Is that a catastrophe I see before me? Could be. There was a clear sky earlier, but now clouds are encroaching from the North. We could be in for a storm. The sea’s pretty much flat but there are occasional flurries across the surface - which clearly means that the wind’s getting up and we could be facing a hurricane later. Oh, and the sun’s taken on that extra-bright brightness that it gets when it’s sharing the sky with dark clouds - or could this be the first hint of a massive solar flare that’s about to frazzle all our electronics?

If you’re reading this, you’ve survived - well done. Go tell your story to that photogenic team of government scientists - yes, those people over there, the thoughtful-looking young woman, the young man with glasses, the older man with an authoritative grey beard, the ethnic mix, the stereotypes - who are stepping through everything in their hazmat suits, breathing audibly and carrying old-fashioned geiger counters. No, that’s not a car alarm going off. Collect a thin grey blanket before you go - as a survivor you need to have a thin grey blanket round your shoulders - and make sure that tall young guy at the back - yes, the one shouting that it’s not over yet; the one they’re all stubbornly ignoring - hears what happened to you (sorry, hears exactly what happened to you).

Bit early for a swerve off into fantasy, surely? Because this could be Only The Beginning. [Oh, the wind outside my window. I look up and the sun’s gone and the trees are really moving - I can hear them. This could be evidence that The Creation, or The Universe, or Reality, call it whatever you like, pretty much gives you what you expect to get from it*. I didn’t really mean it about the hurricane and the solar flare. Life meets expectation. It’s been done before, keeps on being done, but it’s still an attractive story idea. If I ever get round to creating a universe, I’ll include that as one of the sub-quantum rules of nature. But - okay, yes. Doesn't fit with the "expectation" theme, but let’s keep the scene in which the scientists send a vast electron microscope whizzing round and round a circular tunnel under a Swiss mountain – and find me grinning back at them. “Surprise!”]

We’re celebrating the word “could” today. Five letters, not bad for Hangman because it’s short and even if you do get those two vowels early on, you’re still not really there. More useful as a tool for getting yourself a high profile in the media. If you can cook up some half-way plausible we’re-all-doomed scenario, base it on at least some kind of evidence and give yourself a job title that sounds impressive, you can really, ah, wow the punters, I believe that’s the phrase, with your concerned expression. But do practise it in the mirror first. No point going on the news to discuss your survey finding that cloudy days could lead to global warming - and failing to control your own urge to giggle.

He's got himself back on track. That's a surprise. And remember - “could” be, not “will” be. It’s the secret of all forecasting. You can dress it up and say just about anything if you remember “could”. As Head of Irresponsible Forecasting here at the Falmouth Institute of Unreliability, I’ve studied the signs, and I believe that they could point to the kind of outcome that will keep your viewers coming back for more. If I step up to the podium and show you - click; sorry - show you this - click, click; could use a little help here, this remote - what? Oh, press the green button with the arrow on it, sorry, ha ha  – show you this footage of the drama unfolding outside my window this morning. You see the clouds? The sun shining? And if you listen to the wind - I’m sorry, the audio seems - ah, here we are; click - listen to the wind, you see - hear, of course - see and hear clear signs that we could be in for a storm later. And that could develop into an apocalypse.

Yes, I know it’s a sunny day with a light breeze, but it could develop, is what I’m saying. Honourable mentions, by the way, for two recent articles, both effortlessly qualifying for gold in this blog post’s I Take It All Back category. Read How AI could kill off democracy by Jamie Bartlett at newstatesman.com, which is a serious analysis of a credible threat, and Sarah Gordon’s Why Brexit could save Britain’s countryside, Weekend FT magazine, 25th/26th August 2018, which describes a possible future for British farming. Both articles are clear evidence that the word “could” can be used constructively. I’m just allergic to the “Somebody says something could go wrong” style of headline-writing, which seems fashionable these days.

He’s holding it together quite well now. All of the above is just “Could” at work, though. In her personal life, Could is a free agent. Much happier than Should, who lives in the flat next door and never comes out for the spontaneous street parties that are such a feature of life in this imaginary universe. Should is weighed down with obligations, and worse, she’s never sure where those obligations came from - upbringing, education, social and work pressures generally – but they’re deep in her psyche and she’s only now learning to recognise them, let alone challenge them. Could tries to help, and they’re close friends, really, but it takes a lot of coaxing to bring Should out of her shell.

Oh, here we go. Spoke too soon. Could’s apartment is bright and airy, with light-wood floors and tall windows and billowy light curtains that move in the fresh air. There are mirrors and pictures and plants and a drafting table on which there’s always some new design being brought into being. Could works for herself, she’s freelance, but it’s more accurate to say that she plays for a living: she paints, draws, calls herself a graphic designer and makes very little money, but she’s happy following her own spontaneity. Small local galleries display (and sell) her pictures; she illustrates children's books and designs book covers; those are her funny little cartoon figures dancing through the pages of that magazine you like. If she could see her thoughts, which she can’t, she would paint them as butterflies. She’s late for everything, but people are invariably pleased when she does finally arrive.

