Afloat In Falmouth

Love and Yellow Teeth

2008-07-07T18:19:00.003Z

My wife left me recently, and took my daughter with her. It was an emotional time all round. I had not long since arrived back from my holiday in Morocco when we received a phone call that left my wife with no other option but to go.

Her mum died suddenly after suffering a massive stroke. She hadn't been well, but at 66 was still young. Zimbabwe, the land of wife's birth, though, is currently a difficult enough place to live in, far less be ill in, never mind have to die in.

Within 24 hours of getting the call Toni and Kumali were off to Zimbabwe. Kumali was very philosophical, as only a child can be, when she was told she was going to Zimbabwe with her Mama.

"Are we going to see Ya-ya*? *Granny in Ndebele

"No, sweetheart. Ya-ya has gone to the angels and we're going to say good-bye."

"Oh, do you mean she's died?"

"Yes, that's right. Ya-ya has died."

"I love Ya-ya. I'll miss her."

Despite the multiple difficulties involved in trying to navigate everyday life in Zimbabwe the funeral took place without a hitch. It was a sombre affair for the few surviving members of Toni's family who attended. Many have long since gone to other countries as part of the economic diaspora; many others have gone the same way as Daphne.

Toni and Kumali spent 3 weeks in Bulawayo in total. Kumali was in her element. She loved playing with her 2 big cousins, Kimberley and Russell, and their 2 dogs, as well as being (weather and space) able to play outdoors for hours on end in the garden. She also met many other people who first met her 4 years ago as a 10 month-old baby, and did lots of other wonderful things, like see lions being fed and help feed monkeys and deer at Chipangali Wildlife Orphange.

Toni helped her brother, Conrad, start the process of going through their mother's affairs and estate. She also found time to chill out, taking stock of Zimbabwe and the passing of her mother, following her father's death just over 7 years ago.

One of the most philosophical of people I know when it comes to death, Toni felt at ease at her mother's passing. That was no surprise, what was a surprise was to hear her say she nearly phoned and told me to pack up and come over and join them.

She has spent 6 years out of Africa, ten out of Zimbabwe, 4 of those years having being spent in Scotland and England. 85+% unemployment, inflation out of control (£1 worth Z$15m on arrival and Z$35m on departure - and they've already taken 3 '0's off the currency), food, power and petrol as scarce as gold, disease, violence and intimidation ... the negatives go on. And all that going on hand-in-hand with the complete collapse of around 10 million people into desperation. Despite all that Toni'd rather be there than in the 'United Kingdom.' Food for thought.

Kumali would love to live in Zimbabwe. She loved her time there. As always when we are apart for more than 2 0r 3 days she has 'changed' during our absence from one another. A new development, edge, side, complexity, character trait, et al.

She's come back noticing my physical failings more than before, or not being afraid to mention them. The best line of all to remind me of my own gradual demise?

"Papa, you've got yellow teeth. But I still love you."

Dogs on heat, cats on pizza and bees back in town

2008-05-29T19:19:00.003Z

I have just returned from a holiday to Morocco, via Spain. The idea was to drive through Spain and into Morocco, then head for the Atlas mountains. The VW Syncro camper van my friend Andrew and I were travelling in had other ideas. It broke down outside Granada, leaving us no option but to be towed to Malaga where we spent 4 days trying to get the engine fixed. On day 5 the prognosis was that a new engine was required. Arrangements were made and we then set off for Morocco on foot, time and Atlas mountain plans severely hampered.

Bummer. But it wasn't all bad.

Being stuck in the heart of the Costa del Sol coastline comes a close second to my idea of ultimate hell - being stuck in Las Vegas. But by taking the attitude that we were determined to make the most of the situation and stay positive, all was not lost.

As two British men with mixed race African partners, our partners are cousins, and each with a mixed race daughter, also cousins, we felt relaxed about observing and commenting on the many wonderful mixed race combinations that thrive in harmony in southern Spain. Being fathers to ladies in waiting, we were particularly interested in the many female beauties of mixed race that proliferate in the region. All research strictly from a father/daughter perspective!

The other bonus in Spain was the warmth and kindness bestowed on us by the locals. We were aided by Fedde, an aeroplane mechanic with good English who has a passion for VW camper vans. He took us to the workshop where he spends his free time rebuilding cars, and the owners, Paco sen and Paco jnr, made us feel like family. They catered for our every need with grace and courtesy and went out of their way to help get the engine fixed. Paco jnr also introduced us to his 15 cats and let us help him feed them their daily dose of pizza.

I've never spent time in Spain with Spanish people before, or needed their help and assistance. I can't fault them. The Spaniards we encountered were kind, witty and caring. What a marvellous race of people. I love Spain and Spaniards.

Not having the camper van, and with less time, options to explore Morocco were reduced. We opted to stay in Chefchaouen, on the edge of the Rif mountains, and explored the countryside around and about every day. The Rif seem to get overlooked as the Atlas mountains dwarf them, and because it is the region where all of Morocco's cannabis is grown. Sure, we saw plenty 'kif' growing boldly yet privately, and got a tour of a farm by the owner, a former French teacher. But we also walked and drove through endless beautiful scenery of hills, rivers and valleys and could easily have stayed for much longer without leaving the region.

Thanks to the openness of the Moroccans we learned a lot about the country, too. While being slowly surrounded by what I though were wasps as I sipped on my sweet mint tea and tried to remain calm, I was relieved to the point of spraying my mouthful of tea all over the place when I was told they were actually bees. I had been at the point of dropping my tea and bolting as Moroccan bees look just like British wasps and my nerve was cracking. Of all the many things I learned, that was the most personally satisfying facts.

The bees had been killed off by a tree spraying regime a few years ago, but they were making a comeback and that was something for all Moroccans to rejoice. Bees are important to all humans for their ability to pollinate, but especially important to Moroccans as honey is a staple of their diet.

I also witnessed the 5 times a day call to prayer for the first time, and experienced watching a football match (Champions League Final) in a bar full of men of all ages without a drop of alcohol being consumed. A far less intimidating experience, and, ironically enough, a very sobering one.

And the food! Tangines, keftas, cous-cous, yogurt, honey, fresh orange juice .... all of it wonderful, wonderful food.

I've heard places like Fez and Marakesh can be a hustle and hassle too far, and while I'd like to visit them when I return to Morocco, as I surely will, I'm glad to have missed out this time round. I got an easy, gentle introduction into life Morocco style where basically everyone is happy so long as they are huckling you and getting you to part with your money. A little for everyone makes life far less complex! Yet I still got stung several times, every time I made a purchase probably.

And why not? Moroccans are fascinating, Moroccan men anyway, I never spoke to one Moroccan female. They are bold and brassy, proud and sure. They and their country captivated me, charmed me and convinced me to return again one day.

Food Shortages Make Me Sick

2008-05-02T10:40:00.003Z

The media is full of stories of rising food prices and the possibility of tens, if not hundreds, of millions of people around the world facing severe hunger and possible starvation as a result.

The reason given for the rising prices is food shortages. Food shortages? Who is anyone kidding? Does anyone genuinely believe that there is a shortage of food on planet earth?

In the last house they lived in, my parents had a small apple tree. Every year they would make apple jam, jelly, pies, cakes, tarts, juice: anything they could think of to use up the apples. They gave apples away, took them to the local donkey sanctuary for feed. No matter what they made and did with the apples, they could never use them all up. From one small tree.

In the little village I called home when I lived in Portugal every garden had half a dozen orange trees. Everyone who lived in the village was overdosing on vitamin c, yet the ground around the trees were littered with fallen, rotting oranges that no-one could use. It was the same in every village I visited.

Nature is abundant and naturally provides vast quantities of all kinds of foods.

Then there is the grotesque wastage of food from cafes, bars, restaurants, supermarkets and homes throughout the more than plentiful world, where the only thing that is scarce is a sense of decency and morality.

Of course you can't parcel up all the wasted food from those that have far too much and post it to those who are starving to death. But you can be under no illusion that the only reason people go hungry is because of politics and economics: it's got nothing to do with scarcity.

It all smacks of a global agenda to push the unreal food industry that make genetically modified seeds and plants, etc. If a few million of the world's poorest people have to suffer and die, so be it. The planet is awash with humans like never before, life is cheap and the poor are easily expendable. Nothing stands in the way of global corporations and their agendas.

It's enough to make me sick?

Saints Alive

2008-04-29T11:20:00.003Z

Last week, on Wednesday 23 April, the nation of England celebrated St George's Day. At Kumali's nursery the children were all asked to come in wearing red and white clothing, and they spent the day drawing and learning about castles, dragons and knights in shiny armour atop horses.

Now, despite being born and bred up the road in Scotland, I had no real objection to this show of Englishness. After all my parents are both London born and bred, and I like to think I am more mature these days when it comes to issues of nationality. As the Scots would say, "We're a' Jock Tamson's bairns." Loosely translated: one race, the human race.

But I decided to do a bit of checking into St George, and the other saints of the British Isles.

It turns out St George may not even have existed at all, and he almost certainly never slayed any dragon . If he was real, he was at best Turkish and was brought to England's attention by the Crusaders. Bottom line is he had nothing whatsoever to do with England.

I don't gloat writing that. St Andrew, Scotland's patron saint, had no links with Scotland. He was, allegedly, one of Jesus's apostles and his death inspired the national flag of Scotland, the Saltire, as he felt unworthy being crucified in the same way as Jesus so asked for a diagonal cross.

Ireland's saint, Patrick, was born in Scotland, lived in England and was imprisoned by the Irish! Only my own favourite, Saint David, the Welsh patron saint had any real connection with Wales. A man after my own heart, St David's last words were apparently, "Do the little things in life."

So what are all these saints about, why are they celebrated and isn't about time they, in line with all else in the world today, were updated and modernised? A Dr Ian Bradley, reader in practical theology and church history at St Andrew's University, thinks so. He is campaigning for the adoption of a new saint to unite the British Isles, and the man he has in line is St Aidan, Apostle of Northumbria.

Aidan was born in Ireland, educated in Scotland and lived in England, goes the argument, so he is representative of Britain. Except Wales!

None of it makes much sense to me, and in multi-cultural Britain, and bearing in mind the chances of us all being either Muslims or Taoists in the next 50 years, it seems we all need to be thinking a bit further out the box.

Tears For Zimbabwe

2008-04-19T13:39:00.007Z

Having been fortunate enough to have lived in Zimbabwe, and even more fortunate to have married a beautiful Zimbabwean, I have more cause than most white British people to follow the fortunes of that amazing southern African country.

All too sadly the fortunes of Zimbabwe have been almost entirely trampled into the ground by the man who has presided over the country for the last 28 years. There was much that was wrong with the regime that Mugabe and his political party, Zanu PF, replaced back in 1980. But economically the country that was Rhodesia and became Zimbabwe was vibrant. One Zimbabwean dollar was worth one British pound and the country was able to feed it's people and export food to other African countries. And various other agricultural based products, most notably tobacco and flowers, also had a plentiful world market.

By the mid-90s you needed 20 Zim dollars to equal the value of one British pound. Fast forward to now and nobody really knows how many dollars make a pound. A loaf of bread alone, if you're lucky enough to be able to buy one, costs hundreds of thousands of dollars. Over 80% of the population don't have a job, life expectancy is pegged around 40, and every associated ill that comes with abject poverty is rife.

In the surreal parallel world of sickness that we currently inhabit, you can however dine on lobster, or any delicacy you fancy, in the five star hotels and restaurants in the capital Harare - providing you have the foreign currency to pay for it.

One man, and one man alone is responsible for the situation that Zimbabwe finds itself in. He blames white people with an all too familiar dogmatic, repetitive rhetoric. No question former colonial rulers have plenty to be ashamed of, but the ruin that is currently Zimbabwe is not of their making. The truth is clear, though.

You could talk for hours about the ills and woes of Robert Gabriel Mugabe and the way he 'rules', and I, and many others, have often in the past with family, friends and fellow Zimbabwe lovers. Suffice to say that I don't believe there are enough chemicals in existence that could be concocted into a drug strong enough to enable the 'president' to rest his weary, weary head at the end of each and every day. The greatest irony is that, aside from the fact he had long had no obvious issue with 'white people', Mugabe has become a caricuture of the worst embodiment of former white colonial rules in Africa.

The people of Zimbabwe have patiently and law abidingly used their electoral right to make it clear to Mugabe that his time is up over the last 3 or 4 elections going back 10 years. Most recently at the election 3 weeks ago that everyone is still waiting for clear results from. The man is not listening: he has made it clear, in words and actions, that as long as he is alive he doesn't intend to go anywhere or change anything.

Meanwhile the most vicious of Mugabe's tactics for maintaining power and control at all costs have long since been unleashed. Again, it is not worth pouring over it: it is all too familiar and predictable. Suffice it to say Mugabe is a man who has publicly stated many times that he has 'degrees in violence' and has no compunction about using them.

Until he dies, I can only see tears for 95% of the people of Zimbabwe and feel deep sadness for them, the countryside and the animals.

Planet, Or People, Facing Disaster?

2008-04-08T21:22:00.004Z

I can't be the only one who is mystified to the point of cynical about the constant and plentiful written and spoken references to impending 'disaster for the planet' and the urgent need to 'save the planet.' It's not that I don't think, feel and know that the human race appears to be 'hell' bent on a one race race to do as much damage as possible to the planet in the shortest amount of time since our time began. Is anybody in any doubt about that?

It's just that the idea of 'planetary disaster' and the need to 'save the planet' seems to be missing the (very obvious) point. It's not only factually inaccurate, as far as I can tell, it's actually the greatest fallacy of modern times. And if that ain''t enough, the messages are largely falling on deaf ears and closed minds anyway.

Ultimately I'm an optimist (actually I'm more of a hopeful idealist) and I've lived long enough to have started to learn that nobody really knows much about anything at all - including, or especially, what will or won't happen in the future. But that's not my point. My point is: assuming the worst case scenario, who is actually facing disaster and therefore needing saved, the planet or the people on the planet?

I'm not a betting man, merely an occasional and amateur flutterer, but my money would be on planet earth to be around longer than the human race. As far as I can tell, the worst we can do is damage the planet up to the point where it is at least in danger of no longer being able to sustain human life. If or when that were to happen, commonsense, rather than scientific theory, tells me that it would then be the human race that was facing 'disaster' and not the planet.

Call me a naive old hippy. Tell me we're the human 'race', and the race may be about to end. Tell me anything in between. But don't try and tell me that the human race today are any less inclined to want to ensure the 'survival of the species' that at any other time in our existence. As far as I'm aware, the human race can't survive in isolation from the very thing that keeps us alive: planet earth and the atmosphere.

If that's the truth, then what's with the government and the media?

Meaning In The Message

2008-04-01T12:50:00.008Z

I was sitting in a train station last week, minding my own business while waiting for a train.

There were two young teenage girls sitting across from me and an elderly man sitting two seats away from me. After a couple of minutes the two girls walked passed myself and the older man. As soon as they had passed, the man lent into my space and said, "Young girls today are asking for trouble, aren't they?"

In the second or two it took to turn and face this accuser I thought to myself, "No, why would he say that and what sort of sick bastard is he?" As I looked into his eyes, ready for a confrontation, he struck me as being a very gentle, caring person. I adjusted my frown to a sympathetic smile and my planned response to a far more accommodating, "I guess you could think that."

I hoped he would leave it at that, but he leaned back into my space, touched my arm and said, "I was accused of rape three years ago, you know." My shackles were back up. I decided I had been duped and the man must be bad news. Two questions came to mind: why had he chosen to engage with me on this topic and what was I going to do? I looked at him again. Again he looked kind and gentle, nonthreatening. "What happened?" I asked, drawing myself in.

"I was driving to Truro and a young girl stopped me and asked for a lift. I didn't see the harm in it, but next day the police were at my door because the girl had reported me for rape." As he recounted the story he didn't seem bitter or angry, sad if anything. I really felt he was a decent human being, but his opening gambit, aimed at two innocuous enough young girls, and now this revelation had me concerned that he was using me to offload his guilt on.

Even though I was expecting some sort of story of how the girl he gave a lift to was wearing a short skirt and low cut top so was practically gagging for it, I couldn't help but ask again, "What happened?" I added, to try and avoid the expected unsavoury detail, "Did it go to court?"

The old guy looked at me, smiled a wry smile and said, "No. I'm DSO"

He must have known what I was going to say next, he had drawn me in fine style so far, and I didn't disappoint him. "What's DSO?"

"I was in the army, fought in the war. DSO. It's an army term."

"What does it mean?"

"Dick Shot Off. I don't mean to embarrass you, but that's what happened. I couldn't have raped that lass if I'd wanted to. I've not got the equipment; haven't had since I was 23, I'm 88 now."

I was reeling a bit. It was a lot to take in in less than a minute worth of conversation with a total stranger. Accused of rape at 85 years of age after doing a kindly deed, having your dick shot off at the age of 23 while fighting in WWII ... the ramifications were stretching my mind.

"That's terrible.", was the best I could offer. Feeling the need, as I always do, to fill the silence I followed it up with, "So I take it you never married or had a family?"

The little, 88 year old man sitting before me smiled wryly again, then said, "No, I had a wife and child before that happened." What compelled me I don't know, perhaps the way he said the word 'had', but I asked if they were still alive. You just couldn't make it up.

"No, son. They died during the war. Our house was bombed by the Germans. My wife and son were inside it at the time. I was never told; only found out when I went back home on leave."

I think I was starting to go into a bit of mild shock. "I'm so sorry. That must have been devastating. What did you do, how did you cope?", I asked while imaging how I'd feel if I lost my wife and daughter in circumstances like that: in any circumstances.

"It's alright son.", he calmly assured me, "It was a long time ago now. I went back to war to fight the Germans with ferocity, then ended up DSO. My parents looked after me for a long time, then I looked after them. Now it's just me."

