write.as/jonbeckett

I just finished installing “Elementary OS” on the old desktop computer at home – the one in the junk room that I tend to sit at while writing blog posts. On the off-chance that anybody else needs to use it, they can still re-start it and boot into Windows 7 – the hard-drive is partitioned, and has a boot-loader (meaning, it asks if you want Windows or Linux when you start the machine).

If you’re wondering what on earth I’m talking about, Elementary OS is a Linux distribution – an alternative to Microsoft Windows. After reading “Just for Fun” by Linus Torvalds, I got bitten by the bug again, and did a little research – leading directly to tonight’s tinkering escapade. I had run Linux on the old computer at home for years, before recently installing Windows to keep the kids happy – although they have their own computers, they still gravitate towards the desktop because it has a big screen, and I keep the desk tidy (read:empty).

Anyway – I’m massively impressed with it. It “just works”, and looks beautiful. I’ll sort out some screenshots at some point.

Enough with the nerdy stuff.

I have something wrong with my left eye. It happened at some point this morning – a blood vessel burst, I think – leaving me with a red stain just below the tear duct. I’m hoping it will vanish over the next day or two as my body repairs itself – if not, I’m guessing I’ll be making an appointment at the doctors to let them take a look. I imagine it’s just tiredness – travelling around the country, and burning the candle at both ends was bound to catch up with me at some point.

After falling into bed a little after 10am last night, I woke with a start at 3am this morning. I’m not sure what woke me up, but I was unceremoniously yanked from perhaps the most lucid dream I have had in years. I was in America, walking around town with a group of strangers – well, all except one, who I know through her blog. We wandered between houses and bars, laughing and joking throughout an evening. Somehow we both knew we were more than just friends, but nothing was said – and nobody else seemed to know. It was odd. And then I was awake, looking at the clock, and wishing I could go back to the dream again.

I woke again at 4am, and 5am. I finally got up a little after 6, had a shower, and wandered down to the hotel restaurant for breakfast. In the lift on the way down I thought myself tremendously clever – getting up so early – I would have first choice on everything in the buffet area.

So who told every damn person in the hotel to get up earlier than me?

It made no difference of course – I still filled a plate with eggs, sausages, beans, and bacon. I still grabbed a cappuccino from the coffee machine. I still somehow balanced a yogurt on the corner of my plate before setting off in search of a free table.

The only problem with getting up at stupid o'clock in the morning is when you finish breakfast and still have an hour to kill before you need to check-out. It’s not like home, where there will always be something to do – washing up, clothes washing, tidying up, and so on. My stupendous packing consisted of a change of shirt, and clean underwear (TMI?).

As I’ve said many, many times before – the day passed entirely without incident. I stressed out like a lunatic, lifting code into the air that I have not worked on for the better part of a year, and somehow began to remember how it all worked (or rather, remembered enough of it to pretend quite successfully).

After saying goodbye during the afternoon I set off for the railway station, jumped on the first waiting train, and began re-tracing my steps from the afternoon before – except this time instead of watching TV shows, I disappeared into a book.

I don’t remember much of the journey home – which perhaps proves a point about the power of a good book. Five hours whistled past. The only interruption that comes to mind was an unintentionally hilarious conversation I heard between two investment bank techies on the London Underground. They were talking quite volubly about the projects they had been working on recently, obviously trying to impress each other. There was only one problem – to anybody that knew what they were talking about (me), it was immediately clear than neither of them knew anything about any of the things they were name-dropping. I had to turn around and face the other way, because I started grinning, and couldn’t stop.

“Oh yes, I’m currently working on the next sprint – building a neural net to send bulk emails. I hear Goldman Sachs are doing something similar. It’s a bit of a risk using off-the-shelf components, but we’re getting good results. I got it all done in an afternoon. Easier than I thought. Compiled first time, and checked the code in yesterday – hopefully going live before the end of the week.”

Absolute, total and utter bollocks. I’m still smiling now.

Getting home was a bit of a shock to the system. I arrived to an empty house, littered with the remnants of dinner, unwashed cooking pots, school bags strewn everywhere, and every room dotted with cups, plates, and various other signs that the kids had swept through the place at some point. “Ah”, I thought, “they must all be at Rugby and Dance”… and so they were.

It’s funny how nobody arrived home until I had finished clearing everything up. The universe does that sort of thing on purpose, I’m sure of it.

