write.as/jonbeckett

I'm not doing very well at posting on anything like a regular basis, am I. Let's just say that this week has been challenging, and I'm not going to write about any of it on a public forum. I want to write 'the walls have eyes', but that's a little overly conspiratorial even for me.

I'm fine. Really. Just tired. The storm that has engulfed my life for the past several days is beginning to abate, and I find myself drawn towards the blog once again. When I don't post for a few days, it feels like the blog calls to me. It's very odd.

So. It's Thursday. I arrived at work about an hour ago, and have been trying to make sense of what I need to do that will most successfully cause everybody to leave me alone until the end of the day. I'll let you know how I get on with that – I'm not usually very successful.

Today didn't slow down, and certainly didn't stop. The morning was spent filing expenses for last week's adventure in Germany, and the afternoon knee deep in source code and flowcharts. Tomorrow will be more of the same, along with conference calls and meetings.

I sometimes wonder how many years of software development I have left in me – how much enthusiasm remains. There are days when I leave the office filled with optimism, but there are also days when I watch the clock, and wonder if the grass might be greener elsewhere. I'm told I am good at what I do – but am no longer sure that I want to be doing it. Of course the bills need to be paid though, and it's a bit late to start a second career.

Maybe I just need an escape. Something that is my own. Starting running is appealing – as is writing. Not the blog – stories. Writing has been back on my mind since the weekend, because I saw mention of NaNoWriMo – the idiotic challenge to write a 50,000 word novel during November. I've had a couple of goes at it in the past, and failed spectacularly both times. Attempting it again this year would be ridiculous, because I already know I'm scheduled to return to Germany during November. Never say never though, right? The idea of getting to the 1st of November with no idea what I might write about is appealing in a perverse sort of way.

I'm feeling a bit better today, by the way. If you've been reading recently you will have seen a number of soul searching posts. I'm pretty good at pulling myself up by my own boot-straps, and that mechanism seems to have kicked in today. I don't stay down for long. I am having another early night though – I forgot how much I liked reading. I suppose having a good book to read is half the battle.

Thankyou so much to those that reached out over the last few days. You have no idea how much it meant. Of course those closest to me in the real world had no idea I was down – because we put on a brave face, don't we – we keep putting one foot in front of the other, we keep up appearances, do what everybody expects, and keep on keeping on.

Thankyou again.

I'm sitting in the junk room at home, trying to warm up after spending the greater part of the morning in the rain, watching our middle girl take part in rugby training. The rain started as a light mist, but following a trip to the club-house to buy hot drinks had turned into a consistant downpour. I wondered if somebody upstairs had leant on the rain lever by accident. The few of us watching the kids run round marvelled at their wilful ignorance of the conditions, while we huddled under umbrellas and watched the minute hands of our watches slow to a crawl.

Apparently teenage girl rugby players are impervious to cold, rain, and mud – as evidenced by the steaming bodies that filled the club-house after time was finally called on the idiocy. Paper cups of tea and coffee were huddled around, and trays of chips eaten with mud encrusted fingers and toothy smiles.

En-route to home, we arrived in the doorway of a grocery store still bedecked in waterproofs, walking boots, and rugby kit. Security staff did a double take as we stepped in from the rain like a bad impersonation of the Magnificent Seven.

Anyway. Here I am. Home. In the warm. Warming up, slowly. Spotify is rumbling away to drown out next door's dog, and I'm sipping a cup of 'Three Ginger' tea, and nibbling on a 'berry delight' bar, bought at great expense for our gluten-free daughters who turned their noses up at them. I inherit a lot of things that way.

This is the bit where I apologise for being on a bit of a downer recently. Not really a downer as such – just disconnected from everybody and everything. I think sometimes I just need to re-charge my batteries – to not have to put a cheerful face on – to just 'be'. There wasn't anything particularly wrong as such – I just needed a break from everybody and everything. Of course some people noticed – I have wonderful friends in that way, and wouldn't change them for the world. I'm fine – no, really. I'm fine. I just need some time to myself. Time to sit quietly, read a book, sip tea, and not have to deal with anything.

I suppose the odd thing is that I know what ran my batteries down – Tumblr. As against any of the other social blogging platforms, Tumblr tends to encourage people to empty their head – to share more than they might anywhere else. And then I come along, and read the various stories of woe, plight, loss, or hurt, and I forget to switch off the empathetic part of my stupid brain – and end up worrying about every story I read, even though I know I'm half a world away, and no more than a name on a screen to many.