He’s off. Should works in a bank. It’s a safe job. She has a pension scheme, and although she isn’t paid as much as you might expect, she’s already quite wealthy. If you ask her what she does, which you won’t because she doesn’t inspire curiosity, she’ll tell you that she’s in compliance. Then she’ll start to explain compliance - until Could, who knows her friend well, comes over to rescue you. Everybody wants to know what Could does, and sooner or later, you’ll see her being mobbed by expensive-looking people trying to impress her with whatever they value about their own lives. But she doesn’t like fast cars, she’s never heard of wherever you said, and she doesn’t go skiing anywhere, let alone there.

This time, Should rescues Could, because Should is beginning to recognise that (against all reason) Could is where the action is. If even her bosses are drawn to Could: if they’re challenged by her; if they need her to know that they matter - then what is it that she has, that they don’t? Should is a thinker, and finally, she’s turning her thought process to her own situation. Having lived next-door to Could for so long, having watched her from the day she moved in, having consciously dismissed her at first and then become gradually fascinated, having at first nurtured a sneaky feeling of superiority over her neighbour that, if she's honest, had to be worked at even from the outset, Should is finally beginning to realise that Could is not just irresponsible, careless, foolish after all. She's all of those things, yes, but there's something else as well, and Should wants to know what it is.

There’s going to be a moral. I just know there’s going to be a moral. Lying awake one night listening to the faint sound of music through the wall, Should thinks: I know what I’ve got, and how much, and where it is, but what am I doing with my life? What am I doing with my life right now, not in some planned-for future that won’t happen that way anyway? And exactly then, at four in the morning, midweek, Should gets out of bed, disables the alarm in the main room, turns on all the lights in the apartment, and sits on her sofa to make herself a list. She’ll research sound systems in the morning. Buy a bottle of wine. Perhaps a stylish little wine rack, she thinks, looking through at her kitchen. On impulse, feeling very brave, knowing what time it is, Should goes and makes herself a cup of tea. I’ll call in sick tomorrow, she thinks; I’ll take a day off. She doesn’t, but the thought that she nearly did sustains her through the day.

Could nearly misses the invitation. It’s in a matching envelope, small one, tiny weeny don’t-see-me one, with her name printed in tiny capitals on the front, slipped under the door near the hinge - the door catches it and slides it out of the way. But Could does see it, and life changes. The invitation says: would she like to join Should for a quick glass of wine tomorrow evening at six? Not a party, nothing special, just a quick glass and a chat. Like neighbours do. Sometimes. Not important if she can’t, so don’t worry, they can arrange another time, silly of me to assume… Could checks the time. 11pm. She’s just got in. Glass of wine - hey, yeah. She grabs the flowers from the vase - dripping, so takes the whole vase - and goes.

Uh oh. Should opens the door sleepy-eyed in dinky pink pyjamas and a matching dressing gown, big fleece slippers, a sleep-mask pushed up onto her forehead. She’s seen through the spyhole that it’s Could, but they still have to wait for a moment while she unlatches the chain and opens the door properly. Then there’s a misunderstanding that they both laugh about later: Should thinks there must be an emergency; Could tries to explain that she’s just come round for a drink now rather than waiting for the time stipulated on the invitation. "Why plan to have a drink tomorrow when we can have a drink today?" says Could.

In the end it’s Could who gets them inside, points out that it’s the weekend tomorrow anyway, gets the wine opened, gets them both sitting on the sofa, glass in hand, close together, Could doing the talking but Should at least nodding along, that little frown between her eyebrows showing that she's listening...

I don't believe it! Then it’s Could who acts upon a sudden impulse to-

But it's Should who follows up "Oh!" with "Okay..."

And there we leave them. I Could go on, but I don’t think I Should. They’re together now, still in separate apartments but thinking about it, and this works quite well as a happy beginning.

Yep. Told you. Here comes the moral. Did you notice “happy beginning” not “happy ending,” by the way? Very cute. Amazing how far you can go, if you bring together Could and Should.

*The Cosmic Ordering Service, Barbel Mohr, 1998

There is, at the moment, a campaign in the UK to hold a People’s Vote on the terms of whatever shambolic compromise of an eleventh-hour, last-minute bodge-job of a deal the UK government accepts from the EU’s rather more media-savvy and assertive collection of B - can’t type the word any more - negotiators. A People’s Vote is, of course, a far cuddlier thing than, say, a Second Referendum, and it has the further advantage that you can no more argue with the result of a People’s Vote, than you can reject the verdict of a People’s Court.

Hold a Second Referendum, and you end up with a “best of three” campaign - assuming the people get it right this time - in the sense, they don’t show themselves up once again to be incapable of understanding the issues as clearly as We do. The whole B - my spellcheck suggests People’s Previous Vote - argument only goes away if the People’s Vote confirms that The People Meant It. Add the no-shows to the Leave votes, and you get a majority of people who didn’t vote to remain in the EU. Or vice-versa, yada yada.

If we can accept a People’s Vote but be against Referendums on some kind of principle, and if we can accept that The People voting in a People’s Vote somehow outvote the people voting in a referendum, then we arrive at an argument for correcting votes with Votes. Maybe the simplest thing would be to correct the result of the last general election with a People’s Election, and we can set off down that route to freedom and democracy.

