write.as/jonbeckett

After a dash home from work late this morning, and a madcap run around the house clearing up, tidying up, washing up, and fighting the on-going battle against the fleas (they are losing heavily), I grabbed my bags and set off for the railway station.

I typically take two bags when I travel with work – a backpack filled with my work computer, kindle, various chargers, and a notebook, and a flight carry-on sized bag on wheels full of clothes. Oh – the carry on bag also had a wash-kit bag inside it. My washkit is predictably simple – shaving foam, razors, toothbrush, toothpaste, hairbrush, and deodorant. I use whatever shower gel the hotel has.

The journey was uneventful – taking me from our local railway station, to Maidenhead, Paddington, across the London underground to Kings Cross, and then north to Leeds in West Yorkshire. On the longest leg of the journey – from Kings Cross to Leeds – I sat next to a twenty-something girl like a strange sort of bookend – we both read books for the entire journey, and both had a bag of sweets to dip into every now and then.

I'm only here for one night – I travel back tomorrow evening after work. I'm staying at the “Holiday Inn Express”, which offers free breakfasts. Even though I ordered a “standard” room, I've somehow ended up with two single beds. I'm not quite sure how that happened – I don't really care because I'm here on my own, but it does make me feel a bit like a little kid – sleeping in a single bed.

After arriving earlier I had a shower, and wandered over to a nearby pizza restaurant. I was a bit taken aback when the waiter greeted me at the door, and then waved a hand across the empty tables, inviting me to choose any table I wanted. I can never remember that happening anywhere before – usually the waiting staff will lead you to a table (invariably filling the window tables to make the place look busy). As it happened, I never saw him again, because what I can only describe as a Swedish supermodel took my order.

I'm not even joking.

She strode up to my table, flashed me a huge smile, spoke glowingly about my choices, and then set off to the next table, where she flashed a huge smile, spoke glowingly about their choices, and set off once again. For the few moments I thought she was being especially nice to me, I thought the world of her – and then of course the universe reminded me that no – I'm not special – she's just very, very good at her job.

I half-watched her for the next minute or so as she made her way around the restaurant, and interacted with the other staff. I wondered if she really was a model, or just naturally slender, and very, very good at winged eyeliner, and skinny fit t-shirts.

I ordered a “Sloppy Guiseppe” – a fake Italian pizza filled with enough gooey cheese, beef, and chopped peppers to probably shorten my life considerably. While eating, I noticed a guy in his 50s walk past the window wearing exactly the same clothes as me, and wondered if I had slipped through some kind of temporal rift.

A few minutes after finishing my meal, the waitress re-appeared to enquire if I might order a desert – she asked “do you think you might have room for a little desert?” with a genuinely concerned look on her face. As she did so, she held a hand on her non-existent stomach. I declined graciously, and couldn't help grinning at the ridiculousness of it all as she walked away.

After paying, and trying not to smile *too *much at the swedish supermodel, I continuing along the road to the local grocery store in search of coffee and snacks. Along the way I passed a yoga studio, and tried not to stare through the window at the people inside – they seemed to be doing some kind of sun salutation (or at least I think that's what it's called when you lie on your front, and then raise your chest up onto straight arms, curving your back).

It's heading towards 10pm now. I'm not sure where the last two hours went. I watched TV for a little while, and checked work email – I tend to think hotels exist in a strange sort of time morass, where if you don't look at the clock, it actively accelerates.

Anyway.

Time to go read my book I suppose. It's quite a good one – called “Code Zero” – a scare mongering dystopian present kind of thing about big brother, subliminal control, and the darkest timeline for social media. I'll let you know what I think after I finish it.

After two weeks with no schedule, no plans, no obligations, and no expectations, today arrived with something of a thump.

I woke a little after six, squinted at the alarm clock, and pulled my face back underneath the duvet. After a long forgotten dream that packed an entire adventure into three quarters of an hour, I woke again at seven when the local radio station erupted across the room.

An hour later I was standing in the kitchen – showered, shaved, dressed – making lunches for myself and my other half. Just as I finished, and proudly pointed to her cheese and pickle sandwich, she informed me that she had made her own lunch the night before.

Great.

The cycle to work was routine I suppose – my legs somehow remembered how to turn the pedals – although they did need a little encouragement from time to time.