People tell me I wear my heart of my sleeve, I think I wear it on my face. As I tried to take in what had happened to this man as a youngster, to comprehend how he had coped with it throughout his life, to imagine how broken I'd be, he must have seen the pain and anguish in my expression. He lent over again, squeezed my arm, smiled and said, "It's okay, son. Just make sure you have a good life." Then he got up and wandered off.

I sat for a good while after he'd gone: eyes bulging, head nodding, mind racing.

The Times They May Be A Changing

2008-03-26T09:46:00.002Z

In amongst all the days of cold, wind and rain last week there was one warm, dry day. An ideal opportunity to take Kumali to the park after nursery to run around with exuberance and reconnect with the outside world after days indoors avoiding the weather. Always a good plan.

Not surprisingly a lot of other children and their parents had the same plan. The Bowly Park was jam packed with children, adults, bikes and balls. The only available play item was the slide to Kumali and I headed to that; not as good as the swings, but better than the see-saw.

Around the back of the slide, near the steps, a young boy of no more than four was lying on the grass, clutching a football, sobbing. His dad was near by, trying to coax him gently to get up and head for the car because it was time to go home. The wee lad was having none of it and he 'lost it' just as Kumali started to climb the steps on the slide.

He started telling his dad to 'get lost', 'shut up' and 'go away.' Then he screamed out, while he beat the ground with his clenched fists, "My life is boring. I never do anything. Watch telly, play on the computer. That's all I ever do. I WANT TO BE OUTSIDE."

Kumali nearly fell off the edge of the slide as she had reached the top step without looking, transfixed as she'd been by the little chaps outburst. I never noticed as I was staring at him too. But I couldn't help feeling better about the future of the human race afterwards.

If that wasn't enough positive affirmation for one day, I bought by weekly copy of The Big Issue and read an article in it about a youth court in one of the toughest neighbourhoods in Washington DC that started in 1996 and today deals with 70% of all non-violent crime committed by young first time offenders in the city.

The scheme's founder, Edgar Cahn, explains, "This is kids talking sense to kids ... every juror on the panel is a former offender who as part of their own sentence must spend 10 weeks on jury duty ... 'bad kids' are now doing more to reduce crime than the police, the prosecutors and the defence attorneys."

Now Cahn's an economist, so his scheme works because it's based on 'financial' reward. For every hour a child spends on jury they earn a 'time dollar.' When/if they build up enough they can trade them in for recycled computers, a gift certificate, etc. People, mainly, enjoy goals, challenges and something to aim for: a purpose and a reward.

It all sounds good, hopeful and uplifting to me!

If Less Is More, Why Is There More & More?

2008-03-19T10:45:00.003Z

No-one seems to know for sure where the phrase 'less is more' originated. It doesn't really matter all that much. What matters is that it's a cheeky little number as far as phrases go: it gets you thinking. And the more you think about the concept of less being more, the more (not less) it makes sense on a number of levels. So it's not only short and sweet, it's also deep and meaningful.

It has become quite the trendy statement to apply to any and all manner of things, from make-up to aid to poverty stricken countries. I got a lovely example of the simplistic beauty and truth behind the statement, 'less is more' when I had a couple of puffs on a joint for the first time in over a month.

For the best part of 15 years I was a habitual, almost everyday smoker of cannabis. Sometimes from mornings through till night, sometimes just at night. Once the first one had been lit there would be a joint every couple of hours at least, and every hour or less at most.

Over the last six years or so I have smoked dope less often and, therefore, in less quantity to the point where these days it is an occasional treat. Yesterday was one such occasional treat. I think I had four draws on a natural (as opposed to skunk) grass joint. A lovely sensation came over me: I felt happy, chatty and at peace - all the best hallmarks of a cannabis 'hit'. The effects lasted for a good four hours. I didn't have any more than four puffs of the joint, that's less than a quarter of it.

I used to easily smoke two joints all myself, one after the other!! Less IS more. All things in moderation, is another way of saying it.

Of course the temptation is then there to have more. That's where self-control comes into the equation: discipline - of the mind and emotions, not of the body with a whip and lots of black latex! Discipline's the key.

It has to be, otherwise how do you explain that while almost everyone universally agrees that less is more, and can give at least one profound personal example to validate the point, we live in a world where the vast majority of people just want more and more?

Bikes, Gears, Action!

2008-03-13T11:53:00.002Z

I own a mountain bike that I'm rather proud of. Well I'm happy with it, at least. I won it in a competition about eight years ago. I didn't use it all that much until I sold my car a year and more ago. It still looks new and works like new, too.

It's got 15 gears in all. That's enough for me. You can probably buy bikes with, oh, 4000 gears by now. Bikes with automatic gears that change constantly in relation to the speed you go at and the type of terrain you are cycling on. Well technology moves so faassst now, it wouldn't surprise me.

I'm no fan of technology. I don't see it as any kind of progress. I do use it though, although minimally compared to many/most people. But I'd appreciate a bike with automatic gears.

You see although it's quite simple to operate the gears on my bike, I can't seem to get it right. The gears are operated from the handlebars: left-hand down to operate the front three cogs and go faster (like revving up a motorbike), right-hand up to operate the back five cogs and go faster. The opposite process applies for slowing down and stopping, so the gears are in position to make it easy to start and speed up again.

Simple. Not for me. I keep losing momentum at crucial moments, and falling over from a standing position because I'm in 15th gear instead 1st! What an admission.

Come on the technologist who is working on automatic bikes: faster, faster!

The Great Recycling Myth

2008-03-05T10:42:00.004Z

"I do recycling." Have you heard someone say that recently? Maybe you yourself have uttered the words, or ones similar. There always appears to be a mild tinge of righteous indignation in the tone. As if all is well in the world, at least their world, because some paper, tins and plastic bottles are not lumped in with all the other rubbish. They're separated and then put out for collection. Once collected they will then be sent for recycling. Job done, relax, feel good about yourself.

But it doesn't really constitute 'recycling', does it? And how many of those self-satisfied recyclers are aware that you ought to try to reduce and reuse your waste first, before even getting to recycling? Come to that, how many 'I'm doing my best to limit environmental destruction because I recycle' adherees have the first idea what happens to their recycle-able waste after it has been picked-up?

Hhhmmm! Tricky one. Why, it's recycled, of course!

But where, how, and at what further cost to a fragile planet already groaning loudly under the strain of human pimping, pillaging and prostituting of its resources?

Over 90% of all waste collected for recycling is bought by commodity brokers, packed into empty storage containers and then shipped all the way out to China. Why China? Wouldn't it make more, most, sense to carry out the recycling process locally? Well, erm, yes. But nothing is recycled for reasons of sense: only for reasons of business. That's why commodity brokers buy the paper, tin and plastic: it's a commodity. And it's sent to China to fill the hundreds of empty cargo ships that are returning there after unloading all the Chinese made goods the West seemingly can't get enough of. It's business. Ships returning empty cost more to business than ships returning full.

Okay, so it's hardly environmentally sound to ship all that paper, plastic and tin out to China, then ship it all back to Britain, (especially as the shipping industry is the only unregulated transport industry, so the cheapest, most polluting fuel can be, and is, used) but at least it's all being recycled. Right? Wrong.

Less than 10% of the waste sent to China for recycling is actually processed into a usable product. The vast majority of it is stored in massive warehouses awaiting some uncertain future: a bit like the wealthy masses in cities.

Happy recycling. Glad you're doing your bit.

You're Having A Laugh, Aren't You?

2008-03-02T12:12:00.003Z

It was only a few short blogs ago I wrote of blue skies and a sun that could burn your skin. It was true, I didn't imagine it. But it didn't last long!

The winter clothes are back at the front of the wardrobe and the sandals have remained unworn. My daughter's beautiful paint job on my toe nails is only being admired by me, her and Toni (the wife/mother).

Still, I have no doubt the blue skies and hot sun will be back for a prolonged period sooner rather than later. They both still make intermittent appearances just now ... but not for long enough to be able to claim "Here comes summer."

Ah well, you've got to laugh ... and hopefully audiences will be this coming Thursday, Friday and Saturday when I am part of a live comedy showcase. Now that all the performers are getting to know each other better, as well as the scripts, it is shaping up to be a very funny show.

Spit Roasted Heart

2008-02-20T21:03:00.003Z

Any ceremony has the potential to positively affect the recipient who is the focus of the ceremonial proceedings. A birth day party is effectively a 'ceremony', and it is a perfect example of such an occasion.

Kumali had a 4th birth day party in Berwick-Upon-Tweed last Sunday. With her British grandparents, and several cousins and aunties, British and African, Kumali was celebrated with love and devotion by all in attendance.

It was a magical day, topping off a superb five day trip up north catching up with some family, friends and former work mates.

On the long drive back to Falmouth, I was sitting in the back with Kumali. The girl was wide awake, despite the holiday schedule, and I was attempting to engage with her in order to quell her rising frustration at being stuck in a car. She had an air about her, a sense of approval. She was no longer 3: now she is 4.

"What did you enjoy most about your whole trip?", I proffered.

"Cousin Josef's computer game," she replied without missing a beat.

"And why?"

"Because the man says," she then paused, composed herself, turned to look at me with her best menacing stare, before booming out in an equally menacing voice, "I'm going to roast your heart on a spit."

Her face burst into one of delighted surprise and mischief as quickly as she computed the, albeit disguised, look of initial shock on my face.

Welcome to the world of my now 4 year old!!

Here Comes The Summer

2008-02-13T14:54:00.004Z

Aahhhh ...

Skies that are cloudless and blue, a sun that could burn your skin.

Windows open, washing hung outside dry in an afternoon.

T-shirts to the front of the wardrobe, jumpers to the back.

Sandals polished ready for wearing, Kumali deciding what colour she's going to paint my toenails.

Okay, there's still a chill crisp to the air ... but ... a smile on my face and scarcely a care in the world.

Happy daze in Falmouth is back again ... aahhhh!

Do Be So Sensitive!

2008-02-11T11:50:00.000Z

And all these years I thought it was because I'm a Virgo! You know the traits: particular; critical; precise, et cetera, et cetera.

Now I know different. I'm what's known as a highly sensitive person. It isn't a case of 'don't be so sensitive' anymore. I can't help being sensitive. I'm actually hotwired to be sensitive.

If I had a pound for every time someone has said to me in the past, "Don't be so sensitive.", I'd be too busy sailing round the world in my luxury yacht to write this blog. So yes, I knew I was 'sensitive'. But I never really understood what that actually meant. Until now.

Being a highly sensitive person means having a nervous system that is more finely tuned to the subtleties of the senses. Basically, your brain processes information far more acutely and reflects on it far more deeply and for a far longer period than non-highly sensitive people.

Anywhere between 15-20% of the population are estimated to be highly sensitive: there's a self test that you can do. And there are degrees of high sensitivity, as there are with most all things. So you could be moderately highly sensitive, or extremely, and anything in between. I think I'm somewhere in between!

Being highly sensitive means you are more likely to get ovestimulated, stressed out and overwhelmed. Often mistaken for being 'touchy', 'tempremental', or simply a 'pain in the f*cking *rse', actually highly sensitive people are nothing of the kind! And it doesn't mean you are introverted or inhibited. You can be, and I am, extroverted and uninhibted.

What it does mean is that you are highly tuned in to ALL that is going on around and about you, and you think about it more and for longer. Not surprisingly, it can all get a bit much at times. Hence getting overstimulated, stressed out and overwhelmed.

It is said being highly sensitive is NOT a curse. The biggest problem is realising and then accepting that you are highly sensitive. Then you have to understand what that means and make allowances for it in your life. That's where I'm at: early days, but I'm a fast learner!

It's not all bad: highly sensitive poeple are "often unusually creative and productive workers, attentive and thoughtful partners, and intellectually gifted individuals." (Elaine Aron).

It's not bad at all. I'd prefer not to be highly sensitive. But it's a large part of who I am, so I'm embracing it. It would, though, have been good to discover and understand all this at 13 rather than 43 - especially as I was born the youngest of 12! Overstimulating, overwhelming, stressing? Not much!

Ah, well: better late than never, eh?!

Ah, The Joy Of The Modern World

2008-02-06T12:09:00.000Z

My broadband internet connection was down for just over two weeks. No one at BT could tell me why, but they did keep apologising. Is that the latest in ultimate customer care? No matter how sh*t the service, how irate the customer, or how clueless the service provider is, keep apologising. And make every apology more profound and heartfelt than the last.

Anyway, it's been refreshing going into the local library for 30 minutes of free internet access, and also disturbing to realise how dependent on an internet connection I've become. We've all become!

The modern world, eh. Progress. Advancement. Last week I heard this snippet of a gem of a revealation masquerading as some idle chit-chat between two friends in WH Smith.

Woman A: "Oh, can you believe it's February already?"

Woman B: "No, and it Shrove Tuesday next week. Easter's going to be early."

Woman A: "I can't be bothered with that Shrove Tuesday. I've no time to be making pancakes."

Woman B: "I know what you mean. But listen, you can buy a pack of ready made ones from Tesco; all you have to do is stick them in the microwave. That's what I'm doing."

Woman A: "Really? Oh well, I could do the same. I might celebrate it after all. Thank God for Tesco. I wouldn't have the time otherwise."

And there was me thinking pancake mix takes minutes to make, pancakes take seconds to a cook, and Shrove Tuesday's about using up your rich ingredients before starting a diet of simple foods out of respect for some guy called Jesus who fasted completely for 40 days and nights!!

Candy, Shellby, or Cat?

2008-01-18T18:23:00.000Z

I love cats. I love dogs, too. In fact I have a great love of many, many animals. Mainly mammals, it has to be said. Not that I've got anything against any other type of animal. I just prefer mammals.

Cats, though, I love more than all other animals. Not just 'domesticated' cats, (a term I would use loosely in relation to cats) all cats: small, medium and big. I admire, respect, and even revere, cats. I have done so from a very young age, and I have inculcated my daughter from an even younger age to also love cats.

We don't 'have' a cat, and I use that term, 'have', even more loosely. As I would the term 'own' when it comes to cats. I think most people know cats are not like dogs. Dogs you can own, cats you can't. Anyone in any doubt about that, in fact anyone in any doubt about cats full-stop, and there are lots of people who just don't understand cats, wants to read 'The Cat That Walked By Himself' by Rudyard Kipling.

The next door neighbours 'have' two cats. They've had them since they were kittens, the cats not the neighbours. Kumali and I have communed with both cats since we first met them. Felix has shown no great interest in us; Candy has.

Candy has taken to coming into our house at every available opportunity. We've taken to calling Candy 'Shellby'. The next door neighbours son can often be heard calling for Candy. We can often be heard saying to each other, 'We better wake her up and put her outside.'

We rarely do, and it is getting to the stage where Candy/Shellby spends most of it's time in our house. Candy/Shellby? She's a cat who walks by herself.

I think I might buy a copy of the Kipling's story for the boy who lives next door, before I break the news to him!

Poplitical Idol

2008-01-09T10:45:00.000Z

What is with Americans and their presidential candidates? Do they really believe that by investing their utmost faith, hope and belief in one person that that one person will make everything okay in America and the rest of the world?

Am I the only person who squirms uncomfortably in front of the television, while trying to keep the vomit from hurtling up my throat and out of my mouth, as I watch footage of the 'race for the presidency'?

Aside from the millions of dollars being wasted to convince people to vote for 'Clinton', 'Obama', 'McCain', et al, what disturbs me most is the blind, unstinting faith that the American public appear to have for their chosen one.

How can anyone become so pop star fixated with people who are politicians? By the very nature of the beast, politicians need to be distrusted, suspected and treated with suspicion at all times. It is a grave error of judgement (and sanity) to fawn all over them, praise them, idolise them and worship them.

Anybody standing for any political office, or any position of power, ought to be interrogated, questioned exhaustively and tested over and over again to ensure that they have the integrity, intelligence and insight required for that office/position. And the more money they have to spend to convince you they are the person for the job the more they need to be interrogated, questioned and tested.

Caring For The Dead

2007-12-31T16:41:00.000Z

Phil O'Donnell, a 35 year-old Scottish footballer, collapsed and died on the pitch at the weekend during a match between the team he played for, Motherwell, and Dundee United.

His death is tragic any way you view it: a fit and talented athlete; a husband and father to 4 young children; a young man. The manner of his death was traumatic: during a game of professional football, with his wife and children in attendance, along with just over 5000 other people.

His teammates, and the players from the opposing Dundee United team, are numb with shock. Football has been put into perspective; the famous quote from legendary Liverpool manager Bill Shankly about football being more important than life and death clearly proven to be a complete nonsense.

Tributes have been pouring in from clubs, fans and players all over the British Isles and beyond. Grown men have shed real tears. Football matches in Scotland are being postponed in his honour. Scottish newspapers and news websites have given extensive coverage to his life and given space for many managers and players to pay tribute to O'Donnell. By all accounts he was the most pleasant, kind and unassuming man you'd ever be likely to meet - famous and wealthy professional footballer or not.

I cried myself when I heard about it. I felt shock and deep sadness. My thoughts went directly to his wife and children.

Yet four other people died in Scotland at the weekend in car crashes, and another couple in violent, alcohol fuelled attacks. These people's deaths were covered in one paragraph, and outside of their nearest and dearest few people will be mourning them.

And all over the world, every second of every minute of every hour of every day, people die as a result of poverty, war, domestic violence, gang violence, traffic accidents and various other ways. Most of these people barely get a mention.

Phil O'Donnell was famous and talented. The collective outpouring of grief and commiseration is fitting and appropriate. But if only human beings could collectively care about everyone whose life is taken from them suddenly, tragically and inexplicably. If the human race could care for everyone, not just the famous and talented. If they could, wouldn't it make for a better world?

