write.as/jonbeckett

I got home a couple of hours ago, and opened the back door to a kitchen full of the smells of roast dinner, and an unfolding scene of mayhem in the kitchen as my other half battled to cook and wash up while the children got in the way. I had called home when I left the office, and got an abrupt “why do you always call when I'm busy?”.

Can I be brutally honest? As much as I like eating roast dinner, the preparation and washing up time are not worth it. I feel like that about a lot of meals – and know all my “foodie” friends would recoil in horror at such a thought. When I found myself unexpectedly home-alone on Saturday I made myself baked beans on toast with grated cheddar cheese on top. When my other half first knew me, it was the first thing she changed about me – it had been my staple diet for some time. She also forced me to buy house plants and candles in order to “brighten the place up”.

I'm not sure I've ever written about my apartment – the one I bought while I was still single. It was on the first floor of a condominium – a relatively new building on the edge of an estate that had been built perhaps twenty years previously. The entire place was decorated with flat primary colours. I filled it with black ash flat-pack furniture, and similarly stark soft furnishings. For months I couldn't afford a couch, so sat on the floor to watch TV.

A young couple lived below me – their first place too. I could never figure them out – she was beautiful, and seemingly always annoyed with the world. He was friendly enough, and wore enormously thick spectacles. I sometimes wondered how they ended up together.

I only lived there for about six months – I moved in during the summer with very little belongings. I can still remember boiling water in a saucepan on the first night because I had no kettle. I remember shopping for mugs, glasses, tableware and so on in a discount store in town – some of the coffee mugs survived until very recently.

The one thing I did have was books. My first major purchase was free standing wooden bookshelves from a shop in town. We still have them now – they will no doubt be handed down through the family for generations. I filled them with the colossal collection of books I had amassed throughout my life. I've always had problems letting go of books – I'm not sure why. I can't walk past a bookshop either – particularly a second hand bookshop.

When my future father-in-law came to visit, he stopped at the bookshelves and pointed out “Moby Dick” by Herman Melville.

“I've tried to read that several times, and never finished it”.

“Me too”.

After perhaps fourteen days, a thousand cups of tea, countless cups of boiling water laced with paracetamol, boxes of tissues, an entire pot of vicks, and the removal of several gallons of snot, my body finally seems to be winning it's battle with the nefarious cold virus that took hold the week before last.

Of course the world doesn't stand still. In about half an hour I'm heading to rugby with my middle daughter – primarily to film her. She's doing PE as an examination subject at school, and requires demonstrable evidence of “skills” – which roughly translates to one or other of us losing a couple of hours every weekend standing in the cold, holding a camera in the blind hope that she'll demonstrate one or more of the required skills.

I was first up this morning. After having a shower and a shave, I remembered a packet of bacon hiding in the back of the fridge. A few minutes later I was standing in the kitchen with a morning radio station, a cup of coffee, and the smell of bacon pouring from the grill. I buttered several slices of bread, and stood in anticipation – listening to the radio, and the gentle crackle of wonderful things cooking.

It came as no surprise that the smell of bacon caused all of our children to raise from their slumber. One by one they appeared in the kitchen, and I made them each bacon sandwiches – realising along the way that there would be none left for me. I ended up filling my already buttered bread with leftovers from the fridge.

We won't talk about Miss 19 appearing in her pajamas, grinning at the smell of bacon, and then having an instant and furious meltdown when I suggested that she could make her own. I haven't seen or talked to her since, so that's going to be fun later. We're supposed to be going running this evening (you know, in-between filming rugby, washing up dinner things, washing clothes, and all the other bullshit chores).

In other, completely unrelated news, I finally got a chance to play around with the computer my Dad gave me yesterday. I was supposed to be standing in the rain at Wembley Stadium watching England ladies football team get beaten by Germany – but figured the almost sub-zero temperatures and driving rain would probably finish me off. So I stayed at home – and tried to learn how to fly a pretend 737. Badly.

Anyway.

I wonder if the rugby club will be serving bacon sandwiches later ?

I'm at home. I emailed work this morning and let them know I wouldn't be in. My head seems to be in the curious position of generating vast quantities of snot, but bunging up anywhere it might leave from. I imagine my entire head will explode at some point this evening in true “B-Movie” fashion – if only to relieve the pressure.

While the washing machine rumbles away in the background, I'm sitting in the junk room listening to Spotify, drinking Lucozade, and trying not to get involved in doing too much. Quite how I managed to run around town throwing a constant stream of distraction and encouragement at Miss 19 yesterday evening is anybody's guess. I suppose this is the universe's way of telling me that ignoring a cold is a bad idea. Stupid universe.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have a washing machine to empty, another cup of tea to make, and a book to go and quietly read.

I'm trying to convince myself that the sporadic updates to the blog are just a product of life landing on me like a grand piano from a tenth floor window, rather than an eventual silencing of the daily brain-dumpage.

