write.as/jonbeckett

I woke with a start at 7am this morning. I don't remember the content of the dream I was having, but remember a sense of loss when I came to my senses and realised that there would be no returning to it. Ten minutes later I was in the kitchen sipping a first coffee of the day and watching the clock while waiting for my eldest – Miss 18 – to finish in the shower. If she managed to wash and dry her hair inside half an hour, I would have time for a shower and shave too, and we would have half a chance of making it to the train station in time for the next London bound train.

Why is it that adulting consists mainly of doing count-back mental arithmetic on clock-faces, in order to make plans for teenagers that you have to threaten them to meet ?

We made it to the train station with five minutes to spare. I was quietly amazed.

It's been a while since we visited London together – Miss 18 and I. It's been a while since we spent any time at all together, to be honest. I suppose that's just what happens when you start work – your life begins to diverge from your parents. Suddenly you have money, friends, independence, and much better places to be than sitting next to your Dad on a railway station platform. Except this morning that's exactly where she found herself. I'm no fool. The real reason for my presence was as an escort of sorts – a safety net to shepherd her into London, across the Underground network, and safely to both Forbidden Planet, and the Doc Martens shop.

Ever since receiving her first pay packet, Miss 18 has talked about buying her first pair of Doc Martens boots. We have walked past the factory store in London numerous times en-route to the comic book shop on Shaftesbury Avenue, but never set foot in the place – until today.

Cutting a long story short, Miss 18 is now very broke indeed. A pair of black boots with roses emboroidered on them had her name written all over them. I tried to persuade her that classic black Doc Martens would be more practical, and think she may end up buying them anyway (oh, to have disposable income again), but today was all about those damn embroidered boots. They do look nice, but I have no idea how she will ever clean them. Maybe she'll never get them dirty.

After leaving the Doc Martens shop with the biggest smile I've seen in quite some time, we wandered along Neal Street to Forbidden Planet – purveyor of collectibles, graphic novels, comics, cult curiousities, and things you didn't know you needed until you saw them. What little was left in her bank account evaporated. Lets just say her collection of manga books expanded significantly.

This is where I admit to picking up a graphic novel for myself along the way. A quite ridiculous book called “The Adventure Zone” – apparently a New York Times bestseller. I stood reading it for quite some time while Miss 18 perused Tokyo Ghoul, Attack on Titan, and countless other Manga staples. I'm not quite sure why, but I've found myself picking up either one-shot books, or indie titles recently – once upon a time I was all about the big DC and Marvel titles – not any more it seems.

We thought about making our way across London to the river at one point during the day – to catch the annual Oxford and Cambridge Boat Race as it swept past – but when it came down to it comic books and boots seemed far more important. And sushi. We always seem to end up eating sushi when we visit London together.

Before leaving the city we walked across to Trafalgar Square, and took photos of the fountains and lions. I suggested that it might be fun to visit the National Gallery while there – if only to visit the cafe in the basement and get a coffee. This turned out to be a colossal mistake, on account of the gallery being filled to the gunnels with people, and the cafe having one staff member. I think we got back to Paddington station and bought a coffee faster than if we had stayed at the National Gallery.

Somehow striding past countless priceless paintings in the National Gallery without a second glance while in pursuit of coffee seemed tremendously wrong. Irreverent.

During the day, Miss 18 remarked that I seemed to be “the great helper of people”. On the way into the city in the morning an Indian gentleman sat down next to me, and seemed a little lost. He gathered the courage to ask me which train he might catch to reach “East Ham”, and I spent some minutes looking through my phone with him – explaining about switching from Overground to Underground trains when we reached Paddington. He seemed genuinely delighted when I pointed out “East Ham” on a map.

Later in the day – while eating sushi in the basement of ITSU on Neal Street, a lady failed spectacularly at getting into the toilets (which are locked with a keycode). I wandered over and unlocked the door for her – grinning as I turned the handle in the opposite direction than she had tried three times. Moments later another diner appeared and almost peed herself while also failing to open the door – again I left my seat and wandered over. She said thankyou so many times it became embarassing.

