tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-39470515675852072742024-03-08T16:04:58.627-08:00ROAD MAP OF A MID-LIFE CRISISOllyPwenglhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10653603566577085460noreply@blogger.comBlogger13125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3947051567585207274.post-23054322294460337762017-07-18T09:52:00.004-07:002017-07-18T09:52:53.948-07:00ROAD MAP OF A MID-LIFE CRISIS (13)
<b>Leftovers</b>
Thursday evening and I am opening the front door. Moppet has had the day off and I am greeted by the comforting smells of home cooked food. “Hi, I’m home,” I shout as I kick off my shoes.
“Good timing,” Moppet replies from the kitchen. “Your dinner will be ready in five minutes.”
I dash upstairs to change and wonder what treat lies in store. Back downstairs, I poke my head through the kitchen door looking for clues. The work surfaces are bare and the hob is clear.
Moppet spots me and shoos me out. “Go and sit down, it’s a surprise.”
I take my place at the table and hear the familiar ping of the microwave. Ah, I have it! Take away. Whilst I am inwardly congratulating myself on my powers of deduction, Moppet approaches with a plate of steaming food. She looks very pleased with herself as if she is about to present me with a meal that will live long in the memory. She places it in front of me.
“You not eating?” I ask.
“No, I ate earlier,” she says and disappears off back to the kitchen.
I look down at dinner and my heart sinks. What confronts me is like walking into a room and finding several acquaintances savagely murdered. Visible within a Gordian knot of tomato sauce smeared tagliatelle are pieces of broccoli, spinach leaves, spring onions and two rather ominous looking lumps of greying flesh.
I should make it clear that Moppet is not a bad cook. She does, however, approach issues of food safety with an attitude that is cavalier bordering on the criminally reckless. She laughs at sell by dates and regards best before dates rather like Robert Mugabe regards the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. Our fridge is like food Alcatraz. There are only way two ways out. Either on a plate or by evolving complex microbial mutations which enable the food to escape and live a fulfilling life as a recruitment consultant. There may or may not be intelligent life on other planets but I am convinced that there are flourishing civilisations yet to be discovered living in our salad crisper.
The constituent parts of my dinner are like old friends. The broccoli has been hanging around in the bottom of the fridge for some weeks. I don’t recall how it got in there and I do not rule out the possibility that it may just be a very vigorous strain of mould from the cheddar that has been in the door tray since Christmas. The spinach I dimly recall was from a bag of baby spinach bought so long ago that the remnants on my plate must now be thinking about their GCSE options. The spring onions, well lets just say they have long since lost their spring.
The grey flesh I realise with a shudder is the remnants of a pack of chicken pieces with a more interesting life story than many of the people I work with. On Friday of last week they emerged having been entombed in the freezer and I first encountered them thawing out on the draining board. They spent the weekend cooling their heels in the fridge before on Sunday evening Moppet announced that she was making a casserole. By Monday morning there was a large white bowl covered in tin foil occupying the fridge and despite the coolness I swear that I could hear the contents bubbling. By Wednesday night I was convinced that the chicken pieces had risen like the undead and were trying to crawl out of the bowl. And now here they are on my plate. I’m not sure whether to eat them or put a stake through their heart.
Moppet appears from the kitchen. “Everything alright?” she asks.
“Oh yes,” I say with as much enthusiasm as I can muster. I make a convincing show of tucking in but I’m careful only to eat the pasta and to leave untouched the zombie chicken and the Frankenstein vegetables.
“Marks out of ten?” asks Moppet.
“Eight. Definitely 8 out of ten,” I say smiling.
“Good,” says Moppet, “I’m just going upstairs to sort out the washing.”
As I hear her footsteps fade on the stairs I make a bolt for it and shovel the environmental health disaster that is my dinner into the bin. I am careful to cover it over with a plastic bag to avoid discovery.
Later, as we sit on the sofa, Moppet says, “It’s good that we use up all the leftovers.”
“Yes,” I say nodding, “but great as it was I’m still a bit peckish.”
“Do you fancy some cheese and biscuits?” asks Moppet.
“That would be nice.”
“I think there’s some cheddar in the fridge,” says Moppet and I’m not quick enough to stop her getting up.
OllyPwenglhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10653603566577085460noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3947051567585207274.post-71001359837972285082012-09-16T15:10:00.001-07:002012-09-16T15:10:27.240-07:00ROAD MAP OF A MID-LIFE CRISIS (12)
“OSCAR; I AM YOUR FATHER”
A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, when I was still married and when my children thought I could do no wrong, we made a film; “Star Wars Episode VII The Search for Yoda”. There is no doubting it was an ambitious project for our first feature. I will readily admit that the plot was fairly threadbare, the special effects amateurish and the production values not those of George Lucas, and yet…. I am staring at the VHS cassette now as I go through a box of old stuff, reminders of a life left behind.
I have no means of playing the tape but if memory serves the film was an undoubted classic of home cinema; a definite cut above the usual sun drenched, poolside antics and the solemn recording of early years’ birthdays.
I remember that in the film I played Obi-Wan Kenobi (the Ewan McGregor Obi-Wan rather than the Alec Guiness version). For some reason that I cannot now recall, my costume consisted of an old beige mac and trousers tucked into blue football socks. Eldest son Emil who was 7 at the time played Vader and Oscar who was 5 played Yoda and any other characters who Vader needed to kill with his light sabre. The film was shot on location in the kitchen, back garden, driveway and, the climactic final scene, in Oscar’s bedroom.
As I think back I get a warm glow and then I have an idea. I will get the tape converted to DVD. I will play it to the boys and they will see the wonderful time we had making the film and it will reinforce our bond, bring us closer together. In fact I will post it on You Tube so the whole world can see what a great time we had making the film. We will become a You Tube sensation.
It is now some weeks later. I have the converted cassette on DVD and am ready to play it for the first time to Emil and Oscar. At least I would be if Oscar wasn’t so busy killing Nazi zombies on COD and Emil wasn’t sulking because he wants to watch wrestling. This isn’t the warm happy atmosphere I had anticipated for our father son bonding session but I plough on regardless.
Brandishing the DVD I say, “Lets watch this,” with a forced joviality which the boys fail to pick up on. Their reaction, if I’m honest, lacks any real enthusiasm.
“What is it?” asks Emil, sullenly.
“Do you remember years ago when we made that Star Wars film? Eh! Eh! You remember.”
Emil nods and begins to look vaguely engaged. Oscar’s eyes roll to the back of his head as if I have asked him to write thank you letters to elderly aunts. I cajole them into sitting down and put the DVD in the player. The title sequence begins to play. My voice can be heard humming the theme music until it trails away theatrically to on screen giggles from Oscar. Then the iconic “Far far away” intro script, stretching to infinity, before the camera switches to focus on the boys sitting at the kitchen table. Gorgeously young and wide eyed they stare at the camera in between frantically drawing primitive Star Wars pictures.
The boys sitting either side of me are engrossed by their younger selves. The camera zooms in on their art work to reveal a kaleidoscope of flashing light sabres. Then we move outside to the front garden and a close-up on three Star Wars action figures and it is at this point that I obviously decided to add an ironic post-modern twist to our movie. Instead of just filming the boys as they play with the figures, I start to question them in the manner of a documentary maker. They look at the camera bewildered
Then we are back inside. Oscar’s blue duvet cover is draped over the back of 2 dining room chairs to provide an authentic deep space backdrop and a Lego model of the Millennium Falcon is wobbling in mid air suspended on lengths of string. As the camera pans out we see Oscar stood on the table manoeuvring the spacecraft and fielding more of my inane questions. Beside me on the sofa, Emil snorts with laughter and I am pleased that he at least is enjoying the show.