Greetings from a hotel room several hundred miles from home. I’m in Leeds for the night, ahead of a day spent in quite the most imposing building I visit among the various client sites I travel to – I gather locally it’s known as “The Kremlin”. The journey here was entirely unremarkable – the trains connected and ran mostly on time, and my seat reservation landed me next to somebody much like myself – busying himself with reading books, or watching TV shows on a tablet for the majority of the journey north. It’s a shame the same cannot be said for the man that stood staring at me over the back of the seat in front as we waited to leave Kings Cross station.

I caught his eye, which would normally stop a stare, but he kept looking at me, like I was some kind of nuisance. It puzzled me for quite some time, before I finally figured it out. He had no seat reservation, so was trying his luck. Seeing me stride into the train carriage, dump my bag, and make myself comfortable must have caused something to snap in the “everything is unfair” part of his brain. It didn’t help that he had hooded eyelids, causing him to look down at everybody like he disapproved of them. He moved seats three times during the journey north – as passengers joined the train, claiming the seat he was sitting in each time. I ended up feeling a little bit sorry for him – not too much though, given the staring episode earlier.

The train journey north takes four hours. Granted, nearly an hour of that is spent nagivating the London Underground before turning north, but still – four hours is a long time. I filled it with the final episode of Downton Abbey, which we have been re-watching at home, and reading a book that arrived in the post this morning. Note to self – don’t watch sentimental TV show episodes on the train, especially if you don’t have any tissues to hand. The book arrived in a parcel from Amazon this morning – a belated birthday present from my parents. “Just for Fun”, by Linus Torvalds – telling the story of how Linux came to be. It’s an old book – first published in 2002 – but still interesting.

The great thing about a good book is that it serves both as a story telling device, and as a time machine. Before I knew it the train was approaching it’s destination, or “termination point”. I always smile when they announce that a train will terminate at the next station – I envision a line of robots waiting at the platform to cut the passengers down. This platform was surprisingly empty, aside from people waiting to meet the arriving train. I saw an elderly woman run towards a young man and embrace him as he stepped from the train – I couldn’t help smiling as I walked past them hugging on the platform.

Twenty minutes later – after a walk through the middle of the city, I arrived at the hotel, and was greeted by perhaps the most polite, enthusiastic, and efficient hotel staff I have ever experienced. He was perhaps in his early twenties, Polish, with a short beard. She was perhaps a little older, obviously teaching him, and Spanish. While he looked me up on the system, she pulled my room card from the file alongside and handed it to me.

“Welcome back – we see you have a gold membership – thankyou for your loyalty!”

I looked up, and was surprised at both of their smiles – I know they were following a script, but it was still nice. Of course the trainee then messed things up slightly by asking if I had stayed with them before – the Spanish girl laughed, prodded him, and stage-whispered “he’s a gold member!”. We all smiled, I took my key, and wandered towards the lifts, with breakfast times being volunteered over my shoulder as I waved thanks.

The room is a huge surprise. It would appear the hotel chain have finally invested in new decor, and on the whole it’s rather wonderful – modern, and somehow more spacious than before. I quickly figured out how they managed that particular Tardis trick – the desk has gone. In place of a desk is now an oddly shaped table, and a rather nice chair. The table has the kettle on it, and is too high to bother putting a laptop on – but the chair is kind of perfect if you put the computer on your lap. Oh – and finally the hotels get it – the bed has electric points on both sides – I can charge my phone next to the bed, like at home. Perhaps the most unexpected “new thing” is a mobile phone in the room – and the freedom to carry it with you into town. It’s rather crafty really – the home screen is locked to show a portal of amenities – bars, clubs, and local attractions – with maps, adverts, and so on – it obviously pays for itself indirectly through advertising built into the device. You can still use the phone though, and the web browser, and a few staple apps such as Google Maps. I’m massively impressed with it. I won’t use it, but I’m impressed with it.

Right. I suppose I should go find something to eat. I’m toying with the idea of either buying a ready-made salad from the local supermarket, or getting a pizza from the restaurant next door.

(a few minutes pass)

I walked past the pizza restaurant, which was already quite busy given how early in the evening it was. There seemed to be quite a number of couples sitting at smaller tables along the windows – obviously a tactic to entice other people in. I’ve never really thought about it before, and now I’m going to look at the layout of tables in all restaurants. Are the family tables in the middle to prevent potential customers from witnessing the mayhem and chaos that most family meals turn into, or is it really just a case of filling the windows with nice looking people? What if you’re dressed scruffily – do you get seated away from the window? I wonder if you can be turned away from a restaurant for looking terrible?