It's mid-way through Saturday afternoon. All I appear to have done all day so far is wash clothes, tidy up, and noodle around on the internet. I had grand plans to write a blog post about something or other, but coming up with something or other has been unexpectedly difficult. Sitting around all morning doesn't really provide any great tales to tell.

I did sign up for something on the internet – although I'm not entirely sure it will be of interest to anybody. An alternative to Twitter, Facebook, and Tumblr has been growing like a weed on the internet over the last few years – it's called Mastodon. It differs from the other social networks because it's federated, decentralised, and self regulated. That's right – no one individual owns it, or polices it. The source code is freely available – meaning anybody can start their own server, and connect with the rest of the network. If you visit https://joinmastodon.org, you can read more about it. I joined the “mastodon.cloud” server – you can find my profile at https://mastodon.cloud/@jonbeckett if you're interested in trying it out, following me, and so on.

The younger children are on holiday for Easter now – two weeks to knock around the house getting increasingly bored, and fighting with one another. They have been remarkably quiet today so far, which is surprising given the events of yesterday evening. Shortly after I got in from work Miss 15 couldn't find her wallet (containing her bank debit card). This was immediately something that the entire rest of the household should be helping her with, and was not her fault at all. Somebody had obviously either taken it, or moved it. The fact that she had no idea when she last had it, or when she last used it was not important.

Have you ever seen an angry 15 year old “looking” for something? It typically consists of standing in various locations around the house, making a lot of angry noise, expecting the lost item to magically fly from it's hiding place. When that doesn't yield results, they switch directly to throwing, breaking and trampling on other people's belongings with no intention of putting any of them back where they found them.

I don't remember being so self-centred, selfish, unreasonable, rude, or nasty when I was 15. Maybe if you're in the middle of the brain chemistry changes that afflict teenagers you eventually erase all memory of the horrific little shit you could be from time to time. I know that after you've been a parent for a while, your tolerance level for mostly-harmless-bullshit gets turned up to about 20 out of 10.

Before we had children, if we were out to dinner at a pub and heard children shouting or crying, we would wince and wonder why the parents were not doing anything. After having children for a while, you suddenly realise how good you have become at blocking it out. Not only do you “not hear” the shouting and crying, you can distinguish the sound of your own children across a busy playground, and can tell a real cry from an attention seeking cry in seconds. It's all very odd.

Tomorrow morning I'm heading into London with our eldest daughter. She has a month's worth of pay sitting in her bank account, and wants to visit the comic book shop in Shaftesbury Avenue. I have a feeling we'll be coming home with quite a collection of Manga books.

Finally, I didn't want to end this post without making mention of a wonderful blogging friend that's going through a tough time at the moment. She's been in my thoughts a lot recently, and has brought into focus just how difficult this internet thing is sometimes. We forge wonderful friendships around the world, and like to think we can be there for each other – but in reality we are often thousand of miles away, and able to offer no more than a little of our time. Somebody needs to get a move on and invent those transporters from Star Trek in a hurry.

While winding down a series of meetings yesterday afternoon, I received an unexpected compliment. One of the ladies I had been working with all week noted that I “wasn't your typical nerd” – that I was “actually really intelligent”. Just to give her observation some context, I had been working on the design of a fairly major system, and had a lightbulb moment of sorts – stopping everybody in the room, and drawing on the flipchart while saying “I think we've all been thinking about this wrong” (and of course by “we”, I meant “you”). I grinned, and did that thing most people do when faced with a compliment – I dismissed it quietly, and tried to find something to compliment her on in return.

It's worth noting that English was not her first language, and after working with a diverse European team in Germany for the last year, I've come to appreciate direct communication. If you're not a native English speaker, you might not cloak thoughts and opinions quite as carefully as the English are apparently famous for. An Austrian lady I have come to like and respect once pulled me up after I not-so-obviously questioned her opinion about something, and said “Oh you English – you say things without saying them”. She was right – we do.

Anyway.

After saying my goodbyes yesterday afternoon, I picked my way through the back streets of Leeds towards the railway station. Thankfully my ticket wasn't for a specific train, so I jumped on the first train towards London.

