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"

Shameful

There can only be one subject for football fans at the moment: the Hillsborough disaster.

Watching events unfold yesterday sent cold shivers down the spine, and only reinforces the utter contempt one feels for the politicians, the police and the press. It's difficult to know which of those three to feel the most hatred for in actual fact, and I sincerely hope that as many senior people as possible are brought to book for what they did.

I have memories of football matches in the days of terraces, and - though coloured by the fact that I was quite young and small, as well as living in a small town all my life - the lasting impression is one of fear. Herded along city streets while stony faced coppers sit astride massive horses, into the ground through impossibly tight turnstiles and up into the stands, full of people shouting, laughing, smoking, high and nervous in anticipation of the match.

Some of it was brought back by the images of Hillsborough on the news, with people (the lucky ones) being hoisted out of the crush to the level above; knowing now that ambulances were denied entry to the ground while people lay on the grass, receiving futile CPR; watching the police in their normal demeanour, pointing at people, arguing, wasting time; fans ripping up the advertising hoardings to make stretchers.

And then the senior officers, the Tory MP, colluding to cover up their incompetence, changing witness statements, feeding that shit to Kelvin fucking MacKenzie. How wonderful it would be if that bastard was taken down as far as he can go. Then using the Police Computer to find out information with which to smear the dead. The innocent dead.

It wouldn't happen now, said some Labour MP. Can you imagine 96 people dying at the Olympic Games? There would be a massive outcry, he said. Maybe he's right, but I do see some very disturbing parallels in the Tomlinson case, to name just one. If it weren't for the internet, we can be sure that there would have been an even more monumental struggle to get to the bottom of that particular piece of police mismanagement and thuggery.

Twenty three years of fighting this repulsive machine, forcing the truth out like blood from a stone, and at last the families of the 96 have something to hold on to. Let's hope they don't let go.

Life is cheep

I’ll always remember it, I think. Time was when I used to ride my bike along the Grand Union canal as far as Camden Lock, and sometimes a bit further, for a spot of R&R. Enjoying the bohemian atmosphere at the Lock, I would sit and sip from a can or two, smoke a couple of fags and just watch the people doing what they do. For a variety of reasons, I don’t do this anymore, but it did used to be a regular event for me.


Anyway, on this particular day, I had stopped as usual at the Lock just behind the market and lowered my bike to the ground. I stood up and looked over the edge at the murky water turning into a shimmering curtain as it gushed through the old teeth and black painted blocks of the mechanism. I noticed a flurry of activity from some small birds (tits, I think, though I can’t be sure) who had made their nest in the sheer bank of the cut. There was a pair of them and they were fluttering their wings madly to stay in a hover and chirruping with all their might. I looked closer and noticed that a chick had fallen into the water, which was now boiling around it as the lock contents emptied themselves. It soon became clear that – whether because it had fledged too soon, or because its feathers were not waterproof enough – the chick was struggling to free itself from the grip of the canal. The parents were desperately trying to encourage their offspring up and out of the clutches of death, but could do no more than twitter loudly and repeatedly fly as close to the youngster as possible. It was a futile endeavour, I could see that, and the chick was clearly doomed.

This terrible tragedy was playing itself out in front of me, and I was as helpless as the adult birds. The nest (and no doubt this was ironically the reason why they had chosen to build it there) was set in such a place that it was very difficult to reach if you didn’t have wings and a body no more than 5 inches long. I looked around, and the usual crew of Goths and punks, rockers and Dutch tourists, were all oblivious to the life-and-death struggle going on so close to their stacked leather boots. Haltingly, a little embarrassed, I tried to draw the attention of those nearest to me, but I was simply ignored. I considered (but only for a moment) getting into the water to help the little bird; I looked around for a stick, but there were none long enough.

Then, in a matter of seconds, the chick was gone for good, buffeted away by the rushing deluge relentlessly cascading towards it, pushed under the water one too many times, finally and cruelly breaking its so recently developed spirit. A great sadness came over me at that point. I had witnessed the frantic efforts of two creatures, animals not credited with any of the so called higher qualities, trying with all their might to save their child; had seen new life struggle to resist the reaper’s scythe – and fail. Perhaps foolishly, I considered the life of the parent bids now that they had lost their chick. Would they (metaphorically) shrug philosophically and carry on, perhaps going through their mating rituals again and laying a new clutch in their precarious home, or would they be thrown into despair, perhaps splitting up and never seeing each other again?