I didn’t stop. I continued walking to the supermarket, in search of salad and orange juice. I know – I know – work is picking up the tab, so I could have sat in the restaurant on my own, but I kind of hate doing that. If only I had a far flung friend from the distant internet to go eat dinner with. Alas, I do not – which explains the pasta salad, wrap, and bottle of orange juice I carried back to the hotel a few minutes later.

On the way back to the hotel I walked past a seemingly popular yoga place – filled with row upon row of athletic young women contorting their bodies in unison with each other. I had to look away in the end, as they bent double directly in front of me. I guess I could have looked, but would then have died if anybody had seen. I’m afraid living in a house with four women has done this to me – I will provide a level of decorum even if others do not (as witnessed when Miss 14 ran across the landing naked to turn her music down the other evening).

So here I am. Sitting in the hotel room. I think I’ll read my book. Feel free to email me, and rescue me from myself.

So much has happened in the last 18 hours. I’m having trouble processing it – struggling to arrange it all into a coherent story. Perhaps I’ll start at the beginning.

I was sitting in the junk room yesterday afternoon, minding my own business, when a chat window appeared in the browser – a friend who lives across the way. She asked after me – asked if I was doing anything for my birthday. I said no – and that it really didn’t matter – there were more important things to worry about.

Ten minutes later there was a knock on the door. I opened it, and discovered the same friend standing on the doorstep brandishing a red party bag, and the cheekiest grin I have seen in quite some time. I invited her in, and followed her through the house towards the kitchen – laughing when she agreed that her arrival was as much an escape from her own house, as an opportunity to deliver emergency birthday supplies.

The party bag contained two bottles of beer, and a bar of chocolate. I smiled as I lifted them out onto the kitchen counter, and offered a cup of tea.

“No thank-you. You always offer me a cup of tea when I come to visit, don’t you”

“Yes. I’m going to have one anyway”

We caught up with what our respective families have been doing, and I found myself listening, smiling, and realising how lucky I am to have at least a few really good friends. I might not have as many friends as most, but those I do have are pretty great – this particular friend perhaps being a favourite (don’t tell her – she’ll tease me unbearably). I told my small circle of friends how much I valued them late in the evening of a party last year, and got laughed at for being sentimental and drunk. I had to agree, but I meant it.

A little later in the evening Miss 17 went out to a house party, along with a friend she has had since secondary school. After spending several hours doing each other’s makeup, they set off, and I started to worry – in the way parents do when their children head out into the world.

Four hours later there was a knock at the door. The friend started apoligising immediately. Miss 17 was in the play-park across from our house, and wouldn’t come home. I pulled on a coat and shoes, and wandered off into the night to find her – spotting a familiar silhouette curled up in a ball at the top of the climbing frame.

Guess who – after talking her down, and holding her hand all the way home – spent another night alongside his 17 year old daughter again. I’m not going to get into the drama that had unfolded, because most of it is her story – but there is something I want to say that’s directly related to the tearful story I heard.

I think it’s terrifically unfair that teenage girls have to deal with the unchecked behavior of teenage boys – and that teenage boys, despite having the message about consent drummed into them from a young age, still think it’s fine to corner, and pressure girls. Why do girls have to learn to deal with so many assholes? Why is it seen as normal – as a right of passage – as part of growing up ?

I’m just thankful that Miss 17’s first instinct was to bail on the party – to come home – and that her friend had the sense to do the same.

After helping remove her makeup (spectacularly badly), we curled up in bed and watched “The Good Place” on Amazon. Within a few minutes she was fast asleep. After watching a few episodes, and half watching her sleep, I quietly turned everything off, and fell asleep alongside her. She woke several times during the night, waking me in return. I asked at one point if she still wanted me to stay – hoping to sneak back off to my own bed. She reached across and held onto me.

It’s official – I have now been standing, sitting, or lying down on this ball of mud, rock, and water for 45 laps of the sun. 45 is kind of a nothing age, isn’t it – not significant in any meaningful measure of anything. The weather has done it’s bit to cancel the event out too – making the entire family prisoners for the last few days, preventing any sort of birthday themed shenanigans from going on. We have no nice food in the cupboards, no wine, no beer. It’s all rather depressing really.

The children appeared mid-morning carrying a bag, and handed it to me. I feigned surprise as I unwrapped something we accidentally ordered from Amazon at Christmas for the children – that had now become my birthday present, because of course it wasn’t returned.

I now have one of those fitness tracking watch things. It’s a very basic one, but it’s something of a novelty. Fortunately it doesn’t track hours spent sitting in front of computers. No doubt I will write about it after wearing it around for a few days.

