May I live simply that others may simply live.
Gandhi
Friday, December 22, 2006
Christ Ma’s Lights
Week Twelve: Sunday 17 December – Saturday 23 December
Every time I walk along the street where we live it feels less and less like Christmas. Yet the street is lit and decorated with ‘Christmas lights’. So why doesn’t it feel Chrismassy? Because the street resembles Blackpool with the amount of flickering, twikering multi-coloured lights hanging from here, there and everywhere.
What’s that all about? Christmas? Behave. We celebrate Christmas in the middle of winter. Winter is a down time in the calendar; when it is cold and dark and the earth is still and quiet.
So should we all be: settling down with family, warm and still; food and drink in the cupboards, some treats around the tree.
Housebound, family time. Have a good Christmas.
Every time I walk along the street where we live it feels less and less like Christmas. Yet the street is lit and decorated with ‘Christmas lights’. So why doesn’t it feel Chrismassy? Because the street resembles Blackpool with the amount of flickering, twikering multi-coloured lights hanging from here, there and everywhere.
What’s that all about? Christmas? Behave. We celebrate Christmas in the middle of winter. Winter is a down time in the calendar; when it is cold and dark and the earth is still and quiet.
So should we all be: settling down with family, warm and still; food and drink in the cupboards, some treats around the tree.
Housebound, family time. Have a good Christmas.
Monday, December 18, 2006
Walking In A Winter Wonderland (aka Why Cars Are Bad)
Week Eleven: Sunday 10 December – Saturday 16 December
One of the nice things about being a student is the holiday time. Granted I have a lot of work to do for my course over the next four (three now!) weeks, but being around without classes or work has meant that I have been able to do other things. Money may be scarce, but it doesn’t stop there being plenty to occupy my time.
The nicest thing I’ve done this past week is take my daughter to nursery, and collect her too. That’s when you get a sharp realisation that you really are a father.
Women, well my wife for one, know they are mothers from the moment they find out they are pregnant; probably before. In fact women are born to be mothers, so they know. But men? We’re slower to things generally than women. I mean, I know I am a father; but you really know when you take and collect your daughter (or son) from nursery for the first time.
Along with that moment of no less than profound realisation was an enormous sense of satisfaction. What can be better than walking along the road with your child, taking them to nursery? I don’t get the whole ‘kids are such a hassle thing’; if you feel like that, don’t have them.
I love being a father and I love being with my daughter. If I was economically secure I’d hang out with her as long as she wanted me too. Children are the greatest thing going; you’ve can't not love being with them. You learn so much and they are great teachers.
I enjoy the pleasure of my daughter’s company immensely and our relationship is extra special because of the father-daughter dance that we play on a daily basis.
The first time I collected my daughter from nursery school last week she was insistent that we walk home. I was fine with that, although Falmouth is a hilly town and can be a tiring walk for an adult never mind a not yet three year old. So, of we set.
I decided to take her a different route from the one her mama usually takes her, so we made a detour through some back streets and ended up at the top of Jacobs Ladder steps. Steep and slippery as they are, we tramped down them, counting them as we went. One hundred and thirteen!
The steps take you into the heart of Falmouth town: The Moor. Before I could say a word my daughter had her bearings and was leading me to a café where I had taken her a couple of weeks previously to see the switching on of the Christmas lights. Can we go inside for a drink she asked me; how could I refuse? So, in we went. Orange juice for her, latte for me.
It was starting to get late, dark and chilly by the time we left the café; my wife would be starting to wonder where we were, so best get a bus from here I thought. My daughter thought differently.
She wanted to go and look at the stalls that were set up in the centre of The Moor, so off we went. We stopped at a lovely stall selling beautiful Italian produce from ‘the boot of Italy’. We sampled olives, olive oil soaked in Italian bread, cheese and salami. I also sampled some sixteen percent proof wine from the same region as the food and poured from a five litre plastic water bottle as it is not a wine that gets bottled. We chatted to the Italian running the stall, learnt about olive oil and made a purchase.
Now it really was getting dark and cold and I really did think I should get my child home; but again she had other ideas. Let’s go to the library and you can read me a story, like mama does. So, the library it was. The Italian had topped up my glass of wine before I left the stall, so I walked into the library with a full (plastic) glass of potent red wine, sat down with my daughter and read her two stories. Nobody batted an eyelid; they just smiled.
When we left the library and got outside I was tempted to go back to the Italian stall for another glass of wine (why is it that home grown, local wine, served from a large plastic container tastes better than anything out of a bottle?), but again my daughter called the shots.
The art gallery is next door to the library, and you can draw pictures in the art gallery. It seemed silly not to! I phoned my wife at that point to let her know I was being led a merry little dance by our daughter, and loving every minute of it. And off to the art gallery we did go.
Nearing half five by this point, having been collected at three-thirty, we left the art gallery only because they were closing. Best get home I thought. My daughter agreed, but first a trip to the health food shop. We didn’t have anything specific to buy, but she loves it in there. Why not?
When it came to the big hill you have to climb to get to our house my daughter was finally beginning to tire. Up on my shoulders and off we went, eventually getting home just after six o’clock.
All the while we were on our journey, from the moment I collected my daughter from nursery, we chatted, sang, laughed, played and joked. It was a priceless few hours having simple fun with my daughter; money couldn’t buy it, nothing could compare to it.
If I was working I wouldn’t be around to have times like that. If my wife was working she wouldn’t be around to have times like that (albeit diluted) on a daily basis – an all three of us would be worse off emotionally and spiritually.
If we were a little better off and had a car, I might have picked my daughter up from nursery, but she’d have been straight into the car and straight home. We’d have missed out on our walk in winter wonderland, and again would have been worse off for it where it counts.
These are the good times!
One of the nice things about being a student is the holiday time. Granted I have a lot of work to do for my course over the next four (three now!) weeks, but being around without classes or work has meant that I have been able to do other things. Money may be scarce, but it doesn’t stop there being plenty to occupy my time.
The nicest thing I’ve done this past week is take my daughter to nursery, and collect her too. That’s when you get a sharp realisation that you really are a father.
Women, well my wife for one, know they are mothers from the moment they find out they are pregnant; probably before. In fact women are born to be mothers, so they know. But men? We’re slower to things generally than women. I mean, I know I am a father; but you really know when you take and collect your daughter (or son) from nursery for the first time.
Along with that moment of no less than profound realisation was an enormous sense of satisfaction. What can be better than walking along the road with your child, taking them to nursery? I don’t get the whole ‘kids are such a hassle thing’; if you feel like that, don’t have them.
I love being a father and I love being with my daughter. If I was economically secure I’d hang out with her as long as she wanted me too. Children are the greatest thing going; you’ve can't not love being with them. You learn so much and they are great teachers.
I enjoy the pleasure of my daughter’s company immensely and our relationship is extra special because of the father-daughter dance that we play on a daily basis.
The first time I collected my daughter from nursery school last week she was insistent that we walk home. I was fine with that, although Falmouth is a hilly town and can be a tiring walk for an adult never mind a not yet three year old. So, of we set.
I decided to take her a different route from the one her mama usually takes her, so we made a detour through some back streets and ended up at the top of Jacobs Ladder steps. Steep and slippery as they are, we tramped down them, counting them as we went. One hundred and thirteen!
The steps take you into the heart of Falmouth town: The Moor. Before I could say a word my daughter had her bearings and was leading me to a café where I had taken her a couple of weeks previously to see the switching on of the Christmas lights. Can we go inside for a drink she asked me; how could I refuse? So, in we went. Orange juice for her, latte for me.
It was starting to get late, dark and chilly by the time we left the café; my wife would be starting to wonder where we were, so best get a bus from here I thought. My daughter thought differently.
