To sleep, perchance to dream...

I awoke from this dream at 4:30 this morning. What it means, I have no idea - I shall leave that to those that know more about such matters. It was pretty definitely part of a longer dream, but this is the only piece of the story I was left with on waking.

We are in a city. I say 'we' because Elaine is with me but there is at least one other person with us. I am sure that I knew who this person was within the dream but now, all is can be certain of is that there was someone else there. We are looking round an outdoor site. It is part-museum, part-ruin as there are remains of walls and the outlines of great rooms still visible on the ground and amongst these are exhibits and information boards. One piece of the ruin seems to be a window made from an almost clear crystal of some sort. The crystal has a regular structure but much of it has been eaten away (by the elements?) so that it looks like a stained glass window with much of the glass removed and only the lead outlines remaining intact. I find myself thinking "Why not move this inside to protect it? Surely this will soon disappear entirely and be lost forever."

We continue to move around the site and eventually we come across a great window of the crystal that is complete and unaffected by erosion. I can see now that the milky crystal is made up of elongated hexagons that tessellate to form a uniform pattern. It reminds me a little of the Giant's Causeway rendered as a 2D pattern. Elaine and the mystery 'other' person move away from the window and I start to walk away also but I decide I need to know what this strange 'window crystal' is made from. I start to walk round the arch that contains the window looking for a board with information about this strange structure but, as I arrive on the opposite side of the window, I find that it has transformed into a huge bas-relief sculpture of what appears to be a Viking warrior, laid out on the ground in front of me: a tall, vertical structure has transformed into a long, horizontal sculpture. A sign beside it proclaims "The Great Norse Warrior".

As I move away from the warrior, I notice that everyone on the site has stopped moving and is looking at something behind me. As I turn to look, there are several screams and shouts of "Oh God!". I can now see that a massive wave is starting to engulf the buildings of the city. None of the buildings are taller than three or four storeys (I think this dream may have its roots in our visit to Reykjavik) but the wave towers above them before engulfing them. In that moment, I am aware of the need to escape from this area but also of the futility of trying to run because the wave is moving so quickly. I am gripped by a terrible emptiness as I realise that Elaine is not with me, that I will not be with her as the end approaches. As the roaring and crashing grows louder, I feel so lonely and so sad.

And then I woke.

An adventure

The first radical left-wing government to be elected in 50 years has just been installed in Greece. After five years of austerity and savage cuts imposed by the EU as part of the deal agreed to bail the country out, the Greek people have used the ballot box to voice their feelings. This outcome is made all the more momentous when one considers that, only a scant few yeas ago, it looked as if Greece was going to respond to the situation it found itself in by heading down the road the fascism: Golden Dawn, an extreme right wing party, was the fastest growing grouping in Greece. Instead, from almost nowhere, Syriza and Alexis Tsipras came within a hair's breadth of winning an outright majority. A remarkable volte-face.

In reality, it is probably unlikely that Mr Tsipras will be able to do all or even many of the things he has said he will: he is, after all, in deep debt with a powerful group of countries and, if they agree to allow Greece to default on all or part of that debt, then what is to stop Spain and Ireland demanding "Well, what about us?". What he can do, however, and, in some ways, he has done this already is to give the Greek people some hope and restore a little dignity to a wounded national pride. Being humiliated by having to go cap in hand to one's neighbours is bad enough but when those neighbours demand all sorts of restrictions and actions - in effect, taking over control of your country - then it smarts. Just look at Germany at the end of the Great War to see what can happen when national pride is dented and a country is ground down by reparations that destroy the economy. I do not wish to compare Mr Tsipras with Hitler - far from it - but big backlashes can arise in countries that have feel they have been treated unfairly.

Which brings me to home. Here, the current government blames the need for austerity on the last Labour government. But where is the narrative about having to bail out the banking system because greedy bastards in the Square Mile and other financial centres - the friends of the current government - played fast and loose with OUR money and lost the lot? This seems to have been completely Tippex-ed out of history and no-one is banging on about it. We are allowing ourselves to be sold a set of doctored facts about the causes of the current 'need ' for austerity just as we seem to be meekly accepting that the only valid way forward is to slash the welfare state, screw the most vulnerable in society and pull up the ladder on the social support systems that have served us well over nearly a century. Why are we regaled on a daily basis with stories of economic recovery (i.e. businesses) while more and more families rely on foodbanks? It is depressing that the main opposition can only offer a similar plan while Farage's Fools want to blame all our woes on the EU and immigrants: it's Johnny Foreigner that's to blame!

Where is our Alexis Tsipras, someone here who is going to offer a vision, some hope, some way forward that promises an adventure that may fail gloriously rather than a long, grey route march to the mirage of "Jam Tomorrow' promised by those who already have all the jam they could possibly need.

