What is fun anyway?

Can you believe it is September already?  It seems to have come around so fast this year, although I would wager that isn’t too surprising, as I’m travelling and they do say that time flies when you’re having fun. Yet, who exactly ‘they’ are is now and always has been a mystery to me, and I’m not sure ‘fun’ is the right word to describe my enjoyment of my explorations. The word ‘fun’ to me dances with thoughts of fairground rides, waltzers, dodgems, rickety roller-coasters through my mind.  I can hear a ringmaster like Stephen Fry bellow out lines like ‘All the fun of the fair,  roll up roll up roll up’ and so on. If not that, then I’m transported back to a time when I was a child building sandcastles with a bucket and a spade with my name burnt into the staff when fun was free and true bliss cost the price of a stick of candyfloss!

Do we have fun when we reach our fifties?  Sure, we have pleasure; we enjoy doing things, perhaps more sedately than years gone by, but is it ‘fun’ or is it contentment? Having a croissant sitting on a bench by a wall in South Brisbane, watching people pass by and CityKats chug up and down the river, with reptilian company, was delightful. But perhaps not what you'd call 'fun'!

I arrived in Cairns on Thursday evening after three whole weeks of lovely contentment in Brisbane, which I’ll add is a delightful city.  I very much enjoyed my time there; it was joyous and relaxing, although on average I walked 5.9 miles a day!  There is something easygoing about the city, which is surprisingly walkable, that appeals. It is easy to get around; travel costs 50c a trip on public transport, so it's foolish not to take advantage of it.

I flew on a National Jet Systems, which operates as QantasLink, new(ish) Airbus A220, which entered service in April 2025; my first time on that type of winged wonder, and it was a lovely, comfortable two-hour flight. My bid for an upgrade was successful, so I flew in business class, as advised to me a couple of hours before the flight, which was a nice bonus. No veggie meal was loaded on the flight, but the crew got me a cake from business and a quiche from economy, so I was delighted. I hadn’t expected any nosh on the flight, so even a drink was a welcome extra. It was so much better than my previous flight with Qantas from Melbourne to Brisbane, where the crew seemed to treat passengers as an inconvenience. So, jolly well done to the purser of flight QF1566 for your friendly, professional service and ingenuity.

I arrived at my next apartment hotel not long after 18:30 and picked up the keys, before heading off to the supermarket for essential supplies. Well, one must have teabags, milk, bread and chocolate to survive the night through.  The next day I wandered through the city, then onto the esplanade and promenade and enjoyed the super scenery and lovely weather. A breeze gently tickled the fronds of the palm trees as the sun kissed everything with 28-degree warmth, and you know, the world seemed alright. I’m not sure you’d call this ‘fun’ per se, but I was certainly enjoying my day! 

That's all for today..... Copyright © 2026 Seafront Media

Oh for the love of clouds........

Clouds across the moon, empire of clouds, far above the clouds, clouds in my coffee, beyond the clouds, dark clouds, black clouds, white clouds, mushroom clouds, clouds of loneliness, and more than thirty just clouds. Puzzled?  I am talking about songs; all the aforementioned and dozens and dozens more have cloud or clouds in the title and are, to a greater or lesser degree, about those dewy bundles of ice crystals and water droplets. Or perhaps more accurately, of what they may mean to us, or others of this race we call human.  Now, don't get me wrong, I'm not a nephologist, nor a meteorologist, nor an ologist of any kind; I just....well, I'll admit it, I like clouds. I might, if you push me a bit, even go as far as saying, I love clouds!  (Quit your sniggering!)

I've been thinking about clouds a lot over the last few days: their shapes, sizes, colours, names, composition, and so on. I'm not exactly sure what initially brought them into the conscious mind, probably the abundance of them at points various during my days here in Brisbane. Considering it is winter down this sphere of the globe, the appearance of clouds on a daily basis should not be a wholly unexpected feature. And it hasn't; most days have been a mix of sun and clouds, with a little bit of rain thrown in for good measure. Should you probe my grey matter with your searching rods, you might find a few stands in my belief cortex that would say it was going to be colder, wetter, and more like Sydney. Yet, I've been pleasantly surprised by how mild and nice it has been here. So much so that I've even got a touch of sunburn on my nose and ears; sunblock hasn't exactly been in my weary traveller's knapsack!

I was up at one of my favourite river stopping points the other day, when a whole bank of cloud floated on by, high in the sky, dissecting the wide blue like a giant friendship bracelet round the globe. On another day, I was walking across the Story Bridge, as the wind tore at my clothes and stung my face and hands like a hundred tiny needles being thrown at my extremities. At the same time, these huge billowing clouds slowly danced overhead in their magnificent menace, creating a foreboding desire to pick up the pace and avoid a potential drenching downpour. The clouds looked, ok you'll think me foolish, but they looked angry. Honestly, they looked angry and if not angry, then more cross than if your dunked biscuit drops the soggy half into your tea or you start accidentally cleaning your teeth with shaving gel.

Today is another fine example. I'd taken a ferry to the furthest point on the F1 route, Northshore Hamilton, which has one of the smallest beaches you've ever seen. There's quite a bit of development going on in the area, but I was there just to have a peek around, see how far it would be to walk to the Story Bridge, with the preposterous idea of walking over it. So, peek I had, and as it was going to be more than a mile to walk to the bridge, I decided against it and sat on a concrete bench by this little beach and had essential supplies of a mini croissant, OJ and a Snickers and contemplated life for a bit. There was a tiny bit of sun, but it was mostly a sky constructed of clouds up high and down low. Clouds floated by at different speeds and in slightly different directions depending on their altitude, I supposed. The cloudscape was just as pretty and as magnificent as the rippling river, bobbing boats and wind-ruffled trees. The more I looked, the more I saw. Some had shapes, some looked like animals, whilst others looked like....errr....clouds!

