Well, this might be cheating a little as the picture of the four of us is quite crowded. But this is a picture of me and my eldest son on Christmas Day 1983. My own parents have managed to get into the picture too.

The reason you might not be able to make out my son is that he is very tiny in this picture, and somewhat internal. At this stage I was unsure whether it was an imminent offspring or seasonal over-indulgence. Turned out not to be the turkey. I’m glad to say.

Dangerous situations: being held at knifepoint, being in labour with complications, crossing the road…of these three I think the road was the actually the worst.

Picture a suburban road in 1962, with semi-detached houses and neat front gardens. There are wooden double gates allowing the lucky owners space to park a car, should they own one. There are scarlet salvias in the bed edging the lawn and gladioli against the dividing wall. The sun is reflected from gleaming tiles at the front door.



Of course, I don’t know this is true, but it is how my house would look on a sunny summer’s day, and I suppose it was at least fairly dry and warm for the following to have happened.



Adults must have been busy elsewhere, because somehow the baby gave them the slip. She was too young to walk yet, so she crawled down the path in front of the house. The gates were wide open, and through them was an enticing new world ready to explore. She had tough knees, because she crawled across the pavement and straight into the road, and then started to cross that too. On the other side was a park with trees and grass. It looked more interesting than the pavement.



The first sign of a problem for her mother was the fact that the large red double decker bus had stopped in front of the house. The bus stop was down the road, so it was unlikely the bus would stop where it was unless something was wrong – a flat tyre or a medical emergency perhaps? Curiosity drove her to go out and have a look.



To her amazement she discovered her daughter sitting in the road in front of the bus, obviously concerned that she did not have the correct fare. The bus driver was a kindly soul who preferred not to run over passengers, actual or potential, so he had applied the brakes firmly when he noticed the small bundle ahead of him in a place where by rights a small bundle should not be.



This is why I continue to have a soft spot for bus drivers to this day, even the grumpy ones.

If I were an inanimate object, what would I be?

Candle flame

I would be the thing that is alive without living, that meets the criteria of life such as moving, reproducing, growing, consuming. I would have meaning and be intimately involved in the lives of those around me.



I would be a candle, and I would be your most constant friend.



I would shine a light under the bed to chase away the monsters. I would beam over your shoulder as you read, lighting the words on the page and learning in your mind. I would comfort your soul as you meditated or prayed. I would burn steadfastly in your window to guide your lover home. I would watch your babe as she slept in my golden glow. I would keep a vigil over your sickbed. In the end I would melt away with you in your final resting place.



If love were a thing you could hold, it would be me. But beware because I can also burn.

It’s been a busy day but most notably I have been clearing out books to be sent to new homes. Some of them are in the picture, but in total I reckon there are at least as many again piled up nearby.

I’m not good at getting rid of books but recently decided I needed to focus my interests a bit more. So out go the books on topics I no longer plan to work on, leaving me more shelf space for the books in areas of interest. The other criterion was: can I get this information (or more up-to-date information) easily on the Internet? If so, I don;t need the paper version.

I think I could have been even more ruthless but this is a pretty good start. I did this kind of thing once before but regretted it almost at once, so this time I have decided the rules I am using so I know why the books are going. Last time I made the wild assumption I could still get hold of the books at the library, but I now know better.

The family acquired a little girl as well, but still the cat symptoms did not go away. Which was a shame; I mean about the symptoms, not the little girl. So the cat had to go and live in Essex.

Rather unfortunately the cat went to live in Essex with a family friend, which then meant that I couldn’t go and visit her any more either. Doh!

Anyway, I liked having a cat and wish I still could.

There are plenty of things I wish I were better at; in truth there are very few, if any, things that I am good at anyway so plenty of room for improvement in all areas.

However, one thing I would like to be able to do is sing. Voices are generally easier to carry around than a guitar. They don’t need careful storage on a train to prevent ham-fisted barbarians from crashing luggage on top of them. Nor do they need restringing or other costly refinement. Maintenance is generally simple and cheap, and practice can take place anywhere, not only in the shower.

When I was little I discovered what “tone-deaf” meant because there was a boy in my class who was. He belted out hymns in assembly enthusiastically but in his own unique and frankly painful style, unrelated to any tune or rhythm the rest of us were following. In a  hall of a couple of hundred children he could be heard unmistakably, bellowing and warbling to his very own set of rules. And he did not know this.

I played recorder and sang along with everyone and even sang in the small choir. So it was a horrible shock to arrive at secondary school and be told by the music teacher to mime. I don’t do singing any more. This is my service to humanity. I am not tone deaf, but I certainly cannot carry a tune, and now I know that, I no longer inflict my singing on others (except when playing Rock Band).