Day 36, Thursday February 5, 7.30pm - I've just has a Road to Damascus. Like Captain Nolan did, at Balaclava.
There I was, happily having my 25th green tea and ninth raw carrot of the day while answering emails, and it suddenly came to me.
"Get a life", I'd concluded this morning and in my last post. But I don't need to get a life.
That was my 1999-2006 problem, when I spent most of my time being less than healthy and feeling sorry for myself.
I'm fine now, though. I've got a life. The trouble is, it doesn't work.
What I need - what my family needs, I think - is a life that works.
It was easy before Seven-Year-Old Daughter. Jan and I went to work and that was that.
You don't need to be particularly organised when your life is full of work and bereft of any other content apart from the odd Medoc, late-night film and recuperative holiday.
But now I want all of us to have more time, even at the expense of a fat wallet, those foreign holidays and the latest generation of MP3 players. I want us to concentrate more on where we are now, rather than the commute. I want every day to be a holiday.
So many of us seem to live to work. Gordon Brown can't get enough of the stuff and wants the same puritanism for us.
I'm happy to work, but it's the living part I'm really after.
I want to halt this Charge of the Light Brigade and reconsider. I think I may be hurtling in the wrong direction.
What has this got to do with New Year resolutions? Well, they're the bits that I like about my life, I suppose.
I thought this TRSNYRC lark was a blogging game but perhaps it's more than that.
As from today, I'm on holiday. I'm turning around. I'm not sure I'd know what to do with a battery of Russian guns even if I did manage to capture them.
Thursday, 5 February 2009
Wednesday, 4 February 2009
TRSNYRC gets set to party...
Day 36, Thursday, February 5, 8.30 am - The Really Serious New Year's Resolution Club meets for the first time this weekend. I wonder if anyone will turn up.
It will be odd. I intend to bake a few cakes and open a few bottles of red, then watch everybody else indulge while I sip green tea and nibble on rice cakes. What a fun guy I've become...
I also wonder how many of our members realise that we're already a tenth of the way through the year?
I've been panicking ever since realising.
And I've also been panicking at my apparent inability to stop my resolutions proliferating.
We're meant to be returning to the warm embrace of the sofa by now and jettisoning all those ridiculously good intentions, but I seem to be collecting more and more on a daily basis.
I began with three main resolutions:
a) contact as many old friends/colleagues from my over-populated email inbox (I had no idea that 900 unsorted emails in your inbox was out of the ordinary until one of my neighbours burst out laughing).
b) get back to my 1989 weight (11st 7lbs - more laughing).
c) learn to play the piano to at least grade 3 (whatever that means - I think grade 8 is 'A' level standard, but I may be wrong).
I can report that:
a) I have to date received 174 emails from people I'd lost touch with over the years.
b) I'm down from 13st 3lbs to 12st 8lbs since the start of the year (although I seem to have hit a buffer over the last week) and
c) I am entered for my first piano exam in March (it's for buffoons, apparently, but it's a start).
Since then, though, there have been additions.
d) I won't eat crisps or sweets or drink alcohol for a year (that last one is copied from m brother-in-law and, amazingly, I'm still on track)
e) I will get myself the first six-pack of my life (I don't appear to have any stomach muscles at the moment, nor do I ever remember having any - how do I manage to stay standing up?)
f) I'll read at least two German books this year (no progress there, I'm afraid) and learn rudimentary Spanish (no progress).
g) I'll make more money than I did last year (which won't be very hard - all I need to do is get a paper round)
h) I'll learn how to blog (I reckon I've cracked that one) and try to master more domestic technology (I can't work the video, our cameras and I'm barely literate when it comes to computers. Jan's taught me how to use the Dyson, unfortunately).
i) I'll swim 50 lengths in one go at the local swimming pool (yet to find my swimming trunks)
j) I'll finish unpacking our removal boxes (we moved into our current house three years ago - or was it four?) and I'll put up a few pictures and paint the odd wall or two (no progress).
k) I'll start my own website (no progress).
l) I'll play at least one round on golf to seven over or less (I last picked up a club three months ago but I intend to make a comeback once the snow has melted).
m) I'll improve as a cook (Jan is getting food poisoning a lot less so the signs are good...)
n) I'll eat more fresh fish.
o) I'll do some DIY and clean some of the house at least once a week (I'm considering relegating that to once every two weeks).
p) I'll sort out the study so that we can at least get in the room (no progress at all).
q) I'll stop making so many stupid resolutions and try to get a life...