It occurred to me that I do rather like looking at clouds and indeed, I do spend a reasonable amount of time casting my eyes skywards. At least I do these days when time is both abundant and precious. I doubt I would have had much time for cloud watching when I was working in Hastings, nor when I was a much younger person working at the radio station, when the only time I would look to the heavens was to make sure the aerial was still up!  Yet, now, when I'm over half a century old, I've time a plenty to gaze to the 'up above' and contemplate the life and times of clouds. Ok, that might be exaggerating a wee bit; I don't look up and plot a whole biography of each individual dew conglomeration. But I do wonder how and when it was formed, what places it has blown over and which towns or cities have yet to see its natural amazingness. 

I sit on my balcony and look at a delightful row of clouds spanning the sky in massive fingers from an unseen hand. They float on by like balls of candy floss in the wind. Yet, unlike the sugar confection, this layer reflects a hue of amber and red from the setting sun that has already passed below Mount Coo-tha for my eyes. As I marvel at their beauty, I can't help contemplating life, but not the whole great big 'meaning of' sort of thoughts. No, it is more the immediate sort of life. It is the here and now that I'm thinking of, the enjoyment, the excitement, the contentment or the isolation, loneliness or whatever the sensation is that ripples round my bones. 

It occurred to me, as I watched the clouds from Northshore Hamilton earlier, that we don't give these combinations of particles as much love and credit as we should. No, we're mostly bemoaning their presence, castigating them for just being up where they belong. We look skyward and almost always feel downcast as soon as our eyes rest on them, and I think that is wrong. I think we should look at them with fondness, joy and dare I say love, without you thinking I should be carted off to the nearest funny farm.  (Are we allowed to say funny farm these days? Will some thought police come out of the woodwork and tell me that it's not politically correct or the correct phraseology in 2026? Funny farm, should, like a lot of my childhood learned vocabliry, be consigned to the dustbin of outdated language.)

I give you a challenge today, yes, this very day, to go outside, or at the very least, to the window and look skyward and be pleased, no, delighted to see a cloud. I also want you to say a wee 'thank you' to that cloud. Ok, you don't have to say it out loud; I know you're not as crazy as me, so maybe you just mouth it, or say it silently in your mind. Just feel a sense of gratitude toward it, and as you're doing that, try, if you can, to marvel at its beauty. Needless to say, if the only time you go outside today is when you're driving to town, looking up for extended periods of time is not recommended. 

That's all for today..... Copyright © 2026 Seafront Media

Monday Monday......

Congratulations, Mr Norris, on taking another win in the last, for the foreseeable future, Dutch Grand Prix. Thoroughly good watch, even if I did have to stay up late last night to view it all, whilst down this end of the world. 

Of course little Lando will never actually read that congratulatory salutation, so I wonder why I made it. I’m not alone; we often post such statements on social media offering compliments and commendations to stars of screen, stage, song or sport, and we do so willingly. But, we know, at least, most of us know that those said celebrities’ eyes will never gaze upon our words. We offer those thanks and good wishes to the universe, much like the religious offer up prayers to their chosen deity and divinity. We’re doing the modern social media equivalent of standing on a corner in the town square shouting our head off that so and so did so well. 

But why do we do it?  Why do we want to shout such congratulations or heap such praise in a public way? We’re not doing it to make a direct message to our chosen hero or heroine; we’re signalling our sentiments to our friends, relations, followers, subscribers or other such assembled throng. It is almost like a less hypocritical virtue signalling that our snobbish QI-watching, quiche-eating, soy-latte drinking acquaintances tell us is so wrong. Therefore, if we’re not saying it to them, are we really just saying it to each other, you know, to our ‘tribe’ and by writing them are we just doing so to demonstrate our membership of that tribe, group, gang, collective or whatever other word you choose to use? I think we are, but more than that, I think we actually feel better for doing so and perhaps being part of that sentiment of collective celebration gives us a little boost, a little spark of goodness. I suppose it also has an added benefit of strengthening the bond between us fans of whichever celeb it is. Of course, having said all that, in these modern times, where, for many, the online world is more important than this thing we call reality. Where the views of strangers are held with greater regard than those we physically see, it could all be done to achieve a greater number of thumbs up, likes, hearts or similar.

None of that was what I was thinking about as I walked along the banks of The Brisbane River, crossing The Story Bridge. Nope, I didn’t contemplate commenting on social media at all; mostly my thoughts revolved around the natural beauty of the plants dotted along the route, the strange engineering feat of a cantilever from the 40s that still carries one heck of a lot of traffic. The oddly worrying cracks in the concrete balustrades and the teeth-shaking vibrations on the aforementioned construction. When I paused, under a wooden pergola beside the river when the rain came, I thought of little other than the smell of fresh rain that tingled my nostrils and the pat pat pat of the drops hitting the corrugated tin roof with increasing force.

I like the rain; I liked it today; it felt right for a reflective mood on a Monday; sometimes it is the simple things in life that give the most joy. So, if I were you, I’d just get out and smell the world after the rain.

21332 steps completed today!

That's all for today..... 

 

 Copyright © 2026 Seafront Media

Everything revolves around Thursday!

