facebook knows I'm single

Having wittered on yesterday about the goodness of NYRs and how nice it is to see people signing up for the gym, today I've found myself muttering critically about Slimming World.

Slimming World isn't something I've ever taken any notice of. I think it's like WeightWatchers without the middle-class pressure. It's not a World I've ever had cause to belong to or take concern over. Yesterday however, I noticed that they'd gone crazy with their marketing. Every lamp-post, every roadside bollard, everything, everywhere, seemed to be sporting a tantalising and life-changing reason to join Slimming World.

Thinking about it, I don't get on well in lots of Worlds. I once threw up in World of Leather, and the day I wore a red t-shirt to PC World will be etched in my memory for some time. Besides all of that, it's really a bit pretentious to call a shop a 'world' I think.

The reason the lovely ladies at Slimming World made me roll my eyes was that they were clearly playing on people's New Year's Resolutions (and profiting out of people's failure to keep last year's identical ones). And I (yes, I am old-fashioned) don't like such targeted and cynical marketing.

Cue the lovely facebook. I am no fan of the social networking daddy that is the facebook. Whenever I go on there, it wants to set me up with 'girls who might be looking for me'. In fact it happens on a lot of sites (especially through sponsored listings and such like). The ads are targeted directly at what it thinks I need most and am likely to 'buy' online. And at the moment, that must-have commodity is apparently a subscription to a dating service*

Now I wouldn't mind, except for the selection of girls the system has decided are looking for me. For reasons beyond the boundaries of explanation and common sense, these girls are all... and I'm not joking... ridiculously gorgeous. And I... and I'm really not joking... am ridiculously incredulous. If facebook's got it right, impossibly beautiful singletons should be crowding around me on a daily basis, falling from the sky like angels in a Lynx advert.

In reality of course, girls who look like this walk past as though they were passing a pillarbox. Which is OK. But that whole topic is best left for another time I think.

So, facebook knows I'm single and it annoys me. Slimming World knows a lot of people want to lose weight at the beginning of January and that annoyed me too. I should probably be less annoyed.

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In other news, I saw an article on the news about a man who suffers with Aspergers Syndrome. For the first time in my life I considered the possibility that I might have something like that and did a test online. You can find it here if you want to try yourself. I came out as a 29 with 32 being the lower limit of most people diagnosed with the condition. 15 seems to be the average. I then told my parents about it and it's suddenly become a big thing.

I suggested they had a go themselves.

*As well as being treated like a fool, this also carries the implication that the one thing I need in life is a relationship, because it's a fast-track to happiness and fulfilment. You don't need me to tell you that this is not the case. And if you do, keep posting about how lonely you are on facebook.

new year's resolutions

The sky was perfect for January this morning: clear, bright, blue and cold. The low sun shone brilliantly and boldly too, giving the air the look of early summer but without the warmth.

I've grown to love this time of year. There's a lot of hope around at the beginning of things - hope and determination. Resolutions are made, the page is wiped clean and the early morning sun seems to wash the weary world in a fresh coat of optimism.

In Christian circles, I've noticed it's become de-rigeur almost, to poo-poo New Year's resolutions and the people who make them. We don't wait for a new year to change things, we proclaim - we're free to live a reborn life, every sweet and glorious day the Lord has given us, right? And anyway, we all know that we never keep our new year's resolutions - what's the point in setting them?

While I've made something of a point of setting my own standards rather too high for myself, I have to say I really like making resolutions at this time of year. I like looking at my life, particularly over years like 2011 when (for me anyway) not a lot happened, and asking myself how I could do the whole thing a bit better, or in a bit more of a happier way. It strikes me that the beginning of January, however you look at it, is a perfect opportunity for doing exactly that.

For example, I know that I'm not too organised. Perhaps this year could be a year to think about how to be better at that. I'm also not great at reading my Bible. What a perfect moment to plan how to read it throughout the year. And the list continues.

