wrong, of course, what with media management and all.

As a (pre-?)pubescent young man, I held off on the razor for longer than was strictly necessary, I guess I would have to say. My best friend could easily (might well have) been a Great Dane with a fondness for diamond shaped biscuits, as the tufty growths burst forth from my chin unmolested by the products of Mr Gillette, Mr (and Mrs) Wilkinson, or Mr Kiam.

At last, three of my classmates could stand it no more and cornered me one day in the art room, one on each arm - with the third brandishing a paint encrusted Stanley knife. But this was rural Shropshire, not some inner city ghetto, and was at a time before the dreaded blight of gang culture became such a fashionable feature for our newspaper editors, so I did not fear for my life. I was proud, however, of my growth, and enjoyed stroking it in my more pensive moments (was it to be another packet of Spangles, or should I opt for Space Dust? Tough decisions, I'm sure you'll agree) so I was not looking forward to the impending Lord of the Flies moment. But I was powerless to resist as the long strands of man hair were teased out, and winced as the dull blade ground its way through them one by one (or so it seemed) until I was at last metaphorically emasculated, not quite Eyeless in Gaza, but certainly bumfluffless in Croeswylan School.

Lord Of The Flies (Theatrical Trailer)

Uploaded by NakedBrotha2007

I have of course never been able to look back, and stare in wonder at the current pepper and salt manifestations which re-appear with startling regularity, refusing to believe the debunking of the myth of post-mortem hair growth.

Loneliness

Tonight I was reminded of something that happened to me some years ago when I was living in Kilburn (Queens Park, TBX) and came across an old man slumped in the corner outside the tube station. He was waving his arms around ineffectually as he tried to stand up. Already imbued with the Londoner's cautiousness - though I was relatively new to the city then - I looked around and hesitated before deciding to try and help.

He wasn't completely pissed, as it happens, just a little confused and very frail, with the watery eyes of the very old, wearing a sheepskin jacket, and a few pints inside him. What could I do? I leant over and asked if he was all right, reaching out a hand to help him up. He mumbled something and vaguely pointed somewhere to his left or right as I eased him to his feet. He was reasonably compos mentis I began to realise, and was showing me the way to his home. His small frame was light as I guided him across the road, listening carefully to what he was saying:

"I just need to get meself in... I'll be all right once I'm in me place..."

"Is there someone there to look after you?" I asked, thinking that he could not possibly survive for long without the assistance of others.

"I'll be all right..."

After an interminably slow crawl along the street, every small obstruction of dug-up paving slabs or shop displays turning into a major expedition as he clutched my arm, we at last approached a nondescript block of flats and followed the path to a door which opened into his place. Once in, my heart sank into the pit of my stomach. The 'place' was no more than a room with a single bed, a tabletop hob and a small sink.

He flopped down on the edge of the bed, which I remember as having an overhang, like the lower half of a bunk bed, and sighed deeply. There was an A4 poster of a football team tacked to the overhang, and I'm ashamed to say that I can't remember for sure which team it was, though I KNOW it wasn't QPR, and feel convinced that it was Arsenal.

"Are you going to be OK?" I asked, looking around for some reassurance that I could not find. His eyes unfocussed for a moment, and he said:

"My son comes round sometimes. He's doing very well for himself..."

"That's good." I hesitated.

"Do you want a cuppa?" he asked, trying to lever himself up out of the bed as he spoke.

"No. Thank you," I said, "I've got to be heading off... As long as you're all right."

"It's no trouble..." and his efforts to raise himself out of the bed increased.

"No, really, I've got to go. But thanks. And you take care, OK?"

He said nothing more, but I turned around and scrabbled a little for the door as I hurriedly left.

Incapacitated

Due to a ridiculous injury sustained whilst trying to negotiate the entry ramp to the underground car park at work with my bike, I find myself unable to function normally. I was attempting to put my security pass in my mouth so that I could ride safely down the steep ramp before the barrier came down. No doubt the bloody thing has sensors, but I'm always afraid it's going to bop me on the head as it takes a few seconds to sort oneself out before riding on. Anyways, the bike got away from me a bit and I could feel that I was going to over-balance and fall in a heap of sharp metal and concrete face first, so I took emergency action and yanked hard on the anchors, which stopped the topple, but meant that the bike caromed into my achilles tendon at some velocity, dislodging the chain and giving me a sharp intake of breath and a jabbing pain at my ankle.

Now, a pedal bash (sounds similar to pebble dash, doesn't it?) is an occupational hazard for any cyclist, and I'm almost always carrying a cut, graze or bruise on my lower leg, but I could tell immediately that this was going to be a sore one - though I did manage to ride the bike back home at the end of the day. This was probably a mistake.

The next day when I awoke, it was painful to walk, and so I hobbled onto the tube. As is always the way when you have a limp, you seem to come across someone else who also has one, and I was afraid, when the guy opposite me painfully struggled to get off the train, that he would think I was taking the piss. Luckily, the morning crowd at Victoria soon swallowed him up and so I could hop my way to the escalator without fear of such things.

Needless to say, everyone has been offering advice (see a doctor, use Deep Heat - er, no - take anti-inflammatories - er, yes) and needless to say I have ignored most of it, thinking that it would wear off in a matter of days. It hasn't though, and I have just started taking some ibuprofen, which seems to help a little for a brief period. If there is no improvement by Monday, I will force myself to attend at the quack.

It seems such a trifling thing, but is in such a vital place (I have previously suffered from a couple of stress fractures in my foot, so I am not unaware of the hassle of a foot injury) that it impacts on almost all areas of your life. Except using a computer, thank god. More than usual, however, the injury has made me think about getting old. Despite the systematic abuse I subject it to, my body has held up reasonably well so far, and though I'm no Daley Thompson, I can at least manage to ride to work most days, swim 42 lengths (soon to be 43) every Sunday and generally run around with the kids, playing footie or 'what have you'. As time goes by, I am of course likely to suffer from longer term and more serious mobility problems, and that scares the living crap out of me. I really value my independence (cycling is a true expression of that) and shudder to think how I would cope with either a mobility chair or simply lying in bed, waiting for the meals on wheels to arrive.