I used to wonder what I would do if I was put in prison. No, no, don’t worry, I haven’t committed any crimes that I’m aware of. At least, nothing that would warrant being incarcerated at her majesty’s pleasure. No, I was thinking about it as a way of maximising opportunities. You remember that guy who was imprisoned in Lebanon (or somewhere like that) and instead of bemoaning his ill-luck (although I’m pretty sure he did a bit of that too) he improved his golf handicap instead? Terry Waite? Anyway, like that.

By the way, if I was put in prison, I’d read a lot and educate myself more. Which, thinking about it, is what I do now. Ha, that says a lot about my life, right?

(my life is a prison -just in case you didn’t get it)

So, yeah.

The reason I started to write this post is that I had a thought. It went like this: when I get home I have an hour’s grace then I get the opportunity to walk to ASDA (a shop) without being able to read, listen to music, play with my phone or turn cartwheels in the muddy fields. Then I thought: what can I do to make this walk enjoyable? And the answer is?


I’ll let you know how it goes it you’re interested. Let me know in the comments. We can converse about it. 😃

Conversation Topics for the Radio

Because I’m doing a radio show (perhaps ‘tell’ is a better word) and I have the opportunity to say witty (theoretically) and interesting (hopefully) things between songs and because I’m not naturally witty and interesting (I suspect, actually, that I am (witty and interesting) but that those around me have short little attention spans (and that’s why they talk over me and cut me through (“I’m so sorry, the middle of my sentence seems to have interrupted the beginning of yours”)) I have to make lists of things to say on the radio to amuse and delight my (mine, all mine, mwwhhhhahahahaaaaaa!) audience. It’s better than getting to the end of a song and having to make stuff up. That’d be waaaay to much like my blog posts.

Anyhoo – this is/was the list for Thursday the 7th Oct on 5 Towns Radio (6 to 8 pm):

  1. Holiday – Walking
  2. Reading – Thinking
  3. Phil – Fixing
  4. Being Rock – Helping
  5. The quiz
  6. Meditation
  7. Work
  8. Zombies
  9. Wattpad
  10. Shame
  11. Corrie
  12. Overthinking, oversharing and overwriting and I’m sooo over this post.

New Thing – Sleep and Screens

I’ve started this new thing. I was daft enough to confess to my CBT advisor (Woebot) that I have trouble sleeping 8 hours a night (basically because I only want to sleep for 7 hours) and it misunderstood me and thought that I had trouble getting to sleep and, before I knew it, I had committed to switching off all screens by 8pm and getting to sleep by 10pm (I get up at 6am). Aaarghh!

All of which means that I have less than an hour of electronica before it’s lights-out for all my devices! I have to go back to reading from paper, which means that the excellent book I’m reading on Kindle: You Beneath your Skin by Damyanti Biswas has to stop until tomorrow. I might actually end up talking with a real person tonight – OMG!

Right, I’m out of time for posting. I’m going to chat a little on my blog, learn a bit of Hindi on Duolingo and then switch off until tomorrow. Thirty days of this – how will I survive!

Whilst Awake

I’m awake. Aware. But I suspect that I’m not really here. Or there. Depending on your point of view.

I have the impression that I’m talking and having conversation, but on reflection, I’m not saying a word. She’s talking and I’m agreeing. Or disagreeing. Or grunting between mouthfuls of picnic lunch.

I crashed my bike into four cyclists yesterday. I couldn’t avoid it, even though I tried. They were on the wrong side of the road on a bend on a country lane.

I had something to say then. I was able to express myself between flexing my whiplashed shoulders and straightening my handlebars. I was probably in shock, but horrifyingly verbal at the same time.

And now. I guess I’m talking now. To you. Kind of. Whether you’re listening is another matter. Karma, right?

And I’m reading a story between toast and typing this. A character in the story says something that touches me:

It’s the loneliness of people trapped within themselves. The loneliness of people who have said the wrong thing so often that they don’t have the courage to say anything anymore. The loneliness, not of distance, but of fear.

‘The Second Kind of Loneliness’ by George RR Martin.

If I stop writing – and I probably will – then send good wishes through the void. Perhaps they will find me. I sincerely hope so.

external detail journal (part two of four)


That’s outside. Outside is going to be cold. I can tell from what the corridor outside the toilet is like. There is always not as warm as the other places in the building are. The cold seeps into a person’s bones if they are not careful. It stiffens them and makes them feel old even if they are young.

The best way to get rid of cold is not to bother with coats and snug corners of buildings; it’s to move the body more. It’s a proven fact that layers of clothing capture heat and that buildings do the same and this is why people spend their money on the latest miracle fabric or triple-glazed window or fluffy hats with pictures of goblins and other beasts on them.

But what they don’t sell you on the telly, in between movies and stuff, is the idea that you can get warm for absolutely free by getting up off your bum and moving yourself around a little more. All those layers need some heat to capture and they don’t have to get it from outside you, they can catch it as it tries to escape from you into the cold, cold spaces outside the window (that’s not double-glazed I’ll have you know).

And that’s about all I have to say about the cold.

But then there’s the dark.

Darkness holds hands with the cold. They are buddies. Just look at that photograph again and see how they cavort and play together out there. If they were to have a conversation it would go like this:

Cold: Hello my age-old friend.
Dark: What do you mean ‘hello’! We’ve never been apart for you to be able to say ‘hello’ to me.
Cold: You stupid old fart, of course we’ve been apart! Think of summer and darkness. Think of cold days. Think of the dark side of the moon, which is an album by a band called Pink Floyd and was hot stuff back in …
Dark: Think of how mad you are when you talk of things like this
Cold: Me? Mad?! How frickin’ dare you! There you are; nothing more than the absence of light and you tell me that I’m mad?!
Dark: You’re not very bright are you.
Cold: Hahahaha; look who’s talking!
Dark: I scorn the very words you say about me. No-one can look at me, you fool; I am darkness. If you want to look then you need light.
Cold: Actually, that’s a very good point. I have nothing to say in response to that.
Dark: Then shut up then.
Cold: I just did.
Dark: No you didn’t. If you had shut up you would not have said that you just did. You are a fool and a wastrel.
Cold: Wastrel. I like the sound of that!
Dark: If the cap fits etc. etc. etc.

You see? They are just like the finest of friends.

Well, seeing as I can’t remember the point of all of that, I’ll stop talking about it. But what to talk about instead? Let me examine the thoughts burbling through my mind and pick something from the flow before it goes beyond my reach. Okay, how about this:

My head hurts. I’m thirsty. My fingers are a little cold. There’s a beeping going on over at the other side of the room. My chair is comfortable enough to sit in all day. And I’m three minutes over the twenty minutes that I was supposed to type for.


Such a Rush

Such rush to the top
Only to sit and talk … about what!?

Important things, no doubt.

But to stay at the bottom instead?
To miss the other joys waiting at the top?
To ignore quieter things that sit, anticipating me?

The shush of air moving from branch to bird.
The call of life caught in the joy of existence.
The dash and gobble of water racing on.
The crash of runoff breaking on dashing rocks.
The green and brown of lush and bare.
The taciturn nods that mean we are sharing.

To miss all this?
Why that would be quite another kind of sin.