Showing posts with label Perspective. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Perspective. Show all posts

Saturday, 1 October 2016

Six months along the road

The first day of October...

It's now a whole six months since I hung up my suit (or more precisely, commited six suits to the large metal bin at the recycling centre and put the best two into a black dustbin bag in the spare room for posterity) and waved goodbye to the profession that I had followed for thirty-something years.  Today is, I think, Saturday, which would have meant something to me once.  Saturday was, for me, the second day of the weekend, the one before Sunday, which was increasingly depressing because at the end of it the weekend would be over and I would have to kiss goodbye to Patricia and disappear to London for four days.

I don't know why my mind keeps on focusing on that, because life is so very different now that all of that professional stuff seems like a life on another planet.

So how are the days now?  I get up, usually, sometime between seven and nine, depending on how much sunlight is coming through the bedroom window.  Down the stairs, ruffle Lola's tummy as she rolls on her back full of excitement because the day has started at last, put some bread in the toaster, some water in the kettle, switch on the espresso machine and wait for electricity to do its job while we see to breakfast for the cats. 

Breakfast is usually in the garden, either out front if the sun is beckoning, or under the parasol / umbrella on the terrace if it isn't, and Patricia comes and finds me with her first coffee of the day and we contemplate what is to come.

And at some point, during the day, the dog gets a walk, the shopping gets done, usually combined with a visit to the tip with a sack or two of garden rubbish, the work of the day is accomplished (or from time to time not, as the case may be) dinner is eaten and digested and the evening ends in a mental catch-up on the events / successes / failures of the day, before a glorious eight hours or so of sleep.  And in the words of Scarlett O'Hara, tomorrow is another day.

Despite that sounding like a very leisurely existence, we've accomplished a bit these last six months.  The front garden, which used to look like this:


now looks more like this:


and the part of the back garden that was once rather worse than this:
now looks like this:
and the Lola that looked like this:


now looks like this:


and a hundred other things are a little bit nearer to fruition, if less visible.

Life is, slowly, moving on.

One day in the not-too-distant future, we will be able to satisfy ourselves with worrying about a little bit of maintenance, or planting / tending to / harvesting something that has grown in the garden, or painting, or making music, or reading, or walking the dog, or just doing "nothing", but for now that is still some way off in the future

It's a journey that has its ups and downs, like all journeys, but it is, inexorably, getting there, and the steps along the way bring a lot of pleasure, punctuated by the antics and interactions of Djé, Pastelle, Jazz, Java and Lola.  All that I can say is that life, now, seems to have a lot more purpose than it did when I took the train to London every week, and a lot more fulfillment, albeit it can be physically hard sometimes, but it has a lot more enjoyment too.

And sad Sunday evenings are no more, a thing of the past, forgotten in the annals of time.

Sunday, 10 April 2016

Finally did it.

My retirement drinks...


I think it's going to take me a little while to understand that I won't be going to work any more...



In October 1977, I started my first real job, working for the National Trust on a job creation scheme.  I spent six months cutting away laurel undergrowth in a large pine forest on the hillside between Selworthy and Allerford in the Exmoor National Park. For eight hours a day, we hacked and we sawed and we built ten foot high raps of cut laurel, and I spent my weekly wages in the pubs of West Somerset and on keeping my  motorbike on the road.



That was over 38 years ago, and that's quite a long time.  Long enough to change career direction a few times and eventually to find a niche somewhere that was not too trying and that more than paid the bills.  Yep, I know I'm lucky, and I always have been, on balance.  I sometimes think I must have been built that way.



But anyway, here I am. Retirement.  A little early, but retirement all the same.

To me that word  - retirement - sounds like two things: old age and pottering about.  So either I am older than I think, or I need to change my ideas.  Or find a new word that means what I think the word "retirement" should mean when it describes me.   I'll have a think about that one.  And before I can potter about, there's some real work to do, renovating the house and fixing up the garden.  A couple of years probably to get it all done properly.

But in any case, the day has finally come... and gone.  Although technically I am still employed and on holiday until 13 April, I've had my last day in the office, handed back my mobile device and my security pass.  That career that I've been working at these last 30 years or so, it's over.  I am no longer Chris the MD, I'm just Chris again.

It's a wonderful feeling - a mix of freedom, relaxation and excitement.  Let's see what happens next!

Friday, 14 August 2015

Pause



For the next glorious week: no client meetings; no racing to get a presentation finished on tiime; no suits, ties and hotels; no airports or tubes or train strikes; no hundred emails each and every day; no 5.35am alarms; no Pret sandwiches and lattes; no spreadsheets and benchmarks and performance reviews and catch-ups and difficult phone calls and market indices and underperforming fund managers and liability cashflows and funding levels... In fact, no work.  Time to empty my head of all the endless data and strategies, and just think about all the good things in life, and maybe make some of them happen.