She wanted to go and look at the stalls that were set up in the centre of The Moor, so off we went. We stopped at a lovely stall selling beautiful Italian produce from ‘the boot of Italy’. We sampled olives, olive oil soaked in Italian bread, cheese and salami. I also sampled some sixteen percent proof wine from the same region as the food and poured from a five litre plastic water bottle as it is not a wine that gets bottled. We chatted to the Italian running the stall, learnt about olive oil and made a purchase.
Now it really was getting dark and cold and I really did think I should get my child home; but again she had other ideas. Let’s go to the library and you can read me a story, like mama does. So, the library it was. The Italian had topped up my glass of wine before I left the stall, so I walked into the library with a full (plastic) glass of potent red wine, sat down with my daughter and read her two stories. Nobody batted an eyelid; they just smiled.
When we left the library and got outside I was tempted to go back to the Italian stall for another glass of wine (why is it that home grown, local wine, served from a large plastic container tastes better than anything out of a bottle?), but again my daughter called the shots.
The art gallery is next door to the library, and you can draw pictures in the art gallery. It seemed silly not to! I phoned my wife at that point to let her know I was being led a merry little dance by our daughter, and loving every minute of it. And off to the art gallery we did go.
Nearing half five by this point, having been collected at three-thirty, we left the art gallery only because they were closing. Best get home I thought. My daughter agreed, but first a trip to the health food shop. We didn’t have anything specific to buy, but she loves it in there. Why not?
When it came to the big hill you have to climb to get to our house my daughter was finally beginning to tire. Up on my shoulders and off we went, eventually getting home just after six o’clock.
All the while we were on our journey, from the moment I collected my daughter from nursery, we chatted, sang, laughed, played and joked. It was a priceless few hours having simple fun with my daughter; money couldn’t buy it, nothing could compare to it.
If I was working I wouldn’t be around to have times like that. If my wife was working she wouldn’t be around to have times like that (albeit diluted) on a daily basis – an all three of us would be worse off emotionally and spiritually.
If we were a little better off and had a car, I might have picked my daughter up from nursery, but she’d have been straight into the car and straight home. We’d have missed out on our walk in winter wonderland, and again would have been worse off for it where it counts.
These are the good times!
Thursday, December 14, 2006
Quote Of The Week – # 7
The word politics is derived from the word ‘poly’ meaning ‘many’, and the word ‘ticks’ meaning blood sucking parasites.
Larry Hardiman
Larry Hardiman
Roots Rock Reggae
Week Ten: Sunday 3 December – Saturday 9 December
If music is the universal language, then reggae is its most widely spoken dialect. So says ‘Putumayo Presents World Reggae’ in the blurb that comes with the cd. How do I know? Because I bought the cd.
Term had ended, the course night out had left me with a head that felt like my brain had been used as a football, and I was out getting some fresh air and doing some grocery shopping.
I popped into the Natural Store to buy some organic and Fair Trade goodies and before I knew where I was my feet were tapping and my hips were swaying to the beats playing in the shop. Possibly still under the influence from the previous nights partying, but, be that as it may, the music had me.
Sashaying on up to the counter to pay for my goods, a sign greeted me that said ‘Now Playing – Putamayo Presents World Reggae. I had been sure that the tunes I could hear were reggae tunes, but they had an unusual sound to them so I wasn’t sure. But I was sure that I was sold on the sound.
The blurb also says, ‘reggae’s bouncing bass lines seem to compel listeners to join in the groove.’ I couldn’t agree more and my reaction in the shop is testimony to that fact.
I love reggae music: it plays a big part in my life and has done so since I sat listening to Bob Marley sing Exodus some fifteen years ago; the immortal lines, ‘Open your eyes and look within, are you satisfied with the life your living?’ resonated deep within my psyche and changed my life forever.
I devoured Marley after that; listening to as much of his music as possible, reading about him and watching documentaries on him too. The more I listened, read and watched the more I came to love the man with the coolest named backing band in the history of music –The Wailers.
Apart from the obvious delights of the sound of reggae, what drew me in were the words of the songs, the messages and intent. Reggae comes from the heart and has meaning. Again the blurb that comes with the World Reggae cd confirms that: ‘but while reggae has an engaging beat you can dance to, the music alone is not the sole reason for its worldwide popularity; reggae has also long been a tool for social and political discourse. The irresistible offbeat shuffle and powerful social messages of reggae have earned it fans around the globe.’
Again, I’m in complete agreement. Stumbling across the World Reggae cd is a true serendipitous event for me. There was a time, after I first got drawn into the world of Bob Marley & The Wailers, that I only listened to Bob. It wasn’t long though before I gravitated to other reggae artists: Pete Tosh, Jimmy Cliff, Toots Hibbert, Leroy Sibbles, Bunny Wailer, Gregory Issacs … and so the list goes on.
And now I’ve gravitated on to world reggae. Reggae got soul!
If music is the universal language, then reggae is its most widely spoken dialect. So says ‘Putumayo Presents World Reggae’ in the blurb that comes with the cd. How do I know? Because I bought the cd.
Term had ended, the course night out had left me with a head that felt like my brain had been used as a football, and I was out getting some fresh air and doing some grocery shopping.
I popped into the Natural Store to buy some organic and Fair Trade goodies and before I knew where I was my feet were tapping and my hips were swaying to the beats playing in the shop. Possibly still under the influence from the previous nights partying, but, be that as it may, the music had me.
Sashaying on up to the counter to pay for my goods, a sign greeted me that said ‘Now Playing – Putamayo Presents World Reggae. I had been sure that the tunes I could hear were reggae tunes, but they had an unusual sound to them so I wasn’t sure. But I was sure that I was sold on the sound.
The blurb also says, ‘reggae’s bouncing bass lines seem to compel listeners to join in the groove.’ I couldn’t agree more and my reaction in the shop is testimony to that fact.
I love reggae music: it plays a big part in my life and has done so since I sat listening to Bob Marley sing Exodus some fifteen years ago; the immortal lines, ‘Open your eyes and look within, are you satisfied with the life your living?’ resonated deep within my psyche and changed my life forever.
I devoured Marley after that; listening to as much of his music as possible, reading about him and watching documentaries on him too. The more I listened, read and watched the more I came to love the man with the coolest named backing band in the history of music –The Wailers.
Apart from the obvious delights of the sound of reggae, what drew me in were the words of the songs, the messages and intent. Reggae comes from the heart and has meaning. Again the blurb that comes with the World Reggae cd confirms that: ‘but while reggae has an engaging beat you can dance to, the music alone is not the sole reason for its worldwide popularity; reggae has also long been a tool for social and political discourse. The irresistible offbeat shuffle and powerful social messages of reggae have earned it fans around the globe.’
Again, I’m in complete agreement. Stumbling across the World Reggae cd is a true serendipitous event for me. There was a time, after I first got drawn into the world of Bob Marley & The Wailers, that I only listened to Bob. It wasn’t long though before I gravitated to other reggae artists: Pete Tosh, Jimmy Cliff, Toots Hibbert, Leroy Sibbles, Bunny Wailer, Gregory Issacs … and so the list goes on.
And now I’ve gravitated on to world reggae. Reggae got soul!
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
Quote Of The Week – # 6
You can achieve anything you want in life if you have the courage to dream it, the intelligence to make a realistic plan, and the will to see that plan to its end.
Mark Twain
Mark Twain
Always Take The Weather
Week Nine: Sunday 26 November – Saturday 2 December
The wind has fairly battered Falmouth these past few days; the rain has been in close attendance, taking advantage of the all angled gales to give everything a good drenching.
It would appear that Falmouth has actually gotten off lightly compared to many other parts of the British Isles. Dumfriesshire, where we were living prior to moving to Cornwall, has been hit especially hard; the banks of the river Nith, that runs through Dumfries town, burst and flooded the one of the mains streets.
So, all in all, we haven’t done too badly down in this little nodule tucked away in the south-west. But that hasn’t stopped it feeling quite horrific at times.
