Wolfing it down

Inside us are two wolves.

I mean, not literally, because that would be quite the medical issue.

Within our minds are two wolves that compete for dominance. The winner is the one you feed.

That’s it. Inside my mind are two wolves.

One is called Snarly Machete-Fang. The other is called Barry.

One is the epitome of wild efficiency, of single-minded determination, eschewing emotions, ignoring distractions and utterly target driven. Ruthlessness and calculation evident in each muscle flex, straining every sinew to achieve the desired goal, relentlessly hunting the ever-sprinting Caribou of Accomplishment to feast on the juicy entrails of success!

The other one is Barry.

Barry seems quite happy really. He was going to focus on the ol’ Caribou of Accomplishment there, but remembered he’d got a lasagne in. Not the Lasagne of Triumph maybe, but pretty good nonetheless. The Lasagne of Agreeability perhaps. With some garlic bread and a glass of something red that isn’t reindeer blood.

Relentlessly pursuing something can be great, and Barry can do that right up until he relentlessly pursues something else just as interesting. Relentlessly veering off to look at trees, rivers, interesting rocks, a woodpecker hole or relentlessly stopping to wee on some moss. There’s a lot of things to relentlessly pursue temporarily.

The caribou seems less important sometimes, as it will always be one step ahead no matter how fast you go.

Snarly is welcome to continue trying to catch it, but maybe there are other more important things to get distracted by. One of the cubs has a dance recital and another is learning the accordion, so that takes up a fair bit of time, ferrying them across the forest for lessons.

Also, Barry’s promised to meet up for a pint with Colin the Tapir of the Mind later to discuss the pitfalls of rhinoplasty.

I feed Barry, is what I’m saying.

Furtherhood

Fathers Day yesterday and, 17 years since it first happened to me, I am still amazed that I am one. I got quite a kick out of  my own Dad (now and forever known as 'Grumpy' to his descendants) wishing me a happy Fathers Day in return.

Me!

I know. Mad innit?

Seems a bit odd that the universe felt it was perfectly reasonable for me to help produce a couple of new sentient beings when I'm struggling to convince myself this isn't all just a weird simulation. 

Perhaps it doesn't matter. 

We could be in a full, multidimensional consequence of natural law, a spontaneous ripple in the utter static nothingness that would otherwise be. We could be in some sort of large procedurally generated program in a lab next to a thousand others. Maybe everything we know is a naturally occurring hologram on the edge of a singularity or confined within the imagination of a vast dreaming mind with impressive processing power.

Whatever it is, it doesn't take away us having a bit of an exist, and that's got to count for something right?

As a contemporary mammal and for no obvious significant benefit to myself, I obeyed the selfish drive of my genes and beget offspring. As a result I also have to beget a house, some bikes, pets, chicken nuggets, paints, shoes, apples, Lego, Cheerios and now driving lessons!

That's a lot of begetting. And my reward for all this is nothing more than some nebulous yet powerful emotions, a sense of  duty and a warm glow of affection which I suspect is a dribble of oxytocin designed to stop me from eating them like a hamster.

But at the end of the say, when all is did and done, I can't escape the fact that I am extraordinarily grateful to have them, fully aware it wasn't a done deal. They have turned out to be fairly decent human beings that I enjoy having around and it is finally safe to conclude, perhaps tentatively, that I am unlikely to eat them.

Also, for Fathers Day they bought me a T-Shirt with goldfinches on it, which counts for a a lot:

Happy F-day to all the dads and father-figures out there putting the effort in. 

By the way, if you're from the next simulation over, I have so many questions. How fast is your speed of light? Do you have bosons? Did you get anything for fathers day? What flavour Pop-tarts do you have?

Carving time

My daughter Bonobo is now 14 and very good at art. We suggested she choose it for her GCSEs but she declined saying she wouldn't enjoy it as much if she HAD to do it, which is a lot wiser that I would have been at that age.

Recently she won a raffle prize to go on an arty workshop but needed an adult to accompany her, and I got volunteered.

"What is it?" I asked

"Tetra Pak Printing!" she replied.

"What is it?" I asked. 

"Not a clue!" she clarified.

Apparently, Tetra Pak is not a hunting party of small fish as one would initially presume, but the inside of drinks cartons (made largely by the company Tetra Pak) which have a silver metallic lining and can be used for inscribing in, daubed with ink, and then squeezed in a press with some paper to produce prints.

So I dragged myself along on an early Saturday morning for an art workshop instead of wondering where todays middle-aged back pain had come from (which is what I usually do of a weekend) and . . . 

. . . really bloody well enjoyed it.

