Back to the future

I show it off to anyone who'll listen. "Look, it can store 50 phone numbers!" I exclaim. "One day I'll be able to set my video to record using one of these!"

I'd long been a fan of watches, but this one really was something. The year was 1992, and I, in the midst of my formidable inner circle of mildly interested schoolfriends and bemused but encouraging aunties, was proudly at the forefront of wearable technology. The phrase wasn't around at the time (npi) of course, but if Casio and I had teamed forces back then, well, who knows where we'd both be now?

But I digress (when don't I?). 

Fast-forward to 2015, and (occasionally to even my own amazement) I haven't bought a smartwatch. I've got a smartphone, a tablet and half a laptop (it's really hubby's but he graciously refers to it as "ours"), but these days I enjoy a watch that simply, elegantly, tells me the time. Just because something can do more doesn't mean that it should. 

That said, it certainly shouldn't do less. I recently saw the film "Mr Turner", and was impressed with the set and the costumes. I liked the cast. I smiled at the dialogue. But the fundamental component, the central tenet to any good performance (for me at least), was missing. There was no narrative! Plot, storyline, sequence-of-interconnected-events - call it what you will; it was nowhere to be seen.

So this got me thinking: implant yourself in the right environment with the right clothing, and you'll be accepted. Befriend some great people, and you'll be well on your way to a good life. Speak with authenticity and eloquence, and you shall delight those around you. But if your life has no compelling story, no tale it strains to tell, then the rest is just credits. 

I think the key lies in the "interconnected" part of the phrase I used above: rather than living from event to event and drawing often thin connections after the fact (what did we do during the week / in between holidays etc.?), the stories of our lives are so much richer when we handcraft those connections for ourselves. Or in other words, when we write our narratives in real time. One doesn't need to have a week in Spain booked to attend Spanish classes, for example - why not study the language for its own sake, and see where that learning takes you? Too old to be a tennis pro? Perhaps, but who's to say you won't enjoy it when you pick up the racquet? Not worth talking to the new person at work as you wouldn't possibly be friends? Really? Are you sure?

So poise your pen, dear reader. (Or your stylus.) I've checked my watch, and it's time to start writing.

Slow down; you move too fast

Three. That's how many sources of entertainment we typically have at the dinner table. Each other, the iPad, and the food itself. (Yes, ever since I observed our new baby boy's steady focus whenever he drinks his milk I'm classing eating as a form of entertainment.)

Now granted, aforementioned infant is barely two months old and so can only pay attention to one thing at a time, but it got me thinking: why do we (non-infants) seek out several sources of distraction at the same time? After all, it's well-known that multi-tasking isn't truly doing several things simultaneously but is in fact the frequent chopping and changing of our attention from one thing to another, lingering just long enough on each one to ensure we can afford to drop out again. So why do we cause ourselves the bother?

And it's not just a hassle for the multi-tasker: I'd go so far as to say it's sometimes downright offensive to the initial source. Sure, if the worst that can happen is that the radio feels left out while we read the newspaper then of course there is no cause for concern, but my true issue is when people - real life, 3D people - become just another channel we can flick past for a moment as we rely on the (shaky) belief that we can simply press the trusty "Back" button when we're ready to re-engage. I'm sure we all think we're never guilty of this, but consider this scenario: you're out with a friend - let's call him Neil. You and Neil are in the middle of an interesting conversation, and your phone rings. It's Dom - another friend - and you've no reason to think it's urgent. Do you answer it? I bet you do (and I do too). But if Dom were instead to approach you on the street and deliberately interrupt your conversation, you would (I hope) light-heartedly put him in his place and ask him to hang on a minute while you finish the sentence you were partway through to Neil. 

Or another one: you are sitting chatting with a group of friends, and the conversation is flowing. Your phone beeps with a text message. Do you attend to it immediately? Would you do the same if that friend had appeared and called your name? Or my personal favourite: would you start talking to the person on your left, or perhaps actively listening in to what she was saying, whilst in the middle of a chat with the person to your right - the physical equivalent of crafting a text message or checking email respectively while you're in a conversational situation?

I've been guilty of it. But having been on the receiving end and realising just how rubbish it can make one feel (I'm clearly not interesting enough / my friend doesn't care about what I have to say / this person is just killing time with me), this year I'm vowing to do my best not to dilute my focus on the people right in front of me. Friends, despite the internet getting faster please bear with me if I'm a bit slower at electronic communications from now on. The real world is going to start getting my full attention - the digital one can wait.