Some people seem to be themselves only when they are working, I am the other way about.  For most weeks of the year, I'm surrounded by people who are trying to get on, to advance their careers because they haven't yet arrived at the place where they want to be, the place that they see as their own, somewhere in the future.  I've now been there, where I wanted to be, for a good few years.  For a lad who grew up in the deep rural landscape of Exmoor, whose first full-time job was using a billhook and a bow saw to rid an overgrown pine forest of undergrowth for a 17 year-old's agricultural wage, I reached the acme of my working life one day in 2008, when I became a managing director at one of the biggest investment companies in the world.  Not exactly rags to riches, I don't think I was in rags to start with and I can't say I have amassed substantial material riches now, but an interesting journey nonetheless.  And since, whilst I've certainly got better at what I do, my only ambition in my work for the last several years has been just that, to get better at what I do.

And one day in the not too distant future, I'll stop, and (I tell myself) I'll become me again.  A me with wide horizons, with the same questioning mind that I always had, but concentrating on some very different questions - the ones I haven't had time to reflect on because my head has been full of all the paraphenalia that goes with maintaining ones place at a high level of effectiveness in a chosen career.  I hope I find that the "me" I think I am is still there!  Maybe it will take a little while, a few months, more perhaps, to find my "self" again, but whatever, or whoever, I am now, I will find out.

The trouble with working in the city environment is that everything moves very fast.  And when I'm at home, and trying to appreciate things that move slowly - plants growing for instance - I have little patience.  My timeframe is very short.  I know that in a day or three at most, I will need to get on a train and go back to that whirlwind of activity that is the office, and so it nags at me when I'm doing something that isn't going to yield instant results.  When my timeframe is based on the seasons, rather than a two or three-day weekend, I think that my perspective will begin to change.  To end the day, tired but with a job not finished, and to know that there's no rush, I can finish it tomorrow, or the next day, or if I want I can do something completely different tomorrow, that is real life.

I reflect on that already a lot, when I get the time.  We (those of us who spend our days in that square mile, and many others in many other places I'm sure) see very little of life as it really exists.  We focus on the urgent things, on the important things that need to be done.  But in any real human framework, are they either urgent or important?  The term "work-life balance" is widely used, but all it really seems to mean for most people is having enough time over from work left in their week to do all the other things that need to be done.  The "life" in that balance is for most people the routine of home-life, looking after children, doing household chores, finally earning the right to drink the odd glass (or bottle) of wine with their partner before falling into bed in the sure knowledge that they haven't left themselves enough time to get the sleep they need before it all kicks off again tomorrow.  And all that for what?  To buy an overpriced house because it is within commuting difference of the office, to run a car that doesn't embarrass them in front of their friends, to eat in expensive restaurants because that's an accepted form of entertainment for those with their status in life...  And the only way they can truly relax is to take a fortnight's holiday somewhere else, where they don't have all those things to worry about, only how they're going to clear it off the credit card at some point in the future.  And they still take their blackberry along with them and buy the FT to read beside the pool...

Whenever someone at work asks me if I saw some article or other in the weekend FT, I just give them a friendly smile and say no.  Until a couple of years ago, I didn't even know that there was a weekend FT, but I keep that to myself.


Friday, 13 February 2015

Who on earth am I?

How different am I to everyone else?  That's a question that has puzzled me most of my life, and it's rather a silly one perhaps.  Not having studied philosophy, or psychology for that matter, I don't have an armoury of the right vocabulary, or a method of thinking, that could lead me to an intellectually acceptable, conformed answer.  But "I think, so I am" as somebody smarter than me in that field once said, so I guess from that perspective I have as much right as anyone, philosophically educated or not, to come up with an answer.

I could also say "I eat, so I am" which would give it a rather more physical sense, and indeed I do have some rather strange eating habits when compared to the majority of people I know.  For example, how many people do you know who religiously (and yes, I guess it is a part of my religion) eat half a pound of raw broccoli every day?  And not because I'm a health freak - far from it - but just because I like the taste and the crunch.  I also have a taste for raw brussels sprouts, half a pound at a time, but I do try to keep that one in check because they wreak havoc on a quiet, relaxed digestive system...

But this particular train of thought is about just that - thought - so I'll leave my strange eating habits out of it for the moment. The point is, I only know what it is like to be me - as I would imagine all of us do.  Empathy is one thing, but that's really only a stab in the dark at what someone else is feeling.

For a very long time, I struggled with the idea that I was unique in my attitude to life, or in the way that I thought about life.  I quite understood that there is a different set of circumstances for everyone - we all live different things, we all follow different ideas and we see things in subtly different ways.  At some points in my nearly fifty-five years, I would have recoiled in disbelief at some of the things that I came to do, some time later.  If you try to define yourself and your values, then that can only be at one particular moment in time. You start out with influences from your parents - or whoever was around you when you were very young. From the moment that you start to think for yourself, rather than following the guidance of someone else, you start to move away from those values and influences and become yourself.  But your "self" is always changing - at least mine is - and you define yourself in a time-line that moves from one thing to another as you gain experience of life.

