wordsmith.social/jonbeckett

I have a couple of hours left at work before I stop for Christmas. Of course “at work” is a bit of a stretch – I really mean “sitting in the junk room in front of the computer”. I've been sitting here for eighteen months now.

I think perhaps of all the people I know, I was among the most suited to working from home. If I ever do pull the trigger and call Automattic about working for Wordpress, at least I know I'll have no problem with it.

(half an hour passes while I defuse an escalating argument with the kids)

Back again. I'm going to write a parenting guide book one day. It will probably have a single page, with some bullet points on it – among them:

1. You will always be wrong.
2. You will be accused of doing things you didn't do.
3. Very little you do will be appreciated.
4. Do your best.
5. Good luck.

That's about it really.

Anyway.

On a normal working day I would have commercial radio playing in the background, but virtually every station on the planet seems to be playing back-to-back Christmas songs at the moment. There's only so many times you can hear Perry Como before dark thoughts start to take over your world.

I signed up for a trial subscription to Amazon music a few moments ago – which will give me free music on-tap throughout the Christmas and New Year period. At the moment Lady Gaga and Tony Bennet are singing “Love for Sale”. I just need to remember to cancel the subscription before they start billing me.

My other half has shut herself in our bedroom for the afternoon – trying to get the majority of the wrapping done to avoid the usual 1am panic. Fingers crossed. At least now the kids are getting older, the pile of presents for each is getting smaller. In truth, they don't really want for much, so presents have become a little more thoughtful, and useful. I was asked what I might like for Christmas, and apart from an instant reaction of “a day off”, I just said chocolate. You can't go wrong with chocolate.

I think it's probably coffee o'clock. If I don't get chance after this to wish you good tidings, I'll do so now.

Merry Christmas, all the hugs, and best wishes for the coming year. May I find you happy and healthy on the flipside.

One more day of work left. Two sleeps left. I can't imagine I'm going to get a lot done tomorrow, given that I'll then have the better part of 10 days off. Given events unfolding around the world, we're not going anywhere or doing much over the Christmas period – so if nothing else it will be a good chance to recharge.

I'm looking forward to getting out running again. It's been a while. I need to find my reflective coat – running in the dark at this time of year is pretty dangerous without it.

While writing this I'm waiting for the water filter to refill so I can make myself a coffee. We have to use a filter because our tap water has become terrible over the last year. If you scrub the kettle out, then fill it from the tap, and boil it, you can no longer see the bottom of the kettle. It started when they dug the town up to route fibre broadband. Quite why the kids cannot grasp the concept of re-filling the water filter after emptying it is anybody's guess. Probably the same reason they never find a new toilet roll, and put empty packets back in the cupboards.

On the subject of broadband, I put the application form in for fibre to our house this morning. Waiting has paid off – we're now going to get six months for free. We will leap from about 5Mbit up, and 20Mbit down to 400Mbit both ways. I can't imagine it will happen over the Christmas break, so it will be something to look forward to in the new year.

One more day of work left. We can do this.

One more day down. One day closer to Christmas. Things are starting to slow down at work, although a continual stream of meetings has succeeded in filling each day so far. More by luck than judgement my bullet journal has perhaps 10 pages left empty.

This morning I have been reminded why I use a paper notebook over a computer to keep track of what I need to get done each day. While computers are great at reminding me what's going on, they are pretty terrible at helping you remember what you did on a given day – not because they can't – more because the designers of the most common organisational apps obviously don't “eat their own dog food” – none of them let you see what you added, updated, or removed yesterday, or the day before.

I suppose if I updated my timesheet each day, I would have no need to look back. Who does that though?

My other half has asked for a bullet journal for Christmas to use at work. It should arrive in the post tomorrow (fingers crossed!). After experimenting with one last year and falling straight down the “pretty page design” rabbit hole, she's come around to my way of using them – strictly as a task list and journal of “things done”. I have Ryder Carrol's book on the shelf – I imagine her nose will be in it over the new year period – it's full of useful tips and insights.

