2019: Year in Review

2019: Year in Review

I began the year with a wondrous hangover. My friend cooked me a breakfast I almost had to reject. We then spent the morning watching back-to-back episodes of Bad Education. Did this augur well, or ill?

The world around me, as it happened

As current affairs unfolded through the year, I looked on mostly with a sense of impotent horror. Would we leave the EU without a deal? No. Would we leave with a deal? No. Would parliament make up its mind? No. Would May survive? No. Would parliamentary democracy itself survive? It began to look doubtful. The parliament of 2017-19 was so foul that it needs its own name to mark it out for posterity. There is the Merciless Parliament of 1388; the Rump Parliament of 1648; I suppose the parliament that ended in 2010 will be known as the Expenses Parliament; this one needs a fitting name as well. Here are some of my suggestions:

• Deadlock Parliament
• Parliament of Fouls
• Dishonourable Parliament
• Parliament of Liars
• Defectors’ Parliament
• The Parliament That Could Not Make Up Its Mind

Suggestions on a postcard.

The low point was after the Supreme Court overruled the Queen and sent the parliamentarians back to discuss Brexit some more – because, after three years of talking and voting for deadlock, they needed more time to talk about deadlock. Only, they chose to discuss something else: themselves. In scenes of fury and self-righteousness, parliament made itself irrelevant like it had never been before, and I hated the MPs for it; I hated them the more that they pitied themselves.

To cap it off, they refused for weeks and weeks to dissolve themselves.

With the election December, for the first time since 2010 we have stable majority government: the next five years will be without a major election or (one hopes, as one looks to Scotland) referendum. We have had, in the last five years, two referendums (both traumatic) and three general elections. That is too much for us to bear.

Personal objectives for the year that has passed

In my last review, going into 2019, I set myself six objectives, which I totally forgot about and ought really to have pinned to my bedroom wall. As it is, here they are, assessed:

1. Get the novel drafted to a standard that I can send it to an agent. Verdict: No. Utterly FAILED. I was too daunted when it dawned on me how much work needed to be done, more than mere tinkering. I have started, though, belatedly.
2. Get a story or poem published somewhere. Verdict: FAILED, but not for want of trying. My energies dried up with continued failure. I am less sure why my stories were not taken, for I thought they were interesting. My verse is too traditional to be of much interest to the gatekeepers; local poets have effectively said as much.
3. Get fit, not so much to lose weight as to tone up and be healthy. Verdict: Mixed. I seem to drift in and out of fitness. I was doing well with Parkrun in the Summer into the Autumn, but a foot injury has done for that. I shall resume in the new year.
4. Finish the album of music and vanity-publish it: FAILED, because I began to question the point. But I have renewed impetus now.
5. Play live more often: SUCCESS. Of all the objectives, this was the least likely, but I am in a band now, and the next year looks promising for us. 
6. Watch more local rugby: SUCCESS. The easiest to achieve, of course. I have adopted Tonbridge Juddeans as the club I support.

This time last year; and since

I began this year optimistically. Work was going well. I had my first flat. I had achievements I was justly proud of. Not much has changed since then. I still live in the same place, work in the same place, mix with the same friends. The year has been less about progress, more about stability, and in pursuing a life outside of work (but not always knowing how).

There have been some changes. I have continued to lose weight – and this continues to be expensive. But I think I have rediscovered the art of buying clothes. When I was bigger, I unconsciously opted for darker, drab things that attracted no attention. I am now aware of a desire for the opposite; to wear eye-catching, even daring things that I would never have countenanced before.

Added to this, I am also more aware of how welcoming my home can be for others. Especially with seating space and a large kitchen. I have started taking an interest in cooking and hosting, and I am shortly going to buy a cookbook – my very first! Probably Nigella.

Writing

Creatively, I am much stalled. I had a novel which I knew was miles away from being good enough; yet I was so blinded by what I had produced that I could not see how it ought to be. That problem now is solved; at least, I think so. I have radically altered the design; now, I just need to ‘action that’. Some of the pain will be in devising new passages; the rest of the pain will be in butchering and deleting much of what I have already slaved to achieve. Heart-breaking, in a way. But necessary.