Today, I shall write a short piece about the word “triangulation”. Interesting word. Seriously. Thirteen letters and no e, but still not good for Hangman because as soon as you see the -ation, you’ve got too much of the rest of it. Anyway, you need short words for Hangman. Triangulation stays interesting, though, because it's also a word with a range of meanings. Politicians use it to refer to one instance of their tedious cunning (“triangulating” their message); spies use it to describe [redacted]; psychologists talk about the Karpman Drama Triangle, or they do if they’ve recently put triangulation into Wikipedia in their search for meaning(s). Triangulation isn’t curvy, but it sounds as though it bounces.
 
Triangulation is a tactic in chess and a strategy in currency speculation - “strategy” might be overdoing it, but I like the tactic/strategy progression. Triangulation can be manipulative; it can be a method of helping one person through another. Finally, triangulation is the art of drawing lines and triangles and thereby deciding where you are. It’s that last meaning that interests us now. Interests me, anyway (the post discussing the linguistic trick whereby the word “is” the thing will have to wait for another day). Triangulation is what navigators do when they want to know where they are - in the narrow geographical sense of finding out where their boat is on the map.
 
We’re being serious today. They go up on deck with a gadget - in my day, it was a protractor and a piece of string, but Form One was only ever interested in the height of the tree on the far side of the playground. Form One never sailed the high seas and they don’t fit here, but I remember their faces and it’s nice of them to drop by. Navigators go up on deck, extinguish any fires that might be burning, then use their gadget to work out where “magnetic north” is on the horizon. There’s also true north, if I remember rightly, but that, er, plays you false if you’re finding your place off a shallow rock-infested coastline. True north lacks the magnetism, the sheer charisma, of magnetic - sorry. This is a serious blog post about a thirteen-letter word. We’ll put a lid on that one right now. To continue.
 
[But just quickly - digression - isn’t it a shame that we can’t repurpose the term “angle grinder” for navigation? It would fit so well.]
 
To continue. Yes. The boy stands on the recently extinguished deck, aligning his gadget with magnetic north, and then, because this is also an equal-opportunity blog post, he consults with the girl standing on the slightly less blackened part of the deck, and the man and woman, and the representatives of the several ethnic minorities on board, and they all agree as to which of the symbols from the Ordnance Survey map they’re going to seek out on the rocky coast to the left.
 
Port. Left. Not starboard, not dead ahead. Port out, starboard home, as the saying goes, or at least went, and we’ll assume that they’re heading up the right-hand side of the map with the rocky coastline to their port. They’re all standing there, feet pleasantly warm, clutching the day’s first mugs of tea/coffee, and as the horizon lightens with the coming sunrise, they can see that during the night, the horizon has changed from the endless straight-line flatness of the open ocean, to the rocky immediacy of the coastline.
 
Port is where the land is supposed to be, and it’s there. That’s a relief, actually. There is at least one person still in the wheelhouse (one or two of them had wondered, seeing the crowd on deck; the wheelhouse isn’t lit now, and it’s difficult to see inside). The sails are flapping a bit, but the engine is running and the crowded little boat with the still-warm deck is moving forward nicely. They just need to know how far up the blue bit of the map they’ve come since last time they got out the gadgets. It was a dark and stormy night, obviously, last night, with lots of storytelling, and keeping track of progress hasn’t been easy. “Triangulation,” they mutter to each other, uneasily. “We need to do some triangulation.”
 
You're losing it again. So, having found magnetic north, they work out the angle from the boat to the Triangulation Pillar they can just make out through the mist, and then, as the sun rises, the man with the eye patch and the tricorn hat and the wooden leg and the parrot on his shoulder (I thought he was with you) raises his hand and points. “I see a sign!” he cries, and sure enough, it’s the Windmill With Or Without Sails they had been expecting. Leaving a small group arguing over whether they’re actually going to see a Graticule Intersection At 5’ Intervals and what it will look like if they do, they go inside and draw lines on the map. Somebody uses the words “reciprocal”, but everybody else pretends not to hear.
 
And there they are. On the map. A point at the intersection of straight lines, beating on, moving under power, going with the current, borne forward ceaselessly into the future. I’m better at navigation than I thought I was. I took a course once, with a Dutch guy, but flunked it. [Note. It is characteristic of this author that he embeds half-references to other works in his writing. Here, for example, we hear an echo of F Scott Fitzgerald, and this is followed by a rather clumsy attempt to pack in a reference to the legend of the Flying Dutchman. In some tellings of that story, the captain of the doomed ship is heard to ask a young crew member (unidentified), as they both walk up the gangplank to embark for the last time, “What’s the protractor for?” But this is a recent addition.] They never did find the ship. I told him he needed a piece of string.
 
A happy ending would be nice, at least? And there we leave the little boat, sailing up the rocky coast, low in the water, crowded with its multitude of peoples on board, course set, somebody holding the wheel, headed for the beach where it will beach, ha ha, tipping sideways at the last moment because nobody thought to retract the keel, leaving everybody to wade ashore, the last of humanity, come to this deserted island (with only its weird profusion of Ordnance Survey landmark buildings and structures to suggest that it had ever been inhabited) in this post-apocalyptic fable spun out of the word “triangulation”, to move into the (okay, there’s also a village) deserted cottages, farmsteads, corner shops and Selected Places of Tourist Interest, to begin again, but this time without conflict or plastic bags.
 