The space between

Trevor* and I didn't know our fates would be intertwined that day. But when I walked past him and realised he'd been abandoned, and then further discovered his home was in my direction, it seemed a little bit selfish just to leave him there.

And so on we walked, me padding along in my trainers, him rattling away. We got a few looks I'm sure, but I didn't mind - once we got into a rhythm it was quite nice to have the company. At one point I nearly left him at a petrol station, but luckily for him they didn't have what I was looking for so on we went.

In the end, I was almost sad to say goodbye. And I must say, it felt a bit odd to dock a trolley before going into a supermarket, but really when I only needed one thing it was a bit ridiculous to parade him up and down a single aisle just to prolong our farewell. So I gave him a friendly cheerio tap as I parked him with his friends and that was that.

You know me well enough, dear reader, to expect a point to come round about now. And it's this: I nearly didn't stop for Trevor. I did, I'm ashamed to say, walk right past him at first, and double-backed only a good eight paces or so later. Eight paces before I checked myself: I was brought up to be helpful, not selfish, so what on earth was I doing?

I've explored moments of hesitation on this blog before - it seems something of a recurring theme. What interests me this time is the vivid awareness we have whilst processing our decision in this space in time, the space between the call and the answer, to steal a phrase from a beautiful song. Sure, today's example might be somewhat trivial, but on too many occasions a similar opportunity has subtly suggested itself - and I've chosen poorly. Complacency is a new theme I'm starting to dwell upon: I'm slowly realising that it's no longer acceptable to only respond to situations that put themselves directly in our paths. We have to look for those which nestle in the sidelines - often it will cost us nothing to bring them along on our journey, and who knows: we might even enjoy it. XTC talked about making plans for Nigel. It's time I started looking out for Trevors.


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*The names have been changed to protect the innocent.

Hi honey, I'm not home

To text, or not to text: that is the question:
Whether 'tis better for the relationship to refrain from immediately imparting
The slings and arrows of the day's fortune, 
Or to take thumbs to type the sea of troubles, 
And by composing send them?*

"Shoop, shoop-ba-doop, shoop-ba-..." goes the ringtone. "It's the [wife/husband/girlfriend/boyfriend]," you think, recognising the dedicated melody. What's happened now? What's the emergency that's merited today's daily distress call? Pret** out of chicken avocado sandwiches again? 

Now of course there are always times that we will call our nearest and dearest during the working day. I'd wager these are usually aligned with two measures: 
a) extremely important (I'm being made redundant) or 
b) highly time-sensitive (The plumber can squeeze us in this afternoon: can you leave work early?). 

But every day? I know some people for whom this is reality, so it makes me wonder not only what on earth do they talk about in the evening, but more importantly: what do they (we) lose by choosing to communicate what must surely be semi-important news in a manner other than face-to-face? Facial expressions, body language (and even tone of voice if texting or email is the chosen channel) - all lost in transmission. As the speaker, we deny the listener the opportunity to truly sense the full impact of what we are saying. And in return, we make it impossible for ourselves to witness the immediate reaction of the listener. I've been quite dismayed in the past that a telephone message to my ear-worn beloved hasn't met with the excitement I felt it should, or empathy it deserved - but how can I blame anyone but myself as I was the one who insisted on emotionally handicapping the communication from the start? 

And even if the actual message isn't even semi-important, while the counter-argument could be that touching base with a partner during the day (and also perhaps precisely because it happens via an alternative medium) adds a level of connection, I instead believe the absence of contact, and therefore anticipation, is more valuable for the relationship. (I refer to the context of the working day only; when one person is away for an extended period of time I do believe that adopting alternative channels of communication, however limiting they may be, is important.)

You may of course entirely disagree with me, dear reader. Or you may already be immune to this behaviour. This post is merely to suggest to all those daily sharers that sometimes, just sometimes, it might be fun to come home and say, "Hi honey, I'm home. You'll never guess what happened to me today..."

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* A somewhat uncouth play on Shakespeare's original elegant text:

"To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them?"

-- Hamlet, Act III, Scene I

** As in Pret A Manger, a British lunch shop popular with city folk.

Pushy people

Twice. Twice now this year already I've said "No" and the salesperson heard a different version of "Yes." "Yes, but not now." "Yes, if only circumstances were different." As a result, I've come away with freebies both times, and both times I've written glowing reviews which the companies' PR people will have read with glee. Is "No" secretly the answer a canny organisation wants to hear?