“We should put this on You Tube,” I say.
“Yes, can we?” asks Emil enthusiastically.
“Sure,” I say although in truth I have no idea how to do it.
Oscar lets out a sorrowful sigh and pulls his knees up to his chin.
The scene shifts to a shot of my feet. I am delivering my lines in my best Obi-Wan voice but suddenly I snap, “I’m not in that shot at all, am I?” My voice is ill tempered and jars with the feel good atmosphere I was hoping to create. The camera pans up to show me glowering at the hapless Emil as he operates the camera.
Next the big fight scene in which Vader’s hand (a glove) is chopped off in a light sabre duel before we scour the house looking for Yoda. The climactic final scene occurs in Oscar’s bedroom. He has spent several minutes in make-up to prepare for his starring role. His face has been painted green and he is wearing something that looks suspiciously like the shepherd’s outfit from the school nativity. As a finishing touch he is sporting two enormous ears made out of paper, cut to shape, coloured green and fastened to his head by means of an elastic band. As the camera enters his room Yoda emerges from beneath the bed to cries of “found him!” but instead of hanging around to milk his moment in the spotlight he makes a beeline for the door and disappears from view.
It is only at this point I remember that Oscar had been reduced to tears because the elastic band fixing his ears had been too tight. The final credits roll. On one side of me Emil is smiling and asking if we can watch the whole thing again on the other Oscar has his head buried in his knees. I put my arm around him and hold him tight. I sense his shame and the memory of pain that is evoked by watching this film. Inside I feel a pang of dread as I realise that in years to come my boys will look back on their childhood with a totally different perspective from me and I pray they will forgive me for the pain I have caused them.
OllyPwenglhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10653603566577085460noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3947051567585207274.post-27462694491907231222012-08-04T22:05:00.001-07:002012-08-04T22:07:01.414-07:00ROAD MAP OF A MID LIFE CRISIS (11)<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 2.0cm;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 150%;">SPORTS DAY</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 2.0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 2.0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It is the Office Sports Day and I am lining up at the start of the veterans’ 3,000 metres race. Anybody who has read my previous posts may be wondering whether they are reading the right blog. This opening sentence comes way out of left field and is the literary equivalent of turning on your TV to find Jeremy Clarkson hosting a late night discussion on gender equality issues. The image of me in shorts and running shoes will jar with the mental picture you have built up of someone more at home in the pub with drink in hand so let me rewind.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 2.0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 2.0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It is April when an e-mail drops into my inbox at work. “Wanted! Volunteers for the Compliance team on sports day.” My finger is poised over the delete button when I hear a low throaty chuckle from the desk opposite. It is Chuck Pangodje, the Carl Lewis of Office Sports Day. Every year he returns with a clutch of gold medals. “Are you going to enter?” he asks with a wolfish grin.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 2.0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 2.0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Oh no,” I reply shaking my head in a sorrowful way which I hope will subliminally communicate to Chuck that I would dearly love to but that matters far too painful to mention prevent my participation.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 2.0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 2.0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Chuck has many admirable qualities but reading subtle non-verbal communication is not one of them. “You should,” he says, “You would do well in the over 40’s races.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 2.0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 2.0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Really? Do you think so?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 2.0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 2.0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“You could win a medal.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 2.0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 2.0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">As a child you are compelled to run around muddy fields in the cold in the name of physical education and whilst I would finish school races ahead of those of my classmates who suffered from morbid obesity, asthma and chronic lack of co-ordination, I was no athlete. But, as the years pass, memory fades and I find myself watching sport on TV and thinking, I could do that. Chuck is pushing at the open door of my self-delusion and so it is I find myself travelling by train to Sports Day with Chuck seated alongside me.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 2.0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 2.0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">******<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 2.0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Back on the starting line; I am looking around at my fellow competitors. Some are built like racing snakes. Slim and muscled; they have all the right kit and complicated watches to monitor their progress. These people have obviously done this type of thing since leaving school and irrationally I feel that they are cheating. I mentally concede that unless I am lapped this is the closest I am going to get to these people. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 2.0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 2.0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The starting pistol sounds and I start running. The true athletes effortlessly leave we lesser beings trailing in their wake. I settle into a kind of rhythm but the act of running seems laboured. As we round the first bend I find myself on the shoulder of a short, Asian man. He is a little overweight with a baseball cap covering his thinning hair. His shorts are knee length and khaki, his socks grey. This man has surely never run in his life. I will overtake him and he will feel deflated as I motor past and disappear into the distance. But whilst my mind is having this thought my body is sending out quite different messages. I’m breathing heavily and I find I do not have another gear. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 2.0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 2.0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Then the PA system bursts into life and I can hear the announcer’s tinny voice, “Ladies and Gentleman, if I can draw your attention to the over 40’s 3,000 metres which has just started on the running track. It would be great if you could give all the runners your support but in particular Hanif Butt…” I look at the chap I am chasing. He is the only vaguely Asian looking runner and so I conclude that he is Hanif. He too has heard the announcement and he puts on a spurt when his name is mentioned leaving me panting as I try desperately to keep up. “…..it is two years since his heart transplant and this is his first race since the operation”. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 2.0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 2.0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">From across the field I hear a ripple of appreciative applause and I die a little inside. I finish the race well ahead of Hanif but he is without doubt the winner.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 2.0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 2.0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I wander across to the start line where Chuck’s race is about to start. I see that he is hobbling and wincing. “Problem?” I enquire.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 2.0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 2.0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Chuck nods, “I’ve strained my calf muscle warming up.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 2.0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 2.0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I grimace to show I understand. “You can only do your best,” I say, “in the end the only person you are competing against is yourself.” I look off to the middle distance in a John Wayne sort of way to make sure Chuck appreciates the profundity of my words. He stares at me blankly but deep down I think he has a new found respect for me.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 2.0cm;"><br />
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</div>OllyPwenglhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10653603566577085460noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3947051567585207274.post-77839967643336041382012-03-15T06:24:00.000-07:002012-03-15T06:24:40.860-07:00ROAD MAP OF A MID-LIFE CRISIS (10)ROAD MAP OF A MID-LIFE CRISIS (10)<br />
"IF YOU BUILD IT THEY WILL COME"<br />
<br />
Its Saturday and I'm in the flat waiting for Emil and Oscar. I'm reclining in the folding chair which has now been joined by a sofa. You may well ask yourself why, if I have a sofa, I'm still making use of the folding chair. I will say no more than this; "IKEA".<br />
<br />
I could have written a whole blog on the topic but it is not only the sofa that is new, I now have television. This is why I have not posted for two months. Every time I feel inspired to commit to writing some humorous incident in my life that illustrates a universal truth I find there is something unmissible on television; like the episode of Time Team where they unearth a medieaval cheese factory that had stood in the grounds of Sir Roger D'Airylea's castle or an episode of QI on Dave that I think I might not have seen.<br />
<br />
