write.as/jonbeckett

It’s 8pm, and I’m sitting in a hotel less than 100 yards from the place I will be working tomorrow, munching on chocolate coated cardboard. At least I think it’s chocolate – I don’t know the German word for Chocolate, so it could really be anything.

I suppose a story is in order to bridge the gap between the earlier post, where you found me twiddling my thumbs in the London Heathrow departure lounge, and right now, where I am sitting alone in a hotel room eating chocolate coated cardboard.

The flight was cancelled once, and the substitute flight was delayed twice. The gate announcer in the airport mentioned something about the weather, inbetween apologising in both German, and English. The German apology sounded more like a rant. It’s a funny thing – the german accent – those that speak softly sound like perverted porn stars, and those that speak confidently sound like they are threatening to do something to you. Not understanding a word of it beyond “hello”, “thankyou”, and “please” doesn’t really help either.

The flight did finally leave. Obviously it did – otherwise, how the hell am I now sitting in a hotel in Frankfurt writing this? Once away from London, and the impending chaos brought about by the edge of a storm lashing Northern Ireland, the skies became filled with brilliant blue, and after stuffing a pastrami sandwich, and glugging a plastic beaker full of orange juice, we began our descent.

I suppose I should mention the pretty chinese lady sitting next to me on the plane, that deemed it necessary to do her year’s worth of clothes shopping just before getting on the plane. She then discovered that our row of seats had no over-head storage available. Cue a rather entertaining scene as she screwed and crumpled everything she was carrying beneath the seat in front. I imagine the passenger directly in front of her unwittingly became the owner of a reclining chair with shopping bag foot-rests.

During the flight my fellow passengers once again amused me with their tiny bladdered antics. No sooner had the seat-belt sign switched off, somebody ran to the bathroom. I guess when you’ve got to go, you’ve really got to go. Likewise, when we landed at Frankfurt airport, the plane halted momentarily on a taxi-way, perhaps a kilometre from the terminal building. Nearly everybody jumped out of their seat and began ripping overhead compartments open. The head stewardess had to tell them all to sit back down again – in the manner you might with small children. She was not amused.

After trudging through the airport (it’s all becoming a bit too familiar now), I picked up my bags, and then wandered down to the railway station. The airport is only ten minutes from downtown Frankfurt, and trains run every fifteen minutes or so. I found a ticket machine on the platform, and joined the queue behind a guy in his mid twenties who was taking rather a long time to buy a ticket.

Five minutes later he was STILL messing around with the machine. A train arrived. He ran for the train, and left the screen open with whatever he had been doing. The rest of us missed the train. Never mind. Fifteen minutes until the next one. Shit head.

The lady in front of me – next in line to use the ticket machine – looked at it, then turned to me, and with a thick Indian accent said “I need some help”.

I pointed at the Union Jack flag at the foot of the touch screen, which magically changed all of the buttons into English.

“Where are you going?”

“Frankfurt”

I pointed at the massive button at the top of the screen in bold-face lettering, saying “Frankfurt Station”. She dithered, and finally pushed it. Two minutes later she had bought her ticket, and I had bought mine. While waiting for the train she wandered up, and sat next to me.

The train rolled in – with double announcements, in German, and English, telling everybody that the train was calling at a variety of places, including Frankfurt Railway Station.

“Does it go to Frankfurt?”

“Yes – they just said it does, and look – it says so on the sign – see that big word after Frankfurt – that’s German for Central Railway Station”.

“Thankyou”

I got on the train, and she got on after me. And sat next to me.

“Are you sure this is the train to Frankfurt?”

“Yes – look at the information screens – Frankfurt Central Station is the third stop.”

I then proceeded to pull up Google Maps on my phone, and show her where we were, and where we would be in five minutes time. She appeared to be happy.

Of course as we rolled into Frankfurt station, she checked with me again. I grinned, and nodded. While walking away from the train in a massive hurry, she shouted over her shoulder “Thankyou very much – I don’t want to miss my connecting flight!”