(To further strengthen this I should say they didn't just get one-off praise: the law of reciprocity kicked in and I very swiftly spent more money with both brands, be it directly or by recommending to others. So perhaps it is all very clever sales strategy - move over Jordan Belfort; the new sales geniuses are in town.)

Both times I've meant what I said. I didn't need the expensive make-up. I truly didn't have enough room for the dessert. But both times I genuinely appreciated the gesture - and that's really what I 'got' out of the exchange, not the object freely placed in front of me. Even after a "No", the salespeople did me a good turn. They actively wanted to make me happy - it wasn't all an act! They like me! Hurrah!

Is it all about vindication by acceptance? We all like to impress other people, typically by appearance, talent or intellect - but by sheer personality? That's something much harder to shape, or contrive, and therefore only worth doing on significant occasions (in which I wouldn't include browsing a beauty store or midweek dining with friends). So on any normal day, when our unfiltered nature results in the physical manifestation of a hitherto stranger pushing the "Like" button - well, what a compliment.

I've taken this inspiration from sales encounters, but it can just as well apply to any interaction. And so I leave both myself and yourself, dear reader, with this challenge: as I go about my day and cross paths with several strangers, could I be attentive and selfless enough to warm to someone, hear the negative in their voice but continue to do them a good turn anyway? Could I do in real life what's so easy to do in the digital world (with the impact to the receiver being equally, and therefore dramatically, proportional): could I push someone's metaphorical "Like" button?

Holiday reds

Given that the bottle was now enjoying its third day, I didn't expect it to be amazing. The over-excited rush of the competing fruits from day one wouldn't be there. Nor would the mellowed out smoothness from day two, washing over you like the gentle strum of a guitar in the early hours of the morning at a party nobody's in a hurry to leave.

The best I could hope for was drinkable really. After my first uncertain sip I acknowledged the merits of a fair trial and started to go back for a second opinion, when all of a sudden: BAM! There it was. The signature farewell of a quality red: the sumptuous, lingering aftertaste.

As I scurried around our little campervan to locate the cheese and thereby placate my tastebuds (is it only mine who oftentimes beg for the combination?), I realised that our latest holiday, like those before it, had much in common with my liquid friend. At first, the new experiences are wonderfully overwhelming. With a gasp of awe, or a yelp of excitement, we welcome the assault on our senses. Then softly, quietly, the breathtaking view begins to fade in power as we become accustomed to its presence. Or the thrilling crocodile swim-past a mere metre away becomes a relaxing boat trip, our thoughts idly drifting to what's next on the agenda, photos (as opposed to limbs - fret not, dear reader) safely snapped.

We may think the experience is diminishing, but the delightful truth is that the real splendour is in the memory. How many times will we recall these moments and smile? Or recount them to friends and family, and watch the smiles multiply? And can we even begin to quantify how much closer it has brought me and my campervan companion, my husband of five years, partner of ten, to behold these beauties side by side, our experiences morphing with each recollection into some sort of joint keepsake?

And so on this note, as my glass drains, it seems fitting that I should propose a toast: to life's glorious aftertastes. Drink up friends; this is the stuff smiles are made of.

Heads down, thumbs up

... was a brilliant primary school game. You'd sit at our desk, forehead resting on your crossed arms, thumbs defiantly standing tall. Nervously you'd listen for the footsteps approaching, and when they got near enough you'd strain a peek at the shoes (if you could) as the cold, clammy fingers pressed down on yours. Always a dead giveaway, if you could see the shoes. (And by the way, it's wasn't cheating. The game name started "Heads down", not "Eyes closed", so you could get off on a technicality. Aye, we were all lawyers in those days.)

Once all those who were "it" had chosen their victims and returned to the front of the room, the "Heads up" call announced that it was time for the flattened thumb owners to guess their perpetrators. Who did it? Who tiptoed up? Who put your thumbs down?

Sometimes I wonder if I'm still playing the game today. And I see other people playing it too. We're all merrily going about our lives, thumbs metaphorically up in that widely recognised symbol of positivity, when all of a sudden, someone squashes our happiness. It could be a direct hit, or it might just be a gentle nudge, but whatever it is, we come out of the experience with our outlook tarnished, standing a little less tall, bearing a slightly smaller smile.

