write.as/jonbeckett

A travel case sits on the desk across the study from me, filled with clean clothes ahead of another week in Germany. I've decided to hedge my bets about the weather in Frankfurt over the coming week – packing summer rather than autumn clothes. If I get it wrong a late night shopping trip may be needed.

Although the flight will only take a little over an hour, once you factor in getting to the airport, getting through check-in, security, then through immigration, baggage, a train to the city, and a walk to the hotel, the better part of seven hours will have passed.

I'm hoping to explore the city a little more during this visit – although that is almost entirely dependent on the workload thrown at me. I'm never quite sure what I will face when I arrive on-site – all-day meetings, code writing sprints, or accusations and recriminations. I'm also aware that we're heading into Autumn, and the nights are drawing in – it will be dark by the time I head out for dinner on an evening.

Anyway. I expect the next post will come from a hotel room in Frankfurt – telling the story of the weirdo I sat next to on the plane. I wonder if they'll be writing a blog post about me? 'Sat next to this guy that seemed so relaxed about the whole flying thing – wondered how does this'.

Time to go brush my teeth and head to bed.

After waking to a blanket of grey skies this morning, the weather has been growing steadily worse. A fine mist of rain is now falling, painting the roads and footpaths with leaves from the trees, and filling the world with the smell of autumn.

The washing machine and tumble dryer are fighting the good fight against the endless tide of clothes that three teenagers generate. We live in fear of the washing machine ever malfunctioning in any way – it completes its job three, sometimes four times a day, every day.

While doing chores, I'm patiently waiting for a delivery driver to appear. For the last several years we have been using a Roku to watch streaming TV in the lounge, but have had increasing problems with it. After visiting the Amazon website yesterday lunchtime, a 'Fire Stick' should be arriving today. This is all about keeping the natives happy of course – as long as the rest of the family have easy access to Amazon Prime and Netflix, they tend to leave me alone.

I'm just trying to remember the last TV series I watched. I really haven't watched much over the last few years – Halt and Catch Fire, Silicon Valley, The OA, and Mr Robot spring to mind. I can't think of anything else.

Time is marching on. I suppose I should really go and find out what we have in the cupboard for lunch. The rest of the family will return from their football match soon, probably cold, soaked to the skin, and in search of food. I'm guessing soup, and crusty bread might be the order of the day. Off to the corner shop I go...

Somehow, missing a day in the blog has become a 'thing'. As I was getting ready for bed yesterday evening, it occurred to me that I hadn't posted anything. I quickly reasoned that it was far too late, and I was far too tired. The truth was more along the lines of I couldn't be bothered, and I didn't have much of a story to tell. The lack of a story hasn't really changed today either.

Apart from doing the usual headbanging routine at work, watching movies with Miss 18, or going out for pizza with the local under-15s rugby team, it's been a remarkably quiet week. I should really be thankful, because next week will be very different – I'm returning to Germany once again.

I fly mid-morning on Monday, which means a fairly early taxi to the airport. Frankfurt will once again be full of people for some exhibition or other, so I'm staying in a very basic hotel right in the middle of the city. I'm looking forward to being a little more central this time – listening to the people of the city late at night, and waking to the sounds of delivery trucks in the mornings.

I like cities. I always have. Even though I grew up in a small town in the countryside, there's just something about visiting a bustling metropolis. Of course 'visiting' is the key word – if I lived among the concrete avenues, and had to deal with the traffic, people, noise, and pollution day-in, day-out, I might think differently.

Traveling means packing bags. I'm studiously trying to ignore the thought of ironing a suitcase full of work clothes. I'll worry about it on Sunday evening. My clothes are all washed – just none of them are ironed. I'm quite good at ironing (which sounds like a ridiculous thing to say), but also find it interminably boring. Oh – and I must remember to check the weather forecast before packing – I've still not forgotten the week I arrived with a suitcase full of clothes for bracing weather, and and got off the plane to discover Germany had transformed into a sub-Saharan enclave for the week. Not fun.

Anyway. It's getting late. I suppose I should really go brush my teeth, grab my book, and climb the wooden hill. I wonder what I might dream about tonight? I wonder if I'll remember it in the morning ?