I wish Phil O'Donnell hadn't died. I wish his family and friends all the very best, now and in the future, as they attempt to come to terms with the shock and the sudden loss. And I wish his wife and children all the help, support and love they need to be able to recover and carry on with their lives. Most of all, though, I wish everyone cared for everyone else the way so many thousands of people have demonstrated they care for Phil O'Donnell.

All About The Girl

2007-12-23T16:05:00.000Z

A whole year has come and nearly gone in our new home town of Falmouth. Since Toni joined me from Botswana in March 2002 we've had three months in Edinburgh, then 18 in Algarve, before three years in Lockerbie, and now 15 months in Falmouth.

Although we've not been anywhere else, apart from three trips to Scotland, one to see Hibs win the League Cup with an emphatic 5-1 victory of Kilmarnock, and one to Guildford to join Toni's and Kumali's cousins for a birth day celebration, it's been a busy and enjoyable year.

For me, my course is over. I now have an MA Professional Writing, and a book and script that I am trying to develop into something people will buy. The other highlight of the year for me has been being part of the formation and development of 'Penrhythm', a samba/reggae eclectic that was formed in February. From a group of keen beginners we have become a slick outfit that has played over a dozen gigs, including three festivals, two parades and several charity gigs for Amnesty International, Cornwall. I recommend everyone bang a drum once a week in 2008!

Toni has spent the best part of 2007 slowly continuing to regain her life and identity, watching, as we both did, her daughter ease into a full-time nursery place, make friends and take another step along the stages of separation path. As a qualified and experienced graphic designer Toni has long been interested in web design, and is now doing a weekly night class to give her a grounding in the skills and knowledge required. She also raised over £100.00 for S.O.A.P. (Save Old Age Pensioners, Bulawayo, Zimbabwe) by selling her natural, handmade soaps and donating the profits. S.O.A.P is a charitable organization, set-up to get essential groceries to pensioners in southern-Zimbabwe who have watched helpless as their hard earned pensions have become utterly worthless in the last few years.

We moved house once in Portugal and three times in Lockerbie, so it's no surprise to know we have made our first move in Falmouth. In October we moved out of the satisfactory, but dowdy house/area we found over the Internet three weeks before we made the move, into a cosy, well situated cottage we got to take our time finding and seeing for ourselves.

With the book deal/script option taking longer than I have imagined in my dreams, we are both looking for full-time work. In a place like Falmouth, and we are a bit restricted without a car, that can be a bit like Albion Rovers trying to find a goalscoring opportunity against AC Milan. But we reckon it is worth the wait. Falmouth is a great wee town to bring a child up in, and while the lack of income, for well over a year now, is a concern economically, the time it affords both Toni and I with Kumali is without doubt priceless.

Whether we had still been in lifeless Lockerbie, with me 'teaching' at the local youth abatement centre, masquerading as an FE college, or gone anywhere else, regardless of whether I'd got an MA and enhanced my belief I can earn money as a writer or not. This year has been about the girl, just as Toni and my life has been since we first discovered we were going to be parents.

Kumali has shone throughout 2007. She loves nursery, has some great friends, enjoys the beach and loves the fact that we are surrounded by cats of all colours, sizes and both sexes. Toni has had crayons, pens and paints in front of Kumali from a very early age, and Kumali has so far taken a great deal of pleasure from creating on paper. She is prolific. So much so that we have bought her a portfolio holder and she is now the main source for all the cards we send out. She also goes to an art club at the brilliant Falmouth Art Gallery every Saturday afternoon with Toni. Papa gets a chance to listen to the Hibs game live, via broadband Internet, while Kumali and Toni get the chance to get arty in all mediums. The gallery exhibit the children's work in a separate part of the gallery on a permanent basis. Kumali has had around ten of pieces of her work framed and exhibited, and was one of six children to have one piece exhibited in the main gallery amongst the main summer exhibition.

Talk about proud Papa!! It has been amazing, but then so has been and so is every day with Kumali. She is a joy and a wonder. Her talents are by no means restricted to drawing and painting; at this stage in the game they appear endless. I never thought Kumali would ever get more beautiful than she looked to me when she was newly born and swaddled in her Mama's arms. Yet she continues to look more beautiful than before with every glance I take. She is breathtakingly beautiful, and the most exquisite character I have ever come across.

And what makes her being all the more wonderful for me is the fact that I have no doubt that I learn and gain far more from her than she ever does from me. Not only am I learning things I never knew about girls, females and femininity from my young daughter, I am learning about living, growing, developing, being and having. When I'm not learning I'm laughing, as Kumali has the ability to crack me up with a smile, a look, a dance, an action or reaction. Oh, and, believe it or not, she can out-talk me - and often does!

She's like the BBC, educates, entertains and informs. It's in the Beeb's Royal Charter, it must be in Kumali's Spirit Charter. All in all, 2007 has been a good one. The greatest sadness we've encountered is the completely unnecessary and ongoing decimation of Zimbabwe and it's people. However, even that darkness, or any of the many other darknesses around the world, can't linger for long with Kumali around as it's impossible to be down hearted for long in her company.

Falmouth is good, and while sunnier climes, particularly Zimbabwe, are not yet on the horizon this is where we plan and hope to be. But, as a wise friend of mine once told me, it's not where you are that counts, it's who you're with. I know I wouldn't want to be anywhere else than with my wife and daughter.

Womenly Wise Ways

2007-12-17T22:54:00.000Z

I've been reliably, and hysterically, informed, by both my wife and daughter, that the following took place in our home only a few days ago.

I was ensconced in my luxury attic conversation/study/den, music on while listening to the Hibs v Falkirk game live. Toni was downstairs cooking with Kumali.

Kumali was asked, as she often is when I am upstairs and they are downstairs, to go and tell me that food was about to be served. Kumali, as she often does, left the kitchen, wandered through the living-room and dining-room into the hall, then went two steps up from the front door to shout to me in the attic to come and eat.

I never replied. I never heard her.

A few minutes later Toni was now serving at the table and asked Kumali, "Did you tell Papa to come eat, sweetheart?"

(slightly indignant, I'm told) "Yes, I did!", replies Kumali.

"Would you go tell him again then, please?", Toni asked as she headed back into the kitchen, where music was also playing.

Kumali popped her head round the dining-room door and shouted me again to come and eat. She then waited to see if I appeared. As Toni came back from the kitchen and sat at the dining-room table, Kumali came back into the room, closed the door behind her, put her hands on her hips, drew her eyebrows in and her eyes up, then said:

"These men: they never listen to us."

Toni swears she never got it from her!

Financial Recession, Emotonal Depression

2007-12-09T19:01:00.000Z

Batten down the hatches, cull the livestock. Call in the debts, secure the loans. Reign in the excesses, there's a recession rolling into town!

The 'money men' are doing their best, so as not to worry us, especially just before Spendmas, not to fall over themselves as they tell us that, well, er um ... the economy's not looking as good right now, and for the foreseeable future, as they thought it would.

They've even nearly mentioned the 'r' word: recession! My dictionary describes a recession in relation to an economy as, 'a temporary falling off of business activity, less serious than a depression.' I couldn't have put it better myself, well I could of, but they wouldn't have printed it. The key words, for me, are 'temporary', 'less serious', 'depression'.

When I look around me as an inhabitant of the British Isles, I see people well dressed, well fed, well serviced, well travelled, 'well' whatever they want that life in Britain brings. They are awash with 'things', 'coisas' as they call 'things' in Portuguese. Whatever is happening, and is going to happen, economically in the British Isles, and already we are being told that banks aren't lending, houses aren't selling, companies aren't hiring and consumers aren't spending, the vast majority of people have too much of everything already. And there is lending, selling, hiring and spending activity going on. Just not as much as normal.

And isn't that what the recession is really about? It's a recession of profit for those who profit from businesses profits. A theatre company set-up in Scotland in the 70s was so named '7:84' as it was (and is) a socialist theatre company, and 7:84 represented economic statistics at the time that stated 7% of the population owned and/or controlled 74% of the wealth. If it was set-up today it would probably have to be called 5:90.

So this recession that's coming the British Isle's way, is a recession on the profits of 5% of the population who already own and/or control 90% of the wealth. And you know who'll pay, Mr and Mrs Average. Quality country, the UK!

But it's temporary, and not as bad as a depression. My dictionary defines depression as 'a natural hollow or low-lying place; a state of low mental vitality, dejection.' Seems to me, from an emotional (or spiritual) perspective, we're already in the midst of one almighty depression. A depression all the economic boom and spend, spend, spend ideology appears to have significantly contributed to.

The samba band I play in, Penrhythm, played a gig on Friday night to raise money for an orphanage in Ecuador. There were photos of the orphanage, looking like a place we'd keep cattle, and of the children, barefoot and in rags. There were messages from them, translated into English: messages of loneliness, hunger and loss. Yet their faces carried the warmth, humility and humanity that is all too absent on the faces of those who inhabit the 'developed world'.

Maybe a financial recession would be a healthy thing, if it could shake us all out of the emotional depression. And as Leonard Cohen says, 'may the lights in the land of plenty shine on the truth someday.'

Christmas Crackers

2007-12-03T12:36:00.000Z

Commercial television is becoming a major no-no for me right now. It's not much of a burden as there is little on these 'shopping' channels that takes my fancy. They rarely produce a programme that I'd like to watch, unlike the BBC who come up with the odd beauty that compels me. The latest being 'Long Way Down', which I loved.

But I digress.

What pisses me off about the commercial channels at this time of year is the harder than normal sell before, during and after programmes because Christmas is coming. There's no 'ba humbug' about it, either.

I've no problem with Christmas per se. It's the 'we will tell you how Christmas should be, what you should think, how you should behave and what you should do' that bugs the shit out of me.

Even if you avoid the telly, there's no escape. Shops, especially supermarkets, are full of it. I object to being told how to have a great Christmas. Especially as it mainly revolves around spending money, buying things and indulging in excesses of excess.

Why is Christmas time so good when you eat and drink far too much and give and recieve gifts that have all the imagination of sixties architecture?

Does anyone remember, or care, what Christmas is supposed to be about? And with religion on the wane in the western world, why does everyone celebrate Christmas with so much gusto anyway? Sure Christmas can be a great time, but so can any day of the week for me.

In days gone by what made Christmas special was that you ate food you wouldn't normally eat, got treats you wouldn't normally get, got gifts of things you had wanted for ages, and watched programmes and films you hadn't seen before on telly. In today's world of instant gratification for all, regardless of whether you can afford it or not due to credit, Christmas has lost its special appeal. At least in my eyes.

Worst of all I object to being told what to do and how to do it. The media and commercial frenzy that convinces people how Christmas is and should be sickens me.

How I wish I could afford to take my family and myself somewhere where they've never heard of Christmas this Christmas. And NO 'ba humbug' about it!

Who Said Scottish Guys Aren't Romantic?

2007-11-27T15:09:00.000Z

Not my own work, but touching none the same!

A Scottish Love Poem

A' coorse ah love ye darlin'
Ye're a bloody tap notch burd.
An' when ah say ye're gorgeous
Ah mean iv'ry single word.

So yer bum is oan the big side
Ah don't mind a bit o flab.
It means that whin ah'm ready
There's somethin' therr tae grab.

So yer belly isny flat nae merr
Ah tell ye, ah don't cerr.
So long as when ah cuddle ye
I cin get mah erms roon' therr.

Nae wummin wha is your age
Hiz nice roon' perky breasts.
They jist gave in tae gravity
Bit ah know ye did yer best.

Ah'm tellin ye the truth noo
Ah nivir tell ye lies.
Ah think its very sexy
Thit ye've goat dimples oan yer thighs.

Ah swerr oan mah grannies grave noo
The moment thit we met.
Ah thocht ye wiz as guid as
Ah wiz ivir goanie get.

Nae maitter whit ye look like
Ah'll aywiz love ye dear.
Noo shut up while the fitba's oan
An' fetch 'es anither beer.

I Love George Clooney

2007-11-15T11:15:00.000Z

Well how can you not, right? A blind person could see that he is handsome, suave and debonair. But that's not why I love him. Like any actor he's made his share of naff movies, but he is a very talented and versatile actor with great screen presence. But that's not why I love him, either.

I love George Clooney because he is intelligent, dignified and humble. The guy is smart, rich, successfull and lusted over. Yet, he just doesn't appear to take himself too seriously. Oh, and he has got involved with, backed financially and starred in some top, top films recently. That's why I love George Clooney.

He makes the type of films I love to watch. Okay Ocean's Thirteen was awful. So bad that, while Ocean's Twelve was bearable, it partly tarnished the memory of Ocean's Eleven, which was a great film for sheer slick, classy entertainment. But films like Good Night, and Good Luck and Syriana are the sort of films that get my juices flowing. I could watch them like others watch soaps, or in real time like a 24 hour 'reality' tv show.

I haven't seen his 2006 film The Good German, although I'd like to. But last night I went to see the most recent George Clooney film that I know about, Michael Clayton. I loved it. Everything about it. The characters, the story, the script, the dialogue, the action, the acting, the directing, the music, the whole production. I'd go as far as to say it is the best film I have ever seen. It has everything I've ever wanted to see in a film.

I want to go and see it again, I'd go tonight if it were possible. Man, I just love George Clooney.

Where I'm Coming From

2007-11-05T11:07:00.001Z

I'm not the greatest fan of 'technology', per se. Yes I enjoy the Internet, especially email, and I do wonder how I managed before I had a mobile phone, so useful has it become. So I'm not against 'technology'. Let's just say I don't necessarily equate it to 'progress' and I'm not convinced, overall, that it is actually a 'good thing' for humankind.

That said, I do believe that every action has an equal and opposite reaction; that nothing is inherently good or bad. It is how we perceive it, and use it, that determines its worth and value.

And one good thing about 'technology', in my humble opinion, is that you can now get your DNA taken. Now it may come to pass in a few years time that the whole DNA thing was anything from a big scam to an unprovable scientific theory that was never properly challenged at the time. But for now its legitimate, as far as I understand.

For £150.00 you can explore your genetic roots through DNA company Oxford Ancestors. Skint as I am, my order's already in. For the past few years I have been intrigued to know 'where I come from', not just my immediate ancestors, but my very origin. I find that a fascinating insight that could lead to a new awareness. I hope it is legitimate: ever the sceptic, I will study the feedback with a critical eye.

First I have to wait for the swab sample package to arrive so I can take a sample of my DNA from a scraping inside my cheek and post it off!

Do you know where I'm coming from? Hopefully I'll have a better idea soon.

Hhmmm ...

2007-10-25T12:15:00.001Z

I don't watch much television, but the new house we (Toni, Kumali and I) have moved into has an aerial so I have been dipping my toe into the great opiate of the masses. I watched the news the other day. The headline/leading story was about an English guy called Lewis Hamilton not winning the Grand Prix! News? Just. Headline news? Just not right.

Toni makes soap, beautiful it is. She recently heard about an organisation called S.O.A.P. set up in Zimbabwe to help feed starving old people. S.O.A.P = Starving Old Age Pensioners. They asked for people to find ways to contribute to their funds to enable them to go on feeding pensioners in Zimbabwe who are literally starving to death. Toni decided to make soap for S.O.A.P. She sent a short letter with an order form explaining what she was doing to everyone she knows in the British Isles, including lots of self-exiled Zimbabweans. Lots of people have bought the soap, helping to raise money to send to S.O.A.P., except for all the Zimbabweans! Can anyone help Zimbabwe if Zimbabweans don't appear willing to?

Cornwall is a lovely place to live. The rugged coastline, less stressed pace of life, better than average British weather, et cetera. Penrhythm, the samba/reggae band I'm in, did a free gig to launch the re-opening of the Body Shop in Truro. The Body Shop support awareness about issues of domestic violence. I found out from their literature that Cornwall has a higher than average statistical rate of domestic violence. Not so less stressed for some women!

Wonder Ear Full

2007-10-15T02:13:00.000Z

Some say there is something in the air down here, and a few of the stories that I have heard attached to the core of that belief has caused my eyes and jaw to feel as if they were popping and dropping cartoon style: but that's another story.

Anyway, I think it's more to do with there being something in the people down here.

My brother, Dominic, who until three months ago had lived and worked in Newquay for three years, is down visiting from Edinburgh, where he now lives, along with his long time friend, Larry, who is like a brother to me, also.

Now Kumali loves her Uncle Dominic and her Uncle Wah-wah, as Larry is called, as well her cousin Josef, Dominic's young son. On the Saturday night Kumali was adamant that she wanted to paint everyones nails and toes: she has recently been allowed to paint hers, Toni's and my hand and toe nails all by herself. The experience and result was hilarious, taking it as we did as just another creative art session for Kumali.

I convinced Kumali, as she is a child who can be reasoned with, or bargained with at best, that she could do it in the morning after break fast. I assumed, as children can be forgetful, especially overnight when dream time kicks in. This morning, after breakfast, it was me who had forgotten my promise, and Kumali calmly announced after the last mouthful of Shreddies had been swallowed, that it was time to paint Wah-wah, Dominic and Papa's nails.

Larry wasn't even awake at this point, and none of us had eaten, washed or dressed. I again reasoned with her to wait till we had. Again she agreed, and patiently got us up and directed us to the kitchen. And as our last mouthfuls were finished, with Toni, catching up on some sleep upstairs after being up twice in the night for Kumali, only disturbed once, to get the lilac and pale blue nail varnish, she had the floor.

We dually had our finger and toe nails painted alternate shades of lilac and pale blue, although I managed to avoid my fingernails being done: somehow! To top it off we got sparkle in the light love heart sticker earrings, one on each ear. I swear if we hadn't had a prearranged trip, that Kumali was fully informed of, she would have had us in Toni's dresses before the day was out.

Being a pleasant autumn day, mild and cosy, rather than warm, I wore sandals and admit to being both aware and proud of my shiny toe nails. I was also aware of Dom and Larry's hands, but I quickly got used to it all, and forgot all about the 'earrings' we all had, as you don't, after all, look at peoples ears much when you talk to them. We drove to Gweek, where Holifair was, the second festival Penrhythm played, as Toni and I liked the place.