Procession

Aaaaagh! I was really looking forward to reclaiming the house today, being able to do exactly what I want when I want - little things like leaving the house to go to the shops, for example. I have, however, been thwarted and must endure at least one more afternoon in. Let me explain...

Between Christmas and New Year, we had some work done on the kitchen roof and then, just after New Year, we had the shed roof taken off and replaced. We were then away for a few days in Iceland and, pretty much as soon as we got back, we embarked on having the loft boarded (to provide extra storage) and a new loft hatch and ladder fitted (to allow us to access the new storage space). This work started on Monday and was due to be finished this morning. Unfortunately, there were two wrinkles introduced along the way. Firstly, the house being old and, over the years, subject to work by DIY-ers with varying levels of skill as well as the individual quirks of countless professional tradesmen, every job undertaken is never - NEVER - going to be straightforward. This led to the new loft having to be slightly off the ideal line which left a bit of ceiling that needed replastering and, therefore, another man to come and do that. Secondly, the toilet flush valve broke in the middle of all this, so I had to get someone out to fix that.

Finally, we reach Thursday and John (the loft boarder/loft hatch man - great work, would definitely recommend) is about to finish: just two hours work to complete the job! He has also contacted a plasterer, Tim, who is coming to tidy up that piece ceiling (good work by him too - again, recommended), so everything should be done and dusted by about 11.30. True to their word, they are finished by 11.30 and have left the landing clean and tidy. Right, now I can get down to the important things in life like bottling my pickled red cabbage. Before I begin, I notice that it is quite chilly (still plenty of snow on the ground Under the Dome in Rammy!) and go to check on the boiler that is prone to failing to start on some mornings. Upon opening the door to the boiler cupboard, I can see that water is leaking from the base of the boiler, the boiler that is right above the corner of the living room where the TV, DVD player, Sky box etc. all live! So, mains water off, phone British Gas and wait for the engineer...

So far, my retirement has yielded precious little time for solitary contemplation. Instead, I have brewed a lot of tea and coffee and I have spent a lot of time opening the front door to people who have come to do this or are just going to fix that. They have all been very nice, very efficient and got the jobs done but I really hope this afternoon's engineer might be the last for a while. Perhaps I can just about make out the tail of the procession...

Edit: No such luck! The boiler is very, very poorly so a return by the engineer tomorrow has had to be booked. The end of that procession was, like the end of Page 3, just a piece of wishful thinking.

Under the dome

You know that book by Stephen King where the town is isolated under an impenetrable dome? Or the Truman Show where Jim Carrey finds that the perfect town he is living in is nothing but a giant petri dish containing an experiment that the rest of America is viewing? Sometimes, I feel that Ramsbottom is, in a similar way, cut off from the reality that the rest of Manchester and Lancashire is experiencing. Ok, maybe I exaggerate slightly, but we are certainly separated in some bizarre way from our closest neighbours in Bury. "In what way are we different?" you ask and I reply - the weather!

Take, for example, the recent snow. As far as I am aware, Ramsbottom and Bury experienced this snow to a similar extent: similar amounts fell on the same days. However, as I look out of the window beside me, I can see that the roof of practically every house and shop in the centre of town is still thickly coated with snow (gold star for being 'green' in terms of loft insulation, Rammy-ites!), the grass slope in front of our house is still white (apart from the churned-up sled runs created by kids at the week-end) and the surface of Callender Street is ice apart from the two tracks, a car's width apart down the centre. This stuff is not for shifting. On the other hand, I had occasion to go to Bury on Sunday and, by the time I was within a mile of the centre of town, there were only the scantest smatterings of snow and within half a mile, there was no evidence of snow ever having fallen although I am assured by those who live in Bury that it certainly did!

Now, unless my senses are wildly out on this, I would guess that Ramsbottom is not at an elevation 500 metres higher than Bury. In fact, I'd be surprised if it was significantly different (just checked - Bury is 100m above sea level and Rammy is 133m) so what accounts for the existence of this frosty micro-climate? Perhaps it is to do with Rammy's situation in a valley. Perhaps the town was built on a giant block of permafrost or a misguided Arctic glacier. I don't know why - is there anyone out there who does...

This is not the only example of Rammy having separate weather fronts. I have often driven from Rammy to Bolton, leaving the house in heavy fog but, halfway to Bolton, emerging into a clear, bright morning. Or I have left Rammy in clear weather and hit a pea-souper as I approach Bolton. Rain? Also similarly local. It seems there is Ramsbottom weather and then there is the weather for everyone outside the town. I have certainly learned that the information provided by weather apps on my phone is meaningless within Rammy but works quite well elsewhere in the world. Perhaps we need to declare independence from the Met Office and have our own local weather forecasters? Maybe some guys with seaweed or pinecones hung up outside their back door could do better than the predictions we currently receive via London?