Anyway. I was born in 1973. A couple of years ago I had a go at writing an autobiography of sorts – I thought, given the date, it might be worth sharing the opening chapter once again.

Enjoy!

In the annuls of history, perhaps 1973 won’t go down as one of the more notable years. It doesn’t have the same instant recognition as 1066, 1492, of 1984. Anybody that paid attention at school would know that those years relate to the Battle of Hastings, the discovery of the North American continent by Columbus, and the release of the Apple Macintosh computer. OK, perhaps the Apple Macintosh is a bit of a stretch – maybe the book by George Orwell that countless generations of school children were forced to read during the late 1980s.

Year numbers are a funny thing really – given that they start at an arbitrary point in the history of the ball of mud we all inhabit as it whistles through outer-space, around a fairly ordinary G-Type main sequence star.

There are of course many and varied accounts of the pre-history of the ball of mud. Perhaps the most entertaining is that a bearded being dressed in bed linen conjured everything in the hereabouts during a few days of manic activity about four thousand years ago, before seemingly not lifting a finger ever again. Various peoples living on the ball of mud have debated over the skin colour, name, and rules set out by this mysterious being for at least the last two millennia.

Another idea proposed by more recent peoples furnished with enquiring minds – we might term them trouble makers – is that the some kind of colossal ‘big bang’ happened at some point in the very distant past, much like a cosmological piata being burst. This explosion furnished the nothingness with just enough building blocks to randomly evolve into what we now fail to agree on any understand of. Following the lead of Arthur C. Clarke, we might opine that the complexity of the world around us is sufficiently difficult to understand that we might accurately describe the process by which it arrived here as 'a kind of magic’.

So. Back to 1973.

In 1973 the United Kingdom, Republic of Ireland, and Denmark became members of the Economic community. At the time of writing a huge proportion of the population of the United Kingdom has decided that on reflection this perhaps wasn’t such a good idea, and are busily destroying the economy and the future of their children to somehow prove that the world would have been a much better place if only people hadn’t wanted to talk to, or help one another in the first place.

Far more important things happened in 1973 though. An American rock band called 'Aerosmith’, fronted by a man with an impossibly large mouth, released their debut album. For anybody reading this born at any point after 1983, albums were plastic discs scratched with wiggly lines, which when combined with the beak of a bird, would emit music (or perhaps that was the Flintstones? my memory isn’t what it once was).

Elvis Presley broadcast the first world-wide telecast by an entertainer, where he tried to beat the world record for eating the most hamburgers in one sitting. Or was it that he sang some songs about loving people tenderly, and trying to make a jail-house tip over? He did have a go at the hamburger challenge a few years later though, and died on the toilet mid-way through.

The Miami Dolphins completed the first (and only) perfect season in American Football League history, after defeating the Washington Redskins 14-7 in the Superbowl at the Los Angeles Coliseum. The rest of the world didn’t notice, because they all play Rugby as it was originally intended – without crash helmets, without body armor, and with far fewer teeth.

George Foreman hit Joe Frasier into next week to win the World Heavyweight Boxing Championship. He went on to a successful career selling cookers before completing a similar act on Michael Moorer 30 years later.

The World Trade Center opened in New York, instantly becoming the tallest building in the world (although beaten a month later by the Sears Tower). Nearly thirty years later it would almost ruin my wedding after a flying club in America didn’t think it strange that some of their students weren’t interested in learning about landing – only taking off. Of course the World Trade Center was modeled after a part of Skull Island, which lead to the 1970s iteration of King Kong climbing it’s heady heights while clasping a half-dressed Jessica Lange before ultimately being shot to pieces by the few helicopters that thought it wise to perhaps stay out of grabbing range.

In May, Skylab – a space station made out of leftover moon rocket parts – blasted off. A month later an emergency mission would be launched to repair it. When asked who broke it, the astronauts immediately pointed at each other. It turns out the repair was a bit of a waste of time anyway, because the entire enterprise ended up splashed across a huge swathe of Australia a few years later, narrowly missing built-up areas (of course in Australia, a built up area is two houses, three hundred miles down the road from each other, but still)

In September, Jim Croce continued the long standing tradition of singer songwriters in America of getting on board planes that wouldn’t reach their destination.

In November, after a summer of being accused of all sorts of sculduggery, US President Richard Nixon tells anybody that will listen to him that he is 'Not a Crook’. Nobody believes him in the slightest, and a few months later his presidency is consigned to history, and a number of highly entertaining films starring the likes of Robert Redford, Dustin Hoffman, and Michael Sheen.