It is a Thursday; I can tell that by two methods: first, the calendar that features on the front screen of my mobile phone, and second, is that realisation that I’ve been here in Brisbane, Queensland, for a week!  Thus far, all my flights have been on Thursdays, and therefore my accommodation is always booked for the same day of the week.

Why did I choose a Thursday for the day of my travel? You may well ask. Indeed, there are numerous reasons why Thursdays are a good day for a jaunt of the air journeying kind, not least that it avoids the weekend surcharge, which traditionally, at least in the airline world, includes Fridays. This is, so I’m told, because these days are, or were, the most popular with the leisure/family traveller. Things have changed somewhat in recent times, and it varies depending on geographical areas as well. I could also offer safety as a factor: the day of the week when most plane crashes take place is Tuesday, followed by Wednesday, and whilst Sunday is said to be the day when crashes have least occurred, that is a weekend day when the flights are fullest, and upgrades are least likely to be granted. Fridays are the days with the most delays, and therefore Thursdays are thusly the best day of the week to fly. I could tell you all that, but while there is a grain of truth in it, it's mostly bunkum, and I picked Thursday because it was one of six other options, and I had to pick one of them, and it was the day of the week one day before my temporary stay visa for Japan ran out!

Today I arose at half eight of the morning, as is my usual leisurely awakening time in the days passing. All normal ablutions and breakfasting were completed customarily, which saw me exit the front door of the hotel before a non-existent Grandfather clock would have finished chiming ten times. I looked up and down river for a ferry; with none on this stretch of the river, I ambled down to the bicentennial bikeway and gently strolled my way towards the city centre. There was little in my mind of an agenda or destination; indeed, my grey matter was untroubled by thoughts of any nature as the morning's beauty greeted my eyes with each passing step. I like days like this, where plans are few and far between; I like Thursdays like this, where the freedom to just wander is luxuriously inviolable.

I did a circuit of the main shopping thoroughfares of George, Albert, Edward, Adelaide, Elizabeth, and Queens Streets. I also passed through some delightfully old-fashioned arcades, Tattersalls being one such example, that made me hanker for being an Edwardian Gentleman of independent means. Alas, as my means, which while they are independent, are less like means and more like beans, I repaired to the nearby botanic gardens and quaffed my lunch of pastries and iced coffee. Of course, on the way, I caught sight, if you can catch sight of the monstrously tall 222 Margaret Street, which is perhaps more popularly known as Brisbane Skytower! Which, at 900 feet and 90 stories, is both Brisbane’s and Queensland’s tallest building, plus it has an underground eight-level car park! Normally, such a tall building would loom over you and look out of place; however, Brisbane is slightly different: most of the really tall skyscrapers are in the CBD – the Central Business District, in a sort of loose rectangle. They belong together, and it is the few historic buildings dotted around the central city that, beautiful though they are, seem more out of place and like something created for a theme park!

After fortifying myself, I ambled across the river on the lovely Kangaroo Point Bridge to enjoy a stroll along the Riverwalk to South Bank and wherever this wind, will, and my feet would carry me. The sun was breaking through the clouds, and despite it being winter, its warmth and potency managed to tingle the nose, prompting a judicious application of sunscreen! I did the slop of the Slip, Slop, Slap, Seek and Slide, beloved of all sun-conscious Aussies.

I was in my own little world, just marvelling at the beauty of nature and the man-made world blending in near-perfect harmony of this little corner of Brisbane. Apart from the slightly odd aroma of the factor 50 that was now shielding my snozz from the harmful UV rays, everything was delightfully pleasant. I smiled at people and people, well, some of them, smiled back. I paused for some more iced coffee (without the ice) and walked onward at a pace that would seem positively glacial in the busy streets of London.

I’d passed the closed Streets Beach and wandered through most of South Bank Parklands when I happened upon a big wheel. Well, ok, I’d seen it before; you can’t really not see it, considering it's about 197 feet high and has over 40 capsules, or pods or gondolas or whatever the flippin ‘eck those cars are called. I checked out the price; it seemed rather expensive, $25, and it rotated quite fast. However, I’m only in Brisbane for another two weeks, and if not now, then when? The staff were friendly, much more so than Sydneysiders, which is a subject I’m sure I’ll come back to at another time, anyway, soon as I was climbing my way in a gondola, which was, thank goodness, air-conditioned. Up, up and away I went, and I rushed about getting a few photos, and soon it was down, down, and down we went. However, what I didn’t realise was that for my $25, I didn’t get just one go round the Wheel of Brisbane, nope, nor was it two, or three or even four, but five whole rotations! Yes, round I went five times on that lovely big wheel, which even stopped a few times, including with me on the very top. It was quite a lovely way to spend twenty minutes, and the views were delightful.  On the way out, I was so elated with my experience, I even purchased the commemorative photo, which is actually a green-screen jobby rather than using the real wheel as a backdrop, but hey, I was on a post-revolutionary high, so what did I care about wasting another $35?

There aren’t many days when going round and round can be as pleasurable as this one!

That's all for today..... Copyright © 2026 Seafront Media

Seven miles and a world away....

Greetings from Brisbane, where the local time is 17:43, and I'm currently enjoying a cuppa whilst sitting on the balcony of the penthouse apartment of the hotel where I'm staying. Although having written that, it occurs to me it may look a little grand and perhaps, dare I say, pretentious. Therefore, when I write penthouse, just read that as a corner room on the top floor, which is less theatrically grandiose and more descriptive. 

