Maiden Aunt

Not alas, the sister of a parent who can keep a batsman firmly pinned to his (or her) crease – though surely such folk must exist – but instead a rumination on my role (or one of them) in life.

This blog has noted before that I would make someone (or ones) an excellent maiden aunt despite my total lack of ability at cricket and my possession of a volume of Y-chromosomes that would normally lead to instant disqualification.    For a start, I use far more allusions to the game of bridge in everyday conversation than is normal – especially as I haven’t played the game in more than a decade.  Of late, my inner aunt seems to have been moving ever closer to the surface and it can only be a short while before she is engaged in a knock-down, drag-out fight with my inner child for mastery of my declining years.

In my cultural outings, I often find myself able to observe young people “up close” and often for substantial periods of time.  This is not just my inate voyeuristic tendencies, but the fact that they are often performing on a stage (or where one should imagine a stage, though technically one does not exist) directly in front of me and it seems rude not to watch.

As a brief digression, this brings me to another one of my ragtag collection of unusual and not wholly utilitarian super-powers.  I seem unable to attend any theatrical production without at least one member of the cast getting their top (and often more) off.  To answer the naysayers who may think the old fool has wandered into a gentleman’s club (a place where I suspect one is very unlikely to encounter a gentleman, or at least one meeting my definition thereof) while not wearing his glasses, I can assure you that these are excursions to the proper theatre and not to venues where dancing takes place on the sort of surfaces normally used to rest a tray or mobile computer.  It may be that theatre is hoping that torso-based nudity will bring the punters in or that I am subconsciously choosing productions where stripping is required, however, I am assuming that something about my prescence must be causal.  Perhaps fortunately, this power only rarely shows itself outside the theatre, for now at least…

This leads us neatly to the first aspect of my maiden aunthood: the young and theatrically inclined really need to be eating more.  Every man-Jack (or woman-Jill) of them, almost without exception, seems worryingly close to emaciation.  They make me look overweight, something which would only be medically viable if I lost around a foot in height (I’ve tried just eating or drinking more, but it doesn’t seem to work).  We are told there is an obesity crisis afflicting the young (and the not so young), but most of my test subjects give the lie to this idea.  My other sample of young people, who could probably be described as music/jazz geeks, share this tendency to a willowy lack of physical substance.  I had even less flesh when younger than I do now – training as a middle-aged gymnast has helped place some minimal meat on my bones (though I fear I’d still make more of a low-fat starter than a main) – but I don’t remember being this skinny, even in my famine poster-child days.  I find myself worrying that these youths may inadvertently snap a limb live on stage should they be struck by a falling leaf or flying athropod.  I’ve started to wonder if I should be bringing a good square meal or two with me to each gig: or would this be viewed as odd?

The second indicator of my changing status relates to the idea of “feeling the benefit”.  I first noticed this at the Joiners – a rather famous local music venue which I’ve started visiting in 2017.  I have even used the gents, despite strong warnings not to (they really aren’t that bad, I’ve seen much worse).  During the cold January evenings, I noticed young people in the audience – and indeed on stage – continuing to wear their full outdoor clothing long after they had transitioned into the relative warmth of the venue.  My inner aunt was very concerned that when the music ends and they are cast back out into the frosty external air they wouldn’t feel the benefit of their warm(ish) clothing – an issue likely to be exacerbated by their general lack of adipose insulation.  I have, to-date, resisted tendering any advice in this direction (but it’s not been easy).

The third indicator came at an open-mike might at the Talking Heads.  By some distance the best performer on the night was a young lad sporting several haircuts, what I would consider an unwise volume and distribution of tattoos and lobe deforming ear ornamentation.  You might have thought that one of these aspects of his appearance might have brought auntie Stuart to the fore, but no, (s)he was far more worried that he didn’t seem to be getting enough sleep.  As an insomniac myself, I fear there was little advice I could offer the chap but still feel I should perhaps have given him a quick talk on sleep hygiene (not that this knowledge has ever done me much good).

So far, I have manage to resist spitting on my hankie and scrubbing a smut or simlar mark off the face of a stranger, but I feel it can only be a matter of time.  Is there some sort of Aunts Anonymous with a 12-step programme that I can join?  Or am I doomed?


