Today, I have no opinions whatsoever. I don’t mean that I’ve cancelled all my social-media accounts, but I have gone through Facebook snoozing everybody for thirty days (no offence), so that instead of having my passions inflamed by some diatribe against [redacted], I’m shown that notice telling me to start by finding some friends.

Modern equivalent of “get a life”, I suppose, although I am old enough to remember when it was still a novelty to have “Facebook friends” without even knowing them. [Younger readers: “friends” used to be people close to you; to “like” them would require a self-generated and typically involuntary emotional response.] I do feel that I like (old-style) some of my Facebook friends in remote corners of the USA and other countries, but I do also realise that “remote corners” is just my way of saying that I’ve no idea where any of them are. The USA is rectangular, isn’t it, with blue and red squares drawn on it? Remote corners, not so much.

There’s a caucus, whatever that is, and the trees are hanging with chads. There’s a South, although nobody seems to mention the North. I did once (more than once) answer a question on Quora, asked by an American person about some detail of British life, but I’ve learned my lesson from that experience. I’m a southerner too, apparently, and therefore I don’t know anything. I did once look up the physical address of a US Facebook friend (who gave it on a personal website) on Google Maps, and the houses are different too. [Older readers: idle curiosity and stalking are different things, thank you very much.]

So yes, I’ve snoozed everybody. [Beep! Story idea.] It’s possible that I’m even having a “digital detox” today, given that I’m writing this with a pen on paper, but that’s just newspeak for what used to be called an average day. Sun’s up (actually, it’s cloudy), sea’s calm (flurries of wind in the trees and on the water), the bluebells are up and so is the cow parsley (genuine news). The scaffolding-and-roadworks season is over, and the car parks are open for visitors. A cruise ship came in earlier, so the trade in beads and trinkets with FALMOUTH written on them will be brisk today. Oh, and I have things to do.

I remember a trip to London once, a long time ago – a very long time; I don’t go to London much – and walking up the ramp past the taxis into the daylight. I remember being struck by the billboard advertising: so much “noise” forcing its way into my attention. I was used to looking at trees back then, and fields with sheep in them. Not that staring at a tree’s worth of leaves and listening to the noise of the wind is necessarily “better”, in whatever sense you’d like to stipulate, than listening to traffic noise and being told to buy Aptamil follow-on milk*, but, well. Mostly I drink goat’s milk these days.

I’m going to have a day featuring daylight and air and work and tidying up and imagining things (I’ve been working on my interior monologue) and probably gardening as well. I might buy an actual physical newspaper, not for the news as it was yesterday but for the tactile association with the past, and I might go take another look at all the typewriters for sale in the antique shops. Even people who never owned typewriters seem to miss typewriters, going by how often they're used online to represent writing. Perhaps I should...

But that would be a step too far. Too noisy. I might grab a sandwich or a baked potato at the newly-open-for-the-season Castle Beach Café, and if my walk back home takes me past Gyllyngvase Beach, I will definitely think about swimming (see below the picture). “Grab” – funny how verbs attach themselves to actions. I will order and pay for and sit down and wait to be brought a sandwich or a baked potato at the Castle Beach Café. “Grab” – I suppose our collective self-image these days is grabbing and rushing and always being excitingly busy and engaged.

As opposed to staring at our screens while sea levels rise around us. The next big idea is going to be the world we can enter fully via our minds, and I suppose we’re nearly there with our games and virtual reality. The next big idea will be the virtual world that we can enter to get away from real reality, I mean. Take ourselves away from all the disaster. If you see an ostrich in a cartoon, it’s sticking its head in the sand to avoid catastrophe. [Actually, spellcheck, it’s and its; I’m pretty sure that’s correct. Sorry to confuse you.] If you see a not-quite-young person in a cartoon, er, there’ll be a smartphone, and, er, no, I’m not suggesting anything. Just, you know, like to mention ostriches every now and then.

That was close. Perhaps I should Harness The Power Of Technology to stay out of trouble with my youngers. [“Respect your elders!” I was told, a long time ago. But I’m running out of those.] There’s probably an app for it. But no. I like this day. I’ll stick with it. Time enough later to open up a screen and retrieve my passionate interest in the big remote issues that fill our collectivised attention. [I’m sure there was a life-or-death struggle over something beginning with B, but we all seem to have dropped that. How easily we're herded into caring, right? How easily we forget when we're not being told what to think.] As I say, I like this day. The sun’s out properly now, and there’s a whole outside world out there. Sun, and wind, and seagulls, and the soon-to-be-enormous gunnera in Queen Mary Gardens. That cruise ship. Life, the neighbourhood, and all the rest of it.

Facebook’s advice is good, after all. I’ll go out and find my friends. I wonder where they are.

*I think I got that one off the TV.

Once upon a time, my superpower was going to be seeing people as they imagine themselves to be. If they felt themselves to be beautiful, I’d see them as beautiful, and if they felt themselves to be – yeah, I’d see them like that and perhaps be able to reach out in a way that would help. But I tried it for a while (even in my own life, I am not a reliable narrator), and decided to go back to the one where I could breathe under water. I like the idea of heading off down to the beach and keeping on heading.

I’d have to lose weight, I suppose, or at least be negatively buoyant in some way, and the whole breathing-under-water thing would have some kind of a ramification for my on-land respiration. Perhaps people who wear scarves all the time are concealing gills. Or perhaps that’s why so many people carry bottles of water all the time. It’s not hydration; it’s breathing. I’d have to invest in a wetsuit, I suppose, or perhaps I would adapt. The man was pointed out to me – this is last time I was at the Gylly Beach Café; try one of the salted caramel chocolate brownies – who swims every day of the year.

In fact, I can’t go near the beach without somebody being pointed out to me who swims every day of the year. Or early in the morning. Or by actually getting into the water rather than by sitting down and thinking about it over a hot chocolate and a – yes, one of those. Aid to the concentration, you understand. Swimming is wonderful exercise, and just for the record, I did go swimming for the first time this year on Saturday 30th March. Then again – I was Not Alone this second time; we had a picnic breakfast on the sand afterwards – on the Sunday.

But I can’t go into the water now, I find, without one of the other swimmers whispering, “There’s the man who…” and phrases come to me across the surf – “salted caramel” … “in the café” … “eats” … “every day of the year” … and perhaps it’s just that my other superpower is to hear what everybody’s thinking and (but) mix it up with my own guilty conscience. No, I don’t own a wetsuit, which is something. Yes, the water is cold, and no, I don’t eat brownies that often. All the other swimmers, at the times I go into the water, seem to be strong-looking women who swim for miles in the time it takes for me to get my feet off the bottom without sinking.

Perhaps I wouldn’t have so much trouble after all if I did switch my superpower to the one where I go walkabout under water. I don’t think I’d go far, or look for anything in particular, but I’m just curious, that’s all. If you follow the same nature documentaries as I do, you’ll know that fishes are colourful little things, synchronised-swimming in shoals and occasionally being grabbed by things that conceal themselves in the ocean floor. I’d have to watch where I put my feet, and perhaps wetsuit shoes would be an investment, but I think there’s potential here for a variation on my usual walk.

Does plastic sink eventually, do you suppose, or would I have to take an enormous butterfly net and wave it above my head? And what about all the discarded fishing nets and lines and all the snagged hooks? Are there stories, sometimes, of nuclear waste and other pollutants being dumped far out at sea? Dangerous business, being a fish. On second thoughts…

Hot chocolate, please, yes, with marshmallows, and another of those…

One of these days, there’s going to be a revolution and the people are going to rise up in its wake. They’ll flow across whatever wall has been set up to hold them back, and in doing so, remind us (again) of the limits of what we call power. But not yet. The lesson of the Occupy movement, if I remember rightly, was that there needs to be a next step. Whatever the demonstration, however good the cause, the question “You’ve made your point; now what do we do?” needs an answer.

Among the novels I’m not writing at the moment is a loosely fictionalised account of the Peasant’s Revolt of 1381, but with added social media. This was the one in which Wat Tyler led a march on London to protest about high taxation (to pay off debts incurred during the Hundred Years’ War), government incompetence (put whatever you like between these brackets) and a range of social upheavals first triggered by the Black Death of the 1340s. Half the taxpaying population was dead of plague back then, so the debt-laden government had the bright idea of raising taxes. Yeah!

Wat Tyler uses Facebook and Instagram to build up a following, and then Twitter to gather a crowd for (and during) his march on London. He’s watched throughout by agents of King Richard II’s government, and he’s lucky to beat off an attempt to shut down all his social-media accounts using terrorism legislation. Early skirmishes go viral, and the insurrection spreads through London’s Docklands (which in those days actually were docklands). King Richard II, being 14 in 1381, is adept at vlogging, and breaks off from his series of profiles of celebrities visiting court, to appeal for calm.

That goes down badly with the cabal of sinister-looking hard men in black hats and tights leading the royal government, and the Lord Chancellor, Simon Sudbury, colludes with the Lord High Treasurer, Robert Hales, to force through legislation whereby all online activity carried on government servers has to be vetted by his office. But the various young noblemen (and women) who grew up with Richard, sharing his private tutors, et cetera, have their own ideas about that. The government scrambles to shut down YouTube, but can’t get it done before another clip appears in which Richard appeals to people to, like, chill.

And we take it from there. Encouraged by the king’s attitude, the marchers press on to the Tower of London, where they find Sudbury and Hales both laughing maniacally from high windows, and then they stop for lunch at Smithfield Meat Market – where they’re met at last by Richard, who has been encouraged by his friends to lay on a big spread at Vic Naylor’s in St John Street, which was actually open from 1986 to 2009 but what’s a story like this without at least one anachronism? The two sides immediately hit it off, and it’s agreed that, one, serfdom will be abolished, and two, the Council Tax won’t be introduced in 1993.

King Richard II was nothing if not forward-thinking. English (and in due course, British) history goes off in an entirely new direction. The widespread use of social media in 1381 completely messes up the endgame for the grown-ups around Richard: the militia raised by London mayor William Walworth doesn’t crush the revolt – the rebels use Twitter again, to raise the alarm – and in due course Henry le Despenser’s army fails to stem the tide of revolution at the Battle of North Walsham, which in my version never happened. There’s a clip of a young woman standing in front of a fully caparisoned warhorse, and refusing to budge.

The Summer of Love comes early – 1386, not 1967 – and history accelerates. Restrictions on cross-channel travel are lifted, and a trading alliance is formed between England and France. The Long Parliament, which is on record as having sat from 1640 to 1660, actually gets its act together in 1388. First item on the order paper is a bill to replace the established system whereby old, rich men (and women; this is alt. hist.) with country estates and private armies run everything. That’s approved unanimously, and Richard’s young allies carry their beanbags and smartphones into the debating chamber.