It is a mild afternoon, there is a gentle breeze that would, if I had any, ruffle my hair with soft caresses. The sky is a lovely myriad of blues, deep when looking directly overhead, lighter and more watery with a golden tinge, the further one gazes toward the TV transmitter aerials on the hills in Mount Coot-tha Reserve to my left. On my right, over the river, beyond West End and over South Brisbane, the sky has a slightly lighter hue, equally as pleasing and easy on the eye. 

Earlier, the sun shone brightly, with nary a cloud blemishing the distant blue as I walked up and down the South Bank area of Brisbane. I did venture further from the riverside and headed inland a wee bit. I wandered freely along the Arbour Walkway, with its shade and abundance of Bougainvilleas along the arches and arcs. From there, I paid a brief visit to the small yet reflective South Brisbane Memorial Park before crossing a busy road by a red brick clock tower that reminded me of a Catholic cathedral, opposite the massive Queensland Children's Hospital. This area is evidently the medical quarter of the city, for I counted at least four other hospitals, half a dozen clinics, and numerous other healthcare-related businesses in this area, all impressive in size and scale, although, as most of them were private, I shudder to think of the insurance and operation costs!

I had no plan, no map, no preconceived ideas, so I just followed the road along until I either saw a pretty-looking street or found its name appealing, and thus found myself preambling down a road called Park. Mrs Merton came into my mind when I saw a road with that name, and yes, I walked down part of it, until Ross Street, which took my fancy. There is something oddly soothing about casually walking along residential streets as a tourist, where your mind considers the architecture, the street furniture - if there is any, the greenery or gardens, and so on. Of course, there were a few properties where I'd wonder what it might be like to live there, stay there, and so on. I'm not sure if I'm alone in conjuring up those sorts of fantasies, but the mind does what the mind does, and I'm quite pleased about that. For about a minute, maybe two, I was dreaming what it would be like living in a house that looked like something out of The Sullivans, complete with cream colour picket fence, down a road called Fleur. How delightful it would be as the owner of a historic, wooden house in a Brisbane suburb with a wide shaded front deck where one could sit out in a rocking chair sipping on a coffee, cup of tea, cocktail, or beer depending on the time of day. Those mental pictures disintegrated when my eyes happened upon other houses on stilts, with the living area raised above the ground, and my mind raced to how achy my knees would be, should that have been my abode. 

I have no idea how I somehow managed to find my way to a street called Hawthorne, high above a busy highway and a most pleasing and rather exotic-looking church. Now, those who know me will honestly contest that religion and me are not best friends; however, that doesn't apply to religious buildings. The architecture of worship can be amazing; some are ridiculously imposing and more ostentatious than some Arab millionaires' boudoirs, while others are more subtle and almost homely. The church on Hawthorne was neither of those, yet had various traditional anglecan church like freatures, such as arched stained glass windows, yet with its white painted walls, terracotta tiled roof and square bell tower with no clock and the appearance of a minaret, looked positively Venetian or at least Italian, with perhaps a touch of the Spanish. For a few minutes, I was stopped in my tracks, just looking at this wonderful building dedicated to a god I didn't believe in. Yet, for once, I was glad that others believed in her, for they created this Romanesque building and others still kept it looking as bright as when it was first built. I may not be religious myself, but sometimes, just sometimes, I'm bloody glad it's there!

It is only now that I come to write this, from the comfort of my balcony, that I realise that:

A) My feet ache. 

B) I've walked some 22,460 (about 7.8 miles) steps today. 

C) I wasn't in South Brisbane all the time. 

D) Woolloongabba was the area in which the church was located. 

E) It's too cold to be sitting out in shorts and a T-shirt. 

F) My nose got a little sunburnt today!

 

That's all for today..... Copyright © 2026 Seafront Media

Rainy days and Mondays.....

 Rainy days and Mondays…..

Yesterday was a lazy day and today has been well, indolent as well, although not quite as slothful as yesterday. The early morning was besmirched by clouds releasing water, and I just attended to the ablutions of the day at an almost glacial pace. This slow method has been greatly aided by a recent addition to my smartphone's collection of apps. I downloaded a Ma-jong game, which, I confess, has prickled the addictive aspect of my nature and in the space of a week or so, I’ve gone from zero to level 132. Perhaps I should not take it into the bathroom with me, for an hour on the loo is perhaps forty minutes too long!

In a break in the cloud I ventured out; I got halfway down the road when it was dry no more and for the rest of the day (until I’d gotten back to the apartment) it rained. Sometimes it was soft and gentle like a cooling mist spray, whilst other times it was so heavy the dancing soldiers were as high as my knees. Do you know what dancing soldiers are? I’m not sure if that is a well-known expression or if it's just a certain section of the population that will have a Scooby what I’m referring to. Anyway, dancing soldiers are the resulting upward splash a raindrop causes when it lands in water. Like a puddle, river or sea. If you look closely, it is like a long thin upward jet preceded by a little round drop, which, in the right light, look similar to dancing toy soldiers. At least in my mind they do, and an old sailor once told me that’s what they were known as in the navy and it's just stuck.

There are a number of museums in Melbourne city centre, which is ideal for academically enlightened tourists and those like me, seeking to escape from the rain. It is amazing what you can see when you’re trying to escape a savage drenching downpour. I’m sure there are some that would balk a the price of $15 - $40 to shelter from the rain, but it’s the same price as a coffee and fancy pastry at that crowded cafe up the road by the station, and only one of those two locations will expand your mind!