Sore labour’s bath

No, don’t switch off!  This has nothing to do with the on-going attempts by Her Majesty’s opposition to devour itself (very much down to the lights by now): the title is taken from Macbeth and is one of a whole serious of poetic allusions to sleep made by our hero in Act II Scene II.  It just goes to show that mental collapse following regicide is no excuse for turning out second-rate verse.

If this blog has a theme, other than the author’s dual obsession with himself and cake, it is with sleep and my continuing inability to capture enough of it.  I’ve read more books and articles on the subject of sleep than many people have had hot dinners (though admittedly, most of the people to whom I refer will be babies), but despite having some of the strictest sleep-hygiene this side of an S&M club (where I presume Michael Saint is the presiding deity or demiurge) the balm of hurt minds continues to elude me on a regular basis.

I have even started eschewing any sort of screen time for a good hour before heading up the wooden hill (ok, across the carpeted hall) to the shire which hosts Luton Airport (a place historically oft confused with Paradise – though not, to my knowledge by Milton): but my abstinence availed me not.

However, this week I would appear to have found a solution to my night-time woes.  I have a Canadian cognitive scientist, Luc Beaudoin (as reported by Oliver Burkeman in The Guardian), to thank for my currently well-rested state.  I will admit that I have slightly augmented his mental trick to take in elements of the ISIHAC game Word for Word and some elements of the old Ffoulkes’ family game of Bonio Boards.  Given that I am already in the dog house for failing to explain an allusion, I had better cover off that last sentence for those not lucky enough to both by fans of ISIHAC and cosanguine with the author.   In Word for Word, panellists attempt to come up with a serious of entirely unconnected words while Barry Cryer attempts to convince us that a word-pair was a popular beat combo in the 60s: I, of course, would suggest that they are playing tonight at the Dublin Castle (£6, £5 concessions).  Bonio Boards used the cardboard inserts found in packs of the popular 70s dog biscuits (well, they were popular with dogs and pokers: Poker, I should perhaps add, was a villain who would snaffle any chunks or crumbs of Bonio left unguarded by a foolish canine.  He did not wear a mask – which I now feel was missing a trick) to list a series of noun categories, e.g. countries, cheeses, famous dogs etc.  The players would then have to generate entries in each category beginning with a randomly chosen letter.  I presume this was against the clock and I cannot recall how the boards were marked – but it was what passed for entertainment when I was young and Pokemon had yet to be invented or released into the virtual wild.  So, younger readers, you may have no future and be unable to retire from your call centre-serfdom until you are 130, but just look at the improvement in entertainment options you enjoy!

I now lie in bed and start by choosing a letter: generally one which is worth more than 1 point in Scrabble.  I then attempt to come up with as many words (trying to stick to nouns) beginning with that letter as possible, while ensuring that no two adjacent words have any link.  If this proves too easy, I’ll add complication by also using Bonio Board-style categories or fixing the first two letters of the nouns or fixing the first letter and running through the second letter alphabetically or only allowing (or disallowing, as per Many a Slip) n-letter words (for suitable n).  This is suprisingly hard to do when tired and keeps any other unwanted mental activity at bay.  As a result I fall asleep quickly and, should I wake during the night, quickly return to the chief nourisher in life’s feast (well, if we exclude cake: but I expect cake was less readily available in Glamis in the distant past).  It even seems to work in the recent heat and when sunlight is streaming through my curtains.

I’ll admit that the trial is currently short, and that I lack a control-me who has been relying on older method to partake of great nature’s second course, but so far the results have been very promising.  In fact, it is almost too successful and it is becoming much more critical that I correctly set my alarm clock.  I wouldn’t like to say that I’m cured, but for the time being if I appear to be dozing off during a conversation it IS because you are boring and not down to a lack of sleep on my part.

For the avoidance of doubt, I am not being sponsored on the number of quotations from Macbeth I can slip into a post.