Right now I'm watching Field of Dreams which taps right into the whole mid-life thing. The Kevin Costner character is decent and honest and hard working but that doesn't seem to be enoough. He is struggling financially and spiritually. So what does he do? He tears up one of his best fields and spends what little money he has building a floodlit baseball diamond. He follows his dream and because he believes in his dream it becomes a reality. "If you build it they will come." Dead baseball players emerge from the corn and start playing baseball in his backyard. And it is hard not to feel just a little bit emotional at that point because goddammit he deserves it! But the reason we feel emotional is because deep down we recognise for most people, most of the time, it doesn't matter how truly they believe or how hard they work to make their dream a reality, when they build it nobody comes. In fact they don't even call to say they won't be coming so I figure I should feel lucky that at least my phone rings.<br />
<br />
It is Oscar. "Hi Dad, we're going to be late."<br />
This is supposed to be my time with the boys. I have cleaned, I have tidied, I have made ready. "Not to worry," I say. "How long do you think you'll be?"<br />
At the other end of the line I can hear Oscar shouting to his mother and I can hear ill humoured muttering in response. "Dad? Mum says we'll be there when we get there."<br />
"I'll see you then."<br />
<br />
Two hours later the intercom buzzes and I let the boys in. They have the sullen resentful air of children who have endured boredom of epic proportions. "What do you want to do?" I ask.<br />
<br />
Oscar thrusts a large bag towards me. "We've brought the PS3 with us. Can we set it up?"<br />
<br />
This is not really the quality father son time I had in mind but I go wiith the flow. "Suren help yourselves." Oscar busies himself plugging in cables. <br />
<br />
"How's school been?" I ask.<br />
<br />
"OK," grunts Emil.<br />
<br />
"Do you want to give me a little more detail?"<br />
<br />
"We had sex education," says Emil.<br />
<br />
"How was that?"<br />
<br />
"Stupid! They spend all this time telling you how to do it then they tell you not to do it. Waste of time if you ask me."<br />
<br />
I find it difficult to take issue with the logic. "I suppose they just want to give you information to keep you safe. What kind of stuff did they tell you?"<br />
<br />
"The woman who taught us brought in all these condoms and showed us how to use them." I can sense Emil is warming to the topic and even Oscar is surreptitiously listening in. <br />
<br />
"Well that's good," I say, for the want of anything better.<br />
<br />
"Dad?" enquires Emil. "Why do they make condoms in strawberry flavour?"<br />
<br />
I silently damn the woman who has thought to introduce this complication into the lesson. It is the work of a nano second to decide that now is neither the time nor the place to begin an exxposition on the subject of oral sex. "Its in case you run out of chewing gum," I say but I can tell that Emil is not entirely convinced.<br />
<br />
Oscar has by this time finished setting up the PS3 and the boys throw themselves onto the sofa, controllers in hand. I gaze at them indulgently and Oscar looks back at me as if he has something he wants to say. "What is it Oscar?" I ask.<br />
<br />
"Dad, why is the sofa so hard?"<br />
<br />
"Its a long story Oscar."OllyPwenglhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10653603566577085460noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3947051567585207274.post-65976897564185158712012-01-03T14:50:00.000-08:002012-01-03T14:50:24.002-08:00ROAD MAP OF A MID-LIFE CRISIS (9)ROAD MAP OF A MID-LIFE CRISIS (9)<br />
<br />
THE GREATEST STORY NEVER TOLD<br />
<br />
It’s that dead time between Christmas and New Year and I ‘m alone in the flat. With nothing better to do I decide to play one of the 2 war movies I received as Christmas gifts on my PC, but which should I chose. I study the covers. Rather implausibly both claim to tell “the greatest untold story of the Second World War”. The people who do the marketing for war films know that their viewers are the same sad acts who watch the Military History channel, can recite “The World at War” from memory and can tell you the names of Goebel’s children. They know their audience has a voracious appetite for fresh information and so every war film claims to be telling some previously untold story, which is patently rubbish. There can be no period of history that has been as painstakingly picked over, documented and analysed as WWII. Whole TV channels devote around the clock coverage to every conceivable aspect of the conflict. Somewhere my grandmother’s visit to the chiropodist in 1942 is captured and is showing on “Home Movies of World War II: Bunions and Barrage Balloons (In Colour)”. I guess what I’m trying to say is that if the story really hasn’t been told by now it’s more than likely because it’s not worth the telling. Rather like those magazines that promise to reveal 20 things you never knew about Jordan. (That’s Jordan as in Katie Price and not Jordan the country.) You know with a confidence that borders on certainty that these are things that no right thinking person ever needed or wanted to know.<br />
<br />
The covers of the two films are both remarkably similar; a battle weary soldier with his back to the viewer gazes towards a horizon over which the unstoppable forces of mechanised warfare are advancing. We know from the image that he has fought against the odds and shown uncommon valour to safeguard the fate of nations. I notice that “Final Sacrifice” a European production is festooned with emblematic wreaths whilst “Pathfinders” a US straight to video affair has no such commendations. There was a time when the fact that a film had won awards would have swayed my choice but now seemingly every low budget European film has won some plaudit or another. On closer inspection the awards engender little confidence. “Official selection Frimley Film Festival” is not the Oscars just as “Shortlisted for Les Ballons D’Or de le Chien at the Ghent Film Festival” is not going to have anyone snatching the film of the shelf. Then I spot it. “Final Sacrifice” claims to have been 7 years in the making. This isn’t just another formulaic war flick this is a labour of love, this is art. I sit down and ready myself to appreciate this classic piece of cinematography.<br />
<br />
Out of a sense of deep loyalty to those who follow my blog and because I’m sure Mark Kermode will not be covering this particular release, I will tell you what happened in the 81 minute film it took the Director 7 years to finish so that you don’t have to go through the same experience:<br />
<br />
A small band of battle weary German soldiers are fighting a rearguard action in Northern Italy. They are being harassed by local partisans and American air raids which result in one of their number losing a leg. They are reinforced by a group of untried Italian troops led by a charismatic Captain Correlli type who appears to have spent the war in an eat all you want pasta buffet. The Germans and Italians do not get on and come to blows. They continue to be harassed by partisans and air raids until a messenger arrives and tells the officer commanding the German troops that the Americans are advancing, the rest of the German army is retreating but he and his men are to hold their position to the last man. The German officer who is demoralised by all the harassment he and his men have suffered asks for two volunteers and orders the rest of his men to join the retreat. One can sense that things are going to end badly when one of the volunteers is the one legged man who is at this point hobbling around on a crudely made crutch that looks like it was made by Fred Flintstone. The Italians form up and march off without a backward glance and the German officer and his two comrades ready themselves for their act of senseless sacrifice. At this point I prepare myself for scenes of heroic resistance against overwhelming odds as the Germans hurl back vastly superior American forces. Instead I watch as the heroes are speedily overwhelmed and killed inflicting minimal casualties on their attackers. <br />
<br />
As the camera focuses on their dead bodies the final credits begin to roll and I am left thinking “how could this possibly have taken 7 years?” There is no narrative arc, no resolution, what were they doing? And then I think of some of the projects I have begun in the past seven years and I mellow. As I put the DVD in its case and earmark it for the charity shop I wonder whether I should put some laurel wreaths on my blog to entice readers. Perhaps not.OllyPwenglhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10653603566577085460noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3947051567585207274.post-50216283928953456832011-12-20T14:58:00.001-08:002011-12-20T14:58:41.842-08:00ROAD MAP OF A MID-LIFE CRISIS (8)CONFERENCE DIARY 2 <br />
<br />
WEASEL BLOUSE<br />
<br />
For the benefit of those who did not read my last blog or for those who did but suffer short term memory loss I will recap. My boss has asked me to deliver a speech at a conference being held in Belgrade. My preparation has been far from ideal culminating in a late night drinking session with some of my fellow delegates. Read on.<br />
<br />
Thursday morning in central Belgrade: The hangover from last night’s outing rattles through my head like a Siberian draught blowing in an empty room. Today I will represent the company and speak authoritatively on “Implementing a system of internal controls.” Word of my assured performance will filter back to the office and I will be marked out as a candidate for advancement. At least that was the plan but as I take my seat at the front of the hall the fear joins forces with the after effects of too much alcohol so that I am coated in a fine film of perspiration.<br />
<br />
I look out at my audience who are equipped with headphones to allow for simultaneous translation from Serbo-Croat to English and vice-versa. They look like Cybermen. Through the double doors at the side of the hall I spy Eva and Carlos with whom I was drinking last night. They are giggling over cups of the thick black coffee that is being served to delegates. Towards the front of the audience I spot Xavier. He waves to me and I am relieved that he appears not to have taken to heart the jokes I made at his expense in the early hours of this morning. <br />