I am one of those sleepers who take a fair bit of wakening once I’ve found my dream like space and am happily in the land of nod, waltzing through my subconscious in search of a peaceful place. Although I have become a lighter sleeper since I became a father, preparation for the days to come when my daughter is creeping in at ungodly hours, trying to disguise how late and how drunk she is, it still takes a lot to wake me up once my head is well and truly down. But I’ve been woken by the storms every night for the last four nights.
Each time I’ve woken it has been a little disturbing. The first night I woke I thought for a second or two as if I was in New Orleans, such was the ferocity with which the wind was hurtling down, round, up and down the street where I live, with the rain literally lashing every crevice it could find.
Having gathered my senses and remembered where I was, I couldn’t get back to sleep for a while; first of all just listening to the power being exercised by nature, and then thinking about just how bloody tragic and frightening it must have been to actually have been in New Orleans.
How lucky we are, not just to be protected from the worst the weather has to offer but to actually have a roof over our heads. We take so much for granted in this life; it is such a tragic flaw of the human creation that we don’t spend our time grateful for what we do have, instead bemoaning what we don’t.
The other nights I have been woken, and kept awake, by the storms I have lain in bed and wondered just what nature makes of the human abuses of the planet these last 250 odd years, and just how much it intends to reek it’s revenge now or in the not too distant future. Time will tell.
One thing for sure, after finding out how battered and bruised the rest of the British Isles has been, my wife no longer feels that she always takes the weather with her. After spending the first 38 years of her life in southern Africa, she has spent the last five with me in Portugal, Scotland and now England. In both Portugal and Scotland we were told upon arrival that the weather was the wettest/coldest/windiest for many a long year and my wife thought she had a bad weather curse. She was beginning to feel the same about England when the wind raised its ugly head; she doesn’t any more.
The ‘curse’ has been broken and we are happy, and grateful, to be alive.
The wind has fairly battered Falmouth these past few days; the rain has been in close attendance, taking advantage of the all angled gales to give everything a good drenching.
It would appear that Falmouth has actually gotten off lightly compared to many other parts of the British Isles. Dumfriesshire, where we were living prior to moving to Cornwall, has been hit especially hard; the banks of the river Nith, that runs through Dumfries town, burst and flooded the one of the mains streets.
So, all in all, we haven’t done too badly down in this little nodule tucked away in the south-west. But that hasn’t stopped it feeling quite horrific at times.
I am one of those sleepers who take a fair bit of wakening once I’ve found my dream like space and am happily in the land of nod, waltzing through my subconscious in search of a peaceful place. Although I have become a lighter sleeper since I became a father, preparation for the days to come when my daughter is creeping in at ungodly hours, trying to disguise how late and how drunk she is, it still takes a lot to wake me up once my head is well and truly down. But I’ve been woken by the storms every night for the last four nights.
Each time I’ve woken it has been a little disturbing. The first night I woke I thought for a second or two as if I was in New Orleans, such was the ferocity with which the wind was hurtling down, round, up and down the street where I live, with the rain literally lashing every crevice it could find.
Having gathered my senses and remembered where I was, I couldn’t get back to sleep for a while; first of all just listening to the power being exercised by nature, and then thinking about just how bloody tragic and frightening it must have been to actually have been in New Orleans.
How lucky we are, not just to be protected from the worst the weather has to offer but to actually have a roof over our heads. We take so much for granted in this life; it is such a tragic flaw of the human creation that we don’t spend our time grateful for what we do have, instead bemoaning what we don’t.
The other nights I have been woken, and kept awake, by the storms I have lain in bed and wondered just what nature makes of the human abuses of the planet these last 250 odd years, and just how much it intends to reek it’s revenge now or in the not too distant future. Time will tell.
One thing for sure, after finding out how battered and bruised the rest of the British Isles has been, my wife no longer feels that she always takes the weather with her. After spending the first 38 years of her life in southern Africa, she has spent the last five with me in Portugal, Scotland and now England. In both Portugal and Scotland we were told upon arrival that the weather was the wettest/coldest/windiest for many a long year and my wife thought she had a bad weather curse. She was beginning to feel the same about England when the wind raised its ugly head; she doesn’t any more.
The ‘curse’ has been broken and we are happy, and grateful, to be alive.
Monday, November 27, 2006
Where It’s At
Week Eight: Sunday 19 – Saturday 25 November
Wandering home the other day, I was wondering about life and my place in the ‘grand scheme of things’: as you do. I was somewhat consumed by my thoughts, so much so that I walked past the gate to my house.
I was only jolted out of my self-imposed hypnosis when I heard my daughter calling my name; she had been waiting for me and had opened the front door and called on me, despite being only 2¾s, when I walked past.
As I opened the gate, she ran down the couple of steps and threw herself into my arms as I bent down to meet her. Once inside the house I realised why she had been particularly keen to see me home that day.
She had painted two pictures at nursery, using paint for the first time in her wee short life. Both pictures were sitting on the kitchen table, waiting for me to admire. And admire them I did.
My daughter had a big smile on her face and her eyes were brighter than usual as I studied her artistry and complimented her on her talents. As I sat down to look at the pictures more closely, still wearing my damp coat and hat, my daughter clambered into my lap and explained what she had drawn and which picture was for ‘Papa’ and which for ‘Mama’.
It was a good five minutes or more before I removed my hat and coat and said good evening to my wife. Then I got some blu-tack and, with my daughter's input, chose two places to stick up the two wonderful works of art.
After sticking up the paintings, I sat down to sip a cup of tea in between cuddling and kissing my daughter who had returned to my lap and was drawing her next masterpiece on a piece of scrap paper.
It was then I came back to my earlier thoughts and was reminded that no matter how little I know, and I know very little, about the who, what, where, why and when of life, being the father of my child is where it is at for me.
Senseless as I find much of life, confused by what it is all about, my daughter brings me my meaning and purpose. Being responsible for a young life is one thing, but being around a young life is an altogether other thing. It is nothing short of a joy and pleasure to witness the unbridled, innocent existence of a child as they exist 100% in the here and now.
I also believe that the happiest child, the most secure and confident, is the one that has the love, attention, support, focus and time of both parents; as a result my wife also brings purpose and meaning to my life. We are both committed to the task of doing the very best we can by our child; not materially, not even financially, but humanly.
It’s where it’s at!
Wandering home the other day, I was wondering about life and my place in the ‘grand scheme of things’: as you do. I was somewhat consumed by my thoughts, so much so that I walked past the gate to my house.
I was only jolted out of my self-imposed hypnosis when I heard my daughter calling my name; she had been waiting for me and had opened the front door and called on me, despite being only 2¾s, when I walked past.
As I opened the gate, she ran down the couple of steps and threw herself into my arms as I bent down to meet her. Once inside the house I realised why she had been particularly keen to see me home that day.
She had painted two pictures at nursery, using paint for the first time in her wee short life. Both pictures were sitting on the kitchen table, waiting for me to admire. And admire them I did.
My daughter had a big smile on her face and her eyes were brighter than usual as I studied her artistry and complimented her on her talents. As I sat down to look at the pictures more closely, still wearing my damp coat and hat, my daughter clambered into my lap and explained what she had drawn and which picture was for ‘Papa’ and which for ‘Mama’.
It was a good five minutes or more before I removed my hat and coat and said good evening to my wife. Then I got some blu-tack and, with my daughter's input, chose two places to stick up the two wonderful works of art.
After sticking up the paintings, I sat down to sip a cup of tea in between cuddling and kissing my daughter who had returned to my lap and was drawing her next masterpiece on a piece of scrap paper.
It was then I came back to my earlier thoughts and was reminded that no matter how little I know, and I know very little, about the who, what, where, why and when of life, being the father of my child is where it is at for me.