Après le Déluge

It has been a little quiet on here of late, and this is not entirely my fault.  As you will later see, I am placing some of the blame firmly with higher powers (or perhaps with a malicious butterfly).  Some portion of the causative liability does lie closer to home, and with the chronic insomnia that has afflicted the author, intermittently, for the last couple of decades.  My recent, prolonged estrangement from the restorative embrace of Morpheus has left me parted from my muse (or at least the get-up-and-go to translate limited inspiration to textual iron pyrites).  Some days, I do wonder if the bone-deep enervation, combined with such news as I fail to avoid, is nature’s way of telling me that I have passed my natural span and I should exit, stage left: it probably has been too long since last I visited the Swiss.  Still, last night I managed to achieve nearly eight hours of uninterrupted slumber for the first time in weeks and so will probably stick around for a little longer.  Annoyingly, when I did awake this morning, it interrupted a dream in which I was being effortlessly witty in front of an audience – something I rarely manage when awake (perhaps the jarring unreality of the hypnogogic state was what brought me back to reality?).

The last few days I have been lying awake in historic Cambridge: seeing friends and indulging in pursuits both cultural and physical.  It had been six months since my last visit, but the orgy of demolition and construction seems to have continued unabated (or even intensified).  Like London, it would seem that Cambridge is pricing out the claustrophobic young – but still offers reasonable value for any sardines seeking a flat share.  Do young sardines get given the key to the tin when they turn the fishy-equivalent of 21?  Or does that musing date me horribly?

In the wee, small hours of Friday morning, Cambridge was hit by a storm the likes of which I have never seen.  We had continuous thunder for several hours and a prolonged period over which the city was struck by 200+ bolts of lightning per minute.  I had a decent excuse for my sleeplessness, rather than the usual “cause unknown” (though having been between jobs for a little while, I think I must exonerate “the man”).  In the morning sunshine, the city looked rather beautiful with all the building and plants washed clean by the night’s precipitative excitement.    Sadly, this was not the only effect of the storm – with significant flooding across the city, including the basement parlour where my massage therapist plies his trade.  Luckily, the waters had been conquered by the modern day Knut by the time I had my massage later that afternoon and the (as always, odd) conversation with my therapist should generate several posts in the days to come.  The storm also took out the city council’s offices and had a rather serious impact on Addenbrooke’s Hospital.

I was staying in Sidney Sussex College – wisely on the first floor and so above any rising waters.  My room was perfectly comfortable – though with oddly few, badly-positioned power sockets, which must be an issue for the modern student – and the shared shower could offer a force of water to match the previous night’s storm.  The college is wonderfully central and offers a very generous breakfast – and, to-date, has always offered extremely stimulating breakfast conversation.  This time, with an american chap involved in the drafting of NAFTA, covering the Euro crisis and the different models of university on the two sides of the Atlantic.  I have never had a conversation in a proper hotel which can match those I’ve had in a Cambridge college refectory: it is almost worth paying for a night’s stay just for the breakfast.

The biggest impact the storm had on me (and, lest we forget, I am the important one here) was the damage to Cambridge University’s computing systems which meant that I was without internet access for most of Friday.  Even when it returned, it was generally slow and would not load the WordPress website at all (though was quite happy to serve any other site I attempted).  Is there some sort of long-term feud between WordPress and Cambridge University?  Have they published something slanderous about the VC?  Whatever the reason, I was actually unable to blog until I returned home: an enforced period of cold turkey (which I seem to have survived without obvious symptoms, so this is not an addiction – it must be a life-style choice).

It was lovely being back in Cambridge and I remember why I loved living there.  I also remembered some of the frustrations too: Saturday combined graduation with an enormous quantity of foreign language students and the usual shoppers making the city centre hideously busy.  I hid in a variety of bookshops, the Divinity School (aka The “Div” School – which gives a very different impression of its role) and a church before fleeing back towards the relative peace-and-quiet of London’s Southbank and thence home.  I think I could live in Cambridge again – if life were to take me that way – but there is now a lot about Southampton and it environs that I would miss.  My new city has quietly wormed its way into my affections and become home.

The title for this return to the blog, continues the occasional (and largely ignored) conceit of using foreign titles: on this occasion turning to the French poet Arthur Rimbaud (never played by Sly Stallone, so far as I know) and his thematically rather apt work of the same name.

Enjoying genocide

I should perhaps clarify the title before I am bundled off to Den Haag to spend some quality time with the International Criminal Court.  I have not previously indulged in genocide, nor am I doing so at present and I have no active plans to pursue a career in the field either.  Nor would I wish to encourage others to view this as a valid lifestyle choice – in general, the fewer freshly minted corpses your efforts leave at the end of each day, the better.

