Tuesday, 8 April 2014

It was all so much better

I live in the past - as several of my friends will tell you.  They may go on to say I live in the past to an unhealthy extent, to the detriment of the present and the future - but don't listen to them; what would they know anyway?

Today I was working away in front of the TV.  I've been getting a bit behind so I was doing my best to resist the procrastination demons singing boy band harmony in my ear.  But then a promo came on for some production-line-saccharine US teen "drama" series, Dawson's hills 9021 tree hill or something. I don't remember much about it except one of the characters saying to another, "if you could chose to revisit any day from your life..." and that was that!  Immediately any chance of finishing work escaped out the window as my mind jumped back a decade.

I got out an old box of letters from my university days and spent an incredible half hour wallowing in the words of ex-girlfriends, acquaintances long since forgotten, family members bringing me news of home across the continents.  
It wasn't all rosy.  Some of it brought back some quit painful memories - and there was a genuine sense of remorse for relationships long gone and hitherto forgotten; good friendships which meant the world to be ten years ago that have withered and died through lack of attention and care.

It made me sad.  I vowed to get in contact with each and every one of them; but I knew I wouldn't.  Time has passed, water has traveled under the bridges; I
would be scared that the Oprah-reunited-long-lost-family moment in my head would become a "Sam?  Sam who?" moment in reality.

But then I spotted something I hadn't noticed before: a letter from a dear friend who clearly didn't know my address.  The address which was printed on the envelop was about as vague as the directions you give to someone you don't really want knowing where you live.  Off the side was written "If all else fails please leave at Ballywatt Church."  It's sort of a lovely declaration of faith - more faith in God than in the Royal Mail. It made me smile.

This sort of thing always makes me smile; and this particular friend does stuff like this all the time.  Perhaps that is one reason why distance and lack of attention never withered our friendship - he was the best man at my wedding three months ago - or maybe he just has more patience than most.

Friday, 4 April 2014

Gym Stories (part 1)

I am old.  I know I am old because I have reached the stage where going to the gym is a case of slowing the natural decline in my physical condition rather than actually improving upon it.  I know I am old because my hip tells me when it is time to give the treadmill a rest rather than my lungs.  I know I am old because my pupils regularly point it out to me.

The gym I attend is in a town full of schools in which I have taught.  For this reason it is a rare session that doesn't involve bumping into at least one past pupil.  In my mind they are thinking, "Ah, this is how he keeps himself in such good shape"; but something in their eyes shows me that they are lumping me in with the rest of the oldies - the ones you see power walking in groups round shopping malls before going for a social cup of tea and a scone.  

You know when you look at an elderly couple who are holding hands?  You know that "awww" feeling you get at the idea that, at their age, they still make an effort... but that you don't really want to think about the details?  THAT's the look I see my pupils give me at the gym.  And that's how I know I am old.

Wednesday, 24 July 2013

what a gloriously miserable day

Let me put this post in context for those of you who don't follow Northern Irish weather patterns.  It rains.  A lot.  It's one of the reasons the country is so green - that and the painted curbstones in Dunloy.

Of late, however, we've been have been experiencing a bit of a high pressure system.  For the past three weeks we have been bathed in glorious sunshine.  People have been flocking to the beach, wearing sunscreen, buying ice cream... all the things we normally only get to do after enduring an hour on easyjet. 

A quick side note here.  Good weather doesn't make people any less lazy.  I've had several lovely beach walks during this pleasant spell.  Portstewart Strand, the White Rocks, White Park Bay...  all very different experiences.  Portstewart (which you can drive on to) was bunged, the White Rocks (which has a convenient car park) was busy, White Park Bay (which requires you to either climb over boulders or walk down a steep path) was fantastically empty... on the hottest day of the year!  Take a look at these two photos.  

The first was taken at the entrance to the strand - where cars are allowed to park.  The next one was taken from the barmouth - at the far end of the strand.  Now I understand people probably had things to carry from their car and they didn't want to be too far away from it.  They probably love it dearly and wanted to look up at it occasionally.  It's just that personally I hate the idea of being crammed together with hundreds of sweaty people - I can't understand why they wouldn't just walk a hundred yards up the beach to where they would have space to spare.  

But back to the weather... or actually not.  This is not an article about the Northern Irish weather.  It is about the Northern Irish people.  Because even when the sun was at it's peak and the temperatures rose to, a not unbearable, thirty-ish degrees centigrade, people were still complaining about the weather.  They were having to think a bit harder to come up with something, but they were managing.  "having to water the flowers about three times a day... can't get comfortable in the heat... have to work inside when it's so beautiful outside [as a teacher on summer holiday I love hearing this one in July]... roads are bunged up with day-trippers... sweaty all the time... I've run out of summer clothes [that one was my fiancee - I think she just wants an excuse to buy clothes]... it's Northern Ireland; it'll never last..."