Senseless as I find much of life, confused by what it is all about, my daughter brings me my meaning and purpose. Being responsible for a young life is one thing, but being around a young life is an altogether other thing. It is nothing short of a joy and pleasure to witness the unbridled, innocent existence of a child as they exist 100% in the here and now.
I also believe that the happiest child, the most secure and confident, is the one that has the love, attention, support, focus and time of both parents; as a result my wife also brings purpose and meaning to my life. We are both committed to the task of doing the very best we can by our child; not materially, not even financially, but humanly.
It’s where it’s at!
Monday, November 20, 2006
What The Blog Is This About?
Week Seven: Sunday 12 – Saturday 18 November
I’ve been doing some thinking about, talking over, and researching, ‘blog’ these past few days; I’m more than a little disconcerted. What is it all about?
I write this blog as part of the MA Professional Writing course that I am doing at University College Falmouth; if I wasn’t required as part of the course, I seriously wouldn’t bother. I don’t see the point.
What is blog? How many are worth reading? Is it worth the time it takes?
It seems blog is like an on-line diary; share your news, views, feelings and thoughts with the world. But try searching for one worth reading; invisible needles in hay mountains springs to mind. And there is so much else better to do than read other peoples desperate cries for help masquerading as witty, insightful, meaningful blog musings.
It strikes me that most bloggers need counselling; I don’t mean that sarcastically, I mean it in all sincerity. With the odd notable exception, what you get by and large is an outpouring from insecure, needy, unsure people with questionable levels of self-esteem, worth and confidence. Or you get very banal, mundane, prosaic diaries.
I don’t want to get into the minds of all the emotionally disturbed and troubled souls out there: God forbid. I know large swathes of the human race are troubled, disconcerted and confused; I don’t need blog to know that. And I have never had any great desire to read what amounts to complete and utter stranger’s diary. I read my sisters diary once, but that was only because she specifically told me not to;I was at that age. I also read an ex-girlfriends diary once, but that was when I was an insecure, paranoid twenty something and I had convinced myself she was cheating on me.
But, read the diary entries of complete and utter strangers? No thanks; especially when you throw in the fact that most of them are badly written, incoherent, disturbing and saddening.
Even if peoples blogs were by and large highly entertaining and riveting, isn’t there better, much, much, better things to do with your time? Like interact with real, live, human beings; people you can see, smell and touch. People in the same room, in the street, next door, in a shop, café, pub or park. Family, friends. There are also many things to read that have gone through some sort of editing and quality assurance process; like books, magazines, newspapers, et cetera. Why blog?
I can see the point as part of a professional writing course in so much as it makes us write; it is a bit like exercising your fingers on the keys before playing something serious at the piano. So, it has merit from that point of view. But, it has been suggested to us that blog may be a way to get noticed as a writer, to get published! Never say never, but I don’t see it.
And so I’ll blog on; once a week I’ll write my musings on being ‘a float in Falmouth’ for a year. But, I can think of many, many better things that I’d much rather do. And as for reading other people’s blogs: unless someone can give me a cast iron testimonial that it is an entertaining, thought provoking, moving and educational read – forget it!
I’ve been doing some thinking about, talking over, and researching, ‘blog’ these past few days; I’m more than a little disconcerted. What is it all about?
I write this blog as part of the MA Professional Writing course that I am doing at University College Falmouth; if I wasn’t required as part of the course, I seriously wouldn’t bother. I don’t see the point.
What is blog? How many are worth reading? Is it worth the time it takes?
It seems blog is like an on-line diary; share your news, views, feelings and thoughts with the world. But try searching for one worth reading; invisible needles in hay mountains springs to mind. And there is so much else better to do than read other peoples desperate cries for help masquerading as witty, insightful, meaningful blog musings.
It strikes me that most bloggers need counselling; I don’t mean that sarcastically, I mean it in all sincerity. With the odd notable exception, what you get by and large is an outpouring from insecure, needy, unsure people with questionable levels of self-esteem, worth and confidence. Or you get very banal, mundane, prosaic diaries.
I don’t want to get into the minds of all the emotionally disturbed and troubled souls out there: God forbid. I know large swathes of the human race are troubled, disconcerted and confused; I don’t need blog to know that. And I have never had any great desire to read what amounts to complete and utter stranger’s diary. I read my sisters diary once, but that was only because she specifically told me not to;I was at that age. I also read an ex-girlfriends diary once, but that was when I was an insecure, paranoid twenty something and I had convinced myself she was cheating on me.
But, read the diary entries of complete and utter strangers? No thanks; especially when you throw in the fact that most of them are badly written, incoherent, disturbing and saddening.
Even if peoples blogs were by and large highly entertaining and riveting, isn’t there better, much, much, better things to do with your time? Like interact with real, live, human beings; people you can see, smell and touch. People in the same room, in the street, next door, in a shop, café, pub or park. Family, friends. There are also many things to read that have gone through some sort of editing and quality assurance process; like books, magazines, newspapers, et cetera. Why blog?
I can see the point as part of a professional writing course in so much as it makes us write; it is a bit like exercising your fingers on the keys before playing something serious at the piano. So, it has merit from that point of view. But, it has been suggested to us that blog may be a way to get noticed as a writer, to get published! Never say never, but I don’t see it.
And so I’ll blog on; once a week I’ll write my musings on being ‘a float in Falmouth’ for a year. But, I can think of many, many better things that I’d much rather do. And as for reading other people’s blogs: unless someone can give me a cast iron testimonial that it is an entertaining, thought provoking, moving and educational read – forget it!
Monday, November 13, 2006
Quote Of The Week – # 3
There is a tide in the affairs of men,
Which taken at the flood leads on to fortune.
William Shakespeare
Which taken at the flood leads on to fortune.
William Shakespeare
Back In An Old Routine
Week Six: Sunday 5 – Saturday 11 November
Week six of our year in Falmouth, which, lovely as Falmouth is, just doesn’t have the same ring to it as our ‘year in Provence’, ended with me working a gruelling sixteen hour shift from 1.00pm on Saturday night till 4.00am on Sunday morning.
One of my elder brothers manages a restaurant in Newquay; they were hosting a charity function for 180 people and were short of staff. I got the call; what could I do? He’s my brother, and besides the money would come in handy for a poor impoverished student with a wife and child to feed.
It has been a while since I was behind a bar serving drinks and out on ‘the floor’ serving a large function; tiring as it was, I really enjoyed being back in the swing of things. Although it was a long day and night, and catering is a young person’s game.
In my time I have worked in many, and managed a few, bars and restaurants; it is a physically and mentally demanding and exhausting job. It always irritates and annoys me how badly recognised catering staff are in the British Isles. People who have never spent so much as a night in the job assume it is easy: well, you just put plates in front of people, or pour drinks; how difficult can that be? It’s not like a proper job.
The catering industry, whether behind the bar, waiting, or in the kitchen, is a tough game; very few people do it well or crack it – because it’s hard. Your body never stops moving and your brain never stops working. Your establishment is only as good as it’s last service, and your job is to make sure people have a good time; an enjoyable meal and/or evening.
Catering is performance art; it is theatre. When it is done well, with good staff, it is a pleasure to be a part of; that’s how it was on Saturday night. When I woke up on Sunday my body was feeling the aches and pains: but it was worth it; it’s an incredibly satisfying profession to be involved in and the people in the business are a pleasure to be around. I just wish the British public generally would show far more respect for them.
The down side to the catering game (aside from the hours, poor wages, rude and un-appreciative public, physical demands, et cetera) is the wastage. So much food and drink goes to waste; it may be bought and paid for, but it borders on criminal. I actually find it offensive: of course you can’t wrap it up and send it to starving people all over the world; but when you consider how many people on the planet are starving, and you think about how much food gets thrown away uneaten in a place like the British Isles … well it is sick.