On the way home I watched the movie “The Big Short” – the dramatised movie about the Sub-Prime housing collapse in the US back in 2007 – the beginning of the worldwide series of bank failures, and the lone fund managers that realised what was going to happen. It's a fascinating movie, and really quite unconventional. In order to describe the various technicalities of the money markets, the movie switches to various well known celebrities here and there – including a hilarious scene where Margot Robbie (of Harley Quinn fame) explains what a “sub-prime” is while sitting in the bath of a penthouse apartment. After explaining, she turns back to the camera, breaking the fourth wall, and shouts “NOW FUCK OFF!”. It was one of those moments where you're watching something in public, and you're aware you might have just snorted out loud.

The movie took me all the way back to Kings Cross station in London – which was it's usual idiotic self – with a sea of people flowing in all directions – all walking into each other like headless chickens. I escaped the masses, ran across the paved area outside, and vanished into the Underground – re-appearing at Paddington perhaps twenty minutes later.

I love Paddington railway station. I always have. I'm not sure if it's because “Paddington Bear” is named after the station, because I loved the Paddington books when I was young, or because I spent two years of my life commuting through it every week-day. It's funny – although I think of those days as being in the recent past, they're not any more. It's been 11 years since I was sub-contracted into the city. I sometimes wonder what happened to the group of people I worked with – where they might be now.

A curious thing happened on the train towards home. As we rolled from Paddington the carriages were filled to the gunnels with commuters heading away from the city. Station by station lots of people got off the train, but very few got back on – meaning that by the time I got off there were perhaps ten people left on the entire train. It was slightly surreal – stepping from an empty carriage out into the night air at Maidenhead.

While dragging my suitcase along the platform behind me, my phone buzzed. My other half.

“We're watching your progress on 'Find my iPhone'!”

“Oh really.”

“Yes – your next train is at 18:48”

I grinned, put my phone in my pocket, and made my way through the station to the appropriate platform to continue my homeward journey – wondering if I was still being watched.

I got home about half an hour later – opening the door, and quietly making my way back into the house. Within minutes I had been scalded for washing up, putting things away, unloading the washing machine, and re-loading it with clothes from my suitcase. Apparently I needed to sit down and relax for a bit.

I'm not very good at sitting down and relaxing for a bit.

I'm not entirely sure why I dragged myself out of a very comfortable hotel bed at some unearthly hour this morning in order to make it to breakfast on the stroke of 7am. I will admit to being somewhat deflated after yesterday's idiocy when I discovered four people already sitting in the restaurant. I had quite gotten used to having the place to myself.

Today the breakfast bar offered exactly the same options as yesterday – only slightly less well cooked, and luke warm instead of piping hot. Who knew that luke warm bacon would be so chewy? Also – where does the term “luke warm” come from? Was there some chap called Luke that had extra warm hands once upon a time?

This is where some Bible basher appears out of nowhere and lectures me about Luke, while conventiently ignoring all the far more interesting books that were thrown out of the Bible because they didn't fit the story they wanted to tell. Yes, yes, I know – I'm going off on one. I'll stop now before the three people that read my idiocy fold their arms, huff spectacularly, and walk off.

The book of Enoch (one of the apocrypha) talks about fallen angels procreating with humans, if you're interested – it's far more interesting than the rest of the old testament – that largely concerns itself with whoever begat so-and-so, that begat whatshisname, and stories of sixty thousand piece brass bands breaking noise pollution laws.

Oh dear.

Today was a good day though. I got lots done. People smiled and said thankyou as I left the office late this evening – and that's all I can say about that.

After getting back to the hotel this evening I changed clothes, and headed straight back out for something to eat. Another pizza at the restaurant around the corner. I don't think I'll be able to face pizza for quite some time – it was good though. I sat in the corner of the restaurant and watched the world going by – wondering where people were coming from – where they were going – if somebody was waiting for them, or if they were excited to meet up with anybody.

I wasn't going to buy a pudding, but then a very pretty waitress delivered a desert menu to my table, and smiled at me. I reflexively smiled back, and then ordered chocolate fudge cake. Nothing says “all my teeth are going to fall out, I'm going to have spots tomorrow, and my trousers won't do up in the morning” like chocolate fudge cake. It was SO good though. And WORK PAID FOR IT!

Rest assured – I'm now sitting back in the hotel, feeling disgusted with myself.