Then today the met office forecast was for a change.  Heavy rain and thunderstorms to start in the afternoon.  Suddenly it's as if we haven't had the last three weeks at all.  I woke up, looked at my phone and there it was - the first post on my facebook feed complaining about the rain, "Eugh it's gonna be wet and warm today that's the worst! — feeling sick of northern irelands b******t weather." Ah, back to normality. Things had been a little surreal with everyone walking round in shorts and trying to think of something else to complain about.

 I had to laugh when we were walking along East Strand at Portrush one day.  They have put in a paved promenade around where the Arcadia ball room was.  It's very popular with elderly people eating soft ice cream.  As we were making our way to the beach we caught a snippet of a conversation between two old men, "...of course I wouldn't much fancy being here in a caravan when it was raining.  I'd rather be at home in front of the TV..."  He was walking along in the sun, the warmest weather for several years, and he was imagining what it would be like in the rain...  That man was no amateur moaner - he had years of experience and I had no choice but to be impressed.  There's none so easily pleased as those who like nothing more than to grumble. That's an original - you can quote me.

I got to thinking about how much complaining people do when it rains here, and I realized something.  It's not actually the rain they're bemoaning; it's got nothing to do with the weather at all - they just need to keep complaining - in case they forget how to.  But I have decided we need to go the other direction.  We need to start finding and vocalizing the positives, even when there are none.  When I look at that forecast I think the farmers will be pleased - the grass will grow faster; I won't have to water the lavender my brother-in-law planted when he was over before his wedding; the north coast roads won't be filled with crazy Belfast drivers;  the rivers could probably do with a freshening...
  But the bad weather hasn't hit yet; so I'm going to pull on my shorts, go out, lie on the lawn, and enjoy the last few rays of sun.  I suggest you do the same.

Sunday, 3 June 2012

Porting in June


Sometimes I wish I had my DSLR surgically attached. But I suppose an iPhone can be handy. Taken on the prom at Portstewart on a hardy Sunday night.

Tuesday, 22 May 2012

Best name for a greasy spoon ever.


We were driving through the centre of London on Sunday when we came upon a quality name for a greasy spoon. If only it were open...

Monday, 21 May 2012

Best name for a greasy spoon ever.

We were driving through the centre of London on Sunday when we came upon a quality name for a greasy spoon. If only it were open...

Thursday, 26 April 2012

My Shakespeare 

by Kate Tempest

He’s in every lover who ever stood alone beneath a window,
In every jealous whispered word,
in every ghost that will not rest.
He’s in every father with a favourite,
Every eye that stops to linger
On what someone else has got, and feels the tightening in their chest.
He’s in every young man growing boastful,
Every worn out elder, drunk all day;
muttering false prophecies and squandering their lot.
He’s there – in every mix-up that spirals far out of control – and never seems to end, even when its beginnings are forgot.
He’s in every girl who ever used her wits. Who ever did her best.
In every vain admirer,
Every passionate, ambitious social climber,
And in every misheard word that ever led to tempers fraying,
Every pawn that moves exactly as the player wants it to,
And still remains convinced that it’s not playing.
He’s in every star crossed lover, in every thought that ever set your teeth on edge, in every breathless hero, stepping closer to the ledge, his is the method in our madness, as pure as the driven snow – his is the hair standing on end, he saw that all that glittered was not gold. He knew we hadn’t slept a wink, and that our hearts were upon our sleeves, and that the beast with two backs had us all upon our knees as we fought fire with fire, he knew that too much of a good thing, can leave you up in arms, the pen is mightier than the sword, still his words seem to sing our names as they strike, and his is the milk of human kindness, warm enough to break the ice – his, the green eyed monster, in a pickle, still, discretion is the better part of valour, his letters with their arms around each others sholuders, swagger towards the ends of their sentences, pleased with what they’ve done, his words are the setting for our stories – he has become a poet who poetics have embedded themselves deep within the fabric of our language, he’s in our mouths, his words have tangled round our own and given rise to expressions so effective in expressing how we feel, we cant imagine how we’d feel without them.
See – he’s less the tights and garters – more the sons demanding answers from the absence of their fathers.
The hot darkness of your last embrace.
He’s in the laughter of the night before, the tightened jaw of the morning after,
He’s in us. Part and parcel of our Royals and our rascals.
He’s more than something taught in classrooms, in language that’s hard to understand,
he’s more than a feeling of inadequacy when we sit for our exams,
He’s in every wise woman, every pitiful villain,
Every great king, every sore loser, every fake tear,
His legacy exists in the life that lives in everything he’s written,
And me, I see him everywhere, he’s my Shakespeare.