<br />
All too quickly the audience are asked to take their seats and we begin. Our Serbian host gives a short introduction before handing over to the first speaker who is a Japanese Professor of Economics. He talks in English on the subject of “Reducing Regulatory Risk,” a subject that is quite as riveting as it sounds and enlivened only by the speaker’s inability to pronounce the letter “r” which emerges from his lips as “l”. As he draws to a conclusion I feel a rising sense of dread that is only partly eased by the audience’s polite applause. And then I am on.<br />
<br />
I give my presentation aware of a nervous tremor in my voice and an unsteadiness in my hand as I turn the pages of my speaking notes. The bored thousand yard stares of the audience only add to my discomfort but suddenly I find myself on the last page and a wave of relief sweeps over me as I finish speaking. There is a slight delay as the translation catches up and then there is a round of applause. I take a sip of water and sit back triumphant. The host turns to me and asks whether I will take questions. I can hardly refuse and so I nod as if it is a matter of no consequence to me one way or the other. The invitation to ask questions meets general indifference until Xavier raises his arm and is invited to put his question. <br />
<br />
“Can you tell us please, what is your policy for weasel blouse?” asks Xavier.<br />
<br />
The audience look at me expectantly as I flounder. “Sorry can you repeat the question?” I ask.<br />
<br />
“Yes. How do you deal with weasel blouse?” asks Xavier deadpan and then I get it. This is some sly Iberian revenge for the sleights suffered last night. Xavier wants to humiliate me in front of this audience. Well I have news for you my cunning Spanish amigo, I do not buckle under pressure. I smile to let Xavier know I am onto his little joke and then I say, “We are very relaxed about blouses for weasels and we also permit waistcoats for ferrets”. I am feeling pleased with the rapier like speed of my riposte when I note the look of horror on the faces of certain members of the audience and the total bewilderment on the faces of others and as I register all of this it suddenly occurs to me with an awful clarity what in fact Xavier was asking. Xavier wanted to know how we treat whistleblowers.<br />
<br />
The host intervenes and voices some perfunctory thanks for my presentation and we break for coffee. As I leave the stage nobody wants to catch my eye and with almost indecent haste a taxi is found to take me to the airport. The car is small and of Eastern European origins so that the engine noise is deafening as we travel along the main road to the airport. I feel like I am fleeing the scene of some terrible crime and I welcome the distance I am putting between myself and the spot where doubtless people are shaking their heads in disbelief at my crass stupidity. I pray that Newman does not get to hear of what has happened and I mentally shelve my plans for a leather executive chair.OllyPwenglhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10653603566577085460noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3947051567585207274.post-69636700648727189812011-12-07T15:17:00.000-08:002011-12-07T15:17:31.198-08:00ROAD MAP OF A MID-LIFE CRISIS (7)ROAD MAP OF A MID-LIFE CRISIS (7)<br />
<br />
CONFERENCE DIARY Part I<br />
<br />
"Hope in reality is the worst of all evils, because it prolongs the torments of man." So wrote Frederich Nietszche a man who knew a thing or two about life’s disappointments. <br />
<br />
I am at my desk when I get a summons to the top floor. As I travel up in the lift I rack my brain trying to think of what I might have done wrong but I needn’t have worried. As I enter his office, Newman cracks what for him counts as a smile. It seems that I have been selected to represent the office at a compliance conference to be held overseas. My mind struggles to compute what impact this will have on my prospects for promotion whilst simultaneously imagining a host of potential far flung, exotic venues. I am to give a presentation on the snappily titled subject, “Implementing a system of internal controls”. Newman spends a lot of time impressing upon me the significant opportunity he is presenting me with. I nod dumbly. By the time he is drawing to a close I am mentally packing the sun tan lotion and choosing the décor for my new executive office, so it takes a little while for it to sink in when Newman announces that my destination is Belgrade.<br />
<br />
I land in Belgrade at midday and take a taxi to the hotel. Goran, my driver, is a valuable source of local information despite his limited English. From him I learn that Serbs love Chelsea football club, that it is difficult doing business in Serbia because of interference from corrupt politicians and that as I have no wedding ring I will have no trouble attracting one of Belgrade's many lovely women. I thank Goran and decline his offer of help on this last matter. He charges me 3000 dinar (roughly £25).<br />
<br />
After checking in at the hotel I have four hours to kill. I decide to explore my surroundings and heading out with no particular plan I find myself at Belgrade's fortress which houses the military museum. Having paid roughly 80 pence I learn that Serbia has experienced many rulers and invasions by foreign powers. The Romans were followed by the Celts, the Slavs and the Turks. All of these peoples brought with them large pointy bits of metal to kill the locals. I also get a crash course in Serbia's 20th century history and conclude that the military museum is much better value than Goran.<br />
<br />
On the way back to the hotel I am on the lookout for replica football kits to take home for Emile and Oscar. Tucked away on a back street I find a stall that has counterfeit Red Star and Partizan tops. The stall holder who has a lit cigarette surgically fixed to his lips tells me that he visited London for 2 weeks in 1976 and that he loves Chelsea. I buy 2 Red Star tops and he throws in 2 pairs of shorts for good measure.<br />
<br />
Back at the hotel I smarten up for the evening reception. I consider adding the finishing touches to my speech but think better of it. I meet with the other delegates in the hotel lobby and we are taken in a convoy of coaches to the Royal Palaces on the outskirts of Belgrade where we receive a guided tour. The palaces were built in the 1920's by King Alexander and following the Royal Families exile in 1941 were used by Yugoslavia's communist leaders. We see the damage caused by NATO bombing in 1999 (an obvious sore point) and I am surprised to learn that the Serb Republic still has a Royal Family. Even more surprisingly His Royal Highness the Crown Prince and his wife are present to meet us. I line up for the group photo with HRH. I am really impressed at the trouble our Serb hosts are taking to make us welcome. There is only one problem. It is now 9 o'clock and there is no sign of food other than the trays of rather uninspiring cocktail snacks circulating around the room. <br />
<br />
At 10 o'clock coaches arrive to pick us up and drop us back in the centre of Belgrade. I consider an early night so that I am fresh for my big speech in the morning but I’m persuaded, rather too easily, to join a group who are having a drink in a bar. My companions are a cosmopolitan bunch. Pieter is Dutch, Eva is German and flirts outrageously with Carlos who epitomizes the stereotype of hirsute, Argentine machismo. The final member of the group is Xavier, a Catalan whose English is heavily accented. As the drinks follow one after the other into empty stomachs inhibitions recede and soon we are laughing and joking like old friends.<br />
<br />
I would like to be able to say that from our time together we each learn something valuable about the others’ culture and background. Unfortunately, and I’m not proud of this, I find myself, in imitation of Xavier, doing impressions of Manuel from Fawlty Towers. Xavier appears to take this in good part and the others present seem amused but it may well be they are simply embarrassed on Xavier’s behalf. Whatever, we finish up at about 3 am and make our way back to the hotel parting as friends. The finishing touches to the speech will have to wait until the morning. (To be continued..)OllyPwenglhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10653603566577085460noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3947051567585207274.post-61179341159304468182011-11-23T12:28:00.000-08:002011-11-25T05:57:36.376-08:00ROAD MAP OF A MID-LIFE CRISIS (6)<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 150%;">RMOAMLC (6)</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 150%;">OTHERWISE OCCUPIED</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 150%;">It’s Monday morning and joy of joys I have an out of office meeting in Ludgate Circus. I have left myself plenty of time to spare and exit the tube at Bank to walk the remainder of the way. As I walk along <place w:st="on">Cheapside</place> it occurs to me that I haven’t met up with Julian for a while so I call him.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 150%;">“Hi Julian, its Olly.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 150%;">“Olly, I was going to call you.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 150%;">“Well what do you know I’ve saved you the trouble. I was wondering if you wanted to meet up this week.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 150%;">“Definitely. Love to. What did you have in mind?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 150%;">“I thought we could have a few beers and get a curry,” I venture.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 150%;">There is a definite pause at the other end of the line. It is pregnant with unease. “I’m not sure I fancy that,” says Julian.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 150%;">I’m taken aback. “Well what do you want to do instead?” I ask.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 150%;">“I’m not sure really. I just don’t fancy beer and curry.” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 150%;">It just goes to show you never really know another person. Julian and I always have beer and curry. Sometimes if we're in a rush we might skip the curry but I thought we held a shared belief that beer and curry represented the zenith of human social interaction. “What’s wrong with beer and curry?” I ask unable to keep a slight edge of petulance out of my voice</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 150%;">“There’s nothing wrong with it as such,” says Julian sounding defensive.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 150%;">“’As such?’ ‘As such?’” I repeat, “We always have beer and curry what’s changed?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 150%;">“Well if you must know,” says Julian, I’m tired of waking up with a thick head and a bad stomach.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 150%;">I’m forced to pause and consider these points. There is more than a grain of truth in his objection but before I can acknowledge this Julian goes on, “And I’m fed up of waking in the middle of the night with a raging thirst because of all the salt…..” This too is something I am familiar with but there is more, “..And we always end up talking shit…”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 150%;">“But its entertaining shit,” I interject hoping Julian will laugh and realise how petty his objections sound but he is warming to his subject and is not about to be deflected.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 150%;">“…And the last time we went out I fell asleep on the train and woke up at the end of the line. It cost me £50 to get home by taxi…..”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 150%;">“Well you can’t complain if you have to pay the idiot tax,” I joke.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 150%;">“…And Tamzin made me sleep on the sofa when I got in and didn’t speak to me for 2 days.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 150%;">“Well that’s marriage for you,” I say in what I hope is a sympathetic tone.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 150%;">“Oh it’s alright for you. No wonder you’re separated.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 150%;">This last comment brings the conversation to a juddering halt as we both realise that Julian has crossed an invisible line.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 150%;">“I’m sorry I shouldn’t have said that last bit.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 150%;">“Don’t mention it,” I say magnanimously. “So let me just summarise where we are. You are suggesting that just because it gives you a headache, bad stomach, disturbed sleep, makes you talk nonsense, renders you incapable of alighting from a train at the correct stop, costs you £50 and damages your relationship with your wife this somehow outweighs the positive sensations you get from the complex matrix of delights that is created when you mix beer and curry.” I’m confident that striped down and stated starkly like this Julian will see the folly of his position.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 150%;">“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying,” says Julian seemingly blind to the obvious flaws in his case.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 150%;">I try another tack. “So what do you suggest we do?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 150%;">“I don’t know,” says Julian, “I haven’t given it much thought.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 150%;">I seize on this. “Well you seem to have given an awful lot of thought to the negatives,” I pause to let this well made point sink in, “I simply thought that if you were going to suggest that beer and curry was somehow deficient as a night out you might have taken time to consider how we might improve on it.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 150%;">“We could have a coffee,” proffers Julian apologetically.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 150%;">I snort derisively, “Oh yes, let’s buy Vespas and pinch young girls’ bottoms while we’re at it.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 150%;">“Well, like I say I haven’t really given it much thought,” says Julian.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 150%;">“Obviously!”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 150%;">“Surely as two mature adults we could conceive of some alternative way of spending the evening,” implores Julian.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 150%;">“The floor is all yours,” I say, “You name it and we’ll give it a go.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 150%;">“Oh I don’t know,” sighs Julian with a resigned air, “how about we meet at the Red Lion?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 150%;">“Great idea,” I answer triumphantly and as I approach St Paul’s Cathedral and ring off I can almost taste the chicken biryani. Out of idle curiosity I decide to visit the collection of tents that house the Occupy London protest. On my inspection it appears that capitalism can sleep safely in its bed. The tightly packed tents seem to significantly outnumber those visibly protesting. A young man is labouring energetically to produce a sound from two small hand drums and another man is producing a very proficient depiction of St Pauls on the pavement using chalks. Neither of these two exertions seems likely to bring the existing world order to its knees so I turn my attention to the sheets of agitprop taped to every available wall in the vicinity. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 150%;">I’m reading a fascinating polemic against the global conspiracy of bankers and have just reached the point where I‘m invited to consider the works of David Icke for further information on the subject when I am approached by a woman wearing a woolly hat. “You a banker?” she asks.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 150%;">“No,” I reply. The woman seems a little disappointed. “Would it matter if I was?” I ask helpfully.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 150%;">“Course it would. Bankers are why we’re in the mess we’re in.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 150%;">I suspect that Woolly Hat could talk at some length on this topic and so, hoping to throw her off her stride, I launch a pre-emptive strike. “Surely bankers are not solely responsible,” I say. She looks at me with a mixture of pity and dismay and emboldened by her evident surprise I go on, “Our current problems are symptoms of far bigger issues; it is a feature of our economic system that there will be cycles of boom and bust.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 150%;">“Exactly!” says Woolly Hat and now it is my turn to be surprised. I’m not quite sure how I come to be in agreement with this woman. “The whole system is corrupt, it needs to be changed,” she asserts stridently.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 150%;">“So you are advocating that we do away with capitalism are you?” As I ask my question I am confident that Woolly Hat does not realise the rhetorical trap I’m setting for her.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 150%;">“Most definitely,” she responds.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 150%;">“Right, and what do you say we should put in its place?” I ask.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 150%;">I haven’t given it much thought,” replies my interlocutor.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 150%;">“Ha! I thought as much,” I comment and as I head to my meeting I congratulate myself on not one but two victories for cool headed reason over the perils of woolly thinking in the course of a single morning.</span></div>OllyPwenglhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10653603566577085460noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3947051567585207274.post-81654192495979140182011-11-12T08:44:00.000-08:002011-11-12T08:44:15.164-08:00ROAD MAP OF A MID-LIFE CRISIS (5)<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">RMOAMLC</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">LIVES OF THE ARTISTS No. 1</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Listen to the news, read a paper or speak to friends and you would believe that any time you go on-line your personal information is available to anyone who cares to see it; millions of people just sitting in front of their screen waiting on your every key stroke. Fear not, I have the answer to your internet security concerns. Publish all your personal data in a blog and then be assured that nobody will be remotely interested in it. If you are reading this congratulate yourself on being part of a select band. I appreciate that blogging is very noughties and that I ought to be Tweeting but when I started I had hoped that my audience wouldn’t all fit in my car.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Not that small can’t be beautiful; I am very grateful to my American readership and would like to thank you both for your loyalty. It has occurred to me that perhaps you are sitting in some CIA reading room like Robert Redford in Three Days of the Condor. If you are, let me assure you that I have no plans to subvert the world order but please don’t let that deter you from continuing to read this blog. I need all the followers I can get and there are more laughs in this than in an Islamist chat room.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Appreciating what it is to be ignored I have decided to pay homage to other artists who were unappreciated in their own time in a series of profiles entitled “Lives of the Artists”.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">****************************************************************************************</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Claude Beaudaire</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Absinthe makes the heart grow fonder,” is perhaps the best known of </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Beaudaire’s many bon mots. The man whose passion for life was exceeded only by his capacity for vast quantities of industrial strength alcohol is little known now but in his time his light shone as brightly as any of the famed artists of the <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Paris</place></city> demi-monde. A voracious and undiscerning lover of women he was a habitué of the Moulin Rouge and friend of the artistic elite. Paul Cezanne said of him “He sees the world through the eyes of a child and paints it with the hands of an arthritic blacksmith.” Toulouse Latrec is said to have commented, “I look up to Monsieur Beaudaire”.