Triangulation is also the thing you do when you emerge from an embarrassing little panic about a laptop glitch (keep calm and clear the cache) to find that (a) you have a Second Website, and (b) the template for your Second Website shows a clutch of little blog posts with pictures at the top - all of which (c) put you in mind of book covers with blurbs underneath. If we imagine those thoughts as the metaphorical lines on an imaginary map, then we can probably get away with suggesting that the “You are here!” point at the intersection looks remarkably like the kind of cartoon idea-lightbulb that would carry with it the inspiration for an entire - but I’ll tell you later. Watch this space, that space, and come to think of it, tonight’s the night for the fireworks at the end of Falmouth Week. Watch them too, if you’re here.

There's a quotation going the rounds on Facebook at the moment. It's a remark - possibly a lament - by a scientist, from a few years ago, and while I'm leading up to it I'll just also mention that I did come across a "Did he really say that?" exchange in the comments section of - I don't know, something. So bear that in mind, and here we go.

The scientist is Gus Speth, and the remark attributed to him is: "I used to think the top environmental problems were biodiversity loss, ecosystem collapse and climate change. I thought that with thirty years of good science we could address those problems. But I was wrong. The top environmental problems are selfishness, greed and apathy, and to deal with those we need a spiritual and cultural transformation, and we scientists don't know how to do that."

For a ghost of a moment, I thought that we, the people were at fault for not being rational agents, and for an even smaller unit of time I thought of that Brecht poem about the government dissolving the people, but then I thought: this is realism. This is factoring in a variable that wasn't quite so accurately factored in before. I find that Gus Speth is the author of a memoir, Angels by the River (James Gustave Speth, Chelsea Green Publishing, 2014), and a number of other books.

I think the time has come for me to start reading Gus Speth.

Maybe it's a generational thing. Maybe it's just me. My default assumption is that any glitch with a computer is going to be something beyond comprehension. In the early days, this was true. My first "serious" computer - in the sense, thing I used for work - was an Amstrad. Never had a problem with it. I wrote a large chunk of my first published book on a Psion Organiser Series 3. That little gadget was magical: I could carry it in the top inside pocket of my jacket and write even while standing up on crowded commuter trains.

Yes, of course I carried notebooks and scrap paper. Pens. But that Amstrad and that cute little Psion Organiser did what I wanted technology to do back then. They jumped the "transcribing my notes" stage. They were a shortcut to the "printing out a final typescript" stage. Back then, I would have understood the term "digital storage" to mean a cardboard filing box with a futuristic pattern printed on the outside. I had a Commodore 64 at one point, and the long wait while Elite loaded was all I needed to know about new technology.

​Then everybody started babbling on about bandwidth and processor speed. There was a thing called a Pentium Chip. Behind the typewrite on my desk, a huge Apple screen appeared. Somebody from the studio took a picture of me - on a film camera - using scissors and a Pritt Stick to lay out pages in the shadow of my Apple. There would have been a little bottle of Tippex as well, and I would have been working to get my page layouts into the envelope in time for the afternoon bike messenger to the typesetter. There was a training course associated with the Apple. I wasn't allowed to switch it on until I'd done the training course.

I remember all those old typewriters being stored in case the digital revolution didn't take. I remember working on a screen with the objective of producing a print-out. The early days of email: sending between glass-walled offices; meeting the eyes of the person who had just received... There were people who scrawled their emails - no grammar, punctuation, caps lock on or off. I became familiar with a little black bomb symbol. Even Apple computers reach the limits of their tolerance sometimes, or did back then.

​Working through all that was an odd and complex challenge. The technology presented its problems in a language that assumed you knew the basics, and/or spoke American, and very little of what they did could be fitted to a pre-tech mindset. I remember the day I worked out that a website's pages weren't pages you turned, like pages in a (printed) book. I wasn't interested enough to devote time to un-baffling myself, though, and I suppose I just got acclimatised to the assumption that when something came up, I wasn't going to have even the basic mindset even to start fixing it. I just wanted to write words (as in: think about planning to get round to writing words, right after I finish reading this book).

A big part of my attitude to early computers was formed when I made the discovery that everything in a document could be lost, if the machine or the programme shut down unexpectedly. Advice to save regularly was always given in the past tense - you should have hit save - because everything about computers was somehow so obvious to everybody else that they didn't think to tell you in advance. That, and the mulish expression that came onto people's faces when they were telling you about all the wonderful things computers could do - and wanting it to be true. Early car enthusiasts probably wore the same expression.
 
Digression. The man who came whenever I had IT problems, after I'd gone freelance. I remember the odd little pang of jealousy when my computer showed him screens it had never showed me. I remember his story about being on a trawler late at night, spotting a periscope, using Morse Code and a torch to signal I C U to the submarine practising its trawler-stalking. I remember the time I called him up and told him there was smoke coming out of my big old monitor. "You've probably got a software conflict. Shut things down, restart, and let's see what happens." No, I told him. It's actually on fire. Yes, of course I'd shut it down by then, but I wasn't going to miss telling him.

