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I made a girl cry recently. I really didn't mean to - in fact, I was trying to elicit quite the opposite reaction, as I knew she was upset. So I reached out to her, put a supportive hand on her shoulder, and then I made the mistake.

I opened my mouth.

My well-meaning words unfortunately tipped her over the edge, as they brought the sadness to the surface again. Instead, the friendly touch had been just right, comforting her with a subtlety that didn't instantly call to mind the reality of her situation, but simply registered in one part of her brain that another human being cared about her, and was, quite literally, there for her.

We're often advised that we should read body language - watch out for signs of defensiveness, disinterest etc. and then react accordingly - and sure, we're in turn reminded to be aware of our own non-verbal cues, but it's usually about us monitoring and correcting our bodies in order to present in a certain way. What I'd like to suggest, dear reader, is that our bodies are quite often way ahead of us on this one.

Muscle memory is a well-known phenomenon. A few days after I made this poor girl cry I was idly recounting the situation one morning on my way to work when I suddenly noticed that I didn't quite recognise the particular residential street I was absentmindedly pedaling along. So convinced was I that I promptly turned back a street - and then got myself quite spectacularly lost. If I'd just carried on the way I was going I'd have realised I was indeed going the right way - such is the wonder of our internal auto-pilot.

British Telecom used to run an advert with the slogan, "Let your fingers do the talking." So my message today is that, big and powerful as they are, sometimes we should politely ask our brains to step aside, and instead listen to what our bodies have to say. We might just surprise ourselves.

The art of selflessness

I knew she'd do it.

We'd both protested with equal conviviality that either room would be absolutely fine; furiously agreed there was very little difference between the two. But still, when she announced that she was keen to get started on her unpacking and took herself upstairs, I knew she'd settle into the slightly smaller room of the two.

By nature, we humans can be pretty selfish. And oftentimes we need to be - to drive our careers forward, to ensure we're in the right relationships (for the ultimate benefit of both parties), to achieve personal goals and so on. But when it doesn't really matter (such as when there's nothing more than a few additional cubic feet of space for a few nights up for grabs), what is it that drives (most of) us to be selfless, I wonder? Is it as simple as it seems: an altruistic tendency, married with a desire to see our friends in a state of happiness? Or is there something deeper: is it the kick that comes from knowing you made that friend happy? I've always maintained that volunteering for a charity can be quite a selfish act: the pleasure that one derives from feeling virtuous is highly rewarding in and of itself. A fortunate working of the human psyche, no doubt.

But could it be something more? Is it simply that our parents taught us to put others first? Possibly, but that doesn't always ring true (see the examples above in which we have to harness a bit of selfishness and our parents (mostly) applaud us for doing so). Maybe we're trying to chalk up "good deeds" to enable us to stand at the pearly gates safe in the knowledge that we haven't turned up empty-handed. Perhaps it's for the immediate karma: our good turn today means the dice will roll in our favour another day. Or maybe it's not for our future, but for our past selves: are we still trying to please our childhood authority figures? Did the teacher see us playing fair with the other kids? Did the sports coach spot us supporting the weaker members of the team? Did the lady in the library notice when we put back that other book that had been lazily cast aside on the returns pile, and not just our own?

All of the above, of course, beg the psychologist's fundamental question: would we still have done it if we didn't think we were being watched? Most of us would like to think we would have; we're sure that the recognition was merely a desirable by-product of the selflessness. And quite possibly it was.

However, I digress. Back to the root cause of my room-selecting friend's selfless choice: did she want to make me feel happy? I'm sure she did - after all, we're friends. And no doubt her parents would have been pleased with her behaviour. But was there something else underlying the action? To be sure, somebody was "watching" when she made her decision - but nobody she needed to impress. And she might have gained a cosmic point from her action - but it won't exactly be significant enough to influence ethereal powers.

No, I've decided that this kind of action is not (subliminally I'm sure) driven by the consequences of the decision, but rather the consequences of the alternative decision. Had she taken the bigger room, what would I have thought? How would that have changed my view of her? In a situation such as this when it really didn't matter who chose where, the potential opinion shift was far greater than those few extra cubic feet - and so the decision was easy. It wasn't because her parents taught her to defer to others before herself; it wasn't because she thought someone somewhere would be proud of her for making that choice: it was because she wanted me to know she wasn't going to be a selfish friend; that she wouldn't place her own desires above mine, and that she didn't want me to think she saw herself in any way more important or more deserving than me.