Anyway. I haven't been out in the fresh air for the last couple of days – perhaps I should switch my “out of office” on for an hour and go for a walk.

Late last year I signed up for the “partner programme” at Medium. If you've not heard of Medium, or it's partner programme, I'll quickly explain.

Medium is an online publishing platform where anybody can publish writing either under their own name, or within a “publication”. Anybody can create a publication, and invite others to submit work to it (those that run publications are essentially editors). The partner programme involves a monthly subscription fee – which works in concert with a pay-wall.

If you're in the partner programme, you can choose to put your writing behind the pay-wall – meaning people without paid accounts cannot read your stories. If somebody with a paid account reads your story, and more importantly likes it, or gives feedback, you earn a small part of their subscription fee.

It sounds great doesn't it – a community where the wealth is shared among the authors. I thought so for months. I poured my heart and soul into writing thoughtful stories about information technology, psychology, sociology, mindfulness, and whatever other subjects came to mind. I experimented, explored, and began earning money.

At some point Medium introduced a form of introduction kick-back – where if you convince somebody to sign up for a paid account, you earn a percentage of any money their writing earns. Again, it sounds great.

Here's my problem with the Medium partner programme, and why I will be reverting to a free account in the new year: the audience for articles behind the paywall are other authors in the partner programme – whose interest in your writing is predicated almost entirely by attracting attention to their own content.

It's all remarkably incestuous – with authors grifting each other in a recursive race to the bottom. Huge swathes of content are posted each day advising what to write, how to write, and how to market in pursuit of the greatest return. The entire platform has turned into a sausage machine that eats its own output.

The journey hasn't been entirely without value. Before the first-party publications were torn down by those atop the Medium pyramid, professional editors oversaw article submissions to popular publications. Access to tens of thousands of readers could only be acquired by meeting stringent style, grammar and punctuation requirements. Grammarly became my friend, and I learned the many and various common mistakes in my own writing.

I'm lucky. Writing is not my primary source of income. It never was. I don't rely on the monetary return from my words. For me it was always an experiment. I suppose in some ways I was flattered by the idea of people paying to read my words, but when those readers failed to become a community of any sort, I realised the true nature of the platform.

The weekend is almost over. I'm sitting in the dark of the junk room in front of the computer, scratching around the darker corners of the recent past for anything worth reporting. There really isn't much.�

Half an hour passes while I wander into the kitchen in search of something nice to drink, find half a bottle of brandy, and pour myself a very small glass. I'm not typically a spirit drinker, but given there is no wine open, and I'm not going to open a bottle just for me, here I am with a very small glass of brandy.

What IS brandy? Distilled wine? How is it different than sherry? I guess sherry is fortified. You can go google what those words mean in terms of alcoholic drink production. It amazes me that some drinks were ever discovered, given their potentially dangerous manufacturing methods, and toxic properties if mis-used.

Another half hour passes, and you start to understand why the blog posts have almost dried up. It has become increasingly obvious in recent weeks and months that part of the unwritten family rulebook describes that while most are allowed a hobby, pastime, or diversion, parents really are not. Whatever they do must be disposable – dropped at a moment's notice.

Anyway. I'm not complaining. Not really. Most of my days are spent preparing the way for others. It would just be nice sometimes – however rarely – to be indulged in whatever it is that I'm interested in on a given day. I'm guessing most people face the same struggle.

The clock just ticked past midnight. Sunday becomes Monday. One more week of work before we stop for Christmas and hopefully get the chance to see a few family members and friends. Let's hope the world stays out of lockdown long enough.

After a night of broken sleep – caused no doubt by the COVID booster injection I received yesterday afternoon – I got up this morning and set out on a rather important mission.

