Opportunities multiply as they are seized.
Sun Tzu
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?
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