Free writing from a quote.

"The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes but in having new eyes."

Marcel Proust.


I took a walk this summer round the grounds of an old stately home. It was a well-trodden path and one I had used myself many many times. This day, however, was different. I walked slowly, noticing the trees bend in the wind, smelling the earthy aroma of pine needles and mud. I took that walk with an intentionality about me. I would notice everything and be ready to describe it in great detail.

A few days after the walk I wrote several poems about that day and what I experienced. Had I gone out simply wishing to burn fat or count footsteps I’d have missed everything.

A renewed vision of creation in turn makes the onlooker creative.

More tomorrow...

First night at work

Angela scanned the bottles on the shelf muttering to herself: “Whisky, bottom left. Vodka, bottom right. Rum, middle left.” She knew the guys dotted around the bar were watching her as they sipped their pints; she’d been introduced to most of them earlier, the regulars. They seemed nice enough.

“Can I have a Zywiec please?” said one of them. She must have looked puzzled as he continued: “It’s a beer, bottom fridge, top shelf. It’s got Polish people dancing on the label.”

“This one?”

“That’s it.”

“Would you like a glass?”

“Yes please.”

“That was easy enough.” she thought, “These regulars will probably be my best asset. They know where everything is.”

Linda came to see how she was doing: “Everything ok?”

“Yeah, I think so. There seems so much to remember.”

“You’ll get the hang of it. Anyway, these nutters will keep you right.” Linda nodded at the regulars.

“This is a great pub.” said one, “I’m Alan, by the way. What’s your name?”

“Angela, pleased to meet you Alan.”

“I see Linda’s not broken with tradition.”

“What tradition’s that Alan?” asked Linda.

“The tradition of hiring beautiful barmaids.”

“He says that to everyone.” said Linda.

Angela laughed: “I bet he does.” All the same, it was nice to be complemented.

“He’ll be giving you his phone number before the night’s out.”

“I don’t think my boyfriend would be too pleased about that.”

“Don’t tell him then.” Said Alan, “Is he nice?”

“He’s lovely.”

“That’s great. But I better give you my number, just in case you’re a terrible judge of character.” He started to write it down.

“Two Peroni please.” barked another customer. Angela glanced at Alan. He was nodding at a beer tap. “Does no one drink normal stuff in here?” she thought, “and so expensive!” The total on the till had startled her but the customers didn’t seem bothered. Linda was asking some other guys for a similarly exorbitant sum of money and no one batted an eyelid.

“These guys must be loaded.” she thought, “and they tip well. Maybe my boyfriend’s not lovely enough.” she smiled.

“Is that your number Alan?”

“Sure is”

“I’ll keep this on file.” she grinned as she put the slip of paper in her pocket.

More tomorrow...

Words of Wisdom

You can't stab a jelly.

More tomorrow...

Last Weekend (The End)

And here's Sunday morning

Unsatisfied

What I got on Friday

Was a lot of fun.

But ultimately,

me,

me and that other guy too

and I assume all those others,

we like fun, sure we do

but we weren’t looking for that.

We wanted to be accepted.

We wanted to be loved

and that’s what we got

but none of us recognised it

because we looked outwards.

We looked to everyone else

And forgot to love ourselves.

We’d have been having fun

Without the expense,

without the pretence.

We already had all we needed,

but we got distracted.

We will again.

So it makes this time,

this time now,

when to be myself is contentment

all the more precious.

More tomorrow...

Last Weekend (The Beginning)

This is some stuff I wrote last weekend. It starts with Friday night and finishes on Sunday afternoon. It's a semi-autobiographical look at contrast. So here's Friday. Sunday will follow tomorrow.