     

In the Immigration Museum you’ll see hundreds of passports on the wall, some with stamps in and some with stories. Being from Europe, where they don’t stamp passports any more, I rather miss that old-fashioned activity. Indeed, these days with ‘Electronic Travel Authorities’, ‘e-Visas’ and machine-readable chips, fewer and fewer nations have their border guards get out the old ink pad and stamp. Yes, I miss those stamps; when I was a twenty-something, you could open my passport and find a stamp on most pages. It functioned as both an identity document and travel journal; flicking through the pages, each inky blob would cause an avalanche of memories of a place and a time. United States on the first page, two over is a number of stamps from repeated trips to Canada, then there was a blue smudge that I think was Norway, or maybe it was Malta! I’ve got a few stamps stuck in my current passport from going in to Japan, but very little else. Yes, I miss the long-gone halcyon days of stamping passports.

Outside in the rain, the city takes on a different atmosphere, fewer tourists and visitors on the streets, while shoppers are safely ensconced in their retail havens. Office workers tend to lunch at their desks rather than head to the Babajan or K-Street Toast. Only those who have to be out, moving between locations or rushing this way or that, are braving the weather. Oh, and me! I don’t know why, but I tend to get a little introspective when out in the rain; my mind thinks of things in my past, while my eyes search out the new beauties of a world in wetness.

Of course, if such a wet day occurs on a Monday, then sooner or later, the sweet refrain of Karen Carpenter's voice proffering ‘Rainy days and Monday’s always get me down’. Yet, despite the sorrowful mental soundtrack and the introspection, I’m not down. I remember the past, I look at the present, and I wonder what will come when the rain blows away.   

What comes into your mind on rainy days and Mondays?

That's all for today.....

Copyright © 2026 Seafront Media

The cathartic effects of getting dirty!

Never underestimate the cathartic experience of getting dirty! There I was the other morning, hadn’t slept particularly well, kept thinking all manner of things relating to Matt and that whole situation, which prevented slumbers' sweet escape from washing over me. It’s funny how strange, sometimes silly things bring back memories of happier times, for example, even now, in my head, I still play the ’Punch Herbie/Slug Bug’ game each time I see a VW Beetle! I giggle to myself and sometimes aloud. 

A friend asked me what the hardest part has been about the whole ‘USA Drama Thing’ as he called it, and after thinking for a good long while, I have to say that it probably is the lack of communication. OK, so the lack of relationship is a pretty big gap in life, but the lack of communication from him, before, during and after has been the most hurtful and most difficult to cope with. It raises far more questions than answers, and prevents any further dialogue between us. It also leaves me unable to scratch that itch of wondering how he is. It may sound a little odd given the circumstances, but I still do care for him. He may have fallen out of love with me and dumped me, but I didn’t fall out of love with him, and love is not something I can just turn off like a tap, or faucet if you're American. Which means I am constantly wondering about where he is, what he’s doing, and more importantly, if he’s OK. I could listen to the gossip from his friends, and believe that he’s going downhill, and downhill fast, that he is drinking and smoking and doing drugs, that he’s starting to be really dirty and having sex in public restrooms again. 

These things and more well up in my mind, and it’s all to do with the lack of contact, the cessation of all communications. I can’t recall any other relationship where contact was withdrawn like this; perhaps that’s because up until now, I’ve always been the one to bring things to their conclusions, to their natural or unnatural end. Well, with the exception of Ed, with whom I’d lived for a number of years, and who ended our cohabitation and life together with the rather clinical “We have come to the end of the road of our relationship” It may have been clinical, perhaps a little cold, but it was accurate, succinct, to the point. But that didn’t stop us from being in contact with each other, indeed, a few times after reaching that particular cul-de-sac on life’s highway, we’d meet up and well......get passionate. In fact, don’t tell anyone, but I have to say that during one of those meetings we had some of the most rewarding and passionate sexual experiences of my life, for which I will always thank Ed the ex for, albeit silently and only on the pages of this here blog - it’s OK, he doesn’t read it! 

 All my other past relationships have come to an end on my terms at a time of my choosing and doing, but one thing I have done, and that is remained on at least speaking terms with all of them that wanted it. Just to end all forms of communication would be extremely cruel, calloused and hateful, not something I think I have the ability or desire to be. It was with these thoughts raging in my head and long with other more practicalities, such as taking the photos off the wall, packing away the silly cuddly plushy toys and other keepsakes and memorabilia that laid me low the other morning. I needed to clear my head, cleanse my body and something that would not take either money or too much brain power. I decided the bike would be the way to go. I needed a ride, I’ve started to pile on a few pounds since coming back from America again, something to do with the eating of American chocolate, which is, was and always will be my favourite. 

 The day previous had been wet and rainy, but the other morning was dry and clear, the blue skies masking the true temperature of the outside world. I started well, down the road towards Shoreham, no route or plan in my mind, just a little ride, not far, not long, just to get some fresh air and blow the cobwebs out. I’m not sure if I was on auto pilot, or the sounds of Death Cab For a Cutie, The Postal Service and Bright Eyes on the iPod was distracting me, but I found myself on the bridge over the river Adur, forward was the relatively dry roads around Shoreham Airport, behind me, the relatively dry road from which I’d just come. To the left of me, the dryish footpath leading the main road and cycle route along Shoreham Beach, and finally to my right, the Downs Link Way, which is a rather well used path way, but mainly on unsealed ground! Guess which way I chose? 