About an hour into the day – while sipping a second coffee with a phone propped against my ear – I discovered just the sort of lunacy I half-expected. Of course when I say “discovered”, I think perhaps I should have known but had somehow forgotten.

I'm heading to the railway station tomorrow. A trip to Leeds with work. Ten hours on trains over two days, a night at a hotel, and a meal for one awaits. After dinner this evening I entertained myself by ironing clothes into a travel bag.

I know how to have fun.

It's been twelve years since I began commuting into London with work each day. For the better part of two years I would get up at 6am each day, catch the 7am train towards London, traverse the Underground network, and arrive at Liverpool Street a little before 9am. Two hours each way – four hours on trains each day.

When reminiscing with friends about my time working in London, they invariably presume it must have been a living nightmare – and are then surprised when I tell them I sort of miss it.

During the two years I commuted into and out of London, I read more books than at any other time in my life. I doubt I have read as many books in the ten years since than I read during those two.

Of course the main reason the reading time vanished was children. In January of 2008 we went from zero to three children overnight – after the adoption went through. From that point onwards my life became filled with washing up, tidying up, and picking up – by the time I sat down on an evening the thought of picking up a book became an afterthought.

I remember one of our final holidays before children arrived in our lives – we hired a cottage on the south coast – near Chesil Beach – and read books during the evenings for an entire week. No television, no radio, no internet – just books, board games, and conversation.

Where am I going with this?

Maybe I'm trying to talk myself into the need to make time to read again. I have bought or been given so many books over the last few years that I haven't gotten around to reading – and unless I do something about it, I'm never going to get around to reading them. I'll never find out why “We” by Yevgeny Zamyatin was banned, just how naughty Henry Miller's “Tropic of Cancer” is, or how insanely difficult Tolstoy's “War and Peace” is.

After a week of walking headland footpaths, eating pub lunches, building sandcastles, and paddling in the surf, we finally arrived home late yesterday evening. Back to reality. Back to the real world. Back to mad scrambles to make breakfasts, packed lunches, arm-twisting teenagers into doing their homework, and back to the mountain of chores.

The cats succeeded in providing exactly the situation we worried about on our return. Despite shutting them from every room, they had filled the house with fleas – aided by incredibly hot temperatures while we were away. 18 hours after returning we are slowly winning the battle – armed with numerous sprays, mops, buckets, hoovers, and elbow-grease. Now we just need to get through the colossal clothes washing mountain.

While away, I didn't touch a computer at all. My Dad has an insane computer, with an Occulus Rift virtual reality headset, and half of a real aircraft cockpit attached to it – and yes, we took turns to sit with the headset on and marvel at the various demonstrations – landing on the moon, sitting on the bottom of the ocean, and so on – but I was never really tempted to open a browser and jump down the internet rabbit hole – I spent the week talking to my parents, visiting places, reading books, and doing little else. I kept up with email on my phone, but didn't reply to anything.

While wandering the footpaths of Heligan, Antony House, Looe, Polperro and Talland over the last week, it has occured to me just how much I have come to dislike people in general. I deliberately stopped on several walks in order for people nearby to just be further away from me. One day I spent ten minutes walking within earshot of two women who seemed far more interested in talking about the programmes on their washing machines than the wonderful country gardens they were walking through. Another day while walking into a small fishing village I passed a family who's entire topic of conversation seemed to be centered around how much further the shops were from the car park.

I'm not sure if I expected to, but I didn't “miss” blogging at all. I'm not sure if it means anything, and I'm not going to dwell on it – I just thought it interesting.

Tomorrow morning we fill the car with bags, and head to the coast to spend a few days with my parents. I'm not entirely sure I'll be posting to the blog while away, so this might be the last words you see from me for the better part of a week.

We're not taking very much with us this time. It's funny really – when the children were small we would load the car up with enormous quantities of rubbish that would invariably go untouched throughout our stay. We seem to have boiled everything down to clothes, washbags, tablets, and phones – oh, and a few paperback books for the beach.

I do hope the weather is kind to us over the coming days.

It's already 1am. Time to get some sleep – we have a long journey ahead of us in the morning.