Around about now, coffee begins to be imported from the New World, and on 5th April 1389 the first takeaway Tall Skinny Latte is ordered from a coffee shop in Pudding Lane, London. The place used to be a bakery, but they’d had a small fire, and after the owner had installed his new-fangled sprinkler system, there wasn’t room for the old bread ovens – just for one coffee roaster. Sprinkler systems took up a lot of space back then. The Spanish Armada drops anchor that lunchtime at Canary Wharf (fair weather, lousy navigation), and to their collective surprise the soldiers and sailors on board are invited to the first of a series of street parties that’s going to be held on the western edge of London as it was then (they accept).

The Long Parliament debates a motion to extend the European Free Trade Area to include Castile, Aragon and Granada. But – this being a novel that I’m NOT writing at the moment – nobody dashes off any merry quips, epic poems or complete plays in blank verse about the merits of free trade. There are NO parallels here with the events of today. The English Civil War doesn’t start on time, admittedly, but when it does start it has nothing to do with empire builders versus free traders. It’s all about early surveillance capitalism, and the king’s monopoly on podcasting. Some of those royal fashion shows are a bit, y’know, samey. Yes, and all those men standing in shop doorways with big box cameras on tripods and black cloths over their heads can’t be doing much for trade.

By now, the Long Parliament has given up all pretence of being a debating chamber, and every day, new-fangled apps are being trundled out on carts and carried to Ye Innovation Hubbes of the City, where young people fired up on caffeine and the adventure novels of William Shakespeare are fitting out ships to sail off over the horizon and explore distant lands. They've all got hats and cloaks and telescopes, and they're all fired up with the dream of bringing back tobacco, expensive footballers, mythical beasts, dinosaurs thought to be extinct, self-help gurus spouting the wisdom of remote tribes, jewels prized out of weird little statues with curses attached.

As they work, and as they celebrate their good fortune to come, those young would-be adventurers share but one aim: to build a free-trade area on which the sun never sets.

Having only recently arrived from a parallel universe, I find it impossible to understand how you people make such a mess of your politics. You voted on a simple question, and then you turned it into a complicated question. To listen to your media, and the talk around where I live, you’re all in favour of retaining the status quo, and yet when you all voted, the result took you all by surprise. What’s actually happening – after the vote by a narrow margin to overturn the status quo – is underpinned by a deafening silence. Voters for change keep quiet while the loudest voices continue to agree that the status quo is best.

I looked up a politician the other day. This individual had been described as “loathsome” on Facebook. He’s not somebody I would support, and his views are some way distant from anything I could believe, but I have a problem with attacking individuals directly, rather than engaging with their beliefs. Not just because history’s full of examples of how wrong that can go, but also because any set of “loathsome” beliefs can be refuted by argument – assuming that they’re wrong – while name-calling says so much more about the person shouting the names. Call me idealistic, or naïve, but a founding principle of liberal democracy is that we prefer debate to insult.

So. I looked him up. He’s out of step with what “we all believe”, if I can put it that way, and my reason for looking him up was that I couldn’t quite work out what he was doing in the House of Commons, as an elected MP. How could those views have won an election? Still don’t know the answer to that one, but what I do know is: in the general election of 2017, this individual won by a margin of more than 10,000 votes. That “deafening silence” I mentioned earlier – the people who don’t talk about politics outnumber the people who do. And they vote differently.

Because I’m not half as fluent in Latin as I like to pretend, I looked up “ad hominem attack” online, and yes, that is what I’m talking about. An “ad hominem attack” is a “fallacious argumentative strategy” whereby you call me an idiot rather than telling me where I went wrong. Nothing in the word “loathsome” will convince our featured politician that he’s on the wrong side of the argument. More importantly, while you’re busy name-calling, those 10,000 voters will keep silent rather than engage with you, and they won’t switch their votes.

There’s a diagram. Look up “Paul Graham’s Hierarchy of Disagreement” and scroll down through the results until you get to this, for example. You can stop off at the essay on "How to Disagree" at paulgraham.com, but what you want is the pyramid – actually, it’s on the Wikipedia page as well, but that link gives you both pyramid and a bit of background. [And, curiously enough, a YouTube clip entitled "Jim Gaffigan Wants You to Talk to a Trump Supporter – and Listen." Which makes a similar point, in a US context, rather well.] Searching for “How to Disagree” gets you a lot of other results, most of which emphasise politeness, but we’re going with the pyramid.

Lowest form of political argument – disagreement – is name-calling, so the pyramid tells us. Second-lowest is the ad-hominem attack (Paul Graham’s essay explains the fine difference between the two). If you want to be heard – for example, by those 10,000 voters – you have to go further up the pyramid. At the top is refuting the central point of an argument. And what Paul Graham says about that one is: it’s the only form of disagreement that involves no dishonesty whatsoever. That’s his point rather than mine, but – yeah, I get it. Make your point. Justify it. Convince people. Get elected, and sort out this mess.

Back in 2016, we had a People’s Vote on the question “Should the United Kingdom remain a member of the European Union or leave the European Union?” On Monday of this week, our politicians failed to agree on: should we stay in a customs union with the EU; should we remain in the EFTA; should we hold another referendum; should we vote on whether to leave without a deal if we can’t agree on a deal? All of those options arising as part of our elected representatives’ attempts to implement the result of the 2016 vote. They represent us, right? Does that mean they’re like us?

Discuss. But before you start – Paul Graham concludes his essay with this. “You don't have to be mean when you have a real point to make. In fact, you don't want to. If you have something real to say, being mean just gets in the way.”

Let’s just argue, shall we, without the insults? We’re all on the same side, after all – or if we’re not, we should talk about that.

Turned on the radio to hear Theresa May talking about parliament “looking for a solution” to the B***** crisis. Struck me that if only parliament would stop looking for a solution, the crisis would solve itself and we could move on to sorting out the aftermath. That’s literally true of the current stalemate, but maybe there’s a lesson here that could be applied more widely.

What if we’re wrong? What if none of it matters? A friend suggested to me the other day that the United Kingdom’s chance of a prosperous future had been “cancelled by Brexit,” in that slightly annoying (to me) more-passively-sinned-against-than-aggressively-sinning tone that goes straight to resentment without passing reaction. I wanted to say: don’t sit there moaning; do something about it! Then there was the enormous march, and with that came news of the enormous petition, and I thought: those people have really messed up the opening paragraph of my post this week.

But I’m okay with that. I’m all for getting out and doing stuff. Whingeing on social media, not so much. [Yes, I know. But this isn’t social media; it’s my website.] Marching beats signing petitions, and signing petitions beats moaning about Brexit privately and/or on social media. And all of the above beat the sheer paranoid inertia of telling me that our children’s children’s futures have been blighted by that referendum. If a generation is twenty-five years, say, and two generations is, er, not far off fifty-ish years, that means the reverberations of the 2016 People’s Vote will still be felt in 2066. Which is a bit like saying … let me see, fifty years back from 2019 … that we’re living lives blighted by the events of 1969. And if you look back at 1969, you see how ridic–

Oh! The internet was invented in 1969 (ARPANET), the modern gay rights movement in the USA got started (after the Stonewall riots) and the first cash machine (ATM) went live. Moon landing, cold war, et cetera. It was an interesting year after all, and there goes my third paragraph. I take back the word “blighted,” but apart from that – yeah, okay. Maybe in 2069 we’ll be three years out from another People’s Vote on the EU, and parliament will be conducting a series of “indicative votes” to find out what it thinks – sorry, to “take control,” I mean. That’s what my radio said these votes were intended to achieve. Stop laughing; this is a serious subject. No, really. Parliament’s “taking control”. I said stop laughing!*

But what if we’re wrong? What if Brexit isn’t the big historic thing? What if it’s the 2019 equivalent of, oh, I don’t know, the 1969 publication of Barbara Castle’s In Place of Strife white paper, which of course has transformed all of our lives and continues to drive political debate today? Or more accurately – doesn’t. What if the writing on those placards you were carrying last Saturday isn’t the writing on the wall? Sorry. That was just too neat to resist. What I mean is – what if Brexit itself doesn’t matter so much, but – in 1969, the Stonewall riots caused far longer-lasting change than any of the politicians did – the marching and the shouting and the banner-waving do matter?

My sources tell me (okay, I’ve just googled the phrase) that the original “writing on the wall” appeared while King Belshazzar of Babylon was hosting a feast. What it said was “Numbered, numbered, weighed and they are divided,” and what it was interpreted to mean was “Your formerly united kingdom is about to collapse, guv.” Which – if you’ll allow for the very loose translation – is peculiarly appropriate. W B Yeats wrote the poem in which the phrase “The centre cannot hold” appears, and Alfred Hitchcock’s screen-writing associate Angus MacPhail came up with the term “the MacGuffin” to describe “the desired object that serves to advance the plot” (thanks, Wikipedia).

What if Brexit’s the MacGuffin that we’re all chasing in a historical narrative that’s all about the chase? Yes, Leave/Remain does matter, up to a point, and yes, I suppose the terms of the withdrawal are important. But this important? Really? I don’t know whether there’s a “silent majority” of “shy Tories” or “shy Leavers” who would take us all by surprise in the event of a second referendum, but I do suspect that tomorrow’s historians will focus more on the noise of this one than the substance. If you filter out the issue itself, you’re left with: a government that doesn’t seem able to govern; an opposition that doesn’t seem able to oppose; a cast of serial forecasters prophesying a doom that never quite arrives; our Brexit-obsessed media; our failing nation state; a climate that’s warming us into extinction anyway…

…and a heck of a lot of noise that seems to be coming from the people. We’re not “populists”, because that term now refers to autocratic right-wing leaders and would-be leaders of EU member states, but the “national conversation” does seem to be running kind of hot. And what I think about that is: we’re all so very networked these days, so wholly connected to the means of self-expression, that a five-year cycle of voting in a bunch of remote representatives to make our decisions for us – or fail to do that, ha ha – just doesn’t do it for me. I like the idea that parliament’s “taking back control,” or taking control, or whatever it’s doing (ha ha ha ha ha ha ha – sorry), but I suspect that what really happening here is a kind of chaotic subsidiarity.

And if you’re not familiar with that term, it’s defined in Article Five of the Treaty on European Union (2007). Or let’s try the internet. “Subsidiarity is a principle of social organization that holds that social and political issues should be dealt with at the most immediate level that is consistent with their resolution.” Go, Wikipedia! And if we run that through the same translation software as we used for the writing on the wall, we get the idea that if government can’t govern, parliament has a go, and if that doesn’t work, we try another People’s Vote, and if we’re still arguing, well, we’ve all got the smartphones we need to muster an English Spring, which is like an Arab Spring (other constituent nations of the United Kingdom are available) but without the firearms.

