And together we rise.

This was written after the Manchester Arena bombing of 22nd May 2017, and finessed and published after the London Bridge attacks of 4th June 2017. 

The piece was first conceived as a series of short monologues, all beginning with, "I'm scared. I fear for my family and for their future." Each would be written from the perspective of a different person living in the UK: a Leaver, Remainer, immigrant, and so on. But, upon thinking the idea through more, I realised I have neither the experience nor the right to write those truths. 

Instead, what was written - and what is shared here - was two monologues. The first in particular could potentially be true for anyone living in Britain, regardless of politics, religion, class. The piece seeks to first find our shared horrors, while the second seeks to create a mindset of creative hope rather than destructive fear. 

"Together, united, we'll never be defeated."

Click image to expand.

"I am scared. I fear for my family and for their future.
                        I fear for my kind
                                       my values
                                       my beliefs.
                        I fear the ascendency of those I can't understand.
                        I fear the decline of those I can.
                        I fear my apathy
                                  my inability to act, to prevent.
              I fear those who hate me.
                                         I fear my own hate.
                        I fear my lack of control.
                                         I fear my fellow country people
                                                   my press
                                                   my politicians.
I am scared. I fear for us."

"I am hopeful. I hope for my family and for their future.
                          I hope for my kind
                                           my values
                                           my beliefs.
                          I hope to understand those I can't.
                          I hope to question those I can.
                          I hope for my passion
                                           my ability to act, to prevent.
               I hope for those who hate me.
                                          I hope for my own hate.
                          I hope for my ability to impact.
                                          I hope for my fellow country people
                                                           my press
                                                           my politicians.
I am hopeful. I hope for us."

And the body says...

"I'm sorry."

"I can't even... What did you take me for? Did you think I was stupid?!"

"I didn't think you'd find out."

"And that makes it better?!"

A pause.

"Tell me. I want to know."

"Why? Why do this?"

"Because I need to know! When did it even start?"

"I... I can't remember."

"Fuck, a year ago? Because I remember a year ago..."

"No. Longer."

"Longer?!"

"Why are we doing this? What's the point?"

"Because you fucking owe it to me."

"Listen, I don't 'owe' you. Neither of us wanted-"

"Well we're fucking here now, aren't we. We can't just erase it like it never happened. I can't just erase it. This is it. This is part of my fucking story. You - are part - of my - fucking - story. What am I supposed to tell people?"

"It's just one of those things. It happens all the time."

"'It's just one of those things'?! What does that even... Do you have any... My family. My friends. Me."

An incoherent mumble, which sounds like a statistic.

"Don't give me numbers. I can't believe you're giving me fucking numbers. After all the shit you've pulled. All the little lies I've had to tell myself, when I knew, I fucking knew something wasn't right."

"I..."

"What?"

"I said I'm sorry. What else do you want?"

"The truth! Just for once, the fucking truth."

"The truth! The truth is that it's not even that bad! You're making this out to be worse than it is!"

"Don't lie to me! Again! Enough! God, that time when... And I convinced myself that it didn't mean anything. And all the other signs..."

"Look, this is easy. Now that it's out, in the open, it's easy. We can sort this."

"How? It's easy for you. You just carry on as you were. This is all on me. I'm the one who has to deal with it. I don't, I don't know that I can do this."

*****

"So now what?"

"We just keep talking."

"But we've been talking. How can we keep just talking?"

"Tell me again. Tell me again, everything."

"But..."

"No. You don't control this. You don't get to fucking control this. Tell me."

*****

"How've you been?"

"Okay. Better."

"That's good."

"I guess. It's..."

"It's what?"

"I still can't... square it."

"How can I help?'

"You can't."

*****

"I think I finally understand it."

An exasperated sigh.

"What. What do you 'finally understand'."

"I've been reading about it. About you."

"'About' me?"

"Yes. It is common. One in ten women have to deal with it, apparently."

"See! I told yo-"

"You fuck, that doesn't make it better. That doesn't somehow absolve you, make it okay. It's just good to know."

"Fine."

"You want to know what else I found out?"

"I... Argh, I don't even have to be having this conversation right now."

"Yes, you do. Because I don't think you realise what you are. I think you've been kidding yourself that it's fine. That it's normal. That what you do to women is... normal. And it isn't. And it's not - fucking - fair. It's not fair that you've forced me to deal with this. It's not fair that I now have to change everything, everything, that I'm the one that has to scramble around and attempt to rake and scrape up your detritus, to deal with it. So yes. Yes, you do fucking need to be having this conversation right now."

*****

Years later.

"I'm proud of you," the body says.

"I... Thank you."

"It's been tough for you, hasn't it?"

"It has. It has."

"You've done it though. All that reading, learning, changing your diet, your exercise, your mindset... It feels... I feel you understand me. That you respect me."

"But I don't feel... I still don't know that I can trust you. I still can't believe you failed me like that."

"Trust me? I can't- You know what? It's time. It's time you heard this. I am proud of you. I've watched as you've had to rewrite all you know about me, and about how we work together. And we're both so much better for it. I've felt myself slowly fix. I feel better than I've done in years; I know that you do too.

And yet. And yet. I don't think you realise what it's been like for me.

For years you abused me. You put me down. Dismissed me. Reviled me. Refused to try and understand me, and what I need. And that was even before I first started showing symptoms. You don't know what it was like. I knew you needed to get through this. That then wasn't the right time to share this."

"I, I had no idea. I didn't think..."

"'I didn't think'. Fuck, you wouldn't dream of treating anyone the way you treated me. The way you treated us. Because despite everything, despite these conversations, you do realise we're the same, now, don't you?

But when we first got that diagnosis, when we finally got a label that explained everything - our missed periods, our acne, those cysts on our ovaries, the fucking, the fucking weight gain - you ignored it. You went straight into denial.

Do you have any concept of what it's been like? To not be given compassion, to be blamed as a cause rather than a symptom? To feel and listen to you oscillate and struggle between disgust and acceptance about me?

And you know what? I don't regret it. I don't regret what I did. I had to take you - take us - to rock bottom for you to finally listen to me. Yes, I did 'betray' you. Us. But I don't regret it. You needed to start listening to me. 'The truth will out', as they say, regardless of whether or not you try to deny it."

"I don't know what to say."

A pause.

"I'm, I'm sorry," the self says.

"Don't apologise. You were right to be angry. You're still right to be angry. But we can fucking do this. We - can fucking - do this."

*****

Useful links for those with Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome:

• My Google Doc of notes made while researching it
• PCOS diet support (great resource on managing PCOS through diet)
• Blog from Erika Volk (personal trainer with PCOS, and who specialises in exercise to help manage PCOS)
• The PCOS Workbook (on Amazon, £6.55 for the Kindle version)

If you know someone with PCOS, be patient with them, be understanding, be supportive without judgment, and be guided by them in how to talk about it. Symptoms vary so much along a spectrum, as do resilience and coping mechanisms.

And if you have PCOS, there are some great Facebook groups, in which women share their stories and help each other out. You can fucking do this.

Text me when you're home.

Content warning: street harassment; potential kidnap; potential stalking.

The street is brightly lit and busy.

Cars are getting from A to B. People are doing the same.

Restaurants, cafes, newsagents are still open.

It’s cold.

The bus may be a while yet.

Home is just 10 minutes away.

I start walking.

(I’m 17. My male friends insist on walking me home. I protest the need, but I’m grateful nonetheless.)

It’s novel; I can walk home, at night, at 1:30am, on my own, without worrying about my safety.

(I’m 13. An older man in a market tries talking to me, even though my father’s by my side.)

Couples walk past me, women walk past me, men walk past me, alone and in pairs. None of us interferes with the other.