Turns out scribing with sharp implements is very satisfying. I did an experimental one first and learned that it was laterally inverted, so you have to think mirror image when a-carving. Probably obvious to artists but not to me:

The press used for printing onto paper is a pasta maker! Which I think we can all agree is the only sensible use for a pasta maker. 

I was then told you could use coloured ink, and ink made me think of squids:

And then I did this, as an after fort:

An after fort! See? Cos it's a castle.

Sorry, puns like this tend to have a stronghold over me.

Anyway, the upshot is that I had a good time with a potential new hobby (I know, I may never, ever do it again) but it really does pay to do try stuff doesn't it?

Within reason I mean. I'm not going straight out to do Morris Dancing.

About Face

 

These days I occasionally work in a clinic as a paramedic (primary care has now discovered we can do stuff, and so are making us do stuff). This allows doctors to focus on more more important and complicated clinical issues such as saucepans stuck on heads and hairache. 

The clinic is in an old converted Chapel, and in the bit where patients wait to be disappointed that they're not going to see a doctor today, just some oaf with a stethoscope and a prescription pad, one of the ceiling tiles is missing. 

It's been giving the receptionists the heebies and, in some cases, the jeebies, because if you stare up there you can just about make out a stone face staring back.

I felt this was something in which my nose must be poked.

I approached and stuck my phone up there, fully cognisant of every film where an unsuspecting chap of generally dismissive (and cheerful) demeanour pops his head into a void to cast aspersions on the irrational fears of others and promptly gets his entire fizzog eaten, or melted, or chopped up. Or shagged by a spider alien.

There was something up there.

I moved a chair 'neath the hole and, with other folk holding their breaths and clutching the fronts of their cardies in desperate admiration (they weren't, they were mostly doing spreadsheets and Wordle), I got closer for a more detailed examination.

It was definitely a thing. Like a cross between a gargoyle and a hastily carved cherub with reflux. 

The fact that it's facing inwards seems a bit weird to me. I was about to examine a lengthy treatise on the history, presentation and installation of gargoyles throughout the ages but remembered I'd got a Snickers in my bag and had that instead, so it remains a mystery. I did learn that the word Gargoyle, rather than being etymologically based on ancient romantic mysticism, comes from the old french " Gargouille" which means "throat", and old Greek for gargle. Because they gargle you see. Isn't language amazing?

Anyway, I told the receptionists that the weirdest thing about it was that the missing roof tile was replaced every evening, which apparently wasn't helpful.

Is this thing on . . ?

I’ve just deleted 800-odd posts "I" had apparently done on a variety of topics. 

There I was, thinking I haven’t blogged for nigh on eight years, man and slightly older man, but apparently I have published informative works on a variety of topics including Water Filtration systems, religious imprecations for supporting Christianity in Africa, Gold bullion buying and a few penissy things. 

I've also threatened myself numerous times for not paying debts I don't owe for things I haven’t bought. 

Honestly, I've been working hard in my absence. I'm impressed with myself. 

Which is not new. 

Other than that, I have been off experiencing life as a bipedal mammal with a family and that, it turns out, does take up a fair portion of the day. Today I was idly looking down the internet tubes when I spied my ol' blog here, so I thought I'd give it a quick tidy up, as if it were some sort of unruly digital pubic hair not seen for some time, surprising one when finally revealed with it's unkempt abundance and wild direction.

I still work for the ambulance service because I'm institutionalised. My sprogs are now teenagers who, I must grudgingly admit, appear to be people in their own rights. The world is making less sense the older I get and I think that could be because if everybody else, not me. This is completely the opposite of what I used to think, so I’m going to class it as a form of self-improvement. I hope you are as well as the universe allows, and are able to do the best you can with what you have. Peace

Nam nam nam

I had reason to wander further east than I ever have before recently, spending a day in the city of Hanoi in Vietnam, which seems like a thing to blog about. So I will.

The first thing the weary traveler here experiences, especially if using the services of a taxi, is Hanoi traffic.

Whoa.

I use the term traffic because Chaotic Machine Based Nightmare System isn't as succinct, and whatever it actually is doesn't fall into an easily describable category.

It's like a shoal, or a number of shoals who's individuals are made up of large metal fish that come together for a few minutes to go in the same direction, whilst other shoals cross them at a tangent until their transient goals no longer align, and their individuals join alternative shoals doing something else, all at between fifteen and thirty-five miles per hour.

By far the most numerous (and presumably the most vulnerable) of these fish are the mopeds, who have no concept of personal space, let alone any concerns about occupying the same area at the same time as, for instance, a seven ton bus.