When I leave work on an evening, I call home. Invariably Miss 13 picks the phone up – she has been trained by my other half as an evil receptionist – this began when she was very young, and would talk to cold-callers for quite some time before they realised there was no hope of getting any further. I've given up asking to speak to my other half, and just talk to Miss 13 these days – she relays information about things I might need to get on the way home – bread, milk, cat food – you name it. Sometimes she tries to sneak things she wants onto the list – you know – M&Ms for example.

Anyway. This evening, I called home and got my other half for a change.

'We are going out to rugby training – myself and 14 have had our dinner – 18 is going out with her friend for dinner – you just need to get something for yourself'.

They knew I would buy a pizza, and I knew I would buy a pizza. I bought a pizza.

What I didn't predict – but should have – was that Miss 18's friend would bail on her, and leave her without a night out, and with no dinner. So that's how the unexpected movie night unfolded – after heating up some of last night's chicken soup, she wandered into the lounge doorway looking a bit lost, and I held an arm out across the sofa.

Strangely enough, she didn't seem interested in watching the documentary about the development of the atomic bomb I was watching, so we set off across Amazon and Netflix to find a movie to watch.

Love Simon.

I remember seeing the trailer for it in the cinema some time ago, and her indicating that I would be taking her to see it in the near future. Somehow that near future never happened though, and we forgot all about it – until tonight.

Turns out it's a wonderful movie. I gather it's based on a book by Becky Albertalli – called 'Simon vs the Homo Sapiens Agenda'. The reviews on the internet speak volumes – it has quickly become associated with other coming-of-age books such as 'The Art of Getting By', and 'The Perks of Being a Wallflower'. We sat enthralled throughout the movie – second guessing the plot along the way. Well – I say 'sat' – Miss 18 used me as a giant cushion for the majority of the movie, in the way the kids often do.

I think perhaps the pivotal moment of the movie comes when the title character tells his parents – it brought everything back about 18 choosing to tell us, in razor sharp focus. I don't think I've ever seen a movie handle anything like that so accurately. Of course I'm not very subjective, because I've been there – I've been the one walking along the street at night, wanting to tell a scared girl that I love her more than she will ever know.

Anyway (big exhale of breath)...

As the credits rolled, and I wandered around the room turning the lights out – the rest of the family had gone to bed some hours earlier – we both wondered if there is a girl version of 'Love Simon' out there somewhere.

It's almost half past seven in the evening, dinner is finished, the washing up is done, the kitchen is clean, the washing machine is on, and I'm in the dark of the study tapping away at the keyboard while the Spotify 'Favourite Coffee House' playlist fills the room.

Miss thirteen didn't go to football practice tonight – she is claiming a clearly non-existent injury. We think it has an awful lot to do with the coaches of her team splitting away from the club in order to run the teams as they see fit, rather than abide by any goals such as inclusivity, or development in mind. We won't talk about any of the other things they have done that I shouldn't perhaps know about.

So – the evening is my own. Hence this blog post. Finally a few minutes to sit down and empty my head into the keyboard. Of course now I have the opportunity, I have nothing to write about. Or perhaps I do?

I've been thinking about this whole blogging thing recently. I swing from wanting to go all-in and write more regularly, to closing the lid on the whole thing. One day I wake up, and I'm enthused to share some idiotic though or other with the wider world – the next day I wake up, and think 'what's the point'. Sometimes I want to hide the entire blog under a huge stone where nobody will find it – then a little later I wonder what I was so worried about.

I'm full of contradictions. I probably always will be.

Late last night I watched the movie 'The Post', about the 1971 government papers scandal that engulfed the New York Times and Washington Post. Something struck me in particular while watching it – the old-school journalists working in the background of many of the scenes – the click-clack of their typewriters echoing around the room – their words being stamped into the paper as it scrolled through their typewriters.

There's something romantic about typewriters, and something noble about the work required to press the keys. Hammering ink into the paper is somehow more permanent than typing on a computer, where a few keypresses can re-work a sentence. Is there more truth in a type-written or hand-written page? I suspect there might be.

I don't really know where I'm going with this. Maybe it's about truth – honesty – transparency. Maybe those journalists hunched over their typewriters spoke to me in some way about the romance of the written word – and maybe that's why I haven't stopped publishing these blog posts yet.