At lunchtime yesterday a number of teenage girls – school friends of our youngest daughter – started arriving at our house for a sleepover in a tent in the garden. Because the school is a few miles from town, the only contact the circle of friends have had with each other all summer has been via the internet. We decided a to do something about that.

The number invited was more or less controlled by the size of the tent we have – an old family tent that saw us through numerous camping holidays when the children were little. We pitched it at the weekend, and then my other half does that thing she always seems to – turning something into a much bigger thing than it started out as. Suddenly it wasn't just a sleepover – it was a slime making party, a sing-off, a barbecue, a chocolate fountain massacre, and an open air movie in the garden (using a projector we inherited from the infant school).

So far I've had to rescue one of the girls from a tree in the garden she decided to climb, cook endless burgers and sausages on the barbecue (my GOD teenage girls can eat some rubbish), cook pancakes for breakfast, and provide the WiFi password to numerous phones and tablets.

They are a good bunch though – despite chattering, laughing, berping, and screaming until 1:30am, and then starting where they left off at 5am. I squinted at the alarm clock this morning, and wondered what they had left to talk about.

I wandered downstairs at 7, and found them sprawled all over the couches in the living room in their pyjamas – phones in hands – quietly playing games, catching up with friends, and doing whatever else teenage girls do.

It's been interesting to see how they interact with each other – who the ring-leaders are – who has a mind of their own. While we've known them all for several years, we've never seen them all together before.

Anyway.

It looks like I'll escape for a few hours today – my eldest daughter wants to go shopping – the same shopping trip that was supposed to happen yesterday. Wish me luck!

Usually on a Sunday evening I would be making sure the kids have clean clothes for school, putting things in my work backpack, washing up, tidying up, and generally getting steeling myself for another week of mayhem. Only that's not happening tonight – because the kids are still on their summer holidays, and I'm off work too.

There are plans to wander into a nearby town with our eldest daughter tomorrow – she has booked her holiday to coincide with mine. Somehow I think my arm will be twisted into buying her lunch at Nandos – she's crafty like that. She also knows I like Nandos, even though we all know its really just over-priced chicken and chips.

Note to self – stay the hell away from Yo! Sushi, and Wagamama, because there is not enough money in the world for that. At least in Nandos you can order bottomless drinks and frozen yoghurt, even if you only make it through two each before feeling like you're going to throw up spectacularly.

Beyond Nandos, I have no idea why we're going. I suppose I could get some clothes for the trip to my parents – I've not bought any clothes at all since last summer. I need a new pair of trainers too – my last pair are so beaten up that the kids won't let me wear them (yes, my teenage daughters have started to judge me).

Starbucks might figure in our plans at some point – it usually does – in a Winnie the Pooh “oh look, there's Starbucks – we might just get a little something” kind of way.

Half the reason for getting out of the house for the day is because Miss 14 has invited a number of friends for a sleepover. We have pitched the family tent that saw us through numerous camping holidays in the back garden, and decorated it with fairy lights. If the weather is nice tomorrow night we're also setting up an outdoor cinema – we have an old projector inherited from the infant school. I'm guessing we might need to apologise to the neighbours at some point tomorrow evening.

In other news I've been tinkering with a few things today. I rebooted my Tumblr blog. I still can't decide how much effort to put into Tumblr – I'm tempted to use it as more of a life-stream than this blog – somewhere to post the smaller thoughts that aren't really big enough for a “proper” blog post. I don't know. This post is nothing more than a few random thoughts glued together, which kind of makes a mockery of it.

Anyway.

It's already 10pm. An early night and a book for me (we know in reality I'm going to play chess, surf the web, and read online comics for the next hour, don't we).

I'm officially on holiday. Two weeks off. Sixteen Fifteen days until I return to the office (I began writing this post late last night, but didn't get around to publishing it). A couple of weeks to try and forget about work and relax. Of course before any relaxing happens I need to attack the garden, attempt to rid the house of fleas again (tip – NEVER get a cat), book somebody to fix the satellite television, and a hundred other things.

I cut the lawn this morning – no small feat when I've been flat out at work and home for the last couple of weeks, and when I have been around, the skies have dumped on us spectacularly. It appears – given perfect conditions and house owners that run themselves ragged to do everything for everybody else – that grass will grow about an inch every 24 hours. It's probably worth mentioning that we have an old push-along lawn mower, so I'll probably end up with triceps like Lou Ferrigno if this weather keeps up.