It will be odd. I intend to bake a few cakes and open a few bottles of red, then watch everybody else indulge while I sip green tea and nibble on rice cakes. What a fun guy I've become...
I also wonder how many of our members realise that we're already a tenth of the way through the year?
I've been panicking ever since realising.
And I've also been panicking at my apparent inability to stop my resolutions proliferating.
We're meant to be returning to the warm embrace of the sofa by now and jettisoning all those ridiculously good intentions, but I seem to be collecting more and more on a daily basis.
I began with three main resolutions:
a) contact as many old friends/colleagues from my over-populated email inbox (I had no idea that 900 unsorted emails in your inbox was out of the ordinary until one of my neighbours burst out laughing).
b) get back to my 1989 weight (11st 7lbs - more laughing).
c) learn to play the piano to at least grade 3 (whatever that means - I think grade 8 is 'A' level standard, but I may be wrong).
I can report that:
a) I have to date received 174 emails from people I'd lost touch with over the years.
b) I'm down from 13st 3lbs to 12st 8lbs since the start of the year (although I seem to have hit a buffer over the last week) and
c) I am entered for my first piano exam in March (it's for buffoons, apparently, but it's a start).
Since then, though, there have been additions.
d) I won't eat crisps or sweets or drink alcohol for a year (that last one is copied from m brother-in-law and, amazingly, I'm still on track)
e) I will get myself the first six-pack of my life (I don't appear to have any stomach muscles at the moment, nor do I ever remember having any - how do I manage to stay standing up?)
f) I'll read at least two German books this year (no progress there, I'm afraid) and learn rudimentary Spanish (no progress).
g) I'll make more money than I did last year (which won't be very hard - all I need to do is get a paper round)
h) I'll learn how to blog (I reckon I've cracked that one) and try to master more domestic technology (I can't work the video, our cameras and I'm barely literate when it comes to computers. Jan's taught me how to use the Dyson, unfortunately).
i) I'll swim 50 lengths in one go at the local swimming pool (yet to find my swimming trunks)
j) I'll finish unpacking our removal boxes (we moved into our current house three years ago - or was it four?) and I'll put up a few pictures and paint the odd wall or two (no progress).
k) I'll start my own website (no progress).
l) I'll play at least one round on golf to seven over or less (I last picked up a club three months ago but I intend to make a comeback once the snow has melted).
m) I'll improve as a cook (Jan is getting food poisoning a lot less so the signs are good...)
n) I'll eat more fresh fish.
o) I'll do some DIY and clean some of the house at least once a week (I'm considering relegating that to once every two weeks).
p) I'll sort out the study so that we can at least get in the room (no progress at all).
q) I'll stop making so many stupid resolutions and try to get a life...
Piano Man's In Need Of A Plastic Head
Day 35, Wednesday, Feburary 4, 12.21pm - My piano teacher has some good news for me, and some bad.
(Oh, yes, sorry, I'd forgotten to mention. Learning the piano is my third NYR, after (i) getting back to my 1989 weight and (ii) emailing as many as my old friends and colleagues as I can find in my email box).
The good news?
I am not, it transpires, tone deaf, as I had always imagined. And I could learn to sing, he says, I really could.
"Not that I would necessarily pay to listen," adds Neil Piano Teacher after forcing me to hum 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star'.
Apparently I have never recovered from being humiliated by my prep school music teacher, who used to make each pupil stand up in front of the class and sing. As a result, my vocal chords have been tied in the tightest of knots ever since. Appropriately, that acutely short-tempered teacher was called O'Kill and still stalks my nightmares to this day.
