wordsmith.social/jonbeckett

I dreamed last night that I worked at an office a few miles from home that I cycled to. The route took me over a bridge – the only one for miles – and that bridge was closed for some reason. It may have even been removed. In the strange way that dreams dissolve hour by hour, the minor details have already gone.

I cycled across the river. Yes, you read that right. It wasn't a “walking on water” feat of improbability – the bike was half submerged – but somehow the bike held my weight, and although I got wet feet and legs, I was able to cycle across the river.

Sadly I don't remember anything else.

On a completely different and entirely unconnected subject, after cutting the lawn this morning (disrupted by the lawnmower packing up), I was talking to my other half about childhood memories. I'm not sure how the conversation came up. We started listing off the odd things that have stuck in our mind for the rest of our lives.

I remember going on a trip with my Dad one day – I would have been less than 10 years old – and stopping at a road-side cafe (a “Little Chef”) for something to eat. Given that we didn't have much back then, and my experience of the wider world was almost zero, that meal has stuck in my mind for the rest of my life. Chips, beans, egg, and sausage. I can remember the salt and pepper coming from paper sachets, and the pepper being ground black pepper – which I had never seen before.

Another memory we both laughed about – and something I have not seen for at least twenty years – novelty ketchup bottles on cafe tables. When I was young, if you ever went to a cafe for something to eat, they would invariably have plastic squeezy ketchup bottles on the table. In a strange sort of way, those bottles were “exciting”, because we didn't have anything like that at home. I remember sometimes the plastic bottles would even look like a giant tomato.

Finally, who remembers “salt and shake” crisps? A normal bag of plain potato crisps, with a small dark blue paper sachet inside containing salt. They are burned into my memories as “special” in some way. While recounting the memory, we both laughed about the final crisps in the packet turning you inside out, because most of the salt had settled among them.

What strange memories about going out, or things that were “special” have stuck in your head from your childhood ?

It's nearly midnight on Friday night as I begin writing this post. I'm sitting in the dark of the junk room, typing this into the desktop computer. My other half is watching television in the lounge, and the kids are fast asleep.

It's been a strange week. A week filled with research, investigation, head scratching, chores, learning, struggling, and not getting anywhere particularly quickly.

Late yesterday one of my co-workers messaged me, asking “what do you have planned in the morning?”. Following a back-and-forth exchange of messages we met up at another co-worker's house this morning. Three McDonalds breakfast rolls, and three cappuccinos. After spending so many weeks working in solitude it was great to see them face-to-face.

I'm not really sure what the weekend will bring. I'm hoping to go for a run first thing in the morning, and will try to get my eldest daughter to go with me. On Sunday there is a social at the rugby club – an “end of the season that never was” barbecue. Other than that, not much else.

Anyway. It's gone midnight. Time to go fall asleep with a book propped on my chest. Again.

It's late on Wednesday night (or early on Thursday morning, if we want to be accurate). I'm sitting in the dark of the study in silence – the rest of the family have already gone to bed. All I can hear is the blood pumping through my ears, and the drumming of my fingers on the keyboard.

After several days feeling terrible, along with my youngest daughter, she went for a COVID test yesterday morning, and we received the results late last night – negative. Although I suspected it was a seasonal flu type virus, it was nice to get confirmation. It's all too easy to begin counting symptoms, and comparing against the fear, uncertainty and doubt pedalled across social media by self-proclaimed experts.

Trust in science. Always trust in science.

On that subject, I fell down an internet rabbit hole earlier this evening – watching a series of “debates” at Speaker's Corner in London, where various religious people had filmed themselves or others arguing tooth and nail that their beliefs were more valid that those of the other person. Something struck me about almost every conversation I watched – when some people are faced with difficult questions, they re-frame the question to one they can answer advantageously to their position, and few people seem to realise they have done it.

In other news I went for a run with my daughter early this afternoon. I had worked through lunch (I usually do), and her middle-sister had let her down, so I found myself volunteering to accompany her. She's in the early weeks of the “Couch to 5K” programme, so intentionally let her lead the way, and just provided inane conversation and hilarity along the way. It's just nice to spend time with her, to be honest – to see her out of the house, in the world after so long hiding away. She's not brave enough to run every time on her own yet, but she's getting there.

Late this evening we heard “huffing and puffing” in the back garden, so quietly tip-toed out to see what was going on. Two hedgehogs were circling each other. The kids asked if they were going to fight, or mate – I had to admit I had no idea. I think they've gone about their business now. It was just nice to see hedgehogs in the garden again – they have been visiting the garden for the last twenty years, and yet we haven't seen them for a few months until recently. We wondered if they had gone.