Who did it to you today, dear reader? Who skulked close enough to get to you and change you for the worse? Did you get a good look at their shoes? It's quite probably not who we think it is. Very often we're quick to call out the unfortunate straw that broke the camel's back, when the real culprit was the person who wore us down earlier in the day, for example. Or the colleague who failed to support us in an important situation. Or the permanently needy friend who drained our energies by bringing the mood down and offering nothing in return for the fifth time in a row.

Look for the shoes. Really look for those shoes.* Then you have two choices: kill the behaviour outright (if the person's worthy of your trust they'll listen; if they're really worthy they'll act on it), or else get that person far enough away that they can't put your thumbs down again.

It really is that simple, folks. I've heard it said that you're the average of the five people you spend the most time with. Make them people who rejoice in seeing your thumbs up, and you'll find it very hard for those proud, upstanding digits to be any other way. And how great would the world be then, eh?


* It's not cheating, remember.

Right of way

"Don't get in MY way."

The voice came from inside a grey ute. Slightly startled and wondering if I'd accidentally cycled into the Goldilocks' fairy tale ("Who's been eating MY porridge?"), I glanced into the vehicle and saw a firm - but to be fair, not menacing - face looking out at me, his sun-worn skin lending him age beyond his years.

As it happened I carried on well clear of his lane, and when we both turned on to the main road I watched as he aggressively tailgated the car in front before ultimately screeching past the poor driver who presumably hadn't been lucky enough to receive the same warning I did (though my sun-worn friend did seem to offer him a helpful dose of constructive criticism whilst speeding off).

But you know, for all I spent the rest of my ride pontificating on various witty retorts ("I'm sure that's a rule most girls do their damndest to keep" / "Got any plans for Valentine's Day?" etc.), I realised my leathery friend had at least one redeeming quality: he set out his position, and when this was compromised, he took action.

I'm going to let you into a secret, dear reader: I love instructions. I think it stems from Lego manuals as a youngster. What looked like a random assemble of bricks would, if I faithfully followed each step, magically transform into a space station (or a castle, or a fire engine - buildings were best, but vehicles with flashing lights which had 3 settings (3!) were pretty cool too).

Now keep this thought with you while we meander on - I promise the threads will entwine later...

There's one word in the English language that someone can use in conversation that makes my heart sink, my eyes narrow, and my whole frame start to cave just a little. With that one word I know damage has been done: this irreversible emotion may well fade in time, but will forever leave a slight tarnish.

"Disappointed."

Even reading it now, you feel a sense of flatness, don't you, dear reader? It conjures up moments we'd all prefer to forget; times when we've not been perceived to be at our best; episodes where we've felt frustratingly helpless, knowing there's little we can do. For even if the disappointment is unwarranted, I'd wager this is one of the most difficult feelings to dissipate. Under the right circumstances, anger can be quietened remarkably quickly, frustration can be calmed, and panic alleviated, but the half-life of disappointment can seem interminably drawn-out.

Fortunately, I've observed an interesting phenomenon: when we know what's expected of us, we are far less likely to disappoint one another. Sure, we may not always do exactly what was originally asked of us, but we understand the other person's needs and minimise the potential fallout when we give fair warning. We text when we're running 5 minutes late. We clarify that the visit can only be a short one. We flag that a project's going to finish a week after planned. People are just as frustrated I believe by the mismatch in original expectations, but for some not-entirely-fathomable reason (to my mind anyway) they don't wander into that spirit-crushing d-word territory - and the relationships recalibrate much more quickly as a result.

So where does the Lego fit in, I hear you ask? Well, from now on I'm going to try harder to issue - and listen to - instructions. For while I have no desire to share tarmac with my ute-driving neighbour again any time soon, my realisation that I couldn't profess to be disappointed by his behaviour has led me down a very interesting path indeed tonight. Luckily for me, he very much got in my way.

Untitled

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".

Tryin' to make some sense of it all

...but I can see it makes no sense at all.

Do we set about our own chain reactions?

Do we instigate butterfly effects each day,
noticing a few,
but oblivious to
the million more ripples we're causing?

Or does the great grandfather clock of time
always know what it will bring
with each pendulum swing
and leave us to ride the momentum?

I don't quite know what to do with it all. Negotiating my now appendix-less darling husband down a steep downhill slope yesterday, a friend told me that it's actually really hard to tip someone out of a wheelchair. Are we all tentatively pushing our own metaphorical wheelchairs, careful not to upset the balance of the universe, when in fact our influence on cosmic events is tantamount to a whisper in a whirlwind?