So yeah. I'm wondering if the solution to this whole 'batteries low' situation is to keep the internet at arms length for a little while – to give myself a chance to recharge – to get some perspective back – to stop reacting to every notification, and every email.

While working my way through chores around the house today, a huge wave of tiredness has rolled through me. I think this is just the after-effects of working away from home, and carrying a huge project single-handed. You don't really think about it at the time – it hits you afterwards.

Just for the record, I've sat here all afternoon, dicking around with this and that – pretending to write this post, but not really doing anything constructive at all. Sure, I put recycling out, loaded the washing machine, loaded the tumble dryer, loaded the dishwasher, sorted out all the old micro-USB charging cables... but I didn't write a damn word. The text editor sat in the corner of the screen with a blinking cursor for the last several hours.

The irony isn't lost on me that I still haven't really written about anything in particular – I've just wittered on about inconsequential garbage, as per normal. I didn't post anything yesterday either – the flights, trains, and grocery shopping pretty much destroyed the day. Fifteen thousand steps worth, according to the fitness app on my phone.

Anyway – today is Saturday. The day is already two thirds over. We're making nachos for dinner. Tomorrow morning will involve standing in the rain for two hours at rugby training. That's going to be fun. Maybe I'll sleep another nine hour stretch tonight, like I did last night.

I'll have something insightful, interesting, and entertaining to share soon, I promise.

Being a distant friend on the internet is incredibly difficult sometimes. When those I have come to know are facing problems, my first instinct is to try and help – to reach out – to be there. I wonder how much a quiet message telling somebody that you read their post, and that you're out here if they want to empty their head is really worth. It's all I really have to give though – some time, and a sympathetic ear.

If all I have is time, and attention, does that really make me a friend? Or just a well meaning bystander? When a good friend that lives across the way had a medical emergency with her young son a few years ago, I arrived on her doorstep minutes after her call – ready to do whatever she asked. I can't do that on the internet. And it sometimes feels horrible.

I've learned enough during my life to know that not everybody thinks the same way. Not everybody runs towards loss, difficulty, or danger. Sure, I might not know what to do when I get there, but maybe there might be something I can do when I get there. Maybe I won't get in the way.

I've also learned that the internet is a wonderful escape. In the middle of awful situations, we can find friends outside of our circle to connect with – to lessen the load somewhat. The thought that I might be there for others from time to time makes taking the chance to reach out worth it.

I made it through the third and final day working on-site – I fly home in the morning.

I'm sitting in my hotel room with the window wide open, listening to the world go by outside – quite a noisy world, it turns out, given the railway station is only a few minutes walk away. I can hear Turkish music coming from a cafe nearby, and the occasional laughter of German girls as they head out for the evening.

After dinner this evening I went for a walk along the river, and over a distant bridge I have often passed, but not walked over. I was surprised to discover the bridge is festooned with padlocks, signed or engraved by those that have left them. While walking across, and feeling the bridge moving underfoot, I wondered how much the many thousands of padlocks weigh, and how much the bridge was designed to withstand. My pace may have quickened a little for the next few moments.

The padlocks have stuck in my mind for the rest of the evening though – wondering if the people who left them are still together – the story behind them leaving the padlock – and what they might be doing now.

I wonder who first thought of attaching a padlock to a public structure, with their names inscribed upon it? I wonder how long ago the trend started? I know several bridges around the world have been cleared of their padlocks in recent years to prevent their collapse, but I wonder which bridge was first ?

After work this evening I went for a bit of a walk – the original intention had been to find a Japanese restaurant I've eaten at before, but discovering a number of roadworks in my way, and a gorgeous bridge over the river appearing around a street corner, I thought 'what the hell'.

I've been to the other side of the river before. It's lined with various museums – the biggest is showcasing a huge Kunst exhibition at the moment. A little further along the river, another celebrates German cinema, and even further along you can find both art and design exhibitions. I've never set foot in any of them.

I called home while wandering the tree lined avenue alongside the river, and tried to catch up with my daughters – one was asleep, one was outside with friends, and the other was too busy to talk. Wonderful.

Finally I picked my way along the Schweizer Strasse (the Swiss Road), which is lined with bakeries, restaurants, and numerous street-side cafes. After a little while I came upon a tree lined road junction, and spied a small restaurant called 'Bareburger' – moments later a waitress had met my gaze, and beckoned me in.