At first, it was easy going, I built up a little speed, the damp ground of the gravel kicking up under the tyres a little, not a soul to see, just me, the freedom, the air. I cycled a bit faster, indeed top gear and as fast as my little legs could force the pedals round. Then the nice dry gravel gave way to mud, forcing me to navigate large pot holes filled with water, sloppy mud sides and heavy overhanging branches. It would have been easy to avoid such puddles, pools and mud had I been flying, or chosen a different route, but I wasn’t, and I didn’t. I was belting along, trying my best to steer round the biggest and deepest baby lakes of dirty muddy water, then I thought, what the hell, and cycled straight through the next one. Well, come on, there’s no point going off-road cycling in the damp, in the winter if you don’t wanna get wet, nor dirty for that matter. Suddenly, for the first time in months, I felt alive as the coldness of the water soaked through the trakkie bottoms I was wearing. My body tingled as the mud splattered up from the rapidly turning wheels all over my back, front side and head. I got to Bramber, not a mammoth distance, I’ll readily admit, but a great halfway point, from which I could have cycled back along the roadway, but nope, call me Queen Silly of the Silly people if you wish, but there was only one way back for me. Yep, back along the muddy track, that is the Downs Link. I’ve never been so wet, so muddy and dirty, even in my surprisingly well-kempt youth, as I was then, a couple of days ago. Brown chunks of mud clung to my face, my jacket was now three colours, white, blue and mud and my trakkie bottoms, well lets just say they have since dried to be a solid lump of earth with a waistband!

My muscles may have ached, my clothes may have been ruined, my face stinging from the wind, but my mind - cleared, refreshed indeed cleansed. For the first time in over a month, I felt like the real me again!

More soon, hopefully. Comments are always welcome, so thanks in advance!!

Customer service...a thing of the past

(2026 Edit - This post comes from the archive; it was first published on 4th October 2013 at 0747. Things, views and events may have changed since then.)

Customer Service in shops seems to be a relic from a bygone age, something that used to happen in the past, but just milk bottles on every doorstep, rag and bone men, it’s been consigned to history. I’m not on about the ‘Are you being served?’ sort of service, but just the general good manners, the please, the thank you’s, you know, general stuff like that. Surely just a little common decency is not too much to ask for, especially when they’re asking you to part with your hard-earned money? Maybe it’s just me; maybe I’m just a crotchety old buffer who thinks please and thank yous are important when working in a retail environment, because they seem so rare these days. I normally let it slide and keep my mouth shut, but just occasionally I’ll say something, perhaps ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you say please’ or ‘thank you’ or whatever it happens to be. One such occasion was a recent trip to the local supermarket where the check-out lady was, let's just say, not the most customer-focused of people. In fact, the whole shopping trip had been a bit of an issue,  so much so that when I got home I decided to write a letter to the store Manager –

Dear Mr 'store managers name edited out'... I like Morrion’s as a supermarket, I find the own brand items great value and impressive quality and whilst it’s a slight distance more from me than ASDA in Silverhill, I choose to do at least one of my two weekly shops at your store each week. The special offers are usually good as is their stock level, with most items in plentiful supply. The freshness of the perishable food items at the front of the store is another positive mark for your supermarket.  However the only drawback about visiting your store is the staff – there are some that are happy to help but more often than not, especially recently, they couldn’t give a damn about customers or offering even passable customer service. My last shopping experience with you was a classic example of this ‘uncaring’ attitude and bad service.  The fresh fish counter was left unattended, the man in the apron wasn’t far away, he was too busy chatting to two other members of staff – about non-work related issues at the display area to the left of the counter. They didn’t notice or didn’t care about an elderly lady waiting, I myself bought some ‘packet’ fresh fish rather than wait to be served by staff too busy chatting to serve. My next port of call as was the bakery area, I was going to get some fresh rolls, however, I decided against this when I watched one of the bakery staff carry a basket out to replenish stock, wipe his nose on the back of his hand and then with the same hand (ungloved) place the rolls in their respective baskets. Now whilst it was the back of his hand and not his fingers that was touching his nose, it doesn’t really inspire confidence of cleanliness nor that fresh bread will be free of nose debris. It was a busy day at the checkouts, so a little wait was to be expected and I didn’t mind that at all,  however, as soon as my items were at the front, there was a changeover of staff, both of which ignored me, their customer,  neither apologized for keeping me waiting as they changed over and the incoming staff member complained about the absence of a stool. After some muttered assumption about my ability to pack for myself she started to rather uncaringly pass my items through the scanner. Now whilst I wouldn’t say she was being rough with the items, I would say she was rather firm, so firm in fact that at least three strawberries were squashed. Once all the shopping was passed through and scanned she asked for the money, although when I say she asked for the money, I actually mean she just said the total, no please, or anything like that, just the amount. I asked her to repeat it,  twice,  just to make sure there was no ‘please’ and give her the opportunity to offer at last the resemblance of manners,  but no none came. ‘I thought you might have said a please’ I said, ‘but evidently not’ I continued, to which this lady just pursed her lips, tutted and snatched the twenty pound note out of my hand, before I had chance to retrieve a five pound note. Change was given, with receipt, but a thank you was absent. Its customer service like this that let down Morrison’s dramatically and whilst you are the only large supermarket in the town centre itself that you can rely on having constant custom, the terrible service doesn’t inspire those with many more supermarket options available to us to shop with you. Morrison’s is spending millions on advertising this year, yet that money is completely wasted if such poor customer service drives shoppers away and to your rivals. I’ve enclosed my receipt so you may perhaps trace the checkout operator and offer her a little more training or encourage her to treat customers a little more like human beings rather than just an inconvenience to her day.      Yours 

Over three weeks later, still no reply from the manager, not that I expected an apology; just an acknowledgement would have done, but nothing came, and I have to confirm it was that lack of contact that pissed me off more than the bad service in the first place. It really rankled me that my letter – yes, a real-life paper and ink jobby letter with a stamp and everything – was simply ignored. So I fired off a copy to the customer service department on the store's website. A couple of automated replies and a week later I got a reply, simply a standard copy-and-paste job apologising for the poor service; nothing mentioned about the lack of reply from the store manager, or any of the contents of the letter, just a sorry.  Still, it was a reply, and I was grateful for that; they also sent a letter in the post, ‘sorry to hear of the issues you brought to our attention ’, and sent me a £10 gift voucher as a token of regret for my inconvenience.  I used it on Sunday to buy wine, bread and chocolate. 