Well, at least that's what I'd hope would have been my motivation if I'd gone up the stairs first - because I'd have made exactly the same choice.

So, dear reader, how shall we end tonight? Well, I've done a lot of reading over the past few years about how it's good to be assertive, to ask for what you want, and to be sure to put yourself first (mostly related to the world of work, granted, but in other circumstances too). But this little tale of mine has made me think: quietly, and with nobody watching, sometimes we should all be a little bit more selfless - not just for the particular benefit at the time, but for the message that will resonate a long time afterwards. Sometimes it's worth passing on the few extra cubic feet. Your 5' 1" friend might not need it, but she sure will appreciate the sentiment.

Winter sniffles of a habitual voyeur

I looked at the sheet of paper, busy with a merry list of names yet bereft of mine. How strange: I was quite capable of auditioning for the small speaking role, and arguably had quite a good idea for how to perform it. But it was like a force field had got in the way. I found myself making excuses. I'll fill up my water bottle and wait until the queue dies down....what, no pen? Oh, what a shame - I left mine in the rehearsal hall. I could go back and get it... but wait, the conductor's about to lift the sheet and start calling names. Oh well. That's fate for you...

Earth to self: what the ...?! Me, not sign up for something? Better yet: me, pass up the opportunity to talk even more?

Blur called it a "preference". Now, as an intermittent blogger I guess I could qualify as a "habitual voyeur", and if you'd asked me before last Monday I too might have deemed it an optional emotion which can be summoned at will, but not any more. Nope: that night, try as I might, my confidence was nowhere to be found.

But why? I come from a wonderfully supportive family: ever-encouraging parents, a loopy but loyal sister, and an incorrigibly cheeky yet unquestionably devoted husband. I have excellent friends: the very best kind who never judge the absences but simply celebrate the time we do spend together, and who rejuvenate, refresh and recharge - oftentimes without knowing it. And I have positive colleagues: supplying a daily stream of inspiring attitude, collaborative endorphin and self-raising respect (these latter two phrases makes perfect sense to me but I'm quite aware they may not to anyone else. Oh well. Author's prerogative.).

So what happened? I might add that I wasn't entirely devoid of pluck: had I wished, I reckon I could have called on that last bastion of bravery: the do-it-really-quickly-so-you-won't-have-time-to-change-your-mind tactic. I've employed this on more than one occasion in the past: force your fingers to quickly dial the number for that awkward phone call; take the first few steps on to the stage and muscle memory will take over; let that train go without you so you'll simply have to talk to that cute boy when he arrives at the station in the next taxi (who knows; you just might end up marrying him). But these "surges", as I think of them, are to be used sparingly I believe, otherwise you'll lose the charge. So last Monday I didn't go there, but quietly chose to let the moment pass.

And maybe that's the key. Maybe as I get older I'm content to let things go. Maybe I don't need to grab every opportunity; to say yes to everything; to volunteer for whatever experiences life throws at me?

Hmm. I'm not convinced. What do you think, dear reader? Do we become less anxious for new adventures as we get older? Perhaps we all become more self-conscious, gradually putting ourselves forward for fewer and fewer things? Or are these mental meanderings of mine nothing more than an impossibly subjective snapshot of a temporarily off-kilter chemical state: as everyone around me coughs and sneezes, have I simply caught a confidence cold?

I'll let you mull this one over for a bit. No need to rush - just have a think about how your own confidence waxes and wanes over the next few days. Is it as it always was? In the meantime, whichever way I look at it, it's time for tea...

Split second decisions

"Excuse me: I think you've made a mistake. You've undercharged us."

I could feel the incredulous stares from my five fellow diners as I handed the waiter the bill. "There are six of us; not five," I added, ostensibly clarifying my statement but secretly fanning the flames.

"What did you do that for?!" one hissed across at me once the slightly bewildered waiter had disappeared. Some followed his eyes for the answer whilst maintaining a light-hearted smile; others politely looked away and started chatting amongst themselves, electing not to question the organiser's (my) approach. After all, the net effect was merely an extra $5 per person.