Anyway.

It's getting late. I should probably go get some sleep.

After watching the alarm clock digits tick over for the better part of half an hour this morning, I eventually slid out of bed and retrieved a pair of running shorts from the bedside drawer.

After half a glass of water at the kitchen sink, I pulled on the no-name running shoes I bought from Amazon a couple of years ago, and wandered out into the morning air.

For the next half hour, the Truman Show rain clouds overhead delivered a steady pitter-patter of rain. It was quite pleasant to begin with – refreshing, awakening. Unfortunately after half an hour my t-shirt and shorts had become shrink wrapped to my body, and sweat was running into my squinting eyes – burning them from their sockets.

I suppose in a way the burning sensation distracted me from the imminent “end of all things” feeling that often greets the final yards of a run.

I ran four kilometres. I only found this out afterwards, after plugging my route into a very clever looking website. I'm purposely not logging my runs in Strava, or any other social one-upmanship hell-hole app. I'm just going out running.

This morning was my first departure from the “Couch to 5K” programme. Having worked my way through the programme in recent weeks to accompany a good friend as she did the same, I had begun to grow bored of the celebrity advice parroted into my ears. Of course the rain this morning meant my earbuds didn't stay in my ears anyway. Bloody things.

I ended up running for four kilometres. I forgot to look at my watch as I left the house, which is probably a good thing. I don't really want to know how fast or slow I went – I'm more concerned with how my knees hold up.

I injured my right knee a few weeks ago (while carrying washing up the stairs – work that one out), and it's been taking forever to fix itself. I'm gently stretching every day, and running every other day – sometimes every three days – but it's still stiff. I imagine this is “getting old” – where your body takes several times longer to correct anything stupid you've done.

Getting back to the Truman Show theme, every time I have run over the last few weeks I have become more convinced that I'm starring in my own TV show. Yet again today, as I approached a road junction that had been empty for several minutes during my approach, it filled with cars and bicycles. I almost started looking for cameras.

I wonder if Ed Harris will talk to me from the sky if I buy a rowing boat, and set off from Central London for the new world single handed ?

The alarm clock filled the bedroom with one of the national radio stations at 7am this morning. I listened for a few minutes before my other half rolled over and murmured “are getting up then?”. A few moments later the bedroom door creaked open, and my sixteen year old daughter stood in the doorway grinning.

“Time to get up Dad”.

An hour later – after a shower, a shave, a piece of toast and a coffee, attention turned to my eldest daughter – who miraculously emerged from her room as promised.

Today was all about her really. Yes, we went to London, and yes, I cracked open the “bank of Dad” a little, but it was really about my eldest leaving the house for the entire day and testing herself against the world at large. She's been fighting a crippling battle against anxiety for the last several years – today was something of a howitzer shot against it, orchestrated over dinner a couple of evenings previously.

We got on the 9am train towards London, masks on our faces, and hand-wash in our pockets. After a change of trains en-route, a little over an hour later we arrived at Paddington and set off through the back streets rather than into the Underground – avoiding the percentage game with the virus beneath the streets of the city.

Our journey took us the length of Hyde Park and St James Park. Along the way we explored the Princess Diana memorial fountains, and discovered a herd of wooden Elephants among the park trees. After perhaps an hour on-foot we started threading our way through the streets of London – picking our way along Shaftesbury Avenue towards our ultimate goal; “Forbidden Planet” – the biggest comic book shop in the country.

Before submerging ourselves in all things Manga, Anime, Marvel, and DC, we wandered to a chain Sushi restaurant a little way from the comic book store, and realised we were actually quite hungry. I got arm twisted into trying a dessert called “mochi”, and fell in love with it.

After eating ourselves to a standstill, we returned to the comic book store for perhaps an hour – pouring through comics, board games, and all manner of collectible figures and toys. I love the artwork, but can take or leave the stories. My eldest is hugely invested in Manga, and always has been. It's my fault really – I introduced her to the Studio Ghibli movies when she was young, and then bought her first Anime series on DVD, and first Manga books. She now has a bookshelf full of them.

Our youngest picked up some blind-box collectibles. She's so easy to please. In some ways she doesn't weigh the world in the same way as other people – she has never been attached to money, or things; she would much rather spend her money on others, or spend time with them than have anything for herself. She has never been overly influenced by others either – she walks to her own beat.

