Tell me your secrets

We share a mortgage, a car, three cats and a surname, and yet what was I unwilling to share with my husband today? My EasyJet password.

In the connected world of the web, what is the last safeguard of personal privacy? The humble password. That single combination of letters (and numbers, CAPS and special characters in some very strict circles) that keeps our secrets safe, and our identities sound. My husband and I may have a joint chequebook, but when it comes to online account, I ain't sharing.

"What have you got to hide?" he asked - as indeed might you, dear reader. If you've been spotting the pattern so far, you'll know the answer to all the questions in this post is the same: my password. But you'll notice this time it's lost any adjective - and that's because I'm not talking about just my EasyJet password. Oh no. For my husband to "discover" that I've a preference for window seats is hardly going to provide a groundbreaking revelation. But were he to soon realise that this particular password forms the basis of the vast majority of my internet account passwords - well then, things might just take off (no flying pun intended).

Yes yes, fool that I am. Every password should be unique, extraordinarily hard to guess (and remember), and thus any damage minimized were that password to be compromised. And it wouldn't matter if it were just my Nectar points balance, favourite Body Shop basket and even (wait for it) the £5 balance I've got left on my Moonpig account that was up for grabs. Nope. It's almost everything.

(I say "almost" with a sigh of relief, knowing there is one thing that has its own, extremely unusual password: my email account. The email address I've had since I was 18; the email address that contains secrets long since forgotten but precious in their memory; the email address that I can use to verify and monitor every other online account I've had since. If I can suggest one smart thing, it's to have a separate password for this.)

But back to the other accounts: do they really matter? Of course not. Yes he could browse my Amazon history, or check up on what I've been buying on my credit card, but in reality, why would he? Why spoil the surprise of his next birthday present? Or faint when he realises just how expensive it is to fill up the car? And if I trust him with my life savings, and not to strangle me in my sleep, why wouldn't I trust him with these trivial matters?

The answer is: it's the wrong question. Of course it's not about trust, or protectiveness - or even paranoia. It's about being able to be have my own online persona that's representative entirely of me, that's under my complete control, and that's truly mine (even if it's not always me - but that's for another post...).

 

To Like

I like what

You like, and

He likes it too, what

We like, because

You like it. People.

They like

To like the same things.

I set myself the challenge above when I was 17: write a poem based on a conjugation (even then I found it hard to abandon logic and simply embrace freestyle arts).

It comes to mind again now not as an exercise, but a simple truth in relation to true friendships. I've come to realise that "true" is unbelievably easy to discern: it's the people who talk to me with excitement, but with a glisten in their eyes. And the reason's simple: it's because we recognise we're kindred spirits. For all the attraction that "different" people hold while one is growing up (and I've pedestalled a few), "true" friends are people who have a bond that's been formed through mutual appreciation of the similar.

With some it's new experiences embarked upon together (a recent skiing holiday solidified a gorgeous friendship); with others it's a baring of the soul that brings a very special closeness (I've watched this happen to my husband in particular over the past couple of years). Or for a third set, it's simply an undeniable mutual respect: a shared humour, a common niche, or more often just an inexplicable realisation that you're the same kind of people.

And that's the key: the same. Old friends can be best friends - but so too can new ones. A dear friend once said to me that sometimes we have to see old friends less often simply to make room for new ones - and I knew instantly what she meant.

But then, when we talk, our eyes glisten.

 

Life sentence

What makes us relish the present? We spend so much of our lives looking forward to the next occasion / holiday / stage - is it really about merely appreciating the punctuation of life? The bracketed holidays; the semi-colonated joy of an achievement; the new paragraph that marks the beginning of a change?

On holiday recently I reflected at how much we laughed. By golly we laughed. And it felt fabulous. But why was this a remarkable point? Of course, smiles and chuckles are part of our everyday existence (well, for most of us), but real, heartfelt, uncontrollable laughter that leaves everyone with an overwhelming tendency to sigh, "Oh dear..." as the laugh collapses into minor aftershocks - that shouldn't be a special feature. It should be the main reel.

So how to make this a continuous soundtrack, instead of merely an advert break? (Just run with the continuing mixed metaphors; you'll get used to it eventually, dear reader.) I think it's simple:

   - Spend more time with friends - and the key phrase here (and in the rest of this list) is "spend... time". It's only when we stop focusing on the event and start simply being ourselves in each others' company that spontaneous fun really comes to life.
   - Spend more time in situations that make us happy. Feel guilty sitting in the sun / in front of an omnibus one Saturday afternoon? Why? Why let the Protestant work ethic make us feel obliged to be productive whenever we've got a run of more than 10 consecutive minutes?
   - Spend more time just being. Stop flooding ourselves with TV (not doing too badly on this one), or DVD box sets (quite guilty), or iPhone games (v guilty), and start interacting with our entertainment. Go to the theatre more - get physically involved in the atmosphere of a story. Exercise (it does make you feel better). Read (note to self: must get back in the habit of doing this every night). Write (trying...).

Life is here. Life is now. It's not on the next page, or even just a little bit further down from where you're reading. Write your own sentence.

That's entertainment.

"Thank you for accepting our invitation."

Thank me? Surely 'tis I who should be doing the thanking, as the invitee - or is it?