I will probably not succeed. There's every chance I'll miss a day, or slip into my old lazy ways - but what I'm saying is that I think the intention is a great thing, a thing that's greater than not doing anything to change; greater than not wanting to change. Middle-aged women who clutch new gym bags nervously this week have great intentions. They want to change. Men who've decided to put their family's needs first and for the first time are going to budget this year - good for them. I think God loves good intentions, especially those made by people who are prepared to look at their situation and realise that things need to change. It takes a kind of soft-heartedness to see it and to do it - and this time of year is brilliant for that.

Which is why my greatest new year's resolution this year is exactly that: to remain soft-hearted and firmly obedient to him. That's got to be a good thing, right?

the new year's eve options

I was alone for New Year's Eve. It wasn't my choice; my hosts had gone to bed exhausted, and I was left with a dark living room and a flashing Christmas tree. As the neighbours counted down excitedly outside, I was treated to the distant muffles of someone else's fun, as their gardens flashed with cheap fireworks. I prayed for a while, then went to bed.

I am no fan of the New Year's Eve thing. It seems to me that there are only three ways to celebrate it, namely the trio of options - going out, staying in, or sleeping through the whole thing.

Option 1, going out, is horrendous. I don't mean going to a house that isn't your own, that's staying in, in someone else's house. I mean going out to a pub or a club, a place packed from floor to ceiling with revellers in fancy-dress. This option is expensive and pointless. As midnight is cheered and snogged, and silly string and beer flies across the crowded room, you'll find yourself linking arms with strangers while you're being elbowed in the face, then singing about old time's sake for ... old time's sake... Which you'll realise, makes absolutely no sense. And if you're lucky you'll avoid getting thrown up on in a taxi, or being dragged into a drunken fight for ... Old time's sake, I suppose... It's not for me, going out on New Year's Eve.

Option 2 is the one I normally go for. It involves a simple assortment of people who've forgotten to plan anything big because it was all too close to Christmas, and board games. It involves board games because nothing else will fill the time between 8 and 12 quite so effectively, and also because board games generate that natural harmony you need with your friends when Big Ben strikes twelve and London explodes on the telly. I'll be honest, this option has been hit and miss for me in the past. It's quite easy to spend the entire evening looking forward to midnight and then being quite disappointed that it just sort of happens and you all go home. It is after all, just the click of 23:59 to 00:00. And that happens every night.

And that's why I'm starting to wonder whether Option 3, just going to bed, might be the best option of all. If you're not woken up by teenagers shouting at each other down the street, or fireworks popping and crackling like the neighbourhood blitzkrieg, then it's probably the least anticlimactic, least expensive, least vomit-involved option there is for a happy new year. Just crack open that tin of cocoa, fill up the hot water bottle and wait for the sleepy magic to take you somnolently into January like a snowflake on the night wind.

That's why I can't be too upset with my friends for leaving me to my own devices this year... I mean last year... And anyway, the staying in option was still wonderful compared to the thought of jostling with drunken students in the early hours of the freezing morning. Perhaps next year... I mean this year... I'll go the whole way and spend New Year's Eve in a warm bed with only my dreams and the good Lord to keep me company. Man, I'm old.

What I Thought About on Queen Victoria Street

It was late. The sound of drunkenness was echoing through the empty streets and there was a chill in the air. I was walking toward Reading Station, disappointed, melancholy and exhausted.

"I just don't belong here," I said to myself, softly.

I'd been to a birthday party. Or rather, birthday drinks - with a great crowd of people I have never met, and a handful of people I only just half-know. In a darkened upstairs bar at one of Reading's more popular venues, we jostled and drank and tried to chat over the consistent thud of the DJ, while tall women and men in tight tee-shirts swarmed around the bar. I was feeling out of place.

The thing is, I just don't enjoy that kind of thing. It started when the barman downstairs warned me that it was 'a private party up there, mate' as I climbed the staircase. I hate it when people I don't know call me 'mate'. It's patronising and belittling and annoyingly infectious.