Finally, in December, the movie 'The Sting’ hits cinemas, probably causing the biggest spike in traffic violations ever seen in San Francisco in the weeks that follow as twenty-something movie-goers attempt to re-enact scenes from the movie. San Francisco will go on to become the cinema-car-chase-capital-of-the-world for decades to come.

Oh yes. Almost forgot. Something else happened in 1973.

Early in the morning of Saturday March 3rd, in the John Radcliffe Hospital in Oxford, England, a little boy was born. For the first days of his life they thought he might have a serious problem with his brain – perhaps hydrocephalus – given the size of his head, until a doctor overheard his grandmother mention that they never could find hats to fit his Dad when he was a baby.

That little boy was me.

The local schools closed one-by-one yesterday evening. The children are all home today – as am I. My other half hasn’t been so lucky – she has walked to work at the local infant school, wrapped up like a polar explorer, oddly relishing the chance to get things done while the children are not there. I’m supposed to be “working from home” again, which really means “pretending to work from home”.

The snow has been steadily falling all morning, and is forecast to do so throughout the rest of the day. It speeds up, and it slows down, but it keeps falling. The temperature isn’t going to get above zero until some time tomorrow.

The interesting thing about the children being home? As soon as I put anything away, they get something out – and they never, ever clear up behind them. Miss 14 nearly set fire to the kitchen this morning, cooking bacon while also trying to make boiled eggs for Miss 12. I heard my other half walk into the kitchen and shout “WHAT THE HELL!?”. I wandered in after her, and could hardly see across the kitchen for smoke. Miss 14 started ranting about trying to do two things at the same time – apparently boiling an egg was a good reason not to see smoke belching out of the grill.

Why is it that when the kids don’t have to go to school, they are up and about at 7am? If today was a school day, we would be hauling crates of dynamite into their bedrooms. Having said that, it’s just passed 10:30am, with no sign of Miss 17. The amount she sleeps amazes me.

Coffee. I need a coffee. And a chocolate biscuit. I have lots of not very much to get on with. Coffee will help me with that.

In other news, I’m actually starting to feel better. After a succession of early nights, staying in the warm, drinking endless cups of tea, and eating quite a number of chocolate biscuits, my body seems to be winning the fight. Maybe I should start a niche blog about how to fix your body – filled with sanctimonious finger pointing posts and photos of myself in thick knit sweaters, holding cups of tea with mood lighting – you know, just like all those blogs I try to avoid.

I’m “working” from home today. While sitting in the junk room, surrounded by my work laptop and phone, a cup of tea, the bullet journal, and the various bits and bobs that clutter the desk, snow is steadily falling outside. It’s forecast to continue all day. An email went out to all staff this morning, inviting us to work from home if we want (read: if we possibly can).

I’m glad I’m at home to be honest – the virus that kept me at home earlier in the week is still kicking my butt. Cycling home through the snow last night in minus-whatever-it-was temperatures really took it out of me. My kidneys and lungs both ache this morning – or at least, I think they do – funnily enough I don’t have an X-Ray machine available to have a look, and even if I did, I wouldn’t have a clue what I was looking at. Sitting quietly at home in the warm will probably do me some good.

As far as I’m aware, the college that Miss 17 attends is the only place that has closed nearby – she is home too, and busy tidying her room up (for the first time in weeks). Miss 12 is at a residential school trip – no doubt having a wonderful time in the snow with her friends, and Miss 13 is at school. She left this morning like a polar explorer, wrapped in multiple layers, and the thickest coat in the known universe.

The washing machine and tumble dryer are rumbling away in the background. Whenever I work from home I carry on with chores as I might at a weekend. This of course means the weekend will become our own – there will be no chores, and (I’m guessing) football and rugby matches will be canceled.

What will we do with ourselves!? Sit indoors, do jigsaws, and drink endless cups of tea, I hope.

Before we get to the weekend I need to pretend to do some work. I have some documents to read, and attempt to understand. We all know I’m going to sit at home drinking tea, eating chocolate biscuits, and listening to Spotify while reading blog posts really, don’t we.

Where on earth is this year going? While it feels like I only just returned to the office after Christmas, somehow it’s already the end of February. Does life keep accelerating down-hill like this? Will I be saying the same thing about the end of March next year ?

I’m back in the office today. Busy responding to emails, and wondering what to do with myself. Work has come to a stuttering halt, after being told to stop working on the thing I was working on. Vague, I know.