When I was young - let's say ten years old - I really had no idea what life was about.  The influences around me encouraged me to learn, and to ask questions about what I learned, and depending on the answers to those questions I could form opinions on the world, on myself, on others, and on whoever gave me that particular answer.  For me, learning was all about facts.  Dates in history; mathematical processes; how to play the piano; how to paint; the capitals and cities of countless countries; how to read a map; why and how electricity worked; how big my lungs were; formulae and equations; how to spell words.  I learned them all with an appetite that knew no bounds.  I was ten years old in a class with an average age of eleven or twelve, and I fought to be the best, and most of the time I was.  And I also learned that I had a very good processor in my head - I got the highest score in an IQ-based test in the whole county of East Sussex, and all the others in my school year were a year older than me.  And then, a couple of years later, a change of school, and I was cast back a year with the kids of my own age, and I grew bored with learning the same stuff again, and started to think about other things.  I stopped my formal study of music and decided that the music I wanted to play was what was in my head, not what was written in manuscript.  I stopped learning and started sensing, feeling instead, and that change had a big effect on me, on my way of thinking, on my methods of reflection, on what I thought of the world.

Suddenly, the world stopped being this wondrous thing where there were facts to learn and to process and to store away - it became a miasma of sounds, and of colours, and of confusion.  On reflection, I guess at least a part of that was the angst of being a teenager and realising that I wasn't always going to be a part of a family, I was going to be me, and I didn't know who I was.

Without reference points from other people, I still don't really know who I am.  I know things I like doing - I know that I'm quite lazy, that I'm a dreamer who can pass hours doing nothing but reflecting, sifting over things. In some things I am horrendously disorganised, in others I am fastidious, at times I am completely laissé-faire, at others I am an utter control freak who doesn't trust a soul.  Maybe I'm schizophrenic, maybe I'm just plain human, only I can know, and most of the time I neither know nor really care.  Are we defined by what we do, or by what we think about what we do?  But I can't be a schizo, because I am everything at once, I don't have two different phases or anything, it's all there all of the time

From time to time I have tried to change my behaviour in some way or another - as often as not because there was something about the way I acted which didn't gel with someone else - someone with whom I wanted to gel.  There's a method to this - it's thought-word-action.  You would think that the easiest way to change your behaviour would be to start by thinking in a different way.  But it's very difficult to think about something in a different way when you are used to thinking differently.  So you start by doing whatever it is differently, and then you incorporate that action into how you talk about it, and finally, if you do it enough, you will think that way too, and you will then act differently to how you did before, but quite naturally.

That's the theory in any case.  And from personal experience, I can tell you that it's absolute bollocks.  It doesn't work at all.  If you want to change, you'll change, but you've got to want to change to make it happen.  And if your attitude (like mine most of the time) is "why the hell should I?" then you won't get anywhere with that.

One thing I have no time for is the idea that you "should feel like this".  Sometimes I want to stick to convention, sometimes I want to stick two fingers up at it.  There are certain values and beliefs that seem to be drilled into our civilisation, and they don't always sit well with me. And once you break with convention, it's difficult to see things the same way again.

I'm a natural introvert. I don't like to talk about things much. Unless, that is, I'm excited by something, and then try and stop me from filling every available pause with words.  There's always a conversation going on in my head with myself, and I can say what I like in that interaction without the fear of upsetting anyone or finding disapproval.  I'm very open with myself, and mostly closed to anyone else.  But... if I think that someone sees things the way I do, I can talk openly because it doesn't feel threatening.   And I'm hugely susceptible to the moods of others, they can colour my mood and my outlook enormously at the drop of a hat.

I guess that the bottom line is that I'm scared of something.  I don't want to let myself go, for fear of... what? I don't know really.  But there's this big wall in front of me that protects me from things, and if I climb over it, I won't be safe any more. I'll stick my head over the parapet from time to time to have a peep, but climb over? No way.  Maybe if I do climb over that wall, then after a while on the other side I'll find out what I'm really like, but for the moment, I don't really have the strength (or is that the courage?) to do it.

Life's not that bad on this side in any case.

Thursday, 13 November 2014

The space between


 GSM

About five years ago now, I wrote the basics of a song which was recorded with my friends Gabriel Sabadi and Chris Georgiou as GSM.  I wrote the lyrics after we had nearly finished all the instrumental parts.  It was during the first year of the financial crisis, when the idea of money first started to strike me as being not exactly what I'd thought it was in all the years that had gone before.  For some reason Gabriel had given the demo we were working on the name "The Space Between" which at first I thought related to the distance between the three of us - I was English and living in Bordeaux, Gabriel was Hungarian but living in a town near Seattle and Chris Georgiou was a Greek Cypriot living near Munich.  But then, the more that I thought about that working title, the more I realised that it represented the idea of money: the thing that stops us from doing what we want, that somehow replaces all the things that we really need, that results in us living our lives chasing something which in the end has no value at all.