I woke with a start at 6am when the alarm went off on my mobile phone. I have vague memories of a riveting dream, but it's entire subject matter seems to have removed itself from my memory. Perhaps our brains really do work like Snapchat ? After a few moments remembering that I was in a hotel, and that I didn't need to get up and summon children from their beds, I fell asleep once again – and had another ridiculous dream. Again, all I can tell you is that it was really very good, and that I cursed when my body clock kicked in half an hour later – telling me that I needed to have a shower and get dressed if I was going to make it to breakfast for 7am.

I'm not sure how the “making it to breakfast for 7am” thing started. Germany probably. No matter how early I got up while working in Germany, there would always be Chinese people, Japanese people, or construction workers busy tucking into the bacon and eggs before I got there. This morning couldn't have been more different – from the moment I arrived until I left to get ready for the office, I was the only person in the hotel restaurant. I started to wonder if everybody else knew something I didn't.

Breakfast at this hotel is free – and unsurprisingly you get what you pay for. I'm being unkind of course – the coffee was good, the sausages were good, the bacon was wonderful, the baked beans were baked beans, and the scrambled eggs were... yeah – let's not dwell on them. You could probably have used the scrambled egg to fill holes in walls. That might have been what the scrambled eggs actually were – wall filler.

I can't really tell you anything about the middle part of the day. I learned that particular lesson a long time ago, after retuning to the office and being invited for a “quick chat” with HR. I will of course deny any similarity to Sheldon Cooper's numerous “quick chats” with HR.

After a day spent inventing things (yep, that's right – I'm inventing things this time), I was released back into the wild a little after 4pm this afternoon. I made straight for the hotel, and was somewhat dismayed that the same girl wasn't on reception that had greeted me on my arrival late last night. She has an epic Joker tattoo on the back of her left hand that I wished I had the courage to ask about. All I saw of it during check-in was an insane toothy grin across the back of her hand.

Rather than hide in my hotel room for the entire evening, I made my way to the pizza restaurant next door, and wondered what the hell was going on. Either I had hit my head and was dreaming spectacularly, or the world had become filled with models in their late teens and early twenties. They were everywhere. There is a function venue just around the corner – I can only imagine some sort of fashion event was going on. There appeared to be a dress code of sorts – nearly all of them were wearing little black dresses, and black coats. One dark haired girl had a burnt orange lyrcra dress – I can only imagine she didn't get the memo, but got away with it anyway because of looking like the re-incarnation of Yasmin Le Bon.

I noticed something while shovelling pizza into my face. I was busy watching the various hipsters wandering past outside, and looking back twice at a girl that really wanted to look like P!nk, and had pretty much pulled it off, when I realised something. Now forgive me if this is a thing that I've been blind to since – oh, forever. Could it possibly be true that the girls who win the genetic lottery in terms of facial features wear far less makeup than those that don't? I started watching each group of girls walking to and from the venue next door – and pretty much wrote an entire scientific paper on it in my head. It's not just the girls either – young men seem to make much more of a statement with their clothes or hair if they think they have to compete with their Arian peers. The really good looking “pretty people” don't try – and it sort of has a cruel humor all of it's own.

Anyway.

I paid for my pizza and left. Rather than pay for a pudding at restaurant prices I walked to the supermarket and bought all manner of junk. I couldn't help smiling as I walked back through the crowds of models with a 500g bar of chocolate, and a bag of crisps in my hands. I'm such an inspirational role model for young people.

I had planned on eating the chocolate while watching a movie later, but ate it the moment I got back to the hotel room. It wasn't a pretty scene. I don't have a chocolate problem, honest.

It's just gone 2pm. My other half is at a rugby tournament with Miss 15, Miss 18 is in her room filling out various health and safety assessments for her new job, Miss 13 is in the lounge playing monopoly with a friend that has stayed with us the entire weekend, and I'm packing a bag to travel to the other end of the country for the better part of the week. Oh – and the clocks went forwards this morning, so getting up at 8am wasn't really sleeping in after all.