All of which might explain why my reaction to the sudden refusal of my new laptop to let me into the 'edit site' page of this website was: download several other browsers, delete several browsers when they didn't work; buy the domain williamessex.online, start building a website there, write a blog post using my old laptop, dream up Second Website Theory citing Asimov's Foundation trilogy as a precedent, see below, go down and bother the guy behind the counter at the computer store near the cinema (again), write to the Weebly helpdesk.

Melissa E replied. Had I considered clearing my cache?

​Er...  

​Thank you, Melissa.

There is now a Second Website, and yeah, the guy behind the counter might have said something about clearing the cache now I come to think about it (from now on, I shall take my problems to the computer store in a calm, rational, receptive, listening, panic-free state of mind), but the main thing is - normal service resumed. Interesting how the mind works. We are (I am) the product(s) of our (my) experience. Not time travellers from a previous world, panicking at the machines.

If this site every goes dark - Friday comes and there's no new post; years pass and it's still this sentence at the top - you might want to - well, you might want to breathe a sigh of relief, but if you came here on purpose (thanks), you might want to try william essex dot online.

There's nothing there at the moment (except that I pressed "publish" on the template so you get to look at that, plus ads temporarily), so I'm not linking the address (and I'd hate you to watch how slowly I get my act together over there), but I had a glitch on my other (new) laptop the other day, and that got me daydreaming about paper back-ups, hard drives, thumb drives, redundant systems, cloud-based computing, server farms, solar flares knocking out electronics generally, sea levels rising, zombie apocalypses, black holes ... and then I had a thought.

If I actually sign up for a second website, maybe I'll be able to watch YouTube clips without those earnest young entrepreneurs telling me how easily they set up their websites. I've found that if I keep doing online banking, the bank stops sending me those pictures of the young woman in exercise gear, at the gym, who's chosen just that moment to check her balance on her smartphone. So I transact like crazy. Perhaps the same principle applies here. Perhaps if I just set up a website and tinker with it occasionally, the young bloke in the specs who's just set up his website and now leans forward, one elbow on the desk, and starts being very frank with me about how easy it all is - will go away.

I signed up for the minimum package over there, hence the ads, but I'll upgrade as and when I get my act together. The thing with the new laptop was, it decided as of Thursday evening last, to block my access to this page. Not the dashboard, but the "edit site" page. My chromebook (Chromebook?) did the same. The man behind the counter at the computer store just down from the cinema did what he always does when I come through the door - carefully, slowly, he explained a few possible solutions that I could try at home, and then he sent me away without charge. Usually, that works.

But this time, when I got home, his possible fixes didn't work, so I think I might have an excuse actually to get in there and pay him something. It's about time. He'll probably fix the thing, but if it turns out that my new laptop's awkward little moment is the first sign of an impending global meltdown in all my current IT dispositions - yeah, I can work with the template I've chosen. And anyway, there are precedents. I dimly remember, from years ago reading under the sheets with a torch, that the conclusion of Isaac Asimov's Foundation trilogy (spoiler) somehow involves the discovery that there's a second Foundation hidden behind the first.

I've been told not to mention any movies for a while, so let's put it this way. If you're breeding dinosaurs from blood preserved in mosquitoes preserved in prehistoric amber, you will know the importance of maintaining a second island. If your first Death Star was shot up by pesky rebels, you will know how much it matters to build a second Death Star - secretly - with absolutely the minimum possible number of fatal vulnerabilities.

There is now a Second Website. This one's built on Weebly. I like Weebly. I have no plans to leave Weebly. If there was a "Like" button I would press it. Weebly! Weebly! Don't misunderstand me. But - yeah. Just in case. Dot online kind of covers all the bases, I think.

This curious habit of writing a second blog post under the picture. It’s going to have to stop. The phrase “fair-weather sailor,” used literally, describes a person who only goes out sailing in a flat calm, being unable to handle anything like good (as in: challenging) sailing weather. The phrase “cold-weather blogger,” used this morning, describes me sitting here today. Too much sun. Too much pleasant breeze coming in through the open windows.

Come December, and I’ll tell you what I think. Twice. Once above the picture and once below. Today, I’m going out back to do some watering. The roses are having a good year, although two of the recently bought miniatures dried out and had to be coaxed back to life, and the new magnolia hasn’t been doing half as well as it would have been, had I not left it without water for a crucial week of hot sunshine. Senior moments are fine until they affect the garden (and last a week).

So, yes, I’m afraid we’re going to have to leave this for now.

[The finely drawn uncial script with pictures of winged babies in the margins ends at this point. The writer, clearly agitated, continues in a near-illegible scrawl using a faulty Biro that leaks inkblots and scratches the vellum.]

No, we’re not. I suppose it’s inevitable that I refer to the weather as fine, after weeks of set-fair heatwave, and the monsoon starts.

The light greying out through the skylight, and then the hammering of the rain. The air fresh to the touch. Pleasant, actually. But inconvenient. The rain came hammering down yesterday afternoon (time passes differently while I’m writing these posts) and I sat in the doorway thinking about stair-rods – I remember stair-roads – and climates where heat alternates with heavy rain. Global warming is important and it’s happening, I know, but it doesn’t half trigger some entertaining daydreams.​

Saw the weather forecast last night. There’s a lot of red weather coming up from the Mediterranean, pushing out the yellow weather and turning London orange. We’re in for a resurgence of the heatwave. This I find encouraging, albeit in a rather sinister “things are getting interesting” kind of way. And yes, I do remember the heatwave of Summer 1976, thank you.
 