Another thing that I have trouble getting my head round is the whole charity event concept. I don’t know how much was raised for the charity at the event I worked at, and it’s always nice for people to have an opportunity to get their glad rags on, have a bite to eat and a swallow a few drinks. Charity functions are also good business for the catering industry, especially at this time of year in Cornwall. But, no matter how much was raised, I’m sure far, far more would have been raised if everyone who attended had donated all the money they ended up spending on outfits, taxis, the meal, and drinks and stayed at home instead.
It’s a strange, perverse, world we exist in; when I think about it.
Week six of our year in Falmouth, which, lovely as Falmouth is, just doesn’t have the same ring to it as our ‘year in Provence’, ended with me working a gruelling sixteen hour shift from 1.00pm on Saturday night till 4.00am on Sunday morning.
One of my elder brothers manages a restaurant in Newquay; they were hosting a charity function for 180 people and were short of staff. I got the call; what could I do? He’s my brother, and besides the money would come in handy for a poor impoverished student with a wife and child to feed.
It has been a while since I was behind a bar serving drinks and out on ‘the floor’ serving a large function; tiring as it was, I really enjoyed being back in the swing of things. Although it was a long day and night, and catering is a young person’s game.
In my time I have worked in many, and managed a few, bars and restaurants; it is a physically and mentally demanding and exhausting job. It always irritates and annoys me how badly recognised catering staff are in the British Isles. People who have never spent so much as a night in the job assume it is easy: well, you just put plates in front of people, or pour drinks; how difficult can that be? It’s not like a proper job.
The catering industry, whether behind the bar, waiting, or in the kitchen, is a tough game; very few people do it well or crack it – because it’s hard. Your body never stops moving and your brain never stops working. Your establishment is only as good as it’s last service, and your job is to make sure people have a good time; an enjoyable meal and/or evening.
Catering is performance art; it is theatre. When it is done well, with good staff, it is a pleasure to be a part of; that’s how it was on Saturday night. When I woke up on Sunday my body was feeling the aches and pains: but it was worth it; it’s an incredibly satisfying profession to be involved in and the people in the business are a pleasure to be around. I just wish the British public generally would show far more respect for them.
The down side to the catering game (aside from the hours, poor wages, rude and un-appreciative public, physical demands, et cetera) is the wastage. So much food and drink goes to waste; it may be bought and paid for, but it borders on criminal. I actually find it offensive: of course you can’t wrap it up and send it to starving people all over the world; but when you consider how many people on the planet are starving, and you think about how much food gets thrown away uneaten in a place like the British Isles … well it is sick.
Another thing that I have trouble getting my head round is the whole charity event concept. I don’t know how much was raised for the charity at the event I worked at, and it’s always nice for people to have an opportunity to get their glad rags on, have a bite to eat and a swallow a few drinks. Charity functions are also good business for the catering industry, especially at this time of year in Cornwall. But, no matter how much was raised, I’m sure far, far more would have been raised if everyone who attended had donated all the money they ended up spending on outfits, taxis, the meal, and drinks and stayed at home instead.
It’s a strange, perverse, world we exist in; when I think about it.
Monday, November 06, 2006
Quote Of The Week – # 2
Human beings are but a brief moment in the continuous flow of life, not its end point.
Unknown
Unknown
Trick Or Treat Fireworks
Week Five: Sunday 29 – Saturday 4 November
Having lived in the countryside for the last three years, and abroad for a couple of years before that, I had forgotten all about another example of the not so subtle Americanisation of British culture – trick or treat.
I always remember having a house party at Hallowe’en when I was young. If people came in fancy dress they made it themselves, they didn’t buy it from a shop. We lit candles, paid our respects to the living and the dead, and ‘dooked’ for apples, ate treacle scones from string hanging from the ‘pulley’, and played various party games.
I don’t remember going round the houses shouting ‘trick or treat’ and shoving a carrier back under the occupants nose in the hope of having it filled with chocolate (or ‘candy’, as the Americans say). I don’t remember ever having heard the term until I watched the film (or ‘movie’, as the Americans say) Halloween – and I only watched that for Jamie Lee Curtis!
I do remember going round the houses a few days after Hallowe’en, on the 4th November, to ask for a ‘penny for the guy’. You had to have made an effigy of Guy Fawkes and be carting it about in a wheel barrow to be entertained at all; you also had to recite a poem, tell a joke, sing a song, do a jig, or provide a combination of all four to stand any chance of getting any money. Even then, there were no guarantees. All money collected was handed over to an adult to buy you fireworks for Bonfire Night the next day.
But, this ‘trick or treat’ business is new to me; and I’m highly dubious. We knew all about Guy Fawkes and what what we were doing represented; we also had to work for our reward. I don’t think the vast majority of youngsters who chap doors and chant ‘trick or treat’, with a carrier bag thrust out in front of them, have any idea what Hallowe’en is all about. And they just stand there waiting to be rewarded with chocolate; like they don’t all eat enough of the stuff all year round anyway!
Anyway, the children who chapped my door on Hallowe’en weren’t the only ones getting muddled about their festivals. I let off a few fireworks when my door kept getting chapped every five minutes by children thrusting carrier bags in my face as I answered, and squealing ‘trick or treat.’
I asked the first few if they knew what they were doing, or if they knew what Hallowe’en was about. After a few awkward shuffles and embarrassed silences they either repeated their mantra and thrust the bag ever more forcefully at me, or walked away with a bemused look on their face that I could clearly see even though they had a ghoulish plastic mask on.
After that I put a sign on the door saying ‘No Trick Or Treat – Unless You Can Tell Me The Significance’. Our door never got chapped again, and I think word has got round the neighbourhood that it’s true about Scottish people: they are mean!
Bah humbug! Or is that another festival that’s lost all semblance of meaning?
Having lived in the countryside for the last three years, and abroad for a couple of years before that, I had forgotten all about another example of the not so subtle Americanisation of British culture – trick or treat.
I always remember having a house party at Hallowe’en when I was young. If people came in fancy dress they made it themselves, they didn’t buy it from a shop. We lit candles, paid our respects to the living and the dead, and ‘dooked’ for apples, ate treacle scones from string hanging from the ‘pulley’, and played various party games.
I don’t remember going round the houses shouting ‘trick or treat’ and shoving a carrier back under the occupants nose in the hope of having it filled with chocolate (or ‘candy’, as the Americans say). I don’t remember ever having heard the term until I watched the film (or ‘movie’, as the Americans say) Halloween – and I only watched that for Jamie Lee Curtis!
I do remember going round the houses a few days after Hallowe’en, on the 4th November, to ask for a ‘penny for the guy’. You had to have made an effigy of Guy Fawkes and be carting it about in a wheel barrow to be entertained at all; you also had to recite a poem, tell a joke, sing a song, do a jig, or provide a combination of all four to stand any chance of getting any money. Even then, there were no guarantees. All money collected was handed over to an adult to buy you fireworks for Bonfire Night the next day.
But, this ‘trick or treat’ business is new to me; and I’m highly dubious. We knew all about Guy Fawkes and what what we were doing represented; we also had to work for our reward. I don’t think the vast majority of youngsters who chap doors and chant ‘trick or treat’, with a carrier bag thrust out in front of them, have any idea what Hallowe’en is all about. And they just stand there waiting to be rewarded with chocolate; like they don’t all eat enough of the stuff all year round anyway!
Anyway, the children who chapped my door on Hallowe’en weren’t the only ones getting muddled about their festivals. I let off a few fireworks when my door kept getting chapped every five minutes by children thrusting carrier bags in my face as I answered, and squealing ‘trick or treat.’
I asked the first few if they knew what they were doing, or if they knew what Hallowe’en was about. After a few awkward shuffles and embarrassed silences they either repeated their mantra and thrust the bag ever more forcefully at me, or walked away with a bemused look on their face that I could clearly see even though they had a ghoulish plastic mask on.