We end up with politicians who are within range of our dissent. If the current arrangement of remote government (sic) by total strangers in armoured saloon cars with motorcycle outriders doesn't work, and if it doesn't work because they're out of touch with the national conversation as it is now being conducted (via technology, on social media, et cetera), then I suggest that we forget about national government and devolve power down to "administrative units" no bigger than you could realistically fit into a smartphone's contact list. [By the way, look up “How Belgium Survived 20 Months Without a Government” online.] We’re due for a big rethink (post-mortem) on how national government works (or rather, doesn't), and whether we plan this or it just happens, I suggest that short-range government (the term "local government" is already in use) will prove to be both workable on a human scale and compatible with our technology.

Now, I realise I’ve written this post in a digital format in the middle of the Modern Dark Age, but just in case it does survive, here’s a footnote for future historians. You’ll know that we went over to digital storage for all our important records – we called it “the cloud” – without properly thinking through the tendency of digital storage to decay, and I’m sorry that we’ve left nothing behind except a pile of plastic bottles – but in case you’re wondering, “Brexit” was the name we gave to an early attempt by one of the states to secede from Europa (then known as “the EU”), and if you do have that much, Brexit fits into the timeline before Grexit, Frexit and the European Civil War. Yes, all those terms with "-exit" attached refer to episodes of civil unrest.

And if you’re reading this in 2069 and you think I might be your long-lost grandfather – sorry about the mess.

*They've rejected every option! Okay, you can laugh now.

Unless you write about politics, and people pay to read what you write about politics, don’t post about politics. That would be Lesson One in my non-existent Social Media for Creative and Interesting People online training course, which I’m now offering at the cut-down price of still more money than it’s worth. It’s not that half your audience will disagree with you, but that there seems to be a set tone of voice for political dialogue.

We’re all resentful. Somebody’s either in the wrong, or too stupid to see the obvious truth as we see it, or both. And yet they have the power to ignore us. Which is Not Fair! And all that comes across in the tone of voice. [Sorry, grammar-check; I am going to start that sentence with ‘And’.] If you post about politics, it’s very easy to sound mulish and dogmatic, and if you reply to comments on your post about politics, it’s very easy to sound irritable and impatient with your readers’ failure to see the obvious truth as you’ve seen it.

If you’re a writer, say, you might even end up attacking potential buyers of your book. More likely than that, and more damaging – your sarcastic side is on display, for however long, to any potential buyer of your book who googles your name. And that is absolutely not a good look. Social media for writers is a matter of being the person who writes those books. For creative and interesting people – other creative and interesting people, sorry – it’s a matter of being creative and interesting.

I don’t say this is an absolute ban, and if you want me to know what you think about [yes, that], okay, but please try to foam at the mouth in a way that doesn’t ruin my first coffee of the day. Then you can wear the noise-cancelling headphones and I’ll tell you what I think about [yes, that]. And then we’ll part, and spend the next hour feeling less friendly towards each other. We won’t change our views, because politics isn’t a rational weighing-up of The Facts; it’s a conjunction of upbringing, tribal loyalty, peer-group pressure (however light) and observation.

I agree with you that this is happening – observation, check – but we’ll never agree on who to vote for in the hope that they’ll do something about it because you’re you and I’m me. And they’re them as well, come to think about it. My own problem (headphones, anybody?), very briefly, is that politics is ephemeral. Five years from now, we’ll look back at [yes, that], and only be able to see it in the rosy glow of what happened next. By then, we’ll be panic-stricken about the next-but-several big issue. Which is my other problem. We’re too excited. Why? Millions sign petitions. Millions march. Change happens slowly, if at all. Life goes on. Five years from now…

Perhaps that’s a political view, and I shouldn’t bother you with it. I want to bring this post round to saying that if you’re a creative person, writer or otherwise, touch all of your output with your creativity. Don’t subordinate your vision to some focus-grouped manifesto. March, yes, sign the petition, yes. But hold onto what you are. Don’t just share the outrage; feel it your way and express it your way. Write the story, make the film, post the gif, vlog about what you were wearing on the march - do what you do best. I don’t want to know that you think the same way as everybody else riding the same bandwagon; I want the story told as only you can tell it.

Five years from now – must put this in my calendar – I’m going to write a post about how chaos and confusion, even repression, are conducive to great art. It’ll get past the censors, because I’ll tap it out on an old typewriter rather than a connected device, and I’ll make the first copies using carbon paper. By then, I’ll be running a publishing company that has actual printing presses concealed around the neighbourhood, and one whole cell of the resistance will be dedicated to online shopping in our names, using our digital identities, to confuse the surveillance economy as to who we are.

Well, that was fun. Opened up my laptop and decided to write this post straight onto the website. As opposed to Google Docs, Microsoft Word or the back of an envelope. Clicked the icon for Firefox, and got the “Hmm. We’re having trouble finding that site.” message, along with three suggestions: I could come back later; I could check my network connection; I could check that I’m not behind a firewall that doesn’t allow Firefox to access the internet.

Remembered that I’d switched everything off last night. Debated going upstairs to switch it all back on again. Nah. Plugged in my iPhone, found that the personal-hotspot slider was already green; found that the laptop couldn’t find the iPhone. And vice-versa. Restarted laptop – no luck. Restarted iPhone – no luck. Thought about … yeah, maybe that’s it. Fix it now? No. Want to write. Made coffee. Did washing up. Returned to laptop and opened a Word document. Wrote “Well, that was fun,” and remembered that I’d been thinking about honesty.

Wasn’t there a writer, recently, who faked a large part of his/her personal history? A journalist, maybe? I don’t remember the details, and I wouldn’t name the person anyway, but there was a serious illness, or an experience of discrimination, or something else, that turned out to be invented. Maybe it was ethnic origin or past employment or a professional qualification; I don’t know. A writer for a high-minded US monthly magazine, I think, or possibly a weekly, although the internet kind of stomps on the idea of a periodical, doesn’t it? Maybe it doesn’t. I like buying physical magazines, actually, because – sorry. Where was I?

Of course, it’s deeply shocking that a writer, a culturally sanctioned purveyor of truth and wisdom, should fabricate any part of a personal history. And not just writers – all artists. I remember the furore that erupted, shortly after I joined the Bolshoi Ballet as a principal dancer, when one of the younger choreographers dropped into the conversation that he’d worked with Diaghilev. Oh, the laughter. But also the genuine indignation: how dare this youngster claim to be more than he was! I knew Diaghilev myself, and he’d have laughed at such clumsy name-dropping.

I wouldn’t name the person because we live in a world of illusion anyway, and the best defence is not to vilify the fantasists. A writer invents. Even a writer of facts invents the sentences in which they’re delivered. The craft of “making things up”, if you’ll pardon the inverted commas, applies to fact as well as fiction, and such legitimate building blocks as metaphors, similes, imagery, et cetera, draw on more than just the facts. Whatever those might be. I remember my brief stint as a speechwriter for a past US president who shall remain nameless – realising that the job entailed working up a vision of whatever the situation was, a sense of its historical significance, rather than just a straight retelling of the facts.

We’re all fantasists. It’s in our nature. And our fantasies reveal our vulnerabilities. A choreographer, even a wholly imaginary choreographer, reveals something vulnerable in himself if he claims to have worked with one of the big names of his industry (Sergei Diaghilev, 1872-1929, founded the Ballets Russes in Paris). Something similar applies to writers. It’s in their nature, and it’s in the nature of the job (no, the egg came first), to emphasise the significance of whatever they’re writing. Part of that is to project themselves as writers, of course. I’m okay with the idea that being the exactly-right writer for the story is part of the storytelling. For example - this blog post finally uncovers the startling truth behind whatever it is that I’m on about, and only a writer with my long experience of, I don’t know, blogging about stuff could do the subject justice. That’s the template for a pretty standard claim.

What is the truth, anyway? What are the facts? You may remember the scene in that play I co-wrote with William Shakespeare, in which the characters discuss the difficulty of knowing what the facts are, let alone sticking to them. That writer who falsified a past – yeah, I get that. Just bulking up the story – or even just being human. Some people want to be taller, shorter, thinner, fatter, more attractive, et cetera; some people already believe that they are taller, thinner, good-looking in that outfit, et cetera. Doesn’t matter that you can’t reason with them – it would be a cruelty to be honest with a person who turns up at a big event, for example, in an outfit that makes, um, that bit look big. We all know it and we can all see it, but there are times when the duty to truth comes second to compassion. Honesty is a dish best served tactfully, at home, in advance. With writers – yeah, right, we’ll believe you for now. And maybe get a bit more out of the story by doing so.

And who’s to say that the writer at the top of this blog post wasn’t covering up some personal vulnerability? We rail against fake news, which is one thing, but taking down fantasists can slip over into a kind of mass trolling of the vulnerable. I’ve found it now; I’m being offered the story about the writer as a “sponsored post” on Facebook; a newspaper has paid money to spread it further. Let’s really knock this guy down! Okay, our writer friend (still not naming him) shouldn’t have made that claim, but who are we to cast the first stone? He’s a novelist – an official fantasist – anyway. Phrases such as “no better than she* ought to be” and “ideas above his station” may have dropped out of common usage, but those resentments are still there in our minds. We’re not letting anybody climb out of this hole.

Whatever this hole is. If the absolute cold-light-of-day factual truth is what makes us behave like this, I think I understand why we need fiction, fantasy, self-deception, affirmations, compliments, in whatever order the situation demands. I am uniquely qualified to write this post, and if you’re wondering why, well, I’m an adventurer, an explorer, and once, on a holiday to the Amazon rainforest, I stumbled on a lost tribe of Warrior Women who – it was so disappointing – used me for domestic chores. I gained such insights into the nature of fantasy, and the need for fantasy in situations that could be more exotic and, um, on that trip. I have all the experience and insight I need for this post, and if you want to start researching the evidence for lost tribes of Warrior Women, or Googling lists of principal dancers at the Bolshoi – well, that’s another story, isn’t it?

But be kind when you tell it, why don’t you?

*If you look up “no better than he ought to be” online, it defaults back to “she”. I really wish that surprised me more than it does.

Struck me the other day that all my instincts are designed/evolved (delete according to belief system) to help me get along in situations where even my head might go offline. Not only that; they’re a survival mechanism. Babies have the “startle reflex” whereby they grab for the nearest parent when they’re startled; adults have “fight or flight”, whereby they’re charged up with adrenalin when they’re rear-ended by a fugitive bad guy driving a stolen car through the downtown streets of the City of Angels. An oncoming deadline triggers the “drink coffee” reflex.

Instincts are great, if you can stick to situations where they apply. A startled baby needs a mother who is practised in the art of swinging from tree to tree to get away; a driver hit from behind by a passing high-speed chase needs an encyclopaedic knowledge of the back streets and the ability to drive on two wheels down narrow alleys and through street markets to overtake the bad guy and get his insurance details. Name, anyway. Other instincts are specific to, for example, keeping population levels up, but we needn’t go into those.