Away from prose, I got involved with the local poetry society, but I am ambivalent about it. They have very well organised monthly meetings with high-flying modern poets, usually dividing the evening between an open mic and the guest slot. But I was not inspired by any of the guests. The low point was when two of them, on a joint ticket, recited their collaborative project inspired by Brexit. It became a group therapy session; for those of us not grieving, it was uncomfortable and a bit insulting.

Music 

Arcadian Dawn's first gig

We are Arcadian Dawn. We had our first gig, as a supporting act, in early December, and we were good. We had only had four rehearsals, but four was all we needed: when it was over, the whole thing felt to me as though it had been a real moment. We know we’re onto a good thing, so we are staying together going into the new year. This is what I have wanted for a very long time. I have been searching for other musicians online, but it’s worse than online dating. At present, we are doing covers, but I and one of my bandmates both write original music. For this reason, I now have added cause to get my demo recordings finished, for now there is actually a chance of some of them being played.

Outdoor pursuits 

I began well. In February, I walked around Bewl Water, which I think is 13 miles. I even filmed my day. But I never made a video of it, nor did I do anything greater than a day’s walk this summer. I regret that. The greatest achievement was in August, walking from Tonbridge to my friend’s place in Maidstone, where he put me up for the night. I traced the route of the Medway and saw it in its full Edenic beauty. I had often thought Kent was overreaching slightly when it bills itself as ‘The Garden of England’, with the obvious resonance of Eden; yet I saw it, on the approaches to Maidstone especially.

I wrote a number of pretty verses about the River Medway, before and after this walk. Together, they are basically a pilgrimage text and a love letter to Kent. I dedicated one of them to the outgoing GCSE students, who were good enough to tell me they liked it. I am doubtful any of it will ever see the light of day in publication, not for inadequacies, but because nothing I write ever finds favour with other poets. I am not modest; I know what I write is technically accomplished, but out of step with the times. This year was not my year; perhaps with some luck, I can begin to be published in the year ahead.

Resolutions and objectives for 2020:

1. NO dry January
2. Observe Lent: give up coffee (did me the world of good last time)
3. Reach a decision about the Reserves
4. Keep up the exercise routine
5. Do a proper walk of several days, across some county or other
6. Get the novel done
7. Get published (prose or verse)

Easter Blog: My Abstinence

O

n Ash Wednesday I found I needed something to give up. At the time, I had sinusitis and I was reading an online blog explaining how caffeine exacerbates the congestion. I also had a Twitter tab open, full of bilious ravings and to which I was oddly addicted. The answer seemed providentially to present itself: give up coffee and Twitter.

I had thought that, of the two, Twitter would be the hardest to defeat, spending as I did so many fruitless hours flicking through it on my phone. Coffee was a delicious drink, merely. How hard could it be?

C

affeine withdrawal lasted a full two weeks. I had a chronic headache which, at times, was as bad as a migraine. I was anxious, internalising everything, ratty, explosive and, I guess, bloody awful company. Some people told me I was mad; others, that I should wean myself off more slowly. But I decided that I had stumbled upon a dependency. This made it a matter of urgency that I should overcome it: I held on and grimaced through the pain. People ask me how I did it. The answer is always the same: sheer force of will.

But with Easter comes release from my abstinence. Do I really propose to wean myself back onto this drug? I sleep better, my moods are better regulated, my skin is better, my energy reserves last longer…admittedly, my appetite is increased, making weight management tougher, but this is a small price to pay. The answer is that I must learn to love decaff at weekends only, which I used to consider with scorn and slight regard.

S

corn and slight regard on Twitter made it easy to stay away, more so than expected. I have now deleted the app from my phone, removing both the means and the temptation. I am clear that if I were not already on Twitter, I would not now join it, and I say that with a sense of sorrow, for when I joined, it was both useful and fun. At moments of high news, occasionally I would break my abstinence, but only in order to check specific people, such as the Brexit wonk Henry Newman or journalist James Forsyth, who can be relied upon to give the commentary I need to keep in the loop. Otherwise, I felt fair liberated from the corrosiveness of all that I habitually read on there.