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.

Crashing Bore

His intentions were good enough, I think. There was little or no malice in him. It was merely that everything he said somehow came out both tedious and insulting. It is a frustrating trait, common unfortunately to many, that people don't listen to you when you say something. They are either waiting for you to affirm their own feelings on a particular subject, or are too keen to get their little joke in. So, we had stayed in an extremely rustic wooden 'barn' the night before. Creature comforts (i.e., a toilet) were in short supply, and the freakishly warm weather had long departed, leaving a freezing night, which was not ameliorated by the gaping holes in the walls. We had hunkered down and nested for the night on the floor in front of the wood burning stove, so were not feeling particularly jaunty as a result when we arrived at the house the next morning. People were asking how we had slept in the barn, and we replied that it had been bloody cold.

"I bet you warmed up, pretty quick, eh?" he nudge-nudged, touching my shoulder. I smiled. What can you do? The next morning, we arrived again, this time no less tired, but having suffered not quite so much from the cold, due to a rise of two or three degrees in the ambient temperature.

"How did you sleep last night?"
"OK. Not great, but at least it wasn't so cold."
"Well, you get used to the cold after a while, don't you?"
"Maybe, but it wasn't anywhere near as cold as the night before."
"I bet you still found a way to keep out the cold though, eh?"

Sigh.

After the exertions and the sadness, London - with its toilets and heating - beckoned once again, and then a trip to Littlehampton which meant that there were only Twitter updates for the Arsenal match. Balotelli had already been in the news for crashing his car into some kid, and allegedly crashing his cock into a couple of prostitutes, so it was inevitable that he should again be the focal point of yet another crushing 90 minutes of football, resulting in a Gooners win, and annoying references from their fans to the Poznan. As I didn't see the match, have not (and will not) watched MOTD2, and cannot bring myself to read a newspaper report of the game, I don't know if Mario was entirely at fault for us losing. It can't help of course to get sent off, but from what I saw on the MCFC Twitter feed (I hold this ridiculous 'together' hashtag largely responsible for the decline in our fortunes as a matter of fact) we were lucky not to have conceded 2 or 3 before their goal went in.

Ten points the gap to Arsenal now, and not inconceivable that it will be chipped away by season's end. Never mind the fucking Rags clinching the title at the Etihad, we could even drop to third spot. Good old City.

The Blues

Well, quite a shock with Fabrice Muamba. It set me to remembering Marc Vivien Foé, a sudden and tragic death on the pitch during the reign of Keegan (though of course he was playing for Cameroon when he died) as a result of heart failure. I can't imagine how it must be to experience such an event as a spectator or player, but I'm sure it sears the day into your memory. I hope that Muamba recovers.

Now, as we all know, the show must go on. Wolves though didn't seem to think so yesterday, getting tonked 5-0 at home by the Rags in yet another shameful capitulation. They should never have got rid of the wonderful Mick McCarthy, I say. Things are definitely not looking so bright now for the City side of Manchester, and I have serious doubts that we will be able to catch the Rag fuckers up - Tevez or no Tevez. It seems to me that our biggest worries are once again at the back (though Silva's perhaps understandable dip in form after such a mercurial start to the season is also playing a part) rather than the front, and I fear for the result on Wednesday night, despite some of our recent successes against Chelsea.

As we used to say in school - first the worst, second the best, but that was from a place of some desperation as we struggled across the finishing line just ahead of the boys who liked Physics lessons and watching butterflies. So, Bobby's coming across a bit lame to say the least, saying once again that he had made a mistake in underestimating Sporting, just as he did when we lost to the Toffees a few weeks back. Come on son, sort it out! At least there was some spirit in the fightback against the Portuguese the other night, and I suppose you can't ask for much more than that. Also helpful that Bilbao (fans as well as players) showed United how it should be done, and absolutely humiliated them.