After that I put a sign on the door saying ‘No Trick Or Treat – Unless You Can Tell Me The Significance’. Our door never got chapped again, and I think word has got round the neighbourhood that it’s true about Scottish people: they are mean!
Bah humbug! Or is that another festival that’s lost all semblance of meaning?
Monday, October 30, 2006
People Or Planet
Week Four: Sunday 22 – Saturday 28 October
Whoosh! Where did the month go? I knew my time in Falmouth with my wife and daughter would go fast; I didn’t realise it would go this fast. My body still feels like I just emptied a van of belongings into a house, after first loading them into the van and driving the van for ten hours. But that was four weeks ago. Four weeks, just like that.
Time is a relative thing, that’s for sure. I mean all time is a consistent measure: every second lasts the same length of time; sixty seconds always makes a minute and sixty minutes always makes an hour. So time should be constant, but it is anything but. Five minutes spent in the company of a bore can feel like an hour; an hour spent in the company of someone fascinating can seem like five minutes.
Anyway, whatever time is or isn’t, does or doesn’t, this last month feels like it has past very quickly. Maybe I am just getting older, technically middle aged, so all time seems faster because I have less of it to spend. I’ve lived more of my life than I have left to live, so it feels like it is going faster. Just like a cup of tea, a biscuit or a meal appears to get finished more quickly when there is less than half of it left.
Although, it’s questionable just how long any of us have got left on planet earth. These days I constantly see references to ‘saving the planet’ and ‘the destruction of the planet’.
But are they not completely false and misleading statements? Is the reality not that yes the human race is damaging the planet, but once that damage reaches a certain point then the planet will no longer be able to sustain human life?
When that happens humans will start to die in large numbers, possibly even being wiped out completely. At that point the planet will begin to make an immediate, if not full, recovery. So it’s not the planet that is at risk: the human race is destroying it, but only up to the point where it will no longer sustain human life.
I think there is massive confusion about this issue: it needs clarity and people need to understand the reality. The human race is in real danger of extinction; the planet, while battered and bruised by human treatment over the last 250 odd years, is in no real danger of ceasing to exist.
The other statement that got me recently was that, due to our lifestyles, the human race needs three planets to live on. But in just over a hundred years the human population of earth has more or less tripled; so regardless of our lifestyles, it makes sense for us to need three planets because there is three times as many of us than there has ever been before.
It’s the human race then that clearly needs to be saved, not the planet. And the way to save the human race appears to be by reducing our numbers and stopping those of us who do from treating the planet with complete and utter contempt and disrespect.
So no chance then!
Whoosh! Where did the month go? I knew my time in Falmouth with my wife and daughter would go fast; I didn’t realise it would go this fast. My body still feels like I just emptied a van of belongings into a house, after first loading them into the van and driving the van for ten hours. But that was four weeks ago. Four weeks, just like that.
Time is a relative thing, that’s for sure. I mean all time is a consistent measure: every second lasts the same length of time; sixty seconds always makes a minute and sixty minutes always makes an hour. So time should be constant, but it is anything but. Five minutes spent in the company of a bore can feel like an hour; an hour spent in the company of someone fascinating can seem like five minutes.
Anyway, whatever time is or isn’t, does or doesn’t, this last month feels like it has past very quickly. Maybe I am just getting older, technically middle aged, so all time seems faster because I have less of it to spend. I’ve lived more of my life than I have left to live, so it feels like it is going faster. Just like a cup of tea, a biscuit or a meal appears to get finished more quickly when there is less than half of it left.
Although, it’s questionable just how long any of us have got left on planet earth. These days I constantly see references to ‘saving the planet’ and ‘the destruction of the planet’.
But are they not completely false and misleading statements? Is the reality not that yes the human race is damaging the planet, but once that damage reaches a certain point then the planet will no longer be able to sustain human life?
When that happens humans will start to die in large numbers, possibly even being wiped out completely. At that point the planet will begin to make an immediate, if not full, recovery. So it’s not the planet that is at risk: the human race is destroying it, but only up to the point where it will no longer sustain human life.
I think there is massive confusion about this issue: it needs clarity and people need to understand the reality. The human race is in real danger of extinction; the planet, while battered and bruised by human treatment over the last 250 odd years, is in no real danger of ceasing to exist.
The other statement that got me recently was that, due to our lifestyles, the human race needs three planets to live on. But in just over a hundred years the human population of earth has more or less tripled; so regardless of our lifestyles, it makes sense for us to need three planets because there is three times as many of us than there has ever been before.
It’s the human race then that clearly needs to be saved, not the planet. And the way to save the human race appears to be by reducing our numbers and stopping those of us who do from treating the planet with complete and utter contempt and disrespect.
So no chance then!
Monday, October 23, 2006
Shout The House Down
Week Three: Sunday 15 – Saturday 21 October
So much for Sunday being the day of rest and relaxation. This week Sunday was spent doing work for my course: I am studying writing, so you have to write, as well as read, a great deal to make any sort of progress.
It can be difficult to settle down to do either seriously when your daughter is jumping about, itching to be entertained and occupied. That complication is added to when, in the true tradition of writers, so I’m led to believe, and happy to concur with, I find myself more than willing to entertain and occupy my daughter rather than knuckle down to the 'serious business'.
Wife to the rescue – as normal! She took my daughter and herself off for a long walk somewhere; hopefully somewhere nice, but anywhere really that could occupy a few hours and enable me to have some peace and make some progress. Or at least get some work down.
Despite the realisation of the marked difference between writing casually and writing for the purposes of passing a writing course and becoming a professional writer, I did get some work done.
I even managed a text conversation with my nephew who was at Easter Road in Edinburgh, watching my beloved Hibernian FC play our archrivals and city neighbours Heart of Midlothian FC. We (Hibs) were two up after twenty odd minutes: I bashed the keyboard with glee as I contemplated the final score; it ended up two apiece! Life is a roller coaster, Ronan Keating tells us; so can ninety-minutes of football be!
The other main event of the week was our daughter’s first day at nursery. She was booked in for a half-day on the Tuesday afternoon. We did all the preparatory work beforehand, so we thought. We talked about it with her in enthusiastic tones and made sure, so we believed, that she knew what was going to happen.
It was a rite of passage all round. My wife has been a full-time mother since our daughter was born, except for a four month stint when she worked twenty-hours a week while her mother visited us from Zimbabwe and took on the traditional role of Gogo (Sindebele for grandmother). While I have been the main breadwinner, I have been a very involved father and so our daughter has not had too much unattached time away from either of us.
All went well at the nursery until my wife explained to our daughter that she was leaving her for a couple of hours with the nice lady and lovely children. Before she was out of earshot of the building she could hear our sweet, gentle, innocent child shouting at the top of her voice in a deep, angry tone that a poltergeist would be proud of.
One half of my wife was cursed with pain at what our child was suffering; the other half with an unbridled urge to run in to the nursery, grab our daughter and never show face again. Being a man, she spared me the detail until I got home that evening; my fragile sensitivities would not have been able to cope.
At least we now know, without question, that our little miss has a voice, and she isn’t afraid to use it. I pity the first boy who crosses her!
It turned out our daughter was, eventually, repossessed of her more natural, pleasant nature and settled down; her second visit, on the Thursday afternoon, produced only a few tears before she joined in with all the activities. By Thursday night she was asking me to come along the next time so she could show me where she goes.
If only adults could relearn to live in the moment, good, bad or indifferent, like children do, and then move on without harm, damage or grudges.
So much for Sunday being the day of rest and relaxation. This week Sunday was spent doing work for my course: I am studying writing, so you have to write, as well as read, a great deal to make any sort of progress.
It can be difficult to settle down to do either seriously when your daughter is jumping about, itching to be entertained and occupied. That complication is added to when, in the true tradition of writers, so I’m led to believe, and happy to concur with, I find myself more than willing to entertain and occupy my daughter rather than knuckle down to the 'serious business'.
