Journal Entries
Monday October 4th 1999
Posted Oct 17, 1999
Click up it's just past six. Click I'm dressed and having breakfast. Click I'm in the car and leaving long Compton up Old Hill heading towards the Rollright stones. Click I've got an impatient driver up my arse, he tries to overtake once and nearly hits an oncoming car. Click he has another go and again nearly hits an oncoming car. Click I'm doing 70 where I'd usually do 60, doing, 80 where I'd usually do 70. Click I'm on the run down off the Cotswolds at Birdlip. Click I shiver to a halt in traffic trying to get onto the M32 in Bristol. Click, click, clicketty click. I open the garage doors at work. It's 7.45 and I'm at my desk. Now what?
Diarlyand beckons. It's going to take a long, long time to enter 8,000 or so entries from old diaries. I chose to begin in and around autumn 1984. Things had gone wrong in my 8 year plan to get into the BBC earlier that year, I'd been wooed by various advertising agencies, accepted a position at JWT and hated it. I called us reps the Oxbridge Prostates. Bright brains to do the bidding of dim clients. Worse, I was bored. There was not formal induction. Instead I was put at a desk and got things to do at the whim of my immediate boss and she is more often than not too busy on other accounts. Meanwhile my girlfriend is in France for the year and I have the use of a flat in the Whitehall Court. I spend most days and nearly every evening in the company of woman. Bringing Lucinda Gibson back to the flat to pose naked for me has left an enduring impression on my diary landscape. Much else was going on besides, my growing realisation that I didn't have a girlfriend as Vicki and i would split up, her 21st coming up on 22nd November and various close and arm's lengths liaisons.
I took an hour out to check through some of these entries from the 1980s in simple text so that they could be pasted into the HTML Template of Diaryland. I'm taking entries back to the present tense and leaving them as written. Editorially changes are made simply to improve understanding. Whist I have elaborated on some of the key events over the years reading them back it is clear that there is much more truth and logic in the original entries. What happens otherwise is I end up losing what limited sense of narrative exists by giving notes, not only on who these people are, the place and circumstances, but also giving notes on what later happens. In this muddle I can see that the feelings and priorities of the boy, the teenager, the young man at the time, are being lost.
Questions on a promotional video I've been asked to put together for BBS Media Relations are not being answered; I suspect the task is little more than a time filler. I want projects to manage, to write and direct. I can't see from where these are going to materialise.
Turning back to the Website Best Practice article I've written I took the chance to visit a number of sites and give them a full review. With several new sites being suggested to me each day this can become a lengthy task. Chris Powles thanked me for the 47 page attachment on the subject.
Lesley is time filling too now that the Lloyds TSB audio-cassettes job is out of the way. She spent ages trying to download an MP3 file from a music site and failed. This spoilt her impression of the Internet and the WWW. From this I can see that those being introduced to websites need to be guided to sites that are simple to use, they should ideally indulge the new user's personal interests as well - give them something which will absorb them. What we want is them coming away converts to the medium!
Come 1.30 I'd decided to take the rest of the afternoon off, I had a house to look at in Portskellen anyway.
Racing up the M4 towards Chepstow I managed to slip into the wrong lane and had to double back having got onto the M5 South.
A back road took me off the main Chepstow to Caldicot road into Portskellen. It left me underwhelmed. A smattering of properties of muddled provenance, mostly of lower value. Manor Cottage I found disturbingly close to the roads to Caldicot and the most used road to Chepstow. Though full of character, mostly 17th century with great thick walls and a huge fireplace I was put off by public access up the side of the house, the roads and the news that the fields behind this collection of 3 houses had been bought by Monmouthshire CC to turn into a Junior School and Playing Fields.
Then on to St. Brievels. Not far but a twisting road north of Chepstow where I got stuck behind a van. St. Brievels is no less inspiring than Long Compton. It has a castle, it has a couple of pubs and a couple of shops (of sorts). Crossways is on the edge of the old village with the main road running down one side. Across the road there are local authority properties, some bought and done up. Across the village road in front of the house there is a large playing field and children's recreation ground.
The house. No garden to speak of - turned to gravel with a large raised bed at one end. Gates onto the gravel and parking for 4 cars. Garage, patio in front of kitchen windows and back door.
A large, inviting, well-fitted out kitchen/dining room. All tiled and well maintained. Proud owner has given a lot of thought to the place. Good space to work in with a dining room table one step down from the kitchen area. Off to one side room for a desk with fitted shelves. Round the corner to a cloakroom and shower. Also direct access to the garage where the washing machine is plumbed in.
Through into the hall and on either side of the stairs a living room and snug. Both with feature fire-places and working sash windows. One with a wood burning stove and fitted shelves to the back wall.
