Clockwork Motorboats

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...

I was recently told a terrifying tale of a man who was a little worse for wear after drinking too much. I'm not sure of how much he had to drink or the circumstances behind the occasion that led to the man finding himself in an inflatable dinghy, but the very idea of passing out and then waking up the following morning in a dinghy and adrift far out to sea, alone, left me with goosebumps, mainly, perhaps, because it was the sort of predicament I myself might have been in back in the day when I occasionally 'overdid' the alcohol. Imagine waking up in an inflatable boat, on the open sea, no land visible, just horizons all around you, no oars and nobody around. There would be no point in shouting for help, nothing; all you can do is sit there hoping upon hope that the weather conditions will remain stable and that eventually you will be rescued. The man, whoever he was, has an exciting story to tell his pals, safe in the knowledge that he survived the ordeal, because he was ev...

I love sitting in coffee shops, even if I am a tea drinker. Right now I'm sitting in a Caffé Nero at the north end of Waterloo Bridge in London. I arrived early (before 0900hrs) and, in a nutshell, I'm living the dream. My dream is just this, sitting in a coffee shop, alone, killing time with a decent book - I've now finished  More Die of Heartbreak  by Saul Bellow, it's taken me months. I have a laptop on which I am now writing these words and I have a copy of Dave Grohl's The Storyteller. I like Dave Grohl and now that I've finished Saul Bellow I can read his book, which is subtitled 'Tales of Life and Music'.  Grohl has a certain level of respectability that I applaud; he is, perhaps, the respectable face of rock n roll with a wife and kids and parents who were both writers. Grohl was the drummer in Nirvana, and he plays guitar, and let's not forget the band he heads up, the Foo Fighters. I can't say I've ever really listened to the Foo F...

I have many a strange urge. One is to camp out in the house. I don't mean with a tent. The plan is just to sleep in different parts of the house, bed down for the night in the so-called garden room, perhaps, making up a bed close to the French doors so that I'm separated from the garden by some double-glazed glass. The bed would consist of cushions and pillows and, of course, a sleeping bag.  The routine would be the same as always. I'm not planning on cooking meals on a camping stove or anything stupid like that; I'll eat en famille as always but instead of 'going upstairs' to bed as I normally do, I'll simply bed down in the space I've allotted for myself and just lie there, staring at the ceiling, thinking about whatever I think about and occasionally taking a peak outside at the dark garden. It would be good if there was a lightning storm, although we don't get many in the UK, it would more than likely be rain, but that would be good, lying ther...