I couldn’t figure that out at all, and lost her in the crowd. I have a horrible feeling when I return on Friday she will still be there, trying to find her way out of the railway station.

After a short walk from the station – avoiding a Turkish protest march along the way – I checked into my hotel, unpacked my bags, and thought “Right then, food”. It just so happens there is a traditional German bar a few doors from the hotel. When I stayed here previously, I never got around to visiting. What better time to put that right?

The bar was all I had imagined from the stories and photos I had seen on the internet. Imagine if two elderly Uncles ran a pub, but had no real skill at doing so. Imagine them running from client to client looking very busy, and writing receipts out on scraps of paper torn from old printouts. Imagine also massive glasses of beer, and plates filled with Stegosaurus ribs, and enough saurkraut to sink a battleship.

I ordered a local beer, and a selection of sausages served with saurkraut and mashed potato.

Alongside me a long table was filled with Americans, one of which was several orders of magnitude louder than anybody in the entire bar. He looked vaguely like Stephen King, and within five minutes I knew all about his wife that can speak several languages, and the difficulty of communicating in Italy when compared to Spain, France, or Germany. He didn’t seem to be able to shut up.

Closest to me, among their group, sat a Japanese gentleman and I’m guessing his teenage son. The Japanese man was greying, a little overweight, and wore a shirt and tie – the only one in the group to do so. His son looked like he had just walked from the pages of a Manga comic book. I wish that was all I had to say about them, but unfortunately a few moments before food began arriving from the kitchen, the Japanese Dad leaned over onto one side of his bottom, and let rip with the loudest fart I have ever whitnessed in a bar. He kept talking as if nothing had happened, as did his son. The rest of the table paused, but then carried on too. I didn’t know if to laugh out loud or not.

My food was fine. As so many have told me, traditional German food is hale and hearty. It was true. No thought was given to presentation at all. It filled you up, it tasted nice, and it wasn’t bad for you in the same way that chocolate coated cardboard might be.

I’m getting there, honest.

After paying, I wandered out into the early evening air on my own, and set off for the nearby supermarket. I’m here all week, so thought it mike make sense to buy some supplies. I’ve been to the supermarket before – it’s the same one where it took me twenty minutes to find the orange juice, along the way discovering thirty different kinds of milk.

While picking up ridiculously cheap wine, orange juice, and a variety of snacks, I spotted something that looked vaguely like “Jaffa Cakes”. They are very probably only sold in England, so I should probably explain. They are small, flat sponge cakes, with a small amount of marmalade on top, coated in chocoalte. They are addictive. So I saw soemthing vaguely like them, and picked them up. They were only a few pence for a box full.

I am such an idiot.

After getting them back to the hotel, and setting up camp with my cheap wine and sweet chilli crisps, I opened the mystery Jaffa Cake substitutes. I should have guessed after discovering they were backed with rice paper. Imagine a cake made out of corrigated cardboard, with rice paper stuck underneath, and a think layer of chocolate substitute coating the top. You know the weird thing? After a glass of wine, and having eaten two thirds of the packet, they become a little bit moreish.

I just discovered a guy I worked with for several years was killed in a road traffic accident on Sunday morning. His wife is 7 months pregnant. They were good friends.

I called home and told my other half, then emailed all the important people at work. I’m still kind of numb. I can’t go near Facebook, because nobody else knows yet.

I’m doing what needs to be done – and wondering how I’m going to concentrate on work this week. I have to stand in front of a room full of strangers for the next few days and be insightful, inspiring, instructive, and all those other words.

I’m not entirely sure how I’m going to do it.

I have a taxi to the airport arriving early tomorrow morning. At the time of writing it’s ten minutes until midnight, and yet here I am, still up. I thought processing a few thoughts might help me sleep.

Throughout the day while standing at the side of rugby pitches, washing up, or packing my bags for tomorrow, I have been looking in on the slow but steady destruction of a community on the internet I have known since 2007. There is a real sense of loss, and yet those involved are so busy setting fire to everything they have lost sight of what they are losing.