Upstairs and on the landing or mezzanine a bathroom with washbasin and wc. Nicely fitted. Also a snug single bedroom under the eaves and looking onto the back of the house. Onto the top landing and three further rooms. Two reasonable size double beds and in between a study, or baby's room with a phone point, desk and computer currently in place.
Loft recently treated. Kept clear to preserve the condition of the wood (I was told).
No more isolated than Long Compton, though 22 miles to Gloucester, so some 58 miles from Barton on the Heath. Only 7.5 miles to Chepstow, superstore, delicatessen and swimming pool. Close to the Wye Valley and all the attractions of the Forest of Dean.
How would we manage as a family? Ample space to grow up in, then when they head for secondary school we move into town ? A long, long, long way off!
Home via Tescos in Stowe. Spoke to Zoe from the payphone. Bought oysters, muscles and wine. Knocked back a handy double gin and tonic. 4 out of the 6 oysters were heavenly. Last tried one in France in 1977 and was too disgusted to like them. Cooked up Moules Marinieres for Wanda. Drank half the wine and made up the rest of the liquid with home brewed chicken stock. Gorgeous.
Ran off a dream from February 1993 and shared in with Wanda. Called "Sisters on Ice" it expresses very well my feelings about my special relationship with her. My analysis of that dream is remarkably appropriate for all the decisions we are currently making.
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Memories of the Farnes Islands Lighthouse
Posted Oct 17, 1999
The lighthouse laughed when it saw us coming. "You'll never catch cod with a line like that," it burbled. Nick is sick over the side of the boat as Uncle Charles hauls in 6 grumpy fish with gobs like man-traps.
"Just you behave," I replied, taking the measure of its ice-cream castle colours of white and red. "I'll have words with you when I get home."
That night as I sleep my tiny legs slipped and slid across the seaweedy shore beckoned by the lighthouse. Climbing the steps that wind around the side I find a door. "Just what I was looking for," I remark as I drop my pants and have a pee.
Moments later.
"I didn't want to, Mummy." I call up to her as she leans over the bed and lifts the sheets. "I thought I had gone to the toilet." "That's alright," she said and I quickly pulled the damp vest I was wearing over my head.
The next morning I wet the bed deliberately. I am lying there feeling cold, so I have a pee to keep warm. That was the last time I wet my bed. I was at least 6, perhaps 7.
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A Daddy Daughter Day
Posted Oct 17, 1999
A daddy at home, mummy has some work day today. I was up early regardless. Scanning the papers for a job in old or new media. Zozo joins me for breakfast. Usually I'm off about now and have to put her in front of Sesame Street. Not today.
Darlingest has a routine of sorts. We try to adhere to it. Clothes are laid out the night before in the bathroom. We use a race as a ploy to get Zozo out of her trainer pants and into her clothes for the day. Somehow, by 8.30 I have them both strapped into the car and I head for Blockley.
11 miles, cross country to take the little person to nursery school. A huge wagon pulls out of a farm in Barton on the Heath. It could contain a 3 bed cottage. We sit behind this vast steel behemoth all the way to Bourton on the Hill.
Blockley is idyllic. Cotswold villages look their best in early morning or evening autumn sun. The orange glow of the sun is absorbed by the mellow yellow of the stone, which is made more pronounced by the dappled hues of red, orange, tan and beige in the trees and surrounding woods.
Darlingest loves Blockley school, and I respect and admire their approach. There's an intelligent and considered and flexible approach. 200 yds from our home in Long Compton there is a state primary school. A preschool facility for 13 children opened this autumn. I understand 6 or 7 children attend. The "school" is a portacabin. We don't know the new teachers. The headmaster, an unimpressive, dim Brummager doing his time to retirement is the reason to keep away from the place. He doesn't live in the village either. The real reason for keeping Zozo out though are the other children. Having been to the Blockley Sports Day Zozo and Darlingest went to a Long Compton Primary School Open day where 3 and 4 year olds kicked, spat and said "f**king."
Darlingest had told me to leave Zozo promptly. Instead I gave her a lingering hug and kiss. Mistake. She didn't want to stay. Mrs New distracted her. I made a rapid exit down the stairs looking back to reassure myself that she was fine. She is.
Decide to drive to Stowe via Longborough to judge if it would be realistic to live in Blockley or near to Blockley. TBT pulls himself free of the straps in the car seat so I have to stop. The road is easy along the top of the escarpment, but at 6.5 miles we gain very little it's 11 miles from Long Compton to Stowe as it is.
