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.

Just to go on record with a prediction, I think Brexit has become the MacGuffin for a fairly standard UK-political endgame, while the European Union seems to have begun the process of turning itself into a merely bureaucratic version of the Soviet Union. We’ve been in these arguments for so long now that human nature seems to be reasserting itself in those directions. The People’s Vote of 2016 was hardly the Prague Spring, and belief in Remain is hardly a deeply held conviction that Communism will eventually prevail, but watching it all, I do get the weirdest sense that we’ve been here before.
 
Leave/Remain isn’t actually a terribly big question, outside the minutiae of the trade deal itself, and it’s my observation/experience that in the absence of deals, deals get made. The purpose of the GATT, and the WTO, and the Doha Round, and the - keeping reading, this blows over - meeting in Bali in 2013 was to lower tariffs and trade barriers, et cetera, and the obstacles to all that effort weren’t stubborn trade barriers, because everybody wanted them gone, but the combination of self interest and human nature most commonly expressed by politicians. [See also US:China, but we’re not going there.] We can trade together, once we get the politics out of the way.
 
The benefit of this latest catharsis, I would like to think, will be to get both our attention and the politicians'; to force a working together without obfuscation or manipulation. We had a vote that split the country down the middle. Then, instead of examining why so many people were against the Divine Right of Kings, we climbed into our entrenched positions and waited for somebody to invent the tank. Break the stalemate. Which didn’t happen. So we’re still in our trenches hurling insults at each other. Or rather - correct me if I’m wrong, politely if you don’t mind - the Remain side is making a lot of noise while the Leave side has drawn the curtains and kept its voting intentions to itself.
 
I hope I can say that without taking fire from both sides. I accept that there is no such thing as “A Remainer”, while the term “The Brexiteers” once referred to a small number of politicians and now seems to be used most commonly to impugn the motives of the majority of the (voting) electorate. I’m not making a political point here, but it does seem to me that we need Sellars & Yeatman* more than we need Barnier & whoever’s running our side this week. The Parliamentarians are Right and Repulsive (no offence, but maybe tone it down at bit), while the Royalists are Wrong but Wromantic (sic) in their belief that the Golden Hind can set sail and make trade deals all around the world.
 
But we’re still facing each other across the barricades. And now we’re going into a straightforward old-style political fight without any real acknowledgement that (a) everything’s changed, and (b) everything’s stayed the same.  What’s changed is that technology has brought us together - in the sense that we’re gathered around the castle with our pitchforks and flaming torches and smartphones, rather than dispersed across the surrounding countryside, unable to organise**. What’s stayed the same is that the people inside the castle have their own priorities and interests, et cetera, and are just ever so slightly pleased with themselves for being on the inside. They know better, right?
 
Or however you want to put that; there does seem to be a new sense to the term “haves and have-nots”. I’m going to try to finish this without mentioning the closing scene of George Orwell’s Animal Farm (1945 - oh, rats!), and to help me in that (already failed) endeavour, I did write a piece here a while back suggesting that, come mid-2019, we wouldn’t be able to tell whether we’d left the EU or not, but what I really wanted to say was: Brexit doesn’t matter because the existence of splits, breaks, ruptures, trade and other wars leads to people trying to mend them. We fall out; we make up.
 
Except that we can't start making up until we acknowledge the fall-out, or bring it to a head perhaps. These days, it seems possible just to go on falling out - for a while anyway; the punch-up will come, and the longer we hold it in, the worse it will be. None of us know the future, but I’d guess that the outcome of a straightforward negotiation between two parties - we’ll call them the EU and the UK for the sake of the story - would tend to be at least mutually a little bit acceptable in the short to medium term, and not actually the key determinant of the future or anything else in the long term. Things happen, the world changes, et cetera. I’m excluding from this simple equation such extraneous factors as a hysterical news media with a 24-hour rolling news cycle to fill with low-budget reporting. And both sides’ inclination to persist with their passive-aggressive slanging match while the underlying split gets wider.
 
What I’m really trying to say is, Brexit doesn’t matter because it can’t matter. We can’t know the future. We can’t be certain of our entrenched positions. We can get past Brexit and make it our next step to argue for closer ties with the EU (or for leaving the EU), but we can’t fix on that one thing and hold it responsible for the whole unknowable future. And while I’m at it, I might as well go on to say that news isn’t news. Things happen, and they’re part of the given. They’re showing The World At War (1973-1974) again on one of the Freeview channels and they’ve got to the bomber war: shots of children being children in the ruins of Berlin; for them, those ruins were part of the given. We live our lives and change goes on. [Yes, I know what happened next.]
 