I will stick to my guns and maintain that losing a good match is preferable to winning a dull one in the cosmic balance of football karma, but I can't hide at least a little disappointment at the fact that (it at least looks as if) it will be the Rags that pip us to the post again. I have to agree with whichever football writer (Andy Dunn, I think, read in a café copy of the Sun, in case you were thinking I may have bought one) who was sure that Bobby's services would be dispensed with should we finish runners-up, the patience of the Sheikhs predicted to be used up by that point. Mourinho, tired of banking his £10,000,000 a year from Real Madrid, might consider bringing his talents to Eastlands, and in any case we'll win the lot next year. Won't we?

Ballardian

Thanks to God is Not Elsewhere for the image.

There is no life any more, is there?

Having just finished Burmese Days by Orwell and then Miracles of Life by JG Ballard (interesting I think that some people I talk to are less than impressed by his writing, though I suspect this is at least in part due to an anti sci fi prejudice) I realise that some of the great British writers of the 20th Century lived full and interesting lives, seeing much of the world and - for good or ill - soaking up experiences. This is something which seems to be denied to us now, even with cheap air travel and television, and I can't help but feel a sense of loss about that, there's no denying it. Will Self (to cite what I believe is the closest relation to these greats writing today) has I think chosen to travel in the internal world - especially when on a jet with the PM - for inspiration.

Although both Eric and Jim (the former in Burma - as was - and the latter in Shanghai - as was, and seemingly will forever be, despite the Mao intermission) were cloistered in the strange unreality of life in the British Empire, with its detachment from local customs and its protection for those lucky enough to have been born in West Bromwich or Bradford, both were very obviously shaped - in terms of their art - by the 'native' people they observed.

It was by chance that I picked both of these books from the library at the same time, and yet there are many fascinating synergies and echoes between them, though one is a 'pure' autobiography (unlike Emperor of The Sun) and the other only draws on personal experience.

[SPOILER ALERT - if you fancy reading Burmese Days (and I heartily recommend it) skip the next bit]

For Orwell, the transition of power from the British Empire is symbolised by the slow and painful destruction - even unto death - of the main character, spineless specimen though he is. His 'enemy' among the Burmans (Orwell's word) meanwhile, who plays an active part in heaping the opprobrium on the pukka sahib's head, is elevated and crowned with laurels in the closing pages. The Establishment, though struggling on, has been irrevocably changed.

[SPOILER ALERT OVER]

Ballard (who BTW mentions reading Orwell as a young man) is more specific in detailing how his work is shaped by the horrendous suffering and - to say the least - undignified deaths of so many indigenous people in WWII era China when he grew up in Shanghai's International Settlement as the Zeros flew overhead and Bushido was followed by the Japanese conquerors. He relates - in this spare yet incredibly moving close-to-death memoir - how he has perhaps unconsciously striven to elucidate the absorption of so much casual suffering and murder through his incredible body of work, as well as through his remarkable journey through life.

I have been greatly enriched by these two marvellous books.

Than The Other

Tribulation.

Had to happen, really.

Deferred, as always.

Everything in perspective, and all that, but a real welling-up, it has to be said.

Where to go from here? Already in culs de sac, the signs are not great.

Grasping, gasping.

Hope & Despair

Last week saw - for me anyway - the definition of the best and worst of the USA on the same day. Thanks to Professor Cox on Twitter (how someone can go up in one's estimation after being a member of D:Ream, eh?) I logged onto the NASA website and tuned in to live images and audio of the launch of Discovery. Like Prince, I may occasionally question the idea of spending billions of dollars on a space programme whilst there are such basic issues around feeding kids and fighting preventable diseases, but I do marvel at the wonder of a launch every time I see one, and am too amazed that we have become so blase about it. To soothe the conscience, I always say that there are plenty of other things we could scrap (such as private jets or weapons or vast bonuses for those oh-so clever businessmen) while holding on to the space programme.

Brian Cox, as I was saying, fuelled my enthusiasm and it was a great feeling, like receiving a tweet from an astronaut, to feel part of this latest (and perhaps one of the last for a while) adventure into the infinite. God speed you, black and white, male and female emperors!

And yet. On the same day, again via Twitter, I heard of the leaked video showing the murder of Iraqi civilians and Reuters journalists by a couple of Uncle Sam's finest chopper jockeys in 2007.