The song is twelve and a half minutes long, it has a lot of twists and turns, a lot of different styles.  Since we finished it and sent it on its way into the ether of the internet, I've probably listened to it more times than any other song in my life, sometimes for the sheer musicality of my two friends, sometimes for the baffling way that three people in three very different places could collaborate so sympathetically with each other, the way the melodies merge together, and sometimes just for the words themselves.
I guess it's what you'd call a progressive rock song, although it borrows bits from the classics, from blues, from rock, from jazz, from pretty much every genre that any of us three had ever frequented.  We posted it on our two regular indie sites, mixposure and indiemusicworks, and we had some glowing reviews from our friends on there.

A little while later, Gabriel posted it on an indie music site called Soundclick.  There are currently over 250,000 on it in the Rock category.  Somehow our song got to number one.

So find yourself a quarter-hour to spare, sit down with a drink of something, click on the link here The space between - GSM and let it take you on a little journey.  Here's the lyrics to keep you company...


in the beginning there was light and a world yet to be seen
first the day and then the night then the space between

what you want is what you see but what you see is just effect
what you need is something deeper but what you see is what you get
in the space between

it's just another Monday morning and the writing's on the wall...

so take it take it now yeah you can take it all
I've got no use for money no it makes me feel so small
it's just another Monday morning and the writing's on the wall
ain't nothing going to happen don't kid yourself too much
no don't kid yourself at all

so what you got what you got now where you are is where I've been
what you see is what you get now it isn't real it's just the space between
between the man and all he wanted between the world and what it's lost
it's like we never knew the value but we always feel the cost

it's nothing new it's just the story of a lifetime
so who made these rules that keep me chasing after all the things
we take from one another
and whose world is this now where everything belongs
and there's no sister and no brother
there's only what it cost to bring them up right
to follow where we've been
there's only what you pay to live from day to day
in the space between

reach out for understanding far beyond the life we know today
widen your small horizons open those eyes another way
in the space between

living in the space between what you see is what you get
living in the space between there's a truth we all forget

we're all so intellectual ideas may come and go
do you know what's coming next or do you follow the ones who think they know

it's just another Monday morning and the writing's on the wall
ain't nothing gonna happen so don't kid yourself too much
no don't kid yourself at all
imagine everything is new no rules to tell you what to do
in the space between

in the beginning there was light
and a world yet to be seen
first the day and then the night
then the space between

what you want is what you see
but what you see is just effect
what you need is something deeper
but what you see is what you get
in the space between

it's just another Monday morning
and the writing's on the wall...

take it take it now
yeah you can take it all
I've got no use for money
no it makes me feel so small
it's just another Monday morning
and the writing's on the wall
ain't nothing going to happen
don't kid yourself too much
no don't kid yourself at all

so what you got what you got now
where you are is where I've been
what you see is what you get now
it isn't real it's just the space between
between the man and all he wanted
between the world and what it's lost
it's like we never knew the value
but we always feel the cost

it's nothing new
it's just the story of a lifetime
so who made these rules that keep me
chasing after all the things
we take from one another
and whose world is this now
where everything belongs
and there's no sister and no brother
there's only what it cost
to bring them up right
to follow where we've been
there's only what you pay
to live from day to day
in the space between

in the space between
reach out for understanding
far beyond the life we know today
widen your small horizons
open those eyes another way
in the space between

living in the space between
what you see is what you get
living in the space between
there's a truth we all forget

we're all so intellectual
ideas may come and go
do you know what's coming next or
do you follow the ones who think they know

it's just another Monday morning
and the writing's on the wall
ain't nothing gonna happen
so don't kid yourself too much
no don't kid yourself at all
imagine everything is new
no rules to tell you what to do
in the space between
- See more at: http://www.mixposure.com/gsm/audio/8241/the-space-between#sthash.L2rW3znN.dpuf
in the beginning there was light
and a world yet to be seen
first the day and then the night
then the space between

what you want is what you see
but what you see is just effect
what you need is something deeper
but what you see is what you get
in the space between

it's just another Monday morning
and the writing's on the wall...

take it take it now
yeah you can take it all
I've got no use for money
no it makes me feel so small
it's just another Monday morning
and the writing's on the wall
ain't nothing going to happen
don't kid yourself too much
no don't kid yourself at all

so what you got what you got now
where you are is where I've been
what you see is what you get now
it isn't real it's just the space between
between the man and all he wanted
between the world and what it's lost
it's like we never knew the value
but we always feel the cost

it's nothing new
it's just the story of a lifetime
so who made these rules that keep me
chasing after all the things
we take from one another
and whose world is this now
where everything belongs
and there's no sister and no brother
there's only what it cost
to bring them up right
to follow where we've been
there's only what you pay
to live from day to day
in the space between

in the space between
reach out for understanding
far beyond the life we know today
widen your small horizons
open those eyes another way
in the space between

living in the space between
what you see is what you get
living in the space between
there's a truth we all forget

we're all so intellectual
ideas may come and go
do you know what's coming next or
do you follow the ones who think they know

it's just another Monday morning
and the writing's on the wall
ain't nothing gonna happen
so don't kid yourself too much
no don't kid yourself at all
imagine everything is new
no rules to tell you what to do
in the space between
- See more at: http://www.mixposure.com/gsm/audio/8241/the-space-between#sthash.L2rW3znN.dpuf

Thursday, 18 September 2014

Self-determination

Well, today is the day that Scotland votes on independence.  It's strange how the closer the world becomes, through technology and globalisation, the more people want to see themselves in smaller compartments of it.  Over the last twenty five years, with the break-up of the old Soviet Union and the former communist states, plus the demise of colonialism, the number of countries in the world has increased markedly.  Everyone seems to want to have an identity with something smaller, to live in a country where more people are like them.  So we see frontiers drawn within countries on the basis of religous and ethnic groupings, each of whom want to have self-determination.  It seems to me that the more the world comes together, the more people want to be separate.