Despite the 'personalised' weather, I don't really think we are living in some extended reality TV show under the microscope of public scrutiny...or are we? If we are, all I can say is "I'm ready for my close-up now, Mr de Mille".

Interlude

Not a proper blog today as I have not really invested any time thinking about theme or content. Instead, I have spent time tidying and cleaning a few work surfaces and drawers, stripping the chicken that will provide three or four meals by the time we finish it (making sure we use everything, these days!), shopping for some bits'n'bobs and preparing all the veg for the stir-fry tonight. Not a bad day all in all. The only thing missing was I didn't get out for a walk, but that was down to the fact that we are having a new loft hatch fitted and I need to be 'in' for the next few days.

What did occur to me, however, was that this is the first day of my retirement proper. The three weeks since I retired have each included days off that would have happened had I still been at work - New Year's Day, the Friday and Monday taken to travel to and from Iceland. This week will be the first week of five days that, previously, would all have been work days!

The interlude between work and retirement is now officially over.

Old or new? A cheater's tale

Are you a dedicated e-reader who no longer buys physical books so that all your reading material is now exclusively contained on your Kindle or other such e-reader? I ask this because I am not in an exclusive relationship with my Kindle. Despite owning the said e-reader and actually using it quite a bit, I have to admit to a string of affairs with physical books. And, right there, is the reason: 'physical'. I like the feel of a book, the smell of a new book and, when it is finished, putting it on the shelf as a tangible reminder of the story (and to show off? Perhaps there is an element of that too...). Browsing for a book on the Amazon site and downloading it to the Kindle pales as an experience when considered alongside going into a bookshop and feeling like a child in the world's best toyshop. So much to choose from! The book buying experience has a parallel with music buying then and now: then, the excitement and anticipation in taking home a gatefold sleeve vinyl LP which could be pored over for hours is nothing like the soulless act of buying a CD now - the experience is as cold and clinical as the sound produced by the CD. Book purchase via the Kindle is, similarly, a sterile affair.

But - ain't there always a 'but' folks - going on holiday with four or five thick paperbacks or even - posh bugger that I am - a hardback or two - is stupid when you have a Kindle and those books fit easily into the 3,000 os so slots available on the virtual bookshelf within my E-reader. E-readers are so much more convenient in those terms. Also, should you run out of reading matter while on holiday, it is simple to hook up to the wifi and purchase some new titles whereas finding a bookshop and then a novel in English may not be quite so straightforward. And talking of 'purchasing', within the Amazon store there are often titles available for 99p or even, occasionally, free. I have yet to find a Waterstones where they were giving the the books away...

So, which to commit to - convenience and progress provided by the e-reader or rose-tinted nostalgia and something that I can't quite define that is provided by the physical feel of a book? There is one more thing to mention. When we were in Manchester airport waiting for our flight to Iceland, I suddenly realised I had packed neither Kindle nor a book of some sort. As a consequence, I went to WH Smiths and bought a suitable airport read: a crime novel by a first-time writer (gotta see what I'm up against when I unleash my own hero or heroine (gender to be decided) detective, Alabastro or Alabaster Stone on the world!). When we landed at Manchester on our return, I managed to leave the bloody thing in the back of the seat in front! Half-read is no good when finding out whodunnit and/or whytheydunnit is central to reading that type of book. Hence, I had to buy it for my Kindle in order to find out those things. More importantly, had I been reading it on a Kindle in the first place, would I have have left that in the seat back?

I can't be Knut-like about it and pretend that e-readers are not here to stay in some form or other and we are now married to that technology. But while the paper page is still available and bookshops are still (just about) on the high street, I shall continue to engage in those clandestine liaisons with my printed peccadillos.

The weather is a safe bet

It is often said that it is best not to raise the matter of politics or religion with strangers. This would imply that discussing either of these topics with people you know is perfectly OK but I am here to tell you you that, in my experience, this is far from being the case: politics and religion invariably produce the side effects of raised blood pressure and heated words within seconds of the start of a discussion. These days, any discussion of politics will lead onto the poison that is UKIP and their blokeish oaf of a leader, Nigel Farage (see - I'm starting already). All I need to hear are the words "Well, he talks a lot of sense..." and all my buttons are pushed and, cartoon-style, the steam starts to issue from my ears. Religion, on the other hand, either involves getting an ear-bashing from fundamentalist atheists who, I feel, are overly zealous in their desire to inflict their (non) belief on me or from idiots who see fit to blame the atrocities inflicted by 'Islamic' extremists on all Muslims, thereby including the vast majority of law-abiding, peace-loving followers of Islam in that cohort. Either way, they are conversations I would rather not have.

