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.