The Strategist

The week had been long, busy with bureaucracy and emotionally draining. Phone calls had been made and the due diligence had been done, ticked off, filed and left to gather its own dust.
Robert had finally escaped from the humdrum monotonous buzz of the daily grind. He’d done lunches, been for coffees, smiled at clients and braved the snarling jams at rush hour. He skipped tea, threw on his hat at its jauntiest angle and made his way pubwards.
The weekend beckoned with sleek, glossy hair, fake tan and miles of mascara. He was ready to charm and was already imagining that tinkling giggle and adoring smile.
He opened the door, doffing his hat and spun it on the bar as he ordered up a bottle of the finest red wine. He looked around and his smirk began to fade. Bald heads, beer bellies. The fruit machine clamoured and Pink Floyd were fifteen minutes into a solo on the jukebox. He drained his glass in disappointment but declined to leave. He knew this. He’d been here before. It was a man monsoon in the middle of a female famine. But he would get by. Either things would pick up soon or he’d steal someone’s girlfriend.
He withdrew from the pack, let them howl together and lick each other’s wounds. He became aloof; stood apart knowing this would engender curiosity. Let the rest take the scraps; the barked camaraderie.
And soon? His plan worked so he put his pen back in his pocket.


More tomorrow...

Hospital Ward 2 (The Sad One)

Glenn Miller music drifted amongst the smell of milky tea and wilting flowers. The big band sound competed with the television that no one was watching. There were people sat around it but their grey heads dropped in sleep. This was the ‘Day Room’. Supposedly a hub of conversation and activity. In reality, that only happened at set times.

Breakfast time, nurses wheeled the patients in to their foreordained chairs: “There you go Elsie. A nice seat in front of the TV,” Elsie drooled in reply “and here’s your tea.” The nurse took Elsie’s hand and thrust into it a plastic mug, capped with a spout like a toddler’s cup: “I’ll see you later Elsie.” and the nurse left to wheel in her next charge.

Medication time, the trolley arrived and nurses called out names like schoolteachers. They distributed drugs to these husks of people. Drugs to dry them out; drugs to keep them flowing; drugs to calm the heart; drugs to start it up; drugs to let them have a few more weeks asleep in front of the TV.

Visiting time brought clergymen and family with the occasional grandchild. That child would lift every head, glazed eyes would sparkle, loose faces tighten into smiles and hands grope in handbags for a shilling that’s not been there in decades; a coin for the child. This prancing, noisy youngster reminds them of life before it got so tiring.

Dinnertime, the nurses persuade their patients to eat: “Lovely stew Mr Parks” he nods his head as the liquidised pulp is washed down with milk: “Was that your son here today?” he nods again “He’s a fine young man eh? Takes after you eh?” still nodding. The nurse knows he’ll keep on nodding long after she’s gone.

Soon after dinner it’s bedtime. The TV continues to glow in the corner but the room is in darkness, its patients have gone to sleep elsewhere. In the night a porter comes to take away a chair. It won’t be needed in the morning.

More tomorrow...

Hospital Ward 1 (The happy one)

Men group at the door waiting to be buzzed in. Tired eyes glitter with bewilderment and joy.

“First one?” says the one in denim.

“Yeah. Little boy. Michael” says a beaming face.

“Me too. Alan. He’s not my first though. Got a three year old girl.”

The door buzzes open and the fathers sweep through.

“Here they come,” says the nurse to the mothers. A dozen heads turn to their children: “Daddy’s come to take us home. Yes he has. He’s not seen you for hours. No he hasn’t and he can’t wait to see his little daughter. Yes. That’s you, his little daughter, yes.”

Cameras flash and record these moments. Smiles and coos permeate the atmosphere, ripe with newness and warmth. Grandparents begin to pepper the crowds. Clucking grandmas brood over the bundles as Dad stands back, holding a balloon, so proud of his daughter, remembering his times in this ward, delighted to see his family grow.

“Hello Michael. Who’s Daddy’s little boy? Oh you’re a big chap eh son? Aw look at him Denise. He’s got tiny little fingernails.”

“He’s beautiful. The lady next to me had a little boy too. There’s only us two with boys. Loads of little girls.”

“Hear that Michael? Loads of little girlfriends for you here eh?”

Denise gathers up the well-wishing cards and stuffs them into her bag. She pops her head round the curtain separating the beds: “That’s us off now. Good luck with little Alan.”

“Aw thanks love. You too. Hope to see you at mums and tots eventually.”

“Yeah. I’ve got the address in my bag. Bye now, and thanks.”

“Cheerio love.”

Michael nestles in his carrycot, cocooned in white wool. Mum and Dad hold hands as the new family makes its first trip outside.

More tomorrow...

Surprise Answer

Whilst chatting in the pub about literature I was met with this wonderful answer.

"Have you read Edward Lear?"

"No and I'll tell you why. I don't give much credence to other people's words."