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Born in 1854 in the tiny hamlet of Oublie in the Loire Valley, Beaudaire was the youngest of five children. His father an accountant died in a freak accident while <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>sorting the tax affairs of a local land agent. This incident is seen by many biographers as a defining event in the life of the young Beaudaire. The art historian, Clough, in his work “Bad Impressions”, claims that the painting “Les Livres Sur Mon Pere” was an attempt by the adult Beaudaire to come to terms with the childhood trauma.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The death of his father left Beaudaire in a female dominated household. His four older sisters and doting mother are said to have dressed the young Claude like a doll. Whatever the emotional consequences of this upbringing, it is plain that as a man Beaudaire was never happier than when in the intimate company of women. In his most famous series of works Beaudaire gives us an uncompromising representation of the female form in a variety of poses. “Tournebroche” (literally translated as “Spit Roast”), as this series of works is generally referred to in artistic circles, was painted between 1880 and 1882 while Beaudaire was at the height of his powers. Many commentators have been struck by the bold application of oil on canvass to create images that are both visceral and visually arresting.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Undoubtedly his unashamedly sexual representation of women meant that Beaudaire’s work never enjoyed a wide audience. While he enjoyed a good deal of fame if not notoriety within the permissive confines of <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Paris</place></city>’ artistic community the wider world was subject to a far stricter moral code and his paintings struggled to find an audience.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Beaudaire’s ability to polarise contemporary opinion can be seen in a cutting from the London Daily News from September 17<sup>th</sup> 1888. It is reported that a small exhibition of impressionist paintings was held in the Stubbings Gallery in Whitechapel. Beaudaire was among the artists whose work was selected for display. After only a single day the exhibition was picketed by a cross section of local womens, temperance and church groups all professing outrage at the images portrayed in Beaudaire’s work. After some public disorder the gallery suffered fire which was extinguished before it could do serious harm but nevertheless it resulted in the closure of e exhibition.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">This event appears to have been a turning point in Beaudaire’s life. Thereafter he struggled to exhibit or sell his work and his life began a downward spiral. He found himself living in a brothel in one of Paris’ poorer quarters. He used the establishment’s employees as models and his paintings reflect the seedier and less glamorous side of life. “Elle non perspirant bien pour une grande femme,” is a striking example of his work in this period. It is interesting to note that much of Beadaire’s work from this time was exchanged for the necessaries of life and his paintings from this time have surfaced in some rather bizarre circumstances.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">In 1892 Beaudaire’s health began to deteriorate. This was almost certainly as a result of excessive drinking. He moved to a hospital just outside Paris catering for the long term sick and run by the Sisters of Constant Virtue. Very few paintings from this period of his life remain. Whether Beaudaire was simply unable to work at the same rate as before or whether his work was destroyed after his death cannot be said. The few pictures that we do have suggest Beaudaire, whilst physically unwell washappy in his surroundings. His use of colour at this time is reminiscent of his earlier work and his choice of subject is certainly more spiritual than his previous work. “La Novice,” depicting a young woman in a shift nightdress is thought to be a picture of a novice nun involved in Beaudaire’s care. Whilst chaste in comparison to other work there remains a hint of surpressed carnality that reassures us that Beaudaire’s appetites had not entirely deserted him. Beaudaire died in 1897 and was buried in the small burial ground attached to the hospital in which he spent his final years. There was little interest in his work after his death but in the late 1960’s he enjoyed a brief renaissance his work being favoured particularly by those who espoused free love. His rehabilitation was short lived. Feminist commentators objected to his depiction of women and his work was one more consigned to oblivion. Beaudaire’s work is not on show in any major museum but some examples can be seen in the Town Hall in Oublie, his place of birth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>OllyPwenglhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10653603566577085460noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3947051567585207274.post-33808815953482689962011-10-25T23:35:00.000-07:002011-10-25T23:35:44.254-07:00ROAD MAP OF A MID-LIFE CRISIS (4)<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">RMOAMLC (4)</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">WORDS OF ADVICE</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">It’s Tuesday morning and I’m on the school run. Ask any parent and they will tell you, modern day education is a minefield of cliques, gangs and bullying. And then there are the kids.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Suburban schools are no longer governed by teachers instead they are run by mothers who control their domain like Chicago gang bosses. Fathers are treated as non-combatants, tolerated and allowed to drop off their offspring just so long as they make sure not to attempt to involve themselves in any aspect of school life.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">After several years of regular drop offs I had earned the occasional peremptory “Hello,” or glacial smile from the other parents. That was, of course, until I committed the ultimate suburban sin of leaving home, news of which spread like herpes on a Club 18-30’s holiday. Ever since I have been treated rather worse than a pariah and so, as far as possible, I try to stay away from school.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">This morning I am late picking the boys up and I’m in a rush to drop them off. There is an air of tension in the car. “If it’s alright with you I’m going to drop and scoot,” I say trying to sound upbeat. There is a non-committal grunt from the back of the car. “Only I Have a meeting to get to,” I add as if they might be remotely interested. When, finally, we near the school every possible parking space is taken. “Just drop us off here,” says Emil. I do as he suggests and pull onto the pavement where the kerb drops to allow access to the staff car park. The boys collect their bags and get out of the car. I am so busy saying goodbye and waving as they exit from the passenger side of the car that I don’t notice the figure that appears at the driver’s side window and knocks sharply.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">My head snaps round to see the stern face of authority. I say “stern face” but in reality the visage gurning at me through the window looks like Mr Potato Head let himself go a bit. I say “authority” but as I wind down the window I notice that what I took to be a police uniform has the tell-tale blue flashings that denote <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m dealing with a police community support officer. “Good morning sir,” he says in a world weary monotone that manages the neat trick of injecting the word “sir” with total disrespect.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">“Morning,” I respond.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">“You know what I want to speak to you about?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">“Parking?” I venture apologetically.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">“Correct. We do not park on the pavement outside a busy school.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">At this moment I have 3 options:</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt 36pt; text-indent: -36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">A<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Apologise and point out that I am somewhat pushed for time so could we please take it as read that I am fully contrite, won’t do it again in order that I can get on with my day.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt 36pt; text-indent: -36pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt 36pt; text-indent: -36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">B<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Moral outrage that in these lawless times my time and taxes are being expended in this pointless charade.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt 36pt; text-indent: -36pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt 36pt; text-indent: -36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">C<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Suck it up.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt 36pt; text-indent: -36pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt 36pt; text-indent: -36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">I play it safe and opt for C.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt 36pt; text-indent: -36pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">“I’m not going to issue you with a penalty notice,” says Potato Head and my heart lifts momentarily until he continues, “instead I will be offering you words of advice which I will record on this ticket.” With this he produces a carbonated form about 1 foot long which he proceeds to write upon with all the urgency of a dyslexic with writer’s block. From time to time he asks me to provide some vital information such as my name but for the most part he paces around the car examining it from all angles with an air of grave suspicion while at the same time he talks into his radio.