A little after 9am I entered the gates of the infant school in the centre of town, and was ushered through reception by the staff to a side room where a large bag awaited me. A large bag containing warm red clothes with white fur edging, an enormous belt, a huge floppy red hat with a white pom-pom on the end, enormous shiny black boots, a lustrous white beard, curly white hair, and a tiny pair of reading spectacles.

Five minutes later a member of staff returned to fetch the important guest, and the awaiting parent helpers gasped. Santa Claus himself had arrived in the school hall to take up position in a cosy armchair by the Christmas tree, surrounded by sacks of presents.

At this point the school fell into a well practiced routine that had been briefed several days previously. Santa Claus would be asleep in the chair, with an elf at his feet. The children of the infant school would assemble in the hall silently (to not wake him), and sing a Christmas song to wake him up.

Santa waited until the third line before rousing from my slumber, rubbed his eyes, blinked, and... oh my word. The power of several hundred young children's faces smiling is really quite special. One or two of them waved secretly – peeking out from behind friend's shoulders. Mr Claus waved back to delighted smiles.

Moments later there were sacks full of presents being handed to volunteers from each class – with very proud little ones marching forwards to receive them.

As the children filed back out to their classrooms they stole more smiles and waves – a steady stream of happiness, goodwill, and whispered excitement. After everything had died down, a young lady with special needs came forward to meet Santa on her own – hiding behind her teacher's legs, and peeking out after a few moments to wave.

You know the funny thing? When I agreed to take this on, I really wasn't sure about doing it. I don't find being the centre of attention easy. And yet it WAS easy, because I wasn't “me” – I was Santa Claus. I'm sure actors can write at length about hiding inside the part they are playing.

On the way home my daughter (who played an Elf, visiting from the North Pole with me) said:

“How did you do that Santa voice?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well it sounded just like Santa!”

“That's because it WAS Santa!”

A huge smile cracked across her face, and we carried on along our way.

It's a few minutes before midnight, and you find me sitting in the dark, drinking a glass of sherry, eating leftover crips, and listening to the Charlie Brown christmas movie soundtrack (which happens to be a pretty epic Jazz playlist).

I've been compiling a Christmas quiz for work for the last hour – stealing questions and answers from all over the place. I think it's more or less done now. I don't want the quiz to go on for too long, lest everybody get bored. Five rounds. Three question rounds, and two picture rounds inbetween. It will be delivered via a video call tomorrow.

An hour before the quiz I'm getting a COVID booster shot. Let's hope it doesn't affect me too badly. I have to dig my bike out and hot-foot it across town. I haven't got on my bike for months. I wonder if I can remember how to turn the pedals ?

This Charlie Brown soundtrack is kind of wonderful.

I wonder who provided the voices for Charlie Brown? Are they still alive? I remember watching a Youtube video of Nancy Cartwright (Bart Simpson) buying cookies from a scout doing fund-raising a while ago – he had no idea who she was, and still didn't catch on until she dropped completely into the Bart voice. It was kind of wonderful – watching the cogs turn in his head. She of course bought all of his cookies.

I love it when celebrities perform small acts that require little effort but illicit huge results (for the receiver). When they take time out to make others dreams come true. Not everybody gets lucky – not everybody is in the right place at the right time, or will ever be in the right place at the right time – and recognising that and paying it forwards is kind of wonderful.

Somehow there's nothing quite as powerful as watching a composed, sensible person ugly cry in front of the object of their affection. We're all just people really. For most of us, actors are the roles they play – in reality they are just as insecure, angry, happy, undecided, or broken as the rest of us.

Anyway. It's half past my bedtime now. Time to go brush my teeth, and claim I have no idea where half a bottle sherry went.

It's a few minutes before midnight, and you find me sitting in the dark, drinking a glass of sherry, eating leftover crips, and listening to the Charlie Brown christmas movie soundtrack (which happens to be a pretty epic Jazz playlist).