The thing about instincts is that most of the time, we don’t know they’re there. And the other thing about instincts is that they’re completely inappropriate. Babies might grab for a tree-climbing mother; they actually get picked up by a parent of the grounded variety. That driver has to tone down the urge to fight (or run away) for long enough to sustain an intelligent conversation with the driver from the breakdown service. “Don’t get mad, get even” works better as “Don’t get instinctive, get civilised.”

Boringly enough. Instinctive behaviour would be fun, don’t you think, if we could find a way of doing all that without upsetting the neighbours? Or each other? More than fun – all of that cavorting about is how we’re designed to behave. We are those animals. The basic design/evolution principle behind human beings is: we fight, or we climb the trees with our babies. We do a variety of other things that we associate with fun. Adventure playgrounds, for example. And yet we’ve built a civilisation in which very few of our instincts work in our favour, and some of them are downright inconvenient.

We needn’t go into those either, and I’m not saying we’re wrong to be civilised first – but instinctive never? Not even second or third? To what extent do we deny essential traits of ourselves and each other, and what does that do to us? I don’t know the answer to that, but I wonder sometimes.

 Has there been any research done on the apology rate? By that, I mean the rate at which tech giants, other large corporates, governments and other public-service institutions, et cetera, decline to be interviewed but instead put out a statement saying that (1) Lessons Have Been Learned, and/or (2) We Have Already Invested Billions In Achieving Excellence In This Area Where We've Just Messed Up. Again. Because I think the apology rate is going up.

In my imaginary novelisation of the collapse of Western Civilisation (sic), the fall starts with a series of minor glitches in routine systems that have disproportionately big impacts. Mostly, these are human-nature errors that are taken up and spread all too widely by technology, but there are a few instances of sloppy programming, and one or two where the accident investigators work out that some critical person didn't take ownership of whatever he or she was supposed to be getting just right. Instead did what the car industry used to call a Friday-afternoon job (strictly, the phrase I'm remembering is "Friday-afternoon car").

So a bank's systems start to reject long-standing routine payments, for example. Not all of them, but enough to cause bankruptcies and other awkwardnesses down the line. Welfare payments also stop randomly, and there are deaths from starvation and imprisonments for hunger-motivated thefts - but these don't get as much publicity as the hedge-fund manager embarrassed at the country club because her membership wasn't auto-renewed. Hospital admissions are snarled up, patient records go missing (and if you haven't got records, you can't be treated), and whole fleets of cars are recalled because their wheels fall off when they go above 40mph. That hedge-fund manager kicks up a stink. Then the country club goes bust and important people realise that this is serious.

I'm deliberately not using any real-life examples, although I can't stop thinking of them, because Lessons Have Been Learned and we can rely on those companies (governments) not to do anything like that again. Can't we? And by the way, I'm not making the old-guy point that technology makes us careless and prone not to bother too much about details. We've always been careless, et cetera. It is worth asking: what does technology assume? Because the answer tells us something about ourselves. The boom in audio books tells us that we don't read as much as we did, for example; the success of grammar-checking software suggests that we can't write accurately any more.

I'm not a "grammar nazi" (telling phrase) because I'm okay with the idea that language evolves, and I'm wrong to think that I'm in a dying business - writing this in words rather than speaking it straight to video - because the USA and beyond is full of young people writing fantasy novels and putting them out via Kindle, Kobo, et cetera. Look up Angel Medina ("Aspiring Author") on Facebook, for example. Read him. The "But" that corresponds to the "It is worth asking" line in the paragraph before this one goes like this: "But that's all it does." Technology makes assumptions that tell us about ourselves - but that's all. And even that's just an example of how technology just extends human nature. Towards inertia, or perhaps even laziness, but the point stands. On the plus side, technology extends us towards publishing our fantasy novels.

I'm writing about big human organisations. Those vast corporate entities where, for example, the front-line duty of care to customers is outsourced either to computer systems or to minimum-wage workers (and no offence to them, but they're not exactly incentivised to "take ownership" of their employer's reputation). Western capitalism is a hotel where nobody cares about the state of the rooms nor the timely delivery of room service; where tips are grabbed by the management; where management lives in the penthouse suite and buys in services from outside. What do you mean, you can never leave? You can ride through the rooms on a horse with no name, for all I care, and those people over there are convinced they can burn it all down. No, that's early-morning mist on the water. Put down that guitar - now!

Capitalism, civilisation, back on track. In Chapter Two of my imaginary novelisation, the CEO of a tech giant seethes at the head of a boardroom table. The meeting is about the tiny little errors that have been creeping into the code - that have been exposed in the source code, et cetera - that have been causing minor frustrations for customers - including customers with big social-media followings. Something has to be done. Finally, after listening to the tech people for too long, the CEO bangs the table. The word has to go out that the problem has been fixed. Lessons have been learned. The CEO is doubling the company's social-media and advertising budgets, and he wants to get even bigger celebrities promoting the brand.

The word goes out. Vloggers, bloggers, celebrities are all brought in to bolster the brand and tell the world that everything's fine ... and all the errors and the viruses go on trickling through the system, spreading through the networks, cue sinister music. But Lessons Have Been Learned and the future is bright. By now, the astute reader is beginning to suspect that I have a thing about the way big organisations never quite seem to get it right. And the astute reader is onto something. Big organisations - especially the ones that send me text messages addessed to "Hey William" - never quite seem to get their act together. Chapters Three and Four depict a world in which Everything's Fine, with Business As Usual, and if rising sea levels are beginning to flood low-lying suburbs - yeah, that's really serious, and our PR people are right on it.

I mean, global corporates like ours are teaming up with governments to harness the power of technology in declaring a worldwide campaign against global warming; you can download the declaration to your smart device. We've agreed unanimously - at 11.59 last night, actually, isn't that cool? - that global warming is a bad thing and Action Must Be Taken. Of course our CEO's available for interview, but why don't you save yourself some time by using these pre-approved remarks in your article? What's that? Oh, we'll go along with everything that we all decide to do. Pro-actively, of course. Governments must act, and we'll go right along with what they do. And hey, we're the good guys, right? The CEO demanded an assurance from the tech people that everything was fine with the software. You'll read about it in the media release. Really demanded. They caved in right away.

In Chapter Five, the maverick programmer gets fired from her job (for arguing yet again that they should fix the source code rather than adding more patches), and while wandering in Company Park afterwards, meets the feisty young anthropologist who will be her sidekick through the rest of the book. He's been trying to introduce insects into the park (with its imported trees and underground heating for the exotic plants), and talks excitedly about how it's not too late. By Chapter Six going on Seven, Lessons Have Been Learned to the extent that the electricity grid has failed, the suburbs are under water, and the tech giant has Invested In Excellence to the extent of distributing massive generators around the downtown area (except where it's under water, of course), so that customers can charge their smart devices and keep up with the tech giant's progress in Demanding That Global Warming Must Be Stopped.

By now, the feisty anthopologist and the maverick programmer are living in a beach hut somewhere, and he's convinced her that using nanotechnology to make smart replica insects is not the answer. They've built their beach hut out of washed-up plastic, and now they're working on a boat. One day, using a rod and line, casting from the beach, the anthropologist hauls in something that the programmer has never seen before. Why, it's not made of plastic at all! It's almost ... alive. As the sun comes up over the distant horizon, and that weird music starts up again in the background - they've never been able to track it to its source - he teaches her that there were once fish in the sea, in the time before plastic, and that they could be eaten.

But she flatly refuses to believe that, so - reluctantly - he throws the fish back into the sea and teaches her about vegetables. "I thought apples grew in baskets, in farmers' markets," she says at one point. But no. They light a fire and huddle together under the blanket, watching - the continuity's completely off here - the sun go back down again. Chapter Eight happens, and then Chapter Nine, and by the time sea levels stop rising, they're living in a beach hut on the edge of Las Vegas, which blew all its fuses years ago and is now a deserted tropical paradise, overgrown with trees and creepers and thick green undergrowth. There are lakes, and mangrove swamps, and populations of animals that were either near-extinct or thought to be actually extinct. She's relaxed the vegetarianism to the point where she will eat coelacanth. They're becoming a nuisance.

The novelisation's quite slow in this middle section, but so's the film - critics were divided on the director's decision to tell most of the story in flashback. "There's no tension," said one. "We find out far too early - and it's too obvious anyway - that the world is going to be saved by people working together, in small groups, rather than by governments and big corporates, with their self-interested agendas." And many of them found the ending contrived. I mean - really! The programmer and the anthropologist are sitting on the shore of their reduced America, and they see a boat come towards them over the horizon. It anchors in the bay, and a group come ashore in a launch. They're from somewhere else, and their technology is also something else. Their leader approaches, and says something.

You'll remember the scene. The programmer looks at the leader for a moment, and then offers him a strip of freshly cooked coelacanth. The leader says something, and the programmer shrugs. "De nada," she says. Come on, you do remember the scene. The leader goes back to his people, waiting by the launch, and tells them, in his own language but also in subtitles, "This land is called Denada, and I claim it in the name of the Emperor."

There are two surveillance economies. There's the one in which the various algorithms know me better than I do, because my various online activities and disclosures (and all that location-tracking my phone does) are somehow a window into my soul, and there's the one in which utility companies can send me "Hey, William!" letters offering me (recent example) a video doorbell in exchange for a series of monthly payments added to my utility bill. Regardless of whether or not I have a video doorbell already, or even need one.

I don't have a video doorbell actually, but any description of my front door would have to include the words "glass" and "can see it easily from". My video doorbell would transmit a picture to my phone, so if I didn't want to look out and see who had arrived, or if I was in my kitchen (with my phone) and didn't want to turn round and see who had arrived, it would be very useful. I like the way you think, algorithm. No, really, I'm not laughing at you at all.

And here's another one. "William, live your best life with Fitbit Versa." I had a Fitbit once. Unlike the Fitbit Versa, though, it didn't offer "phone-free music". It just went several ways about measuring my health. Useful, it was, until I stopped wearing it.

I like the person they think I am - this shadow William Essex, this doppelganger, so busy dropping clues online that he wants ... this eclectic range of consumer products and services. Who is he, this guy? In some ways, he's so real to me that I want to call him up and tell him that I'm getting all his mail. In others, he seems to be the kind of everyman that you'd create if your customer profiling only went ... so deep.

Do the people tracking the shadow William Essex really want to gain an intimate knowledge of his wants, needs and desires, or can they sell enough video doorbells without really bothering to get to know him at all? I mean, I'm as impressed as anybody by the overall sinisterness of algorithms and all that - big data and analysis and ooh-scary electronic surveillance - but a video doorbell? Really?