Enjoyment is often wrongly conflated with “fun” and laughter.  I have heard (though prefer not to believe) that a UK literary festival has used face recognition software to identify whether its punters are smiling after events (presumably as part of planning bookings for future events).  I like to imagine that literature – even in a festive setting – has a rather broader remit than smile induction.  John Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath, to give a single illustrative example, does not generally leave them rolling in the aisles but is still great literature and I really enjoyed reading it.  Often at the end of a play, or a piece of classical music, I am left shell-shocked and usually need a pause to gather my thoughts before I want to begin (or hear) applause.  Nevertheless, the evenings so spent are ones that I treasure.

Having, hopefully, weaselled my way out from under the title we can now proceed with the post proper.  This continues the events described in Ground Zero and Awkward? and so we shall start by using the standard procedure.

Previously on GofaDM…

Dimitris and Stuart, blog soul brothers, meet for the first time in London and enjoy a day of conversation, literature and theatre before parting at Waterloo station to catch their respective trains home.  [Just think, two whole posts totalling some 2000 words could have been covered that quickly – but would that have been as much fun?  (I have my fingers in my ears – la la la la la – I can’t hear you!)]

And now the conclusion…

Even before our momentous, physical meeting, my brother had invited me to an event at his university on Monday – perhaps as much for moral support as for my sparkling company (Warning: real company may not be sparkling) or in the expectation that the content would appeal to me.  I was slightly reluctant, not over fears about the content or the company, but as a result of the early start needed to reach Egham for the kick-off coupled with the strong probability of a late return home the previous night.  The prospect of paying for peak rail travel and the risk of being caught snoring partway through a serious, academic conference almost put the kibosh on the experience – but luckily less wise counsels prevailed.  With a little low animal cunning, I discovered that by breaking my ticket at Reading I could travel at peak for less money than an off-peak (don’t you love the insane ticketing of the UK’s railways?).  I also decided not to be such a wimp – I don’t get invites to many academic conferences and none with the subject matter in this case – I could manage on reduced sleep (and could always ask to be elbowed in the ribs if I started to nod).  To level the playing field with my much younger brother, I sabotaged his chances of sleep by lending him my copy of Into the Woods by John Yorke.  I thought this would catch his fancy and the temptation of reading a little further might trump the desire (and need) for sleep – and Mr Yorke did not disappoint.

We finished texting each other at 01:30 on Monday morning and I needed to be out of the house again by 07:45 (I think Dimitris had the scope for a few extra minutes of duvet-hugging before his departure).  I think it is safe to say that the two brothers who greeted each other at Egham station at 10:00 had been from their beds untimely ripp’d and so were deficient in a full complement of sleep.  As on Sunday, Southwest Trains ensured that only one of us arrived on time but you can put your thumbscrews away, I’m not talking.

We were bleary-eyed so that we could attend the conference entitled 20th Anniversary of the Srebrenica Genocide: Denial, Commemoration or Reconciliation? staged in the Picture Gallery at Royal Holloway, University of London; and so is the title finally explained.  Not an obvious choice for a “date”, you might think.  My brother had a reason to attend, he is a member of the university and the subject matter relates to some of his writing, I was there because I thought it would be a learning opportunity that was unlikely to be repeated.  I wasn’t disappointed: the speakers were of variable quality but the conference overall was very interesting and covered an area I knew little about.  Whilst Srebrenica was the primary focus, it contained many lessons that could (and should) be applied much more widely – but which, in all too many cases, humanity seems to have forgotten or wilfully ignored.  Before going, I was slightly worried – given my tendency to lachrymosity – that I would spend the whole day sobbing uncontrollably, but this only became a major risk during one of the talks.  Perhaps surprisingly this wasn’t the one given by the survivor from Srebrenica and its death march but the Scottish forensic scientist, Robert McKee, describing the attempt to identify the bodies (often deliberately dispersed over a wide area).  The conference left me glad that I had torn myself from my unfinished (barely started even) slumbers.