Wife to the rescue – as normal! She took my daughter and herself off for a long walk somewhere; hopefully somewhere nice, but anywhere really that could occupy a few hours and enable me to have some peace and make some progress. Or at least get some work down.
Despite the realisation of the marked difference between writing casually and writing for the purposes of passing a writing course and becoming a professional writer, I did get some work done.
I even managed a text conversation with my nephew who was at Easter Road in Edinburgh, watching my beloved Hibernian FC play our archrivals and city neighbours Heart of Midlothian FC. We (Hibs) were two up after twenty odd minutes: I bashed the keyboard with glee as I contemplated the final score; it ended up two apiece! Life is a roller coaster, Ronan Keating tells us; so can ninety-minutes of football be!
The other main event of the week was our daughter’s first day at nursery. She was booked in for a half-day on the Tuesday afternoon. We did all the preparatory work beforehand, so we thought. We talked about it with her in enthusiastic tones and made sure, so we believed, that she knew what was going to happen.
It was a rite of passage all round. My wife has been a full-time mother since our daughter was born, except for a four month stint when she worked twenty-hours a week while her mother visited us from Zimbabwe and took on the traditional role of Gogo (Sindebele for grandmother). While I have been the main breadwinner, I have been a very involved father and so our daughter has not had too much unattached time away from either of us.
All went well at the nursery until my wife explained to our daughter that she was leaving her for a couple of hours with the nice lady and lovely children. Before she was out of earshot of the building she could hear our sweet, gentle, innocent child shouting at the top of her voice in a deep, angry tone that a poltergeist would be proud of.
One half of my wife was cursed with pain at what our child was suffering; the other half with an unbridled urge to run in to the nursery, grab our daughter and never show face again. Being a man, she spared me the detail until I got home that evening; my fragile sensitivities would not have been able to cope.
At least we now know, without question, that our little miss has a voice, and she isn’t afraid to use it. I pity the first boy who crosses her!
It turned out our daughter was, eventually, repossessed of her more natural, pleasant nature and settled down; her second visit, on the Thursday afternoon, produced only a few tears before she joined in with all the activities. By Thursday night she was asking me to come along the next time so she could show me where she goes.
If only adults could relearn to live in the moment, good, bad or indifferent, like children do, and then move on without harm, damage or grudges.
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
The Seat Stays Up
Week Two: Sunday 8 – Saturday 14 October
Sunday is the traditional day of rest: despite any religious leanings it is a maxim that I like to embrace wholeheartedly, and my wife is right behind me on that one. So although there was still much to do in our new home, we decided that a home extends beyond the bricks and mortar of the walls and includes the surrounding area, the town where the home is based.
Sunday, then, was a day to get out and about to check out Falmouth and find out what treats, and tricks, lay in store. Besides, experience has shown us that your home takes shape regardless: all in good time. And we should know as the house we now find ourselves in is the eighth we have lived in since we married four-and-a-half short years ago.
We should learn to pay the rent more often! It’s actually nothing as sinister as that. We sold our flat in Edinburgh just after we were married and moved to Portugal, where we planned to set up a business and settle. A combination of an unexpected pregnancy and a lesson in Portuguese business brought us back to Scotland sooner than we anticipated; but not soon enough for house prices to have climbed beyond our means.
The lesson we learnt, the hard way as all the best lessons are allegedly learnt, in Portugal was that the only way to make a small fortune in that country is to make sure you start with a large one. You don’t so much learn it as get told it once your meagre savings have been dwindled away trying to get your business off the ground. And why would the Portuguese allow ‘strangerros’ to waltz into their beautiful and sunny country and start making a fortune instantly?
The truth is we would have returned to the British Isles anyway for the birth of our child; with house prices rising and our desire for our child to have a full-time mother for the first three years of life, renting was the only option.
Despite me getting a full-time teaching job in the local FE college, we quickly knew that Lockerbie would not be a long stay destination. It seems the town is known only, and universally, as the place where the plane exploded in the sky. It is a legacy anywhere would struggle to recover from; experience tells us that Lockerbie hasn’t, and may never.
A few months into my new job convinced us that not only Lockerbie, but also Dumfries & Galloway would not be a long stay destination. Lovely as the area is, work is limited and FE does not, as popularly believed, stand for Further Education, but Fucking ‘Ell. Ask anyone who knows anything about FE today.
Various circumstances contrived to force us to rent four different properties in Lockerbie in less than three years, twice as many as we rented in our two years in Portugal.
And so we find ourselves in home number eight. Each of our previous rented properties have eventually become a home and a happy place to be. There is no point rushing it. Better to get out and about. The first few journeys to and from University College Falmouth offered enough insight to suggest that our new town of residence has plenty to offer. My wife’s escapes from boxes, cleaning and organising told her the same thing.
The treats appear to be the friendliness of the locals and the laid back vibe against a backdrop of hustle and bustle; and, of course, the seascape and general location. The tricks are definitely the myriad of winding streets that would mislead a skilled orienteer. Cornwall is known as a place of smugglers, hiding their booty in the numerous coastal caves; they could have just as easily have hidden it in the labyrinth of streets as far as I am concerned.
The rest of the week saw more of the same for my wife, looking after our daughter and sorting our life out in our new home. For me, it brought another week of student life to digest and the redirected post full of bills to be settled; a stark reminder that bills need to be paid, whether you have an income or not, and a sobering thought as to the finances for this year of study. It looks like nursery beckons for our daughter and a full-time job for my wife.
There was also a sign above the toilet that read, ‘One out of eight ain’t bad – this seat stays up. Forget at your peril’.
I’ve been warned!
Sunday is the traditional day of rest: despite any religious leanings it is a maxim that I like to embrace wholeheartedly, and my wife is right behind me on that one. So although there was still much to do in our new home, we decided that a home extends beyond the bricks and mortar of the walls and includes the surrounding area, the town where the home is based.
Sunday, then, was a day to get out and about to check out Falmouth and find out what treats, and tricks, lay in store. Besides, experience has shown us that your home takes shape regardless: all in good time. And we should know as the house we now find ourselves in is the eighth we have lived in since we married four-and-a-half short years ago.
We should learn to pay the rent more often! It’s actually nothing as sinister as that. We sold our flat in Edinburgh just after we were married and moved to Portugal, where we planned to set up a business and settle. A combination of an unexpected pregnancy and a lesson in Portuguese business brought us back to Scotland sooner than we anticipated; but not soon enough for house prices to have climbed beyond our means.
The lesson we learnt, the hard way as all the best lessons are allegedly learnt, in Portugal was that the only way to make a small fortune in that country is to make sure you start with a large one. You don’t so much learn it as get told it once your meagre savings have been dwindled away trying to get your business off the ground. And why would the Portuguese allow ‘strangerros’ to waltz into their beautiful and sunny country and start making a fortune instantly?
The truth is we would have returned to the British Isles anyway for the birth of our child; with house prices rising and our desire for our child to have a full-time mother for the first three years of life, renting was the only option.
Despite me getting a full-time teaching job in the local FE college, we quickly knew that Lockerbie would not be a long stay destination. It seems the town is known only, and universally, as the place where the plane exploded in the sky. It is a legacy anywhere would struggle to recover from; experience tells us that Lockerbie hasn’t, and may never.
A few months into my new job convinced us that not only Lockerbie, but also Dumfries & Galloway would not be a long stay destination. Lovely as the area is, work is limited and FE does not, as popularly believed, stand for Further Education, but Fucking ‘Ell. Ask anyone who knows anything about FE today.
Various circumstances contrived to force us to rent four different properties in Lockerbie in less than three years, twice as many as we rented in our two years in Portugal.