The bad news? Well, after four lessons and a fair few hours of practice, I currently perform - and I use a direct quote - like a "buffoon". I'm willing enough, apparently, but my fingers do not appear to be capable of obeying the simplest of commands, my timing is erratic and I have the disconcerting habit of humming the wrong tunes while clapping out a piece of music.
"I'm not sure I could do that if I tried," says Neil Piano Teacher, secretly impressed and not-so-secretly exasperated.
Apart from that, everything is fine.
To my utter surprise, I am rather enjoying this introduction to crotchets and quavers, even if much of what NPT says seems to be in medieval Latvian (what the heck are tonics and mediants and sub-dominants? - answers on a postcard. I just nod whenever Neil strays into Latvian, press down the nearest available key and smile simply at him while hoping the question will go away.)
Emma, meanwhile, who is also having lessons, remembers everything. She just plays. She just does. I think, she does. I ponder and she presses keys. Apparently, it's something to do with mental plasticity. She's malleable and flexible and open and I'm hard-wired and ancient and as pliable as ironing boards.
My measurable goal, incidentally, is to get to grade three within the year. I was told by one of my School Mum Chums that I'd struggle to get beyond grade two, so I'm determined to show her.
One current form, I'll do well to find middle C by December 31.
(Oh, yes, sorry, I'd forgotten to mention. Learning the piano is my third NYR, after (i) getting back to my 1989 weight and (ii) emailing as many as my old friends and colleagues as I can find in my email box).
The good news?
I am not, it transpires, tone deaf, as I had always imagined. And I could learn to sing, he says, I really could.
"Not that I would necessarily pay to listen," adds Neil Piano Teacher after forcing me to hum 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star'.
Apparently I have never recovered from being humiliated by my prep school music teacher, who used to make each pupil stand up in front of the class and sing. As a result, my vocal chords have been tied in the tightest of knots ever since. Appropriately, that acutely short-tempered teacher was called O'Kill and still stalks my nightmares to this day.
The bad news? Well, after four lessons and a fair few hours of practice, I currently perform - and I use a direct quote - like a "buffoon". I'm willing enough, apparently, but my fingers do not appear to be capable of obeying the simplest of commands, my timing is erratic and I have the disconcerting habit of humming the wrong tunes while clapping out a piece of music.
"I'm not sure I could do that if I tried," says Neil Piano Teacher, secretly impressed and not-so-secretly exasperated.
Apart from that, everything is fine.
To my utter surprise, I am rather enjoying this introduction to crotchets and quavers, even if much of what NPT says seems to be in medieval Latvian (what the heck are tonics and mediants and sub-dominants? - answers on a postcard. I just nod whenever Neil strays into Latvian, press down the nearest available key and smile simply at him while hoping the question will go away.)
Emma, meanwhile, who is also having lessons, remembers everything. She just plays. She just does. I think, she does. I ponder and she presses keys. Apparently, it's something to do with mental plasticity. She's malleable and flexible and open and I'm hard-wired and ancient and as pliable as ironing boards.
My measurable goal, incidentally, is to get to grade three within the year. I was told by one of my School Mum Chums that I'd struggle to get beyond grade two, so I'm determined to show her.
One current form, I'll do well to find middle C by December 31.
Tuesday, 3 February 2009
Where's Aikido Phil when you need him?
Day 35, February 4, 0.25 am - I found myself wishing I were Aikido Phil the other day. Or, at the very least, that I'd had him by my side.
Aikido Phil, for the uninitiated, is just that - Phil who teaches Aikido in Brighton. He's fit and fearless. His New Year resolution is to get into boxing as well.
I'm Head Sloth, unfit and as brave as a snake with a yellow underside.
So there I was, in the Tube late at night, when wild-eyed Man A for no apparent reason takes a sudden dislike to bespectacled, studious-looking Man B and begins hitting him.
This, of course, is where Phil would have moved in, quietly and calmly defusing things with i) a few quiet words of warning or, failing that ii) a few quickt Aikido blows to the head which would have rendered Man A unconcious.