Narcissistic yet endearing.

More tomorrow...

Dialogues Part II

“Is your tea ok Mum? Not too strong is it?” shouted Neil.

“No dear. It’s lovely.” Marjorie shouted back. She watched Neil walk to the window and look out.

“Myrtle Crescent eh? All those memories.” he sighed. “I said all those memories, eh Mum?”

“Yes dear, I heard you the first time. There’s no need to shout.”

“How long have you been here Mum?”

“Oh, you were six when we moved here so that makes it… erm, how old are you now?”

“Fifty eight”

“Yes, fifty eight, of course you are. Fifty two years this July.”

Neil whistled: “That’s a long time Mum.”

“Yes I suppose it is.”

“Wouldn’t you like a change? Perhaps see more people, less gardening, you must get lonely cooped up in here all day.”

“Oh yes. Sometimes I get lonely. I do miss your dad.”

“Perhaps you could use some looking after, have someone take care of the cooking for you.”

“Ooh like meals on wheels?”

“Well, yes, something like that.” Neil coughed as he loosened his tie. He came away from the window and sat next to Marjorie, putting his hand on her knee.

“Mum?”

“Yes Neil?”

“You remember Mrs Featherstone?”

“Edna? Of course I do. Hasn’t she moved in to Floral Bank?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“The nursing home?”

“Yes, yes, that’s right, the lovely big home with the beautiful gardens.”

“Ooh lucky her eh? I suppose she is getting on in years.”

“She’s a year younger than you Mum.”

“Is she really? Well, she’s not as fit as she once was and, of course, her family are all in Australia. I suppose I’m the lucky one, still in my own home with my boy to look after me.” She squeezed Neil’s hand. He stood up and walked to the window. Marjorie watched him, smiling: “Now Neil, what were you saying about meals on wheels?”

More tomorrow...

Dialogues Part I

Here's some flagrant and unashamed usage of the stereotype.

“You don’t understand me! You don’t know what it’s like!”

“I was young once you know.”

“Yeah, a hundred years ago. You don’t have a clue now!”

Daniel smirked.

“See! See! You’re laughing at me. I’m just the little teenager to you. I hate you.”

“I’m not laughing. Honest. Me and your mum, we just want what’s best for you.”

“How can you know what’s best for me? You never listen.”

“We’re listening now darling.”

Holly started to calm down, she sobbed through her words: “All my friends are going and they’re allowed to stay over. I’d look an idiot just going for an hour.”

“Which friends? And where are Brad’s…”

“BRETT!”

“I’m sorry, where are Brett’s parents going to be?”

“How should I know!”

“We’re just concerned for you Holly.”

“You just want to ruin my life! You never let me do anything!” She slammed the door and thumped upstairs to her room.

“So, shall we let her go? “ said Daniel.

“Yeah. She’ll be fine,” said Liz.

“So who does she hate more now!” asked Daniel

“Oh you I think. Definitely.”

“Ok. I’ll go tell her she can go.”

“She’ll think you’re wonderful.”

“I know.” Daniel winked as he climbed the stairs. “Holly” he sang, looking forward to the hugs.

Has won the quiz at the pub and therefore feels excused from his usual
resplendent blog.

More tomorrow...

The greatest compliment you can give a person is to trust them.
To fear them is the greatest insult.

More tomorrow...

The Staycation

I stole the word from an Alaskan I met years ago but I was already intimate with the idea. For a few months I’d felt burnt out, drained, in dire need of repose. This pressure cooker of emotions all came to a nice steamy head leaving my brain well cooked and capable of little more than vegging out. So I tore up my calendar (leaving Wednesday evening free for the all important quiz) and began to relax.

The week started well, an Indian summer beckoned and made its presence so obvious that I was compelled to find out where the term came from. Which Indians and why? According to documentary evidence it refers to the North American Indians; not the vast Asian sub-continent. These natives would start prairie fires to flush out game used for their winter stocks. The fires created a warm haze over the grasslands pushing colder air up into the stratosphere hence the term, hazy Indian summer. Thus satisfied I could properly relax. This meant a trip to the barbers. I thoroughly recommend strolling in the sunshine listening to the Electric Light Orchestra pre-haircut. Post-haircut I tried the same but it had that tinge of emptiness that happens when you try to re-create a blessed moment. Like a second cup of tea, it’s never quite the same as the original.