In particular, I remember sitting outside that pub on the North side of that famously wide high street, at a big round table with a group of friends, and inside, on the machine, Bryan Hyland starts to sing “So we gotta say goodbye, for the Summer,” and we all hear it, and we all realise: it’s over. I remember the news pictures of parched ground. I remember Paolo. Simon. K. The round table, although that was later, and that basement. Did we wonder whether future Summers would be like this? I suppose we did. Oh, and I remember the Rolling Stones at Knebworth. “What are we going to do now, Keith? Rip This Joint? Okay.”
 
Howell’s rain dance only worked once. Yes, and waking up on the lawn outside that house with the waterwheel, after that party. That false clarity [Oh dear. I seem to have spilt coffee over several of my memories of Summer’76.] as though all of consciousness has crystallised at the edges. Cracked fields with canyons in them. Jerry Cornelius. David Bowie. Max Demian. Lighters held up in the darkness at the Deutschelandhalle. Those hand-drawn maps of [Oops. Again. How clumsy of me.] and the walk up from the lake afterwards. Was that the year – never mind.
 
And I remember a politician by the name of Denis Howell, who was appointed Minister for Drought shortly before the rains came that Autumn. He was Minister of Floods for a short while, and then, in the ‘78/’79 Winter, Minister for Snow. I remember that Winter, too. The house painted in pink and green stripes. Those jeans you wore, if this means I'm thinking of you, and the name of the cat. Refuelling the helicopter, and the ride back under the Golden Gate Bridge.
 
Did the referendum on joining – actually, staying in – the then-EC happen in Summer 1976? No, 1975. I remember that we had bundles of rectangular paper fliers, about the size of something you’d see stuck in the back window of a car, bearing black-print-on-white slogans about the benefits of continued EC membership. They were great for cutting up and then invisibly mending (Sellotape) with the letters rearranged to say something rude. That referendum was funnier, more decisive, and I suppose I could say that it was over more quickly.
 
False memory. Except that it wasn’t. It didn’t ask a fresh question and it didn’t end the argument. It was a referendum on changing an existing relationship with the European Community, and it set us up for several more decades of arguing about Europe. You could say that today’s arguments are just business as usual. We’ve been bothering about the neighbours for centuries, sometimes by warlike means and sometimes by disagreeing with ourselves over the results of referendums. Referenda. Whatever. Not expressing a view here, but leaving is the one thing we’ve never tried, to shut down the argument.
 
But I’m not going to talk about that. We’ve spent two years failing to recover a sense of perspective on Europe; let’s talk about the weather. The direction of the colour scheme last night reminded me of all those doom-sayers burbling on about the Gulf Stream and how it flows up the graphic representation of global ocean currents to the left of the UK, mainly blue-green, bringing with it lines with triangles on them that signify rain today, sun tomorrow, fog on Friday and a blustery weekend with a sunny morning for Monday. British weather. Isobars, you know. The curved ones as well.
 
We had doom-sayers back in ’76, but not like we’ve had over the past few years. I suppose that the Millennium Bug and the Mayan Calendar and the Dot-Com Boom and the mindset of complete unreality brought on by social media have put us in the mood. Instead of SNAFU, how about SINWAD? Situation Normal: We’re All Doomed. Mind you, our grandparents had MAD – Mutually Assured Destruction – as a serious, straight-faced, generally accepted principle of international superpower diplomacy, so we can’t talk. Remember the SALT? The media doubled up on the T, didn't they? Talks.
 
Barbarossa. Here, now, this year, the real danger of global warming is not that giant icebergs will float right up to the waterfronts of picturesque Icelandic fishing villages and cause evacuations and photo-opportunities, but that the Gulf Stream has already “switched off” (as those happy pessimists used to put it), so that the weather is starting consistently to come from somewhere else. These days, if you want that comfortable tucked-up-in-bed feeling of impending doom, all you have to do is look for a weather forecast in which the colours move from right to left across the country … like last night’s.
 
Isn’t it great? Another reason to think that now is a significant moment in human history. I remember those flickery ocean currents bringing warm weather up from roughly Jamaica, bottom left, to somewhere up around the Shetland Islands, top right. Easy on the eyes, dependent on the world not changing. And what does the world do? Regardless of the fact that our mobile-phone company has put us “in control” and bought TV advertising to tell us so? Yes, it changes. No, we’re not in control. Go look out of the window. No, the window is the screen with the world outside it. Not touch-sensitive, sorry.
 
If that movement of warmth has stopped happening, I guess the best guide to the weather of the future will be one of those interminable black-and-white documentaries about “H*tl*r’s War Machine” getting bogged down at the gates of Moscow. [Sorry, I hate to type the name.] Come September, we’ll get heavy rains that, er, turn the roads to mud, and then, on some soon-to-be-ominous same-every-year date in early December, say, we’ll see the first wisps of snow. Within a week, we’ll be running through a black-and-white landscape in our snowsuits, cutting off the supply route to the 6th Army in Stalingrad.
 