"I'm invited mate," I said, politely. He looked at me with a raised eyebrow.

I don't enjoy it because I don't understand it, I think. I don't get drunk, and certainly have never been so drunk that I can't remember a 'good night'. I don't really dance (although there wasn't any dancing anyway) and when it comes to socialising and meeting people, I am hopeless at the best of times. Turn the lights off and the music up and I don't stand a chance.

And so it was that I was walking dolefully along Queen Victoria Street at midnight, thinking about all this and how I just don't seem to belong to the world I'd just tried to be a part of. I like talking to people and listening to them, getting to know them soberly and intelligently. Am I growing steadily more old-fashioned? I must admit, I do sound a bit like my Dad. But then, I was like this when I was younger too. At University, I'd always have chosen the quiet night at the pub rather than the one that ends up with vomit and a headache. Maybe I really don't belong.

But that has to be OK doesn't it? I mean, we are all different after all.

Record Breakers

If you're under 25, find someone who isn't and ask them this question:

"What do you need if you want to be a record breaker?"

I'm willing to bet my worldly goods they'll go misty eyed, give you a knowing smile and proudly tell you that the answer is of course 'dedication'. If you're lucky they may even burst into song or a bit of air-trumpet.

The reason for this odd reaction is the classic kids' TV show, Record Breakers. Record Breakers was great. It ran from the 70s right through to 2001 and featured everything you could think of to do with world records and record holders. There were interviews with the bold, the brave and the bonkers - everything from the longest fingernails to the fastest talker - and frequent record attempts right there in the studio. It was the perfect concoction of entertainment and education, thrown together happily in a studio filled with wide-eyed children.

The show as I remember it was presented by Roy Castle, himself a world record holder and tap-dancing fanatic. It featured all kinds of others too: Cheryl Baker (a Eurovision starlet in the 80s), athletes Kriss Akabusi, Linford Christie,* and of course the legendary Norris McWhirter...

Every week, Norris would settle into his Mastermind-style chair, fold his fingers gently together and answer questions from the impeccably well behaved collection of children encircling him in the studio. He was, I suppose a bit like a Guinness Book of Records Egghead. Only he was nice about it. And do you know what, I think he knew everything - actually, everything ever asked of him.

As if the record attempt during the show was not enough (dominos, backwards talking, playing Chopin's 'Minute Waltz' in under a minute)... the highlight of every week was the closing credits, which famously featured Roy singing 'Dedication' and playing the trumpet. Gosh I did love Record Breakers!

The reason I'm mentioning it today is that I was thinking about Roy Castle on the bus. I'm not sure what brought it on - maybe the bus stop in Castle Street, or the inane conversation of the teenagers on their way to school. Either way, Roy was there inside my head, reminding me that today, a work day where it couldn't be less appropriate, 'dedication's what you need'...

The trouble is, I thought to myself, I'm not sure kids today have got that message. Dedication? They'd be channel hopping before Roy had fixed trumpet to lip, tantalising themselves with TOWIE or Hollyoaks. The point, I remind myself, was that you can achieve anything with a little inspiration and of course, hard work. Nothing is impossible, kids.

In fact, the whole premise of Record Breakers relied on children being interested in stuff - that interest hooked them in, and held them there and before the last stopwatch beeped out, they'd learned something and been inspired to 'be the best'... and they'd been inspired by someone who genuinely believed that each of us has the potential to be great...

... and I'm just not sure that happens any more. And I don't think it's because children are different, not deep down. The world has changed, but when you look around, you've got to admit that that is a great message isn't it? Shame. I just don't know whether today's Norris McWhirter in immaculate suit and tie would be as roundly respected for his statistical knowledge and gentle eloquence - or shouted at in the street by yobs who'd learned the word 'boffin' and how to combine it with filthy adjectives. Poor Norris.