I'm sitting in the study (read: junk room) at two minutes past midnight, on my third glass of wine. Spotify is playing an eighties playlist. Crowded House are telling me that the dream isn't over.

Earlier this evening I walked into town in the rain to meet my eldest daughter from a language class. She's learning Japanese. There is a wonderful cafe in a sheltered corner that opens late – run by an Italian family. I ordered a cappuccino and waited for Miss 19's arrival, trying to ignore the group of attractive women sitting in the window – a “girls night out” of sorts. I didn't manage to ignore their conversation about not needing men in their lives, and found myself grinning while stirring my coffee.

I sometimes wonder what the service staff in cafes and restaurants see – what they see that perhaps they shouldn't – conversations, moments. Perhaps life changing moments. The beginnings of relationships, and the end of relationships. It must be both wonderful and awful by equal turns. I remember going out for a family meal a few years ago, and half watching a young couple out on a date across the restaurant from us – both looking at their phones rather than making conversation with each other.

Anyway. It's getting late. I guess this qualifies as a few words rather than none. Hardly an auspicious start to this brave new world of posting under the cloak of anonymity. Nothing is really anonymous though, is it – Fox Mulder once taught us that nothing vanishes without a trace.

The Cars are singing Drive – asking “who's going to pay attention to your dream”. I wonder who is? Do we really listen to each other's dreams, or do we just humor each other ?

I just got in from running with my eldest daughter – the one that fell off the “Couch to 5K” wagon spectacularly over the last couple of weeks. She really, really didn't want to go running tonight, but somehow I talked her into it – even though I've still got the ridiculous head-cold that seems intent on answering the “missing mass in the universe” question (it's all the damn snot in my head).

Seriously though – where the hell does all the snot even come from?

We were *supposed *to run for 15 minutes, walk for 2 minutes, and then run for another 15. She managed 15, then 12 minutes. I used age-old kidology skills to get her running again at the half-way point, and then talked absolute rubbish for the last five minutes to distract her.

She left the house with a face like a wet weekend, and returned home laughing, joking, and bouncing around. The difference was like night and day.

So where's my damn medal?

After dithering about it for several weeks, I finally changed the name of this blog last night. I've been thinking about doing it for some time – to create some separation from the professional me, and the personal me.

I suppose the biggest trigger behind the name change has been work – the company I work for is slowly aligning itself with LinkedIn (Microsoft own it, if you didn't know – and they are slowly integrating Office 365 with LinkedIn) – therefore most companies are going to end up playing the social marketing game at LinkedIn, which means our identities will be out there.

It didn't take a huge leap to go from the company I work for, to thoughts, ideas, dreams, and stories about idiotic adventures stretching back over the last sixteen years. By changing the name, I've made that jump much, much bigger. Along the way I discovered that it wasn't going to be straightforward at all – because every comment on every blog post carries your identity. An export, a clear-down, a few minutes running search-replaces in a text editor, and an import, and my name vanished from the annals of blog history. Well – my history – I can't remove traces elsewhere.

The old domain name still points at this blog too, which is frustrating. For the next 48 hours or so I imagine it will continue to do so, until the old domain name record is expunged through the usual propogation process.

ANYWAY!

My blog has a new name! I joked with a friend this morning that this means I can finally pull my ranty pants on and start complaining about everything. Of course I won't, because I'm generally not that furious with the world – but it does mean a few walls and filters might get removed.

p.s. does anybody else use Discord (the chat app) ?

I feel like I'm in limbo at the moment. I've had a week off work, and have not gone anywhere or done anything of consequence. I suppose having a bad cold all week hasn't really helped. I didn't even do any of the homework training runs for the “Couch to 5K” thing.

I wonder though – perhaps I *needed *this week of nothing.

I'm back at work in the morning. I'm trying not to think about it right now – trying not to think about the inevitable email mountain, time-sheets, calls with clients, and so on. I'm sure everything will be fine, but until the morning comes I'll do my best to sweep everything under a huge rug in my brain.

I saw a Facebook post a few days ago from a friend of a friend – listing all the things she has *not *done recently. Things like ironing clothes, putting them away, cleaning the kitchen cupboards, changing the beds – all the things that the “perfect life, perfect home, perfect family” brigade boast about in their invented instagram stories. I thought it was a wonderful idea, so may try and compile a list of all the things I have not done soon.

Anyway. It's already Monday morning. I'm too tired to play the “stay up late to avoid Monday” game, which is surprising as I haven't really done anything all day (if you discount the regular chores).

Maybe I'll go read a book.

I feel like I've fallen off the blogging bike again. In a strange sort of way, the longer you don't post anything for, the less you have to say when you return – or rather, the more difficult it becomes to know where to start.

So. My parents came to stay. They only stayed for one night – renting a room at a local pub – but while they were here all we did was eat, drink, tell stories, and laugh. It was lovely to see them.