Tick tock not. Or whatever would be today’s equivalent. The war-documentary analogy doesn’t quite stretch that far, but you get my drift (hey, pun!). The winds of Winter will come straight from the Urals (it’s always the Urals, have you noticed?) and the Summer heat will spill up the weather chart from the Sahara (other mountain ranges and deserts are available). Extreme weather conditions will shorten human lifespans, so that if you stare long enough at the statistics and ignore everything happening around you, there’ll be the opportunity to start an argument, or if you’re a government, put out a press release, about how we’re all younger-looking and healthier. Statistically.
 
Assuming I do discover the secret of eternal life, or at least implausible longevity, at some point between now and the date on which my body clock “should” cease to tell the time, I’m going to find the architecture interesting. Travel to a hot place, and you find a distinctive architecture of coolness. Travel to places where they ski, and you find an architecture of steeply sloping roofs (rooves?), shutters over the windows, clocks with wooden birds in them and saunas where you can get yourself really sweaty and then rush out into the snow and dive into an ice-cold bath. [No, I don’t visit ski resorts much. Why do you ask?]
 
How do you blend those two together? Interlined curtains? My guess is that (a) you don’t, and (b) the status quo is breaking anyway. The term “architecture” will soon be meaningless. We’ve been comfortably arguing over who recycles and who doesn’t, who litters and who doesn’t, comfortably complaining about the neighbours, and now we’re going to have to face the final countdown: fires across former wetlands, water shortages, more potholes in the roads, the elevation of the Minister for Catastrophe to cabinet rank, the total collapse of civilisation as we know it, and TV advertising from mobile-phone companies to tell us how they’re empowering communities to take responsibility for their own environments by recycling their old phones for negligible sums of barter chips.
 
Good talk, Nostradamus, thanks. Traditionally built homes, alternately perma-frozen in Winter and roasted at maximum temperature in Summer, will disintegrate. Architects will become scavengers, eking out their scant livings on the edges of crumbling cities, scratching designs for temporary dwellings into the dried roadsides in return for scraps of food. In the few years we have left before global air travel spreads the plague that kills us all, we’ll become nomadic – but over short distances, in the British way, moving seasonally (discreetly, without fuss) from the ground on which we pitch our Summer yurts to the adjacent ground on which we build our Winter igloos. We’ll maintain our hedges to keep out the neighbours, of course, mustn’t let standards slip, although we’ll have to switch from native species to imported tall-grass varieties.
 
State media will continue to reassure us that nothing has changed, while running property shows about seasonal housing – Kevin and Brenda run a glamping business through the Summer months, then they close for a week in December and re-open as an ice hotel just in time for the festive shopping spree. Derek’s construction company alternates between building straw-bale houses, with plenty of ventilation, and building ice houses. Freezing coloured water as a decorative speciality. Decorative fabrics embedded in blocks of ice*. By then, with or without a follow-up vote, thanks to ice caps melting and sea levels rising, we’ll have moved a long way further from France. As for the Netherlands, yeah. About that whole below-sea-level thing.
 
Get a load of those dots! Okay, I’m feeling very much better now. Really cheerful. Optimistic, even. But – hey. I nearly forgot. On top of all that, I heard a rumour. Somebody told somebody who told a friend of mine who told me the other day that the army is stockpiling food. Just that – “stockpiling food”. Nothing more than that. They’re not modifying their tank tracks to run on mud, or insulating their engines so that they’ll start even in Ural weather. Nor are they specifically buying Heinz Baked Beans in bulk, or Kendal Mint Cake, or Tunnock’s Tea Cakes, say. Or getting ready for a big party. No details. Just “stockpiling food”.
 
It’s the perfect rumour. Simple, believable, quite possibly meaningless (perhaps somebody in uniform did a bulk-buy at a cash-and-carry and was seen) – but if you get the tone of voice right when you’re spreading it around, definitely ominous. Could signify anything… Especially with those three dots (which are the emoji version of a Meaningful Look – a rare instance of the emoji coming before the chicken – er, egg – er, I mean, the expression that it signifies. The emoji, I mean. Oh, never mind).
 
Then last night, with the imaginary wind blowing around the house, the imaginary wolves howling in the imaginary forest outside, the sinister imaginary theme tune failing to drown out anything at all and the floor upstairs creaking in that way it does when there’s nobody up there (Or Isn’t There?), I had a thought. After watching the sinister red-tinged weather forecast and ferrying another sack of canned food down to the fall-out shelter, I thought: if I’m going to write about this, maybe I should write about the shortage at the supermarket. And the more I thought about that…
 
There was snow in Falmouth for two days at the beginning of this year. Just for two days. But I remember that on the first day there was talk of “panic buying in the supermarket”, and then, on the second day when I went shopping, I found empty shelves because the supply lorries couldn’t get through. [That was the Official Explanation, cue ominous music.] This country is not good at extreme weather – far too much fun getting in a panic – but that was a failure of “Just In Time” stock control on a grand scale.
 