After some hours of such harrowing, we decided to decompress with a cup of tea and/or coffee at a pub near Egham Station.  For reasons I cannot fully explain, this somehow morphed into me enjoying three pints of Harvey’s Best Bitter (surprisingly far from its Lewes home).  I did not enjoy these pints alone, but accompanied by a highly entertaining conversation with my brother in the sunny garden of the pub: given his greater experience of direct exposure to our local star, he sat in the sun and I in partial shade (had it been raining, our positions would have been reversed to play to my own climate strengths).  Actually, I must commend the pub as the garden at both front and rear provided free sunscreen for patrons to use – if only I had made a note of its name this recommendation would have been rendered so much more valuable.  Chatting about language and writing with someone who is both interested and well-informed was a lovely way to round off the afternoon – though I will admit that we did perhaps stray a little from the purity of thesis which the first part of this sentence might suggest.  Any time I can use the word idiolect in conversation, both correctly and without it seeming out of place, is time very well spent in my book.

After the third pint, the lack of sleep was catching up with us both and so we delivered ourselves back to the tender mercies of Southwest Trains and vague hopes of a pair of timely journeys home.  The difficult sophomore tryst having been a resounding success, I feel we have removed a lot of the pressure from any potential third assignation (and if you thought I was stretching the meaning of “tryst”, I have now snapped the sense of “assignation” in two).  As I have been writing this post – very slowly as a result of the crippling heat – it struck me that all three structured events forming the basis of our encounters to-date were essentially free.  I wonder how long we can maintain this tradition of holding such fiscally responsible conclaves?

Bring back the owls

As my last post suggested, I have recently been holidaying in the delightful county of Cornwall.  I stayed in an inverted lodge-style dwelling in a remote rural location (though apparently there is a golf course somewhere nearby).  Whilst I was technically staying in Cornwall, I never fully committed to leaving England and spent time on both sides of the Tamar over the week (and a very small amount of time actually suspended over the Tamar – oh yes, I’m quite the daredevil if I have the support of one I K Brunel). Frankly, I often failed to remember which side I was on – though I believe this is a matter of some importance to the locals.

The lodge was surrounded by owls or, possibly, by owl impersonators – it is so hard to tell in the dark with only your ears to go on.  Around bedtime I could hear them calling to each other – or possibly to me, but sadly I do not speak owl and so was unable to provide a suitable response.  It is a rather lovely thing, even given the language barrier.

After a week away, I returned (briefly) to Fish Towers.  Whilst it’s nice to go away, it is rather pleasant to return home – where the kitchen is stocked with familiar equipment and foodstuffs and where the electromagnetic medium of 21st century communications is immanent.

Less desirable was the sonic chorus that greeted my attempts to go to sleep the evening of my return.  No owls, but instead the yowling of local cats (well, I assume they were local though I didn’t actually ask) indulging in nefarious night-time activities at very high decibels.  Not content with cutting a swathe through our smaller indigenous wildlife and defecating in my tubs, the feline menace is now responsible for serious night time noise pollution.  We need a modern St Patrick to rid these isles of the menace.  Could Hamelin provide someone?  I know they have more experience with rats (and children), but “cats” sounds very similar.  I might have a go myself with the clarinet I bought at a birthday party (well, who can honestly claim they have never done the same), but have yet to make much progress with my new career as the new Acker Bilk.  Not sure if my attempts at playing would encourage any puss (booted or otherwise) to follow me, but it could well frighten them off which would be good enough!

Ready to retire?

After a weekend spent with folk a quarter of a century (and more) my junior, I sought balance by spending a week away with a couple who are twenty-five years my senior.  In fact, this latter is a tradition that has been going on for the last five years – and lest you think I am abducting pensioners against their will, I should make clear that I share close blood ties (and, in theory at least, all of my DNA) with this particular couple.

I am brought along as a sort of travelling chef, as a back-up for the satnav (I can read an OS map – younger readers may have to ask a grown-up about OS maps, but they work where WiFi and 3G do not) and as a token (comparatively) young person (just in case one is needed).  I am also brought along for my writing skills (no laughing at the back!) so that I can fill in the visitors’ book.   In return I am chauffered around and so can visit places that would be quite a challenge using public transport (obviously, I could drive myself – but this is something I try and avoid except under extreme duress).