That night I met a friend in the pub. Someone who had heard of my affection for my local but had never seen me in my natural habitat. He seemed to enjoy it although he nursed his pint as if it would be his last. My dad joined us and what would have been an early night found me sipping single malt whisky discussing the decline in manners brought about by texting and social networking sites. All in all, a favourable beginning to my holiday.

A large lunch midweek paved the way to the quiz. As eventful as ever we failed to win, nudged out by Scottish kings and the Monopoly board. I inspected gardens with a neighbour as we sauntered home, speculating on the social standing, intelligence and even value of the person ensconced inside their manicured lawns, privet hedges, tarmac, chips or wilderness of children’s toys. I leave it to the reader to work out our more favourable horticultural responses save to say kids were deemed a worthy excuse for a less than perfect display. My neighbour has a five-and-a-half year old. What is a lawn to us is a play park to him.

The following day I took lunch with a friend in a restaurant of my choosing. A change of chef had brought a slight drop in standards and I found myself apologetic as I paid for the meal. What had once been superb was now merely really good. Really good is easy but superb takes some doing.

At the weekend, repose became an art form. Carefully selected music, a good book and a few cold beers in the afternoon. Sheer bliss. A short sojourn to the pub with the aforementioned book set the proverbial cherry atop a delicious day. In actual fact, the day was so satisfying that it was with great reluctance I ‘dressed for dinner’ and made my way out, but I was on holiday and these things must be done. I did my duty, no more, no less. No night clubs, no ill advised late night kebab.

I strolled home yawning and happy.

More tomorrow...

Frank

A wee try at something atmospheric.

The air was tepid in the nightclub. The bar was surrounded by bodies, pressed together in expectation. The barmaids flitted from drink to drink, pausing at the flow of an electric fan, shuffling money from tills to hands then cocking their heads to hear how many vodka redbull the next guy wanted.

Frank stood with his back to the bar. He was the only person who commanded any breathing space. He surveyed the crowd through the green gloom.

Short dressed girls, awash with fake tan that no-one could see, wiggled on the dance floor. A nervous youth weaved his way among them, tentatively holding three drinks that he carried to his friends.

Frank smiled then looked at his watch.

Time for a smoke.

He headed downstairs past mirrored walls and painted girls who giggled as they climbed to the club. The bouncers gave him a trusting nod as he flashed his cigarette packet, explaining his temporary departure.

He stood under the awning, inhaling deeply as the tobacco and paper crackled aflame.

“Evening big chap. Got a light?”

Frank handed his lighter to a well dressed man and watched him fire up.

“Like a sauna in there tonight eh?”

“Yep.”, said Frank as he took a draw of his cigarette, staring into the distance.

When he’d had enough he flicked his stub into the gutter and went back to the throbbing darkness.

The music coursed through the crowds, swaying them, moving hips and lifting arms. Dazzling lights cast shadows everywhere and in the darkest shadow of all stood Frank, waiting.

Why?

I was asked why I write recently. This was my reply.

Why do I write? Not an easy question to answer. One might as well ask why does my heart beat or why do I breathe. I know how these things happen and to what end, but providing a reason is not so simple. Writing seems, to me, a natural thing to do. It is an incredibly premanent form of communication.

From an early age I created stories and poems and was an avid reader, therefore, writing made sense.

This predisposition to writing makes the task easy. Writing is something I feel I can do well without overexerting myself and the problems that sentence structure or vocabulary do throw up, are met as joyful challenges rather than as dreaded foes.

I enjoy writing. Putting words into a story that amuses or amazes is a pleasurable pursuit. It makes me smile to see the hubbub in my head become clear expressions on paper, that I and others can enjoy.

In studying writing I hope to gain the discipline to write well and write often. To be free from the whims of inspiration in order to write when and where I choose.

Hopefully this discipline, this hard graft, will bring about its own rewards both materially and financially. I aspire to make a career of writing, using this skill to become financially independent and self sufficient.

If I can do this I imagine I will find great contentment in life. A humble yet elusive goal; merely to be happy.

More tomorrow...

Free Writing

I was supposed to free write earlier but I forgot so I'm doing it here.