As a passenger making conversational asides to the taxi driver, my speech went like this:

"Having a busy OHMYGOD day then? I think the hotel is on JESUSTHATWASCLOSE Le Duan street. Have you been doing this HOWARETHEYSTILLALIVE job long?"

Hanoi, and Vietnam in general, is supposed to have a very high death rate due to it's roads, (maybe 20,000 a year according to the WHO), but I didn't actually see any accidents, and not even that many dents in the vehicles (at least on those with sides). After concluding that you can't wince at every near-miss when the entire road is in a permanent state of near-miss, I sort of relaxed, unclenching my fingers from the roof grab handle and my buttocks from their steely grip on the faux leather beneath, allowed my heart rate to reduce to less than 140 and enjoyed the ride.

Roads clear. Let's go!

Once the cool, utterly unflappable and calmly confident driver had dropped me off at the hotel, I decided to broach the subject of the traffic, presuming that he would find it normal, perhaps laugh a little at the wimpy sensibilities of the western visitor. On the contrary. A look of exasperation crossed his features.

"This traffic crazy!" He opened his arms to encompass the surrounding vehicular maelstrom. "Always crazy, always like this! Traffic crazy!" Shaking his head, he got back in his fish and joined the next available shoal with barely a ripple.

A burger and a side of onion rings please.

Hanoi! Capital of Vietnam, home to eight million people half of whom are on mopeds at any one moment. A sprawling mix of vibrant modernity, urban decay and traditional pragmatism, with tranquil temples segueing into glass fronted office blocks. One of them was a temple to literature and I envisaged a library but based on the philosophies of Eastern religions. All good, but a late fine might be carried over into your next life. Think about that next time you see a library official charging a cockroach because he didn't return "How To Thwart Karma" on time.

Plenty of room up top

Space, like in any modern city, is obviously at a premium, and in Hanoi they have taken advantage of some relatively horizontal areas for development on top of other buildings, where folk have constructed everything from sheds to walled gardens, utility rooms to miniature apartments. The only difference between this and London is that they don't charge a million quid for one.

There is a catch to the development, and it's that pollution is a little out of control. 2016 was officially a particularly poor year for air quality in Hanoi, and you could feel it on the back of your throat after a few hours. In the distance, tower blocks only in the middle distance faded to blurry invisibility like graphics from a 2002 arcade game because of a mixture of smoke and fog, called fmoke.

I'm glad the pollution is over there, not here.

But it doesn't detract from the sheer industriousness of the place. The pavements are often unpassable due to folk working, and you have to step (warily) into the road to avoid motorbike repair workshops, knife sharpeners, impromptu restaurants and manufacturing of all types. You avert your eyes from the man arc welding as you step over the cold end of his metal beam, and smile politely at the attentive but not pushy vendors selling unidentifiable fried carbohydrates. I love unidentifiable fried carbohydrates, me. The stuff that appealed to me included an open fronted shop simply selling powdered dyes for paint, which you just don't get at B&Q:

Where folk come to dye.

Oh these tangled webs we weave . . .

Most of these endeavors are obviously private enterprise, but there was some evidence that the pragmatic mindset and disdain for health & safety constraints had infiltrated the municipal mindset as well, especially when looking at the electricity supplies around the standard Hanoi lamp post.

Like the Grimm brothers' fabled magic porridge pot, it's a never ending source of supply but better because instead of oats to feed everybody forever, this dishes out electrons by the bucketful. And presumably involves less scurvy too.

Scuse me, do you sell massive trees?

Parts of Hanoi, you find as you meander around, are more tranquil and relatively traffic free, with open air markets lining narrow streets, shoppers perusing them in no great rush, large trees spreading out across the tarmac seemingly oblivious to any pollution. I regretfully declined an unidentifiable fried carbohydrate and some chicken feet, which taste exactly like you'd expect chicken feet to taste, and kept on strolling.

Despite the lack of available living space, there was the occasional abandoned premises, taken over by vines and pioneer weed species. Makes you wonder if, like in the UK, some places are kept fallow despite their being a desperate social need, in order for property prices to rise and a profit to be made. Cynical capitalism can be quite eerie :

Pass the hoover

Talking of money, the currency of Vietnam is the dong.

No, I've got nothing, either

There are about 28 thousand of them to the pound, so you should stock up really, although I didn't because I was only there for a day.

One place I did want to visit was the Hanoi Botanical Gardens, which is a walled area of parkland to the west of the city. I walked that way for about an hour, being offered lifts by moped taxis who thought it the height of hilarity that I would want to walk anywhere in Hanoi for pleasure, until I came to the Gardens. A be-uniformed lady directed me to another be-uniformed lady sitting at a desk outside, eating some chicken feet. This was apparently where you paid an admission fee. Unfortunately I didn't have any local currency, and explained this to her, presuming I wouldn't be allowed in.