That changed with Notre Dame. The BBC news live feed was updating infrequently, even as the fire raged, and in my gut I felt a tension to know if the building could be saved: I spent the evening on Twitter. I ought to have saved myself the bother. News – as in, news – came no faster than on the BBC. But misbehaviour was endemic. I shall not detail the things I read: suffice it to say it reminded me of why I put it down. It was mostly narcissism and baiting and I felt as though I were locked in a dungeon in Hell surrounded by all the Furies.

But as I have a minor following, it would be silly to throw it away. This blog is a case in point, promoted on my Twitter page. Just as I learned to manage my caffeine problem, so shall I manage my Twitter problem: I shall mute or unfollow all contentious, trolllish accounts so that my feed is healthy to read. And I do mean healthy, for I am firmly of the view that much of what seeps through is poison to the mind.

On Writing 'A January Tale'

On Writing A January Tale

I have nearly finished the typed draft of a new story, despite having been struck down and delayed with flu. I won't be able to show it to you for some time as I shall first seek some organ or other in which to publish it. If no one wants it, it will go on my website.

Outline

It tells the story of two friends who have long been estranged but who are seeking to rebuild their relationship, not really knowing how. The only thing they know is alcohol and the old habits through which they first became close, including a drinking game in which as students they used to compete to show their superior knowledge of literature. The game has many expressions, but in this case it involves naming the most iconic moments in literature. Before long, they begin naming moments that the other friend thinks is a loaded suggestion, and this soon becomes deliberate in a sequence of strike and counter-strike. So they launch their coded broadsides at each other through these proxy references, not knowing if they are killing something long sick, or else purging the body of its poison.

Origins

I have written before about friendship, especially male, and the idea has weighed on my mind since. After receiving recommendations from colleagues, including At Swim, Two Boys and The Body, I went for a long, late evening walk, as is my wont, wracking my mind. Eventually, as I was coming back to my flat, seemingly empty-headed, the idea of two chaps standing outside under the porch together coalesced with all the old stories I had been raking over as well as with the ideas about loneliness and distance that I had thought about for the recent blog post.

Development

The story clearly had legs. Firstly, it seemed to touch upon miscommunication, particularly of the male type, with which I am intimately familiar. There's that reluctance between men to open up and discuss anything, especially if it needs discussing, without the assistance of alcohol. It also touched upon that root of so much manipulation as well as miscommunication: the ability to pour your own meaning into something wide open to interpretation.  

But it also offered a glimpse into what often brings men together in the first place, that of the shared endeavour or activity. Such a preposterous little game would seem odd to a casual observer, but like any game, it has rivalry, frisson and, above all, something in common. Being particular to a small group, or a pair, would only recommend it to them even more as something unique, their own little world.

It is part of the question of the story: will it be enough? It might have been when they were under-ripe undergraduates, but much has passed since then. It is part of my own experience to find the things that as a student I thought were the most important things in the world don't really matter any more, and the games we played have been locked away with all our other toys. There's also a part of me, a very big part (some might suggest the greater part) that is still more boy than man, even if I do have a mortgage now. Reviving an old game like this might be desperate, and it might be too late; it might also work.

This game, and all else that such men might have in common, opens up an opportunity to explore something else I have long been thinking about, which is a kind of negative capability, the author putting things out of view, making something that is visible to the reader or audience still mysterious and private between the characters. (I shall write more extensively on this idea later.) When both characters speak through proxy references, they hint at things which we can, at best, only partially understand, either because we have insight already, or else because we know the content of the literary references. Yet we can't know, unless I reveal to us, quite what these references mean to each man, or why one would be conciliatory and another be provoking. 

Next steps

The foul hand manuscript all done, the typescripts half done, and the leg-work in finding a place to send it not yet done, and the waiting that follows not nearly begun, it will be a while before anyone sees it. Most organs take three months, sometimes as much as six, to ignore you and not reply, so you have to keep close watch on all your submissions. None has yet accepted one of my submissions so I hold no great hope. But that can always change.

Can Writing Heal the Brexit Wounds?

Can Writing Heal the Brexit Wounds?

Channel 4: Uncivil War

I have not seen the recent Channel 4 drama, Uncivil War. I doubt I will. I expect it will be too painful. But I have heard much in its praise, especially from partisan sources on social media which suggest it does not take sides and that it paints no one in a particularly flattering light. One comment I saw - from a leave supporter - suggested that anyone who was able to watch it without reflecting upon their own position was beyond reason. 