While out for dinner on Wednesday night our eldest daughter realised she had no ID with her, so couldn't have a drink with her meal. And that'show we ended up going back to the hotel with Mum and Dad for a nightcap – propping the bar up there until well past midnight.

There was no let-up – the next morning I had agreed to meet up for breakfast with them before they left, so walked back across town with our youngest daughter, and tucked into a “full English breakfast” – which did wonders for my hangover. I really can't drink any more – I only had three glasses of cider during the previous night, but it was enough.

Much of yesterday was spent installing a new computer at home. Part of the reason for my parents visit was to give me Dad's old computer. He has recently bought a new one – a rocket ship by any other name – and called me one day to offer me the old one. I nearly bit his hand off. This of course means the old computer that has been with me through thick and thin now sits forlornly in the corner of the room, waiting to have it's brain erased before being donated to a good cause.

Today has been a strange day really. More tinkering, but also a walk across town with my eldest daughter to visit a physiotherapist. After a few weeks doing the Couch to 5K programme, her leg started hurting – enough to reduce her to tears. Today we found out why. She has a bad habit of sitting on her foot while using the computer – which in turn has tilted her hips somewhat – and the imbalance in her hips has caused the knee problem.

She has strict instructions not to sit on her foot any more.

I have a feeling tonight may be pizza night. It is Friday after all, and Friday night is pizza night – or at least it used to be. A pizza, a movie, and an early night may be just what the doctor ordered.

p.s. I have already installed a flight simulator on the really quite idiotic computer my Dad gave me. All bets are off about the early night.

p.p.s. I have a rotten cold. I've had it all week. How does that even work? Every time I have time off work, I'm sick throughout.

My parents are coming to visit. Tomorrow. For the first time in ten years. It's worth mentioning that they live down on the coast, and we get on famously – it's just that it's a five hour drive, and they're getting on, so we always tend to visit them, rather than the other way around.

The washing machine has been running flat out for hours – not helped by 14 and 15 tidying their rooms, and mysteriously discovering enough unwashed clothes to fill a container ship. I have been working my way from room to room around the house all day – putting things away, tidying things up, and cleaning surfaces that haven't been cleaned since I don't know when.

Why do we do this? Why is the appearance of our parents like a landlord coming to check on the property? It's my damn house lol. I own it. We live in it. It looks lived in – very, very lived in.

In other news, I'm supposed to be doing another training session for the “Couch to 5K” thing tonight – running two lots of twelve minutes with two minutes walk inbetween. I'm not entirely sure I see where they are going with that. I'm going to have to run extremely carefully, because I pulled a muscle at the end of the last training run, and it still feels a bit fragile. I guess I'll see how that goes.

In other news, I'm enjoying the week off work (so far). Now the house is somewhat tidy, it finally feels I can slow down a little bit – read a book or two, and not keep thinking “this needs doing”, or “that needs doing”. Of course the chores won't stop – they never stop – but it feels like we're on top of them for a change.

I pulled the old iMac out of mothballs last weekend and wired it back up on the spare desk in the junk room. I'm not entirely sure why. I've already sworn that I won't take part in NaNoWriMo. I might get around to writing SOMETHING though. I haven't written anything approaching fiction for a very long time.

Anyway. I can hear that the washing machine has stopped. Time to go re-fill it, and figure out what to do with the next batch of damp clothes.

After a day spent cheering on both of our younger daughters at back-to-back rugby matches this afternoon (literally back-to-back – they were playing on parallel pitches – while I watched our youngest in the under-15s, my other half watched our middle girl in the under-18s), I went out for a training run this evening.

Given that our eldest – Miss 19 – has somehow injured her knee, I went running alone for the first time since the Couch to 5K programme started. Finally a chance to find out what my legs and lungs really can do after ten years not running further than the toilet while busting.

On the training programme we are still doing intervals – running for a few minutes and then walking for a minute. I decided to find out tonight if I can skip the intervals.

I'm not going to lie. After perhaps the first couple of kilometres, it became hard work. I wondered if it was because I was running at my natural pace, or because I had been stood on a touchline in the cold for previous three hours.

Quite bizarrely, after fighting through the third kilometre it suddenly became easier – but then much harder towards the end of the fifth. I could feel muscles starting to tighten up here and there, so slowed to a gentle jog as I approached home. I guess I'll find out if there is any lasting damage in the morning.

I'm mostly happy. I ran a consistent speed throughout, and have confirmed that yes – I can still run 5K at least. In a strange sort of way, I find running more slowly than my natural pace quite difficult. During the training runs we seem to naturally cover the ground at about 8.5 minutes per kilometre. Tonight I travelled at 6 with an almost metronomic consistency.

I guess the next thing for me – after the Couch to 5K thing is over – will be to go out to 5 miles, and then beyond. I really need to lose the extra 20lb of weight I'm carrying around before that happens though. I guess doing the park runs will help with that (and banning myself from eating so much rubbish for a while).

Anyway. It's half past my bedtime. Time to stop writing, and go sleep.