(I’m 27. I’m walking with a female friend. Two men separate around us. “I’d shit on that,” we hear mumbled at us as they walk past.)

“Hello, lady.”

(I’m 30. A man is ignoring my patient explanations as to why his advances as I walk past are unwelcome.)

My body tenses. I drop my head, my gaze. I keep walking in my direction. He keeps walking in his direction.

I’m fight or flight.

Keep walking.

A man on the other side of the road, standing outside a pub, catches my eye. Can’t put my finger on what or why.

Keep watch of him on my periphery. Try not to make eye contact.

Just in case.

Keep walking.

(I’m 19. There’s a car driving slowly behind me. I’m the only person on the night-time street. I ask the local kebab guy to walk me home.)

The man moves.

The man crosses the road as I walk past.

The man is walking behind me.

Keep walking. Faster.

Turn to see if he’s still there.

He’s still there.

Reach the top of my road. Keep walking across while I glance down it, towards home. My road is quiet. Empty.

The man is still behind me.

Keep walking, past my road, to the McDonald’s nearby, still open, still busy. Maybe I’m being paranoid.

Go in, sit down.

The man comes in behind me.

The man sits down two tables away from me.

Queue for food.

Turn. Don’t see him. Move towards the exit. Relieved. I was being paranoid.

See him now. He’s standing. He moves in my direction.

Go back to queue for food.

See him walking towards me.

See him walking past me.

Head to the exit, and out.

Turn around.

He’s not followed me out.

Head back to my road.

Turn around.

He’s not behind me.

Reach the top of my road. It’s still quiet, still empty. Turn into it.

A car pulls into my road at the same time.

The car has slowed down.

The car has stopped by me.

(I’m my brother having to walk after a man who’s purposefully and suspiciously followed a woman down a dark and quiet street. My brother wants to make sure she’s okay. My brother’s presence seems to put off whatever the man is planning.)

The male driver has rolled down the passenger side window.

The male driver is talking to me.

I can’t focus on what he’s saying.

I ask him to keep driving.

He keeps talking to me.

I ask him to consider how I must feel.

He offers me a lift home.

I say no, of course I don’t want a lift home.

He keeps talking, and I say I think someone’s been following me and now he’s stopped and is inviting me into his car, and can he please just drive away and leave me alone, and he’s still talking and offering to get out the car to talk to me from the sidewalk, and now my voice is shaking and I’m just about keeping my shit together and I walk back to the safety of the high street but what if the McDonald’s man is there again and the man in the car is finally driving away and he’s leaving and I wait until he’s well past my house and I head back home and I get the key into the door and I make it up the stairs and I’m shaking and I’m home.

(I’m 31. I’m crying in my partner’s arms, explaining the crescendo of incidents on my walk home that night. He feels helpless and angry.)

***********************************

We shouldn’t have to be calculating: “Best case scenario, I’m being paranoid. Worst case scenario, I’m tomorrow’s local headline.”

And so. And so. Here are some things that would help me - and people like me - be on the street without having to wear the armour of a scowl, the tenseness of perpetual vigilance, and the fear of “what if”. These are just from me. Other women may have different suggestions. Listen to them.

• Don’t mutter at us as you walk by. Don’t say anything to us as you walk by.

• Don’t openly stare and keep your eyes locked on us, turning your head as you walk past. 

• Don’t touch, or grab, or pat us.

• Don’t say hello, or use any other greeting, unless you actually know us, or have something very specific you want to ask (such as where is the library). 

• Listen to what we’re saying. If we’re telling you to leave us alone, or explaining why we feel uncomfortable, walk - away. Don’t make up excuses, don’t ignore us, don’t do anything but be respectful of our wishes.

• If you’re walking behind us either at night or on a quiet road, and we speed up our pace or keep looking back behind us at you, your closeness to us may be making us nervous. Either slow well down to give us space, or cross the road. 

• If you see or hear us obviously being harassed by someone, and the person is not leaving us alone, do what you would do if you were witnessing a hate crime. Approach us, respectfully. Ask if we’re okay. Don’t expect our number in return.

I’m not saying that women are weak and need protecting, or that men can’t talk to women. I am saying that the onus shouldn’t be on women to change their behaviour to try and avoid harassment (and that their changed behaviour often doesn’t work, anyway).

Two days later, I’m still thinking about those three men on Saturday night. I guarantee they will have forgotten about me as soon they moved on. Years and months and weeks later, I can still describe countless incidents that have happened to me and my friends, ever since we’ve been old enough to say, “Text me when you’re home”. I guarantee the men that inflicted those incidents on us will have forgotten about us as soon as they moved on.

I’ve started trying to explain to men who harass me on the street how it makes me feel. None of them have listened.

And so it goes. But it doesn’t have to.

The simple philosophy of "I am Groot"

One of the most enduring facets from Marvel's 2014 Guardian's of the Galaxy was not Chris Pratt's Starlord, nor Zoe Saldana's Gamora. It wasn't even the the rebirth of the mixtape. It was the Ent-like Groot, with his self-assured mantra:

I - am - Groot

We went wild for him. For his heart, for his strength, his compassion, his predilection for Jackson 5. We all wanted our very own dancing baby Groot. He was perfectly crafted to bring us joy and relief.

But it was only this morning, while on a long, long bus ride, that the simple philosophy of Groot revealed itself to me. And my god is it powerful. 

Let's backtrack. 

Without revealing too much about my various neuroses (come on, we all have them), I've been going through what could be termed a personal "dip" the last month or so. The causes aren't all related to the physical, but this video from Dove will give you a good enough idea. 

We all have our inner demons or gremlins that we battle, yearly, monthly, daily, hourly. Some will most likely be with us our whole lives. Many of us try to get rid of them, or at best manage them. Some of us succumb to them more often than we'd care to admit. They're as much a part of who we are as our DNA. Some would argue that we have them to an extent precisely because of our DNA. But as Tim Lott recently wrote, unhappiness and our darker selves are as natural a state as happiness and our brighter selves. We shouldn't beat ourselves up too much for it. 

Enter Nir Eyal, stage left.

Nir writes about the intersection of psychology, technology and business. He has some fascinating insights into how technology can be designed to be "sticky", making use of small nudges to reinforce desired behaviours. His latest post, for example, dissects the secret psychology of Snapchat. Some of it makes for Orwell-esque reading, where all technology companies are out to ensnare our weak-willed selves within the webs of their apps. But beneath that, there's also the theory of what drives our behaviours, our habits. 

Over the weekend, I read one of Nir's posts entitled, Can't kick a bad habit? You're probably doing it wrong. The main message of the post is that we can change our behaviour by changing how we define ourselves. He gives the example of when he chose to become a vegetarian. Unlike me, Nir was a meat lover. And yet, by absorbing the value of "I don't eat meat" into his identity, not eating meat suddenly became very easy; it was simply a part of who he was, something that he didn't do.

Nir tells us that saying "I don't" is easier than saying "I can't". It's stronger, more definitive. It assumes "forever". 

I read the post, enjoyed it, contemplated its lessons for a while, but soon moved on to other things (... Diablo III, The Little Friend, Daredevil). I didn't think through how I could integrate it into my own life, to change some of the behaviours that I considered "bad habits". 

Until that bus ride this morning. It's amazing where you can allow your mind to wander while on a journey, and while nursing gym-induced jelly legs. 

A question for you: if you were to find yourself faced with the caterpillar from Alice's Wonderland, and asked "Who are you?", how would you respond?

