I’m a city boy. Well, technically I am, bar a brief interlude during my time in Glasgow, a suburban townie. I don’t do the country. Not for want of trying; not for want of being asked to try. I don’t do walking shoes, or rucksacks. I definitely do not do ruddy faced happiness in the face of nature. Though, I do still keep trying. I will always keep trying for want of something different to do with the kids – kids who like animals, dirt and breaking the rules of the countryside. A jaunt in to the country yesterday reminded me that, whilst I “don’t do”, it’s clear others do. We went to Farndale, North Yorkshire for a daffodil walk. I’ve never been a massive
Friends Archive
I have a dream. It really is a simple dream. One where I walk in to a restaurant in Italy; where the staff great me as a returning friend – one of the family, even. I opened a window on to that dream tonight. Where a friend, mio amico, took us to a restaurant in England. Where the staff treated him like a prodigal son. Where cheeks were kisses, hands pointed to waist, to chest – above head – signifying how much he has grown. We were dined, wined – I got to drink Amaro Montenegro. This was my dream; this was his life. Dining with friends – with family – where the people who serve you, care about you. This is what food is
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
How old is too old to make new friends? Amy thinks that question sounds suspiciously like the opening to a “Sex in the city” episode. So whilst I dust myself off and try to recover some dignity, how about considering another question: Are you ever too old to make new friends? I’m 36. I joined twitter three years ago. That simple act of registration opened my life up to a host of new encounters – virtual and in the flesh. Some of those encounters produced friends, some remained virtual followers with mutual interests expressed through regular dialogue – others just faces in a crowd; of drinkers, tweeters, words. There’s yet to be a negative encounter – maybe the odd one where you realised that the
The rain was getting harder. Nix was sure Chris was behind her when she walked out of the bar; but now he was nowhere to be seen. She tried to call out to him, but couldn’t make herself heard over the sound of car horns and revellers spilling out of the bars on First Avenue. She dived in to a doorway, desperately trying to regroup her thoughts; regain her composure. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to have had that final giant martini. She looked in her bag for her mobile phone. It wasn’t there. She emptied the contents of the bag on the floor. It still wasn’t there. She swore. She chastised herself for swearing. She swore again. She was about to brave
I see her now. She is dancing between the pedestrians on the side walk – disappearing and reappearing from behind the plumes of steam that rise from the road. I watch her as she punches the air – no doubt listening to something upbeat on her iPod. She is oblivious to the people around her. She bumps in to someone. They go as if to snarl, but in an instant, their face glows with warmth and humility. She apologises. They chat as if they have known each other for years – and then, like the strangers they are, disappear back in to their own worlds. She bumps in to someone else. I call her name. “Nix!” She waves back – a smile arching over the
I’m sat in a busy kitchen with families running around me – including sections of my own – and I am closed away in my own thoughts; planning this latest post. But then I am on holiday. I am supposed to be enjoying myself. Writing is one of the few ways by which I have learnt to enjoy being myself. There is a confession to be made about this holiday, one that won’t surprise anyone that really knows me – it is that the prospect of this holiday filled me with dread and fear when the idea was first proposed. Friends are great, fantastic and an absolute pleasure to be around – but very much like other people’s children – they are great to hand
I swear. I swear a lot. I can never remember if it is like a docker, a trooper, a fox or a pig. Either way, it is something I do on a regular basis. Or at least I once did. Have a baby and everyone with or without a kid will instantly tell you that your life is about to change. What they don’t tell you is that, rather than the social, working or sporting side of your life – all of which you can just about manage to keep a hold of in some part – it is your mannerisms that change the most. Before Lauren was born, I’d regularly call friends a ‘knobber’ – within reason, as in they had acted like one.
Yesterday we sat around a table eating food with people we call friends. It was the second Sunday in succession that we’ve had reason to do that. Some of those friends we get to see on a weekly or at least monthly basis. Others, we haven’t seen – or may not see for years. Yet we still use the same word to describe them – to categorise their presence within our lives; to mark the special relationship we share. I’ve written to you about the importance family will play in your life. I think my view of family is often dictated by the hours of Irish/Italian American themed TV programmes I watch – positioning myself as the patriarch of a big family – that brings
You find me writing from that familiar place once more. I’m sat at my desk, staring aimlessly out of the window – as the sun illuminates the weeping willow in the courtyard outside. Although I’d rather not be at work on such a glorious day, the thing with this familiar place is that it is where I tend to come up with most of my ideas to post on this blog. For this familiar place is as much about a physical location as it is a state of mind. A momentary lapse of concentration – a distracting thought whirling around inside my head – captured quickly on the PC or lost forever if I’m brought back in to the room too quickly to act. Three,