write.as/jonbeckett

I fell asleep on the way home. More than once. I’m pretty sure that I was only asleep for a few moments, but you never really know, do you. For all I know it could have been minutes – it felt like seconds. I fought it for the better part of an hour – eventually a coffee bought on my way through Reading Station woke me back up.

Today was a long day. It began when I slid out of bed at 5am, showered, shaved, dressed in the clothes prepared last night, and slipped quietly from the house to catch the 6am train. After several changes of train, I arrived at my final destination the better part of an hour early. Better that than a mad scramble. I sat quietly in the final railway station cafe sipping coffee and catching up on the news before eventually flagging down a taxi for the final leg of the journey.

I can’t tell you about the middle part of the day – the brain draining part – because of all the usual reasons. Let’s just say I then sat in a conference room with my laptop for 7 hours without a break.

I’m tired this evening.

I’m sorting through fragmented memories of the train journey in my head, wondering if there are any stories worth telling. One in particular comes to mind – an elderly gentleman sporting an iPhone X that sat opposite me on the way home. He was perhaps mid seventies, but dressed like somebody in their mid thirties. His phone rang while sitting across from me, causing him to fish it from his pocket, and delight the rest of the train carriage with the ring-tone (on maximum volume) for some time while he tried to unlock the phone with his face again and again. He eventually gave up and keyed in a pin number – twice – before answering it. The caller hung up just as he shouted “HELLO?”.

Anyway…

I finally arrived home to an empty house at about 7:30pm, and set about both clearing up after everybody else, and cooking dinner for one. The younger children have been at Girl Guides all evening, and our eldest was at a friend’s house (she arrived home a few minutes ago, after being threatened with draconian sanctions). I re-heated the saucepan of bolognese sauce sitting on the cooker, and threw some pasta in a saucepan of boiling water. Ten minutes later, I slumped in front of the computer and scrolled the social internet while feeding my face.

As soon as everybody else returns home I will go to bed. I have to be up at 6am tomorrow – I’ve already ironed clothes and hung them up. Before that, I’ll try and get through the various blogs I try to follow – clicking like buttons and posting comments as I go.

Oh – and you know that second blog I was contemplating writing? I’ve still not even looked at it. How surprising is that ?

It’s Tuesday evening, just gone 9pm, and I’ve just sat down. I left work a little after five, and have spent the intervening four hours walking back and forth across town – meeting Miss 17 who dropped Miss 12 at her dance class, walking Miss 17 home – then turning tail and walking back to grab Miss 12 and walk her to football practice. Then back home to pick up an old kit bag (she received new kit tonight), and back again to bring her home. In-between running here, there, and everywhere I cleaned the kitchen up, tidied the lounge, put a load in the washing machine, and downed a mug of coffee.

Even though I cycle to work and sat at my desk all day today digging an enormous hole in a corporate system to find out what they had done to it, I’ve still racked up ten thousand steps.

Off the back of all that, I have to be up at 5am tomorrow, in order to catch the 6am train out of town. I’ll get home at perhaps 8pm, and then do it again the next day to travel into central London. On Friday I’m back in the office, and then on Saturday I’m apparently taking Miss 17 to “Hyper Japan” in London – another early start – another long (and expensive) day.

I’m running on empty, and we’re not even half-way through the week.

Oh – while I think of it – the front light on my bike failed tonight. I need to order one from the internet, and have it delivered to the office. There’s no point getting anything delivered to home because there’s nobody there in the daytime any more. I must remember to take tools to work on Friday to fit it during my lunch-break.

Now that will be a novelty – a lunch-break.

I’ve been sitting around a conference room table in a hotel all day with co-workers, taking turns to talk about the various technologies we find ourselves using, for the benefit of the management and sales guys. Also present was the girl that has taken over posting to the social internet accounts on behalf of the company – to fill her head with ideas.

As the day ended and we said our goodbyes, I introduced myself…

“I should probably come and say hello to you”

“Yes – you’re the one with all the followers at Twitter aren’t you.”

I grinned. Somehow I have ended up with more followers than everybody else in the company combined. There’s a simple reason why – (a) I’ve been at Twitter since it launched, and (b) I used to play the whole social media game – mostly for fun. Like many people I eventually grew tired of playing “who can piss the highest”, and let’s admit it – that’s all Twitter really is – hence the proliferation of marketing accounts.

