Not as good as I think I am

The silence of this blog is due in part to me being a bit of a twat. You see I'm working too much. There's so much going on that I rarely have time to think, let alone blog. In my haste to make things happen, I discovered today that I've got up the nose of one or two of my colleges. It took me aback, as I'd no inkling.

It hurt a good bit too, as I like to think of myself as a self-aware gaffer who treats others with respect. Obviously not as self-aware as I'd thought.

Being unable to make an omelet without breaking eggs and not keeping everyone happy all of the time are useful adages to relieve the ambivalence of being a nice guy and also a twat. I suppose there will always be people who dislike you regardless. There will be some who really don't give a toss and others that think you're an alright guy who can sometimes be a goon.

"Professional jealousy," a trusted friend said to me "they just wished they had your job."

Mebby.

Mebby I've still got a lot to learn.

Onwards and upwards, eh?

Camp 22

There are many books I'm embarrassed to admit I haven't read. Catch 22 being a case in point. I can now announce that I have read it and despite the book being fabulous, I'm utterly knackered and more than just a little bit resentful.

You see, I've been away on the annual "give mother a rest" camping sojourn to the North York Moors with my kids who are exquisitely attuned to the passing of day and night.

At home we interfere in this diurnal influence by way of blackout curtains and double glazing. In a tent however, with two gossamer layers, the chimps stir at daybreak at the same time the sheep start to honk their non-baa baa's.

Ordinarily we all go to sleep at the same time on these trips. This damned book however, kept me up into the wee hours, bloody thing. Anyway, I'm back now and settled on the couch for a little light blogging whilst my rested wife cooks dinner for us all.

The highlight of our break was catching the steam train from Pickering and spending the day hopping on and off to Whitby and back. The sprogs enjoyed the clackety-clack. I enjoyed exploring the quiet rotting areas behind the stations and engine sheds where age old machinery returns slowly to the earth.

Utterly meaningless

This is Dominic at seven months. He was born with that look on his face. I have countless photos, just like this one of him looking with wonderment at his bright new world.

If he typed he would have overused exclamation marks.

He's a boy of course, albeit an older one now, so naturally his life is still lived at full tilt. I've not seen this expression however, since sometime into his second year.

A good move for his dating prospects I suspect.

Despite having no recollection of being a baby, it's natural to transfer your thoughts onto your pre-linguistic children. As such, I imagine that Dom spent his first year shouting "Wow!!!! Would you look at that! Amaaazing!!!"

The unfortunate truth is that we, post one-year-olds, have little chance of re-capturing those purely experiential moments that the infant takes for granted.

We're lost in meaning.

The world is as it is to the infant - with all its colours, oudours and textures. It's unpolluted with any inference or meaning. Blue is simply the qualia blue; not sadness, the colour of the Conservative Party or a shit boy band. It just is.

Despite the obvious advantages to understanding meaning, we expend so much energy trying to recover this pre-state. Fuck how we try... We get stoned, climb hills, run for miles, have sex, make music, cuddle, cry and laugh. Well I do, at least (though not all at the same time).

Some of us may pray, meditate or even speak in tongues.

All of which are vain attempts to re-connect with the animal within us - that pure, meaningless understanding of the universe that will not be given context, let alone be described.

So when you hear talk of the ineffable or the infallible, or the indescribable beauty of love then this is what it means;

That I've come home from a rare night out at the pub and have blogged whilst inebriated as my wife sleeps.

In summation;

Drink it all up. Gulp it down in one great, wide eyed stare.

Motivation

We carried it up over the hill and all the way home for no other reason than she thought it was pretty.

One can dream

We have spent this past week in our little wooden cottage high on the north face of the Coquet Valley. Well, I say ours, I mean friends of the family who are now in their eighties and can no longer manage the incline.

It’s a wonderful place, so much so that we’ve explored numerous financial machinations to buy it. They’re pipe dreams of course and quite profoundly beyond our reach. Perhaps in a few years we'll have the means...


Despite London forecasters predicting a northern dousing, Miche & I have enjoyed each glorious evening in the sun room as the kids fall asleep. This was the view;



Anyway, that's quite enough chatter - we've unpacking to do. Here's some more holiday snaps;