But Phil is not there, just me and my knocking knees. Man A punches Man B again and I ponder, along the lines of:
Reasons to take action - Man B looks like he could do with a little help/it's the right thing to do/nobdy else seems to be reacting/how would I feel if I'd had the misfortune to be bespectacled or remotely studious-looing?
Reasons not to take action - Man A might have a knife and is, incidentally, young and fitter than I ever was/I've damaged my ankle following an argument with a factory gate and would not be much help to Man B even if I wanted to/I'm a committed coward.
And while I prevaricate an elderly gent who looks a more wrinkled and significantly less fit than me (which is saying something) charges into the fray, kicks Man A, brands him a good-for-nothing bully and chases him off.
There is not a knife to be seen and I go all the way home with my tail between my legs.
And I think: "I wish one of my resolutions had involved Aikido or boxing or bravery."
But it didn't. My first resolution involves losing weight and my second, even more uselessly, involves learning the keyboard.
If I'd had my keyboard with me, I suppose I might have used it to hit Man A over the head.
Or, if my lack of courage had not even permitted that, I could at least have tried giving him a headache with an erratic, error-strewn rendition of "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star."
Aikido Phil, for the uninitiated, is just that - Phil who teaches Aikido in Brighton. He's fit and fearless. His New Year resolution is to get into boxing as well.
I'm Head Sloth, unfit and as brave as a snake with a yellow underside.
So there I was, in the Tube late at night, when wild-eyed Man A for no apparent reason takes a sudden dislike to bespectacled, studious-looking Man B and begins hitting him.
This, of course, is where Phil would have moved in, quietly and calmly defusing things with i) a few quiet words of warning or, failing that ii) a few quickt Aikido blows to the head which would have rendered Man A unconcious.
But Phil is not there, just me and my knocking knees. Man A punches Man B again and I ponder, along the lines of:
Reasons to take action - Man B looks like he could do with a little help/it's the right thing to do/nobdy else seems to be reacting/how would I feel if I'd had the misfortune to be bespectacled or remotely studious-looing?
Reasons not to take action - Man A might have a knife and is, incidentally, young and fitter than I ever was/I've damaged my ankle following an argument with a factory gate and would not be much help to Man B even if I wanted to/I'm a committed coward.
And while I prevaricate an elderly gent who looks a more wrinkled and significantly less fit than me (which is saying something) charges into the fray, kicks Man A, brands him a good-for-nothing bully and chases him off.
There is not a knife to be seen and I go all the way home with my tail between my legs.
And I think: "I wish one of my resolutions had involved Aikido or boxing or bravery."
But it didn't. My first resolution involves losing weight and my second, even more uselessly, involves learning the keyboard.
If I'd had my keyboard with me, I suppose I might have used it to hit Man A over the head.
Or, if my lack of courage had not even permitted that, I could at least have tried giving him a headache with an erratic, error-strewn rendition of "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star."
Tuesday, 27 January 2009
The Day I Met Myself
Day 27, January 27, 11am: I met myself for lunch the other day.
Or rather, I met somebody else's version of me. Of me as a schoolboy.
I had not seen Matt since the age of 13, give or take. We were at school together. He sent me an email recently and we spent a great lunch discussing ourselves. There's something to say for nostalgia after all, I've decided. It's strange how our lives have worked out.
Matt remembers me as a star pupil, to whom everybody looked up to. I remember myself as an unpopular, solitary little tyke. Matt has had a hugely successful career and is as fit as two fleas (despite the odd helath issue and creaking knee joint) and cycles around 30km a day. He has an Aston Martin. I have been singularly unsuccessful, am not as fit as a single flea and trudge about 4km a day. I have a third-hand VW.
Matt's resolution, incidentally, is to pass a Maths A level and then take some degree so fiendishly clever that I've already forgotten what it it. He'll surely let me know.