These are examples of some of the things that I know to be a part of my identity; the things that combine to make up "I am Shimrit" (in no particular order):

• I am vegetarian (or in Nir's terms, I don't eat meat.)
• I am half-Israeli
• I am a bibliophile
• I am introverted
• I am an atheist
• I am self-employed
• I am 5'3"
• I am pierced and tattooed

There are also a long list of things that are negative that also form a part of my identity. Again without giving too much away, they include things like "I don't run", "I don't dance". 

One of the ways I'm trying to manage my inner gremlins is to become healthier and fitter. But those behaviours and activities don't sit naturally with this negative series of characteristics that define who I am. So as I'm trying to be healthier and fitter, the behaviours that I'm trying to adopt are in direct contradiction to who I see myself as. It makes it hard to motivate myself to actually do the activities that I know I should be, and to keep doing them.

That is, potentially, unless I follow Nir's sage advice, and change how I define myself. 

Here are a few of the "I ams" and behaviours that I aspire to:

• I am strong
• I am fit
• I am healthy
• I exercise at least four times a week
• I don't slouch

On the bus, I tried them on for size. As I repeated them to myself (...in my head), I started to feel them. I could feel the various elements that combine to make up who I am jostling around, making space for these new "I ams". I could also feel the inner gremlins receding from whence they came; there's no room for them alongside these new characteristics. 

And that is the simple beauty of Groot's philosophy. "I am Groot" stands for all that he is, it's his mantra, and we can all see the spectrum of different colours held within that single stream of light through his actions, through his tone: his compassion, his strength, his childlike-delight, his protective feelings towards his friends tinged with a rage when they're under threat. As another post I read a few weeks back said, you can be more than one thing, but that doesn't have to change the essence of who you are.

I'm still defining what "I am Shimrit" means. But pulling in those stronger, more positive definitions seem like a good start.

And so I ask you, dear reader: "Who are you?"

Books + Covers + Judging = Well-known phrase

I'm just going to go ahead and say it: I'm a sucker for good ("good" obviously being entirely subjective) design. Hold up. Not just good design. I'm a sucker for clever design. For design that has been thought-out with its intended audience firmly in mind. For design that is unabashedly there as a marketing ploy, whether it is an idea that's being sold, a message, a product, a service.

The best illustration of this that I can think of can be found in my book-buying behaviour.

I believe I'm on the verge of a bank-destroying book-buying binge.  Emails confirming the dispatch of goods bought are popping up in my inbox. Padded envelopes have started appearing on my frontdoor mat. And after the initial cheeky grin that accompanies the opening of the envelope, which is swiftly chased by surprise at the book that's now in my hands ("I do not remember ordering this. Someone's sending me books through the post in a passive-aggressive manner, surely? I've obviously picked up the world's nicest stalker!"), an inevitable sinking feeling hits as I remember the night three days before that found me entering my card details for this object. Do I really need this edition of Romeo and Juliet, which was bought purely because the design included laser-cut images of key scenes? What precisely am I going to do with a copy of 100 Ideas that Changed Graphic Design? On which Sunday afternoon am I actually going to sit down and read Magnificent Maps: Power, Propaganda, and Art? This isn't healthy, surely?

My bookcase has actually become unusable, with books haphazardly stacked in front of and on top of books. I'm not entirely sure of the contents of the case anymore, and any attempt to mine a particular vein will undoubtedly result in a collapse of horrific proportions. And I'm not ready to be crushed by a pile of books of which the majority have not even been read yet.

They're obviously organised using the standard Dewey Decimal Classification system.

There's a deeper issue at stake here, to do with buying physical books to simply own them, and the comfort of having your books around you as a projection of who you are, what your interests are, what you want your interests to be. I'm sure this is how Nick Hornby's protagonist Rob feels in High Fidelity, surrounded by his categorised vinyl records.

But the reason I'm mentioning this behaviour is that, because I can now recognise the beginnings of a binge, I have determined to avoid all book shops for the near future. I know that if I find myself making my way into one of these havens of temptation whilst in the grips of my fever, I will inevitably be making a furtive exit half an hour later, with a heavy bag accompanying me. In that bag will be books that I either already own but have now bought in a well-designed edition, and/or books that I have never heard of and had no intention of buying, bar from the fact I was drawn to them by their cover and then convinced by the blurb that they are books that I should own and read.

And this is the crux of it: I reckon you can judge a book by its cover (and here's an article from 2011 agreeing with me; hooray for validation). Those covers have been designed with a set audience in mind. There's a language of book covers, just as there's a language of film posters. In the colours chosen, the fonts, the imagery, the publishers are saying that the contents will appeal to a particular demographic. The dozens of copy-cats that emerged after the success of Fifty Shades of Grey all had a *very* familiar style to their jackets. Those adventure books, fantasy series, romantic stories, all of them use a very particular design vocabulary to communicate their genre in a blink of an eye to those that speak the language.

So, here's to the artists who so callously lure us in with their limited edition covers for books we already own. Here's to the publishers such as Foyles who provide heavily bounded books at a purse-busting price. And here's to those bibliophiles who will continue to binge buy their books, no matter the Kindle that is our more common travel companion.

Getting back in touch with a long-forgotten part of myself

An inordinate, embarrassing amount of my time is increasingly being spent on a pastime traditionally associated with teenage boys.

I sit in my room, the screen glaring at me, my hands and fingers feverishly working away.

I think I have a problem. It's affecting the way I see the real world. I find myself thinking about it at inopportune moments. I wonder if I can make excuses to slip away from social situations to continue.

In my defence, it's a pastime that legitimate, intelligent grown-ups also partake in. And women have been found to make up at least 48% of the population who admit to spending their time this way, in one form or another.

I'm not sure it's even my fault. I blame my other half (who shall henceforth be referred to as Thing Two). He's the one that reintroduced me to the pleasures and pains of it.

He is the one who so nonchalantly suggested he leave his Xbox 360 at my place. And he is most definitely the one who introduced me first to Fallout: New Vegas and then, after a long period of negotiation, The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim. (Not Pacific Rim, as he so plaintively told me when I informed him nowhere had a copy of it.)

I also blame one of my brothers (Thing One), who lent me his copy of Arkham Asylum.

I had my revenge. It was Thing Two who had to watch on - a resentful and exasperated mother vulture who has to teach her vulture chickling how to scavenge, after finding out said chickling has grand notions of vegetarianism - as I became reacquainted with gaming and tentatively took my first steps into the world of modern RPGs (role-playing games).

It had been a long hiatus. Memories of Goldeneye on the N64, The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time on the Gamecube, and earlier still Tomb Raider on the PC, came flooding back as we exchanged our respective gaming histories. Others soon emerged from the darkened folds of rememberance: Croc: Legend of the Gobbos, Burnout, Gauntlet Legends, Championship Manager, a whole host of other games on various consoles. I remembered treating myself to a copy of Forza 4 one birthday, a racing game that tapped into a latent desire to be a boy racer. I remembered playing Hover! on our Windows 95 PC. Even further back than that was Granny's Garden, on the BBC Micro off of an 8" floppy disc. Played as a kid, I was in constant terror of making a wrong move and stumbling across the wicked witch, with her terrifying soundtrack.

And then it hit me: I've always been a gamer. I'd just forgotten.

Goldeneye's pimp slap; for the gentleman gamer. 

Two things that I'd never truly conquered, however, were the sandbox environment, and the first-person shooter. As the technology developed, another source of frustration had emerged: I'd never managed to fully grasp the concept of moving through a 3D environment, where you have to control camera angles with one thumb and movement with the other. Aiming to shoot became an exercise in "spray and pray".

And so I had never felt like a trueblood gamer, particularly when I had found myself failing with simple tasks such as walking up stairs in BioShock. This was all much to the distress of Thing One, who had mastered stairwalking and quickly progressed to stealth killing very early on in his gaming career.