As is traditional, the parents (mine, in this case) found a holiday location completely free of modern, manmade sources of electromagnetic radiation: no wifi and not even a hint of a mobile phone signal  on at least 3 of the UK’s 4 networks.  As a result, I can tell “the man” in all honesty that I was not available by phone or email during my week off.

I partook in activities suited to those in the early stages of their eighth decade, and so my National Trust membership card has rarely seen more use.  While I enjoy these more sedate activities (well more sedate than form part of my usual thrilling lifestyle – W Mitty has nothing on me), I have found my calves struggling to cope (I presume the muscles involved in slow mooching are underdeveloped) and I have also needed to go do bed earlier than normal and have been sleeping very deeply (which is not like me at all).  It would seem that retirement is much more exhausting than I had anticipated.  I did gain brief access to the internet towards the end of the week (in a gorge of all places) which allowed me to retrieve my work email and thereafter my insomnia returned to normal.

So, it seems that I will need to undergo significant training before I will be able to operate successfully in my seventies (I seem much better able to cope with life in one’s late teens or early twenties: I am apparently better adapted to my mental than physical age).  Still, I do have a little time to prepare as the current government seems to be working hard to ensure that my retirement date is receding at an accelerating pace.

More thrush, really

As opposed to uncle, obviously.

Yesterday I met my nephew (and his mother) off the HS1 at St Pancras International.  A busy day in London ensued taking in double-decked bus travel (rather slower than his earlier rail journey), a carousel, a variety of famous London landmarks and the Science Museum.  We didn’t do all of the possible events I had planned: a day with a 5 year-old is slightly less time-efficient than one where I’m operating in my more traditional role of lone wolf.  Nonetheless, I believe the young master enjoyed himself – though I didn’t have the presence of mind to prepare a feedback form for him to complete to be absolutely certain.

I’m not sure in which circle of hell Dante Alighieri would place the Science Museum on Easter Tuesday – mostly because I’ve never read the Divine Comedy – but, if he had ever visited, I’m sure he would have wanted to include it in the Inferno.  I fear there were far too many visitors for much science to be learned and they seemed to have significant difficulty keeping either the lifts or the toilets operational – which did make for rather hard work for little legs (and, indeed, mine).

I learned a number of things during the day, primarily that I am not cut out to be a parent – though, to be honest, I had already suspected this and have worked hard over the years to minimise the risk of such a circumstance coming to pass.  Despite having to do very little myself, I was utterly exhausted after a mere six hours – how do real parents cope?  It seemed more tiring than my last experience as a temporary parent: not sure if this is down to the greater youth of the child or my greatly increased age (I’m now rather nearer Mr Waverly than Napoleon Solo).  I’d like to blame the former, but suspect it may be the latter.

After seeing the little treasure on to his bullet train and homeward bound, I headed to the peace and serenity of the British Library to peruse a few of its treasures.  My recovery later continued at the Wigmore Hall with the excellent Tokyo String Quartet.  Still, I would have to admit I slept a full eight hours last night without interruption – a very rare event in my life – though, on the downside, I also had to take to my bed again at the dentist’s favourite time (2:30, obviously) this afternoon for a nap as I was struggling to stay awake.

It would seem that I shall need to undertake some serious training if I am to uncle on a regular basis: it must use different muscles from my bike.

No moggy

Oh yes, definitely not feline – this post relates rather to an uncat.  Well, it probably does – though lawyers might argue the point.

This blog has previously mentioned my tendency to insomnia – perhaps one of the reasons I so enjoyed studying Macbeth for O level: he also had a rather difficult relationship with sleep after an unfortunate incident with some daggers (and Duncan, as I recall).  For the sake of clarity, I should make clear that I have neither met a triumvirate of strange women on a heath nor engaged in regicide and I have never been Thane (indeed, some would suggest that, on the contrary, I am inthane).

Generally, sleep deprivation does not have a positive impact on a chap (or, I believe, a chapess – though I cannot speak directly in this case).  Indeed, these negative impacts are what makes it so useful as a form of torture and thus fall within the purview of UNCAT (the UN Convention Against Torture) – although, as mentioned above, some would argue that it does not.