But it's a good question: why did I do it? 

• Firstly, I did it because it was wrong: there was an incorrect piece of information floating around, and I saw a way to fix it. It's the same urge that makes me want to correct errant apostrophes on signs, or mis-spellings in menus. I relayed to a friend a great dream I had about her last week, and her reply was, "What a lovely thing to have out there in the universe." Call me an existentialist, but I think this world can only be better the more positives and truths we have floating around in it.

• Secondly, I did it because I felt we'd been treated well by the guys running the restaurant (I'd kept changing the booking), and wanted to treat them well in return. Which to me meant not taking advantage of them when they made a mistake.

• Finally (and the reason I gave at the time), I did it because I like the restaurant and want to support a local, privately run business. I want the owners to succeed, so am happy to pay them the prices they request in return. Look around our high streets: we've forced out any number of places by demanding cheaper prices from the internet or the big-buying supermarkets, yet we complain when these once cheerful thoroughfares now make our towns look bleak and run-down, or when we find we can't touch, try or experience something personally and immediately (consoling ourselves with promises of a speedy delivery and a highly rated returns policy). I'm as guilty as any, I might add.

So to get back to my tale: the revised bill arrived, everyone good-naturedly coughed up the correct amount and no more was said about it. But there's one small point I've neglected to mention which is the real reason behind this post.

I hesitated. Before I corrected the waiter, I hesitated. Even as the three reasons above tumbled around in my head, competing for attention, I thought about saying nothing. And while yes, I (IMNSHO) came good this time, when else has my conscience tried knocking, only to be turned away?

Before you fear a cathartic diatribe of past mistakes, it's just a rhetorical question, dear reader. I have no desire to dredge up age-old negative memories: they serve no purity of purpose as, no matter how much we tell ourselves it'll help us become better people, they either lead us to a place of despair and misery or inspire a defiant self-defence as we assure ourselves we really had no way of knowing any better at the time. 

No: instead, my conclusion is that I shall start paying more attention to those moments of hesitation from now on. I'm not about to foolishly make great claims about how I shall shape my judgments in future; rather I think the answer rests simply in my trying to prolong these split seconds when I'm debating two courses of action.

So if you see me looking pensive, or taking slightly more time to speak, let me assure you that it's not old age, dear reader. I'm merely letting the waters settle in my mind, watching and waiting for the "truth" to surface. But be warned: it might cost you $5.

 

Going nowhere

Fire dancers practising in the glorious darkness, 

Taking advantage of nature's perfect stage lighting.

Then in the morning, the gentleman who greets the day with reverential tai chi.

I might see the couple on the park bench, 

Lazily reading before carrying on their day.

Tonight, it was the lone smoker; just young enough for his hobby to be a defiant statement

Rather than an ostracising habit.

Or sometimes it's just me and the jasmine; the evenings that smell of southern California.

I love this park. I don't even know its name, 

But it's my favourite part of the ride. 

Watched over by the beautiful old house 

With the authoritative stained glass windows and impeccably placed fountain, 

It's my little glimpse of the world on pause around me.

Caught between my two spheres of work and home, I watch them. 

Just for that minute. 

And I realise: I need my own park.

 

Somewhere outdoors that draws me to visit; 

Invites me to breathe there, 

Just for a while.

Daily demands are a-plenty, but life is about more than collapsing on a sofa. 

We all need a haven. 

Somewhere to go

When we've nowhere we need to be.

Speck-ulating

Ouch.

It felt wrong the first time I read it. But I wondered if it was just me - after all, it's only a Facebook status update, I told myself, intended more as an attempt at mild humour than a direct insult. I mean really, Facebook statuses really serve only one of two purposes:
     a) sharing news with a lot of people very quickly and easily, or
     b) showing off.
And I state this whilst quite openly acknowledging that I'm as guilty of the latter as anyone (I write a blog, for goodness' sake).

But anyway, back to the update in question: it was short-sighted, selfish, and not just a little callous. Would it cause any direct offence? Highly unlikely. Would anyone else be similarly discomfited by it? Probably not - most would shrug it off, letting it go with only that passing sense of pity that comes from seeing a friend shoot for funny and land nearer tried-too-hard. Was it any of my business? Absolutely.