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">By now I am acutely aware that this particular piece of theatre is playing out in front of all the parents dropping off their charges to school and that they must think I am involved in a jihadist terror plot or at best am peddling drugs to their children at the school gates. While I’m writhing with embarrassment Potato Head appears once more at the driver’s door. He continues his meticulous written record of our encounter and as he writes I notice a pattern of criss-cross scars on the inside of his left forearm running from his wrist to his elbow at which point his arm disappears into the sleeve of his shirt.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">Finally he finishes writing and leans down until his face is level with mine. “Just one more question sir; Are you happy with the way this stop has been conducted?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">I ponder the question. Am I happy to have been publicly humiliated by a charmless cretin who self harms in front of a group of people who need little encouragement to think badly of me for the trifling offence of parking for 30 seconds on the pavement and the now I have to do a customer satisfaction survey? “Yes,” I respond.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">Potato Head records my response mechanically before tearing off one of the copies of the ticket which he hands to me. “Have a good day,” he says with no hint of irony.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">“Thank you,” I reply in a tone dripping with it but I’m pretty certain it’s wasted effort.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>OllyPwenglhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10653603566577085460noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3947051567585207274.post-30335659533262576782011-10-14T09:56:00.000-07:002011-10-14T09:56:04.115-07:00<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I HAVE A DREAM</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">My new found home is reminiscent of the flats that that people who have spent a lot of time in institutional care find themselves in after release. The walls are a uniform magnolia and the carpet, which is fitted everywhere save the kitchen and bathroom, is a suspicious blue that could be hiding any number of grubby secrets. The curtains, which hang limply at the windows, are the colour of old ladies’ support hose and in the bedroom the central lightshade appears to have been fashioned from human skin. It is a dirty yellow colour and at night, when the light is on, it bathes the room in a deathly hue. Perhaps the landlord picked it up from a garage sale at Hannibal Lecter’s place.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To date I have not done a great deal to make my surroundings more comfortable. I have an inflatable mattress for a bed and a blue, nylon camping chair in the front room. This tends to be where I do most of my deep thinking. Given the Spartan surroundings I am unlikely to be coming up with a new General Theory of Relativity any time soon.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It is unsurprising that I try my hardest not to be at home. Nevertheless, and much to my irritation, the place still gets dirty; especially the bathroom. I strongly suspect that when I lock the door on my way out a hairy tramp climbs in through the window and spends the time I am away sleeping naked in the bath, rousing himself only to scratch furiously. When I return home the bathroom is ankle deep in hair. Things have got so bad that I have given serious thought to buying a vacuum cleaner. Speaking as a man who doesn’t have a TV I am worried that my priorities may be seriously out of whack.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">All of this is a long winded explanation of why it is I find myself on a Sunday afternoon in Homebase looking at bathroom accessories. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I am weighing up the competing aesthetic claims of various toothbrush holders. There is a smart if somewhat dull, white, china cup, a shiny black receptacle which I imagine appeals to the type of person who has silk sheets and an unhealthy penchant for leopard print, and then there is a very stylish brushed steel tube. This is without doubt the toothbrush holder for me. It speaks of a certain understated style. It is masculine without being macho, functional and yet it communicates something positive that I can’t quite put my finger on about its owner. It is the Audi of toothbrush holders. I reach it down from the shelf and look at the base to check the price.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">And that is when I see it! My toothbrush holder has a name. On the sticky white label alongside the bar code and the seemingly random jumble of numbers is the word “aspirational”. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Aspirational!” I feel insulted; belittled. Do the people at Homebase really believe that my life is so small, that my horizons are so narrow and my ambitions so limited that I lie in bed at night dreaming of owning a toothbrush holder? When Martin Luther King proclaimed that he had a dream was it that his toothbrush should be contained in a stylish metal cup? No it was not, and while I don’t claim to have such lofty ambitions as MLK I flatter myself that my sights are set slightly higher than the bathroom shelf.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I imagine the chino wearing designers grasping espressos as they clap each other on the back at Homebase HQ. “Oh I think we’ve cracked it this time guys!” they say to each other. “Absolutely smashed it! This is most definitely the toothbrush holder for anybody with the faintest desire for self improvement,” they assure each other. “What shall we call it?” they ask. Then almost simultaneously the same word occurs to each of them and rises from the group as one utterance, “ASPIRATIONAL”. They applaud themselves and decide to nip off to Nandos for a celebratory lunch.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I look at the toothbrush holder. I suppose it is rather neat and if I scrape of the label no-one need ever know that my horizons are defined by my toothbrush holder.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Back home I enter the bathroom. Small balls of hair are rolling across the floor like tumbleweed. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I curse the hairy tramp and put my new toothbrush holder on the sink. I put my toothbrush and toothpaste in the holder and stand back. There is no denying that it looks good. It is a small step on my upward trajectory. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>OllyPwenglhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10653603566577085460noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3947051567585207274.post-78401560124800792122011-07-28T12:46:00.000-07:002011-07-28T12:46:14.489-07:00ROAD MAP OF A MID-LIFE CRISIS (2)<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">ROAD MAP OF A MID-LIFE CRISIS (no.2)</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">DEBT CRISIS </span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Sunday morning chez Pwëngl. I am luxuriating in the folding camping chair while reading the papers. A mug of black tea nestles in the chair’s cup holder. The absence of milk is not an attempt to mimic Californian health fads but rather an unwelcome result of finding that the pint of semi-skimmed in the fridge door is having an identity crisis and thinks it is cottage cheese. As I scan the news it appears that for once I am in tune with the wider world. I do not have two pennies to rub together and live in constant fear of the postman’s arrival. The same appears to be true of much of <place w:st="on">Europe</place>.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><country-region w:st="on"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Greece</span></country-region><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">, <country-region w:st="on">Ireland</country-region>, <country-region w:st="on">Spain</country-region>, and <place w:st="on"><country-region w:st="on">Portugal</country-region></place> all have to hide behind the sofa when the milkman calls for his money. Their reaction to the crisis is illuminating of national character. <place w:st="on"><country-region w:st="on">Greece</country-region></place> behaves like the occupant of a crumbling stately home, possessed of all the hauteur generations of aristocratic inbreeding bestow and all the debts that accrue from centuries of upkeep and death duties. Now, with the day of reckoning at hand and payment due, <place w:st="on"><country-region w:st="on">Greece</country-region></place> dismisses talk of money as vulgar and insists it simply must be allowed to carry on spending in the manner to which it has become accustomed.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><place w:st="on"><country-region w:st="on"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Ireland</span></country-region></place><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">’s response is the polar opposite, like a dog who finds the Sunday roast cooling and unattended in the kitchen and does what comes naturally. Ireland knew deep in its heart that it should never have had the money it spent on building homes nobody wanted to live in and now, when it has been caught with its muzzle deep in the chicken’s breast cavity, it slinks off, tail between its legs.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><country-region w:st="on"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Spain</span></country-region><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">’s response will be familiar to those who have seen the film “The Hangover.” The nation woke up after one hell of a party to find a tiger in the bathroom and with collective amnesia about what happened. The only significant difference is that in the film they found someone to hold the baby.