This of course, is the flip-side of the coin. The very worst expression of gung ho American Imperialism that you are ever likely to see. I know that there are some who will say that the soldiers are fighting a war, god damn it, and no soft civilian like me has the faintest idea of what that can mean. Force must be met with force, and all that. Well, that may be right, but if you take the 17 or so minutes needed to watch that video, I don't think you will be sticking to that argument for long. There is no threat from the group of people who are gunned down, and no excuse for heat of the moment reaction. All is done in a deliberate and calculated manner. What it does show is the total de-humanisation of the solider. The inability to see a fellow person in the gun sights.

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.

French Hens

This post has very little to do with the Twelve Days of Christmas, but I am beginning to wish I had never bothered setting up that particular conceit in any case. However, as I am an honourable man, I will at least include some form of nod towards my great concept. The other night, despite missing out on two questions relating to the Christmas song (d’oh!) I still managed to win the Christmas Quiz (along with my Mum) at the Miner’s Arms – or Drill, as it used to be called – in Morda. I am £15 richer, or was for a brief while, and the proud possessor of what I believe to be a box of Matchmakers and what I know to be a gift pack containing a couple of soaps and a flannel, tastefully mounted on a clear Perspex tray.

But, to coin a phrase I seem to have developed the habit of using, the meat and potatoes of what I will talk about is Tad’s funeral, which I attended this week at Wrexham crematorium. And a magnificent occasion it was, devoid of any religious references whatsoever. The body was sent to the incinerator to the tune of Peaches by The Stranglers. It was my second secular funeral, and seems to indicate something of a trend – not that I am by any means a Graveyard Jane; I have in fact just started counting the number of funerals I’ve been to on the fingers of my second hand. One could say that two secular funerals is indeed not a lot, but as a percentage of the total (33% as it happens) it’s fairly high. I felt, along with many I spoke to, that the tone of Tad's funeral was just right, no doubt partly due to the fact that he himself played a major part in the way it was to be conducted. There was no mention of God, but a gentle nod towards those who may feel the need to consult the great Spaghetti Monster, and a good deal of focus on the life of the man, and the way in which those left behind by his passing might deal with his departure. The service was led by someone called 'Phil' who sounded as if he was a semi-professional speaker, and Tad's father, as well as his great friend Magnus, also spoke. If the tone of my own ceremony is similar to this one, and if even a small percentage of the numbers who went along come to see me off, I will be able to rest relatively easily.

On a continuing theme, I was also struck by the accelerating pace of decline in Oswestry. Any small town is more likely to feel the heat of a recession than a large city, and Oswestry was never the most vibrant of places. Now, despite its Subway and its Costa Coffee, despite its M&S and its Top Shop, the place seems to be sinking ever deeper into the slough of despond. It was a bleak picture indeed as I stood in Willow Street.

Soon of course, the Wollies will be closed, and there will be fewer reasons than ever for people to inexplicably park their cars in the town. I fear for the future. I really do.

Swan Song

This month saw the end of a painful battle fought by my good friend, Tad. Cancer was detected in his lungs earlier this year, and was found to have spread to his brain and his spine, and latterly to his kidneys and liver. In less than 12 months, he was dead.

I have known Tad since the age of 11, when we were in the same class at secondary school in Oswestry, and - though it's a cliche - I will say that the world is an infinitely poorer place without him. He can only be described as salt of the earth. A rock on which many people fixed themselves. He was stockily built, with a frame suited for rugby, which I would say was his favourite sport, though he did play a mean game of chess. I can also honestly say that few were his equal on the football table, where he began as a defensive specialist with a vicious left back snapshot, but soon progressed to become as well an infuriating attacker, with superb close control from his centre forward. He had a keen sense of the ridiculous (which seems to be a common trait among the people I like the most) and was even laughing about his own illness the last time I saw him, back in September.

He was born in Nigeria and used to enjoy showing us his dad's Super 8 movies from those days, depicting the initiation ceremony for the young men of the local African tribes people, which appeared to involve keeping a straight face (assisted by the chewing of some mildly narcotic nuts) while taking severe whacks across the kidneys with enormous long sticks. Somehow from there, he ended up in Oswestry and attended the Boys' High School, where he was in the same class as me until educational reform meant a separation of schools.

