Writings on… Archive

  Who are you, upon my toe? What secrets do you have to know? Your big headphones and bigger screen; your skewed smile and glistening sheen. Another face within this carriage; a mother, a child, a woman – in marriage. Underground traveller, regular and proud; you do not flinch to announcements, loud. You take it in your fixed, wide stance. Not for you, this travelling dance, of rocking movements as we go, where is my station, do you know? Another crowd, through train doors come, as I cling to life with fingers and thumb. They barge their way in to my space; an armpit rests upon my face I want to say, oh do you mind? Though fear response will not be kind Their crumpled

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  A mess – there is no other way to describe it. As intros go, the drum pattern on “Conceptual – Form and Funktion” is a mess. The pace, without knowing what is to follow, feels too excitable; too pronounced. Why would you start a track as though imitating a panic attack? Why would you then throw in a squelch sound other than to dampen the drums; the very same drums that you want people to believe in? Because he can – because Raggy knows what is about to follow. And what is about to follow is the ultimate clubbing moment; that last tune of the night. That pace that seemed too pronounced, too excitable; quickly leads you in to the heart of the tune.

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I’m not really sure why I am here any more. Once upon a time, as Lauren’s stories might begin, I started this blog to fill the space between the words I was being asked to write – and the ones I wanted to find time to write. That position has somewhat changed now. People aren’t exactly knocking down my door with commissions these days. There has also been a massive change of focus at work. No longer am I frustratingly writing in an attempt to add more creativity; more control to my life. I get that at work – with the ability to write, business writing, but it is still the skill of using words to convince. So why am I still here? Well, because of

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I have hands. Such a statement may seem unremarkable to those of you who also have hands – but my hands are different. My hands are magic. I first discovered their magical properties when Lauren was struggling with constipation. “Can I hold your hands” she would say; as the pressure built up ahead of the on rush of poo. It worked. She went. My hands were then called in to action, many times over, as my poor daughter despaired with each visit to the pan. The magic hands would spring in to action – a delicate grip would ease the situation. In the end I just made sure I was always there for her. If only she knew the trick was to drink caffeine or

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Hello. Long time, no – whatever it is you do on here? I know I write; though I am not entirely sure what it is YOU do? Anyways. It’s been a long time since I left you, because, well, I can’t be bothered. WAIT! Don’t go – not just yet. Give me one last post before you leave (even if I MAY have left already). When I say bothered I actually mean it. What is the point of this blog? In previous years it was used to illuminate the mundanity of life. Not necessarily to you, dear (again – what is it you do?), but more so me. My output was always at its peak when, life, especially my working life, was devoid of any

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I might be being petty here. I usually am. So in the words of The Smiths “Stop me if you think that you’ve heard this one before.” I was at Chester Zoo last Sunday. We had an excellent day out as a family. LLK loved it, even if she took a while to warm to the dinosaurs – even if she knew they were “just robots, daddy.” She was so good on the day, that we even let her come home with a rather annoying, roaring treat. Job’s a good’un. Even I had a good day, though I was irked, slightly, by the price sign when we first got to the zoo. There were two ticket prices. One price was for a standard ticket. The

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This is just a quick post. Sort of post to ease back in to the writing lark after a while away from the blog. Real life has taken over somewhat. Pressures at work, getting the house sorted – or at least, LLK’s room sorted – have been a necessary, but unwanted distraction. Unwanted, in that – work aside – I’m only doing the room up as Lauren is away with Amy in Menorca. It’s amazing what you miss about someone when they’re not there. I could be all male bravado here and say that I miss Amy doing the washing or the cleaning, but the truth is I just miss her being there; for far too many reasons to cover off in just one post.

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Yesterday was my birthday. This now means I am 37 years old, and one day. Very few people registered that it was my birthday. Very few were actually informed. It passed a lot of friends by. Not a single person at work knew the “importance” of the date. I just don’t do birthdays. Other people’s – yes; my own – no. Not sure why? I care not about age. I’ve always been of the opinion that, with the exception of hair, teeth and brain cells, you should accrue more of everything the older you get – thus adding greatly to your life; your experiences. I guess I fall in to that “would be a psychologist’s dream ticket” camp – in that I regularly over compensate

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You know who you are. But you may not know why I am writing this. You may not understand why I don’t want to just lean across and tell you, in far fewer words. But then the dog barks. Or our baby screams. And we glare, I bark, we both scream. And then we laugh. And I take the dog for a walk, and come back and we sit in separate rooms. Not because we’ve fallen out, but because we don’t like the same television programmes – you don’t want me listening to you dictate house details without trying to make you laugh. We laugh a lot. I’m writing this because of you; because I am lucky to have you. I will find this weekend

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I’m good at what I do. It’s not the greatest answer. By no means one that will end up on a quotation site – and yes, of course, I will expand. It is the right answer. It is why they should give me the job. I try never to explain what I do for a living. It’s not that I am a spy, or that what I do is top secret – even if most of the documents I read are labelled as confidential; or sent via email with an angry, red exclamation mark stamped on it. What I do is work for one institution, which hosts another – that works on behalf of a third one. If I say I work for the first

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