We wandered round the boat yard, played Pooh sticks over the bridge on the main street, devoid of cars, that Gweek river runs under, and wandered around enjoying a bit of nature. Ultimately, inevitably, we found a cafe and ordered some food and drinks. Our host was charming, hospitable and accommodating.

Time caught up with us, and we had to dash back to Falmouth as I was being picked up at 5.30pm for five-a-side football. (Yes, at 43, I'm back playing, outdoors, for an hour and a half every Sunday night: I'm loving it, but my hamstrings are tighter than ...) I just had time to change into my footie kit, as there are no changing facilities where the pitch is, before Keith arrived to whisk me away: wishing I hadn't had that plate of chips!

I've been going for four weeks now, and everyone, all of them Cornish born and bred or incomers of twenty plus years, was as friendly and welcoming as usual.

It wasn't till I got home I realised I still had my earrings on. Oh how they must have sparkled under the spotlights we play under, now it's getting darker earlier. None of the other seven guys said a word or made me feel at anytime that they were looking at me funny. I texted Keith to explain my discovery: he texted back, "I did wonder ...

Still Afloat In Falmouth

2007-10-08T14:18:00.000Z

Week Fifty:- two: Sunday 23 – Saturday 30 September

One year one. One good year on.

Found a 'family home' to rent: modern, comfortable and tastefully decorated. Also only five minutes from town.

Both Toni and I are sure Falmouth is as good a place to be right now as any. We also believe there are a lot worse places to bring a child up.

Yeah, as we move into our ninth address since we married just over five years ago, it looks like we are going stay for while: maybe even settle.

Vive la Falmouth!

Grease IS the Word

2007-09-26T19:13:00.000Z

Week Fifty:- one: Sunday 16 – Saturday 22 September

Nearly one whole year since my wife, my daughter and I wrapped up our life in Lockerbie, Scotland and headed for the warmer, wetter, sea shaped climate of Falmouth, Cornwall, and we find ourselves packing up to move to a cosier, more modern, and centrally based, house ... and getting into the 'Amazon video rental by post' that we've been getting into to.

You build up a 'rental list' and they send them to you as they become available, although one at a time, such is our 'meek' rental agreement. As the winter nights fast approach, autumn seems to be flying, not tumbling, by, we look forward to delights such as 'Bedknobs and Broomsticks', 'Mary Poppins', 'The Sound of Music', '101 Dalmatians' ... I could go on!

The other day 'Grease' arrived, that much loved classic that Toni and I first saw thirty odd years ago, and have watched several time since. But not for a good few years. Aside from enjoying the whole thing all over again, two things struck me.

I never realised just how 'moralistic' Grease is: so many great vignettes about growing up, being the right person, being true to yourself, making the post of yourself, compromising, et cetera.

Just after Sandy has met up with Danny again, and has run off after telling him she wishes she had never met him, because he acted all cool in front of his friends, the character (who becomes the beauty school dropout) puts her arm round Sandy and says, "The only man a girl can always depend on his her father."

I paused the dvd, rewound, nudged Kumali, pointed at the tv, cleared my throat, said, "Hey, sweetheart, listen up to this bit", turned up the volume, then pressed play!

Brown Beggars Belief

2007-09-17T09:49:00.000Z

Week Fifty: Sunday 9 – Saturday 15 September

What, I wonder, do rank and file Labour supporters make of Gordon Brown's self-confessed love of Margaret Thatcher, his recent meeting with her and his decision to have a portrait of her commissioned and hung in 10 Downing Street?

No matter the denial from socialist supporters, and it must have been acute, when the Labour party became New Labour what they really meant was Conservative. I remember talking to many Labour supporters who tried to articulate and convince, mainly themselves, that this was not the case: Labour was Labour, the party of the people, and always would be.

After the illegal, devastating and deliberate war in Iraq even the most blind among Labour's support began to admit that Tony Blair was Tory Blur, or Tony B(loody)-liar. But they reassured themselves that they'd get him out of power, get a new leader, a Labour man.

Enter Gordon Brown: as 'red' a socialist as you could get, if you looked back over his Labour career. A man of the people, if you believed the pr.

New Labour is a machine, its leader a figurehead, not a policy shaper or decision maker. Gordon Brown is as right wing as Blair. Power, influence, historical immortality for the ego is what drives the Blairs and Browns of this world. Maybe they just never felt loved enough by their parents.

Thatcher, depending on your point of view, was the most vile, unacceptable and damaging leader Britain has ever had. She's the one who boldly told the nation that there was no such thing as society. Britain became a selfish, greed culture: loads of money and everyone for themselves. Me, I think she was more evil than Hitler.

Now New Labour's new leader wants to celebrate, and no doubt emulate, her. Hang her, not her portrait, in number 10; hang Brown alongside her for wounding us all with his admiration for her.

Of course, it will never happen. But be afraid, be very afraid of Broon and his fellow carpetbaggers.

MA No More, Student No More, Escape From Real World No More

2007-09-17T09:47:00.000Z

Week Forty – nine: Sunday 2 – Saturday 8 September

Well, the course work has been handed in: two copies of 30 000 carefully crafted words. The holiday to Spain never happened, mopping about the house became boring, now it is time to face the facts.

The main fact is I need a job! It has been a great year being a student. Not having to work is a pleasure, particularly in the world today when so many jobs seem as appealing as acute sunburn.

Ideally I get my book published, starting a long and successful career as a writer of creative non-fiction, and start getting screenwriting commissions.

The reality is I will have to get a full-time job of some description, take any and every writing job that comes my way and push non-fiction and screenwriting in my own spare time.

Sob, sob … poor me! Well, hardly. A break would be helpful, I’ll keep the dream alive, but now is the time to get on with things!

Flying in the face of Cornishness

2007-09-04T12:12:00.000Z

Week Forty – eight: Sunday 26 August – Saturday 1 September

Below is a copy of an email I sent to the Cornish paper the West Briton, on Tuesday 4 September, my 43rd birth day. I'm hoping they will publish it next week as an article, accompianed by the suitably sad photo their photographer took of Toni, Kumali and I.

"I moved to Cornwall from Scotland in October last year with my wife and three year-old daughter, originally for one year to study for a post-graduate qualification at University College Falmouth.

Cornish people are so friendly, relaxed and accommodating, and have made us feel so welcome, that we very quickly decided that we would like to settle in Falmouth after my course finished on 31 August.

Before getting down to the realities of life, like finding full-time employment again, we decided to treat ourselves to a family holiday in Spain. It was to be our first holiday abroad as a family, and was to coincide with my birthday. We booked the holiday nearly six months ago in order to secure cheap flights, and have been slowly but surely getting more and more excited about going.

We were due to leave yesterday, 3 September, and set out at 7.30am on our carefully planned public transport route: buses from Falmouth to Truro, Truro to Newquay, and Newquay to Newquay Airport, where we would fly to Gatwick before flying on to Barcelona.

Unfortunately the bus on the last leg of our journey did not get us to the airport ten minutes before check-in closed, as timetabled, but arrived just as check-in was closing. We rushed to the check-in desk, waited for the man in front of us to be checked-in, and were then told, “Dispatch closed four minutes ago. You can fly, but we can’t take your luggage.”

My response was, “But we’ve been here for at least two minutes, can’t you rush as through? We’re meeting a connecting flight to take us to Barcelona. We’re sorry we’re late, the bus was late. Please.”

The reply was, “It’s not our fault. Dispatch is closed. If you want to fly we can still check you in, but you’ll have to leave your luggage.”

Not wanting to waste any more time, I asked, “Can I please speak to your manager or supervisor?”

A couple of minutes later a man ambled down some steps and told me, “Dispatch closed eight minutes ago. You won’t be able to fly with your luggage.”

I pleaded, “But we were only two, three at the most, minutes late. If we’d just been checked in straight away, we’d be on the plane already. I accept we are to blame as we are late, but we were only two or three minutes late. It is a small airport and small plane. Is there nothing you can do?”

The reply, “It’s not our fault.”

That’s when, in frustration, anger and upset, I raised my voice. That’s when I was told I would be removed by airport security if I didn’t leave immediately.

So with my daughter in tears, we left the airport and made the three hour, three bus journey back to our home in Falmouth. Six hundred pounds in air fares and a visa (my wife does not have a British passport) wasted and a first family holiday abroad gone: all because of two to three minutes, and the most unhelpful, unsympathetic and unwilling officious staff I have ever encountered.

As Cornwall continues to expand, develop and grow economically, I hope our experience at Newquay Airport is not a reflection of the sign of the times and an indication of what to expect more often in the future.

Be warned any and all of you who intend to fly from Newquay Airport."

PLEASE Mr President

2007-08-28T10:20:00.000Z

Week Forty – seven: Sunday 19 – Saturday 25 August

Just as two new friends departed from my life last week, so an old friend re-entered after a six-year absence. The ebb and flow that is life.

Mike is a guy I know from my days in Zimbabwe. His partner, Ulla, is also a Zimbabwean, as is my wife. So inevitably the conversation got round to the complete and utter carnage of a country and its people that is currently the state Zimbabwe finds itself in.

I'm coming at it from an outsiders point of you, as someone who lived and worked there as a traveller passing through for a few months. Yes, I believe President Robert Mugabe is mad in the extreme and is single handily responsible for the viscous disregard of the people of Zimbabwe over the last twenty odd years. A disregard that has seen the country plunge like an out of control roller coaster into 4500% inflation, (and rising) 85% unemployment (and rising), acute food shortages, little or no fuel, and all the rest of the many depressing statistics that add up to untold and unimaginable suffering for millions of people.

Mike was born and brought up in northern Zimbabwe, a white guy, with privileges. Toni, my wife, was born and brought up in south-west Zimbabwe, a coloured (too white to be black, and too black to be white), she knew her place. Yet life was not without pleasure, with two educated, working parents and a country that could and would reward independent endeavour. Ulla was born and brought up in south-east Zimbabwe, a black woman from a family with diplomatic connections.

I learned a lot, and heard deep, diverse and differing arguments about the reasons for Zimbabwe's decline, Mugabe's role, African politics, tribal differences and what's needed for the future.

Reconfiguring all of the countries borders in Africa, so they take cognisance of the indigenous rural peoples, not just of, as they did, the colonisers looting requirements, may be a complete non-starter today. And many other possibilities, options and outcomes may never come about either. But one thing is for sure. Mugabe is destroying, if he hasn't already destroyed, Zimbabwe, economically, socially, politically, psychologically and spiritually. If someone doesn't stop him soon, and prevent anyone from doing the same ever again, it will be too late.

Too late for eleven million people, the economically fortunate, because they were able to leave, already part of a global diaspora. Too late for a country blessed with some of the most beautiful, breathtaking and bountiful nature and wildlife. Too late to convince this saddened soul that the human race, as a collective, has any hope of securng its own future.

Fond Farewells

2007-08-21T08:54:00.000Z

Week Forty – six: Sunday 12 – Saturday 18 August

I’m not good when it comes to saying goodbye. At the best of times I put it off as long as possible, but when it comes to saying cheerio to people I have come to know and love, and may not see again, I am not at my best.

I like to be around to see them off, not just say goodbye at some point in the last few days before they go, but physically be there when they depart. I always feel sad, a little empty. Or I did, until recently.

Dave and Sarah are an Aussie/Irish combination who came to Falmouth around the same time as my family and me, last October. They ended up in a house that Tim, a fellow writing student, also moved into. Hence I got to know them, first meeting them at a fancy dress Hogmanay (New year’s eve) party.

They set-up a samba club shortly after, an informal gathering where those interested could have some fun and learn some samba rhythms under the expert and enthusiastic guidance of Sarah, ably supported by Dave.

Before long there were fifteen willing students, myself amongst them, and a first gig as the eclectic mix of locals, incomers and foreigners began to gel into something resembling a band. Festival performances followed, along with a host of birth day appearances and a jamming session with a samba band all the way from Ireland.

Through it all I, and Toni and Kumali, got to know Sarah and Dave as people and as friends and found ourselves enriched by their presence, conversation and humour. They left last week, back to Eire, their time in Falmouth complete, and we three were all sorry to see them go.

But I consoled myself with the knowledge that I was lucky to have spent any time at all getting to know two true free spirits, with an attitude to life and living that was as spot on as it was refreshing to be around. I comforted myself with the knowledge that two people with a light such as theirs need to move on constantly, so they can shine their magic on others.

And so it was a fond farewell, and I’m sure I, and my wife and daughter, will see them again someday. County Leitrim is a calling …

If You Do Nothing Else # 5

2007-08-15T10:50:00.000Z

Check out this website - a little bit scary, I thought!

http://www.poodwaddle.com/worldclock.swf

Festival Fraternity

2007-08-15T10:38:00.000Z

Week Forty – five: Sunday 5 – Saturday 11 August

Another lovely weekend was spent at a festival, this time Holifair, in Gweek, just outside Falmouth. The samba band, that still has no official name, I play with had a couple of gigs, one on the Saturday night and one on the Sunday afternoon, so off we all trooped.

I didn't stay over this time, came and went by car both days, and brought Toni and Kumali with me on the Sunday. With lots of ecologically and spiritually minded people running the fair, manning food, entertainment and healing stalls, singing, performing and attending, the atmosphere was lovely from the minute you entered.

Festivals are great places to spend a couple of days, communing with nature, at best, and, at worst, gentle, peaceful people. It is a fabulous environment for a young child, too. With lots of children, who don't all look like their parents shop at Tesco/Gap/Next, et cetera, running around, pumping out their never ending energy, Kumali was in her element. Although not always engaging with the new found friends, she was always soaking up their vibes nonetheless.

And there were friendly faces for Toni and I. Not just because most people had a smile on their face; many were recognisable from the Falmouth music and arts scene and from the Faery Festival we played out back in June.

I do like a festival ... although I'm a bit long in the tooth for roughing it and staying up all night partying!!

If You Do Nothing Else # 4

2007-08-08T10:45:00.000Z

Watch ‘Little Miss Sunshine’: one great film, I think.

http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0449059/

Always Shining Wisdom

2007-08-08T10:34:00.000Z

Week Forty – four: Sunday 29 July – Saturday 4 August

What's in a name? More than most people think, I imagine. Certainly it was important to me to know that the name my Zimbabwean wife wanted for our daughter, Kumali, had a meaning to it that was translatable into English. Kumalo was the family name of the reputed first king of Zimbabwe, from the Ndebele tribe, an off shoot of the Zulu. By changing the 'o' to an 'i' Toni created a lovely girl's name, and one that held its meaning: 'spirit protector'.

Recently we met a Japanese woman who explained how all Japanese names are broken down by there syllables, each syllable an actual word. The lady who told us this is called Amiko, Am-ik-o: Am = pretty, ik = little, and o= girl. So Amiko translates literally as 'pretty-little-girl'. That's a lovely name we told her; no it's not, she replied, as lots of baby girls in Japan are named Amiko!

Ku-ma-li she told us literally translates as 'always-shining-wisdom'. Now that's cool. If we are what we believe, and Kumali believes she is Kumali, then she is not only a spirit protector, but always shining wisdom as well.

That is more than enough for any father ... but, I can't help wondering what her name translates as in other languages?

Golden Brown

2007-08-02T10:22:00.000Z

Week Forty – three: Sunday 22 July – Saturday 28 July

Whenever I feel the need to have a moan and a whine about my lot in life, whenever I am focusing on what I don't have instead of being thankful for what I do have, I only have to glance in my wife's direction to regain a sense of perspective.

Just over five years ago I took my then bride to be away from her family in Zimbabwe and the life she had created as an economic migrant in Botswana. Since then, as she has watched her country of birth collapse into terminal decline, and worried about the family and friends left behind trying to feed themselves, as we have made a life for ourselves thousands of miles away, she has never grumbled or complained once.

My wife is a private, reserved person; most content in company she knows well and trusts enough to be able to be herself around. But she has limited opportunities to be around such company, family and old friends, these days.

So nothing could have made me happier than to see her this weekend in the company of three of her cousins who she grew up with back in the halcyon days of Bulawayo, Zimbabwe. Like her, they have all fled Zimbabwe recently and set about establishing new lives in the British Isles. One of them was celebrating her fortieth birth day last weekend: Toni, Kumali and I joined the celebrations.

It was a good old party African style: lots of good food sizzling on the barbecue; drink in free flow; lots of good music blaring from the sound system; lots of beautiful looking brown people, adults and children. Toni had so much fun and happiness being with her three cousins, June (the birth day girl), Lyndsey and Leazel. Kumali had just as much of the same with her cousins, Toni's cousin's children. And me? I just rejoiced watching the two ladies and loves of my life having such a good time. Amen to that.

If You Do Nothing Else # 3

2007-07-25T10:34:00.000Z

Check out a guitarist called Andy Mckee: one talented and cool guy.

http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=Ddn4MGaS3N4

http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=dt1fB62cGbo

Pace Maker

2007-07-25T10:20:00.000Z

Week Forty – two: Sunday 15 July – Saturday 21 July

'Life is not everything, is not everything ...', so goes the song with the title I can't remember. True, but quality of life is pretty dam important. Would you rather live to be 150, confined to a wheelchair with someone wiping your arse, et al, for the last 60 of them, or live to 80 and have a full, active, self determined time right up to the second you unexpectedly passed away?

My 87 year-old mother has just had a pacemaker fitted. She didn't want it. Devout Catholic that she is, part of her looks forward to the day she can sit with Jesus Christ and/or the Lord God Almighty and shoot the breeze. Why would she want something that was going to prolong her life on planet earth?