Recycling's Rubbish.....

(2026 Edit - This post is from the archive;  it was first published on 2nd October 2013 at 1500. Things, views and events may have changed since then.)

Joined up thinking........

Three weeks ago, give or take a day, a letter from the local borough council arrived on the doormat of Shaw Towers, well ok I’ll be honest Shaw Towers is more Shaw Hovel than towers, being a poky one bedroomed apartment on the outskirts of the historic Sussex seaside town I now reside. However, the size of my room, which I call home, is not the issue here – unless you’re planning on popping round for tea and a biscuit that is, which you’re welcome to do so, but please bring your own chair as I've only got one!

So getting back to the point, a mailing from the local authority arrived informing me that a new recycling box for items of used glass and a big black Velcro-sealing seagull-proof rubbish sack would soon be clonking along the road in my direction. Currently, I have a big green rubbish bin and a supply of pink sacks for recycling paper, tins and cardboard, which the local council collect on a weekly basis. As a keen recycler for many years, I was excited about the change; as of now I had to walk half a mile to recycle glass and metal as these were not currently collected in the pink sacks by the council, now though, according to the mailout, these would also be picked up from outside my door. Hurrah for me but an even louder hurrah for the environment.

Last Saturday I got a letter from the very same authority, complete with leaflets letting me know my collection day and answering any questions I might have about my new refuse and recycling methods. Forlornly, the letter accompanying these leaflets (printed with non-biodegradable ink) informed me that ‘Unfortunately this does not apply to your area’ because ‘there is no space for the black boxes or sacks to be safely put out for collection’.  I wondered how much space was needed, so I checked the size of the boxes, then measured the area out the front of the apartments (off the public highway) and found there was enough room for nineteen such boxes, more if said boxes were stacked on top of each other. I couldn’t get an accurate measurement for the sacks, so a similar comparison could not be made; however, in addition to the nineteen black boxes there is also space for five big wheelie bins, so I’m not sure where or how the council ‘made its careful assessment’ of my area, but its mechanisms seem to be fundamentally flawed.

Also on Saturday and completely separate from the letter and leaflets came a printed card (not on recycled paper) from the local council informing me that ‘If you’ve got this card you’ll be getting a black recycling box and seagull-proof rubbish sack shortly’. Hmm, so I’m rather mucking fuddled!  Am I getting a box or am I not?  A call to the council could answer the question, or so I thought. After waiting an age to get through and giving my details and location, the lady on the helpline couldn’t tell me one way or the other because - guess what?  She also had ‘conflicting information’, so who knows!  Joined-up thinking seems to be in short supply at the local council! They seem happy to send out lots of bright, colourful expensively produced literature regarding conflicting recycling information, yet bemoan on a regular basis the lack of funds and cuts in government grants forcing a reduction in overall spending, yet one thing they are not muddled about, that’s collecting my council tax on time, nope they’ve got that all sorted, a day late and a warning is sent, three days late and the bailiffs hae been ordered!

© 2013 Copyright to Jason Shaw

Monday Morning Blues......

(2026 Edit - This post is from the archive;  it was first published on 30 September 2013 at 2217.  Things, views and events may have changed since then. )

Sunday afternoon I was busy writing letters and catching up with correspondence; that time just ran away from me and before I knew it the midnight hour had sprung upon me like a nasty panther hiding in the darkness. I wasn't best pleased, especially as I'd not even done half the amount of letters/emails I'd hoped to have completed by the evening. Some of those emails were regarding possible future interviews, some of which may very well appear here before your very eyes, whilst some of those are for other publications; more details in the fullness of time. It'll be a lot of work, but if it all comes together it will also be fun and hopefully bring in a couple of quid, not enough to make me rich but enough to keep the wolf from the door.

My late retirement has put me at odds with myself today as I had to get up at the un-Jason-like hour of 6am in order to get to work by 8am. I'm not so keen on the start time, but I'm pleased with the finish time of 5pm, plus I've got two more days off as I'm working the complete weekend again this coming weekend. I've not got any plans for the days off, just an awful lot of writing and that sort of thing. Although a few little visits to the local discount supermarket might be in order. You see, they've introduced all their Christmas goodies and as it's a European store a lot of the naughty foods come from lands other than my own - including four different varieties of Stollen! Yummy. Also chocolate-covered marzipan logs and those funny little chocolate things with booze in them! Bang goes my diet, but hey, I can't be good all the time.....

What sort of food items do you most look forward to over the holiday period? Perhaps it's the turkey dinner at Christmas or Thanksgiving, or maybe you are an eggnog fan, maybe you are the chief muncher of Easter eggs? What seasonal food gets your mouth watering?

© 2013 Copyright to Jason Shaw

(dead link removed)

No sleep till the weekend.....

(2026 Edit - This post is from the archive;  it was first published on 28th September 2013 at 2000.  Things, views and events may have changed since then.)

I've got the weekend off; it seems so rare these days with the new rota at work, but yes, the weekend off! After a week of late shifts, which I have to confess has really plum tuckered me out! I'm bushwhacked, knackered and other such expressions to indicate my body is running on empty and my mind even less!