The reckoning that has taken place has caused many to look up from their computers, and decide that taking their chances with the real world might be preferrable to investing any more in a persona portrayed through words and pictures to an unknown audience spread half-way around the world.

It’s ironic. The invention we were told would make the world smaller seems to have enabled a small minority to inject a huge distance between a great many people very quickly indeed.

Anyway. Change of subject.

I watched the season finale of “Halt and Catch Fire” this evening. The series finale. The end. There will be no more Cameron Howes, Joe McMillans, Gordon Clarks, Donnas, or John Bosworths to slowly pull me inside out each week. I lived the decades the stories covered, and could often find both myself and people I have known in the characters. I will miss it.

I need sleep. My bag is mostly packed, the Kindle is fully charged, my work phone is charged, I have cash for the taxi, and currency for my first meal. I’m guessing my next post will be written from a hotel room in Frankfurt, Germany. Safe travels.

Today will be spent standing at the touchline of rugby pitches – watching Miss 12 and Miss 13 diving around in the mud, shouting “DEFENSIVE LINE!” like little field marshals, and hopefully having fun.

I will stamp my feet to keep warm, message friends to see how they are doing (complete with spelling mistakes, because I’m hopeless at typing on a mobile phone), and stress out about preparations for work next week. I’m good at silently stressing out. It’s a key skill.

While writing this post, the washing machine and tumble dryer are rumbling away in the background, I’m half listening to an old playlist on the ancient iMac in the corner of the room, the younger children are playing football with their friends on the green outside the house, our eldest is visiting a friend for the day, and my other half is at the “Knit and Stitch Exhibition” in London.

All should be good with the world, and yet it is not. A number of people I have known for years on the internet are busy ripping lumps out of each other. I’m not going to get into how, or why, or try to make sense of it – I just think it’s sad because a community I have known and cherished appears to be ripping itself apart. I guess it’s a reminder that nothing lasts forever.

If you like somebody, tell them. If you love somebody, shout it from the rooftops. If you have a significant other, go give them a hug. If you have children, go play with them. If you have a dog, go feed it. If you have a cat, good luck with that, because I very much doubt it gives the tiniest sh*t about you – still give it a cuddle though, because cats look magnificently pissed off when you hug them.

There’s enough pain and suffering in this world already – let’s try and redress the balance a little.

I’m clearing the decks today – early on Monday morning I’ll be making my way to the railway station, then on to the airport, and to Frankfurt in Germany once again. I’ll be there all week – returning on Friday. Four nights in a hotel, three days wearing a shirt and tie, pretending to be clever.

I’m already scouting out places to eat. While a part of me says “find some traditional German food this time”, another part says “this is an international city – you’re not going to find it”. If you’re a long time reader of my idiocy, you’ll recall the time I ventured out to a German restaurant, and got served Chinese food because I didn’t think to look on the flip-side of the menu. I’ve been told by a German friend that “traditional German food” is really no different than English food – meat, potatoes, and vegetables.

I’m staying a few minutes walk from the central station, and happen to know there’s a pretty good Starbucks there. I know it sounds crazy to go to an American cafe chain while staying in the middle of Germany, but they really don’t do coffee shops at all – if I’m going to be paying for coffee, Starbucks is going to be much better (and probably cheaper) than the coffee machine in the hotel bar.

I have mixed thoughts about setting up camp in the hotel bar on an evening. While it might be fun to watch the world go by, I always feel a bit awkward sitting on my own. I somehow always manage to attract a lunatic to sit next to me and make conversation. If it happens, no doubt you’ll end up with entertaining blog posts to read.

One of the great benefits of having taken part in this curious online world for so long, is you know the back-story behind things. As many of you will know, NaNoWriMo will kick off in a couple of weeks time – if you’ve not heard of it, it’s pretty simple – write a 50,000 word novel during November. Lots of people try it, as have I, spectacularly unsuccessfully.

One year, back when people posted perhaps one or two blog posts a week (this is WAY before mobile phones took over the world), somebody had the bright idea of trying to post to a blog once a day during November.