It was not he, however, who had to sit by watching whilst I tried to overcome these brick hurdles as I fumbled through Arkham Asylum. The initially linear storyline was a blessing in disguise, hand-holding me through the process of learning how to control Batman to do my bidding, without having to worry about which quest to do or how to navigate. (Yes, my poor sense of direction transposes to the digital world.) With Thing Two's guidance and show-and-tell method of passing the controller between us, I slowly got to grips with manipulating the camera angles, and how to fight without relying on button mashing. Okay, with a minimum of button mashing.

It was like learning to drive all over again. It was reminding me that with practice, improvement comes. And it was satisfying, oh so very satisfying. The storytelling was pulling me in (for people who have played it: that Scarecrow sequence), and I was finally playing instead of watching with envy.

And then came Fallout: New Vegas. Thing Two knew me too well, and picked his weapon with care. From the moment I was able to build my own character (an awesome lady for whom I still hold an affection), I was hooked. If Arkham Asylum was my gateway drug, it was Fallout that finally pulled me in for good.

And now. And now. There's Skyrim.

And oh what a foolhardy kill it was.

I realised the extent of my addiction when the two of us suddenly found ourselves on a bug-ridden quest that culminated in having to abandon our lovingly-crafted 30+ level character (also a kick-ass lady). We went through the full five stages of grief, at first denying that we were stuck, then cursing Bethesda for creating such poor quality games. We mourned having spent so much time (75+ hours) on something it was progressively looking like we were going to have to abandon.

Eventually, after trying everything we could think of - which included deleting previous save points before realising we were no longer able to simply reload from an earlier stage - we declared ourselves defeated. A new character was crafted. A new game approach was adopted. We learned from the mistakes of that first. And we're once again at a point where we'll be engaged in productive, worthwhile endeavours, will catch each other's eye, and whisper guiltily and furtively to each other, "Skyrim?".

This new character isn't as beloved as that first, despite the fact his considerable skill with a two-handed weapon is far superior to the stealthy bow-and-arrow-wielding character I'd initially created. The recent death of a companion was possibly a little too keenly felt (Armoured Troll, we hardly knew ye), suggesting we've not fully learnt how to emotionally detach ourselves. And an article on the pleasures of wandering through terrains and exploring made me realise that I've begun zipping between locations and quests a little too quickly, and have stopped revelling in the pure scale of the game. But despite all these things, it's just as enjoyable as the first time round. Perhaps even more so, as I'm that much more experienced. And am now find fighting dragons an exasperating experience, rather than one of terror.

A small part of me wonders if I'm wasting an unhealthy amount of time on something that is ultimately just video games. But then, these new games are increasingly crafted in a way that brings them more in-line with Hollywood blockbusters and films and, to a lesser extent, the TV series so many of us are now hooked on. For example, Skryim is slowly becoming inexorably intertwined with Game of Thrones in my mind, as I watch and read the series in parallel with playing the game; the two feel so similar in story and experience (incest and the wonderful Peter Dinklage aside). The virtual environments we find ourselves in whilst gaming are becoming more and more beautifully rendered, making it an experience of appreciation and wonder at those that have created these behemoths.

And you find yourself making dubious moral choices. The things I've done in Fallout and Skyrim are unmentionable, fodder for those who blame video games for real-world violence. But being confronted by those choices are exhilarating in and of themselves, done within a safe environment that allows you dabble in playing 'the bad guy'.

We spend untold hours on TV series, reading, films, and consuming other cultural artefacts. Video games have a legitimate place to take in amongst all that.

And so the guilt doesn't last for too long. Thing Two and I are now in a constant state of negotiation, involving whether we're allowed to play Skyrim outside of each other's company, in a mirror image of negotiations involving various TV boxsets. If I was seeking to convert, I'd urge the non-gamers out there to consider giving it a go, in much the same way as I did for comic books back in 2012. But be warned. You may find yourself being pulled in to this sordid world, and finding you have no desire to turn back.

Men are from Earth, and women are from... well, also Earth.

There's a real trend at the moment that's drawing attention to the way in which women are portrayed in fashion, in media, in advertising, and in culture. This trend states something that we've all known for a long time: unattainable depictions of beauty and body have a negative impact on women's self esteem; there's a shortage of complex female characters depicted in film (check out Olivia Wilde speaking eloquently on this topic, as well as Natalie Portman); and girls' gendered toys move them away from gaining confidence in STEM fields (science, technology, engineering, and maths).

I get this outrage. I support it. I want to see more realistic depictions of women in the media and in the cultural artefacts that I consume. I'm tired of seeing women take a back seat in stories in video games and films because they are written as props for the male characters. I'm tired of women having their imperfections airbrushed out (as Cindy Crawford once said, "I wish I looked like Cindy Crawford."). I'm tired of there being so few women cast in stories that they suddenly find themselves having to account for all the variations of what a woman can be. And girls should be able to play with whatever toys they wish to play with, without having notions of what it is to be female foisted on them.

But I'm also tired of the way that men are becoming increasingly sidelined in this narrative. I'm all for equality. As long as it's not in the name of inequality.

If women are impacted by unattainable images of what the perfect woman should be, how are men impacted by the numerous images of toned torsos, bulging biceps, and adverts aimed at shaming men into being 'real men' for their ladies? If women are tired of being cast as the damsel in distress in video games, films, and books, how do men feel about being cast as playing the role of the knight in shining armour, albeit under different guises? And if women are wary of their girls adopting mainly nurturing and looks-based roles during playtime, should we not be equally wary of our boys adopting mainly hyper-macho and conflict-based roles? These are questions I'm genuinely interested in hearing a discussion about, but ones that I so rarely see.

I am, of course, putting forward an over-simplified, sweeping argument. There are countless children whose play doesn't conform to gendered stereotypes; there are cultural creations that aren't founded on gendered tropes; there are (increasingly) campaigns that give us alternative depictions of what 'beauty' means. This is all great and - even if some of the campaigns are driven by marketing goals - if it means we're seeing a greater variety of different types of people (male and female, as well as transgendered) then that is not a bad thing.

I am, of course, also aware that the reason there's such a focus on women is because it's been such a battle to get to where we are, and that there is still a long way to go. I am a feminist. I passionately believe that women can't be sidelined if we are to live in a rich society, and that it is dangerous for society if they are. The many development studies focused on the positive impact of educating women and giving them agency is testament to this fact.

But I also believe that, as we raise our voices against the way women are treated and depicted in the media we consume, we can't in turn sideline the other half of the population. Do we really want men and boys - who, believe it or not, also suffer from insecurities, who also constitute a whole spectrum of interests, sensitivities, neuroses, work/life concerns, hopes, dreams, and ambitions - to feel as though their voices are of any less value than women's, purely based on their gender? Do we really want to ignore how the mainstream so often fails to depict all the different nuances of what it is to be human, regardless of (biological) sex?

I don't know what the answer is. I do know that we could go for cries of boycott against that which we don't agree with; that the media delivers what it believes will appeal to the widest demographic; that we could create our own media to more accurately reflect the huge variations that exist within the experience of what it is to be human. I know that the Internet and user-generated content does a great job of serving 'The Long Tail' of niche interests and audiences.

But I also know that the issue isn't just in the creations themselves; it's also in the way in which we discuss those creations, and choose to shape our protests. Yes, we should speak out against one-dimensional depictions of women (as Neil Gaiman said, "...people say, 'Well how do you write such good female characters?' And I go, 'Well I write people.''). But in doing so, we should also encourage a discussion of one-dimensional depictions of men. Just because there are more of them in the media, it doesn't mean that those characters are always by default any richer. So, I'm all for equality. But not at the cost of equality.