The sun was behind the treeline and the sky was that yellowy-blue colour with a little tinge of green. Specks drifted in the distance, gradually floating nearer. It was birds. Flocks and flocks of them, flying in a phalanx, high above the weather. I grabbed the binoculars and watched them scud across the lens, frantically twisting the focus yet all I could see were silhouettes, black against a luminous sky. They looked like gulls, some sort of maritime bird at least, traveling on to wherever they spend their winter. To the naked eye the vees looked like one animal, everything in perfect sync. No individualism.

I start singing 'Boys and Girls' by Blur. "Following the herds". I know I'll go out to the pub tonight and see more flocks, no individuals. The Girls or The Lads or, for those of you who Bebo, Ma Gurleez and Da Boiz. At least birds have magnetism and instinct as an excuse. A lack of creativity distresses me. I'll get over it. I always do.

More tomorrow...

The Raid

The ladder creaks

Beneath the hatch

Carefully

I lift the latch

The trapdoor turns

I clamber in

As eyes adjust

To dusty dim

A cobweb waves

In busy air

Beneath the roof

The floorboards bare

A Christmas tree

Sleeps on its side

A cistern drips

Where old toys hide

Faded photos

Peek from frames

Dead relatives

Forgotten names

Old habits rot

The kit unused

Once kept the family

So amused

A suitcase grabbed

The cobwebs fly

Dust clouds sparkle

Toward the sky

The hatch is closed

All dark again

Invasion over

Till holidays end

Wise words

"Kindness is the handle on the door of closed hearts."

Tony Foley

More tomorrow...

Dave's Choice

This is some old prose I wrote a while ago and it documents the way I feel sometimes when searching for erudite conversation.

There was a few of us there at the bar, swapping pints and so many stories. The barmaid cleaned glasses and eavesdropped, taking in the news. Jim was just back from holiday bringing cheap cigarettes and cheaper vodka. His shining suntan radiated around him, creating an aura of health and wealth.

Dave sipped at his lager, silent, yet part of the noisy whole.

“What’s up Dave?” asked Jim.

“Eh?”

“You’re not sayin’ much.”

“Just listening.”

“Naw ye’re no’. Ye’re miles away. Whit were we talking about?”

“Eh? Your holiday and that. The folk you met from Kirkcaldy.”

“Naw ya tube! That was ages ago. We were talking about the new Coldplay song.”

“Oh? Aye, well, maybe I was daydreaming.”

“Aye we know you were. What were you daydreaming about?”

“I don’t know.”

“Ye must know!”

“Eh? Well, I was actually thinking about the dichotomy between the sovereignty of God and free will. Like, is it possible for both concepts to co-exist? How can everything be foreordained and us have the freedom to choose our own paths in life? Or, is it simply the difference between fatalism and providence?”

Dave stopped as he realised that everyone was staring at him.

“Whit? Are you havin’ a laugh?” asked Jim.

Dave paused, gauged the situation and laughed: “Course I am. Pffft! Free will? I was thinkin’ about your wife’s tits!”

The laughter echoed in Dave’s ears as he went back to sipping his pint: “Free will my arse.” He muttered as he winked at Jim.

More tomorrow...

On the train

I met a man once, on a train from Birmingham to Glasgow. He’d been on the train since Exeter, sitting there in a suit looking every inch the business man. I sat at his table, across from him and a mother and toddler comandeered the other two seats. I was reading a book half listening to the little girl as she squealed and giggled at a Noddy comic. She had scattered her crayons over the table and laughed with delight as mummy guided her chubby fingers through a maze puzzle. They got off at Lancaster and I was left alone with Mr. Business. He was reading a paper, probably stocks and shares I thought. I got out a deck of cards. I’d been learning with some difficulty, how to do a one handed cut. My fingers and thumb got tangled and I’d often drop a few cards but I knew I just needed practice. After a few attempts a voice said: “Excuse me.” It was Business man: “Excuse me. Are you trying to do the one handed cut?”

“Err.. yeah,” I replied.

“I used to dabble in legerdemain. May I?” The business man smiled and there was a sly twinkle in his eye.

“By all means” I said, handing him the cards.

“I’m Geoff by the way.”

“Oh right, eh, Fraser.”

“Nice to meet you Fraser.”

“Likewise.”