The conversation got me thinking. What if I started writing a professional blog again? A blog filled with shared knowledge, code snippets, and how-to articles? I used to write one – which is half the reason for the army of dead accounts following me on Twitter. I used to write up notes, and share them with the world. I used to do a lot of things.

It’s tinkering again though, isn’t it. If I just have this one blog (the one you’re reading) I can happily write all this rubbish just to get it out of my head. Occasionally I write things people agree with, and that makes it all somehow worthwhile.

I don’t know though. There’s a huge temptation to feed the Twitter monster and ramp up the follower numbers once again – if for no other reason than to annoy everybody I work with that might look at the numbers.

Do I even have time to write a second blog?

I’ve just re-written the title of this blog post three times. It started out as “Reflections on a a Few Weeks of Trying Harder”, and then “Expending Effort”, before finally settling on a paraphrased version of Tolkien’s words from The Hobbit.

I’ve been putting a bit more effort than usual into this whole blogging escapade over the last couple of weeks. I’ve been attempting to publish something or other almost every day, and setting off across the internet in search of others telling their story – often in the dead of night, because that tends to be the only uninterrupted time I get.

I think perhaps the least surprising discovery of the last week has been how rare I am – a male blogger, sharing candid diary or journal entries recording every day life. The most surprising discovery – certainly of the last week – has been the “single mum” bloggers.

While digging a huge hole through internet in search of interesting posts, I stumbled upon a single mum telling stories about her experiences with Tinder. The comments lead to another, and another. For several hours I read their hilarious/horrifying stories, and hit the follow button again and again. Their stories about meeting lunatics for coffee reminded me of my own story. I met my other half on the internet, back when it was rare to do so – we dined out on our story for years.

Following the journey of discovery over the last few weeks, I’ve decided to share. You’ll notice there is now a “Blogroll” link at the top of the blog (if you’re looking at it via the web). I wrote a Python script to compile it – it loops through an OPML export from Wordpress Reader, then visits each feed to grab the description. If I wanted to be OCD, I could probably write capsule reviews of each blog, but then I would worry about playing favourites.

Right! I can no longer hear the washing machine in the background. Time to go get on with chores. Hope you’re having a great weekend – if you’re around, feel free to distract me from my attempts to avoid the arrival of Monday.

You might say the title of this post is every so slightly sarcastic. We just spent the greater part of the evening sitting in the gymnasium of a school playing bingo. A fundraiser to help purchase books, stationary, and whatever else the profit margin from pens, chocolate bars, and fizzy drinks might raise.

I didn’t win a single thing all night, but the children did. Chocolates, a hot chocolate mug, a cake baking set, and various other bits and pieces. One of the games during the evening involved everybody being issued with a raffle ticket – then standing at their table as each ticket was randomly called until one person was left standing. Our middle girl was third from last in a room of a hundred people – in the latter stages I thought she might explode from excitement.

This is life with children. While other people head out for the evening on a weekend with friends to their favourite bars and restaurants, we sit in school gymnasiums. During the daytime we stand at the touchline of football and rugby pitches, stamping our feet to keep warm, eeking out a flask of hot tea throughout each game. From the moment we re-enter the house until the moment we fall into bed the washing machine and dryer will run flat-out – filled with school clothes, sports kit, and bedding. We fill the machines again, and again – slowly decorating the house each weekend and weekday evening with damp clothes hanging on every radiator.

Before heading out to the fund raiser tonight I made dinner for everybody from whatever I could find in the freezer and the cupboards. Frozen chips, baked beans, and fried eggs for everybody. I managed to explode the yoke of several of the eggs while frying them – I’ll never get hired to cook in a roadside cafe, let alone a restaurant.

It’s now heading towards 10pm, and I’ve shut myself away in the junk room to write this – with the hope of spending an hour or so catching up with distant friends. Before that happens I have to go and break up a fight that appears to be be happening in the upstairs bathroom. I can hear Miss 12 and 13 fighting over the bathroom like it’s a bridgehead in the second world war. I’ll be back.