It's not fashionable to interfere, I know. Live and let live. Everyone's entitled to his opinion. But what if our friends are misguided? Or inappropriate? Or, in this case, just a little bit thoughtless? I made the mistake of reading some trashy articles on Facebook a few weeks ago, and a few good friends (including my well-meaning husband) asked me, in various forms of politeness,what the heck I was doing. Quite right too - I'm glad you all did (I have a response to your collective query, incidentally, but that's for another post).

In response to my own question (to all new readers: just go with it - most of these posts are short snippets of ongoing conversations currently circling in my head, which are made far more interesting when I adopt a question-and-answer approach), I'm going to go so far as to say I believe we have a duty to each other, as well as to ourselves, to call out questionable behaviour. It's uncomfortable, and it's risky, but if we do it with genuinely good intentions as opposed to a pious sense of self-righteousness then our words should be at best, gratefully received, and at worst, politely dismissed - but in either case the relationship should survive intact (and if it can't, I'd question its value in the first place).

So I'm going to be unfashionable, and let the friend know what I think. I'm going to pick at the splinter and make things a little bit awkward for a moment, in the faith that my words will be accepted in the spirit in which they're given. Hey, I might be completely ignored, but at least my conscience and I will be on speaking terms.

What behaviour are you turning a blind eye to? Which of your friends inspire you to sometimes jump in and change the conversation, with whom a quiet word might be in order? Whose words make you say, "Ouch," when you read them? But take heed, dear reader: if we're going to set out on this crusade it won't (and shouldn't) be long before someone else points out our own blocks of wood. And when they do, we owe it to them to do three of nature's most wonderful things: breathe, smile, and listen.

Wish me luck...

The Middle Ages

I smiled as they tumbled out of the black leather folder, unapologetically announcing their presence as they struck the curious wooden floor. Birthday cards from years ago, sent at a time when our relationship was new, our words cautious, our emotions belied only by our overuse of exclamation marks.

As I stood up to put them away somewhere safe, my eyes fell on our wedding photograph, still patiently waiting for its new home. Having established its new locale, I set about continuing to do this for each and every treasure, and after about an hour it struck me: where were the middle memories?

I had flicked through real, hold-in-your-hand photographs from about 7 years ago, each album ending with those nothing shots we all used to take "to finish the film", but which now remind us of the dated carpets, the old-fashioned TV sets, the wonderful comfort of the familiar kitchen tables. And on the other end of the scale, I had quickly scanned a small box replete with leaflets, restaurant cards and the odd ticket stub from the past six months.

But there must have been an in-between? Surely our lives haven't rocketed straight from then to now, punctuated only by the odd occasion which merited a kindly supplied group picture? What about the postcards, the trinkets, the invitations, the souvenirs - the stuff that might not seem valuable in itself, but which has a power we neglect to cherish?

Psychologists talk of the primacy and recency effects: the ability to remember the first and last pieces of information. It's why you remember to buy milk, bread, and that last thing your partner shouted out before you left the house; but nothing else. It's why marketers (myself included) put the most important points at the beginning and at the end, and couch the least exciting things safely in the middle where they dumbly wait to be ignored. And I think it's precisely why these middle memories are so elusive - we need triggers to latch on to. It's not just a daft keyring; it's a door to a memory we might otherwise never open.

I've moved a lot over the past 10 years, and each year brings with it a cull. A precocious "I don't need that" mentality; a misplaced confidence that my recent memories are things I won't ever forget. Or maybe it's simply a desire for a de-cluttered house, or an easier move. And sure, digital photographs are a lot to do with it, but it's much more than that: I used to keep old IDs (both real and fake), stocking fillers, calendars, cinema tickets, seemingly inconsequential cards or notes - my life before I left home is safely catalogued in my parents' house, yet for all my years since then I can barely fill a single drawer.

But this year I've decided this stops. Discovering old triggers is a wonderful unlocking, no matter how seemingly "insignificant" the experience at the time. One day we won't come home to this house, or regularly see these friends, or frequently visit these places. So I'm going to buck my own trend, and start stashing my keepsakes; my synapses will thank me the next time the memories come tumbling towards me.

It's time to start taking shots "just to use up the film".