So, perhaps sport might provide a good topic for conversation? No, no, no! Either someone will wax lyrical about the aesthetic beauty of darts, the power and majesty of the drama enatiled in each game (puh-lease!) or try to convince me of the Herculean effort and chess-like skills involved in snooker. I just want to tell them that watching paint dry is less boring and interests me to the same degree. Football? Don't go there: the person you are about to talk to will invariably reveal their support for the arch-rivals of your team and the conversation will consist of snipes and gripes once this becomes known. Poker? Are you serious?? Even the way in which we view sport can cause disagreements. Often, I hear the phrase "Ah but Sky really have improved the experience of watching football". Have they bollocks, pardon my language. For a start, the amount of money pumped into the game has destroyed the national team, the common bond of going to watch (yes - going to the actual ground!) at 3 o'clock on a Saturday has been destroyed by the ban on televising matches at this time so that matches are now spread across the week and finally, I liked the fact that, when the occasional live match on TV was shown, the program used to start about ten minutes before the kick-off and end ten minutes after the final whistle: I don't need endless discussion of the match - I just watched it!

Culture - there's something we can agree on, surely? Not a chance. Art discussions eventually get around to Tracey Emin and/or Damien Hirst ("Why is that so good? I could do that!") or the "meaninglessness" of modern art generally ("Why can't they just paint a bloody picture?"). TV and films - I must have a taste that is the polar opposites of so many other people because the things I watch haven't registered on their radar and the things they watch are unknown to me or leave me cold (or positively revulsed in the case of BB or IACGMOOH). Not having a sahred viewing experience means any chance of sharing views on a common subject is pretty nigh on impossible. The fragmentation of TV giving us more 'choice' (thanks for that too, Sky) means those 'water-cooler moments are less likely to happen as we all watch different things or record things to watch later. Books too are off limit for discussion as I seem to be reading titles alien to the reading lists of most friends.

Admittedly, the barriers to conversation I have outlined are my personal prejudices. However, it might account for the fact that, to foreign eyes, the image of the British is that we seem to be obsessed with the weather and it will always feature in conversations. In fact, the reason that we talk about the weather is that it is simply one of the few things we can discuss where we can all agree: "Rainy again, isn't it?" "It certainly is!". No arguments there.

Thinking about walking

A headline from today's press read something like "Walking for just 20 minutes a day will make you live longer". Well, leaving asisde that this is not really 'news' - walking is exercise and exercise is good for you so, yes, it will probably help you to live longer and this announcement about walking for 20 minutes is probably made at least once every couple of years (or once a month in the case of the Daily Express) - it made me recall a little something that I ran up (see what I did there?) a few years ago. I hope you can stand the thought of a poem for two consecutive blogs :)

I'm walking to work for the exercise,
So goodbye to the rush hour queues!
On with the trainers - may go the whole hog
and soon be in shorts contemplating a jog.

I'm walikg to work for the environment
Going green, we must all do our bit.
While I'm saving the planet, I'm having some fun
In a fortnight or so, well I might even run.

I'm walking to work since I'm British
And there's nowt we do better than fad.
For a fortnight it's fitness - say 'NO!' to our cars
And thinking of marathons instead of a Mars.

But reality strikes and it's raining
And it's early and cold - I feel crap!
I've been hunting lost trainers since quarter to eight
If I don't leave right now then I'm going to be late.

Now I'm driving to work 'cause I'm feeble
And fall apart when the going gets tough.
I really quite like sitting here in a queue
Because I'm a commuter and it's what we all do.
I'll use any excuse I can find
But I'm walking to work in my mind!

Two Rooms

In that room,
I'd dream of flying planes
Across the world.
My mind was filled with stories
Of discoveries and science.
There were only possibilities.

In that room,
I ran a transport company
From under a stool
While the Fab Four stared down
From posters on damp walls
And listened to my singing.

In that room,
I was a work in progress,
The yet to be me.
And my parents' words and love
Began to mould and shape,
Preparing me for departure.

In this room,
I think of making planes
From the household bills.
My mind gets frozen trying hard
To navigate a way through life
Devoid of concrete certainties.

In this room,
I play the games that others have
Designed for me.
The Fab Four now number only Two
And though the walls are dry,
Yet still I serenade them.

In this room,
I'm still a work in progress,
The very nearly me.
And my soul mate's words and love,
Provide encouragement and hope
And reasons for remaining.

We come to the land of ice and snow....

After a whirlwind visit to Reykavik, I can honestly say that, based on first impressions and bearing in mind we have only just scratched the surface of what the country has to offer, it seems to be a very interesting and civilised place. Unfortunately, with the flight times at euther end of our stay being as they were, we only had two days to do things which left us pretty much confined to the capital (apart from a couple of trips, more of which later). A few points from those two days...