PS. Wifi-enabled (solar-powered?) smart cat's eyes embedded in the roads to communicate with smart self-driving cars. That's the indea I'd have if I was an innovator. The smart self-driving car rolls along, and the cat's eye tells it about the speed limit, the stop sign coming up, the congestion ahead and the school. If we got really sophisticated, we could coat our roads with recycled plastic - people are doing this already - and put a pressure-sensitive grid into the plastic - I don't think anybody's thought of this yet - so that the smart car would have another way of knowing about the stationary big heavy truck dead ahead.

Bumblebee knocking against the window. Clear blue sky. Flat sea. Occasional knocking of a hammer on wood: the roofbeams of that house down below, behind the trees. It's cold in this room, at about knee level as I sit here, and I should probably act on at least one of my array of next things to do. Light the fire? Close the windows upstairs? Unload the washing machine?

I woke up this morning and decided I would have a day of being efficient. So I put on the washing machine, which is what I do when I'm being efficient, then I cleared some junk mail from my inbox and paid a bill. I wrote some emails, and then I wrote a list. I made coffee. I looked up where I'm supposed to be on Thursday. A man with eight children and two grandchildren, all of them boys, came and bought my old television (this doesn't happen every time I have an efficient day, ha ha). I read something that I wrote yesterday, and started writing. Then the washing machine stopped.

And so did I. I've heard of seasonal affective disorder, which is where you - I - get grumpier in winter, but I never realised that I'm on the same cycle as my own washing machine. That does make a kind of sense, though. I put it on, which makes me feel that I'm being efficient, and then it rumbles along in the background while I work (we'll call it "work", if you don't mind). Then the machine stops and by then I'm so used to having it there in the background that I also switch off. The house is still. But for the faint sound of this laptop, and the occasional thump of that hammer, it's silent.

I remember, many years ago, there came into our lives a heavy blue plastic box, roughly hand-sized. If one of us pressed the button, it produced a deep, resonant, thumping heartbeat. Edgar Allan Poe would have loved it. I remember, from around that time, many conversations about the challenge of getting babies to sleep - they like noise, movement, deep, resonant, thumping heartbeats. Maybe it isn't just babies. Maybe I should try writing with the Hoover roaring in the background (that worked, all those years ago), or maybe I should just get all my laundry done? 

Imagine that it’s all absolutely one hundred percent literally true. Right down to the last detail. Go back to your deepest beliefs – not the ones that make sense now (that you’d admit to now), but the ones you can’t dislodge, however rational you might think you are – and imagine that the world, the universe and everything is exactly like that.

There is a Deity, and He/She is that Person. He/She listens to your muttered prayers in those stressful moments. There are fairies at the bottom of the garden, and if you can get to the end of the pavement without treading on the cracks, something good will happen. Touch wood. The thing that lived in your closet has travelled with you, and now lurks in your suitcase – but that’s okay because you can invoke all manner of guardian angels, good fairies, et cetera, to cancel it out.

They’re all out there, watching over you (although they look away when you enter the bathroom). There’s Dark Matter between the stars, and black holes are the points where parallel universes touch. Aliens build saucer-shaped spaceships, and NASA keeps their secrets. There are millions of parallel realities out there, in most of which I’m not writing this and you’re not reading it. Dragons exist, and one day you’ll wake up from this life and find yourself in a garden, under a tree, with a leprechaun waiting to show you around.

Never mind whether all of that adds up to a quasi-religious belief, or an attempt by your animal brain to fill up the gaps in a wholly rational universe that stands to reason even in its weirdest corners. Because either way, or in any way in between those two extremes, you’re stuck with what you believe. I find in myself a gap between what I know to be true, rationally, and what turns up sometimes in the depths of my mind. Did I really just touch wood? Why? I wonder if it’s the same for you. I’m guessing it is. And that's fine. Give yourself a break. You only have to conform on the outside.

We talk a lot about mental health these days, and what we talk about when we’re talking about mental health is mental unhealth. That state of not being able to process emotions, perceptions, beliefs in ways that fit in with the ways that the majority processes all its "stuff". That state of not fitting in. Look up the term “mental health”, and sooner or later you encounter the word “adjustment”, as though mental health is a matter of adjusting to the way the rest of us (them) think.

It’s subjective, relative, and there’s no absolute standard of mental health. Physically, I'm reasonably healthy, although I doubt that I'd pass the physical exam for anything involving effort. Or fitness, if I'm honest. Mentally, I'm reasonably healthy, although I did once flick through a copy of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (fifth edition, 2013, put out by the American Psychiatric Association), and it turns out I have a light touch of everything. Written on the side of a mug in my kitchen are the words "I'm just a normal, functioning member of the human race, and there's no way anyone can prove otherwise." I'm pretty sure that's true. That last bit, I mean.

But there are no absolutes in this, are there? No absolute standards of mental health in the way that I think there's some kind of absolutely accurate atomic clock somewhere, keeping absolutely standard time, by which we can all set the clocks on our smartphones (disclaimer: I may have hallucinated this clock; see the Diagnostic, etc., for further details). There isn't some person somewhere, to whom we all point and say, "That's how we should think! Those are the beliefs we should share!" Imagine how completely nuts such a person would become, under such pressure – and imagine the wars that would start: every country would want their own such person, talking their own languages, sharing their own, er, biases.

I’m writing this in a place and time where I count as reasonably well-adjusted. [A heckler in a blog post, eh? Thank you so much for your input.] I could take a flight of no more than a few hours, in just about any direction, and land somewhere that required a substantial adjustment. Imagine that my superpower was to speak any language and look like a local anywhere on earth – I’d stick out in any country, if I was still adjusted to this one. In some countries, I’d be diagnosed as mentally ill, and in others I’d be taken off the street for my own protection. Or for other reasons, of course.

Now, there’s mental unhealth that is dangerous, and there are extremes of not being adjusted. This is not about them. I’m thinking of people whose not-quite-adjustment makes daily life difficult for them, without threatening the rest of us. [No, grammar check: “whose” not “who’s”.] This isn’t exactly a plea for understanding, although we could do with a few degrees more compassion, because I suspect that I'm thinking about all of us. We’re all a bit off-centre. We're all hiding something. There’s no such thing as mental health, if we mean a pure, clean, absolute, universal standard of normality to which we all adhere, because mental health is all about conforming, putting up a front. Flip that over, and mental health is what we’ll accept from other people.

You’re mentally healthy if you believe in fairies. You’re [ditto] if you believe in a Deity, follow a religious path, touch wood and hug trees, claim to be an atheist, vote for [redacted], think [redacted] talks a lot of sense, believe in reincarnation, slightly believe that you were the Emperor Napoleon, believe that politics is a force for good, pay your respects to magpies, throw salt over your left shoulder whenever you spill it, see angels, believe that your deceased relatives are watching over you and enjoy talking about Brexit.

You’re not mentally healthy if you insist on sharing all that with the rest of us. But it’s okay. You’re still sane if you just can’t help quietly believing it. None of that private stuff matters. We’re all the same to some degree. Yes, I do touch wood. Doesn’t make sense, but … what if I didn’t? The writer Stephen King wrote, “The thing under my bed waiting to grab my ankle isn't real. I know that, and I also know that if I'm careful to keep my foot under the covers, it will never be able to grab my ankle.” Which is what I’ve been trying to say for several paragraphs now.

We’re all human, and that doesn’t qualify us to judge our own or others’ mental health. We’re all human, and while that does give us an instinct to conformity, it can mean we’re quite weird on the inside. We just need to keep our core beliefs to ourselves, to accept them for what they are, and ideally, to get better at accepting each other’s beliefs.

Writing this at the usual table on Monday morning early, because this week I’m going away and I want to get started. The air plants are soaking; the heating system’s grunting, and on the end of my bed upstairs is a small collection of items that need to go into the suitcase. Er, rucksack.

Word associations – packing:suitcase. I’ve got the old rucksack I used to use ten years ago (and more) for a fitness class. Health reasons. Once a week into Truro, hour spent jumping up and down in a class-full of women wearing leotards, and I never did quite get around to asking whether I’d walked into the wrong class. I was always first or last into the shower, and while I was in there, they put a sign on the door: Man In Shower.

Yes, there was a woman who burst in one day to find out whether that was true. No, there wasn’t a lock on the door. Yes, she had just spent an hour leaping around behind me, so she must have known – never mind. Very robust rucksack, described by somebody once as my Swiss Army Rucksack*; red and black with lots of pockets. Just right for a couple of days in North Cornwall**.

Oh, and if we’re doing the full Knausgaard, I should probably mention that I’ve got various small items drying on radiators around the house. The pressure was down on the boiler first thing, so I had to fix that, then I didn’t screw the lid down properly on the Nutribullet, so … yeah. The morning on which I’m just ever so slightly short on time and want to get to work. Must remember to water everything before I go.

I remember one exercise we used to do. We were working on hips and thighs (definitely the wrong class, I know), and we had to walk around in a big circle, legs apart, wearing an elastic band. Now, you may know exactly what I’m talking about here, but in case you’re somebody I would have met in that other class – the one I should have joined – the elastic band goes around your legs, just above the knee, and you have to push against it to walk with your legs apart. This all strengthens – anyway.

There was a time in my life when my hips and thighs were, um, beach-ready. I remember thinking: all those years of so-called civilisation, and here we are. Walking around in a circle while pushing our legs against an elastic band. I never really felt out of place in that class; they were very friendly, although I think there was some degree of amusement at my presence. There wasn’t a single anything on which I could compete with any of them, which was very relaxing.

And all of that from pulling out my old rucksack for the two days away from it all. Vladimir Nabokov published an autobiographical memoir titled Speak, Memory in 1951. I haven’t read it, because it was a set text when I was doing Eng. (and not-so-Eng.) Lit. at university, but the title stays with me. Memory does speak, prompted sometimes by rucksacks. “Through memory Nabokov is able to possess the past,” says Wikipedia. Definitely my rucksack, then.

*Update. There’s a logo. Swissgear. Got it.

**Further update. The Gurnard’s Head, North Cornwall. Dinner, bed, breakfast, lots of walking on the coast path. Very enjoyable, thank you, although an embarrassing photograph seems to have made its way onto Facebook.

Damien Hirst once preserved a shark and titled the resulting artwork The Physical Impossibility of Death in the Mind of Someone Living. The goat’s milk I put on my cereal every morning arrives in 500ml cartons. On those cartons is printed a coupon. I can’t remember when I started cutting out those coupons, but when I’ve saved up enough, I’ll be able to send off and get myself a free stuffed-toy goat. I’m thinking of calling my stuffed-toy goat The Physical Impossibility of Writing a Blog Post without Mentioning Brexit.
 