I arrived at work, finally, to find the telesales team (all young girls in their early twenties) discussing Big Brother and why black people don't take the protective covering of sofas.

Roy, I am sorry.

Thank you for being a record breaker.

*We don't mention Fearne Cotton on this blog, thank you.

Mr Woodlow

"It's no wonder your company's so ***** and it's going down the pan," said Mr Woodlow. He'd been building up to this head of steam, right from the moment I'd introduced myself. "No-one ever gets back to me," he chuffed, "and then when you finally do, what you produce is a ******* pile of **** that looks like the kind of **** that's been put together by ******* children!"

"Look, if I can..."

"No you ****** can't, just get somebody to come out here and talk to me or don't ******* bother." Click.

"Mr Woodlow, let me.... Mr Woodlow?..." The phone was dead. I hung up and exhaled.

Later, I was walking through Reading town centre. It was the kind of day that just felt like the beginning of Autumn: brilliant blue sky, low and bright sunshine, and crispy leaves blown about the park by a cool breeze. They danced across the grass between the shadows. I thrust my hands into my coat pockets and walked briskly past. I can't do this for much longer, I thought to myself.

I still think that. But it's not just the likes of Woodlow that shape my thinking. The world is packed with Woodlows: frustrated and insecure, biting and snarling when they believe they're hard done by. Nope, not Woodlow; rather, the season itself.

This year the urge to go back to uni is stronger than ever before. I don't know why that is, but suddenly, just today, I found myself missing my friends, missing the adventure, the freedom, the youth and the liberty that university brought. Perhaps it's the weather. Yep, regular readers will notice of course that this does happen every year. And yes, I'll get over it - but today, a good 15 years after I first went to Bath, I still found myself longing for all that it held for me. In fact, I broke down in tears about it today... which is a silly thing, isn't it?

This feeling wasn't helped when Facebook told me something I didn't want to know. I am going to write down one day, all the reasons why I loathe the spambook, but way up near the top will always be: finding out things you just don't want to know. Today it told me something very painful about my family that will not be easy to handle or discuss. And I hate that I had to find out so coldly and impersonally.

Someone I know just tweeted that the 'squeaking duck gets shot.' I get the picture. I shall stop whinging. And anyway it's late (1am) and I should be dreaming. Knowing me now, I'll probably dream about shooting Mr Woodlow through the reeds with a rifle.

God I am sorry. I've got a long way to go.

9/11 and the Audacity of Hope

There are some moments that change things for ever. We all have them. They can be the shortest events - a gunshot, an ill-chosen word, a bad decision. Like a stone in the pond, you could blink and miss the impact, but the ripples are hard to ignore.

Today, the USA and the civilised world are soberly remembering the horrific events of one morning, ten years ago. It's easy to forget the sense of fear and uncertainty that followed that day - what had happened had been so utterly awful and real. No-one knew whether that was it, or whether every major city, every landmark and every one of us, were also targets.

The ripples of course are easy to see, looking back. Two terrible wars, many thousands of lives wrecked and a world that still lives in the shadow of the war on terror. We watched the world change in a single morning.

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In the midst of all of this, I found myself thinking about hope today. On September the 11th, I was curled up in the living room, watching it all unfold in front of my eyes. Hope could not have been further from my mind as the second plane screamed into the South Tower. And what of hope when those buildings crumpled into piles of acrid dust and rubble?

Yet in despair, there is always room for hope. Obama himself, titled his book The Audacity of Hope. It was based (indirectly) on a painting by GF Watts showing a blindfolded woman, desperately clutching a harp and playing the one remaining string. I don't fully know what the book is about, but I love the phrase, the audacity of hope; that in the very heart of desperation and sadness, hope can be the smallest sound or the tiniest spark, audaciously defying the darkness.

My situation is not desperate, but there are times when I despair. It's always good to be reminded that hope can triumph when all else fails.