Events happen, and they’re terrible. I’m not saying otherwise. When they’re reported, they evoke a reaction. Non-events happen, and they’re nothing. When they’re reported, they evoke a reaction. For news to work as news without provoking a disproportionate reaction and thus destabilising us, there needs to be a zero value. It happened in numbers.

I’ve just gone online and waited through the pop-ups and ads - yes, I accept your cookies; no, I don’t want your notifications; I’m not a woman and I don’t have a 401k so I don’t want your app - and for my reward, I can bring you (cut and paste) this quotation. "The Indian [or numerical] zero, widely seen as one of the greatest innovations in human history, is the cornerstone of modern mathematics and physics, plus the spin-off technology." That’s Peter Gobets talking, secretary of the Zero Project. Thank you, livescience.com. And while I have your attention - football may be “everyone’s game”, as another of these ads says, but I don’t watch it.
 
A zero value for news. Some way of going on air to deliver the news that nothing much happened today. Difficult, of course, and globalisation doesn’t help - there’s always something happening, somewhere. But could there be an alternative to the current arrangement? Instead of flying off somewhere and reporting on whatever’s happening there, which would be expensive, we give ever-greater prominence to ever-tinier stories. Today’s big political interview: another obscure politician says he’s going to vote against the deal. Uh huh. And now we’re going live to our reporter outside the building who’s going to summarise what we just said and then do a vox pop with somebody who says yes and somebody who says no.
 
Zero value would be a kind of news version of the weather forecast. It would be both real and honest. “It’s been a quiet day across Westminster, with no big votes scheduled. Tomorrow looks like being another quiet day…” A man can dream, right? What I think is news, or might one day be the worth-mentioning angle on what’s happening at the moment - is that while those people in Westminster are kicking the political football back and forth - or the can down the road, or whatever - the rest of us are still at odds. Brexit will end up as a compromise deal signed at the last minute after all-night talks - because that’s how everything ends up these days - and politicians will talk to cameras about how wonderful it all is. They’ve always made very clear that this is exactly what they wanted all along - news less easily scripted in advance would be good, no?
 
It’ll be a compromise. Or a fudge. Or one of those words for something that makes no difference. And unless somebody does a very good job, very quickly, of recognising and addressing the strength of feeling on both sides of this issue - then 17 million plus 14 million equals, wait a minute, 31 million voters will feel that their politicians have let them down. In opposite directions. Those politicians will have our attention. And we’re already gathered around the castle. Shouting at each other. We've had one civil war; it won’t take much.
 
*1066 and All That: A Memorable History of England by W C Sellars and R J Yeatman (1930).

**Here's a paragraph from Patricia Finney's book How to Beat Your Son at Computer Games (2012, Climbing Tree Books). "The Publisher ... starts talking loudly – as Publishers do – about a commission for the cover of another book, written by him for another Publisher. He comes up with an idea for it that's so good I can't believe it's not been used before." She's talking about the cover of my book Who's Afraid of the Media-Political Complex? (ditto), which you can find in the column on the right. Being naturally modest, I can't quite bring myself to identify the person identified as "The Publisher", and that book's out of print anyway, but the cover makes my point about smartphones, pitchforks and, er, hammers and cocktails.

Yesterday, for the second time in a fortnight, somebody tried to call me via Facebook. I knew who it was and what was happening. Up came the little face, and Facebook started buzzing and flashing and pretending to be Skype. All very obvious. So I pressed the little green picture of an old-fashioned handset, and up popped a message: my microphone wasn’t configured properly. Technology’s so helpful, isn’t it? I messaged my mobile number to my friend, and we had a telephone conversation on our mobile telephones that began with humour about my tech-incompetence.
 
I don’t feel incompetent, but it’s a role that works well enough in conversation. I use FaceTime, Skype, Facebook and Messenger, blah, blah, video and audio, perfectly competent, yada yada, and while I don’t agree that code is poetry, I’ve written some of both. I’ve met various not very convincing robots, and I’ve had conversations with jam-jar-sized prototypes that turned the lights on and off to show how clever they were. I can do that. Come to think of it, I’ve written books - back in the days when books were printed - about the technologies that would soon be with us. Back then, late nineties, references to “the intelligent fridge” meant roughly what “the internet of things” means now.
 