It was great, though, to see him (despite the Aston Martin. Mind you, it had a dent in it, which cheered me up a bit. Our VW, incidentally, is more dent than car). Which brings me to one of my resolutions - to contact as many people from my past as I can via email. So far, I reckon I'm back in touch with at least 40 people from school, university and former work places. It's been a revelation. I feel quite social at the moment. After 49 years of being a grumpy old sod.
Not that ever email has been full of joy. There's been bereavements, divorces and ill health to contend with. But there have also been great tales. One of my ex-girlfriends must top the bill, with her nine children. No wonder her New Year resolution is to get more sleep.
Or rather, I met somebody else's version of me. Of me as a schoolboy.
I had not seen Matt since the age of 13, give or take. We were at school together. He sent me an email recently and we spent a great lunch discussing ourselves. There's something to say for nostalgia after all, I've decided. It's strange how our lives have worked out.
Matt remembers me as a star pupil, to whom everybody looked up to. I remember myself as an unpopular, solitary little tyke. Matt has had a hugely successful career and is as fit as two fleas (despite the odd helath issue and creaking knee joint) and cycles around 30km a day. He has an Aston Martin. I have been singularly unsuccessful, am not as fit as a single flea and trudge about 4km a day. I have a third-hand VW.
Matt's resolution, incidentally, is to pass a Maths A level and then take some degree so fiendishly clever that I've already forgotten what it it. He'll surely let me know.
It was great, though, to see him (despite the Aston Martin. Mind you, it had a dent in it, which cheered me up a bit. Our VW, incidentally, is more dent than car). Which brings me to one of my resolutions - to contact as many people from my past as I can via email. So far, I reckon I'm back in touch with at least 40 people from school, university and former work places. It's been a revelation. I feel quite social at the moment. After 49 years of being a grumpy old sod.
Not that ever email has been full of joy. There's been bereavements, divorces and ill health to contend with. But there have also been great tales. One of my ex-girlfriends must top the bill, with her nine children. No wonder her New Year resolution is to get more sleep.
Saturday, 24 January 2009
A Faller at Bechers Brook
Day 24, Saturday January 24, 11.30am - And they're tightly packed, approaching Bechers Brook for the first time, and... and... and we have our first faller! I can't quite see who it is but someone's gone down!
Oh but no, wait, she's up, she's remounted, she's up and running again.
At least, that's what Sam says she will be doing. Sam came clean on Friday. After two weeks without a single crisp passing her lips - her New Year resolution - she crashed spectacularly to earth by devouring a box of Pringles over three days. "Well, two and a half, actually," she says, sheepishly.
Sam blames her husband. She knew the Pringles were in the cupboard, left over from Christmas, and, keen to remove the temptation, asked him to take them to work with him. Her husband forgot and the rest is history.
Sam, however, tells me that she will be getting back in the saddle on Monday.
Mind you, I remain to be convinced. First, she blames someone else. Then she gives herself a 48-hour window before trying again. 48 hours could mean a lot of salt-and-vinegars and cheese-and-onions. I am not sure this bodes well. Watch this space.
Oh but no, wait, she's up, she's remounted, she's up and running again.
At least, that's what Sam says she will be doing. Sam came clean on Friday. After two weeks without a single crisp passing her lips - her New Year resolution - she crashed spectacularly to earth by devouring a box of Pringles over three days. "Well, two and a half, actually," she says, sheepishly.
Sam blames her husband. She knew the Pringles were in the cupboard, left over from Christmas, and, keen to remove the temptation, asked him to take them to work with him. Her husband forgot and the rest is history.
Sam, however, tells me that she will be getting back in the saddle on Monday.
Mind you, I remain to be convinced. First, she blames someone else. Then she gives herself a 48-hour window before trying again. 48 hours could mean a lot of salt-and-vinegars and cheese-and-onions. I am not sure this bodes well. Watch this space.
Wednesday, 21 January 2009
Did you survive Blue Monday? Rona did...
Day 21, Wednesday January 21, 11pm - Did TRSNYRC survive Blue Monday, the most depressing day of the year?