On the way back we stopped in St James park and sat on the grass with a drink – watching the world go by. A group of models with an entourage arrived to pose with one of the herds of wooden elephants – we laughed at them tottering through the grass in platform shoes, miniskirts, and not much else. I remarked that one of the girls had calf muscles to die for – my eldest immediately agreed – she had noticed too.

Finally arriving back into Paddington station, we stopped at Pret for something quick to eat before finding a train towards home. I bought some chocolate for the journey, which caused endless hilarity when I discovered you can't really eat with a face mask on.

This evening we will sleep well. I'm not quite sure how many miles we walked, or how much money we spent – but that wasn't really the point. Today was about being outside, pushing comfort zones, battling demons, and getting used to the world once again. A very big world that has largely survived the last eighteen months unscathed – thanks mostly to scientists, and the quiet majority following guidance when issued.

While walking through the park, seeing life happening around us, it struck me that sometimes it pays to switch your phone off, put it in your pocket, and go for a walk. I'm reminded of the advice Bilbo gave to Frodo – “It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don't keep your feet, there's no knowing where you might be swept off to.”

The clock is ticking towards midnight, and you find me sitting in the dark of the study, tapping away at the keyboard while a random playlist on Spotify tries to convince me I'm sitting in the bar of a hotel in Paris, swishing the remains of my drink around in the bottom of a glass and watching the bar staff slowly bringing their day to a close.

I have nothing new to share – I'm not going to let that stop me though. If there's one thing I've learned about this damn fool blogging escapade, it's that you don't need to have very much to say. Quiet posts often seem more truthful than keyboard crusader manifestos.

I made ham sandwiches for lunch today because they were easy. Two pieces of bread, olive spread, pre-cut ham, and a little mustard. I finished making them before the kettle boiled water for yet another coffee.

I'm running in the morning. The “Couch to 5K” idiocy has reached week six, and I'm wondering about going off-piste; just going for “a run”. At this point I don't really see much value in the programme. I'll see how I feel in the morning.

The clock just ticked into tomorrow. I'm pretty good at pretending tomorrow doesn't arrive until I wake up in the morning. I'm also good at not reading much any more – I have a stack of books on my bedside table that have been there for months – several half read, several never opened.

I need to make time. Time to read, to watch TV, and to catch up with distant friends. It's been too long.

I woke at 6am to the steady rhythm of rain on the bedroom window, and remembered leaving washing on the line last night. For a few moments I thought about dashing out into the rain in my underwear to get the washing in. It turns out warm bedclothes are really quite persuasive at 6am.

It stopped raining after perhaps an hour. The world outside has the clean, clear feeling that follows a storm – where the oppressive pollen filled air of the last few days has been washed away – at least for the moment. Birdsong fills the garden, with blackbirds winning the battle of “who can sing the loudest”. The kites have not arrived yet – no doubt later in the day they will circle high above and echo their signature bird-of-prey screeches across the neighbourhood.

I'm listening to a “Sunday Morning Jazz” playlist on Spotify while writing – mostly out of laziness. I couldn't think what to choose, so just typed “Sunday morning” into the search box, and chose the first playlist.

The dregs of the first coffee of the day are sitting in-between my arms as I type – whispering “don't you think you should re-fill me?”. Soon.

It's been a quiet week. I'm back working full time, and knee deep in a project. Busy makes the hours disappear, which I suppose is welcome. Having tasted furlough for a part of the last few weeks, I'm not sure I'm much of a fan. Ideas of filling furlough days with worthy activities didn't happen – instead I carried on the endless rounds of chores, and spent far too much time jumping down internet rabbit holes. I did get out running though.

I should be running today. Another “Couch to 5K” run. I can't be bothered. I know my fitness is getting there, so find myself questioning the entire programme. The next run may divert spectacularly, and return to the old routine of picking favourite routes around town in the early morning hours. There's something about running along the high-street early in the morning as deliveries are made, and shops setup for the day ahead. It reminds me of countless morning-after movie scenes in big cities.

Remember the scene at the end of “As Good as it Gets” where Jack Nicholson and Helen Hunt walk to the bakery just as they are opening ?

Years ago – before children – we visited Paris for a long weekend, and I ran each morning around the park below the Eiffel Tower. The park was invariably filled with morning mist, uncovering sounds before sights. I encountered people of all shapes and sizes doing the same – making their way steadily back and forth – lost in though, or drinking in the street corners, footpaths, and strangers along the way. Fresh bread and coffee never tasted as good again.

I think it's time to make another coffee.