I need to get to the railway station by 4pm. The first train will take me to Maidenhead, then a second to Paddington, the underground through to Kings Cross, and finally onwards to Leeds in the north of England. I'll be staying in the Holiday Inn Express at the “Armouries” – a huge museum dedicated to various methods of fighting and killing each other the years (fun!). I've stayed there countless times, and never set foot in the museum itself. It's always shut when I walk past.

It always amuses me (or rather annoys me) when people presume that travelling with work means seeing anything of the world. Over the next few days all I will see is railways stations, packed trains, my hotel room, a number of conference rooms, and some busy roads I try to cross in a major city without getting run over. Oh – nearly forgot – I'll also see the supermarket just along from the hotel, and the pizza place around the corner.

I'm always a little torn when travelling with work – while staying in my room with pre-made food from a supermarket is an attractive option (in a “can't be bothered to deal with the world” kind of way), I know that sitting in a restaurant alone will provide endless stories to tell on the blog – even if nothing happens, you can always imagine the back-story of people that cross your path.

Anyway. Time is marching on. I should make sure I've packed everything.

I remember weekends. Or at least, I have a memory of what I think weekends should be, but I'm not sure if that memory is real or not any more. It involves waking up late, noodling around with my phone for half an hour in bed, eventually getting up and wandering to the local newspaper shop to get one of the broad-sheets, and sitting in the lounge with a coffee for an hour – doing the crossword, and reading the news of the week. After we might wander into town together and grab an early lunch at one of the many restaurants on the high-street, and then go for a walk in the park for an hour – perhaps a little way along the river.

(this is where you hear the sound or a vinyl record scratch)

I woke with a start at 6am when the alarm clock went off, after forgetting to not set it for the weekend. After remembering that it was the weekend, I fell back asleep for a few minutes. I murmured to my other half that I should get up to make sure Miss 18 got up in time for her bus (she had a health and safety course at work first thing this morning). As I said it, we heard the front door slam.

“She must be starting early?”

We dozed off. A phone call woke us both again, a few minutes later. My other half picked up, and I tried to make sense of it. There was no bus. The bus was late. The bus wasn't coming. I squinted at my phone, and tried to make sense of the “live map” of busses in the local area – there would be one in 10 minutes.

I called her back, and tried to explain. And then the thunderbolt hit.

“Hang on a minute – it's not even 8 yet, is it.”

“No. It's 7:30am.”

“I don't have to be at work until 9”

“Oh you idiot!”

I have to admit – I've done it before – but I've not left the house and been on my way to work before realising I was running an hour early. By the time I stepped from the shower – because I was awake now anyway – she was home, standing in the corner of the kitchen with a coffee, telling everybody to shut up.

The rest of the morning has unfolded in a similarly chaotic fashion – making pancakes for Miss 13 and her sleepover buddy (because OF COURSE we always have kids here on sleepovers), washing up, going shopping with Miss 13 for new school shoes (because she destroys them on a regular basis – nobody has ever figured out how), washing up again, and then setting fire to the washing machine.

It's early afternoon now, and the rotary washing line in the back garden is showing signs of structural failure. It's worth noting that ALL of the washing has appeared since Thursday afternoon – while I was working at home I cleared it.

(Several hours pass)

It's now late evening, and I'm finally sitting down for the first time today. The health tracker app on my phone tells me that I've walked nearly fifteen thousand steps today. The second half of that happened because just as I was writing this earlier our eldest daughter arrived home from work, and wanted me to go with her to get something for Mother's Day (tomorrow). I initially objected – wanting to at least have an hour or two of weekend – but everything escalated pretty quickly, and minutes later I found myself walking into town with her.

In a strange sort of way, I'm glad we went. While wandering along the high street, she asked if I wanted to go to Starbucks. I reminded her that she's old enough to go for a drink now – and that we could go and get one if she wanted.

“But where would we go?”

“Any of the pubs in the high street!”

“Where are the pubs ?”

I will admit to telling my other half this same story when I got home, and both of us laughing. It says something about our daughter that she has no idea where the pubs are around town – there are at least five in the main streets through town – perhaps eight or ten if you count others.

Anyway. We went to one of the more popular bars, and got a drink each – while sitting there, it struck me that this was a first of sorts – “going out for a drink with Dad”. I smiled while watching her sipping her drink, and she noticed – frowning at me questioningly.