Game Over. Reload.

"Insanity is repeating the same thing, over and over again, but expecting different results."as

Narcotics Anonymous

As I head dive into the vast array of spikes ahead of me, dying instantly for what feels like the hundredth time, I am reminded of the above quote. 

Go, again. Dead. Again. Dead. Again. OH! OOHHHHH!! HOLY SHIT! I TOTALLY FORGOT YOU COULD DO THAT! I'M GONNA GE... Dead.

Right. Pause. Take a deep breath. Flex the hands. And... that's it, that's IT, just a little further, just - got to get - to the bottomofthislittlebitshitshitshitnonoYEEEEEEEEEEEEEEES! 

Right, from here on in, it's plain sailing. Easy. All I need to do is jump - up  - this - wall, and... Dead. Fuck.

This, my friends, is the world of Super Meat Boy.

There are all sorts of video games. There's the first person shooter. The RPG. The racing game. The strategy-based, the point-and-click, turn-based. On, and on it goes. For anyone that has ever played a game that involves manoeuvring an object or character around a landscape of some description, you will no doubt recognise the above feeling of being on the edge of sanity.

It starts off calmly enough. The learning curves on these games are designed to help you become accustomed to the controls, the sensitivity of response to different keystrokes (who knew video gaming could be so racy), and the different elements of the world you're moving around. You feel comfortable. You know what you're doing. You're the master of this. The pixels glide around the screen, bending to your every will, as if through telekinesis.

And then, before you know it, you're mashing frantically at the keyboard or the controller (depending on your platform of choice), swearing, wondering where it all went so wrong, dying every couple of seconds, any semblance of control a mere memory, left frolicking back in the earlier levels where everything was rainbows, fluffy clouds, and rabbits.

I was first introduced to Super Meat Boy while watching the documentary Indie Game. And you, out there, who so calmly suggested we watch it on a nice, quiet night in. I blame you for my current predicament. 

Indie Game is a great documentary, and I heartily recommend it (it's on Netflix). As the developer behind current mobile gaming trend Flappy Bird threatens to remove his game from the app market, this documentary provides a painfully intimate peek into the world of those who create the independent games we play. 

But what possessed me to think, after watching footage such as that below, that this was a game I wanted to master? (Hit 'Play' then click into anywhere in the middle of the video timeline.)

Just to give you some sense of scale, I am currently stuck on the level that comes in at 3 minutes 10. I've had the game since New Year's Eve (2013). Whoever has recorded the game play in the above video has made it look ridiculously easy. My own game play is far closer to these boys' attempts below. (Again, hit 'Play', click into anywhere in the middle.)

And yet, despite the Narcotics Anonymous quote, this isn't quite "insanity". It's close. Infuriatingly close. But there are a few little elements that, technically at least, save me.

While it feels like I'm repeating the same mistakes over, and over, and over again, I'm not. Through trial and error, working out how far you can push the character (and how far you cannot), you incrementally build up a bank of knowledge around how to complete the level. It may feel like you're playing in a totally unhinged way. But every fresh attempt carries with it the lessons from the cumulative failures of the past. And this is where the satisfaction comes from that drives you forward to continue. While you play, you are constantly improving, constantly learning. The feedback loop is instantaneous. The 'fix' is within reach, and is totally within your hands. These are things that we don't often get to experience in 'real life'.

So, manically but uncertainly slowly but surely, you finally navigate the various obstacles. By hook, crook, or pure gut instinct combined with that cumulative knowledge, you get to wherever it is you've been aiming for. In the case of Super Meat Boy, it's that most enduring of tropes, the damsel in distress. You are safe, Bandage Girl! you think to yourself, with a smug, self-satisfied inward grin, before she gets whisked away to the next level by a foetus in a jar, who happens to have also achieved a PhD.  

It's the same in a lot of other games. Most allow you to learn by trial and error, by regenerating characters that are inevitably going to die as a result of your painfully rookie attempts to lead them through the Dantesque worlds created for them. It's infuriating. It's heartbreaking. It's a black hole of time. It's fantastic.

Apart from XCOM. Where you need to become 'Save Scum' if you don't want to suffer the heart-wrenching experience of losing your most-lovingly trained and crafted characters to the 'Memorial Wall'. Goddamn you, XCOM.

I could pontificate on the benefits of gaming, such as how a well-designed game can provide a sandbox for exploring ethics, risk-taking, societal issues, an environment for real-life training. I could mourn a lack of well-rounded female characters within many of these games; how games designers often seem to be focused on appealing to a narrow demographic of a particular type of male gamer, instead of acknowledging that there are other types of gamers;* and the debate surrounding the way that women are treated within the gaming industry.**

But, screw it. The love of Super Meat Boy's life - Bandage Girl - isn't going to save herself from Dr. Fetus. If you'll excuse me, I've got to get back to killing myself over and over and over again, staving off insanity by just... trying... to make it past... this... rotating metal... Fuck.



* One of the reasons I loved being introduced to Fallout: New Vegas was that it lets you craft the type of character you play with, meaning you can play as a totally bad-ass woman of your own making. You can choose your sex, then decide to what extent you're brainy, lucky, charismatic, got the gift of gab, strength, and so on. And there's a great supporting cast, both male and female, with a whole spectrum of characters for both sexes. Take note, GTA ;-)

** A few articles / resources of interest if you are interested in this sort of thing:
Exploration of female tropes
A look at the evolving depiction of lead men;
A review of GTA V by a female reviewer and the video response created by her colleague to a lot of male fury to her review;
'What it's like to be a woman making video games'.

In a race between the Tortoise and the Hare...

Have a read of this:

It was a pleasure to burn it was a special pleasure to see things eaten to see things blackened and changed with the brass nozzle in his fists with this great python spitting its venomous kerosene upon the world the blood pounded in his head and his hands were the hands of some amazing conductor playing all the symphonies of blazing and burning to bring down the tatters and charcoal ruins of history with his symbolic helmet numbered 451 on his stolid head and his eyes all orange flame with the thought of what came next he flicked the igniter and the house jumped up in a gorging fire that burned the evening sky red and yellow and black.

And - breathe.

How quickly can you devour a book? If you are reading something at the same time as someone else, do you feel an unspoken pressure to be the first to finish; to show that you can consume the most amount of content in the least amount of time? Do you consider yourself the consummate reader for being able to finish a book in a few days, or perhaps a week if it's heavier tome?

I know, without a doubt, that you are out there, my friends. And that you secretly revel in the art of your speed read. 

For I am one of you. 

And I have experienced the showdown of a silent speed read, eyes and printed word, mind and internally whispered word barely touching fingertips as you race to the end of the page, then wait smugly, casually for your contender to finish.

Putting articles to one side, let's focus on the reading of fiction; the picking up of a book, or e-reader, in which a writer has built a world and story through their words, and put those words in your hands to be read and absorbed. If you've experienced "that deeply intimate bond made when a writer's voice gets inside a reader's head" (Julian Barnes, A Life with Books) then presumably you've experienced what it is to lose yourself in a written world, and become intimately acquainted with its populace. 

This is one of the joys of reading fiction. Much as a film pulls you into a story, so too does a (good) book, whether a simple piece read to pass the time, a classic, a dystopia to learn about the perils of today, anything. And, "the true reader reads every work seriously in the sense that he reads it whole-heartedly, makes himself as receptive as he can." (C S Lewis, An Experiment in Criticism). To absorb yourself, you find yourself unconsciously tuning out the world around you, what you are hearing, touching, smelling. The ink (or pixels) on the page become a gateway to the writer, with each word and punctuation mark deliberately chosen by them to describe, 'work out loud', share the world that has emerged within their own minds. 