There is some method to the madness in the garden – our youngest is having several friends for a sleepover on Monday night – they are sleeping in a tent in the back garden (because we're not stupid). The tent is already up – in preparation for Monday – our “family” tent from camping holidays when the children were young. It's ENORMOUS. At least each girl (or group of girls) will get their own zipped off bedroom, should they all fall out with one-another.

In-between cutting the lawn, grocery shopping, and putting tents up, I've been helping myself to a bottle of wine – proving that if you drink on an empty stomach, it goes straight to your head without passing go.

Anyway. Time to go sit quietly and play video games. I've installed “RetroPie” on the Raspberry Pi – meaning we can play pretty much any game that came out in the last forty years – and I've downloaded most of them from archive.org (or at least, the ones for the NIntendo, Super Nintendo, Sega Genesis, and Sega Master System – oh, and the Atari 2600, MSX, and a few other systems). I'll be busy nerding out with Jet Set Willy, Mario Brothers, Q-Bert, Space Invaders, Galaga, and Asteroids if you want to find me.

While cycling to work I typically listen to podcasts. You might think this a rather dangerous thing to do while cycling, but the reality that most non-cyclists don't seem to understand is that you can't hear a damn thing on a bike anyway. If you're traveling any faster than about ten miles an hour, the wind noise is deafening. This is why you don't typically see cyclists traveling two abreast – there's no point – they wouldn't be able to hear each other unless they shouted.

I digress.

While cycling to work this morning I listened to a podcast called “Grumpy Old Geeks” where two humorously cynical guys of a certain age go through the recent happenings on the internet and grumble about most of it. Sometimes – not very often – they express a small amount of enthusiasm in something that has happened. And that's what happened this morning.

While lifting my bike over the chain at the edge of the estate that the office nestles in a sleepy corner of, my ears pricked up.

Tumblr was being sold to Automattic – the creators of Wordpress.

Tumblr – the darling of the late 2000s hipster generation that democratized blogging in the wake of SixApart's abject failure to breathe life into Vox – their second attempt at LiveJournal. Tumblr – the minimalist blog platform that had been seemingly built by a team that didn't know how to build anything, but had captured the hearts and minds of a generation. Tumblr – the woefully mismanaged wannabe-goliath of web publishing that visited Fashion Week each year while millions of it's users stared at a “Fail Whale” graphic.

You might think I'm being unfairly cynical, but the truth is it's kind of romantic, in a twisted sort of way. Tumblr has continued to exist in spite of itself, in spite of it's owners, and in spite of the people that built it not being able to find their arse with both hands. That's got to count for something.

The one thing that has pulled me back to Tumblr over the years has always been the community of bloggers hidden away in it's now empty halls. In amongst the countless rebloggers, recyclers, and pedallers of stolen content there have always been a small number of rebels – writing their thoughts, dreams, hopes, fears, failures, triumphs and various adventures – emptying their head into the heart of a failing system, and keeping going despite the fear that a sword of Damocles might fall on their platform at any time. That's the thing though – they think of it as “their” platform – they always have.

I suddenly find myself hopeful for the future of Tumblr for the first time in years – and hopeful for the continued existence of the sort-of-secret community I have come to know. With Automattic at the helm, Tumblr might just make it after all – it might even flourish.

Fingers crossed.

It's heading towards midnight. Yet again I find myself wondering where the last several days have gone – every day seems to have become the day before. Things aren't perhaps as bleak as I might portray them though – the world surrounding me is slowly calming down – the hamster wheel is slowing.

Three more days until I walk away for two weeks. After a relentless sprint since last summer, I finally get a chance to clear my thoughts for a few days – to feel sand between my toes, to paddle in the surf, and to walk the lanes between my parents house and the surrounding villages.

Three more days.

Close friends have noticed the inward turn in recent months. The interested, engaged, talkative friend so many know fell into shadow – and perhaps the worst part is that I knew it was happening and did nothing to prevent it.

Maybe this is a sliding door moment – where I choose either a path leading further into the darkness, or back towards the light. Here's the thing though – given my propensity towards non-conformism, I'm tempted to step off the path entirely.