Even my technology’s in on it. “Here’s what you need to know about Brexit this morning,” said my phone to me when I picked it up for the first time today. I’m writing this on Wednesday, 8am, after breakfast - after not turning on the radio, after making coffee in peace, after eating cereal (full disclosure: muesli) and then thoughtlessly picking up the phone. I’ve switched the thing to silent now and put it on the far side of the room. But it’s too late. It told me last night, just before I went to bed, that the vote had gone as expected. I think I saw the phrase “fighting to save her government” and there was something about a vote of confidence. Been there, done that. I’m busy today. I’ll check the news at lunchtime.
 
Mind you, I like that phrase “need to know”. Makes me think of those old-time spy novels, and films, and intrigues as practised in the fiction of my youth. Among the middle-aged men in bowler hats and night-blue overcoats who used to meet in St James’s Park in the late nineteen-fifties to feed the ducks and talk about the looming (but still just avoidable if the hero goes on a dangerous mission behind the Iron Curtain) spy scandal, information was always shared on a “need to know” basis, which generally meant that hardly anybody got to hear about it. Just the baddies and the half-dozen civil servants around the minister, one of whom was clearly the traitor. Furled umbrellas, anybody? It never quite rained in St James’s Park in the fifties, but it was never warm and sunny either.
 
Today, we have a technology-enabled wonderland - sorry, liberal democracy, and if we assume that the politics we’re seeing is the politics we’re getting - which seems safe enough given that all conspiracy theories require the conspirators to be omni-competent (ha ha, come off it) - then we can work out that my security clearance is roughly on a level with a senior minister’s in, say, the Macmillan government circa 1957. Never mind that I have all the technology I need to fake a moon landing right there in my washing machine; the significant change is that I have the news media, the social media, Wikileaks, even my phone delivering “Witchcraft” material (thank you, John le Carre) to my kitchen worktop, bedside table, er, living-room television, et cetera, all day, every day. My “need to know” is taken for granted, and, um, the delivery is reliable.

My desire to know? Not really. My nostalgia for heavy old bakelite phones with a rotary dial instead of a scrolling display of “news” headlines? Absolutely. I remember thinking years ago, as I sat in an office reading one of the Len Deighton spy novels, that those novels - crumpled macs and weary cynicism for the heroes; immaculate overcoats for the high-ups who didn’t really get it - were written for people who worked in dreary offices where they weren’t saving the world for democracy. Not exactly to give their lives meaning, but to provide some kind of comfort. I may look like the wearily cynical owner of a crumpled mac, as I sit at my desk reading a book in my lunch-break, but wearily cynical owners of crumpled macs can be interesting too, you know.
 
That’s three paragraphs out of five without the B-word. And here I am, all those years later, sitting at my desk. It is - because I don’t write this all at once; I leave it and come back to it - time for my lunch-break. I could go and find myself a Len Deighton novel, or a le Carre, or I suppose I could act out a scene from one of them, in the sense: get myself a real-time briefing on what’s happening in Westminster and beyond. Turn on the radio, I mean, not pull on my overcoat and head for St James’s Park. But - no. Life’s too short to spend time on “affairs of state”, as they used to be called. They’re arguing. They’re going to go on arguing. The EU is going to go on - spookily - speaking with one voice. Our lot are going to go on yelling at each other, and in the wider “national conversation” on social media, insulting each other’s intelligence.
 
For what it’s worth - I know, it's not worth much, but I’ll only take a couple of sentences - I still say that Brexit doesn’t matter. However this plays out, we’ll still be in a relationship with Europe. What’s significant about today - and tomorrow, and with any luck the next day - is that after two years (plus) of confident assertions that the future will be a disaster if we don’t come to our senses and leave/remain - after two years of that confident drivel, we’re beginning to recognise once again that the future is utterly unknowable.
 
Not knowing what’ll happen next is a characteristic of a real future. Endless talk about what “could” happen is just a holding pattern. That “deal” failed. And now the disembodied voices in my radio are asserting - as confidently as ever, mind you - that we don’t know what’s going to happen next. Thanks, people. Welcome to the refresher course on reality.
 
Anybody here remember Oskar Homolka, by the way? I know Michael Caine wore the mac, but still.

Last week, I sat back and thought - no. I’d mixed up two subjects that seemed (at the time) to belong together, and then somehow fumbled the join. Result: a post that didn’t make the point I wanted it to make. Didn’t flow. Didn’t feel right. Didn’t hang together at all, actually, when I looked at it again in the morning. The post was readable in its way, and I fiddled with it for a while trying to make it right, but - no.
 
So I put it on one side and launched into a piece about typewriters and forecasting (as you do). Spontaneous, last-minute and written straight into Weebly (usually, I start out in Google Docs - in a long and lengthening document called Blogs through October). Turns out I’m in favour of typewriters and against forecasting. That piece is down below if you want to read it. [If you’re a grammar nerd, by the way, do let me know whether you agree with that hyphen a moment ago, in ‘last-minute’.]
 
First of my two subjects in last week’s failed post was left-handedness (and we’ll find out in a moment whether it belongs with the second). I’ve written about left-handedness before, I know, but it’s my go-to example of a potentially hazardous condition that affects a minority without attracting any special treatment. I’m not saying that we should all stand up and offer our seats on buses to left-handed people - but we don’t, and there is some evidence that being left-handed is a risky condition. Put “Hidden dangers of being left-handed” into Google.
 
Doncha love the bit about psychotic disorders? Scroll down far enough, and you’ll come to the ancient piece from The New York Times that tells us: “Left-handed people tend to live significantly shorter lives than right-handers, perhaps because they face more perils in a world dominated by the right-handed.” Now, just to be even-handed (sorry), search the phrase “Hidden dangers of being right-handed”. There aren’t any. That phrase also takes you to results about the dangers of being left-handed.
 
It’s almost worth taking this seriously. Roughly 10 per cent of the population are left-handed. I am left-handed. In certain moods, I drop in to kitchen/hardware stores and ask for left-handed scissors. I’m often told (or perhaps rarely, but it stays with me when it happens) that there is no demand. Ditto, garden centres and left-handed secateurs.
 
Population of the UK in 2017 was 66.02 million. [66.02 million at the end of 2017, I think, in case you’re tempted to ask the obvious question.] That’s 6,602,000 left-handed people cutting things with scissors moulded for their “wrong” hands. Six million customers, I should say, who have - I’m just guessing here - given up asking. No demand - yeah, right. That’s a six, followed by (if you ask 2,000 of them to wait outside) six noughts. Every one of them - further assumption - with money to spend.
 
I now own more than one pair of left-handed scissors, because as well as being creative, quick-thinking, et cetera, I am persistent. Look up “Do left-handed people’s brains work differently?” online. If you’re right-handed, I’m quicker-witted than you are, apparently. But don’t worry - read this at your own pace. I keep my left-handed scissors in a drawer, because I don’t want to lose them. But I do get a pair out specially when a right-handed person asks to borrow my scissors.
 
More often than you’d think, actually. Maybe I shouldn’t waste this problem-solving brain of mine on manoeuvring people into borrowing scissors from me. Maybe I should do it more often. I’m part of a minority for whom the entire world is configured the wrong way round, and that’s how it feels for me when I’m using the wrong kind of scissors. So there. No wonder my tribe has more accidents than yours does. Maybe it should be illegal to sell right-handed scissors to left-handed people.
 
Spend just a little more time with your search engine, and you’ll find that left-handed people are more creative, imaginative, quick-thinking, attractive, amusing and all-round wonderful than right-handed people. I know; I wrote some of that stuff myself. If you’re right-handed, you might also notice the various articles putting forward the ridiculous notion that there’s no real difference between left-handed and right-handed people. You can believe that, if you want to; it’s well within your intellectual capacity.
 
Have I offended you yet? The other subject I wanted to bring into that post last week was women’s football. I had just read a thing on Facebook about girls playing football. It was posted by a mother whose daughter plays football, loves football, wonders why she doesn’t see more women playing football on television. Lot of comments. Point made that “the England team” is the one with men in it, even though “the England women’s team” ranks fourth in the world while the men are down at fifth (FIFA rankings; the men went up to fifth in October 2018; the women went down to fourth in December 2018).
 
It’s almost a cliche now, to push women forward all the time, and the truly vital battles for rights and  equality are happening in parts of the world where - may I put it this way? - having to go means having to go outside (and be vulnerable). Those battles are not happening in the boardrooms where the TV rights to football are up for negotiation. Nor in the places where I buy scissors, obviously. But that Facebook post did start me thinking about the vagaries of discrimination. Nobody notices left-handed people, and somehow, nobody notices that so much of the football on television is played by men.
 
I could put together a credible Health & Safety case for compulsory displays of left-handed tools alongside right-handed tools, but actually, why bother? We’ve all got something that puts us at a disadvantage, and I’m not convinced that the challenge of living in a right-handed world hasn’t been good for me over the years. But girls and football - that nagged at me last week, and still does (although I find that there are more women’s games televised than I had assumed). It would be impossible even to write a sentence comparing boys and girls and containing the words “are better at football than”, but if you follow the money, you get to the men’s game.
 
That doesn’t make sense even at the most basic level. People - men and women - like looking at women. That’s true in retail, true in marketing and advertising, just plain true. People like looking at men too, yes, but you can’t tell me that twenty-two women running about with a football aren’t going to be just as worth watching as twenty-two men, can you, really? I don’t imagine that the assorted backers of the men’s game are, in so many words, discriminating against the women’s game, but I do suspect that some of our attitudes run quite deep and don’t change as quickly as we think they do. Even now, whatever we think we believe, what we actually sit down to watch is...

Common sense - perhaps I mean conscious sense - doesn't come into it. I suppose real, deep change takes time, and anything involving money changes slowest of all - the mass audience follows the money just as the money follows the mass audience, and okay, you tell me the one about the chicken and the egg. But I still want to write about this.
 
There are parts of the world where gender issues are potentially life-threatening, and the football question seems likely to sort itself out over time. Okay. I get that. But I realise now what was nagging at me last week: this is about children, not men and women. That’s why I still want to write about it. How would it be - this is the thought that came to me - if all the campaigns for social justice in the world - feminism being the obvious example but not the only one - were run on the principle that every child has a right to a role model? Run for the benefit of the next generation as well as whatever we’re demanding for ourselves.
 
And think about this. I like those occasional moments when somebody says to me “Are you left-handed? I never realised!” as though it’s something special. I hope left-handed children get that. There are left-handed pens for learning to write, and possibly, I don’t know, left-handed keyboards and gadgets and all the rest of it. Whatever there is, I’m also in favour of children, all children, having the right to feel special, even if only (ha!) for being left-handed. The tenuous link - from left-handedness to girls’ football - is the link between feeling special and having a role model. Tenuous, yes, I know, but you tell me that a small child dressed entirely in a certain team’s kit, with a certain number (and name) on the back isn’t feeling special.
 