"Oh, no problem, you can go in free!" she shouted politely. I offered her a Euro, which was worth about twenty times the price of admission, but she just laughed, took pity on a man with no dong and allowed him to enter.

Oh, there you go.

Water: Nature's beer.

I had about forty minutes there, and they were modestly pleasant, with colourful trees, black squirrels scampering about and pretty lakes, all well tended. Apparently there are some forlorn monkeys in cages which aren't the garden's crowning glory, but I didn't see these so can't judge.


Of course, it's often the small differences that are the most engaging when visiting somewhere new. On my way back, I was rather taken by these birds foraging around the base of a tree on the side of a busy street. Despite their pigeon-sized stature, it's only when you get closer you realise they're chickens. Look at 'em! Tiny chickens!

Just having a quiet night out.

That evening, on my only night in the mysterious East, I went to a bar on a standard week night in Hanoi, and the place was heaving! The bars, able to seat perhaps twenty people inside if they were friendly and had high tolerances when it came to body odour, had simply placed tiny stools out on the pavement, spilling past the gutters and into the road itself, and most of them were occupied. You'd raise a hand and a lady in a sponsored trouser suit would take your order, promptly bringing you a set of beers and your change with marked efficiency. Occasionally, the police would pass and scoot everyone back towards the buildings, but like an amorphous semi-sentient liquid, we gradually oozed our way to our original positions. It was all good-natured and unthreatening, and I struck up conversations with visitors from Malaysia, Australia, the US and Japan, and they all seemed to be having a damn good time.

Too soon, after a night out that cost less than a few Costa coffees and a bit of a kip, I was on my way back to Blighty.

So what did I learn about Hanoi?

That it's as mad and built up and varied as any city you can think of, that it would definitely be worth coming back, especially to visit the rural areas that you can see tantalisingly close through the haze, with those iconic green clad hills just asking to be explored.

Maybe next time.

I Like The Way You Walk It

Occasionally, a combination of hurly and burly from modern living, sometimes in conjunction with hustle and a spot of bustle, lead me to feel the negative pressures of social existence.

I'm not good in shopping malls.

Usually, I notice the subtle signs of mental discombobulation early on, such as a sensation of pressure on the shoulders, low mood, imitating a snarling moose and shouting "I'll eat your radiator!" at buses that get too close. On a positive note these barely visible signals allow me to take steps to ameliorate the effects of such stressors, using the time honoured technique of going for a walk.

For me, nothing resets whatever it is I have instead of a soul like a walk in some woods. For this reason, I found myself wandering through a forested area a few miles from my home, on a very wet and cold November day, togged up in full winter gear and touting the contemporary miracle that is a thermal mug full of coffee. It's quite near the local city-ette and so usually very popular with all sorts of visitors from dog-owners to Nordic walkers to people who just seem to sit in their cars with other people from other cars presumably to pursue some common interest about car interiors, but today all was quiet.

Unfortunately, heavy rains and saturated grounds had contrived to turn these particular woods into a quagmire, so instead of the sense filling, wide eyed experience I was expecting as I strode through autumnal glades, I spent a couple of hours mud-skiing down brown slopes, shlopping through oozing marsh and wading in boggy rivulets, my focus kept on the few feet of sloshing swamp in front of me where there used to be a path.

At one point, my trusty boots (Peter Storms, £50, eight years ago) decided that now was a good time to relinquish their grip on planet Earth, and I glided effortlessly into some brambles and nettles with a frictionless efficiency that would have been the envy of material scientists the world over.

It was great!

Admittedly, it was not the ultimate in relaxing perambulations, but it was invigorating. The inevitable falls resulted in generally soft, squishy and pain-free landings, and there was no-one there to witness me plonking myself down on my arse, which means woods are a safe haven from schadenfreude. Unless the squirrels are pointing and laughing. Even stopping to remove a thorn with my handy Swiss Army tweezers gave me a sense of completed satisfaction.

And it was scenic. From the utterly glorious explosions of amber that decorated the trees, to the flowing streamlets shoving dead leaves aside in neat aisles of wet vegetation. I was particularly taken with the dripping moss and tenacious mushrooms that clung to the wooden limbs all around. Soft things doing well in a hard world.

Soggy

I would've taken more pictures but it was, you know, wet.

Turns out you don't need a balmy Summer's afternoon to fully appreciate the woods.

And breathe . . .