I just don't seem to be able to do anything when I'm on lates, zilch in the morning and not enough time after work has finished at 9, because the schedule of the trains means I'm lucky to enter my lounge in time for the evening news at ten. I think as I've got older I'm getting more and more keen on a routine, something easy to cope with, something that allows planning and regularity - sadly this rota doesn't much allow for anything like that.

I've already crammed a week's worth of domestic chores into a Saturday morning, washing, shopping, bathing, hoovering and returning a stack of post for people that don't live at my apartment any more. So much for a restful weekend!

I had a giggle at work, you know a while back I told you about an award I'd received at work, well the photos from that have been published, not only are they on the TV screens in the reception of the head office, but also in the staff canteen. Worse than that, some silly so-and-so printed them off and affixed them to the door of the call centre, so every time someone enters they see my smiling football-sized face gormlessly grinning at them like a gurning dopey in purple. Oh, the embarrassment of it all.

© 2013 Copyright to Jason Shaw

A little isolation.

(2026 Edit: this post is from the archive; it was first published on 31st March 2013 at 20:00. Things, views and events may have changed since then!)

Photo by Galen Crout on Unsplash

Isolation,  what a wonderful feeling. No, really, I mean it, can you imagine exactly what total and complete isolation would really be like to experience?  Quite a few years ago, one of my more affluent friends had one of those odd dome-like isolation tanks installed into their second bathroom.  I remember at the time such plastic and fibreglass creations were all the rage with the ‘well-to-do’ and ’more money than sense’ set, of which my friend was perhaps a 'weekend' member of.  This odd erection, with its shape an amalgam of dome and pyramid was a dusky black colour with some brightly coloured block writing on it, the actual words escape me now but I’m relatively sure it would have been condescending operating instructions warning that it was designed to be used by just one person at a time,  as if the name ‘Isolation Tank’ was a little misleading. Inside it was dark black, with a little raised bum platform and what could be either a reservoir to contain warm water or something more pleasant, like a duvet or a cushion. I entered willingly and expectantly, plonked myself on the little seat, and then the darkness descended all around me as the door was closed. The first thing I noticed, other than the off-putting smell of condensation on plastic, was that even though I was in an isolation tank, I wasn’t exactly isolated.  A little light pollution crept around the door frame whilst the sounds of the outside world remained constant, although somewhat dimmed.  I was alone, but not alone; isolated yet also oddly still attached to the world around me, and to my mind this wasn’t a tank; it was more of a semi-comfortable living coffin!  After, what I’d like to say was a few hours but in reality was probably no more than ten minutes, I exited the tank and thanked my friend for the loan of his isolation assimilation and practically ran from the house to the nearest bar. Whilst I saw that friend many times over the forthcoming months, I never went back in his tank!

The only reason this memory came back to my mind today was that at just gone eight this morning I enjoyed a long soak in the bath, during which I let my head sink back until my ears were under the bubbly, soapy warm water.  I don’t normally do this, you see; before moving into this new apartment I’d always been a shower man, enjoying the cascading water pounding my head and invigorating the skin. Baths previously had been rare events, most often shared with either somebody else or perhaps just as rewarding, although undeniably less communicative, a bottle of wine.  Either way, I always had something else to do, other than lay in the tub getting all wrinkly as the water turned from scalding hot to freezing cold.  

Yet this morning, with plenty of time to loiter and relax,  I pretended I was a beached whale and plonked myself in the tub. Now, for some of my American friends, who may not know this, but in England, as most of Europe in fact, baths are a lot deeper over here in general,  the sides a lot higher, hence the water capacity a fair bit more than the standard shallow baths that seem to be favoured on your side of the Atlantic. Therefore, it was quite easy for me to slide down in the tub to allow the water to cover over my ears, leaving just my eyes and nose about the waterline. With my eyes closed tight, I listened to a faint gurgling hum of the plumbing, the odd splosh of a dripping tap and an oddly loud terr-dumpth terr-dumpth terr-dumpth terr-dumpth terr-dumpth. Which was at first rather confusing, and I confess I had to pop my head up out of the water like an ever-watchful meerkat or perhaps more accurately, a wallowing rhino, to find out what the sound was. Of course, once my head was out of the water and my ears clear of bubbles, the sound had stopped, yet it recommenced as soon as my noggin was back below the surface. Now, I’m sure you’ve already worked out, long before I did. It was only after I'd done the whole meerkat thing and back under the water that I realised that the terr-dumpth, terr-dumpth, terr-dumpth was in actual fact the beat of my heart!

So after feeling silly for a few moments, I actually felt a little detached from reality, and whilst I could still hear the odd murmur of the outside world going on about me, I did experience a certain sense of semi-isolation, and I have to say it felt absolutely great. Neurons sparked, synapses fired, whole cortices lit up brighter than the seafront illuminations on a winter night; my entire mind was alive and buzzing with thoughts, ideas, memories and ponderings. You know it was as if some unseen great giant called Emmet had switched a big knob on the back of my head from off to on and sparked the whole thing off. 

As soon as I was out of the bath, the wild rancorous riot of thought going on inside my head ceased and abated with such alarming rapidity I had to double-check my brain wasn’t gurgling down the drain with the outflowing water.  Which leads me to the incredible conclusion that if I ever need to think in future, I’ll need to have a soak in the bath, or at the very least a bucket of water to dunk my head in. Which sounds fine, although could be a little problematic, not to mention embarrassing at work!