No, I can't quite believe that. Individuals can change the world. Individuals should change the world.

I've had my own world views shifted this year (and I don't just mean that I flew round the back of the map - turns out you don't fall off the right-hand side, folks), and while it's terribly unfamiliar and therefore highly uncomfortable, it would be wrong to reverse it. As I've said elsewhere, change is great so long as you're the one causing it. But sometimes it leads us down awkward paths. Sometimes it completely challenges our life philosophies, as Hamlet sought to warn Horatio. Sometimes it even makes our friends attempt to write poetry. :)

So where are we landing today, dear reader? I truly don't know. Mostly my endings practically type themselves, but not this time. Earlier this month, I declared on Facebook that I was feeling at one with the stormy Sydney weather, stating that things just didn't feel right. There was something rotten in the state of Denmark, indeed. Quite literally. New Year, new start? Quite possibly.

But for now, I'm off to sleep. Perchance to dream...

Learning to fail

"I'm keen to learn new things," I confidently said in the interviews. "Take on new challenges", "add to my skillset" - no doubt you've proffered similar sentiments yourself at various times, dear reader. Like attracts like, so they say (sociologically speaking, that is - let this one go, all you physicists) - so I write this post knowing my loyal readers are fellow questioners, debaters, and lifelong learners.

"I'd like to fail please," is, however, the unfortunate translation. Last week I tried a couple of new "challenges", and found myself confronted smack bang with my own inexperience not once but twice - and it hurt (both times).

My instinct, I'm quite ashamed to say, was to walk away. I have enough hobbies that fall within my comfort zone - why on earth was I stumbling around on unsure footing, driving feelings of inadequacy, and ultimately going home disappointed in myself (and vocally so, much to the delight of my poor ear-sore husband)?

Now, afore-mentioned husband countered that I couldn't really expect to be able to stand on one leg for a full 10 seconds in my first ever bikram yoga class, and that did make me feel a little better. :)

But in all seriousness: the other failing wasn't quite so easily dismissed. When it was pointed out (ever so kindly) where I hadn't met the mark on a personal (non-physical) exercise, I could only marvel at how easily I'd got it wrong. My first attempt at a second version too fell slightly short, so, like the repeated balancing acts in the yoga session, I had to demonstrate my weakness several times before I finally got it right.

I didn't like the feeling at all. It was embarrassing; I felt that I could see my mentor's view of me diminish a little, and the normal spring in my step was that little bit less carefree. But the story ends well, dear reader: fortunately I successfully gaffa-taped up the little defeatist voice in my head, and completed my piece to full satisfaction in the end.

Now, of course, I am grateful. My embarrassment was minimal; I've learned from my mistakes, and I've now most definitely "add[ed] to my skillset". Right up there (and my message, to those of you who ever so kindly believe there might lurk a message in these random witterings of mine), is this latest top tip: always keep plenty of internal gaffa tape.

And as a final note: I won't agree with the X-factor mentality that "my journey" was the best bit of this whole experience - how ridiculous. I'll stay right here, thank you very much - basking in the smug satisfaction of knowing that next time I'll get this kind of homework right the first time. And that I was able to write this whole post standing on one leg.*
 

* Some facts in this post may not be 100% accurate. :)

"Have a great life."

And so she bade me farewell - this inspiring, full-of-life lady whom I met through fate's dealing hand (such are the risks when travelling in a party size not directly equal to train seating arrangements).

I don't know why it struck me as odd that she should assume our paths won't cross again. Hers wasn't the typical American, "Have a great day." Almost, but not quite. But was that small yet significant word change simply a realistic reading of how completely improbable the chances of our geographical similitude in future, or was it in fact an instruction?

As each day in Australia draws to a close, I'm always curiously conscious that in the UK that same day's just beginning. Now arguably, there's not a lot one can offer with 10 hours' hindsight, but here I was faced with a rather more feasible reverse observation: this positive, beaming lady had about 40 years on me. I panicked for a second: what had I gleaned in that 90-minute train journey that could possibly help me live up to her command? Why hadn't I used the time better, darn it?

I needn't have panicked. We don't need to actively "use" time; we just need to spend it - not fritter it. I could have buried my head in my phone, or craned my neck the whole time to continue conversing with my companions, but instead I had fortunately identified this smiling stranger as a kindred friendly spirit. And so as we watched the breathtaking scenery speed by, we spent a glorious 90 minutes learning about each others' lives, families and fortitude.