And yet, I often find myself guilty of speed reading my way through. Of ignoring the rhythm with which the writer has written, skimming over the words that they - and their copyeditor - have undoubtedly pained and fretted over. The experience often becomes one of impressions, where you get a blurred feel for the story, rather than a sharp focus on the voice of the writer. 

The paragraph at the top of this post. Here it is again, with Ray Bradbury's punctuation and paragraphing included (taken from the first page of Fahrenheit 451). Read each word, feel each comma, and hear the words spoken in your mind, as though being read to you by someone else, read with a passion and with emotion, with music in their voice. Resist the urge to skip or skim words, to get to the end of the italicised text as quickly as possible.

It was a pleasure to burn.
     It was a special pleasure to see things eaten, to see things blackened and charged. With the brass nozzle in his fists, with this great python spitting its venomous kerosene upon the world, the blood pounded in his head, and his hands were the hands of some amazing conductor playing all the symphonies of blazing and burning to bring down the tatters and charcoal ruins of history. With his symbolic helmet numbered 451 on his head, and his eyes all orange flame with the thought of what came next, he flicked the igniter and the house jumped up in a gorging fire that burned the sky red and yellow and black.

The pace of reading, compared to the first paragraph, is tangible. The impact on the feeling it makes considerable. The story emerges in full technicolour, with its sounds, smells, colours. You can feel the sharp coldness of the brass nozzle, see the numbers '451' etched into the helmet, hear the flames erupt around the house. 

And that is the art of the slow read. For those of us used to speed reading, it is an art that we often have to consciously remind ourselves to do, and to practice. To battle against the urge to finish the book as quickly as possible at our own pace, and to have the pace dictated to us by the writer instead. To feel each word as a connoisseur of art feels each brush stroke, or of wine feels each subtle taste, or of music feels each layered instrument's timbre and each note's resonance. And to lose ourselves in amongst the ink and paper (... or pixels and hardware) for a little longer that we would have otherwise done.

Learning the hard way

"It's Tony."

"What? What about him?"

"He said he wants to speak to you. Urgently."

"Shit. What have you told him?"

"Just what you told me."

"Jesus, why the hell-"

"You're a former customer of his. He deserves to know. If word gets out, it could be bad for business."

"Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Right. Okay. I'll call him first thing."

*********

"Is that Tony?"

"Speaking."

"It's me."

A pause. "You know what you did wrong?"

"Listen, Tony, it's fin-"

"Tell me. Tell me what happened, and tell me what you did wrong."

"It was just one of those things, alright? I've been careful - on the wagon - for months. It's not going to happen again."

"Tell me."

"It was a party, okay? One of the old gang was getting married. Things got a little out of hand, is all. You know how it is. We started early, finished late."

"How late?"

"Does it matter?"

"It matters. How long were you going for?"

"It was a long one. Overnight and into the next day. That's all you need to know."

"Jesus Christ, did you forget everything I told you about using, and keeping things clean? About being sensible? What were the conditions I gave when I agreed to start supplying to you?"

"Only in short bursts. Never overnight. Avoid long sessions at all costs."

"You're damned right only in short bursts. This stuff can be fucking lethal if you, well, for want of a better word, if you 'overdose'. What happened when you came down?"

"Was fine at first. Monday morning... Let's just say things were messy Monday morning."

"How messy?"

"... Was sore. Sensitive to light. Nearly fainted. There was a white spot in the eye."

"Of course there was. Then what?"

"I went to that specialist clinic round the corner. They checked me out. Said it's been a close call. If I hadn't come in straight away, things could have gotten bad. They gave me meds. Said I need to take this seriously; make sure I use the meds every hour. Through the night too. Said I need to go cold turkey. And need to stay clean at least a month before I can even think about using again."

"Cold turkey, eh? Did they at least give you a patch?"

"What?! No! You're telling me I could have had a patch?!"

"Well. At least it'll be a lesson to you. I'm guessing it's been a rough few days."

"Barely slept. Been clean three days. The meds, they're, they're brutal."

"You're coming in to see me Saturday."

"Oh come on Tony, it's fine. Listen, I've learnt my lesson, it won't happen again."

"Shut, the fuck, up. You're back with me now, you hear? I'll supply you privately, keep an eye on you.You will come in on Saturday. I will check out any permanent damage you've done yourself, you dumb fuck. Clean you up. Get you back on track. If you're going to keep using, you're going to be using my product, and you're coming in for regular checks."

"Yes, Tony. Cheers. And, for what it's worth, I'm sorry."

Tony hangs up.

*********

Moral of the story? Never - and I mean, never - sleep with your contact lenses in. Bad things will happen. Oh, and always keep your optician sweet.

In the name of l'art de vivre. My last confession was this morning.

I, am not, a writer.

Oh my god. Yeah. That, that felt pretty good. Whoo. 

***********

Alright, a question to you out there. Dream job. Go. Now. Shout it out. 

No, literally, shout it out. I want to be able to hear you from my hovel in north London. Freak out the tired, zombie-like people around you. Talent and money no issue, top of your voice, dream job, scream it. 

If you actually just pelted out your dream job, you may need to spend some time reflecting on from whom you take your commands, and why. Ever heard of Zimbardo's prison experiment? The film The Wave? The concept of free will? Look them up. Seriously.

My dream job? "Writer". Journalist, author of fiction, ruminator of all things intellectual and philosophical, documenter of deeds done. Any one of them would do. I would love to have the raw talent to write well. But, beyond that, I would love to also have the arguably sexier and gut-wrenching discipline that it takes to practice and work at your writing; that constant desire to better that which you have done before.

That's right. If there's a single fantasy that needs to be revealed to be nought more than an insecure old man with a bag full of parlour tricks cowering behind a curtain, it's that of the genius creative talent who doesn't need to work at their craft. (As a related but also completely tangential aside, Dorothy's ruby red slippers - not red in the original The Wizard of Oz text. I know, right?)

Last year, I suggested, "All of us are writers".

I take it back. I was wrong. We are not all writers.

I know people who are writers. They may not have had anything published, but they think like writers, they write like writers. They have the thought processes that mean they see the world through a writer's eyes, they can construct whole worlds through their words, make you feel something. And they work at it. They work at it because they want to be better, because they habitually worry that they're not good enough. They work at it by writing, and rewriting, and dissecting other people's writing to learn from them.

No, we most certainly are not all writers.

But, we do all write.

I am incapable of constructing a compelling story, or a multi-layered piece of genius. I will never be a journalist that changes the world or causes revolutions through my words. My personal / blogging writing voice is completely self-indulgent; it's wordy, unstructured, my meaning is often obscured by hyperbole. I don't have a clear picture of who it is that I'm writing for other than myself. I almost certainly break all the rules of good writing, I'm not particularly talented, and I sure as hell don't have the discipline or drive to truly work at improving any of these things.

But, fuck me, I love to write.

At the end of the day (hello idiom; George Orwell would be turning in his grave) that's what matters, right? And if I enjoy the process of writing, the worst thing I can do is disappear so far up my own ego that I become too scared to do that very thing that I revel in for fear of not being good enough. The same rings true for those that get a kick out of playing an instrument but aren't musicians, or like to draw but aren't artists. As one of my brothers once said after I mentioned I get no pleasure out of playing the piano for other people, "Then play for yourself." He's a wise one, that boy.

So, perhaps rather than l'art de vivre (the art of living), we should be talking about joie de vivre (the joy of living). For, in the dawning hours of this morning, the confession came to me: "I am not a writer". And this, my friends, may not be the art of writing. But it sure as hell is the joy of writing. 