Stowe is wonderful at this time of year too. The tourists have gone. There is ample parking, indeed there are so few cars at this time in the morning the square begins to resemble those black and white pictures that decorate the walls of local pubs and cafes. I stumble in and around the estate agents. Not a lot on offer, though I pick up details of a chapel in Bourton on the Water, of similar proportions to The Meeting House.
Now what? A few hours still to kill. Dare I take TBT for a haircut? He's 16 months old and has had one haircut. It's over his ears and over his eyes. We head for Chipping Norton.
Though there was the usual conservative outcry over the work that has now been completed in the square I am wholly supportive of the council's achievement. The High Street has lost few parking places, but no longer suffers from vehicles drifting in along the top. Instead everything is funnelled in from either end. It puts cars in their place whilst improving the environment for pedestrians. Another Cotswold town I've got used to over the last 3 years. I'd hate to give up the convenience of it all, always being able to park near to the shops, never having to scramble around for parking meter change either.
A couple of octogenarians are having trims. TBT's hair is as whispy as theirs. The wait gives TBT a chance to explore and play. He clambers on a chair, and winds it around. He takes out tins of hair wax and stacks them. He pulls out hair dryers. I try to read him stories and he loves Max the burgundy Labrador.
It proves a task and a half. TBT won't sit on the raised seat so he goes sideways on my knees. He wont' tolerate a bib or a towel over his shoulders. Distractions are momentary. A Buzz Light-year is soon flung to the floor. A sticky lollie works for moments only, before it gets stuck with hair and the appeal is lost. Max is called in and obediently skulks over to be petted. TBT is having nothing of it. To clip around his ears and his fringe I clasp him still. He hates it of course and I have a distant recollection of dentist's chairs. TBT's tears are temporary.
Susan, the hairdresser has to work fast. she gives TBTs little head the same thorough attention. His sun-tinted locks are clipped away. He's left with the short back and sides of a little boy. Pointing him towards the mirror we expect some kind of reaction, but he appears to see nothing unusual. just him and Daddy. Darlingest loves it. Her little boy. He plugs in for some comfort and cuddles. Ten minutes later I have him back, rosy cheeked, a dynamo, mischevious, inquisitive, destructive. The only answer to this is to drop everything, to do nothing else, nor to think of anything else. I doubt his attention spans longer than ten minutes (if that). Whilst he can be distracted he has interests and drives which are sometimes difficult to interpret. He sees or recognises something and wants it: a brush, a watering can, a pen, a piece of bread or fruit.
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Paper vs On Line Diary
Posted Oct 17, 1999
A pattern is emerging. The daily diary goes onto a Psion 5. The diary goes in here.
Chunks of a paper diary, kept initially in a Five Year Diary, then in lever files, but for the most part in hardback volumes over 24 and a half years, are slowly going on line. As yet, there's no order to this, though the most likely approach will be to post a clutch of entries for a particular day going back as many years as I care. For example, I have 17 entries going back over the years for October 16th.
In terms of secrecy, sins of deed or thought, if these find expression they will most likely go into a paper journal for now and be picked over in a decade or so. If I want to be honest then I can't see it going on the MAC, the PC or the Psion.
Having a gap in those old Five Year Diaries was the greatest incentive not to miss a day. 7 or 8 years later it became easy to slip into the discipline of writing in a book. Though not so easy to avoid prattling on ... and on. I soon stuck to an A4 page, every day, year in year out.
I may decide that 1000 words a day is the right target. Or less, 750?
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Dressing down on Fridays
Posted Oct 10, 1999
Getting to notice the Cheltenham Spa to Bristol Temple Meads regulars. Many of them dress down for Friday. The transformation it makes to people is amazing. There's a handsome, studious, intellectual looking black guy who is always impeccably turned out; like a civil servant. Understated. Smart. He is military in his demeanour and sever on the train. Most days he carries a briefcase and brolley and looks every bit the senior manager one step away from the board room. Today he looks no less bright, but he is dressed like a middle class schoolboy at the weekend. New jeans and clean loafers. A rugby shirt and light weight anorak. Nothing loud. He has transformed in other ways too. He no longer marches from the station, but saunters. Nothing hip and street cred, just relaxed. For the first time I see him chatting away with a colleague or fellow commuter. He appears approachable, sociable and humours.
There's another guy. Very different. None of the confidence. Short, slight, spivvy. A swirl of hair and a different outfit every day from flash Harry pin-stripe to slacks and a jacket. Even eye-wear changes daily from contacts to Vic Reeves style dark rimmed, rectangular frames, to brass wire-frame glasses. He doesn’t know who or what he is. On the train he always finds someone to talk at. On dress down Friday he goes for an e pensive looking shiny leather jacket. His legs look bandy in jeans. The message he gives? One of confusion and insecurity.
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