2018: Year in review

2018: Year in review

Fraser Nelson argues, as the year draws to a close, that 2018 has been a good one for Britain, in terms of daily life, despite how terrible the headlines have often been. Allow me to be solipsistic for a moment and to say that, as far as my life is concerned, 2018 has been something of a vintage year.

This time last year

I lived in a small, rented studio flat. Too small for my expanding life and maturing sense of myself, and too insecure really for me to think of it as home. But it was home, and the only home I had, in spite of saving regularly towards a deposit, which meant going without the other things in life I would have wished for. It was perfect for me when I moved in, but after nearly four years, I felt most frustrated to be there. Added to this was a desire to move forward in my career, which created an overall sense of restlessness, sometimes getting the better of me. 

Furthermore, I was feeling less than confident in myself personally, for I had just bought a new suit - Charles Tyrwhitt - and it was huge, shockingly big, and it brought home to me how large I was getting. I suppose I thought, 'this is it, I'm fat now' and left it at that, but it also left me conscious of my weight in a way I had not been since I was at the other end of the scale: too thin. I tried halfheartedly to do extra exercise but the motivation was not there. I hoped no one would notice; as it was, most people were just too polite to comment. 

Heading into 2019

I now live in my first home. It's weird. I can hang pictures up. I can put curtains up. If I want to, I can paint the walls. I am still not accustomed to these thoughts, but now that I am at liberty to think this way, I have run away with the idea of turning the corridor - my corridor - into an art gallery. How luxurious! And the feeling of security has been liberating in other ways, in terms of hobbies. I have begun brewing my own beer: first batch was toxic, lethally strong, which pleased me immensely. I have also taken to doing work on my guitars, and teaching myself how to maintain them. To cap it all, I have lost a lot of weight, and I feel so much more confident in myself for having done so. The only drawback is that new clothes cost a ton, and I am so out of the habit of shopping to look good that I have no idea what I should buy. Added to progression in my career which has taken place since then, and I can look back upon 2018 as one of real forward movement in my life.

Achievements

I have finished a first draft for a novel, written many poems and short stories and started a new album of music, which is shaping up nicely. My greatest achievement has been the long treks that I undertook solo, and which I recorded in film and picture. The journey to Hastings was the hardest, as I was a total novice and really quite naive, but I learned from it. The journey to Canterbury was far more successful, but also very moving, in a way I still find mysterious. I think about the days I spent on the track, the hardship I went through and the euphoria it engendered in me, and my mind now points to the Spring and Summer with a kind of hunger to be back out there, seeking some elusive thing I last found in Canterbury, and which remains there, somehow. 

Objectives for 2019

You might call these 'resolutions', and some of them are, but a resolution implies a change to one's lifestyle, outlook or approach, which not all of these things are:

1. Get the novel drafted to a standard that I can send it to an agent
2. Get a story or poem published somewhere
3. Get fit, not so much to lose weight as to tone up and be healthy
4. Finish the album of music and vanity publish it
5. Play live more often
6. Watch more local rugby

And much more, I am sure. But this is a good enough list to begin with.

I wish everyone a happy, productive, secure and successful 2019. 

After Canterbury

Journal Wednesday 29th August 2018 0840hrs

Yesterday I transcribed my journal entries from pilgrimage. Rather light work, I must say. It’s possible all I had to say, and all that was of value, went into my video diary, which I must yet edit. It is also possible I was simply too tired or practically inconvenienced to write. What is slightly more mysterious to me is that I wrote not a word thereafter. I know I was highly charged, full of feelings, raging and flowing. Some of it I know is captured on video, but
none of it in written word. Why?

At such distance, I cannot say with great certainty; equally, distance can lend clarity.
Feelings do not come at us in the shape of words. Words are simply the tools we have with which to give them shape. I remember enjoying whatever it was I was feeling, just allowing myself to feel without having to give it a name, explain it or make a record. I am reminded of people at special events who film everything on their phones yet forget to watch any of it for real.

I know I had a strong desire to close the door, to draw a curtain on the experience. After I tossed my staff into the river, that was it, and for the next two days – a night in Canterbury, a day in Deal and on the road – I felt as though suspended, temporarily removed from any reality but my own. There was no home to go to, no time to spend, use or waste: just me and an evening and a morning.

I bought a cigar before Evensong; once I had showered and dressed for the evening, I ate dinner at a Mediterranean restaurant by myself. Some visitors from Lancashire got chatting with me. That was nice. My inhibitions with strangers went once I was on the road, and I had, by that evening, developed a certain joy in connecting with people. There was also a degree of counsel in it, for I had to put my journey into words, and unlike with standard conversation – work, love life, &c. – the chat was fresh and I wanted to share it as though for the first time, because it was the first time.

Thereafter, a drink at the Cricketers and then a puff overlooking the Stour under the aegis of the West Gate. A stranger came to me and, photographing the church there, asked me what it was called. I said I did not know, adding ‘it’s pretty, isn’t it?’ and she readily agreed. Everything was lovely to me that evening.

It was Evensong that did it, I think. Had it been a trek just anywhere – to Milton Keynes, let’s say – the experience would have been duller. It was the voice, the silent accord, the reverence for words, the harmony, the stillness, the purpose, the spiritual warmth, everything. Sitting there, bathed in song, I could let go. And there was much to let go.

Much to let go. For I had not realised, was not conscious of, how much it was my mind
that drove me forward. Not my body. Without anyone else at my side, all the drive came from within, and that leant me the most tremendous energy and power, enough to push me across an entire county by myself. I complain in my notes that I am not as reflective as I think I should be. Well, this made sense of it. It was all subconscious, below the level of my waking thoughts. And so sitting there, at Evensong, I felt inside that it was ended, and I let go. The energy and the power fell away, and everything that had hibernated beneath came to life in me, and made me feel freer than I ever had.

Maybe that’s what happened. It feels right to me. I still have a little of it now, or a token of it, as I recall it now for this journal: for I feel so young again; life is exciting again.