But, the doctor pointed out, it will actually reduce your life expectancy by some margin or another. What it will do is improve you standard of life while you are alive. So she had it fitted. Within a week she was up and about, making the most of the new found energy, drive and release she had. For years, being the classic suffering martyr, she had fought through life by the force of sheer will power. Now she realises she was battling against an irregular heartbeat that could leave her body confused, exhausted and playing catch-up.

At the other end of the spectrum, my three and a bit year old daughter lives her life as if the faeres fit a brand new, state of the art pacemaker to her heart every night when she is asleep. Just starting out in this life, or coming towards the final chapters, we all need to set the right pace, make the pace right for us and others around us.

But we all need to remember, it's a long journey, but a short trip; we need to pace ourselves so we don't meet our maker ahead of schedule.

Quote of the Week # 34

2007-07-20T10:52:00.000Z

Take a dog's attitude to life.

Whatever you come across, if you can't eat it or screw it, piss on it and walk away.

Unattributed.

Make-up Mayhem

2007-07-20T10:38:00.000Z

Week Forty - one: Sunday 8 July – Saturday 14 July

It's game over for me.

A wise lecturer by the name of Derrek Hines mentioned at the start of the MA Professional Writing course that girls suss sexuality and other issues of importance by about the age of three. Boys, he added, on the other hand get a rough handle on such matters by the time they are thirty - if they are lucky. I had to agree, based on my own experiences with my now three and a half year old daughter. Not a problem; one of the main reasons I am pleased to have a daughter and not a son.

Last week Auntie Sharon came to visit from Scotland. While Mama Bate wears very limited make-up, preferring the natural look and having had herself caked in make-up for years while she was a semi-professional model, Auntie Sharon is a thoroughly modern woman on the make-up front. Each morning was a ritual of application and refinement of a seemingly never ending range of beauty and skin care products.

My little three going on thirty year old watched Sharon's every move, soaked it all in, as she does everything, and before long was getting Sharon to apply a little of everything on her. Everything being: blusher, mascara, nail varnish, lip stick, eye shadow, foundation, and so it goes on. Now whether by accident or design, Sharon left a couple of items of make-up behind when her visit was over. Knowing Sharon as I have for over twenty years, it was more accident than design - I think!

Anyway, Kumali covered herself, me, her Mama, and a couple of her dolls in all that Sharon had left behind, thank God it wasn't a waxing kit, mimicking what she could remember from her daily observations. And now she talks about make-up all the time, asking if she can buy some of her own!

I'm afraid, very afraid!

Life Is ... Fun In The Family Fold

2007-07-13T12:19:00.000Z

Week Forty: Sunday 1 July – Saturday 7 July

If an interesting, although mildly disturbing, four days were taken up attending the Cheltenham International Screenwriting Festival at the beginning of the week, the time away only served, as always, to make my return to Falmouth, and my wife and daughter, all the more rewarding.

I met up with an old and dear friend from Scotland at Truro Rail Station on the way back from the 'writers frenzy', travelling with Frea, a fellow weary wanderer, keen to get back to the fold. She had already had a couple of glasses of wine by the time we met; by the time we ate dinner with my wife and daughter, brother Dominic and his son Josef, cleared up, said goodnight and then stayed up till four in the morning reminiscing, Sharon and I had demolished four bottles of a rather fine rioja!

No time for hangovers, or lie ins, when you have a lively and alert three year-old daughter in the house. Kumali woke me nice and early, wanting to go downstairs and do the same to Sharon: so much fun having visitors stay over! And so the rest of the week, from Friday through Sunday, was spent, in between writing, getting reacquainted with the wonderful wife and beautiful daughter I continually count my blessings for having in my life.

On the Friday evening Toni, Kumali, Sharon and I attended the private viewing/opening of the latest art exhibition to be displayed at the excellent Falmouth Arts Gallery. One of the many pictures Kumali has created, and had displayed, during her time at the FAG children's art club was chosen to be hung along with five other lucky and talented youngsters work - within the main exhibition. It was a major thrill to see Kumali's mixed media collage, 'Full Moon', proudly framed and displayed, complete with an information card mounted underneath. A photographer from one of the local papers took her picture beside her masterpiece, and we all basked in the joy of the creative environment and praise being heaped on Kumali for her creativity.

Sunday was spent at Praa Sands Beach, some twenty miles down the coast. Jenny, our ever lovely 'big-girl' sitter, and friend and fellow student, celebrated her birth day with lunch in the local restaurant, along with her delightful partner, Kai, and some of their Norwegian friends. Among the many other fellow students who trapsed along, some with their older children,Emily, was one, and brought her three year old son Jack, who knows Kumali from nursery. Emily's dad's jazz band were also playing; as we tucked in to roast beef or lamb or pork, with all the trimmings, Tony and his jazz buddies, no one under 60, strummed away and the young bucks boogied together on the dance floor. That was followed by a brisk walk on the beach, kicking balls, digging holes and paddling in the water, to work off lunch - then ice-cream!

From those who pass their children over to others to look after from virtually the moment they are born, to those who carry the unresolved pain and hurt of their own childhoods/lives into their children's, there's a lot of parents, and children, missing out on the many good things that come from being a family. Love, attention, support, guidance, love, nurturing, nourishing, love, security, fun, love, love, love.

Give Me Space

2007-07-10T10:21:00.000Z

Week Thirty – nine: Sunday 24 – Saturday 30 June

Can’t think, struck dumb,
Inspiration won’t come.
Rotten ink, bad pen,
God bless you, amen.

Over Indulgence in Faery Land

2007-06-27T09:52:00.000Z

Week Thirty – eight: Sunday 17 – Saturday 23 June

"Something tells me, I'm into something good" were the words from the song whose title I can't remember ("Woke-up this morning feeling fine, there's someone special on my mind. Last night I met a girl, and her name is Sue ...") that I found myself involuntarily singing over the weekend. I was floating around the 3 Wishes Faery Fest at Colliford Lake Park, Bodmin, Cornwall, with Toni, Kumali, my samba drumming mates, and a whole collection of other happy, positive, friendly and relaxed people.

Penrhythm, the name of the samba/reggae eclectic that I play with, were invited to the Fest to liven up the crowds on the Friday and Saturday with some primal, tribal beats, under the pseudonym of 'Goblin Drummers'. We rocked, as usual, thanks, as always, to the teaching, guidance and conductoring of our leader and inspiration Sarah Ballantine. Many people came up to us on the Sunday to tell us they thought we provided the best musical performance of the weekend. Not difficult, given some of the stuff was pretty torturous, but a compliment none the less. And we have been invited to play another festival on the back of our efforts.

In between rehearsals and performances we were free to take in the other bands and singers, and dance and jive along, indulge in the various treats and delights for sale, and being passed around, and generally wander about looking at the stalls, playing on the slides, communing with nature and chatting to lots and lots of relaxed, mellow people with welcome smiles and ready laughs aplenty.

I haven't indulged in the pleasures of camping for over ten years. It was the perfect environment for Kumali, free to run around with all the other little girls dressed as fairies, with painted faces, wings, wands and other appropriate apparel. It was a perfect environment for Toni too, a woman who doesn't do words, who does atmosphere, because the ambiance all weekend was never less than warm, loving and open. And it was, of course, a perfect environment for me as well, because I am, I have come to learn, nothing more than a pagan, pixie, goblin, naturist.

The lovely and talented Frea, who is also on the writing course, was there with her equally lovely and talented partner, Andy, and various members of Frea's various families were also there, meaning I got to meet some of her wonderful family: dad, Jack; step-mum, Mary (who beautifully painted Kumali and my faces with butterfly designs); brothers Ja (who made a fantastic veggie curry) and Jimmy; and little sister, the inimitable Flora.

Frea, who is usually a relatively upbeat and positive person, spent six years living in Glastonbury so her tolerance for all the more powder puffy side shows that were going on at every turn was low, and, at times, her cynicism was palpable. On the Saturday I was all for staying for a month. When I mentioned the fact, Frea's eyes automatically rolled upwards, trying to touch her eyebrows, which were also raised, then, just as quickly, the expression was gone, she smiled, shook her head and was off, with her jaunty, unique gait taking her to the bar.

By the Sunday night, and a whole day of listening to well intentioned, but grossly deluded and awfully self-indulgent, bands as the rain drizzled down, I was ready to leave. I wandered round all the many faces I had struck up a rapore with, instantly bonded with, shared laughs and stories with, and said my goodbyes. Very genuine and lovely people, never met a bad 'un in three days. Faery land is a fabulous place to go ... but just maybe not permanently!

http://www.3wishesfaeryfest.co.uk/

Quote of the Week # 33

2007-06-18T11:06:00.000Z

My religion consists of a humble admiration of the illimitable superior spirit who reveals himself in the slight details we are able to perceive with our frail and feeble mind.

Albert Einstein

Einstein A Go Go

2007-06-18T10:38:00.000Z

Week Thirty – seven: Sunday 10 – Saturday 16 June

A friend, lovable, reliable Larry, had been down visiting from Scotland. He also had a Catholic upbringing, and the conversation turned to God and religion at one point. Not, I hope, because we are hung up and forever damned by our inculcation from birth till rebellious teen hood. No, while there are some shackles of Catholicism we may never shake free of - are there many/any Catholic reared men who can masturbate with a complete lack of guilt? - this conversation revolved around a newspaper article.

The newspaper article revolved around excerpts from the diaries of Albert Einstein, giving an insight into how he felt about God and religion. These are some of the things he had to say.

Asked at a dinner party (don't know if that is relevant) whether he was religious, he replied: "Yes, you can call it that. Try and penetrate with our limited means the secrets of nature and you will find that, behind all the discernible laws and connections, there remains something subtle, intangible, and inexplicable. Veneration for this force beyond anything we can comprehend is my religion. To that extent I am, in fact, religious."

On another occasion, asked whether or not he believed in God, he said: "I am not an atheist. I don't think I can call myself a pantheist. The problem involved in the question is too vast for our limited minds...That, it seems to me, is the attitude of even the most intelligent human being towards God. We see the universe marvellously arranged and obeying certain laws, but only dimly understand these laws."

He composed a personal creed at one point, its main tenet being: "The most beautiful emotion we can experience is the mysterious. It is the fundamental emotion that stands at the cradle of all true art and science. He to whom this emotion is a stranger, who can no longer wonder or stand rapt in awe, is as good as dead, a snuffed out candle. To sense that behind anything that can be experienced there is something that our minds cannot grasp, whose beauty and sublimity reaches us only indirectly: this is religiousness. In this sense, and in this sense only, I am a devoutly religious man."

He gave atheists a harder time than he gave believers, on the basis that: "What separates me from most so-called-atheists is a feeling of utter humility towards the unattainable secrets of the harmony of the cosmos."

So say all of us. Amen.

Summer Lovin

2007-06-13T14:03:00.000Z

Week Thirty – six: Sunday 3 – Saturday 9 June

What a week ... of beautiful weather. Classic summer days: bright, piercing, blue skies and blazing, bathing, sun. Life always feels, and is, so much better when it is warm and sunny.

I've a restless spirit, if not soul, and haven't laid down real roots anywhere over the last decade or more. Thoughts have filtered through my mind, on and off, over the last few months under the the theme of 'where next.' A few, glorious, hours spent on Gyllyingvase Beach last week with my wife and daughter, watching Kumali revel in, and with, the sea and amuse herself endlessly with, and in, the sand, acted as a clear, calm, comforting epiphany.

Falmouth specifically, Cornwall generally, isn't just as good a place as any to live, it's as good as, and a lot better than, most. And for a youngster, it offers a delightful privilege to grow with a readily available, always tangible, connection to a rugged and more raw natural environment.

Yes, it rains a lot in winter, but that's helps to make it green and lush in spring and summer. It's a trade off. It can be chilly, too, but it never gets overly cold. Yet in the summer, when the sky is clear and blue and the sun is hot and strong, the lesser weather days are distant memories. That's a more than favourable trade off.

Standing at the waters edge, working up the courage to dive in before lock-forward Joe Weir rugby tackled me in again, I watched Kumali so blissfully happy to be by the sea-side. At the same time a group of fifteen, or more, young teenage boys and girls came rushing into the water. It looked like a regular after school activity. It looked like they were all having a great time. Beats sitting on a park bench, or in front of msn, I guess.

It looks like it makes sense for Toni, Kumali and little old restless me to think about going nowhere else, for the time being anyway.

If You Do Nothing Else # 3

2007-06-13T09:06:00.000Z

Watch ...

Before Sunrise, and the sequel Before Sunset.

Little plot, little action, little drama: lots of class. Two quality films.

If You Do Nothing Else # 2

2007-06-13T09:04:00.000Z

Watch this ...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xzOV7DIgUaA

Quote of the Week # 32

2007-06-07T11:46:00.000Z

The earth provides enough for everyone's need, but not for everyone's greed.

Mahatma Gandhi

Green Means Stop

2007-06-07T11:09:00.000Z

Week Thirty – five: Sunday 27 May – Saturday 2 June

Planet earth is warming up. Depending on who you listen to and/or what you choose to believe, the human race is either solely responsible or nothing to do with it all. Well, what do I know? Not much, and that lessens every time I learn some more; the more I know the more I know there is to know.

One thing I am fairly sure of is that the numbers of humans on planet earth has quadrupled, from roughly one and a half billion to six billion, in around 250 years. That's four times as many people generating heat. Add to that the fact that a hefty percentage of us now generate far more heat than humans ever have before and it is hard to escape the fact that the human race is contributing heavily to the rising temperatures.

Who wants to slow down? Lots of people, it appears. But who wants to give up the cars, the central heating, the factory manufactured goods, the availability of goods from around the world, the air travel, the electrical gadgets, et cetera? Few, if any.

So what's going to happen? Again, what do I know? But as more land is concreted over, as more of the earth's natural habitat is removed, as more other living species disappear, as more and more people desire the capitalist dream, hasn't something got to give sometime?

And what is the return for what is perceived as increased prosperity? Does more and more money and consumer goods make you any happier? Are people more, or less, depressed than in times gone by? Are people more, or less, dysfunctional than in times gone by?

There is an uneasy feeling in the western world that all is not what we say it is; we have become prisoners of the money myth. Charles Handy, the world renowned management guru, said that, not me. And he said it ten years ago. Are we getting more deeply imprisoned, or are we freer? A constant theme of D.H Lawrence's novels was the way in which the hard, mechanistic world of the industrial west was sucking the life out of the human race. Are we just having it sucked out of us even faster, or is less being sucked out of us?

Whether we are damaging the planet or not, is the life that exists for most of us really the life we would choose to lead? Slow down, you move too fast, got to make the morning last. So said Simon and Garfunkel.

A friend of mine has been a taxi driver in Edinburgh for over 25 years. He's a friendly guy who loves to chat to his passengers. Over the last few years, he tells me, he hears more and more from professionals that he collects from airports, train stations, hotels, et cetera, about how unhappy they are with their jobs. The pressures, the hours, the demands, the stress, the constant travel. They want simpler lives. But they're on the gravy train, in the rat race, on the hamsters wheel, and they're afraid to get off or out. Their salaries and perks are great, on paper. But when you work out the hours they are forced to work, it doesn't look so great.

Every action has an equal and opposite reaction. I think we need some balance.

Quote of the Week # 31

2007-05-26T18:01:00.000Z

The greatest mistake – giving up
The greatest crippler – fear
The greatest handicap – ego
The most potent force – positive
The greatest thought – love
The greatest victory – victory over the self.

Source unknown.

Keep The Faith

2007-05-26T18:00:00.001Z

Week Thirty – four: Sunday 20 – Saturday 26 May

The course I am studying has reached the ‘crucial’ point: the MA proposals have been presented to a panel of peers and tutors; supervisors have been appointed; teaching is finished.

We are now on our own, more or less, to sit down and write our novel, script, non-fiction book, or whatever. It suddenly feels like quite a daunting task.

Daunting tasks can lead to all sorts of displacement behaviour to avoid the daunting task in hand. But like a taxi driver who will only make money if they are in the driver’s seat of their cab with the ‘FOR HIRE’ sign lit, I will only produce my major piece of work if I sit on my desk chair in front of my switched on computer and start to write.

The presentations took place on Monday; the party afterwards went on until early Tuesday. Wednesday and Thursday slipped by unproductively; Friday was taken up with some filming. Now it is Saturday already.

Time to get focused, disciplined and on with the job!

Quote of the Week # 30

2007-05-26T17:59:00.001Z

One love, one heart, let’s get together and feel all right.

Bob Marley, ‘One Love’

Love IS All You Need

2007-05-26T17:57:00.000Z

Week Thirty – three: Sunday 13 – Saturday 19 May

I’m not the biggest fan of The Beatles; that’s not to say I’m not a fan, just not the biggest fan. However, their song, ‘All You Need is Love’, is a classic in my view. It is right up there with Bob Marley’s, ‘One Love’, as an anthem for life and living. There are many other songs that have the importance of love as their theme, but you catch my drift, don’t you?

Love is always in existence, somewhere, somehow; even for those in horrible circumstances who may not feel the existence of love. Me, I am blessed: no doubt about that.

My wife and I celebrated our fifth wedding anniversary on the 17 May and I took the opportunity to tell my wife one more time how much I love her and how much I appreciate, value and respect her love for me.

We are all guilty of complacency. It would appear to be one of the many afflictions of the human psyche. It is my aim to never get complacent about the love I am bathed in by my wife – and my daughter.

When you feel loved, know you are loved, receive love, and exist in a loving environment, it is equally as humbling as it is enriching. For the last five years that is the very environment that I have existed in. You can’t beat it. And what you give out comes back to you; I reciprocate the love my wife gives me, and vice versa. It is, I believe, what is known as a ‘virtuous cycle’.

As if I wasn’t fortunate enough to share my life with, and be loved by, a warm, intelligent, graceful, creative, calm, positive and loving, not to mention extremely beautiful, women, I also have the greatest love of all: the unconditional, unrequited love that exists between my daughter and me.