- The centre of the capital is intimate in size: we walked pretty much everywhere and the shopping district rubs shoulders with the administrative and cultural centres which, in turn, lay hard up against private houses. There is not the same separation that one finds in larger capitals where there are districts separate the different functions within the city. Imagine walking out of Harrods in London and finding next door to it a modest two or three bedroom house. The beautifully geometric and (at night) spectacularly-lit concert hall is right next door to the working port stocked with oily fishing vessels. It is a strange mix and one that seems to seems to indicate the 'grounded' nature of the country. They have no army or navy, their police, like ours, carry no weapons and their prime minister lives in a house on a main thoroughfare that anyone can walk up to and has no guards posted outside. In fact, the house was the city's first jail. Many will say that we too should house our PM in a jail...

- There was snow on the roads and fresh falls happened throughout our time there. There were no shops that failed to open because people couldn't get to work and services kept running normally. This was not achieved through gritting, chains on car tyres or snow ploughs. Instead, cars had winter tyres fitted - essentially, tyres with a deeper, grippier tread. Using these, people drove at reasonable speeds (no speeding but neither was there any crawling at 5 miles an hour) and I saw no accidents or even any cars skidding or being in any way out of control. Of course, they probably have ploughs and gritters as backup when the weather gets really bad, but the contrast couldn't be greater: in the UK, the country grinds to a halt as soon as the first smowflake hits the ground.

- The snow itself, however, is rather different. I know you are probably thinking that "snow is snow is snow", right? Well, there has to be a reason why the Innuit have many words for snow - it obviously comes in different 'types' and the type on display in Reykavik I can only describe as 'dry'. When Elaine picked a handful of snow up with the (leter admitted) purpose of snowballing me, she found that it could not be compacted into a ball. As she released her hands from shaping the weapon, the snow just fell apart almost into separate flakes once more! I could only think the difference is that, in the UK, there is a greater degree of 'wetness' to the snow and it is this that 'welds' the snow into a ball when moulded. Lacking that moisture, the ball would not coalesce and I was therefore saved from having cold drips down the back of my neck! The fact that the snow had this property also affected walking...

- The pavements, though not usually gritted or cleared, remained pretty safe as the snow seemed much harder to melt together into lethal ice fields. I am not saying there were no slips at all: although I did not see what happened, at least three tourists we encountered in the course of the break (unfortunate word) had suffered from some slipping trauma. As a fairly recent recipient of an ankle break from a slippy surface, the amount of snow on 'public surfaces' caused my heart to sink when I first saw it (hell, the steps down from the plane were coated in snow when we arrived!). Maybe, because of that, I was ultra cautious, however, I felt safer on their streets than I do on the slides that we end up with here whenever we get snow. Amazingly, E stayed on her feet throughout also!

- Eggy showers. Hot water in the hotel came from geothermal sources and is piped straight into the hotels (and, I believe, private houses) for use in showers and heating etc. Perfectly good hot water but with a slightly disconcerting sulphurous smell. The first shower I had was almost stopped in order for a complaint to be made to the management before I remembered the reason for the smell. Being green sometimes involves a small sacrifice. Or noseplugs. Cold water was lovely, straight from the tap. Volcanic filtered and soft as an angel's kiss (as the Icelandic Tourist Board might say). Bottled water sales are probably pretty slow in Iceland.

- The Northern Lights - although involving a drive out of the city for an hour; standing in a lay-by and a field for an hour and a half (temperature was -6 or -7) only to see nothing; be driving home when the sky clears and there they are, albeit indistinctly; rejoining the coach only to be told "They're back and much better!", getting off once again - were, eventually, a magnificent and eerie sight. A strange green band of light from sky to horizon, moving and changing over time: sometimes a frail, pale green but at other times, intense and almost flourescent in places. It was was really quite magical to be ankle-deep in snow watching a celestial light show of epic prpoportions play out on the night sky.

- The whale watching trip we are counting as 'unfinished business': one potential whale (OK, a fin) seen at some distance means that we need to return to try again. The display by the harbour porpoises almost made up for lack of the larger cetaceans, but - hey! - that's nature as opposed to Disney: things don't happen in line with a rigid timetable. The whale watch company, very fairly, gave us all a raincheck valid for two years. We will be taking them up on their kind offer.

- I tried two new types of fish: tusk and arctic char. It turns out, I was less adventurous than I thought - tusk is a fish of the cod family (although much more plentiful than cod) and char is a fish of the salmon family. What I ended up tasting, therefore, was essentially cod and salmon. Oh well - at least they were beautifully fresh and cooked to perfection.

Overall, a good taster. We have resolved to return for a summer trip (OK, no Northern Lights then, but better whale chances) and to try to see more of the island, maybe by hiring a car. Definitely, a place you should go to!