Sometimes you just gotta say no. Much as it pains me, at times I have to decline social engagements. And who suffers? Me? How very limited a viewpoint that is. At university I learned that 7yrs old is when children start understanding alternative perspectives (i.e. you are sitting over there so it's logical you can see round the corner even though I can't - yes, it takes until 7 to grasp this), so even though my height hasn't progressed much since then, the anti-wrinkle cream in my bathroom belies the fact that I'm big enough to comprehend the other's point of view.

So, having established that we understand the other person may desire our attendance at event x just as much (if not more) than we do, what if we don't in fact want to go? The obvious rules apply: family occasions, close friends who'll be severely let down if we don't go (though even in the case of the latter, I'll confess to not always having adhered to convention: I skipped driving at least an hour and back a birthday celebration because I actually feared I might fall asleep at the wheel - I figured that time selfishness was the correct course of action). But what of that middle range of friends - you know, the ones whom you see in social circles but never can quite remember the name of their dog?

I've got to a stage where I take the question literally. "Can you come?" Quite possibly. "Would you like to come?" Well, now that's a different story...

I don't believe in absolutes any more...

Sometimes the Manics just get it right. A few of their recent songs have been a bit wishy-washy (IMNSHO), but this latest opening line really hits the mark.

As we get older, do we let more grey into our lives - both literally and metaphorically? I've been watching "Mistresses" recently, and find the way I respond to the characters fascinating: I'm hardly spoiling the series when I tell you there's a lot of infidelity (the clue's in the title), and yet, I find the women endearing.

Do we judge our friends? Should we? If they do something wrong, do we stop shy of calling them on it (judge not lest ye be judged)? Or would we be better friends, in fact, if we did?

It's a mighty fine line to tread, but I'd wager the best friends are the ones who can. We should let our friends know that we accept the grey that comes with being human (after all, if we can accept theirs, they can accept ours when next we stumble. And it's never as far away as we hope.) We should show them what friendship's really about: being someone to turn to in good times and bad. And we should give them the freedom to say what we should all better echo the older and greyer we get: the Manics' next line...

"...I'm quite prepared to admit I was wrong."

Red/Amber/Green Cross Code

How do you cross the road?

Are you obedient to the green man, patiently waiting for him to light up with permission to cross? Do you consider a quick dash if nobody's watching, but scorn those who nip across on a red man if there are children being taught to stand with their toes on the right side of the kerb until the little green legs light up?

All very admirable behaviour - or so I used to think. What if the green man's beaming, but a car's hurtling along the road with no deference to the laws of traffic lights: would you really say, "It's all right kids, it's the green man - you can cross now"?

I have a friend who'd step right out on to the road, knowing she'd be in the right if the driver hit her. Now that's all well and good, but who wants to win a legal battle from a wheelchair? Surely a far better lesson is to teach kids is to acknowledge and assess risk, and then make an informed decision. If we simply wait for all the "safe" signals, would we ever get anywhere?

This week, I've been negotiating risk. (Come to think of it, most weeks I'm negotiating risk.) And I don't just mean at work:

• I weighed up the pros and cons of asking a friend something awkward (and deciding he was a good enough friend that I could); 

• I've considered the implications of choosing one social engagement over another (ultimately throwing out "what's easiest for me" as an invalid factor, I'm pleased to say); 

• and I've chosen to voice my support for a friend who's being marginalised by people who ought to know better (though in judging this last set myself I'm not sure I can claim any sort of moral superiority - but that's for another post). 

Could I have done all this if I'd waited for a "green man" to tell me to go ahead?
 

Full stop.

Good evening, I'm Fiona. Full stop.

These days it seems I'm always defining myself in relation to someone / something other: I'm Fiona, from employer x. From society y. From address z.

There's nothing wrong with being associated with something. Indeed, it's often necessary, and frequently helpful. But does it make it harder to know our own selves?

I remember as a 9-year-old child going on a school trip. We were given strict instructions as to how to behave - after all, we were ambassadors of the primary. "Nonsense," my mother said. "Don't you worry about representing the school. You're representing yourself."

Perhaps some of the oldest advice I've carried with me to this day. I gave up a summer temp job on my first day because I couldn't honestly sign my name to letters I knew not to be true (after I wrote the first few I went to pass the comments on to the marketing team as promised, who promptly tossed them straight into the bin with nothing more than a chuckle. I quit on the spot.). I've never lied in an interview. And while a great deal of my conversations are always on behalf of a bigger institution, the words are always carefully hand-picked by me, the author whose name sits immediately underneath.

But what words are our own? Those to friends and family perhaps - well, those who are not part of a semi-official extended network, at least. How many of us are friends with colleagues? How many times do we socialise knowing that our words should be kept in check? This is when my mum's "to thine own self be true" teaching comes into its own - for when we remember that we, ourselves, are solely accountable for our conduct, we can do nothing but keep ourselves right, no matter what the company. And if we can't, well, the facade was always going to fall away one day.

But before I sign off, a quick disclaimer: I'm not talking about sharing deep dark secrets with the president of your local photography club, or telling your boss you're about to propose before you nervously approach your hopefully-soon-to-be father-in-law. It's about being able to say "Hi, this is me," to anyone you meet. And everyone you meet. No explanations, no justifications - and no secret worry that they might have spied your latest Facebook status update. If it represented you, you should have nothing to worry about.