“Oh, nothing...”

I'm not entirely sure that I know where to start – I just know I need to before the memories of the evening leave my head. I'm sitting on the train home from London at ten minutes to midnight. I will arrive at a town fairly-near home at somewhere close to 1am, and will then summon a taxi for the last few miles.

I can now lay claim to having attended a blogger “meetup”. Granted, there were only a few of us, but in a strange sort of way that seemed like a better thing to happen, because we really got to talk. It was still very, very strange, but in a good way (I think).

For me, it all began late in the afternoon, after catching a train towards London from my home town in the depths of “The Shire” – or so most people elsewhere in the world might think of it. I grabbed something to eat at Paddington railway station, and then continued on my way towards our eventual destination in Mayfair – a bar themed after “Phileas Fogg”, from the Jules Verne book “Around the World in 80 Days”. Only I got there an hour and a half early.

Thankfully I had done a little research before setting off, and knew a somewhat famous pub nestled on a road-end not far from “Fogg's Residence” – quite appropriately titled (in a stereotypical style) “The Coach and Horses”. I bought a drink, found a table, and tried to think of something to do for an hour. I had my notebook with me, so set about emptying my head into the pages while sipping a pint of cider. Here's the curious thing about sitting on your own with a notebook – you start to hear the conversations of others around you.

I quickly became aware of two girls sitting across the way that were obviously on a first date. They started out at opposite ends of a small table, and as time wore on, they edged closer to each other, eventually brushing hands, holding legs, and eventually touching fingers across the table. I couldn't help grinning, and thinking about the various studies of human behaviour I had seen over the years. Perhaps we really are as predictable as everybody says.

While sitting in the bar, as each person pushed the doors open I wondered if it might be one of our gathering, and looked up hopefully. I think the bar staff became aware of this, and almost started a watch for me. It must be gut-wrenching for bar staff when they realise somebody has been stood up – and that's probably what they thought was unfolding before them.

The clock eventually swept it's hands towards 8pm and I pulled my coat on, and made my way to the kerb stones outside our collective “meeting point”. Even though I had already had a drink (to calm my own nerves), I will admit to freaking out just a little bit. I thought I should arrive first, so had been there for a few minutes when the first double-take happened. A pretty blonde lady strode from the darkness, and announced “you're Jonathan, aren't you”.

I don't think our conversation could have been more awkward if we had tried, but we did our best, and before we knew it more faces emerged from the night – grinning, confirming we were who we thought we should be, and wondering what to do next. Ah yes. Mr Fogg.

While the top-hatted doorman checked our name on the guest list, I made a comment about him looking particularly serious. His face cracked into a grin, and he commented that everybody told him as much. I suppose in many ways I was just making conversation with anybody, because I tend to do that – everbody I knew invites me to parties because I'm kind of the opposite of a silence, and they know it. I will actively seek out that person that's fallen from a conversation, and find something to talk about. I don't think it's necessarily about being inclusive, as much as recognising others that are as awkward as me.

How should I describe “Mr Fogg's Residence” ? Imagine a movie set dressed to look like a private collection of ephemera from the adventures of a victorian explorer, and you're getting somewhere near. Many years ago – before it was gutted and re-fitted – Oxford housed a wonderful museum called “Pitt Rivers” that contained endless shelves of curiosities. Imagine the private collection of Indiana Jones, if he hadn't donated everything to Marcus Brody's museum.

After ordering suitably exotic drinks from an esoteric menu, we nervously sat down, and started trying to figure out how to make conversation with people that already know almost everything about you. In the beginning it was really odd, but as time wore on we somehow relaxed into it, and remembered that we were the same people that we've shared so much with over the past few years.

In the blink of an eye two hours passed, and a waiter in period costume informed us that our time at Mr Fogg's Residence was drawing to a close. We split the bill, and wandered out in the night air together – not wanting the night to end. Luckily, somebody had spent an hour in a bar just along the way earlier in the evening – cough – so knew exactly where to go next.

After finally saying goodbye to new friends, I left the gathering, called home, and began walking towards Oxford Circus underground station – a two hour journey ahead. While listening to the various conversations bouncing around the table earlier in the evening I had already decided to go for “Plan B” on the way home – I had already missed the last train, so would need to get a little bit creative.