Apparently Monday was when the bad weather, the incoming bills, the credit crunch headlines and our collective failure to keep our New Year resolutions finally hit home. Everyone, as far as I understand, returned to their former ways, the gyms cleared of people, the pubs were filled to the rafters, everyone gorged on chocolate eclairs and we all returned to normal for the rest of the year.
Only time will tell what damage the TRSNYRC suffered. The club is due for its first meeting on February 7. Hopefully, someone will turn up.
Just for the record, we have about 45 members, at the last cursory count. I will try to produce an exact figure in the weeks to come. We have a presence in India, Australia and the United States. Our resolutions vary from the staple (lose weight, drink less) to the exotic (take a degree, learn a language, a musical instrument, restore a sailing boat, put on a one-man play, produce a sketch a day) to the bizarre and not immediately comprehensible (catch a 20lb pike, use left hand and left foot more often).
My favourite so far, though, comes from Rona, my cousin Mick's wife. They visited us last week. We had not seen them for 10 years, not since they moved to Australia. They're good sorts.
Rona, a French teacher, has MS and has spent a fair part of the last two years in a wheelchair. Her resolution? To stop being apologetic, when she holds people up or gets in their way or runs over their chiahuahuas or grandchildren. Rona, of course, is not disabled and never will be. Nor is she a victim, even if it's easy for her to believe it at times, when the rest of us fuss over her or talk to Mick as if she wasn't in the room. ("Does she take sugar?" Actually, Mick has a marvellous riposte to that. "I'll ask her," he replies. Then he says to Rona: "Do you take sugar?" And she replies to Mick: "No." And then Mick looks up and says with a sweet smile: "No, she doesn't.") No, Rona isn't disabled. She just moves a bit slower than she used to. But then, don't we all? Rona has other plans for 2009 which I know she'll share with us in due course.
I bet she didn't even notice Monday was blue at all. She was too busy getting on with things. And not apologising. At the moment, indeed, I find it hard to think of someone who has less need to say sorry, about anything. And don't you hate chiahuahuas and other people's grandchildren anyway?
Apparently Monday was when the bad weather, the incoming bills, the credit crunch headlines and our collective failure to keep our New Year resolutions finally hit home. Everyone, as far as I understand, returned to their former ways, the gyms cleared of people, the pubs were filled to the rafters, everyone gorged on chocolate eclairs and we all returned to normal for the rest of the year.
Only time will tell what damage the TRSNYRC suffered. The club is due for its first meeting on February 7. Hopefully, someone will turn up.
Just for the record, we have about 45 members, at the last cursory count. I will try to produce an exact figure in the weeks to come. We have a presence in India, Australia and the United States. Our resolutions vary from the staple (lose weight, drink less) to the exotic (take a degree, learn a language, a musical instrument, restore a sailing boat, put on a one-man play, produce a sketch a day) to the bizarre and not immediately comprehensible (catch a 20lb pike, use left hand and left foot more often).
My favourite so far, though, comes from Rona, my cousin Mick's wife. They visited us last week. We had not seen them for 10 years, not since they moved to Australia. They're good sorts.
Rona, a French teacher, has MS and has spent a fair part of the last two years in a wheelchair. Her resolution? To stop being apologetic, when she holds people up or gets in their way or runs over their chiahuahuas or grandchildren. Rona, of course, is not disabled and never will be. Nor is she a victim, even if it's easy for her to believe it at times, when the rest of us fuss over her or talk to Mick as if she wasn't in the room. ("Does she take sugar?" Actually, Mick has a marvellous riposte to that. "I'll ask her," he replies. Then he says to Rona: "Do you take sugar?" And she replies to Mick: "No." And then Mick looks up and says with a sweet smile: "No, she doesn't.") No, Rona isn't disabled. She just moves a bit slower than she used to. But then, don't we all? Rona has other plans for 2009 which I know she'll share with us in due course.
I bet she didn't even notice Monday was blue at all. She was too busy getting on with things. And not apologising. At the moment, indeed, I find it hard to think of someone who has less need to say sorry, about anything. And don't you hate chiahuahuas and other people's grandchildren anyway?
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