I was born to parents who were, on the face of it English.  They were both born in England and they spoke English with no hint of an accent from some far-away - or even nearby - land.  However, my father always told me that his mother was from an Irish-American family.  And that his father came from a wealthy Irish family and was disinherited when he decided to marry my paternal grandmother, because she was nothing but a shop girl.   And my mother told me that there were Scots and Irish in her family tree too.  So I grew up believing that due to my ancestors, I was 9/16 Irish, 1/16 Scottish and the remaining - er... well work it out for yourself - English.

So for me, as a child, I always saw Ireland as my second country - I felt an affinity with the Irish people, and whenever England wasn't doing too well in something (the World Cup, for example) I always had the Irish to fall back on.

This received knowledge stayed with me right through my adult life, up until the internet age, when I decided to research my family tree.  Well, the truth is that although I've gone back quite a few generations, and traced the main line of both my parents' family trees to the beginning of the 19th century, all I have found is English families.  

My mother's mother was born in Shrewsbury, Shropshire, to a methodist minister and his wife.  My mother's father was born in the East End of London, where his family had been river policemen and customs men for generations.  My father's mother was a shopgirl, that's true, her father was a butcher in Portsmouth, as was his father before him.  My paternal grandfather was a naval officer, who was also born in Portsmouth.  But given that my father had given me that story about him coming from some grand Irish family, I went back further, and discovered that his father (also a navy man) was actually born in Tollesbury, in rural Essex, and his father before him was born in Mersea, not far away, where his family had been farmers since the mid 18th century.  This latter Moore, John Ayrton, lost his first wife in a cholera epidemic in the 1820s in Colchester, sold the farm and used the proceeds to set up a carting business in the East End of London, living in the infamous Ratcliffe area, where he somehow managed to attain the ripe old age of 91 before pegging out.

Not a hint of Irish anywhere, as far as I could see.  And when I went back further in my mother's ancestors I discovered a family of preachers from Todmorden in Greater Manchester, and a family of farmers and general rural labourers in Sedgeley, Staffordshire,  not a lot of Scots or Irish there either.

So all of that would seem to suggest that my affinity with the Irish was purely imaginary on somebody's part, and I am pretty much pure English through and through.  Did it make me feel any different, knowing that I was largely descended from Essex Man?

Well, no, not really.  At the time, I felt a mild disappointment in being "just English" but in the years since, I have come to terms with it and even felt a little pride from time to time.

All of which leads me to this idea of Scottish independence.  Having lived and worked in Edinburgh for five years in my twenties, and loved it, I can quite see the attraction.  But needing to have a separate identity?   To me the whole idea of nationalistic pride comes from some tribal instinct that fosters a "them and us" attitude.  It's all to easy to find the rigours of life too demanding and to find someone else to blame for it.  In the Scots case, it is clearly the English, which probably explains the cries of "English Bastard" when I first opened my mouth and let forth my own accent in a pub one night during my introduction to Edinburgh at the time of the 1982 World Cup.

On that note, I guess that if Scottish independence becomes a reality tomorrow morning, and English independence becomes something of a reality afterwards, I'll probably not be mourning the passing of the Union too much...

Saturday, 1 February 2014

Goal!

Wow.  January's already over, 2014 is rushing by before I've had a chance to welcome it in, it seems, and the world edges a teeny bit closer to my, to our, to everybody's goal, whatever that goal may be.

Last night, as I drove home from Taunton station, there was a play on the radio about a group of tramps, or homeless people, or call them what you will.  And they talked about a high tech version of a dog whistle - one that makes people follow the consumerist model to which all the world's economies seem to aspire.  And this group of tramps, they thought that perhaps they had something defective about them, because they didn't hear the whistle...

As I wander through this world, and I see everyone running hard in a particular direction, I wonder what they see as the goal in their heads?  I try to think back to recapture how I thought when I had my shoulder hard to the wheel, pushing as best I could to make everything move forward.  I think in my head there are two possible reasons to do this:

1. Physical things / wealth - a desire to amass things for yourself and your loved ones, perhaps not knowing exactly why, but having the idea that the more things that are in your bin, the better.

2. Career - a desire to advance in the world, and in the eyes of others.  To be recognised as a success, and to enjoy what you do all those hours that you are working.

Scratch my head as I might, this is all I can think of.