Afterwards I picked a small table in the corner of the outdoor seating area – the weather has been wonderful, so it seemed only natural to sit outside. What I didn't think about was people smoking. Back at home, smoking is banned in all public areas – if people want to smoke in a restaurant they basically have to go stand in the street outside. Not true in Germany. I wouldn't say my meal was ruined, but my clothes now smell of smoke – and I have no easy way of washing them unless I pay the hotel.

Thankfully the food was wonderful. I ordered a wheat beer, and a burger that appeared to be one step up from the 'standard' burger and fries. The mountainous burger, sweet potato fries, and onion rings that came out would probably have fed two people quite easily – and it tasted amazing (helped no doubt by me being really very hungry indeed – it turns out software development is hungry work).

I paid the waitress, left a tip, and uncomfortably started the journey back across the city – taking photos of the now dark skies, and glittering lights as I went. Crossing back over the river, I met several people doing the same – stopping every so often to take photos of the river, and city surrounding us.

Wandering back along the street to the hotel, I passed a huge gathering on the pavement – people congregating outside what appeared to be an off-license, drinking beer from bottles and cans. I wondered if this is some kind of loophole in the law over here – that people are allowed to drink on the street, and a shop selling beer is therefore not hit with the same business rates as a cafe, bar, or restaurant. I'm still not sure why. There must have been fifty or sixty people standing around – laughing, joking, and telling the stories of their day to each other. It made me feel somewhat lonely as I quietly made my way through them.

Back at the hotel I let myself in the front door, and said hello to the concierge. He seems to work every evening, and is very neat and tidy – perhaps sixty years old, with a shock of grey hair, and a gaunt but friendly face. I say hello every time I enter or leave the building, and he now smiles when I appear – greeting me in return.

So. Here I am. Back in the room. One more day, one more night, and then I get back on a plane to return home once more. One more day to pretend to be clever without being found out. Let's see if I can make it in one piece.

After work this evening I wandered back to the hotel, got changed, and made my way up the street towards the faux American bar I've visited a few times during recent visits to Frankfurt – the one with the model railroad in the rafters, the fake signed guitars hanging on the walls, and numerous questionable quotes from famous musicians advertising various beverages. I think my favourite is one attributed to a member of the Black Eye'd Peas – assigning the existence of rock and roll to the existence of Jack Daniels.

Along the way to the bar – it's about a ten minute walk – I listened to Marc Maron's 'WTF' podcast. This week he was talking to Charles Demers. I started listening to his podcast way back around the time he interviewed Barack Obama, and got hooked. He has a relaxed way with guests – he somehow disarms them, and it feels like you're sitting at the kitchen table with them after a meal, sharing stories and thoughts about anything and everything. In a strange sort of way, he reminds me of me.

Anyway – while Marc and Charles talked about everything from homosexual family members, to depression, college, and making it on the comedy circuit in the shadow of Robin Williams, I made my way along the road – past numerous street cafes. As I picked my way past one particular cafe, a pair of beautiful eyes met mine from a headscarf. It was a young muslim girl, perhaps eighteen years old, wrapped in an orange silk headscarf, with dark eyeliner surrounding the most brilliant eyes I have seen in quite some time. The only way I can describe her eyes is that they were somehow 'alive' – twinkling – sparkling. The moment was over in an instant, but I thought about her gaze for the rest of the way to the restaurant.

After climbing the carpeted steps to the hidden corner of Americana, a tall, willowey waitress strode up, her ponytail bouncing behind her. She greeted me with a stream of Germany – that I didn't understand a word of – and I smiled. This apparently answered her question, and resulted in me being shepherded to a tall table in the middle of the bar – a 'table for one'.

She left a German menu on the table.

A few minutes later – after realising that the titles of the menu were still in English (or American English), she returned, and I ordered. I can only imagine she thought I was trying to be clever, because after taking down the titled dishes in English, she returned to German, and said something else I didn't understand, before skipping off to her next customer.

It was only after finishing my meal, and waving my wallet towards her that she realised I was English – after swiping my card in the machine, it offered to make payment in sterling, or euros. She grinned, looked sideways at me, and in her best English accent said 'can you enter your pin number please?'

I smiled back, and said 'you found me out!'. Her smile broadened further – into a real smile – and before I knew it, the transaction was over.