Following my self imposed imprisonment construction of a catch-net for Miss 17 this evening instead of sitting in a rugby stadium with the rest of my family watching England destroy Canada in sub-zero temperatures, I have been enjoying the finest cheap(ish) bottle of wine available from the local supermarket.

I have now drunk two rather large glasses. Two thirds of the bottle has gone. I’m keeping the final third to award to my other half when she gets in. If I drink it, all bets are off in either my ability to string two words together, or my ability to avoid a headache in the morning.

It’s a funny thing – drinking. I’ve always been the kind of person that can take or leave most things. I’m aware that not all people are like me though – as evidenced by those that know better than to let themselves anywhere near alcohol, or any other mind altering substance. Half the reason two glasses of wine have gone straight to my head is because it’s the first alcohol I have drunk all week. Alcohol is probably something of a shock to my caffeine proof innards.

Something I do know about drinking is that you hit a sort of “sweet spot” – after a couple of drinks your inhibitions fall away, and something is unlocked in your brain. Perhaps it’s not something specific – perhaps the removal of filters, and pretend bravery allows us to say and do things we might not otherwise contemplate. We can suddenly win the game of pool because we play on instinct. We can suddenly talk to this guy or that girl because we stop over-analyzing every word that leaves our mouth. Maybe we say what we’re really thinking.

It’s a two-way street though. While some of us become introspective, truthful, and charming when the filters are removed, others become aggressive, angry, and abusive. I’ve seen it happen, more than once.

I know it shouldn’t be funny, but my favourite memory of character altering inebriation happened nearly twenty years ago. The son of the boss of the company I was working for had been drinking heavily during a night out at a ten-pin-bowling alley. He was boasting about how much his designer shirt cost. A slightly overweight guy piped up “see this?” (he points at his faded Disneyland t-shirt) – this cost me 3000. The young, drunk guy EXPLODED – trying to throw punches while being held back by his friends. I’m giggling while writing this – twenty years later.

Anyway. I’m NOT drinking any more tonight. I’m saving the rest for my other half when she gets home. If I drink any more, all manner of truths, secrets and idiocy will probably start seeping through the keyboard and out onto the internet.

Trust me – you really don’t want to know either how much I like half of you, how much I dislike less than half of you, or who can go stick it right up their…

I had tickets to the England Ladies rugby game against Canada this evening. I left work early so we could set off in time to get there and find our seats in the stadium. I’m not at the England Ladies rugby game – I’m sitting in the study at home, so Miss 17 doesn’t come home to an empty house. Thankfully the tickets weren’t too expensive. At some point later this evening I will receive a text message, and make my way to the local railway station to walk Miss 17 home.

Surprisingly, I’m not too angry about it. I might be a bit more angry if Miss 17 gets off the train with friends, going through with plans for a sleepover that we said a big fat “no” to last night. I haven’t seen her since – she stopped eating dinner on the spot, walked to her room, and shut the door.

If each year of adolescence has a phrase attached to it, I’m going to pencil in “give an inch, take a foot” for “17”.

Anyway – at least she will be safe, and I’m sitting in the warm, instead of being wrapped in a coat, hat, and scarf in the stadium all night. I think the temperature might dip below freezing later too – although I’m guessing a crowd keeps itself warm in much the same way penguins do.

I’m listening to P!nk on Spotify. While there’s nobody around I get to turn her up to 11, and nobody complains. I think the old lady next door is as deaf as a post, so no brooms being thumped against the wall either. P!nk wrote her music to be played loud, didn’t she.

I would wander to the corner shop and pick up a bottle of wine and some chocolate, but gave all my cash to the rest of the family as they headed out to the game. Money for hot chocolate, and snacks. I think they might need it.

“Just Give Me a Reason” started playing. I might have to stop typing to listen. I don’t tend to sing along to anything – I sit in silence, listening, and nerding out.

What else can I fill my evening with? Another dive into the lives of others through the mighty Wordpress? Quite possibly. If you see likes, comments, and whatever else from me, at least you’ll know what’s going on.

Hey – it’s the weekend. I almost forgot. I should probably do a carthwheel or something – if I did though, I would almost certainly destroy the other desk, and break my legs. Better not try. It’s the weekend though! (does silent – and slightly pathetic – fist pumping cheer).