The Daily Blog

By now, you may have guessed that I am trying to publish a daily post, whether it is an opinion, a piece of fiction, a poem or simply what I did that day. Because I am going to be Internet-less for a couple of days and typing even a couple of hundred words on the mobile will be tedious in the extreme, there will be a brief break in service. I will, however, return very soon for your edification and entertainment.

See you soon...

Cartoons and killing

I want to say that I can't believe that 12 people have been killed in Paris because a tiny minority get so annoyed over some cartoons that they feel the only proper way to express their disgust is to take the lives of the cartoonists. I want to say that, but I can't as it was probably only a matter of time before some ignorant, murderous fool decided to apply their own form of censorship via the use of an assault rifle. I refuse the murderers the right to claim this was done in the name of religion: I can think of little that is less Godless that cold-bloodedly shooting dead people who have done no more than poke a little fun at the religion the killers claim to espouse. Equally, I will refuse any argument that this was done on behalf of all muslims across the world: these criminals speak only for themselves and a scant handful of other deluded individuals who have twisted their 'faith' into a weapon of hate. The vast majority of muslims are appalled at the outrage perpetrated in Paris yesterday. I hope the killers are caught and spend the rest of their lives being helped to reflect on the inhumanity they displayed through their actions.

Predicatably, however, social media has been lit up with calls to 'kill all muslims' or for some 'action to be taken'. The former reaction characterises a school of thought esposed by some (Britain First, the EDL and some UKIP-loving members of a local politics group I was once a member of - you know who you are) that see all muslims as terrorists or, at best, would-be terrorists. The latter stance, on the other hand, is the directionless rage that demands a scapegoat be found and killed in retaliation and I think we know from the aftermath of 9/11 where that leads to. Either reaction legitimises the acts of the killers: it reinforces the idea of the West as hating Islam and all who follow its ways and it marginalises peaceful muslims - the 99.9% - who want no part of the hate war these people wish to inflame. To this end, I am not sure that republishing the offending cartoons at this moment is the right reaction, even if it does say that we refuse to be silenced. While only a few saw fit to kill in response to the cartoons, there may be many more moderate muslims who were offended by their publication. While I believe that any religion, if it has enduring strength and integrity, should be able to laugh off the pinpricks that such satires inflict, at a time of great sensitivity, it might be best to try and keep everyone inside the tent with the idiots isolated on the outside.

Free speech should not - cannot - be silenced by such barbaric actions. Our thoughts and prayers should be with the families and friends of the employees of Charlie Hebdo and the policemen killed in the attack. But we must avoid indiscriminate hate as a response - hate the killers by all means. Find them and bring them to justice. After that, however, let's consider the wider picture and think a little what should happen next...

The Lament of Epiphany

Christmas is finally over.

The decorations have been unhooked from the tree, wrapped carefully in tissue paper and returned to storage for another year. The pictures on the wall have all lost their faux-pine garlands, each decorated with dried orange slices that once smelled as good as they still look. The collection of snowmen, bears and Santas have been removed from the fireplace and now sleep soundly in boxes waiting for the magic of Christmas to reanimate them once again.

The cards, some proclaiming simply "Best Wishes" while others tell a family story of the previous twelve months, all await recycling (save for the cards my love and I exchanged which will soon join 32 years-worth of previous Christmas wishes preserved in boxes upstairs). The lights, disentangled from the tree, are wound carefully onto reels and, along with the festive gold and red tablecloths, are packed away. The wreath from the front door is taken down to advertise that, in this house, Christmas is no more.

The tree - a mangificent beast, taller than our high-ceilinged room when it arrived and six feet wide at the base - though still green and retaining (nearly) all its needles, has been stripped of its branches ready for taking to the tip. It cuts a forlorn figure, a lanky, naked trunk seemingly waiting to be dressed in the pile of branches that now lays beside it.

Christmas is finally over.

Disconnecting

"You're breaking up!" He yells this at the hands-free as if sheer lung power is going to overcome the combination of the foul weather and the road about to be swallowed by the tunnel ahead. The line goes dead as the final gossamer thread of the crackling conversation with his wife snaps leaving only the clatter of the rain and the rhythmic swoosh of the wipers as they endlessly fail to clear the windscreen. As the car enters the tunnel, the noise of the wipers and the rain ceases and suddenly, he is able to able to gather his thoughts.