Where the post went completely wrong last week was in the idea that followed all that. I thought about campaigns for change, and I thought about how we all “fight” for our own rights - it’s always a battle, somehow, never a negotiation, and it’s always about our own rights - and I thought: parents. I thought: imagine a movement that gave fathers with daughters, mothers with sons, parents generally, not to exclude non-parents, a common goal. They’d work together, effectively, for a better future. More than they would for themselves.

Then I thought: how the heck am I going to fit all this into a coherent argument?

Then I thought: typewriters!

Running out of time today. I do have a second post to put beneath the picture, as is customary around these parts, but I looked at it earlier and thought: this needs another run through the typewriter. That's the phrase my old mentor would use, when he was being tactful about a piece of mine. Needs another run through the typewriter. Another run through the laptop doesn't have the same ring, somehow, and we still use pictures of typewriter keys to symbolise writing - as our social-media profile pics, et cetera - so I wouldn't put it past the future to bring back typewriters and mechanical gadgets generally.

There's a genre, isn't there, steampunk? Combining steam engines with early technology. No, wait, looking it up. "A genre of science fiction that has a historical setting and typically features steam-powered machinery rather than advanced technology". Okay, and - cor! - On the same (first) results page, "Steampunk Plastic Bone Black Corselet". That young lady isn't wearing any - never mind. Staying on the subject - I wonder if the future isn't playing a trick on us. If the next-but-one genre - the next-but-one reality, actually - won't turn out to be some form of "punk" that combines "advanced" (cue uncontrollable laughter) technology with mechanical devices that allow us to use our hands for something more than just tapping a screen.

Instead of steam-driven whatever, we find ourselves, for example, changing the [typewriter] ribbon on our laptop, turning the key in the back of our app to wind it up, buying the big rotary-dial accessory that comes with the next-but-several model of our mobile phone. I love the fact - to digress - that opera, ballet, National Theatre productions, et cetera, are now broadcast to cinemas, and also the fact that you can buy seats - effectively, car seats - to sit in as you play your driving-based (or other) video game. I get quite exercised by the notion that innovation is just a matter of finding the next screen-based thing. It isn't.

We forecast the future in straight lines, and then live it in a tangle of scribbled zigzags. I suppose it might be clockwork-punk, or just mechanical punk. Motor cars go back to being mechanical, instead of computer-run, so you can just reach in under the bonnet and fix them. Writing goes back to being writing, with paper, pens, Tippex and ribbons. Notes can be scribbled. Young ladies get to pull on cosy thermal undergarments over their plastic bone black corselets. We get to use our opposable thumbs and pick up tools again.

As I say, I do have a second piece to put below the picture, in the usual way, but I'm going to hold it back because I'm not happy with it. Maybe next week. Assuming I can find a typewriter.

Mellow fruitfulness is Autumn, isn’t it? This is the season for rationalising last year’s forecasts and then shamelessly making new ones. I remember saying something about a certain president – if he was a foreign agent, they’d have trained him better than this – and then going out on a limb to criticise the current fashion for fake news – it’s only a problem because we believe what we want to believe – but being wrong about yesterday doesn’t mean I can’t grab a headline today by forecasting doom tomorrow.

So here goes. It’ll all go horribly wrong – except global warming. Politics will depart from the near-universal, near-constant trend towards compromise, procrastination and business as usual for as long as it takes to normalise whatever’s just happened – and for once it will do what the news media are always hoping it will do. Brexit won’t turn out to be a damp squib that leaves us at roughly the same distance as ever from the euro-bureaucracy. Civil war – the People’s War, historians will call it – will break out in England; Scotland and Wales will secede; the Irish will close the border. Budgets will be increased across the board for broadcast-news journalists and the gender pay gap will be closed overnight at the BBC. There will be an internal coup; highly motivated radical news teams will take over management.

EU advisers will be sent in to support the Remain side in London and the home counties, but in response, a formerly imperial (but we don’t talk about that) Asian power will send troops to support the Brexiteers in the North. There’ll be a fragile peace for a while, but then shots will be fired across the M40 just outside Oxford, and an ambitious young reporter, supported by a veteran camera crew, will share footage that seems to show – it was raining that day – armoured vehicles with Chinese markings deploying around a shopping complex in Reading. On 1st April 2019, the Russians will annexe Northern Ireland. The following morning, Cornwall will declare independence and an economic partnership with – but that would be telling. Hint: oil. Theresa May will survive a confidence vote.

Meanwhile, across the water, US politics won’t follow its usual late-term path of kicking the can down the road while the various constituent parts of the US government seek compromise in private while denouncing each other in public. A leading figure in the executive branch will be found to have received payments in his youth from the East German Stasi, while another will confess – in return for immunity – to being a long-term sleeper agent for – but you can guess. Everybody will impeach everybody else. A hacker will leak documents indicating that the NSA, CIA, etc., have known all along that all governments everywhere interfere in all elections everywhere. California will announce that it is adopting its own independent foreign policy. The Senate’s long-running enquiry into something we’ve all forgotten will produce an interim report.

On 1st April 2019, news reports will suggest that the volcano beneath Yellowstone Park has finally erupted; populations will not flee because they think it’s entertainment. Early footage will indeed be dramatic, but the shockwave from the eruption will break open dozens of top-secret government laboratories experimenting with – well, among other things, lethal bio-toxins, zombie-plague viruses, man-eating plants, bio-engineered predatory animals, AI-driven super-soldiers – and even the emergency networks won’t be on the air for very long.  A volcanic cloud will cover the entire continental US from April through to – sorry, thru – September, cutting all communications and grounding all air traffic, and when it clears, it will be found that the entire country has reverted to a simple agrarian economy. There won’t be any violence, “frontier law” will make sure of that, but a relatively small Asian nation will send a force of peacekeepers all the same.

Theresa May will survive another confidence vote. In September, armoured and infantry divisions of the newly formed Army of Scotland will invade northern England, fronted by Pipers and supported by Ghurkhas and handing out flowers. Much to their own surprise, they will reach York in two days and Oxford in three. Peace talks will ensue, and all foreign forces will withdraw from the British – the term will be used for clarity – mainland within a week. A new Act of Union will be drawn up and – after brief confusion – be signed by representatives of both sides. The centre of government of the newly united nation will be moved to Scotland. A treaty will be signed with the Welsh. Unexpectedly, the Russians will withdraw from Northern Ireland and negotiations will begin with the various parties to government there. The Edinburgh and Cardiff governments will sign a separate treaty with Cornwall, which will have a monopoly on oil supply to the “British” mainland.

And while all that’s holding our attention, global sea levels will rise by another inch. We won’t notice that. Icebergs the size of countries will break loose and stray into shipping lanes. We’ll be too busy with the political news to register the significance of that. Arctic and Antarctic wildlife populations will dwindle – inside a year; some of us will notice that – and several varieties of tropical lizard will start to produce young that are significantly larger than the norm. A popular scientist will pitch an idea to a TV channel for a show about the return of the dinosaurs. He’ll be turned down and we’ll never see that. In December 2019, in just one month because acceleration really can happen, global sea levels will rise by another inch and a whaling ship will announce that it has caught an ichthyosaur.

But that story will break on Christmas Eve 2019, and we’ll miss it. Later that same evening, a group of shepherds tending sheep on a hill outside a small town in the East will see a flaming comet cross the sky, and then another, and then there’ll be a whole series of impacts that will shake the ground beneath their backs, and then, rather to their surprise, clouds of dust and ash that resemble vast horsemen will spread rapidly across the sky above them, sea levels will rise abruptly to wash at their ankles…

…and in the aftermath, as all that dust and ash forms into a not-quite-walkable crust on the water; as unfamiliar sea creatures crawl up onto the remaining beaches and start walking about on their fins; as reports trickle in that herds of dinosaurs are roaming the burnt forests – all the surviving World Leaders will sign (after all-night talks) a Solemn New Year’s Resolution For 2020 banning climate change.

And promising to do something about it.

And ash will continue to fall from the sky…

…blotting out the sun.

Yes, there will come a time when I need a new sofa, new mattress, shiny new hatchback, new breakfast cereal, complete new lifestyle with thumping music in the background and a fizzy drink in the foreground – my dear, the people! – and of course a small technological object to save me the trouble of flicking the light switch, and yes – it is helpful of the advertising industry to remind me of all this at ten-minute intervals while I’m in a post-Christmas dinner haze on the sofa, watching the other half of the film that was on in the background last night – but I think a better New Year’s Resolution than “Go Shopping” would be “Get Rid Of The Television”.

Chop wood, carry water. Do things in the evenings. People watch Netflix anyway, don’t they? All these ads on Freeview are for my eyes only. Maybe next year I’ll become fit and prosperous, develop a whole range of new interests, chop responsibly sourced wood, build a log cabin, carry only the water that I’m prepared to return to the river, carve wooden toys, smelt iron ore, pick up plastic from the beach – do stuff rather than watching imaginary people do stuff. Instead of taking my concerns and worries verbatim from concerned-looking people reading off autocues, I’ll make new friends, talk to people, read more. Actually, that last one deserves more prominence. Read more.

My attention span is shorter than it was. The rest of me is older than it was, but that’s fine because surveys reveal – no, wait. That’s fine because I have found for myself, personally, on my own, without prompting, that getting older has its fun side. Less stress, et cetera, and more – never mind. Surveys – hah! I’ll read more. No, I won’t download an app that reads to me, even if I can pick the voice. When I say I’ll read more, I mean I’ll take books – physical books – down off the shelf (resolution: build bookshelves) one by one and I’ll sit with them in my favourite armchair and I’ll decipher the rows of black squiggles until once again they make sense in the way that they did when I was younger. And I’ll be away.

Remember the (apocryphal?) story of the young girl asked whether she preferred reading to TV? Reading, because the pictures were better. [Might have been radio versus TV, but never mind. Fake news, fake apocryphal stories.]

No, I do NOT need to turn on the TV to find an ad for a store that’s including favourite armchairs in its sale. I have a sofa. It’s old, but that’s not so bad, see above, and anyway, you can’t find forgotten treasures down the backs of new sofas. So – as I used to say – there!

There’s that picture, isn’t there? Auden – Musee des Beaux Arts. That’s the poem. The picture is Pieter Breughel’s The Fall of Icarus (1560-ish; read up online about the doubtful attribution), and W H Auden wrote his poem about it. Except that Auden understood Breughel’s emphasis on the plough in the front, and the horse, and the ship catching the wind. While Icarus is falling from the sky in the background, the bloke in the foreground is busy preparing his ground for the food that will feed his family. [Caution. This paragraph contains assumptions.]