I've been compiling a Christmas quiz for work for the last hour – stealing questions and answers from all over the place. I think it's more or less done now. I don't want the quiz to go on for too long, lest everybody get bored. Five rounds. Three question rounds, and two picture rounds inbetween. It will be delivered via a video call tomorrow.

An hour before the quiz I'm getting a COVID booster shot. Let's hope it doesn't affect me too badly. I have to dig my bike out and hot-foot it across town. I haven't got on my bike for months. I wonder if I can remember how to turn the pedals ?

This Charlie Brown soundtrack is kind of wonderful.

I wonder who provided the voices for Charlie Brown? Are they still alive? I remember watching a Youtube video of Nancy Cartwright (Bart Simpson) buying cookies from a scout doing fund-raising a while ago – he had no idea who she was, and still didn't catch on until she dropped completely into the Bart voice. It was kind of wonderful – watching the cogs turn in his head. She of course bought all of his cookies.

I love it when celebrities perform small acts that require little effort but illicit huge results (for the receiver). When they take time out to make others dreams come true. Not everybody gets lucky – not everybody is in the right place at the right time, or will ever be in the right place at the right time – and recognising that and paying it forwards is kind of wonderful.

Somehow there's nothing quite as powerful as watching a composed, sensible person ugly cry in front of the object of their affection. We're all just people really. For most of us, actors are the roles they play – in reality they are just as insecure, angry, happy, undecided, or broken as the rest of us.

Anyway. It's half past my bedtime now. Time to go brush my teeth, and claim I have no idea where half a bottle sherry went.

It's been a day. I heard a few hours ago that my Uncle died last night. The father of the cousin that died of cancer a couple of months ago. I can't imagine what my Aunt is going through right now. I've messaged my Mum – she's been calling over the last week. I imagine over the coming days the family will re-assemble from the far corners of the country once again.

My uncle was unlike anybody I've ever known. When I was young he always seemed somewhat quiet and stern. He would visit on Thursday night's with my Aunt and struggle to make conversation. Looking back now, he was probably just shy. I'm the same way. Lots of people think I'm a chatterbox, but those who know me better realise that's how I defeat it – I get other people talking so I don't have to.

Not long after I got married we took my Aunt and Uncle out for dinner at a local pub – after a couple of drinks he began telling stories, cracking jokes, and reminiscing endlessly about our his youth – about how he met my Aunt, and the adventures and scrapes they had along the way. It transformed him in my eyes – it felt like I was meeting him for the first time. I've never forgotten that evening.

He was always immaculately turned out. I don't think I ever saw him in jeans or a t-shirt. Always a button-up shirt, often a tie, and always looked after shoes. At my cousin's wedding – despite my cousin being gravely ill – he was the proudest man in the room. Despite needing a walking cane and a mobility scooter, he walked through the church, and stood for the hymns and the photographs outside the church.

I will remember him, and miss him more than he might have known.

It's Monday, and that's all I have to say about that. The morning has been filled with meetings and administration work ahead of the start of a new project. It's exciting in a way, but also draining.

I've drunk two coffees, sat through two meetings, and have a third coming down the track at me in half an hour. The washing machine has fallen silent, so after writing this I'll go empty it and hang it's contents out to dry.

This morning I blocked out an hour on my calendar for Friday morning. I have to visit the infant school, pull on a huge red suit padded with various cushions, attach a rather dubious curly white wig and beard, and become a certain visitor from the North Pole. Little did I realise last year that doing it once meant I would then be called upon every year, for the rest of my life.

Let's hope I'm well enough to do it. I'm getting a COVID booster shot the afternoon before my appointment with the red robes – reactions to the shots seem to be a lottery. Fingers crossed.

(three hours pass while more meetings happen)

I almost fainted a few moments ago. I went to the kitchen and made some bread with jam on, purely to give myself some energy. While there I got shouted at for “getting in the way”. Welcome to my world. I'm now waiting for the water filter to re-fill so I can fill the kettle and make myself a cup of tea with sugar in it.

Maybe it's time for an early night.