However, after several weeks of very poor sleep I have discovered a positive side-effect of my affliction.  I have suddenly become inspired when it comes to solving cryptic crosswords – a process whose pace can normally be compared with glaciation or continental drift.  Now I do love cryptic crosswords – or at least those from The Guardian – but only play with them somewhat infrequently.  I have a foxed and faded book of 100 of the Guardian’s finest: and on the current rate of progress I will never need to buy volume 2 (unless the human lifespan is significantly extended in the near future).  Solving a clue provides a triple pleasure: the sense of triumph in finding the answer, the joy at understanding the construction of the clue and the satisfaction from having successfully engaged another mind in single combat (the rude might suggest unarmed combat in my case).

Some clues prove particularly resistant to my mental assault – and puzzle number 13 (set by Rufus) had proved a particularly tough nut to crack.  However, in recent days, my addled brain has started to solve clues at an unprecedented rate.  I’m not entirely clear which of the myriad side-effects of sleeplessness might be providing this boost to my crossword solving skills – perhaps something in the confusion-hallucination space is allowing me to see the clues in a different and, as it transpires, helpful way?

Through the ages, artists have tried using a variety of drugs to allow them to think differently and as a result find inspiration.  Have I inadvertently discovered another, entirely legal, route into the Muse’s favour?  Is it time to write my first self-help book: one for the struggling artist?  Then again, would struggling artists be a particularly valuable market segment to target?  Maybe I need to wait for the self-help idea which will appeal to the struggling multi-millionaire…

Great as it has been to finally defeat Rufus (and much as I’d like to see off Araucaria’s No.11), I think on balance I’d prefer to have a few decent nights of sleep (as opposed to Knights of Sleep – a body of heavily armoured men who deliver sleep, each astride a nightmare, at the point of a lance).  So, I’m off to my palliasse with the plan to start counting Z’s or sheep or crows (though the last may not be entirely conducive to slumber).

I survived

(but it was a close-run thing).

Yes, I’m back at Fish Towers after a week in Auld Reekie – and am still more-or-less intact (more about the less in due course).

In the last week, I have had more late nights than in the preceding 11 months, “enjoyed” a pretty major shift in my diet (5-a-day has still been achieved but only if we substitute the words “fried food” for “fruit and veg” in the standard dietary advice: when in Rome etc) and consumed rather more alcohol than is perhaps compatible with the life of simple purity that makes up my quotidien existence.  I have also spent a lot of time sitting on some seriously uncomfortable chairs (the rest of the country, and perhaps even much of Europe, must be stripped of dodgy temporary seating in August), mostly in rather cramped and sweaty conditions.

As a result, blogging and sleep have suffered somewhat.  However, the last week has provided much needed fresh material for future posts and the lack of sleep should be resolved by a few early nights (those Zs don’t count themselves, you know).

Perhaps more worryingly, my left foot and both ankles seem to have put on rather a lot of weight whilst away – they are looking decidedly chubby.  It may be that my body starts storing excess calories (or joules) starting at the ground and slowly working up.  If I spent a whole month in Scotland would it reach my knees, or even higher?  Do I quite literally have hollow legs (as has often been proposed)?

Talking of Scotland and deep-fried food, I fear it may be losing its pre-eminence in this field.  As East Coast was whisking me south (while plying me with food and drink), I listened, on my iPod (other MP3 players are available), to The Bugle podcast.  If you like your news discussed with somewhat silly, some meet even say puerile (which, based on my schoolboy Latin, I assume means “boyish”) humour (well, you are reading this blog!), I can thoroughly recommend the Bugle.  On last week’s edition, I learned that the folk of Iowa take a block of butter, pierce it with a stick (like a butter lolly), coat it in batter (to make battered butter – there has to be a tongue-twister in this!) and then deep-fry it.  I can feel my arteries hardening just writing about it!  By comparison, even stereotypical Scots eating is looking pretty healthy.

The only alternative explanation for my puffy pedal extremities that has come to mind is that, rather than gaining weight, perhaps they are swollen – perhaps caused by my enforced separation from my bicycle or walking on cobbled streets or over volcanic hills. Has my body become overly adapted to cycling on the relatively flat?

However, neither explanation really covers the divergent impact seen on my left and right feet.  My feet are pretty much inseparable – I have rarely caught them more than 6 feet apart (or would 2 metres be a less confusing measure?) – and so surely anything affecting the left should also affect the right?