No human can stay alive without clean air and water, and some sustenance (but a lot less than the amount most of us shovel down our throats). It is hard, although not impossible, to live without a home and some recourse to finances. But love is all we really need.

Love is the beginning, the middle and the end.

Quote of the Week # 29

2007-05-26T17:56:00.000Z

He that will not apply new remedies must expect new evils; for time is the greatest innovator.

Francis Bacon, 1561-1626

Back In The Working World

2007-05-26T17:53:00.000Z

Week Thirty – two: Sunday 6 – Saturday 12 May

Took my wife and daughter up to Edinburgh for a week; I had a week of freelance work, and we three had a chance to catch up with family and friends. You know your place when you contact people to say you are coming up and they all immediately ask, “Are Toni and Kumali coming too?”

So while I jumped back into the working world Toni and Kumali spent their days meeting up with various people. A constant stream of tea and cake, lunch, then more tea and cake, and my beautiful daughter being fussed over and complimented on her beauty, grace and abilities.

It wasn’t so bad being back at work; I guess I have worked enough over the last twenty-five or so years for it not to be so much of a shock to the system. It has been a pleasure and a treat to be a full-time student again, and the nine to five routine does easily drop away; but work is not so strange as to be unmanageable.

The work involved managing the media campaign for a national event to encourage adults who are not normally associated with learning to return to learning. It is a worthwhile event to be involved with; the opportunity to effect real, positive change in people’s lives is high and that makes it great to be involved with.

I have also been doing this work every year for the last nine years; I normally fit back into the rhythm of the work easily enough.

What was most interesting about being back in Scotland was the fact that the elections had just taken place and the Scottish voting public made it clear they have had enough of New Labour. With proportional representation at local level Labour lost control of several local authorities; nationally the Scottish Nationalist Party won most seats, leaving them as the party to form the new government.

It is clear that the Scottish media are not keen on an SNP government; the fourth estate fearing the break-up of the union. There is no sense in any of that, in my humble opinion. Great Britain is a misnomer; it is not a country, it is four countries. Surely a nation state is entitled to run its own affairs? An independent Scotland doesn’t have to mean anything negative in relation to the historical links with England, and/or Wales and Ireland for that matter.

How much difference does any mainstream political party actually make? I read a quote from green campaigner Jonathan Porritt over twenty years ago. He said, “Political parties are like cars on a motorway; they might all be going at different speeds, but they are all going in the same direction.”

Say no more!

Quote of the Week # 28

2007-05-15T11:34:00.000Z

Christians have only one spouse; this is known as monotony.

One eight year old boy's response among a group of children being asked about what they know about religion.

Gallery Girl

2007-05-15T11:15:00.000Z

Week Thirty – one: Sunday 29 April – Saturday 5 May

I stood there, almost in a trance. My mouth open at first, then forming into a huge smile. My eyes wide, almost popping from their sockets.

I stared and stared; my smile constant and strong, the feeling of joy and happiness floating through me. Chuckles and giggles flowed through my smiling mouth.

The feeling was magical.

And that was just the first picture. I remembered my wife told me that there were five of my daughter's pictures on display. Five. The multi-award winning Falmouth Arts Gallery have a parent and child club on a Saturday afternoon. My wife and daughter go along. Every so often the pictures that the children produce are framed and exhibited, just like any exhibition.

I wandered round and round, making a point of looking at the other art work of the other children, but really only interest in observing and absorbing my daughter's work. Five framed pieces of my three year-old daughter's art work, on display in an art gallery.

What a genius idea. I don't know for sure what it does for the children, although I can't imagine it is anything less than positive, but it works for this parent. It made me feel so happy, so impressed by my daughter's talent (not that I wasn't anyway), and proud too, I guess.

I went straight home, collected my wife and daughter and went straight back to the gallery with them. The three of us wandered around smiling, nodding and pointing in approval.

My daughter, on display in a bone fida art gallery; they've even got a Picasso in there!

Quote of the Week # 27

2007-04-30T15:20:00.000Z

Age is a question of mind over matter; if you don't mind, it doesn't matter.

Leroy Paige

Mellowed By Massage

2007-04-30T15:01:00.000Z

My good (what an understatement) lady wife and I have a little Monday afternoon tryst that we have, until now, kept a secret. We go to the Adult Education Centre and get a full body massage from someone coming to the end of their holistic massage course.

One full hour, sweet almond oil, muscles being manipulated, tweaked, stretched, rubbed and indulged. Joy, bliss, happiness. All for £5.00 because they are still students. Double joy, bliss, happiness.

We have come to really enjoy our Monday afternoon; hardly surprising. We meet beforehand, not for coffee or anything; we don't want a fresh dose of toxins in our body just when we are about to have existing ones squeezed out. No, we just meet early and walk up the road hand in hand. That in itself is a bit of a wee treat, as since becoming parents just over three years ago we haven't had much 'our' time together.

After the massage we walk slowly, floatily, down the road and discuss how relaxed, tension free and sleepy we feel. The massage sessions coincide time wise very nicely with collection time for our wee shining star; so we head for nursery, look at all the lovely things she has made, painted, drawn that day, and then trot off down the road having fun and being a happy family.

To all those people out there who careers mean something to, who feel they need a job as it gives them identity and purpose - good on you, go for it and all the best to you. I hope you make it to the top of whatever profession it is you want to make it to the top to.

Me: I just want to be with my wife and daughter; no career aspirations, no need to be up at six and in the office for seven, a ten hour day in front of me. I want to be there as my daughter grows up; minute by minute, hour by hour. And I want to share the experience with my wife.

Reality swoops from a far and smacks my head as it passes. What about money? It shouts as it heads up, ready to turn and swoop again. But I'm waiting for it. Yeah, I haven't worked out how to live without cash. I'm aware it takes more than hanging with your wife and daughter to make a life.

But they are my life; they bring me so much happiness, contentment and fulfillment. I'm not looking for anything more. Where there is a will, there is a way. Need to find a way to earn money and spend lots of time with my wife and daughter ... and get a massage once a week too!

Quote of the Week # 26

2007-04-25T10:41:00.000Z

Go bang your drum, real or imagined, and wake yourself and the world up to the fact that you are alive and real.

David M N Bate

Bangers & Mash

2007-04-25T10:28:00.000Z

Week Twenty-nine: Sunday 15 – Saturday 21 April

"Oh, and if anyone asks, we’re called ‘Mangers & Mash."

That was the last words from our 'leader' before we stepped out of our rehearsal room in a nearby shop, crossed the concourse, climbed the steps and entered the ‘Double Trouble – Dub Ska & Reggae’ gig.

The room was full and our arrival was being anticipated. We took our places in front of the dj box, then, poised and primed, we waited for the signal from said leader – then we were off. Fifteen people banging various drums, bells and tambour-drums, as well as shaking some serious shakers, to some sort of samba reggae rhythm.

Most of us only starting playing a drum a couple of months ago, when we first joined the newly started practice sessions. We’d had a mini-gig: walking along Falmouth High Street, in the pouring rain; the support act for Falmouth women’s acknowledgement of International Woman’s Day. This was a real gig: part of a bona-fide dj night; place packed with young people, mainly under 25. Safe to say there was a few nerves on the night.

The venue was excellent. Jubilee Wharf in Penryn; fifteen minutes walk from our house. Based near the harbour, a still busy and working harbour, Jubilee Wharf is an eco centre, with shops, flats a café and a functions room. The whole place is a tasteful intrusion on the landscape, and includes four small wind turbines to generate energy to power the whole place. They don’t look any more obtrusive than the multitude of various sized masts that jut out from the boats.

So the place has a good vibe; sustainable, environmental, earthy, natural. The audience were a bit like that too. And they loved us. We bashed out our two numbers, for about ten minutes each, as the crowd danced round about us; finishing with a massive crescendo - and loads of cheering and clapping.

As we wandered back out to let the djs carry on the night, strangers came up to us to shake our hands, pat our backs, ask when we our next gig is, and one person even asked if we had a cd!

Who wouldn't be a rock star?

If You Do Nothing Else # 1

2007-04-17T09:06:00.000Z

Watch this –

The Corporation (2004).

Winner of 24 International Awards and 10 Audience Awards, including the Sundance Film Festival. Contributions from Noam Chomsky, Naomi Klein, Michael Moore, et al.

It’s a bit chewy, and you need to pay attention, but well worth watching. Afterwards ask yourself two questions: how does that make me feel, and what am I going to do about it?

Quote of the Week # 25

2007-04-17T09:05:00.001Z

If we are to teach real peace in this world, and if we are to carry on a real war against war, we shall have to begin with the children.

Mahatma Gandh

Bedtime Delights

2007-04-17T09:01:00.000Z

Week Twenty-eight: Sunday 8 – Saturday 14 April

“I love you,” she whispered.

“Thank you. I love you, too,” I whispered back.

With that, she stretched out her arm, wrapped her hand round my neck and gently pulled my head towards hers, puckering her lips for a gentle kiss as she guided me.

She then nuzzled my head into her neck and shoulder. “You lie there and I’ll stroke your hair,” she added, patting my back reassuringly a couple of times.

And therein lies the latest delightful ritual that has unfolded in the never- ending discovery of joy and wonder that is the relationship I have with my three year-old daughter.

This wonderful display of my daughter’s caring and nurturing side came after she had already read me a story; well told me a story, as she doesn’t actually read. She does though, like so many children, have her favourite books and she has had them read to her while she follows the pictures countless times.

Equipped with enough awareness of her familiarity of one of her books, ‘Gotcha’, she boldly offered to read it to me when I came to lie down beside her and read to her before she went to sleep.

With a combination of rote, the occasional personal embellishment and mumbo-jumbo made up words to fill in the blanks, she did a fine job of taking me through the story of the little girl who was starting at a new school and struggling to make new friends.

Page by page, her narrative flowed beautifully; she even, occasionally, aping the staff from nursery, I think, propped the book up and widened the viewing angle, asking as she did, “Can you see alright from there?”

How precious children are; from conception to the first crucial five years of their - life and beyond. How magical. What a gift. What gems. And so do we not have an obligation to polish them and make them shine, always?

Nature v nurture? A healthy mix of both, I’m sure. But, while we can’t do much to determine the nature that a newborn child brings into the world with them, we can do everything in our power to determine the nature of the nurturing they receive.

A product of our environment? I think so, more so than anything else. I’m advocating a nurturing, caring, loving, patient, creative, positive environment for all children, all the time.

Quote of the Week # 24

2007-04-10T10:54:00.001Z

There is no nourishment like happiness - it's an elixir. There is no sickness like sorrow - it's a poison. The experience of true happiness cures the sickness of sorrow. A cheerful face goes a long way towards making everything better!

www.thoughtfortoday.org.uk

What Did I Want To Say Again?

2007-04-10T10:30:00.000Z

Week Twenty-seven: Sunday 1 – Saturday 7 April

What a week. Radio workshop Monday - Wednesday; editing and production for the course's online writers website on Thursday. Lack of sleep due to a restless night-time daughter. It's all functional, and functioning, with a tired mind and trapped flow.

I find myself losing sight of what it is I wanted to write in the first place. No, not a 'script' or a 'novel' or a 'feature'; more what it is that I want to say. What's my message? Every writer writes because they have something they want to say. That can be morose, vacuous, manipulative, misleading, meaningless or any other negative connotation: but they all have something to say.

It helps, in my humble opinion, if what you want to say has the potential to contribute positively to the greater good by making people think, feel, engage, laugh, learn, change, improve, et cetera. But whatever it is you want to say as a writer, and for whatever reason, you need to know what it is.

At times you get so bunged up with commercialism, professionalism, competitivism; with angles, opportunities, trends, and with careers and money. You get so bunged up with all that that you forget what it is you want to say. You forget about the messages you want to impart, the lessons you've learned, the experiences you've had: the story you want to tell.

It doesn't take much to lose sight, to stop being focused, to be out of your zone; lack of sleep and a full-on week where you don't get any work you need to get done done, does it for me!

Easter weekend was a chance to reconnect. Lovely sunny weather, a trip to the beach with my wife and daughter to play and relax. A roast beef and potatoes dinner. Easter eggs and new story books for my daughter. It doesn't take much to remind me that, yeah we all need to make a living, yeah I have aspirations as a writer based on a strong desire to say something meaningful, my greatest achievement in life is the life I share with my wife and daughter.

Quote of the Week # 23

2007-04-05T14:36:00.000Z

Forget not that the earth delights to feel your bare feet and the winds long to play with your hair.

Kahlil Gibran

Soggy Six-month Sojourn

2007-04-05T14:16:00.000Z

Week Twenty-six: Sunday 25 – Saturday 31 March

Six months. Just like that. Cliche, cliche, cliche; but it does, doesn't it? Time flies, whizzes by, disappears before your eyes. Ah, but time is also a relative thing. An hour spent with a cold bore could easily feel like a day; a day spent with a warm interesting person could seem like an hour.

Not that I ever feel time dragging these days. There never seems to be enough of it in any one day, and I don't get much chance to fritter it away either. Oh, for the life of the idle rich.

So six months have flashed by and I am half-way through my MA at University College Falmouth. The sun is beginning to shine and Cornwall is feeling like a wise choice for a British location. It will fill up with tourists in the summer, but at least it doesn't feel congested the rest of the year - like the rest of the British Isles!

To stay beyond the course would be nice; can't think where else on this sceptred isle I want to stay. But house prices are beyond a joke, rent is high and council accommodation non-existent. Council tax and other utilities are reputed to be the highest in the British Isles, salaries the lowest. Go figure!

Cornwall is a little serfdom; a place where the idle rich, mainly from London, come to relax in their second homes for a few days a few times a year. Then there are the wealthy retirees, who move down here for the slower pace of life and better weather. Then you have the Cornish who cash in on the tourist season as much as possible and make a few quid; enough to see them through the year, if they are lucky. Beyond them you have a mass of poorly paid, poorly housed, poorly educated, culturally deprived: the underclass.

The dream stands: go and live somewhere warm, away from the masses; commune with nature and fill your days gardening and undertaking creative endeavour. The British Isles, cities, the modern world, people - you can keep them, I don't want them.

Quote of the Week # 22

2007-03-27T13:48:00.000Z

There is essentially only one way in which you can bring about self-transformation - that's if you want to - but you will not think you need to if you are still taking your happiness from outside yourself.
As soon as your happiness is dependent on anything outside, you make yourself a slave to a condition, substance or perhaps a person.
A slave is not free. And happiness is impossible if you are not free.
Perhaps this goes some way to explaining why our happiness fluctuates. Real happiness does not go up and down. Real freedom means that your happiness comes from inside out.
That requires detachment and renunciation, not least from the illusions and conditioning of society which would have you believe happiness can be acquired from outside in.
Inside out, not outside in.

www.thoughtfortoday.org.uk

Cats The Way Girl

2007-03-27T12:57:00.000Z

Week Twenty-five: Sunday 18 – Saturday 24 March

I’m very fond of dogs; I’d happily have one in my life. Although I find it sad that so many dogs spend so much time inside, so I’m more inclined to wait until I have the opportunity to offer a dog a life outdoors before I find that ever obedient, ever loyal friend.

Cats on the other hand; I’d open my doors to a cat at anytime and in any place. I love cats: you never ‘own’ a cat, you merely facilitate one; if you do it well, in return you get all the subtle pleasures that can be shared between a human and an animal. Cats have no equal.

I get a bit despairing at the ‘cat v dog’ brigade; the assumption that you have to like/prefer one over the other, and that if you do then you automatically dislike the other. Like I say, I’m very fond of dogs; but I love cats.

There have always been cats in my life; although my first proper interaction with an animal was with a Border collie called Lucky who taught me how to walk downstairs when I was two. After Lucky got increasingly unlucky with the cars he used to chase, he had to join the place in the sky for country dogs who can’t settle in urban environments.

He was replaced with a cat called Duffle; all black, he came to us as a kitten and used to climb up the duffle coats and sleep in the hood to escape the attentions of a dozen or more adoring humans.

Duffle was an amazing creature: all cats are. And from Duffle came a line of cats that increasingly became a massive part of my life: Tuppence, Argyll; Star; Emmit. I was fourteen or so when Emmit joined the fray; she was the first cat I developed a very personal bond with. As a result I began to read about cats; not so much the history of the species, although that was interesting, but about the psychology of the species.

My parents moved from Edinburgh when I was 21; they took Emmit with them and I was ‘catless’ until my early thirties when first Marley, then Soxi, shared my life. I’m without a cat these days; life is too itinerant to build that special bond right now.

There is an awful lot of material, fact and fiction, written by some of the most creative and inspiring minds of recent times, out there about cats and how they tick. It doesn’t bother me when people say they prefer dogs over cats; it does bother me when people say they don’t like cats.

To not like a cat is to either not understand a cat, or be subconsciously jealous of its intelligence, grace and beauty, coupled with cunning, guile and independence. For anyone in any doubt about why cats have to be at least admired and respected, if not loved and adored, read ‘The Cat That Walked By Himself’ by Rudyard Kipling. It is a masterpiece in many ways, none least in the way it explains so much about cats.

By far and away the best non-fiction book I’ve read about cats is, ‘The Cat in Your Life’ by Karen Anderson. It is a fantastic, easy to read and digest, account of cat psychology and human/feline relations.

Basically, to enjoy the wonders of a proper relationship and friendship with a cat, you have to begin, and end, with respect. It is all about respect. A cat chooses to become your friend; that won’t happen until they feel they are respected and can respect you. Once a cat chooses you as a friend you’re a friend for life, so the decision is not made lightly. Cats have very sensitive, gentle emotions; they are easily offended and discouraged when it comes to relationships; that’s why they act so aloof about it all. It’s a protection; just like humans protect their feelings.

Once the decision to choose you as a friend is made, if it gets made, you’re in heaven; it is a unique and sublimely rewarding experience. But you only ever facilitate them; facilitate that friendship. As Kipling says, ‘ … when the moon gets up and night comes, I am the cat that walks by myself, and all places are alike to me.’