A few minutes later – as I picked my way past a family waiting at the entrance, she waved, and said goodbye in both English and German, before turning her attention away and greeting the newcomers.

If you were expecting a blog post vaguely resembling the plot of the little known movie 'A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum', you're going to be sadly disappointed. This 'funny thing' was more of a 'chance discovery'.

During the spring I visited Frankfurt, and went for a walk after dinner – taking photos as I went. Along the way I happened upon a street covered with cobblestones, and lined with bars and cafes – and had no clue where it might be. Until last week, when I looked it up on Google Maps. All I had to go on was a photo I had taken of the cobbles at sunset – but fortunately there was a large building in the background. Armed with the 3D mode in Google Maps, I found the building, and looked around it from various angles – and discovered the street immediately. The more miraculous thing is how I have managed to miss it so often in the past.

Anyway – after arriving in Germany this afternoon and checking into the hotel, I grabbed some food at one of the many street-side restaurants, and then went for a wander – off in search of the fabled street. It took minutes to find, which I suppose is a win for Google Maps, and a loss for my own idiocy.

And here comes the chance discovery. While wandering along, I spied the word 'Moleskine' above a shop, and thought 'that must be a local coincidence – that CAN'T be the company that makes the lovely little notebooks that are lined up on my shelf at home'. Only it WAS the company that makes the lovely little notebooks that are lined up on my shelf at home. I'm still not sure how I managed to walk back out of the shop without buying anything – because OF COURSE I walked straight in.

Actually, I am sure. Quite apart from the lovely little notebooks costing two or three times as much as a normal notebook, it struck me that the company are trying to pull an Apple – they are trying to sell the idea of being a writer in the shape of an aspirational 'thing'. Don't get me wrong – the notebooks are very well made, but they don't actually inspire you, or suddenly deliver any writing talent into your head. They are just notebooks.

I got as far as holding an A5 notebook in my hand, and began looking at pens before only remaining molecules of common sense left in my head fought a stunning recovery. I looked at the price of the rollerball pen I was considering buying, and realised the madness of it all (you can buy an entire box of Bic biros for less than a Moleskine pen).

So yes – I walked back through the city – via the supermarket, where I bought chocolate that has already vanished – and pondered on the thing I hadn't bought. We'll keep very quiet about the half filled Moleskine notebook sitting on the shelf at home. Very quiet.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have the new Doctor Who to sit and watch. I downloaded it onto my work laptop while waiting at Heathrow Airport this morning. High fives all around.

The clock has just ticked around to 9am. I'm sitting in the heart of Heathrow Airport in London, a few yards away from one of the departures boards. My flight is steadily moving up the board – with a note that the gate will be shown in about three quarters of an hour. As is usual, I flew through check-in and security, so find myself with time to spare now.

I've still not forgotten the time I arrived at Frankfurt airport with a check-in queue a thousand deep. Sitting here for a little while is far less stressful than that day.

The strangest things catch my attention. The departure boards are made mostly of widescreen televisions in portrait format – stacked alongside each other. Above them however is a lightbox with the 'Departures' sign on it, and alongside another lightbox with directions to the various gates. I'm wondering why those were not screens too – so their information could be changed without rebuilding the sign. Like I said – I notice the strangest things.

I forgot to pack a toothbrush and toothpaste in my bag. I just had a quick look around the departure hall in the airport, and can't see any shops that might sell it. Unless I want to wash my mouth out with expensive chocolate, or twenty year old whisky, I appear to be out of luck. I might go and have another look in a minute – otherwise I'll be hunting around the supermarket in Frankfurt for them. I hate forgetting things.

A smell just wafted past, and I'm struggling to put my finger on what it might be. Was it scent, or hand cleaner ? It had to be hand cleaner, didn't it? Who would wear scent that smells like hand cleaner? I'm sitting here with a huge grin now – we had a load of hand cleaner in the office years ago, which smelled of melon – so we called the little bottles Melonie – which then caused all manner of odd comments about 'I can smell Melonie on my hands' lol. Ahem. Anyway.

I missed Doctor Who last night – the first episode starring Jodie Whittaker. It just came to mind because a guy is sitting opposite me wearing a Tardis hoodie. I wonder if I can download it from BBC iPlayer before getting on the plane? If you check back later and I'm giving myself a high-five, you know what happened.