“Now, the trick is to get the thumb well out the way, you see?” I watched his thumb cut the cards then swifly move back. “Then push with your fingers, very gently, let the cards do the work.” The bottom half of the deck rose smoothly, pushing the top half aside and under. “Then Mr. Thumb comes back with the drop.” The top half fell below the bottom cards with a flump and he held a squared deck in his hand. “You see? Split then “split” then push and catch.”

He completed the move several times then handed me the cards. “That’s it. Thumb away, gently and … voila! Well done.” Geoff was grinning. So was I. “Wow! Do you know any more tricks?”

“I’m afraid not. No. Do you?”

“Yeah a few,” I replied. “I’m just learning.”

“Splendid, “ said Geoff, and went back to reading the paper. I put the cards away and looked at the Lake District rolling past. I smiled and thought “One trick Geoff reckons I’m splendid.”

Apologies for posting missing yesterday.

More tomorrow...

Lessons from Tetris

I was playing an old video game today and quite enjoying it and it started me reminiscing about Tetris. Remember Tetris? It was hugely popular in the early '90s and I think the catchy tune you played it to was turned in to a clubbing anthem.

When I played Tetris I liked to neatly stack the blocks leaving one space free. I was never content with blasting away one row of blocks at a time; I wanted to do them all at once. Four in a row. I'd stack and stack and wait patiently for the long slim piece so I could slide it in to place and claim my victory.

However, sometimes, the long slim piece took too long to come. I'd have plenty of squares and ample opportunity to get rid of the lines one at a time but I'd always wait for that long one to come. Eventually I'd have a neat looking base with a scattered mess on top. At that point I didn't want the long piece; I just had to get rid of the mess.

So? What's the lesson?

Well, maybe instead of waiting for what I think is ideal I should use what I have to get the job done. Perhaps I should be satisfied with taking care of things one little bit at a time instead of craving the grand finale. Or maybe my foundation is strong and organised and the hectic mess in front of my eyes will, with time and hard work, get sorted out and I can get back to basics. Or lastly; it's only a game; just try to enjoy it.

More tomorrow...

Music Shopping

Sometimes I get frustrated when trying to buy music. My stomach tightens and I get beads of perspiration forming a film over my skin. There’s so much music and I don’t want to waste time with something rotten. I don’t want to get duped like I have in the past by a band that have had excessive radio airplay so that you’re slowly brainwashed into liking the tune. I’ve bought the album and after a month or so I don’t even remember which track I was supposed to have liked because it all sounds so banal. Perhaps my standards are too high? I want that feeling I got first time I heard Ride of the Valkyries. Elation, power, joy, discovery. I want these things from the next song I listen to but instead I get Dizzee Rascal. I want genius, not saleability! I want to be stunned, overwhelmed by the quality of the music and the virtuosity of the musicians. It’s that important. I don’t have infinite means or infinite time so I want to miss out on what’s not had infinite care taken over it.

So I spent hours searching for something new and wonderful. Now when I say ‘new’ I mean new to me. It doesn’t have to be in the charts, in fact; in all honesty I’m unlikely to find what I’m looking for in the top forty. I used Lastfm and the Genius function on iTunes and this is what we came up with.

Caravan: For Girls Who Grow Plump In The Night. I’m delighted.

More tomorrow...

High Coo

The dull ache of loneliness

subtly mimics hunger pangs.

And this is why

kebab shops do business

when the nightclubs shut.

More tomorrow...

Men with Pens

Here are some thoughts about a writing group I used to attend:

We would sit around a table or two and wait. No one knew what we were waiting for and we would try to pass the time with idle chat and procrastination, each one hoping someone would take the lead or make a decision.

Then we'd have coffee and biscuits and those of us that smoked would huddle outside and moan about things or change the subject and disagree about films. Back inside all the good biscuits were gone and we'd sip our coffee waiting for the next period of waiting. By that time most of us had nothing to say, then someone would read something and we'd grunt or say it was quite good. Mostly we'd just wait. Wait till home time, drive away then come back the next week to wait again. We loved it.

More tomorrow...