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Many of the papers forget to mention <country-region w:st="on">Portugal</country-region>; enough said.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">It is tempting to view the default candidates on <country-region w:st="on">Europe</country-region>’s fringe as feckless idiots who given the keys to the sweetshop gorged themselves on borrowing oblivious to the consequences. But that would be to ignore some fairly unpalatable truths. We in the <country-region w:st="on">UK</country-region> did not watch this happen and canvass caution or warn of the perils ahead. No, quite the opposite; our government and economic commentators lauded an economic miracle. Now reality must be checked, belts tightened and financial reason restored to its throne, all under the stern eye of the German governess.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">And most recently Italy…..</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><country-region w:st="on"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Italy</span></country-region><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"> is like the fat girl who is constantly announcing she is about to embark upon a diet while she takes another doughnut from the Krispy Kreme box. Most nations balk at the prospect of ceding their national sovereignty but <country-region w:st="on">Italy</country-region> has in the past shown its admiration for the firm smack of Teutonic authority. It is pleasing to imagine <country-region w:st="on">Italy</country-region>, pink faced and flabby, being put through its paces by the chiselled, buzz cut, German personal trainer. Whether financial austerity has the same attraction as high shine jack boots and well tailored field grey we must wait and see.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">And so as the world faces another economic crisis, the European ship is on the rocks and in danger of sinking. With hindsight it is easy to see how we got to this point. The lack of unified economic and fiscal policy making within a single currency area was always likely to be fatal especially when the norms of financial probity were routinely ignored. But more importantly it is clear that not all the lookouts were at their post. The Head of the IMF was not necessarily on the bridge looking out for icebergs, instead he was below decks brushing up on figures. There appears little doubt that DSK will not face trial in New York but from here in the UK we can only marvel at a political system that will welcome him back as a presidential candidate with genuine prospects of success after his acquittal on grounds that the chamber maid with whom he had sex did so not because of the threat of physical violence but as a result of a financial arrangement.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">What will it all mean for me?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Apparently the break up of the Euro Zone will result in untold misery. That things could get considerably worse is difficult to imagine. Perhaps, as the old joke runs, we have to date been up to our knees in the brown stuff and shortly the bell will ring to announce the end of the tea break. Then we will have to revert to standing on our heads. To my untutored eye the prospect of <country-region w:st="on">Greece</country-region>, <country-region w:st="on">Spain</country-region>, <country-region w:st="on">Portugal</country-region> and <country-region w:st="on">Italy</country-region> going back to their national currencies holds out nothing worse than the hope that I may one day be able to afford a foreign holiday again.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">All this consideration of global economic woes has left me hungry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am checking out the vast expanse of emptiness that is the inside of my fridge when the phone rings. Would I like to go out for a pub lunch asks the voice at the other end. I think about my empty wallet, my extended overdraft, the pile of red bills lying unopened on the worktop and then I think about how ravenous I am, how nice it would be to eat thick slices of roast beef and I think “Oh what the hell.” Maybe the IMF will bail me out.</span></div>OllyPwenglhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10653603566577085460noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3947051567585207274.post-35938133982997062212011-07-14T17:04:00.000-07:002011-07-14T17:04:24.304-07:00No. 1<span style="color: #741b47;"> <div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: black;">RMOAMLC</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: black;">No. 1</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: black;">Midweek and I’m meeting Julian in town for a drink. He approaches with two pints and slides mine across the table towards me. He examines his own drink against the light before we touch glasses and take the first sip.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: black;">“How are things?” I ask.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: black;">Julian statres at the head on his beer before replying, “Good, yes very good.” His eyes flick from side to side as if he is struggling to decide exactly where to start telling me about just how good things are. In the end he settles for a “Yeah….” which emerges as a sigh as his gaze drifts off to the middle distance.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: black;">Julian and I go way back, he is my closest friend. Something is very plainly not going well.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: black;">“How’s work?” I ask.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: black;">“Good,” says Julian nodding in exaggerated fashion to emphasise the point. He takes a slug of his beer and then asks, “How about you?”</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: black;">I stare at the head on my beer. Julian knows that I have moved out of home. I consider telling him about the arguments, the problems over seeing the children and the misery of living in a one bedroom flat with no television and an inflatable mattress with a slow puncture for a bed. “Good. Not bad at all,” I say.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: black;">“The kids?”</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: black;">“Yeah good,” I say and my gaze drifts off to the middle distance. A silence descends on our table. In an attempt to lift it I mention, in what I hope is a casual tone, that I’m thinking about writing something.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: black;">Julian raises his eyebrows, ”Mm, what sort of thing?”</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: black;">“Oh just some personal reflections,” I study his face, “on the theme of mid-life crisis.”</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: black;">Julian splutters on his beer. “Mid-life crisis? What do you have to say on the subject of mid-life crisis?” His voice is high pitched, challenging.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: black;">I shrug, ”I’m not claiming to be an expert,” I say defensively. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: black;">“But you’re not having a mid-life crisis. Good grief, you’ve got a job in the City and you’re free to have relationships with whoever you want.” There is bitterness in his voice and in that moment I catch a fleeting sight of the demons that torment him as if stealing a glimpse into a locked room.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: black;">But I want Julian to understand, I want his approval. I want to tell him that a mid-life crisis is not about wearing novelty socks or buying a sports car. It’s the overwhelming disappointment you feel when you accept that you have run out of time to change the course of your life. It is like perpetually living in that moment at the end of teenage discos when the lights go up and you realise that you have missed the opportunity to ask someone to dance. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And as if this were not hard enough to bear, the truly crushing fact is that there is nobody to blame but yourself. You did this to yourself. I think all of this but what I actually say is, “Got time for another?”</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: black;">Over the second pint we relax and discuss safe topics. We make each other laugh and when new have finished we go our separate ways and promise to meet up soon. An hour later I’m off the train and in my car arguing with my ex over the phone when I notice the blue flashing light in the mirror. The policeman and I play the “do you know why we stopped you” game and I breath a huge sigh of relief when I learn that it was for not having my lights on. Unfortunately the sigh is gently perfumed with beer and moments later I am standing on the pavement blowing into a small black box. In the time it takes for the machine to register the amount of alcohol in my breath I have carried out a fairly thorough audit of the consequences of a positive test and my legs are like jelly when the officer tells me I am fine and to be more careful in future. He gives me the clear plastic mouthpiece as a keepsake and I thank him and get back in my car.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: black;">The next morning I wake up with only the deflated mattress between me and the hardwood floor. I roll over and pick up my phone. There is a text from Julian,</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Good to see u last night. Love to read that stuff you mentioned. Let’s meet up again soon.</span></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: black;">I spot the clear plastic mouthpiece lying on the floor as I text a response. I think of telling Julian about my encounter on the way home. Then I think better of <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>it because as I lay there stiff and still tired I realise that in addition to the loss of hope and the self loathing, part of having a mid-life crisis is that you face it on your own.</span></span></div></span>OllyPwenglhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10653603566577085460noreply@blogger.com0