So I can claim a certain vague awareness of the technology all around me, although I’m a deliberate late adopter and my fridge is still stupid. Technology is a means not an end, and while it so happens that I’m using a Chromebook to write this post on Google Docs, it doesn’t matter to me that I usually start the week’s posts in a Moleskine journal. Writing with a felt-tip. TMI? It does matter to me that I’ve just gone to the Moleskine website and found the message UNWRAP YOUR PASSION superimposed on a picture of a Christmas present being unwrapped (red paper) to reveal a 2019 diary, but I refuse to be sidetracked.
 
No, I don’t. My diary for 2019 - sorry, my PASSION for 2019 - is a Filofax insert in a leather Filofax-style organiser (is that the word?) made from leather brought up from a wreck. Here we are. It’s Russian reindeer leather brought up from the Metta Catharina in 1786. How come I own this? Must have bought it (I dimly remember my Filofax phase). I’ve had it for years, keeping it safe (by forgetting about it), and just recently (found it again and) decided to buy the insert and use it as a diary. I suppose I could wrap it up and then UNWRAP MY PASSION, but I think I’ll just carry it around. Deserves to be used, is my current thinking. The Metta Catharina went down in Plymouth Sound, all hands saved, and much of the leather was worked by the craftsman Robin Snelson, of Penryn. So perhaps I have a complete provenance.
 
I went to the Moleskine site because there’s usually a paragraph about the late Bruce Chatwin and how he used to use Moleskine notebooks - at least there used to be, on the paper that falls out when you buy a new Moleskine notebook (the full story is online) - and I had an idea about crafting a sentence in which I gave up on harnessing the power of technology and instead harnessed the tradition of Bruce Chatwin - but it didn’t really work. I do find that my Moleskine notebook switches on very quickly, displaying a blank page in the time it takes me to get it out and open it, but I’ve got to the point where I regard all these things as tools, so I won’t make a big deal out of that.
 
But it does still seem to be an (optional) tribal ritual for my age group to be faux-incompetent with technology. My friends comment on apps that are just helpful enough to tell you why they won’t help you. Outside my peer group (by which I mean, when I’m fraternising with people younger than I am), I’m old enough and technology is still young enough for me to be assigned an “old guy doesn’t get it” role without even a hearing. Same response, only more so, if I do start muttering about technology needing so much help to be helpful. [No, I still haven’t configured that microphone. It’s not exactly progress to render my expensively “smart” phone obsolete.]
 
There’s no such thing as technology. Not in the sense we use the term. There are the tools we use. I qualify as a “cyborg”, by some definitions, because I wear spectacles to enhance my natural vision. I don’t feel like a “cyborg”, by the definition I’d find quite quickly if I read enough science fiction. Any kind of tool is a form of technology, although it’s not helpful to know that. I’ve just put the word “technology” into the default search box on this laptop, without thinking to click the link to Google first, and my technology tells me, “Yahoo is now part of Oath.” Which has expanded my knowledge very slightly while failing to answer my question.
 
No doubt there’s a story behind Oath’s decision to adopt (absorb) Yahoo, just as I’m sure there are reasons why Facebook wants to be a telephone. There are also the tools we don’t use. Technology is “science or knowledge put into practical use to solve problems or invent useful tools,” I discover. That’ll do. Science, in case you’re wondering, is “knowledge about or study of the natural world based on facts learned through experiments and observation”.
 
Uh huh. So we start by getting to know each other, and the natural world around us, and then we use whatever we find out to solve each other’s problems and develop tools that we might find useful.
 
Maybe we should try that some time.
 
What’s that? Sorry? You want to enhance my online experience by putting cookies into my computer? Look, I’ve got so many people at so many companies working to enhance my online experience already, by doing exactly that with their cookies, and so far, it’s pretty much the same online experience as it’s always been. So … oh, okay. Maybe you’ll do something new and interesting.
 
But I’m still keeping the tape over the inbuilt camera, thank you very much.

Oh, I love this. Nick Cohen in The Observer, 18th November 2018, discussing the Usual Subject, referred to “political correspondents who couldn’t find a big picture in a multiplex”. Yes! Thank you, Mr Cohen; you made me laugh out loud – sorry, LOL. The gist of all the UK-oriented political reporting that Sunday, and I doubt that anybody in this country could have avoided it, was: something big is about to happen; watch this space. Although something big hardly ever happens, and when it does, we get used to it so quickly. Even [insert your example here] is now a chapter in a history book; at the time, it was an outrage/impossible/too momentous to fit into our understanding.