Clearly, we can guess that The Army Knows Something. If it starts raining in September, and doesn’t stop, get your panic-buying in early. Equip yourself with snow shoes and heavily insulated clothing. Hire an architect to re-jig your house so that it has cool, airy interiors and heavy-duty insulation on the outside. Take igloo-building lessons and learn to carve ice sculptures. Don’t be surprised when the snow comes and you see tanks trundling through town with your online grocery order dangling from the gun barrel.
 
*No! Not deceased relatives. Although taxidermy would have to change.

Are we stuck in the present, or just wary of anything that might take us out of the status quo? On the side of that bus just now, the words “Working in partnership with” and then the logos of the two local universities. And now here comes that other bus, the small one, the one that I’ve mentioned before, bearing the words “Connecting local communities since 1929.” There’s a schematic on one of them, a bouquet of green lines with place names instead of flowers, but those are the words that these two buses use to introduce themselves to the world.

You might think that a mission statement along the lines of “Going from A to B” would be more appropriate, or perhaps “Giving you a ride home in return for a small-ish amount of money,” but no. Even that schematic doesn’t exactly add up to “If you want to go to Penryn, get on this one.” These buses are engaged in a vast, static purpose – partnering with universities, connecting communities – and I guess that’s what they want us to think of them. The fact that the wheels on the bus go round and round is incidental. Whether the mummies on the bus go chat-a-chat-chat or just dream of Ancient Egypt – I can’t believe I thought that would be funny. Sorry.

Survey tunes. Mummies and daddies on the bus, I'm sorry to have interrupted your conversation. On the table in front of me is a white paper bag. It contains small items recently collected from a nearby store. On the back of the paper bag is a request. “Please complete our survey to help us make sure we’re giving you the best service.”
 
Not “Complete our survey to help us work out whether we’re doing well or badly” or even “to work out how we’re doing, or how we could improve,” but “help us make sure…” we’re the best. Complete our survey to help us confirm to ourselves that we’re doing really well. Okay. I have more to say about that, but before I go any further, I want you to know that I really care about you, as a reader of this blog. Please help me by grading this post from one to ten, where ten is “William, I think you’re wonderful”, and one is “I’m sorry, William, I’m just not capable of following what you’re on about.”
 
Thank you. I value your opinion. If you would like to add any further comment, please use the box provided (max. 28 characters). And no, it’s not necessary to tell me in person. You’d be welcome, and I suppose we’d both laugh, but we’d be laughing because that’s not what such invitations invite. We all know, don’t we, that if I turned up at that store’s counter and started helping them to make sure, etc., in my own special way, our relationship would be soured. “Here, let me wrap that for you,” would not go down well, and nor would “Can you really not see that there’s a queue?”
 
We, Robot. It's as if we’re trained (influenced, nudged, pressured) to think in States of Being these days. Not doing, Being. A bus driver might ferry people around town, just as an individual retailer might sell me stuff. But collectively, at the level of the organisations that aspire to direct our lives, we're being put into a still picture and not a moving, doing, changing narrative. A town’s bus company is Working In Partnership; its directors have meetings with academics (administrators, sorry) and come away thinking they’ve done something useful. But has their discussion moved a single commuter from A to B?

Your bus is delayed, I'm afraid, but comfort yourself with the thought that your communities are connected. Oh, you've given us a 0 in the survey. Is our best service not reaching you? Perhaps you should get to the bus stop earlier. Of course we put The Customer first. What do you mean, you're the customer? How arrogant. There are hundreds of customers. We can't spend our valuable time just focusing on you.

What seems to have happened, somewhere deep down at soul level, is that we’ve abandoned attempts to achieve The Singularity by building computers that can think like we do, and started instead to train ourselves to think like computers do. But wait a minute. Think about that paper bag from the store. There’s a great hierarchy of people and managers behind it, who have to Sign Off The Paper Bag before it goes into production, but only two who matter. Only two whose disappearance would matter to the production of the paper bag.

Exactly. The (I guess) freelance graphic designer who made it what it is, and the writer who wrote the first draft of those words on the back – the draft that said “tell us how we’re doing.” Those two, designer and writer, along with all the rest of their kind, are (more or less contentedly) accepting money to provide first drafts of all the world's paper bags, slogans and schematics on the sides of buses, and if you think about it, instructions on how to interact with reality.

Not harness - unleash. Their drafts are wrenched back from creativity to stasis by middle management, and they accept that because they're getting paid to do this stuff and they can be creative out of hours. But just imagine what would happen if they realised their power.

If there were no first drafts, their would be no second drafts. No second drafts, nothing to sign off, no meetings, no brain-achingly dull statements of the obvious to include in our marketing literature. So my suggestion, for getting us out of this State of Being and back into moving forward, is not to Harness The Power Of Technology, which is almost as inert as a bureaucracy until it's given something to do, but to Unleash The Designers And Writers, whose creativity is unpredictable, who don't go bang and fizzle out if you drop them in water (no, wait) and who generate ideas without first having to be programmed with self-limiting parameters.

I also think money isn't the solution to everything and managers should be subordinate to the people we manage, but we're not talking about the NHS. Just think. Yes, the words on the bus would be “Paying designers generously” and the schematic would show a writer accepting a card payment, but there’s a fighting chance they’d be self-confident enough, secure enough in their own skills and general all-round value, to ask a straight question: how are we doing?*
 
*See above re: SINWAD.