So how does this work for me?  Well, in so far as no.2 goes, I'm not expecting to get any further in the direction I  have already travelled.  And to be totally honest, I've no more desire to go any further, even if I could.  I know I'm not at the top, but in Aldous Huxley's way of thinking, you could sum me up by saying I'm smarter than the gammas and don't want to be too smart like the alphas.  I've seen enough of them and from what I can see, happiness doesn't live there.

And what about no.1?  I've been very lucky in my life.  I've been given, or acquired, the ability to earn far beyond the average salary, yet I've never been able to understand the drug that is "retail therapy". And for some reason, the world around me, and the people in it, according to the newspapers, are still measured in money.  What is money?  In the grand scheme of things, what money brings you is one of two things: time or choice.

We do not live in a civilisation (here in the UK) where we will be allowed to starve.  There are, of course, different levels of not starving, and money is a key determinant of those levels, and that is what I mean by choice.  Depending on my expectations or preferences, I can feel that I need more, or less, money to live, but that in the end is my choice.

And apart from choice in terms of what we have in this life, the other thing that money brings you is time.  If you have enough money, you can have all the time that your life gives you to pursue your goals, your own agenda.  If you don't have enough then you need to give over some of that time to somebody else's goals.  If those goals align with your own, then great.  If you are one of those people who have a real vocation and find that you can work in the field of that vocation and by doing so, earn a living sufficient for your needs and choices, then you are truly in the lucky box.  You can work and achieve your own goals at the same time.  I think I would tend to fall into the next category, I have spent most of my life successfully convinced that doing what I am doing is actually what I want to do, even if when I stop and think about it in reality, it isn't.

We live in a world where things that pass the time are highly valued (television, entertainment, internet, junk literature, video games) and where, conversely, time itself is also highly valued (and hence most of us don't have enough of it).  It's as if we work for as long as we can in order to be able to rush home and spend our money on things that will fill up our leisure time until we go to work again.


Am I alone in thinking that is completely bonkers?


Monday, 30 December 2013

There goes another one...

So Christmas is gone, and with it 2013.  Tomorrow will be the end of this particular year, one which has brought some big changes.


In January, we were still in the flat in Porlock, although we had agreed terms on buying the house and were in the process of working out what we needed to do to it.

In February, it was time to put plans into action, to go back to Bordeaux one last time, pack up the house and the furniture, ready for the removal lorry to bring it all to England.  For me that particular episode arrived a week earlier than was planned, after the cellar pump in Bordeaux stopped working and a worried phone call from Corinne told us that there was ten centimetres of water in the cellar.  

Normally, it takes something slightly larger than a piece of gravel 1cm aross to make somebody travel to another country.  However, in this case, that's exactly what the problem was.  I was on a plane the morning after Corinne's telephone call, arrived in Bordeaux, took the pump to pieces and found the offending small stone which had blocked the turbine.

After a weekend spent emptying the cellar of water, and drying out the floor every time a few drops appeared, I was on the plane back to England, only to set out again by car and ferry the next day to travel back to Bordeaux.

Those few days in Bordeaux were stressed and strained, and not helped by our buyer from Brittany, who seemed to want to visit the house every day before the completion date, just to ensure that everything was still in saleable order and almost drove us stark raving mad in the process.


In the end, we emptied the house, drove back up the length of France in a day, overnighted in the most utilitarian hotel I have ever seen (I think it was called Formule 1 and cost somewhere south of 40€) and caught the ferry back from St Malo the next morning.  The following day, our furniture  lorry arrived, to the consternation of the populace of Withycombe, and we were installed in our new home by two of the funniest men I have ever met.


And then we were On Our Own.  And thankfully NOT in Bordeaux on 26 July, when the heavens opened and THIS happened:




The first of us to settle into the Withycombe life was Djé.  Being a sensible cat, he knew the limits of our nerves and stayed within them after being allowed out to explore the garden.  He was soon delighting in things which had eluded him for too long - grass, trees, places to hide... It wasn't long before Pastelle joined him in his explorations and not long after that she caught her first mouse. 

  In fact, the most memorable thing about the cats during that period was the amount of local wildlife that they suddenly decided we had to see, dead or alive.  It was difficult sometimes to get from the kitchen to the garden without stepping in the remains of something or other that had been caught, despatched and then left by one or other of our furry fluffy feline friends.  It was usually possible to tell which of them had made the catch - if it was Djé, then the body was most likely in one piece.  If it was Pastelle, then probably only half (usually the back half) remained.  Sometimes, she brought them into the house to show off.

We decided that the first room we needed to sort was the bathroom.  And we made a plan, back in March, just before Easter, of how it was going to be.  Then we bought all the bits and pieces we needed to do it, and started ripping out the old, seventies, avocado suite.  Around the middle of April, all the bits and pieces started to arrive, and work started on making the plan a reality.  I estimated, with a sweeping, airy gesture, that it would probably take about a month to get finished.

Ha ha ha ha ha, and also, ha.