After that, the pub was our common ground, as well as many uproarious teenage parties and occasional trips out to the beach in his mini. His appetite for beer was voracious, with Guinness his tipple of choice for many years. He once told me, and I had no reason to doubt it, that he had drunk 36 pints of the stuff in a single day. Latterly, he moved on to Strongbow, and I would always hasten to the Boar's Head on my visits to town in the hope of catching him at the bar or the pool table, for an afternoon of drink and conversation.

His early childhood in Africa and the move to England must have instilled in him a love of travel, for he visited many places in his too short life, from (as far as I know - there may have been other trips I did not have the time to hear about) Vietnam, Laos (one of his best-loved places) and Cambodia, to Peru and across the Andes, the USA, Australia and extensively through Africa. Wherever he went, he made new friends and never shied away from any adventure. He wanted, towards the end, to be told he was well enough to get on a plane and fly away, but this wish was to be denied him.

For much of his adult life he worked in a Cadbury's chocolate factory in Chirk, and he revelled in stories of the many eccentrics who stalked the halls there. For some time, he drove a forklift truck, and this gave him great pleasure as he trundled around with his feet up singing Sylvester's You Make Me Feel Mighty Real in an (almost) authentic soprano.

He bore the great suffering of his illness and its attendant treatments with his usual dignity and self-deprecating humour, and I know that the welfare of others was uppermost in his thoughts all the time - even in the midst of this pain.

I don't believe in an interventionist god. But if I did...

Cess Pool

The roots of this one go back a fair way.

To begin with, I was sure that the City/Liverpool game would be the headline one on Sunday afternoon - the Ford Super Sunday extravaganza if you will. But, I had already grokked a wrongness in the fact that only 3 games were played on Saturday this week, so I was mistaken there for a start.

I received a text from Grant saying (amongst other things) that he was available for weddings, parties, etc. My reply quoted Bar Mitzvahs and he said that he would have mentioned it, but was unsure of the spelling. No sooner had I re-holstered the Blackberry and walked into Waitrose, than I saw a headline in the Islington Gazette (or some such local rag) with the words Bar Mitzvah in it. Not often you see that, I can assure you.

Anyroad up, went for a pizza in the realisation that the City game would only be featuring on 5 Live Sports Extra, arriving there at sometime after 2.00. In the car on the way back, radio on, I was delighted to hear that we were 2-0 up at half time. Of course, there was the nagging doubt, as there always is at 2-0 up, that the Scouse twats might pull off a leveller. Schlepped to the pub, thinking that at least the atrocious Sky Info Bar would keep me up to date while I snoozed through the Everton/Newcastle match.

Despite the odd smell in the pub (a mixture of piss and must - it was one of those occasions when the toilet smells nicer than the bar) and a little bit of grappa dizziness, all was well till the 55th minute, when the first Torres goal was reported in the blue bar scrolling across the bottom of the sun-drenched Goodison pitch. There was only me and 3 other blokes (one was, oddly, a Cockney Toffee, which is also an unusual sight) in the pub at the time, and so I loudly sucked in a sharp intake as I read it, fearing the worst.

Well, things really went downhill from there as I spied a group of four approaching, in high dudgeon, from down the Cally. I knew three of them reasonably well - an Irishman who works on the Underground and his missus with the ever-changing hair, his son and a half pissed bird I didn't recognise. At that moment, I don't know why, I decided to check my phone. The kiss of death was laid upon me by someone who really should know better, with a text which read:

"Are City the real deal?"

He had betrayed his first, true, Scouse love in 5 words. He will NEVER be forgiven.

The Irish son, who works in the bookies, had internet access on his phone, and the dread creeping over me was confirmed by him in gloating tones to anyone who would listen as I sat with clenched teeth through the teasing of Richard Keys before trudging home in the pissing rain.
Fucking shite.

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.

Where will you end up?

Following the lukewarm reception to my previous fascinating post about statistics, I thought I had better try to pen something a little more interesting. Before I start however, I would like to make a couple of points.

What follows is not intended to be a morose moribund maudlin moan. I will be musing on a purely hypothetical subject. In the past, I have been accused of just such depressing character traits (beginning with m) when I have raised this in the pub (along with the choice of music for my funeral, which includes - incidentally and for the moment - I Don't Want To Grow Up by The Ramones) I am none of the above, believe me, but I do occasionally ponder on life and death. So sue me.

