Diary of Inconsequential Being

It might not come as a surprise to many that one of the marks of modern life is how different the world of celebrity has become. Whereas in years gone by there was a certain mystery and suspense around famous people, we now face an information overload. This is not, in case you are wondering, one of those “back in my days things were better” type of column. Especially because, a) I’m only forty-four-years-old (soon to be forty-five) and, b) because my life so far has straddled two countries and equal amount of continents.

Yet, I, too, have noticed how inane and repetitive celebrities’ output has become. So, I am joining the fray tonight. This is a new space in which I will discuss my quotidian (un)exciting, inconsequential life experiences. Any attempt to bore you is intentional. Content will be repetitive occasionally and very often devoid of meaning and depth. Feel free to yawn. In fact, I encourage you to.

Monday 5^th September

I have now been back at work for two days but it is only today that the children are returning to school. On my way to work a car comes within a whisker of kissing the frame of my bike but it ends with no amorous encounter between the two modes of transport. The automobile in question is not some rare species, just an old, battered Ford. Its size is never less than spectacular and its colour is the typical red commonly found on British roads.

A sky-blue, seasonally-warm, early morning makes my day already. My journey to work lasts the customary twenty-odd minutes and nothing important happens. The traffic lights are still in the same place, jumped through by the same threatening-looking lorry drivers and bespectacled bus drivers.

On the news today: Keith Vaz is to step down as Commons committee chair after sex claims and Theresa May refuses to commit to Brexit pledges on immigration and NHS. Sex and immigration. I bet a large part of the population of these isles is getting their jollies right now.

I begin to read "Oscar Wilde" by H. Montgomery Hyde.

Tuesday 6^th September

The young. I could watch them forever, crossing roads without a care in the world, heads bowed down, eyes never leaving their gadgets, and yet, stepping out of the way of a rush-hour, speeding car at the last minute.

Until one day they will be lucky no more.

I stop at the same busy crossroads on my way to work and notice for the umpteenth time that we need a green man on this corner. Reason number 1, there are about four secondary schools within a radius mile of each other, plus half a dozen primaries. Reason number 2, visibility is very poor because of the road layout. There aren’t four corners per se, but five or six places to cross from, all of them equally dangerous. Reason number three… forget reason number three, the light has changed.

The papers are full of the just-cancelled junior doctors’ strike. The front pages betray their usual political alliances. Jeremy Hunt, the health secretary, is more fortunate this time when he comes on Radio 4. No one gets his surname wrong. Ah, my kingdom for a spoonerism!

Wednesday 7^th September

I am thinking of investing in a pannier. My rucksack feels heavy and my neck is beginning to ache. I ring up Cancer Research UK and find out that I can still sign up for the Brighton marathon next year. Later on tonight I will submit my registration fee and the tortuous but rather exhilarating prospect of running twenty-six miles again is enough to carry me through the day.

My daughter is cooking tonight. She usually does Tuesdays and Wednesdays whilst I still cook on Thursdays. Fridays are “unhealthy food night” and Sundays and Mondays it is my wife’s turn to take over the kitchen. Saturdays are LTOOD day (Left To Our Own Devices, in case you are wondering).

I love my daughter’s recipes. She is always inventive. I wish I had been that daring at her age but between being born in a country where men in the kitchen are a no-no and living with four women under the same roof, I never had the same opportunities.

And to be honest, I did not look for them either.

Totally random image. Photo taken by the blog author

Sports Direct is in hot water. The company has been caught red-handed after a Guardian-led investigation uncovered practices that could easily be compared to those of a Victorian workhouse.

There is still good, investigative journalism around. The kind that does not depend on stories on sex and immigration to ramp up its sales.

© 2016

Next Post: “Thoughts in Progress”, to be published on Saturday 5^th November at 6pm (GMT)