It got called”NaBloPoMo” (National Blog Posting Month).

Because I keep everything, and am kind of insane, I still have the post stored away from the day I discovered it, and the things I wrote that November (it was 2006, btw).

Looking back now, 2008 marked the end of my involvement in the mayhem, because my life got tipped upside down by the arrival of three little girls in my life.

Here’s the thing – even all these years later, whenever I think about NaNoWriMo, or NaBloPoMo, I still think about a friend I made that first year. Her name was Lisa.

Wecommented on each other’s blog posts throughout the month, and become close friends. The friendship somehow endured for yearswriting emails back and forth now and again, reading each other’s blogs, and even calling on Skype from time to time.

And then she died.

One Winter morning just after New Year in 2010 her car left the road and she was killed instantly. Seeing her comments in the archives of my blog still causes me to pause, and to remember her laughter, her stories, and her smile.

On Tuesday nights one of our children has a dance class, while another goes to football training. I get home from work, eat whatever is available at quite some speed, and then walk through town to collect from dance before heading back out to collect from the football pitch while my other half goes to Yoga. It’s ever so slightly insane, but not unlike the juggling act many parents face each week. Tonight will be a similar story for me.

While walking home with our youngest on Tuesday night, we were making our way back through the maze of suburban roads and alleyways towards our house when a small hand began gripping mine a little more tightly.

“It’s scary along here”

I started making “Woooo” noises like a particularly rubbish ghost, expecting her to laugh, but she didn’t – she really meant it. Something had spooked her.

I immediately responded with words I have heard my grandparents and parents say over the years.

“There’s nothing there at night that isn’t there in the daytime”.

I’m not sure she really believed me. I tried to change the subject, to talk about school, the weekend, how dance had gone – nothing worked. She held my hand all the way home.

Somehow I think Halloween is going to be quite difficult this year.

Two mysterious envelopes arrived in the post this afternoon, addressed to my younger daughters. After spotting the postal return addresses on them, I almost threw them away, but curiosity got the better of me and I opened them. The envelopes contained bank debit cards, with their names on them.

This had to be either an astoundingly expensive mail shot campaign, or my other half had been up to something. After a quick phone call I confirmed – my other halfhad been up to something.

Our children now have contactless chip-and-pin debit cards, topped up by the “Bank of Mum and Dad”. Instead of getting pocket money from now on, they will receive money directly into their account once a month, and can see their balance in a mobile app.

Here’s hoping it teaches them a little about looking after money – at this moment they think they are rich, having just received a month’s worth of pocket money in one go. Our youngest immediately asked if she could go to the corner shop to buy sweets with her bank card. We said no.

I’m sitting in the study at home once again, trying to concentrate on work, but being stopped by the plumber every few minutes to relate the latest bad news from the upstairs bathroom, which is still out of action.

This morning’s drama involves the discovery that when the bathroom was fitted nine years ago, the ground wire on the pipes leading to the taps was screwed on too tightly, piercing the pipes. You can’t make this up. It means the job is going to take longer, and cost more. More money we don’t have.

We are still busy cancelling things left, right and center. It doesn’t help that my other half dropped her iPhone in a puddle last night. As soon as she got home we put it in rice. She’s currently carrying a very old Android handset around, and hoping either the phone wakes up, or the home insurance comes through.

It’s one thing after another at the moment. Last night the children “helped” wash up. I walked into the kitchen after fetching our youngest from football training, and discovered the dishwasher flashing various error codes. The kids had stacked the plates in, but hadn’t scraped any food off them – so guess who then had to pull all the filters out of the dishwasher and clean them? Fun times.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get on with some work. At the risk of causing you to fall asleep, I’ll break with a long tradition and actually tell you what I’m working on. Ready? I’m looking at building cross-platform mobile applications with Apache Cordova, AngularJS, jQuery, SQLite, and Azure. I have a pretty good demonstration app up and running, which will be shown to the client early next month. If this toolkit had been around five years ago, “We The Users” would have had a mobile app.