I stepped on to that train a weary woman, hot and dehydrated from a 1-hr trek along the Inca trail that leads to the astounding sight that is Machu Picchu. But I stepped off that train light as a feather, in awe of a 70 year-old lady who'd completed the full 10-day trek; a lady with 3 Iron Mans under her belt that summer alone, a visibly strong and devoted marriage, a peaceful satisfaction in her far-flung but happy brood, and a command which I left Peru determined to obey.

I hope I make her proud.

Have you ever been mellow?

Have you ever tried?

Quite apart from a catchy little snippet straight out of a 90s dance remix [aside: what part of our brain decides to latch on to just two lines here and there, refusing to grace us with a full song's worth of aural pleasure (albeit a dubious phrase on this occasion) when we turn on our internal headphones? It's as if somehow we knew Google would soon replace our need for a comprehensive long term memory ("so long as I can remember enough to type into a search engine...")], this pithy two-part questionnaire almost dares us. What, you've never been in a state of blissful contentment? My good man, have you so much as attempted to put in the necessary effort?

But maybe there's some truth in it. While it might seem illogical at first that we can work ourselves into a state of tranquility, given that life is a constant quest to make ourselves feel good (my latest theory), surely peace is just another state that we can manufacture in our minds?

Australians have an interesting way of greeting each other. The phrase, "How you going?" is a small, but subtle shift on the standard, "How are you?" that we Brits tend to favour - a variation which focuses on the person's current state. Another deviation comes from that other English-speaking land: like the Aussies, our ever less formal American cousins also lean towards the future, but their typical, "How's it going?" removes the power from the responder as master of his own fate, and instead focuses on how the gods are moving him around the board.

So who's got it right? Each question has its merit, but for now I'm going to adopt the Australian way, encouraging my friends to view themselves as the driving forces in their lives, able to dictate their own happiness, develop their own futures (change is fabulous so long as you're the instigator), and, most importantly, control their own mellowness.

It started with a tweet...

Well, a Twitter direct message actually. Then it was a LinkedIn note, an SMS and finally a good old-fashioned (already; I know) email.

Nowadays, we traverse the digital waters with ease. Conversations move seamlessly from one medium to another. Facebook have embraced this trend, and found an excellent trick to keep disengaged users from lazily ignoring their persistent friends: what starts as an IM quickly becomes a Facebook inbox message (which, incidentally, you get notified about in your email inbox. Possibly as part of a digest [aside: interesting approach. Are their open/delivery rates that low?]).

But do we really remain constant across the channels? We tolerate mindless nonsense from certain TV networks, whilst from others we demand high-quality entertainment. Do we, in turn, change our expectations when we find ourselves participating in digital channel surfing?

- Flick: Email is for keeps. Even the most fervent of archivers will find each most recent email most likely contains a lengthy chain of correspondence. As such, are we more careful about email content?
- Flick: Interactive messaging, on the other hand, is erased once we sign off (storing logs is of course possible but, I'd wager, uncommon). Are we less discerning? More abrupt? Do we stutter our way through, asking short-fire questions rather than exchanging detailed news (the very nature of IM is that it has to follow a Q&A approach, else it quickly stalls)?
- Flick: But king still is the SMS. It might as well stand for "See Me Soon", so incessant is its cry. We'll attend to a text before any other medium, I believe, simply because it's the demanding child in the room - and, luckily, the one that's easiest to appease. It's not the right framework for a lengthy reply; the little beep is always welcome as it explains to everyone around that we're really rather popular; and the social contract is such that a simple answer is perfectly acceptable. No further questions, your Honour.

I wonder if Facebook's new fluid treatment of chats / messages will make a difference to how we "chat", knowing that it's no longer just a throwaway line. "Oi, are you there?" isn't quite such a friendly welcome in an inbox, so will we start crafting our introductions? Or possibly not bother with those long-lost friends who deserve a proper first paragraph if we're pretty certain we're not going to catch them there and then?

I'd love to see the stats. I'd love to see if messaging has increased as a result of false-start "chats" being transported into the inbox, or if the fleeting greetings are in fact ignored as being pithy and temporal - and consequently, deletable.

I'm a big fan of email, but believe Facebook chat windows will remain just that: real-time conversation openers that quite simply aren't designed to be conducted with lengthy delays. If I'm going to email someone, it'll be because that's the approach I've chosen beforehand. The method will dictate the medium - not the other way round.

Anyway; it's just gone 9am in the UK. I'm off to see who's on Facebook...