While sitting at work last Tuesday morning, I rubbed the tiredness from my left eye, and pain shot through my eye. I thought perhaps I had pulled an eyelash into my eye, and wandered down to the mens bathroom to check in the mirror. Nothing. I put up with it for the next 24 hours, wondering if it might settle down on it's own, before eventually calling the local optician to get it checked out. And that's how I ended up sitting in a chair while a lovely Indian lady peered into my eyes with all manner of instruments this afternoon.

Apparently my eyes are (mostly) fine. After the better part of an hour sitting in front of various machines while being stared at very closely indeed, we came to the conclusion that I'm probably allergic to something.

The first test had me sitting in a darkened room, telling the optician if black text on a red or green projected sign was brighter, or darker. I have no idea what this achieved, but encouraging noises were made in response to my answers. Next came the classic eye charts, which I could immediately read the bottom line of. More encouraging noises.

Next came the awkward bit – where the optician leaned right up to my face, and asked me to look up, up left, left, and so on with each eye, while her face hovered inches from mine. While looking downwards with my eyes wide open – as instructed I might add – the humor of the situation was not lost on me. Thankfully her top covered everything I might otherwise have been staring directly at.

Next up was a peripheral sight test, involving a Hannibal Lecter style frame through which I had to peer while staring at a small dot. Around the dot, areas of the display flickered from time to time, to which I responded by pressing a button. As the test went on, I found myself deconstructing it – wondering if there was a timing or orientation pattern that the test followed – if it would detect you anticipating it. Apparently that went well too.

Perhaps the most fun part of the exam was the photography of the back of my eye – another frame, and another instruction to stare wide eyed directly ahead (thankfully she was not opposite me this time). It was certainly more fun than the investigation into the soreness in my eyelid – which involved rolling my eyelid backwards, and an orange liquid being dropped into my eye.

Apparently I don't need glasses. Not yet. We are still not sure what's causing the soreness though. She suspected an allergic reaction to something, but I can't think that I've done anything markedly different in recent months. There was a week spent in a swimming pool on holiday, but other than that – nothing comes to mind.

For the next several weeks I have eye drops. Apparently they will help alleviate dry eye symptoms. Apparently I need to drink more water too. I suppose knocking tea and coffee on the head for a while would help with that – I did it a few months ago and had no issues at all. I guess we'll see.

Unless anthing untoward happens in the meantime, I don't go back to be stared at again for another two years.

I'm sitting in the study at home (a rather grand title for the junk room, but it sounds sophisticated), at the old desktop computer, trying to think of where to start. We have been at a rugby match all day – watching our younger children play their first competitive game of the season.

They lost the game today quite heavily, against a more experienced older team. Unfortunately in girls rugby the age groups are split into 'Under 13', 'Under 15', and 'Under 18' – meaning you quite often find a team of girls that have been playing full contact for two years up against a team of younger girls that have only just begun learning – and that's what happened today.

I'm still not entirely sure how we made it to the match in on piece though – because we went out last night. Out out.

We haven't been for a proper night out in months. It just so happened that last night the rugby club threw their annual ball – and we bought tickets, along with some good friends who have a daughter in the under-18s. The food was passable, the drink was extortionate, but the band was fantastic, and the company was brilliant.

It was a formal evening, so everybody was wearing suits and dresses. I thought about putting a bow tie on, and kind of wished I had – many of the other guests had. I can't remember the last time I wore a bow tie.

While sitting at the table, looking around at the friends and acquaintance surrounding me, I realised how lucky I am to know so many great people – and that I should make more effort to get out more. I think perhaps when you have young children you kind of forget who you used to be – movie nights at home, and endless rounds of chores kind of take over everything. We talked to a few friends about it during the evening, and those with older children agreed that it does get better – but that they also miss the chaos and mayhem of those days when the kids are at clubs, afterschool activities, doing homework, needing clothes, and needing to be ferried here, there, and everywhere – because suddenly they will not be there any more, and they will not need you.

We got home in the early hours, and collapsed into bed – waking up this morning with croaky voices after shouting conversations on the dancefloor all night. I'm still not entirely sure how I'm not hung-over – I drank at least three pints of cider, and perhaps two thirds of a bottle of wine during the evening.

Of course now we are home from rugby, the real world has marched up and kicked us in the backside. The washing machine is running, the tumble dryer is running, the kids are taking turns to have baths, and homework has mysteriously appeared that was previously either non-existent, or 'done'. Har har.