While something big wasn’t happening in Westminster, whales full of plastic were swimming onto beaches, dolphins were becoming trapped in plastic, and moving from Facebook to another headline in The Observer, “California wildfire survivors now face dangerous flooding”. The number of people missing in California is above 1,000, and now there’s heavy rain forecast. Apparently, this isn’t good news (good news isn’t news; discuss): the rain will put out the fires (I assume, although it’s difficult to rely on any assumption these days), but all that water falling from the sky is a threat in its own right.

Third word in this piece is “love”. When I started writing, I had the first three sentences in my head and a vague idea of where I wanted to go next. I was going to say that yes, there is a big picture, but I’m beginning to suspect that it’s bigger than we can see. [If this paragraph ever gets saved in a format that doesn’t degrade over time, and if you’re the forensic archaeologist tasked by the museum to decipher this ancient script*, my message to you is: love the white gloves. And to the ancient-historian standing behind you: no, we really didn’t see it coming. We couldn’t see the bigger, long-term trends that you take for granted as part of our history.]

Where was I? Flipped out there for a second. Oh yes - the bigger picture. Way back a long time ago (January 2012), the “American novelist who is also host of the Peabody-winning public radio program Studio 360,” Kurt Andersen (he’s on Wikipedia) published an article in the magazine Vanity Fair titled You Say You Want A Devolution? Andersen’s theme was that culturally (not, back then, technologically), we’ve ground to a halt. That article stuck in my head; I might have mentioned it before. You can find it here. Andersen wrote: “Since 1992 … the world has become radically and profoundly new.”

Can we agree on that? Between 1992 and 2012, a lot changed? Yes? [No? Where are you? I’m on my way.] But Andersen went on to say: “Here is what’s odd: during these same 20 years, the appearance of the world … has changed hardly at all, less than it did during any 20-year period for at least a century. The past is a foreign country, but the recent past – the 00s, the 90s, even a lot of the 80s – looks almost identical to the present.” Look at what they’re wearing and what they’ve done with their hair, and you can tell a sixties person from a fifties person, and both from a seventies person or an eighties person. But not a late-eighties person from a noughties person. [Let's leave shoulder pads out of this.]

I looked up “goth”, just out of curiosity, and apparently the “goth subculture” emerged in the eighties, and has roots in the late nineteenth century. Then I read Jo Ellison’s article Another spoonful of nostalgia? No thanks on the back of the Life & Arts section of the Weekend FT, that same weekend of the 17th/18th November 2018, yes, and the theme was that, well, Jo Ellison wrote: “Idling over an ancient 1983 issue of The Face magazine on holiday last month, I was struck by how many cultural touchstones were still so familiar, and yet I was horrified to realise just how little things have changed.” Ah, The Face [^smiles faintly, faraway look, remembering^].

Jo Ellison hit para return and continued: “When did we get stuck in this compulsion to recreate the past?” Fashion, film and culture in general have become stuck on nostalgia. In fashion, which supposedly “venerates the new” (Jo Ellison), designers are being “drawn back into their archives” (ditto). Clothes are self-expression, which I suppose we’ve internalised via our assortment of smart devices.  I remember, vaguely, those successive experiences of catching up with something new, from hair that suddenly needed to be like this, to that sudden aching lack of, I don’t know, flares or drainpipes or - no, I’m not going to revive the memory of that outfit. I look at old photographs, and I think: did we really dress like that? In public? On purpose?

We did. And it mattered to us. Perhaps technology is a jealous god, and demands all our attention. Perhaps we’ve found technology’s unintended consequence. We’re so keen to be spontaneous that we trap spontaneity and repeat it - a store put out a witty Christmas ad a few years back, and now the annual debate over big-store Christmas advertising is, ah, traditional. There’s so much we want to do, but because tech’s made everything else so easy we’re too impatient to learn how to do it, so we teach. Count the online training courses in things you want to do; count the number in which instruction number one is, for example: write a good novel, or, say, first come up with a brilliantly innovative idea. Scrivener’s wonderful, to reply to my friend who asked my opinion of it, and it’ll do everything for you except have that original idea.

It’s as if we’re circling originality, circling creativity, round and round, very close, never quite connecting with whatever it was in our heads that made new ideas so easy. I won’t repeat my usual rant about all the films these days being remakes, because I’m pretty sure it was boring enough the first time, and I am (pretending to be) reluctant to mention the review of my book that couldn’t be posted where it was intended to be posted because it didn’t conform to that platform’s requirements. You can’t enthuse without conforming? [Wait a minute – only four stars?] It was emailed to me instead. But what I will do – getting back on track – is wonder aloud whether we’re in the middle of some vast transition from before to after; from pre-tech to post-tech?