Still, I’m not in any pain – though my left shoe is a little tighter than normal – and if my feet have put on weight, it should lower my centre of gravity and lead to a much needed improvement in balance.  Surely, it’s not too late for a career as a gymnast?  Though I will admit that most gymnasts I’ve seen are slightly younger and shorter than me – but my study of the field has been less than exhaustive.  I’m also slightly concerned that even as a (supposedly) flexible primary school child I could never manage even the lowest BAGA award – the backward roll was always beyond me.  Then again, I couldn’t manage differential calculus in those days either – so there’s always hope!

Still, despite my sub-shin tumefaction, I had a really wonderful week away.  Where else could I take in 30+ shows covering music (old and new), poetry, photography and comedy in a single week?

Knitting up the ravelled sleeve

When I was but a callow youth, I found it all to easy to enter, and remain girdled within, the arms of Morpheus.  On one occasion, I managed to sleep through a cast-iron bath being broken up just a short hall from my bedroom.

Somewhere in my twenties, I started to find the leader of the Oneiroi rather more elusive – though luckily have never really fallen into the embrace of his brother Icelus.  Periodic bouts of insomnia have plagued me ever since – and it is in one of these I now find myself.

As a result, I have read very widely on sleep – often when I should have been sleeping – and like to think myself somewhat of an expert on the theory (if not the practice).  Sadly, theoretical knowledge only takes you so far when your sleeve of care is ravelled (to rather mangle the words of the Thane of Cawdor) – then again, I never could get the hang of knitting: I could never maintain the tension and my rows tended to have rather variable numbers of stitches.

One partial cure for my insomnia (surely another great, unused name for a hatchback), I have found, is blood letting – which is rather at variance with the ideas of Galen who would suggest purging myself of black bile (were he still with us).  However, whilst the National Blood Service are all too willing to divest me of some blood and offer me lemon squash and bikkies in recompense, I have yet to find any organisation willing to take surplus black bile off my hands (or liver to be more anatomically accurate and which makes me wonder if the process might be rather more invasive and painful.  Though, apparently it can also be reduced by the application of hot cups – if only I had a brassière to hand).

After giving of my life blood, I find I’m a very cheap date (or at least, a little alcohol goes a surprisingly long way), I sleep rather well but, and this is the only downside, I find myself afflicted with terrible gas.

I rather enjoy giving blood – it is an excellent, guilt-free excuse for a lie-down in the middle of the day, provides very quick (if modest) weight loss and is really the only time I eat biscuits (today, a couple of mint Clubs – but, usually, bourbons).  On one golden occasion in Jesmond, I was the last donor to leave and was given a brown bag with ALL the left-over biscuits from the day!  It is also a good opportunity to flirt with the nursing staff – an opportunity I tend to exploit shamelessly.

I have given blood in one form or another a little over 60 times now – which is the contents of enough arms to make up a rugby (union?) match, if Anthony Aloysius Hancock is to be believed (well, as long as the rest of the players turned up attached to the arms – lone arms, even in pairs, would struggle in the modern game I fear).  For a while I was able to give platelets, before my count dropped too low for it to be worthwhile.  This was a truly regal experience – and especially welcome during a hot summer – as the process takes a good 90 minutes whilst you recline like a king, waited on by the staff of the NBS.  They provide food, drink and even a personal DVD player – basically, it was like flying business class without all the nasty airport and aeroplane nonsense.  To extract the platelets, they take your blood out, whizz it round in a centrifuge (why, no centripete I wonder?) and then return it to you (less the platelets, which are a rather nasty shade of yellow).  To keep it fresh while it is out for a spin, they chill it and so you get your blood back nicely cooled – a sort of internal, sanguine version of aircon.

Sadly, I’m back to whole blood donation which is barely 5 minutes of lie-down these days – when I first started way back in the eighties, I’m sure it was a good half-hour.  I suppose it just shows how the pace of life has accelerated, or that my blood is very keen to be shot of me and to strike out for pastures new (or something in that vein): maybe I was better company in the 80s?

So, dear readers, I can thoroughly recommend the donation of blood:  pay no heed to Galen, I find it boosts my happiness – which is surely the best of all the humours!