Clockwork Motorboats

Sometimes I feel I ought to write something to keep myself sane, and by that I don't mean that I'm  losing my mind, I just think that writing is therapeutic and it takes me out of myself now and then. It's not the only reason to write, of course it isn't, but therapy on some level is good for everybody and perhaps one man's meat is another man's poison, as the saying goes. I know a lot of people who either can't write or they find it really difficult to get started or what have you, and that's up to them of course, writing isn't for everyone. I'm sitting here now, in my living room, in the dark, the TV is on and I'm just listening to it, as if it's a radio, preferring to focus on this blank page in front of me. I've already had trouble getting online; or rather not getting online, just getting the computer to work. I've got a Chromebook and to get it started I simply lift the lid. Over the years, however, just lifting the lid is n...

An expression that I have been using a fair bit of late is "It is what it is". In many ways, it's a get-out clause that stops the conversation dead. Once somebody says it, others shrug and, invariably, the discussion moves on in a different direction. The problem with "It is what it is" is that the phrase is a metaphor for life and, indeed, the human condition. It's not a case of adding, "if you say so" because its an indisputable fact and not something that is debatable. It means that whatever you're discussing is a foregone conclusion, a reality that nobody can change, it was already there and something, therefore, that shouldn't be discussed any further. It is, for some, a mechanism designed to stop a conversation dead and it implies the ignorance of the person it is directed at. To say "it is what it is" during any conversation is there to make the conversation starter feel in some way at fault, as if they should say, "Oh...

Last night very little in the way of sleep. And now very little in the way of time. I've only just made myself a cup of tea, having overslept by an hour. Somehow I must have got around 30 minutes or so sleep as I awoke and found I needed to jump out of bed and get ready for work. I walked into the kitchen and stood there for a good 10 minutes just thinking about breakfast and how there was nothing that really appealed. No Added Sugar Alpen, not that adding the sugar would do me any good, was the main attraction; and then there was cornflakes of which some say there's more nutrition in the box than its contents. Porridge. Fine, but when you've overslept and need to be thinking about getting a train to work, it's too time-consuming and then there's the added dilemma of do you make it with milk or water, the latter being as depressing as hell. Bread. High in salt, and if you add marmalade you're basically eating a salt and sugar sandwich. Boiled egg. Fine, but not ...

On Saturday I felt physically depressed all day. It was horrible, I could actually feel it, I wasn't just feeling down. There are many reasons why. On a very superficial level it could be something to do with not riding the bike. I normally go out on Saturday morning, ride around 20 miles and come back feeling energised. Not this Saturday. And normally, when I don't go out I fret inwardly about my lack of exercise until I forget all about it either because of a pleasant distraction (like we all go out somewhere that is happy and away from the sources of my depressive state) or because the whole thing just lifts, again through a distraction: it might be the television or something and it disappears, or somebody tells me to lift my spirits and remember that I'm a lucky guy (which I am). Sometimes it does the trick, but not this Saturday. It's probably worth pointing out that last December my sister died and more than any other passing I have experienced it had a physical ...

For some reason it's always late afternoon, possibly on a Saturday and certainly not in the UK; or if it was good old Blighty it would be a coastal location. There is no rhyme nor reason for this, but it would have to involve fairgrounds, the smell of beefburgers cooking, the waft of fried onions, the sound of diesel generators, the salty, weedy sea air and the sound of distant screams from the rides. If it's not the UK it's an American city, deserted and hot, Atlanta, San Antonio, Memphis, Nashville. Empty streets, darkened alleyways, an unnatural heat, a stifling summer, a sweet, scented air and I am there, somewhere, doing nothing, just existing, feeling the heat, down on my luck – or perhaps not – a long way from home both physically and metaphorically. Somehow, it feels as if I have taken a wrong turn – again – but exactly why or what is uncertain, unknown. We are in the aftermath of something – good or bad I don't know – and I am getting used to a new reality, one...

I don't like Thursdays. I think it's because I'm at work from Monday through Wednesday and I abhor being uprooted. I like the routine of working in the office, the distinction between being at home or in my place of employment. Having to unplug the computer and then fix it up again at home annoys me, even if it isn't that big a deal. Working at home has never appealed to me, there are too many distractions and I hate bringing the office into the home. When Friday comes around I feel better; I've suddenly grown more accustomed to being in the garden room, I have a plan of sorts and I can't wait for the day to end as I know it's the weekend and I haven't got much to do other than ride my bike, take walks around West Sussex and enjoy a snack somewhere, possibly in a National Trust cafe where there are huge slabs of coffee and walnut cake, large cappuccinos and other delights. It's good to start with something savoury, like a bowl of soup or a Cornish pa...