Postscript – Miss 17 texted me just as I settled down with a giant tub of ice-cream that everybody else forgot about. I almost ran to the train station – the train rolled in just as I approached. It’s already below zero outside. She left the train alone (phew!), and we walked into town together to get her something to eat. And a bottle of wine. Don’t judge me. Home again now, looking for something ridiculous to watch.

This morning was… interesting. By “interesting”, I probably mean lots of other words, but I’m unsure if I should write them down or not. Some of them will be swear words, some of them will by hyperbole, and some of them will be expressions of disbelief.

Let’s just shorten what could be a long, angry, depressing post into a few words – teenage girls are a bloody nightmare.

We woke Miss 17 twice this morning to get up for college, and she still managed to sleep in. The same thing happened last week – she blamed us for not waking her. There will be words this evening that she will no doubt ignore. Taking my old XBox 360 away from her might wake her up. I suppose on the plus side, she did get up eventually.

Miss 13 didn’t get out of bed at all this morning – despite myself and my other half spending an hour fighting tooth and nail with her. In response she no longer has any access to television, video games, the internet, mobile phone, or laptop, and has been dropped by the local girls football team (at our request).

Meanwhile Miss 12 is scared to death. She hates conflict, and yet walks into it at every turn with her sisters. She knew what was going down this morning, got herself up without being chased, got her own breakfast, and got herself out of the front door. I’m going to try and get home in time to meet her when she returns this evening.

None of this is in the (non existent) “teenage girl parenting instruction book”.

My other half fell to the floor in the hallway crying this morning. After spending three years struggling to rebuild our eldest daughter, we’re now facing history repeating itself with our middle daughter, while also trying to shield our youngest from it all.

I can’t imagine the next days and weeks are going to be much fun.

No, I haven’t built a working prototype of the “Proton Pack” from the movie Ghostbusters, and no I’m not doing battle with a giant version of the Staypuft Marshmallow Man.

I’m considering adding a few bits and pieces to the blog – primarily the social menu (containing links to Twitter, Tumblr, Facebook, and Instagram), and the Instagram webpart. I may change my mind and remove them just as quickly as I add them, but we’ll see. Postscript – I removed them.

The truth is, I don’t really hold much stock in the social networks, because I don’t think they’re really “social”. It’s not really about what I think though – it’s about others. I know other people use them regularly, and they might want to connect to me elsewhere – so it seems a bit ridiculous not to link to any of the other places I can be found, purely because I don’t happen to use them much.

I guess I also worry that linking to things outside of the blog will just complicate, or even dilute the posts. If you are anything like me though, you’re not even going to be reading this on the web – you’ll be in the Wordpress Dashboard, or Feedly, or BlogLovin, or some other application. I’m probably over-thinking it all – I’m good at over-thinking things.

Oh – probably worth mentioning that I tend to use WhatsApp for instant messaging – if you are ever bored and fancy a chat, get in touch via the contact page, and we can exchange numbers. I also have Snapchat on my phone, but have never really used it on account of it being the worst designed mobile app in the known universe.

Today has been a day for reflection. A day to get through. A difficult day. Today an old friend was buried.

I put on a clean shirt, pulled my suit from it’s bag, took care over the windsor knot in my tie, polished my shoes, and held my better half’s hand as we walked into the quiet parish Church together. We found a spot near the back, and quietly waited as the pews filled with family, friends, co-workers and acquaintances of our friend.

I was doing ok, right up until the parents took turns to address the congregation. I think having children changes you somehow. I used to be able to deal with funerals, but seeing the world through a parent’s eyes is somehow closer to home – somehow more affecting. My other half passed me a tissue, and grabbed my hand.

I didn’t say the prayers. It would have felt hypocritical. I listened though – I listened to stories about childhood, life, adventure, friendship, character, and wanted to applaud some of those that spoke – but of course you don’t do that at funerals. The church was filled beyond capacity, and yet you could have heard a pin drop throughout.

Outside the coffin was lowered into the ground, and the sound of flowers thudding onto it’s lid echoed around all those present. An ex-colleague I haven’t seen for years stood in a long coat at the side of the church path – we approached each other and hugged – no words were exchanged. It’s a strange and powerful thing, loss.