While trying to focus on the display boards at Paddington a very neat gentleman in a blue raincoat struck up conversation with me – enquiring if I might have heard when the missing train to Didcot might make an appearance. I must have a sign on my head saying “this guy knows things”.

The train did arrive, finally. While rumbling quietly from Paddington towards home, I unfolded the laptop that had sat in my bag all night, and wrote – emptying my head – writing the words you're reading. Before I knew it, a voice crackled from the overhead speakers that my station was approaching.

Only I wasn't home yet, remember. I had missed the last train.

After following another late night traveller into the railway station car-park, I opened a waiting taxi door, and requested my destination from the driver. He didn't seem to understand, and asked for my postcode. Given that I only live perhaps seven miles from the station, you can imagine my thoughts. As we drove through the darkness, I noticed him fighting with the sat-nav in the car, and failing miserably. Rather than belittle him in any way, I asked if he would like me to give him directions, and that's how I got home – directing a panic stricken man that couldn't work a mobile phone, and didn't know where he was.

Of course I couldn't let him suffer in silence, so struck up conversation during the last few miles of the journey – asking where he was from as an opening gambit. It turned out he was from Pakistan, and had moved here two years ago to live with his brother. They shared the taxi. He missed home terribly, but spoke in glowing terms about the safe environment he now lived – and how trusting, trustworthy, and polite everybody was. He talked all the way home, wrote his number on a receipt for me in case I might ever need a taxi again, and shook my hand while saying good night.

Perhaps it was a reminder that the world isn't quite as bad as we might sometimes imagine.

Of course I had just spent the night proving that the world is actually rather wonderful, if only you take a chance or two. If not for taking a chance, I would not have spent the evening forging friendships with relative strangers. Quite wonderful strangers, but then not really strangers at all.

It's a curious business – this blogging lark. You empty your head into the keyboard, and send your words off around the world. You don't really think of the readers and fellow authors in terms of them being real, living, breathing people – or at least I don't – or didn't – until tonight.

Tonight the world got smaller. And a little more real.

A suit, a pair of shoes, and a dark grey t-shirt are hanging behind me in the junk room at home – waiting for me to return home early from work tomorrow afternoon, and head into London to meet friends. You might wonder why I might wear a suit – and I would counter that we are headed to a cocktail bar in Mayfair – one of the most exclusive properties on the British monopoly board. If plans work out, we will meet at 'Mr Fogg's Residence' – a bar themed after the literary character 'Phileas Fogg', from Jules Verne's novel 'Around the World in 80 Days'.

I'm not meeting just any group of friends either – I'm meeting bloggers. One from San Francisco, and two from London, as far as I am aware. We've been quietly reading each other's adventures for the last couple of years, never really thinking of crossing paths in the real world – but then the opportunity unfolded in front of us, and... well... why not ?

I've never been to a 'meetup' before. I've met several fellow bloggers over the years individually, but never a get-together of several. It's going to be odd. We know far more about each other's lives than many *in *our lives. We know about each other's hopes, fears, memories, thoughts, ideas, adventures, failures, worries – you name it, we've been along for the ride with each other at one point or another. Like I said – it's going to be odd.

I have a sneaking suspicion we'll all get on famously, and the evening will vanish in the blink of an eye. Or at least that's what I'm hoping.

After a somewhat epic journey around the internet over the last few months, I'm back where I started, and somehow enthused about writing something worth reading for a change. I'm not quite sure how that happens – where the words come from.

A huge vote of thanks goes to the Wordpress 'Happiness Engineer' that took my call this afternoon, and performed various magic tricks behind the scenes to resurrect a long dead account, and a cancelled domain name. I discovered that long held impossibilities were in fact possibilities.

The posts arrived back over lunchtime, after writing some programming to empty the temporary Tumblr rowing boat that had carried them for the last month, and re-publish them to Wordpress. I'm still undecided about adding photos to the posts going forwards. So many people now use stock photos that they almost seem like a cliche when you see them.

Anyway. I'm back. Back where I started. Back where it all began.

Here's to the future.