What's your poison?

My friend, good morning. Is it not a fine day? By the way you approach me with a purpose in your eyes and a slight hesitation in your step, I assume both I and my services are not unknown to you, although I have not had the pleasure of your acquaintance.

Please, take the empty seat by me, we are in no rush and we should make the most of this rare sunshine. Would you would like a cigarette? Ah, by the way you flinch I see this is not one of your vices. Alas, despite the warnings and the array of other less harmful pleasures at my disposal, this is one I can't seem to shake.

Perhaps you have heard of me from another of my clients, a friend of yours perhaps? You shake your head. No, you are right. If a friend had passed on my recommendation, you would not be so nervous.

Please, be at ease. I am not a member of that fine establishment, the police, nor a member of that other fine establishment, the press. I pass no judgment on my clients, and am but here to serve and please.

Perhaps you are in a hurry, your shoulders have not eased, despite your acceptance of my offer to sit.

And so, to business.

What is your pleasure? I have a number of drugs and drinks, although I see by your healthy and fit appearance that it is unlikely that this is what you're after, unless you are seeking to try something new? Ah, you flinch again. I commend you; to imbibe in such poisons is not a pass time I would recommend, although thankfully for my business, others disagree.

Perhaps you have certain sexual desires that you would like to satiate? Again, I see you recoil at my suggestion, and I see by the ring on your finger that you are married, although this has not prevented some of my other, less moral clients from procuring my services.

Perhaps you have heard of my more specialised line of products? Yes, I see some of the tension has left you, and a smile is now hovering on your lips. Of course, these areas are a relatively new business for me, although the last year or so has seen them burgeon, bringing me new clients, a different class of clients to those I normally have the pleasure of meeting.

May I ask, is your pleasure the feel of the finely bound book? Again, a shake of the head. My dear friend, I normally am so good at finding the right vice for my clients, but you are that rare thing, a client who holds their pleasures close to them. I see in your coat pocket the outline of a tablet or an e-reader, although this doesn't of course mean that you do not like to also read books in their paper form, and this service I offer is doing particularly well.

By my wandering process of elimination, I can but assume you wish to either buy video games from me, or TV boxsets. Yes, I see. My apologies, I should have noticed the signs earlier, but the warmth of the sunshine has affected my usually sharp perceptiveness. I beg your forgiveness, but now I notice the slightly crumpled nature of your clothes, the way you squint in the weak sunshine, the pale tinge to your skin, the shadows around your eyes and the bloodshot look, no doubt caused by numerous late nights and long stints in front of a screen.

And so, is it a video game or a box set that you seek? You still give nothing away, which would make me think you were a seasoned gamer, adept at keeping your emotions at bay, rational in the face of pressure! But no, you are on edge, my friend, and do not have the presence of someone who merely seeks a new adventure on which to embark.

Rather, I would deduce that you have just finished a season, a season with a cruel cliffhanger no doubt, and are desperate to continue the story, to begin the next chapter.

And there, you have inched closer to me. Yes, I can help put you at ease. This is a vice I have not indulged in, myself. I have seen what it has done to some of my clients, and I fear the allure of it. I have seen what it has done to their conversation, to their health, to their social lives. Of all the ways I serve my clients, this is indeed the one I fear the most.

But please, allow me to run through my collection. I shall torture you through my time-wasting no longer.

I have all seven seasons of Dexter, the first two of Game of Thrones, all five of Breaking Bad and Mad Men. The three of Downtown Abbey, perhaps, or The Walking Dead. Homeland, The Killing, Boardwalk Empire? Also, the older ones for those late to the game and eager to catch up - The Wire, Prison Break, The Sopranos, Lost, 24.

"Just gimme the stuff, yo! Quit wastin' my time, bitch!"

...Breaking Bad it is, my friend.

It's probably time to go to your happy place

Going for what should have been a leisurely stroll along the south of the River yesterday, I found myself cursing the cold, my refusal to make allowances for London's post-apocalyptic climate by dressing in suitable clothing, the process of evolution that had led me to become self-aware enough to ponder my predicament, and the fact I appeared to be developing frostbite in areas of my body I wasn't aware existed.

It is easy in times such as this to dwell on those things that feed our misery. The seemingly never-ending snow dome that has clamped itself over London (and, of course, Britain). The fact that the cost of living seems to have suddenly become incredibly high. The unlikelihood of me being in a position where I own or am least paying off some sort of property within the next few years. The increase in reports and/or incidents of violence towards women around the world. The violence and misery that our fellow humans continue to inflict on each other in the name of various institutions, values and beliefs. Arsenal's profound ability to inflict despair on its supporters. A growing number of homeless people living in a different world at the foot of the modern office I work in. My ability to sandwich Arsenal between two development issues.

But, whilst attempting to create a duveted cocoon at an ungodly hour, shivering and snivelling and feeling sorry for myself and for the world but mainly for myself, I was reminded of my post from roughly this time last year, which remains the most viewed and commented-on post from this blog. It's the post entitled A pause to reflect and wax lyrical, in which I ruminated on how a part of l'art de vivre is surely recognising and reveling in the smaller things that bring us little bursts of joy and make us pause in appreciation of them.

So, for this post, written during a bout of (wo)man flu-ridden insomnia, I share nothing more than an updated version of my list of things that bring uncomplicated joy, a talisman against the cold, in the hope that it'll help me remind myself that this too shall pass and hopefully inspire you, dear reader, if you find yourself in a place where you are in need of some inspiration.

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Wearing my nose-ring. The way that the use of triplets in a piece of music manages to satisfyingly squeeze three notes in the space of two. Playing the piano with no audience but myself. Turning your face skyward and closing your eyes to feel the sunshine whilst walking. The way that sunbeams find their way through clouds and reach downwards, seeing clouds hanging so low in the sky it feels as though you could reach out and touch them, the sound of the wind finding its way through gaps so small you didn't know they existed. Always, mini daffodils. Being in awe of the creative talents of my closest friends and family. Finding out that someone has read something of mine and been moved or inspired. Watching my 88-year-old grandfather and 3-and-a-half-year-old second cousin dance to Run DMC's Tricky (yes, the same second cousin that featured in this blog's first ever post). Watching my 3-and-a-half-year-old second cousin playing with her 88-year-old great grandfather in a way I must have when I was her age, seeing my brothers play irreverently with our two second cousins, watching the younger of the two discover the world around her with a twinkle in her eye. The feeling of having an idea spark in your mind after reading something new. The feeling that the idea was there all along, waiting to be uncovered. Cracking the spine of a new book, writing perfectly on the second page of a notebook, book cover art. Sitting in a coffee house with nought more than a book, your music, and the feeling of space and time within you as the surrounding world speeds up. Spending a Sunday tucked in your room with nought more than a book, your music, and the feeling that the outside world and the cold are far away. Using words such as "nought" or "betwixt". Strolling as those around you rush. The sudden lifting of self-consciousness to be left with who you truly are at your core. Finding out that insane things like chess boxing and the live reenactment of films exist. Seeing a city you thought you knew through different eyes. Discovering things and places with someone you care about for company. Remembering and playing video games from your younger years. All those small, insignificant yet significant things that make you breathe a little deeper and smile a little smile to yourself.

Writing our lives into existence

I am an unashamed lover of my handwriting.

An opening that smacks of unabashed arrogance, and constitutes a brash and abrupt first sentence to be cruelly assaulted with, I feel. And so now, please allow me to retreat to the more wordy and ethereal meat of this post.