Step away from the keyboard. Just step away from the keyboard. For a few minutes. Those are the words I find myself repeating – to myself. Take a break. Walk away. Breath.

It's so easy to just stay here – to keep typing – to keep putting one foot in front of the other. There's so much still to do – the climb stretches out ahead, and probably always will. I find myself wondering when I'll turn from the path – when I'll start making my own decisions.

I struggled this week – with loss, with self doubt. Today I'm struggling to juggle the many things I typically keep aloft. I'm not sure why.

Perhaps I just need the weekend. A few days to switch off, shut myself away, and recharge. A few days to remember who I am, where I'm going, and how I'm going to get there.

My writing used to be so much better than it is now. Well crafted posts. Explorations of thoughts and experiences, wrapped in a literary style that I've lost somewhere along the way.

Perhaps it is time to reclaim some of it. The ability must be lurking somewhere in the depths of my head – no doubt forgotten beneath a pile of boxes labelled 'work', 'chores', 'children', and 'what everybody expects of me'.

This writing lark requires effort though – and effort usually requires a reason. What reason might I use as an excuse for the investment of effort? I don't really have a mission – I just write because I like writing. I don't particularly write for an audience either – hell, I don't really know who my audience is outside of a few disparate friends spread around the world.

As is usual, I have no idea where this post is going. While writing it the washing machine and tumble dryer are rumbling away, and the house is remarkably quiet for a change – a somewhat different situation than I found when I got home from work.

I discovered Miss 14 standing in the kitchen having a disaster of sorts – her school blazer covered in flour, the cooker covered in some sort of batter mixture, and pots, pans, spoons, plates, and dirty cutlery spread across all of the worktops.

A recipe had not been followed properly – an awful lot of ingredients had been wasted, and there were not enough to start again. After the realisation of her situation dawned on her, she began ranting about anything and everything before stamping off up the stairs towards her bedroom – which of course solves everything.

Of course it's not the end of the world. Her school blazer is in the tumble dryer right now, and the kitchen has been cleaned from top to bottom. You might never know that anything had ever gone wrong – well – unless you read this of course.

While scrolling through Tumblr this morning I started reminiscing about the 'meetups' they once helped their users stage. You could register a meetup on the site, and they would advertise it, and send out a pack with table cards, badges, namecards – everything you might need to dress up a couple of tables in a bar. Of course 'reminisce' isn't really the right word, because I never actually went to a meet-up.

Among the circle of people I knew on Tumblr back then, the vast majority were in or around New York – where Tumblr originated, and is still based. I think perhaps the most noteable meetups were nicknamed 'Snark' – and as with many social events, ended up being organised by one person – a girl that's still around on the platform all these years later.

I always wished I would be able to make it to one of the New York meetups – but then of course children happened, and life went sideways for – oh – a decade maybe? And now the meetups don't seem to happen any more.

I know of at least one couple that got married after meeting at one of the Tumblr meetups – and I know other people that never spoke again after meeting in person. It's funny – I always remember a famous actress in England talking about parties – and recoiling in horror at the idea of arriving at an event where everybody you knew was present.

Anyway. I wasn't going to write about the Tumblr meetups specifically. I was going to write about being an outsider. Because I don't even live on the same continent as many of the people I discovered during those early years of the 'social internet', I never really felt like I was a part of it all – like I was included.

Thinking back to MySpace, Tumblr, and LiveJournal, I remember Tom the warehouse manager from New York, Carli the glass artist from Oregon, Tiffany the fellow techie from North Carolina, Courtney the nanny from Oklahoma, Glen the barista in California, Erin the homeschooling gymnastics coach, Ingvild the artist from Norway, Pam the charity worker from Houston, Tina the stylist from New York, Rodney the radio host from Australia – I could go on and on. Many of them are still around – still posting here and there. Some have stopped blogging entirely, and some have died. I still often think about Lisa, that died in a car crash just outside of Oklahoma – survived by her young son who was in the back of the car. I've looked him up from time to time on the internet – she would be so proud of him.

Where was I ?

Ah yes – it turns out that the geographic disparity is fine of course, because I'm not the sort of person that needs to be included in things – but oh how I wished back then that I could have walked into one of the meetups unannounced and caused a few mouths to fall open. Imagine travelling thousands of miles to go for a night out with people you've never met, and might never meet again.