And so we find ourselves in home number eight. Each of our previous rented properties have eventually become a home and a happy place to be. There is no point rushing it. Better to get out and about. The first few journeys to and from University College Falmouth offered enough insight to suggest that our new town of residence has plenty to offer. My wife’s escapes from boxes, cleaning and organising told her the same thing.
The treats appear to be the friendliness of the locals and the laid back vibe against a backdrop of hustle and bustle; and, of course, the seascape and general location. The tricks are definitely the myriad of winding streets that would mislead a skilled orienteer. Cornwall is known as a place of smugglers, hiding their booty in the numerous coastal caves; they could have just as easily have hidden it in the labyrinth of streets as far as I am concerned.
The rest of the week saw more of the same for my wife, looking after our daughter and sorting our life out in our new home. For me, it brought another week of student life to digest and the redirected post full of bills to be settled; a stark reminder that bills need to be paid, whether you have an income or not, and a sobering thought as to the finances for this year of study. It looks like nursery beckons for our daughter and a full-time job for my wife.
There was also a sign above the toilet that read, ‘One out of eight ain’t bad – this seat stays up. Forget at your peril’.
I’ve been warned!
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
The Missing Barometer
Week One: Sunday 1 - Saturday 7 October 2006
We arrived in Falmouth around eleven o'clock at night in a hired van full of our belongings; 'we' being my wife, our daughter and, of course, myself. It was a ten hour drive from our previous home/life in Lockerbie, Scotland, including no less than six stops to allow our daughter to banish her continually mounting, and literal, cabin fever.
After we drove through the streets attempting to locate the house that was to be our new home for a year, my thoughts turned to emptying the van as quickly as possible and getting some sleep in order to be as alert as possible for my new start first thing on Monday morning.
With our little one now fast asleep across the passenger seats, and our belongings being relatively meagre, I was upbeat about being in and having a mattress, at least, down within the hour.
The plans of mice and men!
The front door opened as I approached and our new landlady stumbled out, hands full of bags and with her ten-day-old baby boy strapped to her front. She appeared hot wired to Red Bull as she welcomed us, ushered us in and disappeared off to her hire van.
It wasn’t what we wanted or expected. If my heart was sinking, it crashed through the pit of my feet as I walked in and surveyed the scene. It appeared she only began to move out the second she saw our van approach. To make matters worse, her Spanish husband was lying sleeping against the living room wall; working off another boozy session in celebration at the birth of his son. Fair play, but timing’s not just everything in comedy.
How were we going to get anything in at all, never mind in an hour or so, when they hadn’t begun to move out yet? In true coping in a crisis style we managed it. My wife and I passed the landlady at the doorway of the house like ships in the night going through the Panama Canal as we shuttled between respective vans laden with our respective belongings.
Another problem was that what appeared to be meagre belongings when packed up in Scotland now appeared to be an articulated lorry full, coming from a magic lorry that never, ever empties no matter how long or fast you work to reach that goal! Relativity, eh!
However, by 2.00am the deed was done: we were in and they were out. By this time we had placed our daughter on a double mattress that was occupying the only available floor space; we crashed down beside her, more or less fully clothed, and got some much needed and well earned rest.
Relativity reared its less attractive side again as my mobile phone alarm woke me at what said 8.00am, but I was convinced I had only just shut my eyes!
Banging into boxes, walking into walls, and opening the wrong doors I washed and dressed desperately trying not to wake my nearest and dearest. I was as subtle and silent as a blind hippo on roller skates.
And so to our new life, my new start. Not a job. No, that would be too easy. Work has gone for a year and I am back at university, having sworn never to return after doing a post-graduate diploma twelve years ago.
So, no work, not much money, and almost no home – to call our own at least!
The rest of the week flew past. I skipped off to school everyday, getting to know my new classmates and teachers, and doing some work, while my wife stayed at home with our daughter and made sense of our boxes and belongings.
All the early indications are that it will be a pleasurable and quick year, for all three of us. The weekend came quicker than a belch after a fizzy drink and the week was full of positives. The students, the tutors, the college, Falmouth too, by now our home, all have a nice feel to them.
The only thing that broke the reverie was catching the news on the radio and dipping into the local paper. The former reminded me that there is a world out there struggling to come to terms with itself. The latter that Falmouth and Cornwall is not the utopia I was being lulled into believing it might be; it has its problems like anywhere else.
For my wife and I, the biggest indicator of how things will go is our daughter. She hasn’t shown any sign of missing anything from her ‘past’ life, and has been rushing about being the little miss we love and have come to know so well. The consensus, then, is that this has been the right move, at the right time, to the right place.
Amen to that!
We arrived in Falmouth around eleven o'clock at night in a hired van full of our belongings; 'we' being my wife, our daughter and, of course, myself. It was a ten hour drive from our previous home/life in Lockerbie, Scotland, including no less than six stops to allow our daughter to banish her continually mounting, and literal, cabin fever.
After we drove through the streets attempting to locate the house that was to be our new home for a year, my thoughts turned to emptying the van as quickly as possible and getting some sleep in order to be as alert as possible for my new start first thing on Monday morning.
With our little one now fast asleep across the passenger seats, and our belongings being relatively meagre, I was upbeat about being in and having a mattress, at least, down within the hour.
The plans of mice and men!
The front door opened as I approached and our new landlady stumbled out, hands full of bags and with her ten-day-old baby boy strapped to her front. She appeared hot wired to Red Bull as she welcomed us, ushered us in and disappeared off to her hire van.
It wasn’t what we wanted or expected. If my heart was sinking, it crashed through the pit of my feet as I walked in and surveyed the scene. It appeared she only began to move out the second she saw our van approach. To make matters worse, her Spanish husband was lying sleeping against the living room wall; working off another boozy session in celebration at the birth of his son. Fair play, but timing’s not just everything in comedy.
How were we going to get anything in at all, never mind in an hour or so, when they hadn’t begun to move out yet? In true coping in a crisis style we managed it. My wife and I passed the landlady at the doorway of the house like ships in the night going through the Panama Canal as we shuttled between respective vans laden with our respective belongings.
Another problem was that what appeared to be meagre belongings when packed up in Scotland now appeared to be an articulated lorry full, coming from a magic lorry that never, ever empties no matter how long or fast you work to reach that goal! Relativity, eh!
However, by 2.00am the deed was done: we were in and they were out. By this time we had placed our daughter on a double mattress that was occupying the only available floor space; we crashed down beside her, more or less fully clothed, and got some much needed and well earned rest.
Relativity reared its less attractive side again as my mobile phone alarm woke me at what said 8.00am, but I was convinced I had only just shut my eyes!
Banging into boxes, walking into walls, and opening the wrong doors I washed and dressed desperately trying not to wake my nearest and dearest. I was as subtle and silent as a blind hippo on roller skates.
And so to our new life, my new start. Not a job. No, that would be too easy. Work has gone for a year and I am back at university, having sworn never to return after doing a post-graduate diploma twelve years ago.
So, no work, not much money, and almost no home – to call our own at least!
The rest of the week flew past. I skipped off to school everyday, getting to know my new classmates and teachers, and doing some work, while my wife stayed at home with our daughter and made sense of our boxes and belongings.
All the early indications are that it will be a pleasurable and quick year, for all three of us. The weekend came quicker than a belch after a fizzy drink and the week was full of positives. The students, the tutors, the college, Falmouth too, by now our home, all have a nice feel to them.
The only thing that broke the reverie was catching the news on the radio and dipping into the local paper. The former reminded me that there is a world out there struggling to come to terms with itself. The latter that Falmouth and Cornwall is not the utopia I was being lulled into believing it might be; it has its problems like anywhere else.
For my wife and I, the biggest indicator of how things will go is our daughter. She hasn’t shown any sign of missing anything from her ‘past’ life, and has been rushing about being the little miss we love and have come to know so well. The consensus, then, is that this has been the right move, at the right time, to the right place.
Amen to that!
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