Additionally, I am aware that the reality of what will happen is very likely to be totally different from what I am about to suggest, so this is just an imagining. It has no bearing on my life as it is now, or the manner and location of my passing from it, as it will be. Now that that's clear, on with the show.

There have been some news stories recently about second generation immigrants returning to their countries of origin. I can also verify from people I know that this is a definite and real phenomenon. Who can blame them? Lying in a hammock on a beach in Mauritius, for example, is an attractive prospect. People I have spoken to are tired of London (I'm still undecided as to whether I agree that this means they are also tired of life, but that's maybe a debate for another day) and are yearning for a different vibe - a place and a way of living which is less aggressive and enervating. The general demeanour of the city has changed, they say, and it is not a pleasant place in which to live. People are rude, there is no conversation and no human contact, just a headlong rush to grab as much money as possible in as short a time as they can.

For myself, though London still (mostly) excites me more than it depresses me, I have thought often of where I would like to end up. It's important for me to make the distinction between the twilight years, the peaceful wind-down of older age, and the actual final 15 minutes, the time of life's fading.

Shropshire is my ancestral home, the place where I grew into adulthood, but I have no pressing urge to return there as yet - even if it were to be an economically viable option. In any case, Shropshire is deficient in the one thing I would find important in a life of relaxation, and that is: the sea. The only seas in Shropshire are seas of wheat, beet, maize and oilseed rape, and I would dearly love to be able to take a dip each day in salt water - though I wouldn't wish for a tropical climate - being fully prepared to endure a cooler winter. I don't see myself as a Daily Mail and sangria ex-pat type, but more of a Graham Greene type - reading, writing, sipping a carajillo, chugging on a cohiba and chatting to friends while knee deep in warm Mediterranean water. Maybe later, a game of backgammon and some tapas at a street cafe.

As to the crux of the matter - the sticking point if you will - I see myself on a grassy bank, staring up at a clear blue sky on a spring morning. If I turn my head, I can see the branches of trees moving in the wind and the long stems of grass gently brush and tickle my cheek. There is a skylark's song, insistent and ascending to the heavens. And I am gone.

L'hamster est mort, vive le rat

Poor old Alexander the Great passed away recently. He has featured on here before. His was a brief candle, though it burned only at one end (the end where you're trying to watch a movie and he's making a god-awful incessant racket on his plastic wheel) and he will be sadly missed. I feel a little culpable, in that he may have starved to death. It's hard to be sure really, as he would (as is normal, I hear) hoard his food in his nest amongst his own shit and piss, so his food bowl was frequently empty. He was not easy to tame and would bite the bejesus out of your fingers at every opportunity, so that my kids took to wearing Marigolds while playing with him.

Anyway, I endeavoured to bury him yesterday, but after about 2 weeks of constant sun, the ground had hardened to iron. I only had a stick - and a slender one at that. It didn't seem appropriate to use one of the kids' beach spades while they were watching, and this also negated my first plan which was to tip him along with the stinking contents of his cage (somehow a large blowfly had managed to get in there) into the palladins outside the flat. I therefore reverted to my druidic heritage and made a stone cairn, decorated with a silver screw from someone's bike I think. I also painstakingly etched his name into a piece of slate, but it pissed down overnight and my efforts were erased. Though the cairn still stood! My fears of foxes, cats, feral wolf kidults from Islington, etc. went unrealised.

So farewell Alexander. Never again.

I also bought myself a new MFD, which certainly gave what The Sun used to call VFM, though no doubt I will be grabbed by the consumables in the end. A couple of years ago, I bought an Epson Photo Deluxe Ultra-Shit 2.3 or something and it cost me somewhere in the region of £80. The one I bought today is an HP Photosmart 4280 and includes scanner, copier and printer. Not only that, but it has 11 (count 'em!) different memory card slots.

Cost? £44.99! Toner cartridges are approx. £40 the pair. Problem: the better the printer, the more you print. The damned cartridges are the same size and design as a referee's whistle, though I couldn't find a pea in there. I assume therefore that they won't last very long. Not even as long as Alexander.