He hates this job. Travelling, always travelling. Driving here, flying there, hotel rooms that all blend into one well-appointed, lonely cell. Yes, he is well paid - ridiculously so, some might say. This has enabled him to buy all the toys that allow him to 'play hard' when he isn't working his arse off: the joint ownership of the ski chalet (hardly manage to get there); the home gym (barely touched, his once toned body now seems to spread to fill the seat of the Merc); the golf club membership (not even sure where his clubs are); and the house in the Cotswolds (although he gets there fairly regularly, it just provides a change of scenery for emailing, business calls and report writing). Somewhere along the way, he seems to have managed to find the time to marry well (she's old money, terribly sweet and knows how to organise dinner parties although the sat-nav probably says more to him in the course of the week than she does) and to have two young children. When business colleagues ask about his family, he sometimes finds himself struggling to recall their ages. Hell, it was only a couple of weeks back, he even got one of their names wrong. Still, the job pays for them to have the best start that money can buy. They won't have to fight their way up the greasy pole in the way he has had to, no sir. Much as he hates the job, it pays for the perfect lifestyle, the lifestyle that others envy. Whenever he feels it all becoming a little too much, when he feels a tingle in the left arm, the racing pulse, the shortness of breath, he tells himself that it is all worth it in the end.

His reverie breaks as he realises that he is out of the tunnel and the storm has mostly blown itself out. The console display suddenly flashes and the soothing female voice of the car's comms system purrs "You have voicemail". The network must be up again after the storm he thinks and, pressing a button on the steering wheel, he settles back to listen to the message from his wife and over the course of the next one minute and twelve seconds, he finds that the message is still breaking up: his family, his world, his hard shell of success. One too many parents' evenings missed, one too many dinner parties not attended, leaving his wife to hold the babies once too often. All in a voicemail. One minute and twelve seconds. Disconnected.

A grand day out

Thanks to our obtaining some free tickets for a film preview, we found ourselves actually doing something with a Sunday rather than spending the morning in bed with the papers and the afternoon on the sofa with US TV box sets. And, reader, we greatly enjoyed our day out! The venue for the film showing I chose was the Museum of Film and Photography in Bradford so, naturally, that meant having a curry for lunch (when in Rome and all that) and after that there would still be time to mooch around the museum.

Firstly, the film. It was Clint Eastwood's latest film (as a director), American Sniper. After watching the brainless crap that is The Interview (see yesterday's instalment), this was at the absolute opposite end of the scale: good acting (Sienna Miller is a bit of a revelation), plenty to think about and a feeling of being cinematically satisfied when I left the cinema. And it is the first film in ages that I have been to where no one moved as the credits began but the only time where no one spoke as we left the cinema: nothing, nada for a good minute or two. I shall say no more other than to urge you to go and see it.

Onto lunch. We had planned to eat at the Kashmir, just round the corner from the cinema (as those dodgy homemade ads used to say in between films in the 1970s). I had phoned them the previous week to check if they opened on Sundays. Yes, I was told, "after 11". When we arrived at about 1:30 - that is still lunchtime, isn't it? - it was not only shut, it looked as if it had not been open at all that day. Obviously I should have asked the question "Are you open next Sunday" - I didn't realise I needed to be quite so specific. Anyhow, this being Bradford,there were plenty of other curry house to choose from and we went to Omar Khans's. The food there was great and different - lots of things on the menu that I had never seen before. Between us, we went totally adventurous and tried all sorts. Well-spiced, well-priced and recommended.

Finally, a trawl around the museum. A lot of it is targeted at kids (and none the worse for that), but there was plenty to entertain the big kids. I especially liked the special exhibition based on the work of a Catalan photographer who documents 'miracles' and fantastical animals, many of which were on display in the exhibition: deer with the wings of an eagle, birds with turtle shells, a clam with two tiny ams so it can use tools to catch its prey. All completely crackers but hugely entertaining. There were so many times when I laughed out loud.

Finally, as we drove back on the M62, we found ourselves heading into the most beautiful sunset - a suprisingly pale blue sky as the light faded but shot through with pinks, orange and red. A sublime vision to end a lovely day. I think we might try to make more use of Sundays in future.

The forbidden fruit tastes like....pants!

People, I have seen it! "The Interview" - the film that North Korea tried to stop! The film that caused Sony to defy the nation's constitutional right to freedom of speech! The film that...is just another Seth Rogen vehicle: puerile, childish and scatalogical. I can't believe that Pyongyang was so offended by this pile of weak-assed frat-boy gags that it supposedly resorted to cyberwarfare against Sony to try to stop its release. This film is as subversive as having afternoon tea at Fortnum's. I really am bemused if such tecnological expertise was employed to counter such a dud, unless the Supreme Leader really does have so fragile an ego that he would be offended by his portrayal as a bit of a brat and a bully (albeit with nuclear weapons at his disposal).