Next week I’m traveling to the north of England – to sit in a conference room for the day. Two five hour train journeys and a night in a hotel in order to sit in a conference room for five or six hours. At least work will pay for a pizza from the restaurant next door, and breakfast in the hotel.

It’s been trying to snow here all day – we are just catching the edge of a storm system that has swept down from Siberia. If forecasts are correct, we’re going to get clobbered properly tomorrow and Friday. Snow here always causes chaos, because it snows so rarely in England. Nobody makes allowances for it – cars crash, railway signals freeze, power goes out – you name it. I see the mayhem unfolding, and wonder what my friend in Nova Scotia would make of it all.

I suppose I should stop writing this, and get on with updating the Bullet Journal. I haven’t written March in yet. I’ll put a big asterisk against the 3rd, because it will mark 45 years since the biggest nerd I know was born.

I came home from work mid-morning. I’ve most probably picked a virus up of the kids. While I don’t feel that dreadful, it was causing me to have trouble concentrating, which inevitably leads to all manner of creative and wonderful mistakes. Better not to make them in the first place than return tomorrow and try to pick apart what I might have done.

So here I am – back in the study at home. The washing machine is quietly rumbling it’s way through a spin cycle, somewhere else in the house. You might say the washing machine provides the background music to daily life around here.

I need to switch the central heating onto continuous – the temperature has dropped below freezing outside. National news is full of dire warnings about the end of civilisation as we know it – they do this every time a few flakes of snow fall. It’s every so slightly ridiculous. I imagine people will be panic buying bread and milk at the supermarket today. Idiots.

After back-filling Tumblr late last night, I continued on and resurrected an account at Ello. Remember Ello? They were the not-social network that was going to destroy Facebook a few years ago – in much the same manner that Vero seem to be attacking Instagram this week. I’ll give Ello a shot for a few months, and see where it leads. I’m thinking of this whole escapade as “taking my writing to the readers”, rather than hoping to persuade them to come visit one particular platform.

I wonder if a cup of coffee will make me feel any better?

I woke at 5:30am this morning. I’m not entirely sure how or why. I was suddenly wide awake, checking the radio alarm clock, reading email, and wondering about getting up. I didn’t. Somehow my body told my brain “don’t be so stupid”, and I woke again as the local radio station flooded the bedroom with mid 90s tunes, and the voice of a friend.

While I got on with a shower, making breakfast, and starting on lunches, a running battle began to form upstairs, where Miss 14 was threatened with the end of the world as she knew it if she didn’t get up and go to school. The battle raged on for the best part of an hour. She made my other half late for work, Miss 17 late for her work placement, and caused her younger sister to leave the house on the verge of tears after navigating an hour or shouting and screaming while trying to eat breakfast, and get her school bags ready.

I looked in on the war-zone during hostilities, and couldn’t quite believe that a teenage girl could willingly live in such deplorable conditions of her own making. I know people often remark about teenage boys living in hell-hole bedrooms, but this was on another level entirely.

Somehow – and I’m still not entirely sure how – my other half got through to her. After receiving repeated assurances that she really was getting up and going to school, everybody began running from the house like rats deserting a sinking ship – leaving me behind to ensure promises were kept.

“Are you working from home?”

“No. I’m waiting for you to leave before I do.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t trust you any more.”

“What should I say to the office at school when I get there ?”

“The truth – that you couldn’t be bothered to get up.”

“But I don’t want to tell them that.”

“Maybe you should have thought about that an hour ago.”

I felt awful, shutting her down like that, but given my other half had already written to the school to let them know exactly what had transpired, there seemed little point in fabricating any sort of story.

After watching her walk to the far corner of the green where we live, I texted my other half, emailed work (telling them I would be late), and retrieved my bike from the shed.

Somehow I arrived at the office on-time, and sat on my own for the first ten minutes. I’m not entirely sure why so many of my co-workers think it’s fine to arrive a few minutes late. Perhaps being on-time is just another hang-up to add to my collection – along with obeying every rule in existence if I possibly can.

Anyway. It’s half past three in the afternoon at the time of writing, and I just stopped work for a few minutes to write this. I worked straight through lunch (again), and hadn’t really stopped – I’m not entirely sure emptying my head will help at all, but I guess there’s hope.

I need to book flights and train tickets soon. I’m heading to the north of England in a few days, and then to Germany again next month. I still haven’t learned any Germany beyond “Hallo”, “Danke”, “Nein”, and a particularly effective lost expression.