A few months back, a dear friend playfully teased that my handwriting "is funny, like a teenage girl's". This left-of field comment led to a profusely argued response on my part, that my handwriting is nothing of the sort but is, in fact, elegant, beautiful, italicised. The perceived attack on my handwriting was a perceived attack on me, and threw me into a defensive stance.

This blog has spoken before of how someone's handwriting can be intensely personal; on how a personality, mood and purpose can be found in the strokes of a pen that is absent from the generic fonts we see on screen. To read a handwritten letter or message by someone is to have them in the room with you, to know that they've sat down and scribbled or carefully inscribed the words you're reading. The few books I have that have personal messages written in the first few pages mean more to me than many of those that are my favourite, battered, well-read paperbacks. The letters and postcards I have from close friends will remain dear to me in a way an email or printed letter never quite could, despite the fact the content may well be just as heartfelt. Seeing letters from my great-great grandmother to her daughter, or a letter from the child-version of my father to his father, suddenly made them more real to me than any stories or photographs could.

And for me, connected to that love of handwriting - the feeling that to see your words drawn in ink rather than typed in pixels, and to see the way that you controlled and moved the pen across the paper, is to see yourself - is a whole host of other related phenomena. A fetish for stationary. A need to handwrite to learn a subject fully. The ability to throw away a laptop and take up a pen when stuck for ideas or suffering from writer's block.

And, not least, a slight nostalgia for the days of letter-writing. Again, there is something intensely personal in writing (and posting) a letter to someone. There's obviously numerous reasons to write, but let's choose a single instance that is arguably dying out: the letter that constitutes the written catch-up. That moment when you sit down to tell the story of your life as it was in the intervening time between the last letter and now. For the receiver, there's something exciting about receiving a handwritten envelope, recognising (or not recognising) the handwriting, and opening it. Reading the page or pages, holding the sheets that the writer has also held and written on. Reading the story of their recent life. For the writer, there's the process of writing, of selecting what to put in and what to leave out. The tone you adopt, how you tell your story. The thought that goes into the words, the crossed-out mistakes that you know the reader will be able to see.

And here, perhaps, is a sign of our changing times. The written letter, or even email, that constitutes the 'art' of the personal exchange of monologues as a way of story-telling and communicating feels to be disappearing.

Conversely, many of us are most likely writing to each other more than ever before, as we rely on texting, instant messaging, social media channels such as Twitter and Facebook to let people know what's going on in our lives, what's important to us, and to see what our friends are doing. We still construct our narratives in the same way those handwritten letters were constructed, but as just-in-time snippets rather than reflective monologues. We learn to read the tone of our friend's words as an identifier to who we're communicating with, rather than also the shape of their handwriting. We're in constant contact with those closest to us as part of a single on-going conversation that can be dipped in and out of without a single word having to be spoken. For those in the future that want to reconstruct life in 2013, there will an endless source of material from which they can draw: Tweets, emails, texts, blogs, photographs, videos. We can download our Twitter timelines or our Facebook activity for posterity, make them available for us and others to wade through.

But who would we find, when reading back over these words? The real-time messages we post either to many publicly, or to an individual privately - is that who we are? Is that who we become, simply through the act of writing? But then again, can the same not be said for handwritten letters, or even the diaries that we often rely on as sources? Is the memory required for a monologue letter or reflective diary not fallible, and perhaps less reliable than the real-time written conversations many of us are now parts of? Are any of these written lives a true reflection of who the writer is, or simply a persona they choose to portray? We write our lives into existence, whether through ink or pixels, whether through letter, diary, text, or blog. A distorted mirror on our lives, and our lives a distorted mirror of our words.

The love of the handwritten word then perhaps boils down to nought but a love of evidence that a real person wrote the words, and a connection with that person. And so, my friends, whether your handwriting be a beautiful cursive or a spider's footprinted trail, don't dismiss the power of it to tell a story all of its own.

"Not all those who wander are lost"

So, dear Reader, it is a Saturday morning. The weekend stretches before us much like a person in their older-years that has been practising yoga for a considerable portion of their lives and, whilst perhaps short on time, is able to amaze with their feats of flexibility.

On which note, thank you for taking the moment's decision to click into this link from whichever dusty corner of the web it snuck up on you. And then continuing to use the next few additional moments of your day to read the rambling text that has equally thrust itself before you, much like an unwelcome exhibitionist (a tautology, no?).

I am conscious that, since October, this blog has entered a winter of discontent. Posts on writer's block, rehashed pieces posing as original and fresh thoughts, rants about critical engagement with the news, and the difficulties of being in your twenties. It's a surprise you're still here at all, really, and for this I also thank you.

And so, a return to the blog of yester-season.

Which of the many topics that have been sitting as drafts in my Blogger account from the last few weeks shall I pick to elaborate on and enthral you with? An unabashed love letter to handwriting? The fallibility of memory as we reconstruct our lives through storytelling? The joy of rediscovering that you don't need to 'go for a walk' in order to appreciate the peacefulness that a stroll can bring? A comparison of the monologue format that is the letter that we used to use as part of a prolonged conversation over distance versus the instantaneous world of instant messaging and texting that many of us now use to keep in touch with loved ones and friends? So many topics that have sprung to mind and been captured in little snippets so as to not forget them, lying patiently to be expanded upon. All rather self-indulgent, but then the purpose of this blog is to explore those things that bring a sense of happiness to our lives. Self-indulgence may be a vice rather than a virtue to some, but a vice that this amateur joke of a writer advocates. In this context, at least.

Let's explore the draft post that sits at the top of the pile. The joy of the stroll. I shall do my best to keep it short and sweet. I have already taken up too much of your time, I feel.

Much like this time last year, I have found that the stark London weather has had an upsetting impact on my willingness to wander. The result has been a mind that has not been cleared of the clutter that inevitably builds up after a long while. Those 'wonderings and ponderings' that I often mention haven't been allowed to take seed, marinate, and explore which unrelated metaphors they can introduce to each other. My conversation and ability to express myself has equally been affected, not having had the time to think and reflect that I normally need (like the good little introvert that I am). The sense of peace I wrote about last summer whilst sitting by the sea, and which can often be easily recaptured by a walk by the river, or through a park, has gone AWOL.

And yet, in the short distance between the Tube station and my flat last night, after what has felt like a long week, both the peace and the 'wondering wander' suddenly made a welcome reappearance. The commute home on the Tube had been the same, the route I took was the same, I was surrounded by the same hurried and harried commuters, seeking to get home as quickly as possible. But then the self-awareness that suddenly roots you in your surroundings rather than in your thoughts pulled me from my unconscious introspection. Rather than being one of the commuters, speeding down the pavement, keys already in hand, my pace had slowed. Rather than aiming to get to my destination (and warmth) as quickly as possible, I was strolling, breathing a little deeper, mind at ease and at rest. Home wasn't going anywhere. There was nothing pushing me from behind nor pulling me forward. And so, for a journey that normally takes about five to ten minutes, I forgot about the time. I looked in amusement at those hurrying around me, smart phones in hand or to ear; my eyes lifted to the street landscape around me.

In other words, the languid stroll that I normally reserve for the long walks I make an active decision to go on had suddenly made an appearance during my everyday commute. And the sense of peace from those few minutes still hasn't left. I feel refreshed, at ease; the whirring of the busy mind has gone.

And so, my friends, this is my self-indulgent observation for today. We often feel as though we don't have the time to do the things we want to do. We come up with excuses, say we're too busy, there's too much to do. But if something as simple as walking a little slower between the Tube and home can have the same effect has spending three hours wandering around a park or the city, and if all it takes is a little mindfulness, this is something even the busiest person can indulge in. To wander, rather than to hurry. To ponder, rather than to harry. And thus, we return to the contemplation of l'art de vivre.