Naah. Rubbish. See above re something big not happening. But I do think of technology in terms of unintended consequences these days. I do wonder, watching the politics, watching the culture, checking my Facebook, checking my messages, rechecking my Facebook, scrolling through my emails, checking my Facebook – no, wait, haven’t I just done that? – and just making sure that I haven’t got anything waiting for me on Instagram or Messenger, I do wonder whether it’s time for somebody, somewhere – hold on, just a sec … oh no, sorry, it’s just another Leave Home Without Your Phone message from the phone company – I do wonder whether, um, sorry, isn’t technology distracting? I had this idea, and I – hold on, my phone again.

Have you heard about the Christmas film, by the way? No, not – at least, I don’t think there’s another Star Wars due, is there? No, I’m talking about the one about the nanny. She’s called Mary Poppins, apparently, and she does magic. She has an umbrella. No, it’s nothing to do with the Dursleys; Harry stays at school during the holidays, doesn’t he? What bear from Peru?

Oh, hold on. “All of this has happened before, and it will all happen again,” said J M Barrie. Do you hear that sound outside the window? No, don’t open–

Oh. It’s you. Again.

It’s in the drawer, out of sight. As always.

Don’t let it get away. This time.

*I would provide a simultaneous translation into another language and script, perhaps two, as a self-conscious reference to the Rosetta Stone, but I doubt any of today’s available translation software would give you a close enough match.

This is how Western Civilisation works. We sell stuff to people who are paid enough to buy it. They make stuff, get paid, buy stuff, make more stuff. In their - our - free time, we’re shown advertising. Most of what we see promotes self-delusion, because (for example) roads are never as empty as they are in car ads, and it hardly ever snows at Christmas (although, looking out of the window…). We live in one world; we waking-dream in another. We track the production of stuff and the consumption of stuff, and the resulting numbers give us The Economy, which is discussed as though it exists.
 
That many young, attractive people have never gathered around the screen of your smartphone and laughed together in a touchy-feely way at whatever they saw there. [They have? Show me your smartphone.] You may have bought alcohol with a fancy logo on the bottle, but that was rarely because you were heading off to a late-night beach party with bonfires and lanterns and raucous background music, where several hundred of your coolest, funniest, most diverse (but still young and photogenic) friends were just waiting to let you in on the joke. [Really? I’m on my way.]
 
I’m going to guess that you don’t pop next door to chat to your friend about your washing powder. Or your brand of instant coffee. You don’t conduct tests on stains made by your baby, because your baby rarely makes exactly matching simultaneous stains bang in the middle of two white towels that are laid out side by side on your kitchen worktop. [She does? I’d love to come to lunch, but I think I’m busy that day.] Do you really think that desirable person in that eye-catching outfit is going to give you that expression as you drive slowly through the empty city in your stubby little primary-coloured new hatchback? No, never works for me, either.
 
What we think we think is important (sorry, but that really is what I meant to type) is different from what we actually think is important. Even politics is a form of self-delusion. The petition for a “people’s vote” (second referendum because of how much we didn’t like the first) on you-know-what had a target of 350,000 signatures and was close to that when I last looked. The petition to get Iceland’s Christmas ad shown on TV had passed 670,000 signatures by last week. There’s a Norway option and a Canada option for Brexit and maybe we need an Iceland option.
 
Why are we so exercised about a trade deal? Because it’s about prices in the shops? Because we need something to matter? Because it's on television, between the ads? Wait a minute - are we so exercised about a trade deal? Perhaps it's the being exercised that works for us, and not the trade deal. Perhaps we're just miffed that the voices of the centre (that cannot hold, by the way) never stop for long enough to let us speak? But hey - never mind. Populism has so many forms and now so many definitions but so few friends in the media that it's in danger of becoming fashionable. With the young? Like punk? Perhaps the whole thing will finally jolt us out of this current - or maybe it won't, but so what? There are Brexiteers hiding in the shrubbery at the far end of the communal garden. Does that matter? The dogs bark but life goes on.
 
The music you play is still beautiful. In Falmouth, the trees still talk in the wind and the sea gets rough and bracing and then, as you get closer, noisy enough to fill all the senses. There are still birds in the sky, and clouds passing. There’s a castle here, and last night we went for a walk around the moat: trees black against the last of the sunset; three dogs. Natural sounds are beautiful; the sea is the sea and always will be; life goes on.