Anderson hits the mark when she states, ‘Cats actually do crave the deep, committed, I’m-in-this-for-the-long-haul kind of love that a human companion can offer. They only appear to have a take-it-or-leave-it attitude. Love your cat in a language they can understand, and they will feel safe enough to love you back; once you enter into an intimate relationship with a cat it’s like signing a pact. You will have won their heart, and they will respect you profoundly – so you have responsibilities and obligations to live up to.’ She should have added, 'and yet the cat in your life will always be independent and free.'

Instinctively, and without knowing, I have passed on my obvious respect, admiration and love for cats to my daughter. From an early age she has been bending at the knee with me, in street or garden, stretching out her arm and hand and rubbing her thumb and forefinger in unison with me, and chanting the ‘puss, puss – puss, puss’ mantra, that pleads with the cat to rub against your fingers and let you stroke them, in tune with me. With had a bit of success too; several cats have rubbed up against us both and let us both stroke and tickle them.

She is too young yet to learn about the complexities that make up a cats character and personality. However, she already knows about being patient and gentle with a cat at all times, and how to kiss them by ‘looking them in the eye and blinking eyelids at them.’

She has a real fondness and innate love for cats already – just over three years-old. I love it: partly because I love cats and know we will enjoy cats together as she gets older; partly because I know what special delights in she in for if she continues to develop and hone her already obvious admiration and respect for cats.

Her first full-on, all by myself, ‘cat experience’ occurred the other week, while I was at a football ground watching Hibernian FC win a trophy in some style.

My sister’s cat, a big, proud, handsome striped Tom, who spends most of his time inhabiting and exploring the countryside, although he frequently appears in the house for love, affection and food. He wandered into the kitchen, sniffed around all those in the room and then jumped up onto my daughter’s lap and nestled in.

My daughter was in awe and ecstasy: she said nothing; her face said it all. Her eyes and body language blared out, ‘Look at me, look at me; there’s a cat on my lap.’

Despite being at Hampden to see the Hibs captain, Rob Jones, lift the League Cup after demolishing Kilmarnock 5-1, when I heard the story of my daughter’s first cat experience, and saw the photos, I wished I’d been there instead.

Okay, maybe two places at once; I would really loved to have shared my daughter's first cat experience with her.

Quote of the Week # 21

2007-03-20T14:07:00.000Z

If I keep a green bough in my heart, the singing bird will come.

Chinese Proverb

Glory, Glory To The Hibees

2007-03-20T13:44:00.000Z

Week Twenty-four: Sunday 11 – Saturday 17 March

I have often been accused over the years of being a little too green for my own good. Now I'm sure those who have directed such comments in my direction were referring to my naivety, not my dedication to Hibernian FC. Either way, who cares?

The fact is: if you have a love, a passion, a deep rooted care, for a football team then when they have won a national trophy, a major piece of silverware, then you really don't care about anything at all. Or, conversely, you care deeply about everything; it's just that nothing matters, nothing is a problem, all is well with the world.

So whether I am too naive for my own good, or whether I am too committed to my football team, Hibernian FC, or whether both and a whole lot of other faults thrown into the mix, I don't care. Not right now, at this particular moment. You see the Hibees did me, and all the tens of thousands of other Hibs fans in Edinburgh and all other parts of the globe, proud on Sunday 18 March 2007 by beating Kilmarnock FC 5-1 in the League Cup Final. Yes, 5-1!

We (Hibs) hadn't won a trophy for 16 years. We'd lost a couple of finals in that time, and a few semi-finals too. But no trophy for 16 years! Until now.

We were all nervous at Hampden Park, Glasgow, anticipating possible disappointment again. No need to worry. We were 1-0 up after 30 minutes and went in at half-time holding that lead. The second half was a stroll in the park, apart from a five minute spell when Kilmarnock got their consolation goal to make it 3-1. Other than that, our name was always on the cup.

I wasn't even going to go to the game; cash and time constraints convincing me that I couldn't afford to make the journey. But as fate/luck/karma would have it, I won two tickets and travelling expenses in a competition four days before the big day. I hastily booked a car and made travel plans. Driving up on the Saturday, driving back on the Sunday night.

It was worth every second of the trip to be there. Not just for me personally to see my team win a cup, but to be with my brother and my nephews at the game and share in the joy and euphoria with them.

It is because of my big brother that I support Hibs, and it is because of me that virtually all of my nephews support Hibs. There were four of them at the game with my brother and me, two of whom are too young to have seen, or remember seeing, Hibs last trophy triumph. I have seen how upset they have been when Hibs have failed in the past; I have shared their pain and felt responsible for their suffering, having convinced them to be Hibs supporters in the first place.

But on Sunday, before the game had even finished and it was clear that we had won, I felt only happiness to be part of something special in my life, my brother's life and the lives of my nephews. Hibernian FC - we love you.

Quote of the Week # 20

2007-03-13T09:48:00.000Z

I have found that if you love life, life will love you back.

Arthur Rubinstein

Express Yourself

2007-03-13T09:44:00.000Z

Week Twenty-three: Sunday 4 – Saturday 10 March

I’ve been banging my drum a lot recently. Calm down euphemists, calm down. I joined a Samba drumming group about six weeks ago; every Friday night, for an hour-and-a-half, I go along and bang a drum.

It is a great thing to do. Not only am I learning how to drum and about drumming, something I have wanted to do since I lived in Zimbabwe and became mesmerized by the trance inducing drumming I experienced there, I am expressing myself.

All the thoughts, worries, concerns, tensions and pensiveness that I carry around with me all week dissipate for that one and a half hours as I bang away to the rhythms of the Samba band.

I really feel liberated while I bash away, and I get an opportunity to express myself. It’s such an important thing to do – express yourself.

Last week the Samba band even had a gig. Thursday 8 March was International Women's Day; as we practice at the Falmouth Women's Institute we offered to lead the procession that marched through Falmouth High Street. It poured with rain for the whole of the march, but the marchers got a lot of public support as we followed the banner clad women raising awareness about the many inequalities that still beset women all over the world in the 21st Century. All about expression, and expressing yourself.

Children, of course, are far more adept at expressing themselves than us adults, bashed and moulded into societal constraints as we are.

Take my five year old nephew, who comes to visit us once a week with his dad, my brother. Last week, after dinner, he (my nephew, not brother) decided to strip off to his underpants and run around the house hollering and whooping like an extra from a Mel Gibson movie.

Now, in certain circumstances such behaviour would cause embarrassment and discomfort to the adults present; not in my house, where such expressiveness is encouraged and treated with impressed pleasure. Actually, the person who seemed most put out about my nephew’s strip tease, near nakedness and hollering was my three year old daughter.

Which is kind of odd, as she loves nothing more than running around the house naked after she has had a bath screeching and laughing. Her favourite activity after a bath, and whilst still naked, is to get on our bed and jump up and down as if her life depended on it. Like a dog retrieving a ball or stick, she seems content to carry on jumping, then loosing her balance and falling, until she collapses with exhaustion. Even when she bangs her head on the wall, or falls off the bed, she isn’t perturbed for long and is soon back, big smile on her face, jumping away.

And she finds more subtle ways to express herself too. Last Saturday my wife and I went out for a meal, thanks to the kindness of one of my course mates who offered to baby-sit, or ‘big girl sit’ as our daughter insisted it be called.

Now, it was a bit of an act of expression on my wife and my part as we haven’t been out for a meal since our daughter was born. We felt quite excited about having a totally trustworthy person in the house looking after our daughter while we went on a ‘date’. And a lovely night we had too; pre-dinner drinks, and then to the local steak house for a couple of juicy slabs of red meat. An African’s dream; I don’t think such a thing as a vegetarian exists in Africa! And I love my beef too – euphemists, relax.

All had gone well with the big girl sitting when we returned; Jenny (my course mate) merely mentioning that she didn’t know what pyjamas our daughter was to wear and, given she seemed very sure of herself, she let her pick her own night wear.

When our daughter came through to our room in the morning she was dressed in the most eclectic mix of clothing, never mind pyjamas, that we have ever seen her in! A pair of purple ankle socks, three quarter length floral trousers that she hasn’t even worn yet as we have been waiting for summer, and a stripy vest top. She looked great, even though, while it doesn’t really matter what she wears to bed so long as she has something warm and comfortable on, her outfit bore no resemblance to her normal pyjamas.

Once again, I learn more from my daughter than I can ever hope to teach her. I just wish I was able to lock into that expressive, free will that a child comes into the world with for more than one-and-a-half hours a week.

Quote of the Week # 19

2007-03-05T15:15:00.000Z

My curse upon thy venom'd stang,
That shoots my tortur'd gums alang;
And thro' my lugs gies mony a twang,
Wi' gnawing vengeance;
Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang,
Like racking engines!

Rabbie Burns (on toothache)

Extraction Inaction

2007-03-05T15:13:00.000Z

Week Twenty-two: Sunday 25 February – Saturday 3 March

I don’t know what a bear with a sore head looks or acts like. I imagine much like anyone with a sore head; I have my doubts that there has been any research to prove that bears are worse with sore heads than any other creature. And anyway, a sore head is a stroll in the country on a warm summer day compared to the hell that is toothache and tooth extraction.

Having supped malt whisky all day Sunday to alleviate the pain, I phoned for an emergency operation first thing on Monday morning and was given an appointment for the next day. That was a relief, but not from the ache, so it was back to the malt whisky. Having your first swill and swallow of malt at 8.45am and continuing every half hour or so for the rest of the day is not just a recipe for alcohol dependency, it renders you pretty incapable of much else by mid-afternoon. But what other choice did I have?

Having got through Monday, I was all set on Tuesday to get the tooth out. Only problem was the appointment was not until 11.30am and I couldn’t risk touching anymore whisky as I was going to have a fair whack of anaesthetic at the dentists. What to do? Suffer the pain; it was only a few hours after all.

It was hell, no exaggeration. The previous four days I had coped with a mixture of first pain killers, then whisky, then both. I had forgotten just how bloody painful the toothache was. I agitated and agonised through the morning, then rushed off to the dentist way before time.

When I finally got called in to the surgery room I was begging the dentist to inject me before I had even sat down. It took about five minutes for the anaesthetic to kick in and from that moment on I was quite happy; the dentist could have done a lot more to me than just take a tooth out and I would have been nonplussed.

The extraction was not too bad; it was a bugger of a tooth to get out (aren’t they all), but I felt nothing and was simply relieved.

By Tuesday night I was beginning to feel the effects of a mouth, jaw and bone that had been violated … more painkillers dealt with that. By Wednesday my mouth was not healing as it should and by Thursday I had an infection in the hole where my tooth used to be. Off to the doctors this time, to get some antibiotics.

So much of last week was a bit of a write off for me; I got little work done and was miserable most of the time. And, in the true art of misery, I passed that lack of bonhomie on to my wife and daughter. Luckily I am blessed with a wife from heaven and a daughter to match.

Quote of the Week # 18

2007-02-26T11:32:00.001Z

Life is an opportunity, benefit from it.
Life is beauty, admire it.
Life is bliss, taste it.
Life is a dream, realize it.
Life is a challenge, meet it.
Life is a duty, complete it.
Life is a game, play it.
Life is a promise, fulfill it.
Life is sorrow, overcome it.
Life is a song, sing it.
Life is a struggle, accept it.
Life is a tragedy, confront it.
Life is an adventure, dare it.
Life is luck, make it.
Life is too precious, do not destroy it.
Life is life, fight for it.

Mother Teresa

It Was Only Yesterday

2007-02-26T11:17:00.000Z

Week Twenty-one: Sunday 18 – Saturday 24 February

The other day our screenwriting lecturer said to us as we packed up, ‘It’s amazing how quickly three hours can go.’ I was thinking about my daughter’s impending third birth day when he said it, and was just saying in my mind, ‘It’s amazing how quickly three years can go.’

The night before, my wife, daughter and I had been looking through the photo albums that we have kept since our daughter was born. It did only seem like yesterday that she was born and surrounded by cousins, aunties, uncles, grandparents and friends: since she could be held in one hand; since she was breast-fed; since she wore all in ones and not pyjamas; since she started to crawl, learnt to walk and run; since she got her teeth one by one; since she started to talk.

And now, at the ripe old age of three, she is an individual in her own right. She is a bundle of joy and life, happiness and satisfaction; she has elements of her mama and elements of her papa, but she brings a whole character and personality all of her own.

No fewer than two meals and two cakes, spread over two days, to celebrate her third birth day, and a rendition of ‘Happy Birth Day To You’ from the teachers and children at nursery: it was quite a celebration.

Parcels and cards also arrived well into the week, making it a prolonged celebration; with the cards ‘blu-tacked’ to the walls, the memory of the celebrations lingers on.

The only blight on the occasion has been the return of the dreaded toothache! I was all due for root canal treatment in early February, and had psyched myself up for the challenge. I first went to see the dentist before Christmas; she pocked about a bit, took x-rays and told me I needed root canal treatment on one of my teeth. She put a temporary filling in and fixed me up to return in February. I only had one four-day spell of toothache over the festivities; nurofen every four hours saw to that.

When I turned up for the root canal I was told it was no longer an option; I’d have to get the tooth out. I was told it could be done there and then; I wasn’t prepared for that, so I declined. I got an appointment for 20 March and shuffled out, please not to have had my choppers rattled and drilled and interfered with.

But, midday through last week, the toothache returned; nurofen made no difference. After three days I bought a bottle of malt whisky; whenever the nerve awakens and growls, sending tears to my eyes and a desire to rip the bloody tooth out by hand to my heart, I bathe it in a mouthful of Scottish medicine. It works a treat, and you get pissed enough eventually not to feel anything anyway.

I can’t really justify carrying on such a pain relief operation until 20 March, though; I need an emergency appointment and I need to get that tooth out.

It isn’t so much the idea of getting it out that bothers me, it’s the implications of getting it out: aging. Just as it’s amazing how quickly three hours and three years can go, it’s amazing how quickly 42 years can go, amazing how quickly life can go; does go.

Like an old car being removed from the roadway, a tooth has to come out because it has ceased to function. My hair started leaving my head and re- appearing out my nose and ears a while back, the first ‘condemned’ tooth has been sentenced; how long before I find myself needing glasses?

No point getting down about it, though. Seriously. You can’t reverse the natural aging process; all you can do is look after yourself and live in the here and now.

Amen to that. Where’s that bottle of malt?

Quote of the Week # 17

2007-02-19T17:25:00.000Z

Laughter is the medicine of life.

Madelaine Bamford.

Love A Laugh

2007-02-19T17:10:00.000Z

Week Twenty: Sunday 11 – Saturday 17 February

You know, when I chill out and stop trying to be the funny guy, give someone else, like my wife and daughter, a chance, I find myself laughing so naturally and so much it does hurt!

My wife is a bit like my nemesis: quiet, shy and retiring; that doesn't stop her having a finely honed sense of humour and an acute ability to have me howling with joy. As for my daughter, she is the classic, original, hoot.

The vast majority of young children can surely raise at least a smile from the grumpiest of sods in the world. Their innocence, honesty and mimicry is enough to find you forming a smile with your mouth before you know it at the worst of times; at the best of times it has you, well it has me, with tears in your eyes, pain behind your ears and gasping for breath. Doesn't it?

It is nothing particular that my daughter does, she doesn't have a routine; more it is a spur of the moment comment, statement, action or behaviour, or combination of all three, that gets me going. I defy anyone to convince me that anything is more entertaining - apart, perhaps, from watching two youngish kittens playing/fighting with each other.

My daughter, any daughter, or child, knocks spots off the television. If you want to be entertained, and you have a child, especially one under five years old, just hang out with them and let them be. Sooner or later you'll be smiling, then smirking, then giggling, then roaring with glee and holding your sides, while wiping your eyes and rubbing your aching ears (doesn't everyone get a pain behind their ears when they have been laughing too hard and too long?)

The cheapest and most enriching entertainment around: chilling out, exiting centre stage and giving up the 'floor' to your wife and daughter.

Magic, priceless, endless and superb!

Quote of the Week # 16

2007-02-19T17:08:00.000Z

Act the way you'd like to be and soon you'll be the way you act.

Leonard Cohen

Caught Cold Cohen

2007-02-19T16:39:00.000Z

Week Nineteen: Sunday 4 – Saturday 10 February

"You never forget your first Cohen." That's what my friend, and Cohen aficionado, told me: he was right! Mine was 'I'm Your Man', sung by the fantastic Rufus Wainwright at the beginning of the documentary with the same title that is all about the man himself.

Like so many others, no doubt, I had always harboured under the misapprehension that Leonard Cohen's poems, songs and essays were depressing; enough to drive anyone over the edge, was how I had heard him described on more than one occasion.

Being of a more than melancholic nature myself, I always made a point of avoiding anything by Leonard Cohen as a result of all the foreboding that had been foisted upon me by others. Then an opportunity came to go and watch the documentary film, 'I'm Your Man'; all about, and starring, Leonard Cohen.

With my wife and daughter away visiting African relations in another part of England, I was feeling lonely and melancholy enough. My instinct was to turn down the chance to go and see the documentary film. But, a number of people on my course, people I have quickly grown to have a love and respect for, said he is a genius and a legend and that I would enjoy it.

At least it would be a little company and a chance to get out of an empty house; at most it would be a chance to finally become acquainted with a singer/songwriter of genius standing. It turned out to be the latter, not the former.
Apart from too tubes from a band called U2, by the names of 'Bono' and 'Edge', the whole documentary film was a wonderful journey into the work and workings of one gifted, talented and special writer. As if that wasn't enough, all the way through an eclectic mix of 'unusual', but also supremely gifted and talented, singers paid their respects to Mr Cohen with various renditions of some of his songs.