Somewhere inside my television today, writing this sentence on Tuesday morning after hearing about the cancellation of the vote, great events will be left unresolved in Westminster and Brussels. Journalists will record “packages”, to be replayed through the day until I finally watch them, about politicians not after all voting together about the interminable issue of the day. A government will soon fall, or it won’t – I tell you now, writing on Wednesday afternoon, before the confidence vote, that I’m not going to come back and edit this later in the week – and political life will go on, relentlessly discussed. I have a bag with “Carrying Stuff Around Is The New Leaving It Where It Is” printed on the side. “Left unresolved” is the new “finally settled”.

Elsewhere today, somewhere out across those fields and beyond the houses, babies will be born; lives will begin (and end); there will be celebrations, and illnesses, and triumphs, and disasters; and washing up will get done. People will get hot, cold and go to work. Replacement bus services will carry rail commuters to their desks. Vast airliners will ferry people in their thousands from, say, Seattle to London, while other vast airliners will ferry people in their thousands from London to Seattle. Corner shops, not all of them on corners, will sell tobacco and newspapers and brief conversations about football to lonely old men, and vapour stores will sell things to suck.

It’s a popular name, so there’s a reasonable chance that one of today’s babies will be called William. More than one, possibly, but that William, the one we’re thinking about, will emerge into the world baffled by the unfolding of his limbs and the air on his skin, and he’ll breathe all of a sudden, and the first sound he makes will be a plaintive cry that attracts the attention of his mother. Then, let’s assume, he’ll get some breakfast, wrap up warm and go to sleep. At intervals through the day, people close to him will be impressed, in a not entirely positive way, at the force, consistency and all-round un-ignorability of his output.

Advent calendars will be opened, chocolates will be eaten, and Christmas-present lists will be compiled. Online-banking apps will be used, and if that ad is to be believed – the ad I’m thinking about – at least one young-ish photogenic man will lie on his front on a treatment table, with a forest pf acupuncture needles in his back, grinning happily at his smartphone as he checks the balance on his current account. Other ads are available, and somewhere, there’s a photogenic woman in a gym, a towel around her neck, who’s paused on the way to the shower, and sat down on a bench, to grin at her banking app.

I don’t take my smartphone into the shower with me, and nor do I know any acupuncturists, but today is busy for me too. I have a piece to write – no, not this one – and a “let’s meet for coffee” date with a friend, and a trip out to a storage unit in Redruth, and probably a late lunch, and roof bars to fit to the roof of my car, and bills to pay (two of them), and trees to visit, and mysterious strangers to meet, and an unfolding destiny to keep from getting tangled up with all the laundry I need to sort out, and  to-do list on which I need to change the ‘Tuesday’ at the top to ‘Wednesday’, and dragons to slay, and then this evening I’m meeting a graphic designer to talk about a book cover. [Here I am on Thursday, and I am NOT updating.]

And all the while, in Westminster and Brussels, they’ll be burbling on about the trade deal. A tree fell yesterday, onto the road between Falmouth and Truro. It wasn’t in a forest, and there were no bears nearby going about their private business, but a lot of people heard it and we all saw it – picture posted on Facebook. I’ll go that way later, find out if it’s been cleared. Maybe from Bailey’s, the country store – not from the roadside – I’ll pick up some logs today. William, the baby, will continue to act on the assumption that the world owes him a good lunch and a warm place to sleep. His face and the story of his birth will spread across social media. At least one bright star will light the heavens tonight, as it did last night.

Ministers will brief against each other, off the record. At the Topkapi Palace in Istanbul, at least one tourist will check in via Facebook. People will be wheeled along corridors to rooms where they will be invited to count down from one hundred – rooms where they will miss the day, waking up tomorrow with pains where they had tumours. Young journalists who don’t know whose gravestone bears the words “Grand Inquisitor” – a question from a regular quiz in one of last weekend’s magazines – will tell us how serious the various possible outcomes of the eventual vote could be, and then when the outcome finally arrives, they’ll tell us how serious its possible consequences could be. [NOT updating this. I refuse. Shan't!]

There’ll be weather forecasts, and lunches served in cafes, and dogs walked, and thunderstorms, and ships sunk, and heart-warming stories shared on social media, and pictures of cats, and every time I turn on the radio, the discussion will be about the possible consequences of what could happen in – how many weeks, did you say? Outside my window, there is one of those eight-legged, red, shallow-water drilling rigs. You know the things? The eight legs are so that they can shift position. The business of the sea, like the business of the land, will continue while the radio talks about the trade deal.

Behind me as I sit here, because unlike those bears earlier on, this room only exists when I perceive it – there’s an aching void that is shiningly dark – there’s light everywhere, but nothing to reflect it – and luminous with an absence of stars. In my kitchen sink, there are knives, forks, spoons, and last night’s plates. I think I might turn my back on those. [Voids have feelings too, you know.]

When William asks about today, if he ever does, the story told will be one of realising that the time had finally come - come late or come early or come exactly on time; the story told will be one of rushing to the hospital; of their reception at the hospital and of (let's say) the funny-in-retrospect thing William's young father said when he first held William. His parents’ eyes might meet as they tell the story, and they might be as much sharing the memory with each other as with their son, and it’ll be jazzed up slightly for his benefit, and if any other relatives and friends are there, they might chip in with their memories of his arrival…

…and if this is the kind of stable family unit that appears in TV ads, they’ll all be sitting around a table wearing party hats and grinning at each other – but I’ll bet my Peter Rabbit 50p piece that nobody will mention the brand of the butter, let alone that other B.

My post last week, Brexit wrexit, don’t it? got a reply. At least – let’s not get carried away here – I emailed Patricia Finney to let her know of her new role as Second Footnote to my post, and she replied. I replied to her, and she replied again. Carried away with my success, I emailed Simon Minchin to let him know that I’d made last week’s second blog post out of his recent attempt to call me via Facebook. He replied too.

Having so satisfactorily answered the question “What do I have to do, to get people to read my blog posts?”, I decided to celebrate by filling this space with my correspondence. So here goes. I wrote Brexit wrexit, don’t it?, and Patricia Finney replied as follows:

Funnily enough, the Roundheads were (violently) against being in the then equivalent of the EU and the Cavaliers were sort of vaguely for it, when they thought about it, which they usually didn't. The Roundheads won because they used better technology, which included new cavalry tactics and a better strategy, not because they were Righteous, although that's what they thought. Don't know what that means in terms of your blog.
 
As for Brexit Wrexit, I know you're sure there'll be the usual English fudge (CofE-style) and I hope you're right. The signs are good for the fudge which is great. 90% of the time the deal is made, the fudge happens and everything carries on as before with a few tweaks.
 
There is that annoying 10% of the time when the fudge doesn't happen and then everything goes to hell - Hitler was probably very disappointed when the nice fudge he offered the British in ?1940 didn't happen and that loony Churchill got power instead. When we look back, of course we know it was the right result. But that's not how it looked at the time.
 
"Treason doth never prosper, what's the reason?
For if it prosper none dare call it treason."  [John Harington]
 
So I'm reduced to mysticism - the hope that whatever happens in the Brexit short-term, in the long term it'll turn out OK thanks to something ineffable about Britain and its people or whatever.
 
I still think that a good third of the Leave voters in 2016, voted that way to give Cameron (remember him?) a good kicking, with only the vaguest notion of what the EU actually is. I also think that given the chance again, many of them will vote Remain so they can give Theresa May a good kicking - and I quite understand why few politicians like the idea.
 
I think another referendum would be great (and possibly best of three if the Brexiteers shout loud enough and anybody believes them), but I don't see it happening without a constitutional crisis.
 
slainte
 
Patricia
 
So I replied:

If Brexit was the work of populists, as currently demonised, I don't buy the idea that they would have listened to Leave politicians for long enough to be fooled by them. Immediately before that first People's Vote, Mr Cameron went to Brussels to extract concessions, and came back with nothing. To the extent that 17 million voters can be given one motive, I'd guess they voted against the EU, which has been an issue since Mrs Thatcher's time, and against the prevailing assumptions of the political centre, which isn't populist by any definition. Against the political centre, in other words.

But I don't care about Brexit any more. Whether we're a trading partner or a member of the EU isn't as big a question as we're being incited to believe by the political centre - the "media-political complex". It's a question, but the future is unknowable and can't be determined by any amount of debate. Something will happen, but it won't be determined by a vote in parliament. The UK doesn't know what it wants - Lord Halifax would be the Remain/status quo/keep-a-hold-of-nurse candidate for PM - and the EU's doing a fair impression of a self-perpetuating bureaucracy single-mindedly working to hold itself together. With internal borders being closed to migrants, etc., the EU isn't quite the European ideal either.

What fascinates me is that we haven't addressed, or indeed resolved, whatever it was that made 17 million people vote against the EU, after all those years of EU membership and all those EU benefits. Instead, we've convinced ourselves that the Leave voters were misled/mistaken. We've raised the spectre of "the Brexiteers", and come to believe that a second People's Vote would go for Remain. But we haven't fixed the reasons why the first People's Vote was for Leave. Those 17 million voters have been told that they were wrong, repeatedly, but nobody's asked them why they voted that way, nor done anything about it.

Calling the second referendum a People's Vote, as though the first was something else, is surely insulting to the People who Voted in the first referendum, and hardly guaranteed to get the desired result. Just as we all expected 'Remain' in 2016, we're all expecting 'Remain' in 2018/9. One more referendum, and we'd end up with best of three anyway, is my guess.

Nothing catastrophic will happen if we Leave/Remain. We'll be in, or we'll be out, and we can start to deal with that. But the fudge won't set properly, if you want to put it like that, if we don't ask the reason why we are where we are.

To that, Patricia replied:

Yes, of course, you're right - we need to ask the 17 million voters who voted Leave why they did it.
 
I've done that as far as I can (a totally unscientific and unbalanced poll) and the answer splits between "keep Britain independent/hate Brussels bureaucracy", "don't like migrants" and "kick Cameron."
 
I think it's absolutely disgraceful that nobody has bothered to ask, there have (as far as I'm aware) been no studies on it apart from demographic ones (younger and more educated people tended to vote Remain, older and countryside-living tended to vote Leave) which doesn't get you very far.
 
We're heading for a USA type mess where everybody is shouting at the other side and nobody is listening.
 
Salud!
 
Patricia
 
Meanwhile, out in the wild country to the North of here, Simon Minchin had just laid a fire of the finest hardwood from the forests around his home, opened a bottle of the finest claret from his cellars and left it to breathe for a moment before decanting, and settled back into his creaky-but-still-favourite ancestral armchair to wrestle with opening his new box of organic green fire-lighters, when his inbox chimed with the news that I’d … see above.

Some while later, my inbox clanked, and I read this.

I met Robin Snelson. Nice man.

Which seems like a good place to leave it. Patricia’s book is just out, and Simon’s book is out next year. Search the usual engines, watch the usual spaces.