As things stand here and now, the 30th December, I have finished tiling, but not grouting, the floor.  The bath is installed but has no panel and the waste is not yet connected outside, neither is the bath sealed in with silicone, nor the wall-tiles around it grouted.  There are two wash-basins attached and working, but they both need to be disconected and removed whilst I tile behind them.  All the plumbery for the loo is in place, but the pan itself is still sitting in a corner of the "art and music" room, which has so far featured as a large storage space and sort-of bedroom for when Lucie and Alexandre came to stay back in the autumn.

At the top of the garden, there are about a hundred black sacks less of undergrowth (the men at the recycling centre know me well by now).  There are also four newly-built raised vegetable beds offering about 27 square yards of growing space at a back-preserving 3 feet high, built of breeze blocks and ready to last the next fifty years.

And apart from that, the Grand Achievements of 2013, there have been a few dalliances or diversions:

- during the spring, we discovered that our pond was inhabited by about sixty fish, which would once have been called goldfish, but are now a generation or two on the way to becoming wild carp once again.  They have dark marking along their backs and their golden colour is fading.  There are also, however, two very large goldfish, both of which are most of a foot long, and would appear to have been there a very long time.

- we also discovered Newts.  Known as Tritons in French (I do rather like that), these little amphibious lizards are thriving in our pond.  Having seen the first one in April or thereabouts, I spent many a happy hour just sitting there beside the pond looking out for them as they went about their days' business.

- there was also the Day of the Toads.  We discovered two toads mating in the pond one sunny day in May, and learned from Mr Google that they can mate (or rather the toadian version of mating) for three days without stopping.  They never told you that in the Wind in the Willows... 

- and one, slightly less joyous discovery, for Ticia, was that the garden was slightly inhabited by slow-worms.  Whilst for a Somerset old-timer like me, these things seem perfectly natural - I know they're not snakes after all, and I've seen enough in my lifetime not to be alarmed by them - for Ticia this was a rather more momentous discovery, and led to much wailing and gnashing of teeth.

The majority of the year has been passed with the aid of just one kitchen hotplate.  It's amazing how inventive you can be when you know that you only have one ring to cook on.  The favourite recipes of this year have been a choice of:

- chilli sans carne - veggie chilli, served with rice, fresh guacamole and a "sauce d'enfer"
- lentil curry - with saffron rice.  Seriously stonking, and one tin of lentils and one carton of tomatoes does two days of curry.
- soup, soup and more soup - mostly a mix of potatoes, parsnips, leeks and carrots with a bit of herbs de provence and a smattering of cumin.  Abslutely killer, and one batch can last almost a week!

It has also been the year of two drinks - Drambuie - also known by its French pseudonym of Dramberry - and Thatchers Gold cider.


Somewhere in the middle of all that, I managed to go to London and work four days each week, and Achieve the Expectations of my employer (or so my annual performance review said anyway).  So with all that under our belt, what's going to happen in the new year?

That will have to be the subject of the next episode...


Bring on 2014...

Friday, 1 November 2013

Low on fat

I feel so fat this week...

I got on the scales on Monday morning, and winced when I saw 83.0kg. Ouch, that hurt.

All week I've been looking at myself in the mirror and thinking "you're getting fat, what are you going to do?" and getting myself more and more depressed about it.

This time last year, my weight was 77.0kg.  For the past few years, the average has been somewhere between 76.0 and 80.0.  I'm just over 6 feet, or 184 cm, so that's OK.  Whenever my weight went over 80.0, I did something about it, watched what I ate for a month, lost a couple of kilos, got comfortable with myself again, and moved on.  If it dropped below 76.0 I made a conscious effort to eat more.  But since I gave up smoking at the beginning of July, it's getting harder.  When you smoke, you say no to the second helping, or the chocolate bar, and you light up a cigarette.  When you've stopped, that option has disappeared.

OK, 6kg in a year may seem a lot, but I was in a bad state a year ago, in pain every minute of the day and taking an awful lot of codeine, which does have the effect of slowing down your whole digestive system and make you eat less.  I guess if I'm honest, my average for the last five years or so has been around the 79.0kg mark.

So after bemoaning my increasing weight to myself all week, and feeling repulsed by the sensation of the fabric of my shirt around my seemingly growing waist (why did I buy all tailored, slim-fit shirts...?) I got on the scales this morning and read 81.8kg.  So it's not that bad, I guess.  Still in shooting distance of something that starts with a 7, but still, I find it kind of depressing.

 
Here's a brief potted history of my relationship with my weight and related factors:

0-6 years          normal small child
6-12 years        growing fatter. 2 stone overweight at 12 years old. BMI 27
12-13 years      lost the 2 stone in 2 months at boarding school, BMI 21
13-16 years      put it all back on again and more. BMI 29
16-18 years      went to college, lost it all again. BMI 22
19-28 years      stayed stable around BMI 22
28-34 years      gradual increase, accelerated as I stopped smoking BMI 26
34-42 years      regular gym, running, swimming 83kg, BMI 24 but very fit
42-44 years      moved to London, less gym went up to 90kg, BMI 26, but relatively fit
44-52 years      France, started smoking again, static around 78kg BMI 22-23 getting less fit
52-53 years      moved to Somerset, eating more convenience food, up to 81kg BMI 24
53 years           stopped smoking, trying to stay 81-82kg, not very fit at all.