This got me thinking about how art might start to respond to events. It has to respond at some point, but because we are still undergoing the process, it is less able to do so, unable as I think we are to take a clear perspective on things. But perhaps the time is arriving, and this drama in particular is the first sign of art trying to help us process the pain?

Healing

Some kind of healing will be necessary. The archbishop of Canterbury has called for some government leadership in order to facilitate this, though I wonder if, rather than imploring the government, it were better the church seize the initiative and do it instead. Either way, he is right that this mood cannot be allowed to fester. He has a model to follow in this in the Church of Scotland, which held a service of unity following the 2014 referendum, though I know of none of its work in this area since that time. 

But what of the rest of us? Just as I argue Welby cannot simply wait for the government to take the lead but should seize the initiative himself, so too I argue the rest of us have a duty to do the same, whatever our place in society. If I am right about Uncivil War, then television and drama might already have made a start here. 

Harming

There is, of course, a danger. Words can heal, and words can harm. A cursory glance over social media should reveal just how ghastly some people are determined to be right now. Even in more formal work, there will be a number of people who relish opening fire at those who vote differently to them, or share a different vision. Such behaviour is the outcome of a petty mind, impossible to reason with; the product of character that desires not to reconcile but only to denounce. Most recently, the BBC version of Poirot at new year falsified history in order to associate the leave vote with fascism, so it has already started. I therefore state, with total confidence, that poisonous, tendentious and polemical work will naturally constitute the weakest work, most worthy to be disposed.

The form it should take

As suggested above, the perspective that time lends to us will enable us better to make sense of what we have been through, and I don't believe we are securely in that place, even if one good drama has made a start. Sometimes, these events will need to be tackled head on. At other times, it might help to explore these things through allegory.

It is easy to conjecture how. Take some of the factors of these times:

• long term friends falling out
• irreconcilable interests between different parties, factions or groups
• paranoia, denunciation, suspicion
• political rhetoric and its power for good and ill
• identity
• borders

and anything else you care to mention. All of these things can be discussed in drama, literature, art, music, whatever, without having to revive the myriad ghosts that lurk behind the spectre of Brexit, and this might help to reduce the inflammation. 

My own contribution

I have a first draft of a novel which does some of what I argue for, totally by accident. The story requires a hard political border and tension between two states. I invented a parallel world in which one of those states is the former capital city of the other, but which seceded several generations before. I conceived of the idea before the 2015 general election, when Brexit had not come into view, whilst out walking on Southborough common, soaking up the beauty of the place in the sunshine and contemplating the difference between my life in Kent and my old life in London. But if anyone were to read it now, not knowing these things, they would naturally see Brexit in it. I am comfortable with that. My world being a false creation, I can present secession without presenting a view on it, or alienating those who do come to it with their own views. 

Now I just need to redraft and get the blasted thing published.

Conclusion

It helps that I conceived of this story before Brexit, for I might not have been able to handle it so dispassionately in this atmosphere. But that only makes it more urgent that we try: feeding feuds and despising your neighbour, chewing the gristle of old grudge - this is easy, even satisfying; to reconcile requires good will and determination, which is in short supply at present. That is why Welby, and all of us who desire to reconcile, should find ways, including ans especially in writing, to seize the initiative, for otherwise we will be in the power of those who relish discord.

Male Friendship in Literature (especially that which is new)

Male Friendship in Literature (especially that which is new)

The problem emerges

Too painful at my age

Upon a Friday evening spent alone, at home, I searched my DVDs for a story to keep me company and comfort me, specifically on the theme of friendship. I quickly became frustrated. Lord Of The Rings? Too long, too familiar and quite old. Brideshead? Much too painful for a man my age. Sherlock? Gets hysterical. Yet what else was there? Precious little. 

So I turned to literature. 

Lord Of The Rings? Brideshead? I could see a problem emerging: everything was either familiar or old. Or both.

I consulted the internet. There were a few more suggestions. Mice and Men? Please, I'm an English teacher. Lord Of The Rings was another. Brideshead Revisited another...