A little voice has been whispering in my ear for the last few days that I've not posted anything to the blog – so I'm doing something about it. My fingers are flashing across the keys, and letters are appearing on the screen, but I wouldn't say my brain is entirely engaged in the process.

You know how you can get home from work without really thinking about the route, or anything that happens along the way? That probably applies to my writing – certainly to the words that appear in the personal blog entries.

This week I have more or less confirmed that I'm living inside a video game or television show – surrounded by non-player-characters, or actors. The only thing I'm not really sure of is if I'm starring in the show, or a glitch of sorts – a non player character that malfunctioned.

While walking into town with my eldest daughter we burst out laughing while waiting to cross a formerly deserted road. On our approach, at least ten cars appeared from nowhere. We were tempted to sit at the side of the road and wait – to see if we could trigger them again, or watch them repeat the pattern again.

At lunchtime today I wandered into town on my own – lost in a podcast being broadcast into my earholes. I needed to buy something easy for dinner, given that my other half is helping to shepherd a “whole school trip” to a far flung destination and back. I imagine she will be wiped-out by the end of the day.

On my way back from town I passed a very deliberate looking man, striding towards me. He was wearing short shorts, and a skin tight t-shirt. He was also about fifty years old, was was just a little too out of shape to get away with the t-shirt. The 1980s policeman sunglasses really didn't help.

I'm back “working” today. Furlough has ended. Project work starts in earnest tomorrow afternoon, so today has been about catching up and clearing the decks. The bullet journal is on the desk next to me, covered in scrawl for the first time in a while. Busy is good.

It's Monday afternoon, and you find me sitting in the junk room at home with a cafe-society playlist humming away in the background. Rain has been falling throughout the day, and the washing machine has been working it's way through load after load of clothes, which are now hanging all over the house.

I had my second COVID jab on Saturday afternoon. By the evening the side effects had turned up like an out-of-control steamroller, and really uncorked their A-Game by Sunday morning. I still have a few aches and pains, but they are subsiding. It turns out my body is quite good at reacting to viruses, or their vaccines. With a little luck and after an early night tonight I'll be back out running tomorrow morning.

While feeling sorry for myself, I've been catching up on the various television series I had half-watched recently. I'm still working my way through “Ragnarok” – a modern re-telling of the Norse legends, and managed to binge-watch the entire run of “Katla” in two nights (yes, it was that good – it's on Netflix – look it up).

I'm not sure what I might watch or read next. I'm in a bit of a funk, if I'm honest. A couple of days nursing aching joints kind of erases the impetus to get of your arse and actually do anything (beyond tidy the house up, which is an on-going hell-chore for the ages).

My middle daughter bought me a bottle of Lucozade at lunchtime – a fizzy glucose drink that makes you feel better while simultaneously rotting your teeth away. I'm drinking it. Don't ask me to smile.

Anyway. I guess this blog post comes straight from the “forcing yourself to write something” drawer. Hopefully it wasn't too arduous to read. I'll try to have something a little more interesting to read soon. Honest.

It's Saturday afternoon, and you find me sitting in the junk room with an empty wine glass, reasoning with myself that two small glasses of wine are quite enough, and that if I drink any more I'll regret it.

Somehow the day transformed itself from a relatively quiet start into a trip to two garden centres in search of rocks (for the pond), and a walk to the local COVID vaccination place to get my second jab. As mentioned, I'm now home, and two small glasses into the remains of a bottle of wine. I imagine coffee isn't far away in my predicted timeline.

News of the day – the pond that we dug a couple of weeks ago and filled with water already has frogs in it. Where do they come from? This happened twenty years ago when we first dug the pond – frogs arrived by magic, and filled the pond with frogspawn. We have only just got around to dropping some oxygenating plants into the water. Hopefully the frog(s) will do something about the army of insects already laying eggs in the pond.

Three more days of furlough are stretched ahead of me next week, then I'm back “full time”, or rather “full panic”. We always knew the furlough was a short-term arrangement – taking advantage of the assistance while it was there. The world is slowly waking back up, and my immediate future suddenly looks rather more stressful than it has for the last few months (discounting the few seconds where I thought the computer might burn the house down).

If the weather remains nice, I'm hoping to get out on some long walks with my eldest daughter next week. Alongside that I'll continue with the “Couch to 5K” idiocy – I'm on week 5 now, and working through the various runs like an automaton. The knee pain has gone, and my achilles tendons seem to be fine. Fingers crossed no further unexpected injuries happen over the coming weeks.

Anyway.

Time for that coffee.