OK , so there's nothing drastic in any of that.  It's not like I've ever been obese, I've never been in the "disabled by food" category.  And hey, I've given up smoking!  To be honest, at a BMI of 22, I probably did look a bit too thin.  But there is this fixation in my head about it, which is very difficult to shift.

The image that we have of ourselves can change, whether we have actually changed or not.  That's something that I've learned in this life.  And there's something really interesting which I've learned from the stopping smoking programme - that this is all about the subconscious.

When I realised that the reason we feel compelled to smoke comes from our subconscious mind - which wins out even though our intelligent, conscious mind tells us repeatedly that continually poisoning yourself is pretty stupid - it opened up a whole new avenue of speculation.  I thought: well maybe my thoughts about weight are a bit exaggerated.  Where does it all come from?  But looking at that little summary I just spelt out, I think I can see very easily where it comes from.  It comes from that bit from 13 to 16 years old.  I reckon that is the most formative part of your life, particularly for your subconscious.  Depending on what happens during that period, I think you will either be:

extrovert / introvert
confident / shy
smoker / non-smoker
dependent / independent
well-adjusted / prone to depression etc

Why?  Because this is the period where we really begin to grow outside of our families.  Up to the age of maybe 12, provided we're not rejected by our own flesh and blood, we're pretty much living within the family, our emotional sustenance comes from within the family group.  From the age of 13, when the hormones and the ultimate goal of independence start to course through our veins, that's when we start looking for verification elsewhere, we start to push out into the world as ourselves, and a lot of our reactions and basic ideas are formed.  Up until that age, you probably didn't come up against a lot of conflict - but from here on, people are interacting with you for reasons other than family ties.  Now it's about choice.  The ball you're playing with gets harder, but the rewards seem to get better too.   You don't really notice beauty until you reach your teens, you don't notice what might be called ugliness either.  Up until that point, kids focus on obvious things - big/small; old/young - from the moment the teenage years arrive, then the focus gets more discerning, or should that be discriminating?  That's when you really start to make up your mind on things.  

If you start to smoke when you're 14, then it's probably because you want to seem older than you are, you want to fit in with a crowd of people who are already doing it.  That's exactly what happened to me and I don't think it's much different forty years on.  In the same way, if you're fat when you're 14, it's a reason to be discriminated against, and it can lead to a huge psychological complex.

When I was 14, I was - in my own eyes - fat and getting fatter.  That made me different to everyone else.  I hated the feeling of being fat, being slower at running than the others, people talking about me and describing me as fat.  Hearing people say I really ought to eat less, believe me, I tried!  In my head, fat and ugly went into the same box.  I saw my physical form as something which had been visited on me, and my wildest dream was to wake up one morning and find that all the fat had disappeared, that I was "normal" like everyone else.  Because back in those days, a kid with a BMI of 29 wasn't normal.  In my year at school, there were maybe two boys who were overweight, and I was one of them.  That made me one of a two percent minority, and I was only in the overweight, not the obese category.  Today, 14% of kids are overweight and another 19% are clinically obese.  So my 2% in the seventies has changed to 33% today.  I guess if you are an overweight kid in school now, you're normal, it's not going to damage you so much.

Did I say damage?  I guess I did.  If I think back now, I can't imagine what it might have been like to pass my teenage years feeling like I was the same as everyone else.  But I didn't, I felt like my teens passed under a shadow of fat, and one result of that has been my obsession about it ever since.

I can see, very easily, how people could descend into anorexia.  If I was female - and I only say that because girls and young women are more susceptible to eating disorders than boys or young men - then I probably would have been close to being anorexic.  If my subconscious mind picked up the idea in my teens that smoking was a good idea, then it will most certainly have picked up the deep-rooted belief that fat is the worst thing that can possibly happen. 

I think that my subconscious has been programmed by my experiences as a teenager to despise fat in all its forms.  And my feeling of self-worth, my level of happiness, my willingness to be me, all change for the worse if I feel myself putting on weight.  Not only that, but having mostly "exorcised" the evil of fat in my own body, I view others with the same critical standard as I view myself, which brings its own problems.

Maybe I can work out a way to educate my subconscious on this one too?

Or maybe what I need is to teach my subconscious to remind me is that it's worth getting up and getting some exercise rather than sitting in front of this computer for hours on end...




Update  - 5th May 2014

Well, in the end it took a while, but by the end of February, I'd got it down to 78kgs.  That was just keeping my daily intake down to an aveage of 2,000 calories, and I've been on a stabilisation phase since then, trying to work out exactly how much I need to eat to stay at the same weight.  And putting on the 501s with the 33 inch waist makes me feel a whole lot more like me again.   
The only downside is that I seem to have become ather obsessed with the whole thing.  Given I have now been recording everything I have eaten for the past six months, it seems a shame to stop and not have all that information any more.


Somewhere along the line I have calculated that I use up 550 calories over my base level every day on average.  So in order for me to keep my weight constant, I need to eat just about 2,400 calories a day.  So I will...