The current hit musical in the West End, The Book of Mormon, offers better gags great songs, better acting AND a good bit of fun-poking at the Mormon religion. What was the response of the Church of the Latter Day Saints of Jesus Christ? They took out advertising space in the programme for the production. They also ran ads on the side of London buses when the production opened. They understood that by flapping their arms and gnashing their teeth and trying to ban the production, it would merely serve to heighten the digs that were made in the musical. Instead, they used the energy generated by the show to their advantage and rode on its coattails for a while. By pompously threatening retaliation on the nation that spawned 'The Interview' if it was shown in cinemas, North Korea have played up to the stereotype of humourless Stalinists and confirmed the impression that virtually every American citizen holds about that country.

In fact, the more I think about it, the more I smell the nasty odour of PR: Seth takes the completed film to Sony who take one look and are appalled - not by the potential for upsetting Pyongyang but because, in keeping with the Thanksgiving release date planned, it is a turkey of gigantic proportions! How to salvage something from this vanity project gone wrong? Make it the film that 'they' don't want you to see. Play up the image of North Korea as the bogeyman, claim there have been worrying threats and pull the film from its initial release date. Then, when there has been sufficient time for sympathetic journalists to help fan the flames and the film has become a cause celebre, the forbidden fruit the consumer craves, offer a limited release in a few cinemas and online. Et voila! - suckers like me want to see what all the hype is about and find that it is...the emperor's new clothes, but big style!

I wanted it to be something worth getting worked up about. I guess the words 'Seth' and 'Rogen' on the poster should have told me that that was never going to happen....

Don't tell me your resolutions, please...

I don't do New Year's resolutions. Never really have and I am not about to start now. Don't get me wrong - in the past I have had a vague thought somewhere around midnight on several 31sts of December that in the coming 12 months I might stop smoking/drink less/exercise more/learn to meditate etc. etc. The reality, however, is always the same: I was smoking again by the second week of January, exercise and meditation remained stubbornly unticked in the 'To Do' section of the diary received as a Christmas present and as for drinking less, well somebody has to deal with that EU wine lake for heaven's sake!

So, at the start of a new year with all the possibilities that such a blank canvas provides, we too often set ourselves up with a big stick to beat ourselves with. By taking on resolutions that are full of good intention but without the will or strategy to see them through to completion, we are heading towards a big, fat downer when the failure happens. We can then beat ourselves up about it, promise to better next year and start the whole sorry cycle again. Why inflict this on ourselves? I have found that most often, change happens in ways that are nothing to do with resolutions: I quit smoking because I started to smoke fewer and fewer cigarettes each day until I found that having one or two cigarettes a day to remind myself that I was a smoker becaume a silly thing to do - that action of inhaling the smoke from burning vegetable matter became absurd!

If you are going to set resolutions make sure thay are few in number (having a list a mile long guarantees that some will be failed - why not set a list you can achieve?), your goals are realistic and achievable and - really important this one - have a deadline attached that is not some vague notion of "by the end of the year": you will kid yourself that you will get around to it at some point in the next 12 months, but you won't. And there is one more thing: you really need to want to achieve this goal. A friend has been trying to quit smoking for some while without success. The trouble is though, he enjoys it. Leaving aside the known health risks (we all know 'em), why is he going to deprive himself of something he enjoys. An attitude has to change before a resolution can be fulfilled.

So, I am avoiding the possibility of failure by not setting myself any 'disappointment targets' (or resolutions, if you prefer) for 2015. Apart from one. I'm not saying what it is but it should be come obvious as we progress through the year. Let's see if I can stick to the task, shall we?

The stroke of midnight

I'm definitely getting too old for seeing in the New Year. For the second year in succession, the chimes of midnight and the cries of "Happy New Year" were probably drowned out by our snores as we slept our way into 2015. The musical delights that make up Hootenanny were, once again, insufficient to stave off the tiredness resulting from wine at lunchtime and meeting with friends at the pub earlier in the evening. Alcohol, a warm room and a comfortable sofa combine to make a powerful natural sedative that gets me every time...

Lunchtime, on the other hand, more than made up for missing out on toasting in the New Year. For the first time in forever, Elaine did not have to work on New Year's Eve so we decided to treat ourselves to a few tapas at Levanter, a little gem of a place in Ramsbottom. Aubergine fritters with saffron and honey, chorizo cooked in sherry and Moroccan-spiced belly pork ribs were among the dishes that we saw off with gluttonous gusto. I love that place: the food is heavenly and the atmosphere is perfect. It could do with being just that little bit bigger as, by the time we left, customers were waiting at the bar to be seated to eat. Perhaps if they expand some of the magic will go. It is a fine line between intimate and impersonal.

On balance, I'd call it a good New Year's Eve: no, we weren't awake for the midnight toasting, but we were together, happy and full of nice food and laughter shared with friends earlier in the evening. I'd definitely call that a "glass half full" situation. In fact, it literally was glasses half full of flat champagne in the morning. Didn't stop me finishing them off though...

Have a happy, healthy and peaceful 2015.