Youngsters Today

This is a rant I free wrote recently entitled

A Batch of Bespoke Identical Individuals

You think you know, that you've pretty much arrived somewhere great and this is the way things will stay. Everyone else looks old, you'll never be like that. You'll never get bored of the things that amuse you and your friends? And your friends? They'll be with you forever. You've got your best man and your bridesmaid picked out, the guest list for your wedding will be pretty much the same as the guest list for your 21st, but those things are years away. You feel pretty lucky to be part of a generation with the best ever music in the charts since records began. You want to go to all the festivals as each one is better than the next and sometimes there's a novelty act like Oasis for a bit of a blast from the past.

You've decorated your room lime green and purple and can't understand why no one thought of that before. For sheer originality you've decided to get a disco ball and a lava lamp so your room is as unique as everyone else's. You'll never tell your family you smoke. That would be the end of everything!

You have the best holiday ever planned. You and all your mates will go somewhere hot, but get this, he he he, you'll all get matching T-shirts printed with numbers and team names on the back. Totally original; and you're going to call yourself 'Shagger' on yours and your best mate will be 'Wing Man'. You wonder if anyone will be clever enough to work out that's a reference to Top Gun.

One day you'll tour the world with a backpack.

And when you've done all this. When you've truly lived like no one ever lived before, you'll wake up and wonder why your photos, your clothes, your ticket stubs, your memories are the same as everyone else's. You blazed a trail, cut a path, explored yet discovered that the trail was a highway, the path was a pedestrian precinct. I say enjoy it. Remember, you are unique; just like everyone else.

More tomorrow...

It was blank, the line was dead, nothing.

All day it had been buzzing and throbbing with too much of this, a tad too much of that.

Then when it came time to release this maelstrom all was calm. A sinister calm like the eye of the storm. However, the release would come as it always did in whatever way it chose.

A gradual deflation or a noisy pop. It made little difference. Either way the freshness, the cleansing would be sublime.

More tomorrow...

A rant and an encouragment

I've been reading 'Can You Forgive Her?' by Anthony Trollope the prolific Victorian novelist and inventor of the Pillar Box. It's a book I've had for years and is actually a proof copy I acquired when I used to work in Waterstones in Glasgow.

I was telling a friend this and we got chatting about bookshops and how they differ and which we prefer. It made me sad to remember that when I started as a weekend unpacker in Waterstones it was still owned by Tim Waterstone. The place was a tip with piles of books on top of tables with still more underneath waiting to be discovered by the discerning customer or, indeed, waiting for a member of staff to happen upon them and think: 'These are good books! Folk would buy these. I'm moving that pish off that table and putting these beauties there instead.'

Then we moved to the mega store in Sauchiehall Street having been bought out by EMI or Dillons, I can't remember which faceless corporation it was and it all got a bit stale. At my interview I turned up with 'Jude the Obscure' hanging out my pocket and had to critically discuss the last book I'd read. It was a scholarly work on The Beatles songs and the manager loved it whereas I thought it was a lot of pretentious nonsense filled with trivia that any self respecting fan of the fab four should already be familiar, nay, intimate with.

Go in to Waterstones now and ask a cashier what their favourite book is and they'd probably grunt at you.

Bookshops are not the only casualties of commercialism. Music fans in HMV? Sportsmen in JJB? Carnivores in the butchers?

I'm not saying that vegetarians should be debarred from selling meat but I would prefer the people who work in a place to give a damn about what's sold there. Travel agents sample hotels and in my local the barmaids have tasted the beer and wine so as to be able to give a qualified answer to any questions from any customer. Ignorance is bliss? I disagree. Discovery is bliss. Yes sometimes it doesn't always work out and you buy a gash novel or a vinegary wine but at least you went looking for quality and at least you knew enough to recognise your mistake.

Get out there and ask some questions. Explore. Discover. Try something new; something you've never tasted, done, listened to, read, thought, watched, whatevered before.

More tomorrow...

Number One

It's with a little trepidation that I resume blogging after a few years absence, mainly because I want to publish my writing and felt that sticking it online for free was counter productive. However, I suspect a blog will help maintain a disciplined writing schedule even if no one but myself reads it.

I have a startling headache from a coldish virus that's been at me for over a week now. This means I'm missing the delight of watching Hamilton Accies play newly promoted St Johnstone. I think I can cope. Anyway, that's enough for now. I have to tweak and poke at this new blog to get it looking pleasant and neat. More tomorrow...