So I consulted my friend, Bryan. He suggested Lord Of The Rings, Mice and Men...but he added to the tally some suggestions from classic Russian literature, quite a lot of friendship in Shakespeare, including Hamlet and Horatio, and in 19th century prose, such as Bingly and Darcy and some others in Dickens. Then we discussed the problem over the phone, and agreed that, as far as we could tell, there was not much noteworthy writing on this theme from the last fifty years, and nothing we could name. 

Then he made a couple of suggestions that really got me thinking. Maurice? Dorian Grey? No, I said. That would not do: they are romantic. But so what? What is the essential difference? I said at the time, and I think I was more right than I realised, that there was something delicate, mysterious, sweet and tantalising about friendship, especially between men, whereas depictions of romance are more obvious, predictable, digestible and, frankly, formulaic. 

Digging further

Internet searches revealed a number of interesting things:

1. Lists of 'top ten' etc. fictional male friendships are repetitive, and much of it is old
2. Male friendship currently is better served in film and television than in literature
3. From some quarters there appears to be even some hostility towards it featuring in new literature
4. Given how lonely men are becoming, with around 2.5 million men having no friends, and how difficult men find it to make and keep friends, there is surely a need to discuss male friendship in current writing
5. Male friendship makes people uncomfortable.

I want to dwell on points 2 and 5 together first. 

Putting aside direct page-to-screen adaptations, I could name a few titles, not all of which I have seen, or seen in full, which take up this theme. The problem I have with them is that they intensify what I would call the histrionics, to the point where I no longer recognise the friendship for what it is. Take Sherlock, for instance. It starts really well: two lonely misfits who find one another, and, especially Watson, find new life through one another. However, by the third series, and through into the fourth, their relationship starts revelling in the caricatures and fantasies of the fan base (more on that later) and morphs deliberately into a surrogate romance. Similarly with House MD, which is obviously based on the Sherlock Holmes stories. When House has his difficulties or when Wilson starts to die, the dynamic becomes weepy and saccharine. 

This speaks of two problems:

• Friendship is undervalued as a theme; less important than romance or family. Two close friends who remain close friends won't do, as friendship simply is not enough: they must become something more. 
• Friendship is not understood. It is precisely because friendship is naturally undramatic, normally, that it is so important and valued: conversation, quality time, nights out, confidants' advice, etc. This is quite apart from the war of nerves, anxiety and high-stakes conflict and resolution that goes with romantic interest but which, by contrast, make romantic relationships less stable, reliable and all too often less enduring. 

Sometimes the friendship is put under test, such as one friend falling ill, which is a naturally more revealing test of the depth of affection, but even then, the friendship, though demonstrative, remains for the most part undramatic. The best recent depiction of this that I have seen is the film 50/50, in which Seth Rogen's character is a doughty rock throughout his friend's ordeal.

This is mild.

The other, connected problem is that this topic seems to make people uncomfortable, as hinted at in the link on point 3 but more evident in the fan responses to things such as Sherlock and Lord Of The Rings. It is a common suggestion, made in countless pictures and fan fictions either hopefully or sneeringly, that the men must secretly have romantic feelings for each other: 'Johnlock' is a thing, as evinced by fan art, the featured image being the mildest I feel I can show. And the conversations around Samwise Gamgee and Frodo Baggins seem deliberately to overlook the origin of that friendship in the model of the British officer and his batman in the trenches. Certainly, such treatments do touch on the real ambiguity of some male relationships, in which the line between the platonic and the romantic is not always clear to the friends themselves. But they also speak of a need either to laugh the friendship off or to transform it into something more easily understood and categorised; an inability, as Keats might have put it, to enjoy the mystery without the irritating reflex of reaching after certainty.

Writing now

Well reviewed and
worth investigating

I have mentioned 50/50 as a good modern treatment of male friendship that I know about, and the first two series of Sherlock as well. In terms of writing, I know of nothing very recent that has captured the public mood. I have heard of one title, At Swim, Two Boys, which seems promising but the synopses also indicate that the relationship becomes romantic. About a year ago I read The Gustav Sonata, which seemed promising at the start but quickly descended into the level of a first draft. It therefore seems to me that this is a topic and theme that is absolutely ripe for further exploration, both in pursuit of reading and of writing. 

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.