Being an impecunious student, I didn't go out and buy a book or two about him and/or several cds of his songs being sung by himself and others - much as I'd have loved too. But my good friend, and fellow student, who so sagely told me that you never forget your first Cohen, kindly lent me one of his Leonard Cohen books and one of his cds too.

I have spent the last few days in blissful harmony, being mesmerized by Cohen's sublime genius, and immense humility. Not everything he has written does it for me; but what I like, and I like a lot, I find I like so much I love it.

As for being depressing: maybe for some people, but not for me. For me, Leonard Cohen is uplifting, warming, understanding and comforting.

The moral of the story? Never take anybody's word for anything: find out for yourself!

Quote of the Week # 15

2007-02-06T15:52:00.001Z

Having sex is like playing bridge. If you don't have a good partner, you'd better have a good hand.

Woody Allen

Hibees Return

2007-02-06T15:48:00.000Z

Week Eighteen: Sunday 28 January – Saturday 3 February

What a week it has been. Following the whir that was hosting a Burns Supper, then driving up to and back from Edinburgh within three days, and seeing as many people as possible in that time, I really didn’t get my bearings until the middle of week.

By that time, thanks to snippets from Radio Five Live and text messages from my brother and nephew, I had the pleasure of discovering that my beloved Hibernian FC had reached another cup final: the CIS League Cup Final.

I managed to get to Easter Road, home to Hibernian FC, the Hibees, when I was up in Edinburgh; they beat Motherwell 2-0 in a drab game where the players did enough to win without having to stretch themselves.

Now I hope to be going back up to Scotland in late March to see them win a trophy. Hibs haven’t won the League Cup since 1991; we haven’t won the Scottish Cup since 1902!! We’ve made it to three or four cup finals since 1991: I’ve been at them all, and we’ve lost them all! I’d consider myself a jinx, only I was at the 1991 final when we won.

I’m not the average football fan; I don’t have much time for player adulation and I don’t enjoy watching much football. I’ve always preferred to play the game and have never been up for watching more than one game a week. But I do love my team, the Hibees, Hibs, Hibernian FC. I love the club, the history, the tradition. I love what the club means to Leith, the area in Edinburgh where Hibs are based, to the fans and to Scottish football.

And I’d love my team to win another trophy because the best thing in football, apart from seeing the ball hit the back of the net, is seeing the captain of your team lift a trophy after a cup final.

I don’t want my wife and daughter to be football fans, but I do want them to share my love of Hibs. Inadvertently, they do.

Within hours of my future wife to be arriving in Scotland for the first time, from her life in Botswana and family in Zimbabwe, she found herself quickly whisked to the Shore Bar in Leith to meet some new family and friends for the first time, down some Guinness for the first time and attend an Edinburgh derby at Easter Road for the first time.

In my defence, two of my nephews, and, by the way, all of my nephews are Hibs fans, had moved from Edinburgh to Oxford; I booked tickets for that derby for us, and they were coming up especially for it, before my wife to be booked her flight!

I remember it well, 16 March 2002. We went 1-0 up early doors through Gary O’Connor; after I stopped jumping up and down and screaming, I kissed and hugged my now wife and told her she was a lucky mascot. Hearts equalised in the second half and won with a Steven Pressley penalty in stoppage time.

My wife consoled me by explaining to me that is was an omen from the gods of football that she was not to play any future part in my football life. Clever, eh?

We moved to Portugal soon after that, but were back in Scotland in early 2004 for the birth of our daughter, who will be three next month. Just over a month later Hibs were in the CIS League Cup Final, facing Livingston having knocked Rangers and Celtic out on the way. There were eleven of us crowded round my daughter, who was wearing a present of a Hibs strip as the photos were taken before we left; we all kissed the lucky mascot’s head as we piled into the cars, headed for Hampden Park and dreamed the dream. We lost 2-0.

Do you know how my wife consoled me? Oh, so clever!

But my daughter knows a few Hibs songs and my wife can cope with the odd game every now and again. So I hope the three of us will be at Hampden Park, Glasgow on Sunday 18 March to see Hibs captain, Rob Jones, lift the CIS League Cup.

God willing!

Quote of the Week # 14

2007-02-06T15:18:00.001Z

Whatever mitigates the woes or increases the happiness of others, this is my criterion of goodness; and whatever injures society at large, or any individual in it, this is my measure of iniquity.

Robert Burns 1759 - 1796

Rock On Rabbie

2007-02-06T15:15:00.000Z

Week Seventeen: Sunday 21 – Saturday 27 January

Being on a writing course, and being the only Scot, I decided to organize a Burns Supper for my fellow writing students and the course tutors. It was a lot of work, but well worth the effort; not only did everyone have a brilliant time, a good few Sassenachs gained a valuable education on the many merits of both Burns and haggis.

Burns Suppers are traditionally held one month after Christmas, on 25 January, the anniversary of the death of the Bard of Scotland and can be anything from small and highly casual to large and highly formal. My Burns Supper was a medium sized affair that was both highly formal and highly casual at the same time.

Thirty-three of us crammed in to our course leader’s living room for a traditional three course Burns Supper dinner, followed by cheese and oatcakes. Entertainment was provided by a real, live piper, a cd of Eddie Reader singing Burns, recitals of an Address to a Haggis, My Luve is Like a Red, Red Rose and Scots Wha Hae, and, of course, the Immortal Memory, Toast to the Lassies and Response from Lassies speeches.

It was the first Burns Supper I have ever organized, and it couldn’t have gone better; from beginning to end it was a spectacular night. I was aided and abetted by two stalwarts in my life: my brother, a trained chef and restaurant manager of many years standing, who took care of all the catering and service; my wife, an artist and trained graphic designer, who took care of all the place names, programme booklets and table decorations.

I didn’t really have to do much: a few tables, chairs, crockery, cutlery and glasses to be begged, borrowed or stole; a bit of lifting and moving furniture!

The only thing I asked of the attendees was that they wore something tartan; they responded in kind, with an eclectic mix of tartan garb, from tights and head scarves, to dressing gowns and (allegedly) a thong. Although I was resplendent in full, official, tartan dress, I was upstaged by the outrageous Liam, our course gay, who turned up in a fantastic tartan mini-dress and proceeded to sashay around all night like a catwalk model.

The vast majority of the people who attended had never been to a Burns Supper before, nor had they ever tasted haggis. Most admitted afterwards that they thought they’d just be turning up to hold their nose and swallow a couple of mouthfuls of haggis without retching. They had no idea they were going to be entertained by a piper, mesmerized by Burns’ gift with words, enthralled by top class speeches, and enjoy, yes enjoy, the up-till-then, horror inducing haggis!

Not to mention the Scots whiskey! A wee dram or two of Tamnavulin malt passed more than a wee lip or two; as the night wore on and the whiskey kicked in a wee bum and a wee timorous beastie or three were flashed repeatedly from under kilts on a regular basis. It must be one of the few occasions when a man can flash his privates in public in a room full of women and not cause any offence!

I got four hours sleep that night, made an attempt to rearrange my course leader’s living room so it resembled something close to how it looked before I took it over, attended a photography course and then drove up to Edinburgh with my brother to spend three days catching up with some family and friends!

Aye, the Scots are hardcore: but it was worth every minute, every second, of effort and time. Rabbie Burns was a great man and his memory is one that is well worth celebrating; especially when in the company of people who knew so little about before.

Quote of the Week # 13

2007-01-25T09:34:00.000Z

Responsibility is what awaits outside the Eden of creativity.

Nadine Gordimer

Who Are We?

2007-01-25T09:31:00.000Z

Week Sixteen: Sunday 14 – Saturday 20 January

I opened up my college email the other day and the first email I saw had a subject line that read, ‘Lecture by David Bate.’ My first reaction was, ‘F*ck, who’s set me up, and what the f*ck am I supposed to be giving a lecture on.

When I opened up the email it turns out the lecture was being given by a guy called David Bate from Winchester University in London; head of the MA Photography course, he was coming to University College Falmouth to give a lecture on the work of a famous photographer called Jeff Wall.

After the initial relief at knowing I hadn’t been set up and wouldn’t have to give a lecture after all, I couldn’t stop thinking about his name: my name! It didn’t help that I was inundated with various witty emails and text messages from people on my course regarding the email that I, and they, had received.

Bate is not the most common name in the world: it’s not the most common name in the British Isles for that matter; it is actually a Cornish name, located in the area around Padstow. So throughout my life I have never come across many other people with the surname Bate that weren’t my relations; growing up in Edinburgh all the Bate entries in the telephone directory were my family. And I have NEVER come across anyone with the same first and second name as me.

Now, there could be dozens of people called David Bate in the British Isles, and further a field for that matter, but I’ve never come across them, hard of them or, indeed, been told about them by anyone else. So it came as a real surprise to find that there is at least one other David Bate alive, well and functioning on planet earth; and he was coming to the college I attend to give a lecture!

Call it curiosity, call it vanity, call it what you want – I had to go and check the guy out and see what he looked liked, how he sounded, and how he moved, dressed and functioned. Yeah, call it vanity; because when I got to the lecture theatre where the presentation was held I got there early so I could check the guy out and, against my better judgement, I decided that he wasn’t as good looking as me, didn’t have as good a physique, voice or dress sense and couldn’t deliver a presentation with the same panache as me either.

Hey, I wasn’t putting the guy down: he was fine, good and well; just not, in my opinion, as fine, good or well as me! But what if he had been? What if he had turned out to be a Brad Pitt look-a-like, with the voice of Richard Burton, body of Thierry Henry, moves of Robbie Williams and dress sense of Bogart? Just how well would I have coped with that?

Well, I like to think well, because I’m mature, secure and balanced; but I’d be kidding myself on. So, what is it about someone with the same name as us? What’s in a name? Who are we?

Quote of the Week # 12

2007-01-25T09:30:00.000Z

Man was made for joy and woe;
And when this we rightly know,
Safely through the world we go.

William Blake

Good And Bad In Everyone

2007-01-25T09:29:00.000Z

Week Fifteen: Sunday 7 – Saturday 13 January

I caught a headline in a ‘broadsheet’ newspaper the other day about the rise of racism in Europe. I checked out the subheading and then drifted over the first few paragraphs. I got the jist of the article: I didn’t need, or want, to read any further.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s important to know about these sorts of things; but is it really ‘new’s? Is it a rise in racism, or is it just an age-old problem raising its ugly head again because it is expedient or politic to do so at this particular time?

I don’t have much time for ‘news’papers these days anyway, whether they are tabloids or broadsheets; they’re all pretty much full of slanted, jaundiced, agendaised spin and spiel. If you don’t believe me, buy a copy of Private Eye some time and check out what doesn’t get into the papers on a regular basis. If you’re still not convinced, read Noam Chomsky’s ‘Manufacturing Consent’.

Sure, you get the odd good article, the odd good feature and the odd good opinion piece in both tabloid and broadsheet newspapers; there’s a fair amount of decent writing too. But, over the piece, they’re really only good for passing a wet, cold Sunday, checking the football results, or, not that this happens anymore in today’s polystyrene world, wrapping fish and chips up in.

However, although I didn’t read the article in any depth, and the racism thing is nothing new, in the world never mind just in Europe, I did ponder the issue and find it popping up in my head throughout that day. Especially as my lovely wife is a mixed race African, with a touch of Jewish blood, and my daughter is a right old bag of liquorice allsorts.

What is it with human beings and, well, other human beings? Why is so much time, energy, effort and money spent on the pursuit of hating other people? On a macro level it’s because they are from a different race, or country, or have a different colour of skin or language of way of life; on a micro level it is because they support a different football team, go to a different school, have different colour hair or big, small, fat, thin, whatever.

Is it all not just a complete waste of all that time, energy, effort and money? I don’t think anyone or anything could convince me otherwise. Who cares so much about all this shit? Who are these sad, deluded individuals walking planet earth spewing out all this hatred, bigotry and suspicion all in the name of ignorance and insecurity?

I need to know what purpose any of it, one tiny iota of it, serves? Nothing constructive or meaningful: nothing purposeful or creative; nothing worthwhile or positive. So why? Beats the shit out of me.

No doubt various groups have a whole list of rhetoric to support it. No doubt various, so called, educated, academic, intellectual groups have a whole list of scientific and sociological reasons to explain it. To me, it’s all bullshit: these people ALL need to look within, not without, and take one huge f*cking reality check. Life’s too short, too precious, and too good to waste.

No matter what creed, colour, religion, sex, nationality, et cetera that there is out there, none are perfect and none are pure. There is good and bad in everyone. Best to rejoice in the good and work to eradicate, or at least control, the bad.

Quote Of The Week – # 11

2007-01-08T09:57:00.000Z

It’s the heart afraid of breaking that never learns to dance,
It’s the dream afraid of waking that never takes a chance,
It’s the one who won’t be taken who cannot seem to give,
And the soul afraid of dying that never learns to live.

The Rose

What’s Bugging Us?

2007-01-08T09:55:00.000Z

Week Fourteen: Sunday 31 December – Saturday 6 January

What a week it’s been: what a welcome to the 'New Year'; our first family Christmas, and now new year, in Falmouth Cornwall. All three of us have had a fantastic start to 2007, and two thirds of us have subsequently fallen down the other side and seen the ying and yang of the balance of life.

Hogmanay was celebrated with style and panache, and a healthy amount of fun and laughter. One of the ladies on my course, another former teacher, and her partner, still a teacher, moved to Cornwall in September last year from Brighton. They have become good friends in a short space of time, as so many on the course have, and hosted a marvellous evening of classic fancy dress, mixed with PlayStation at its best, to see in the new year.

They live in a little hamlet, just outside Falmouth; we were picked up in the town centre and driven to a beautiful, sprawling by our cramped, yet homely, comparison, renovated large stone barn. It was a real ‘wow’ moment as the car pulled up; a wee dream home tucked away in the country. Indoors it was tastefully refurbished; spacious and natural, with lots of wood and stone. Twenty or so virtual strangers found there way to the remotely located house, and showed up in various forms of fancy dress and guise; and we had a ball.

Lots of early chat to find out more about these ‘new’ people, a few cerebral party games, and then what I’d been eagerly waiting for, having heard so much about it: SingStar or SongStar! Completely new to me: now I’m hooked.

All I can say is, for me, it’s the singing equivalent of being in a motor racing booth in an arcade, your mate sat next to you, both of you taking part in the same race in front of you. What a game, what a ball!

We stayed the night as a family, and our daughter saw in her third new year, as she approaches her third birthday, with a rousing rendition of Auld Lang Syne (a first for several present). Then it was off to bed for her and Mama: leaving Papa to party; it took two days for me to recover.

Just as I was getting back ‘into the groove’ I got hit by a nasty stomach bug and was laid low again. I managed to avoid sickness, but elsewhere I was definitely experiencing discomfort. No sooner had I spent two days dealing with that, while trying to function as a husband and father too, than our daughter came home from nursery complaining of having a sore tummy.

She doesn’t know the meaning of the word complain, so we took notice: before long she got her first experience in projectile vomit; it was prolonged and mixed with lots of retching when there was nothing to bring up. An introduction to the very same kind of backside that I’d had, every time she sipped any fluid, then followed for several hours.

It was a long night for all of us, not least for our wee trooper who was experiencing the most uncomfortable dis-ease she has yet encountered.

We all eventually got some proper sleep around 7.00am: she was up by 11.00am and ready to play; after the past 20 hours she had had?! She just hates to be ill and out of sorts. But she was tired and dehydrated. At one point in the night we had called the NHS out of hours service and my wife spoke to a doctor: we were that concerned. The advice was to see it out and keep trying to get fluid down, even if it came straight back up.

It was tough going till the early hours, mainly because of the sheer worrying without showing it and frustration at not being able to just take it all away. She never cried once, barely whimpered, and by morning she was up for having fun. What a child!

She faded fast enough though, was still prone to a bit of stomach action, and nothing solid to speak of elsewhere; and she was shattered, physically and emotionally. We managed to convince her that she was a bit ‘poohie’ and needed a bath and fresh pyjamas (not that we had much left that was clean after the number of changes during the night – I am talking PROJECTILE!). Then, eventually, she settled down with the worst hopefully behind her and, believe it or not, a little milk: rice milk maybe, but a little milk nonetheless; and no reaction.

So it’s been quite a first week of 2007 for my daughter and myself. My wife, her mother, our lover, has aided and tended to us with her customary grace, good will and love.

I’m back to ‘school’ and my daughter and I go our separate ways a little, till the next holiday. It’s been such a treat, such a gift that money couldn’t come close to, far less buy, to have a month to spend each and everyday with my wife and with my daughter.

Maybe that’s what’s really bugging me and her; it’s time to stop chilling out each and every day, playing and having fun. My wife must have escaped the bug because she’s politely delighted that I’m going to be out of the house more, and she can have her home back to manage properly.

Happy new year to any, and all, of you.

Quote Of The Week – # 10

2007-01-03T14:44:00.000Z

A man with outward courage dares to die; a man with inward courage dares to live.

Lao Tzu, c600BCE+

We'll Share A Cup Of Kindness Yet

2007-01-03T14:31:00.000Z

Week Thirteen: Sunday 24 December – Saturday 30 December

Well, a very happy new year to anyone who may be reading this blog. If you've got nothing better to do with your life than trawl through blogs at new year, then, let's face it, you need all the breaks going!

Dark clouds hang over human existence, as far as I am concerend; I can hear the distant drums when the world quietens down enough.

But, I'm staying on the positive side. Every year, at new year, throughout the world, people sing Robert Burns' song, Auld Lang Syne. There is a line in the song, poem really, that says;

We'll share a cup of kindness yet.

Well, I'm holding out hope that the people of the world will one day soon share a cup of kindness with all other living things.

Peace, love and plantery respect!

Quote Of The Week – # 9

2006-12-22T12:01:00.000Z

May I live simply that others may simply live.

Gandhi