Out of phase…

Some times when you get into the sea everything is just slightly out of phase. You seem to be duck-diving 20 times to get out back as everybody else glides elegantly past through unseen calm channels. Then you find yourself too close to shore so the bigger sets land on your head filling your sinus cavities with brine and your memories with shame. Or you’re too far out so you paddle like a 1970’s egg whisk and don’t catch anything except maybe a small whiff of humble pie. Continue reading “Out of phase…”

The butterfly effect. Again…

There are an infinite number of possible paths that may have led to every moment in your life but they all somehow get to the same point. Much like how you always end up with a jumbo set of neon coloured freezer bag clips in your man bag whenever you come home from Ikea no matter which convoluted path round the big blue and yellow shop you take. Some call this fate or destiny some dwell upon the mysteries of Karma others just call it dumb fucking luck. Continue reading “The butterfly effect. Again…”

Can you learn to surf at 50?

Of course not – that would be ridiculous.

Any sentient being approaching 50 years of age must feel the looming presence of their own mortality. The searing ache in every feeble, wasting muscle in your body, the befuddled confusion at pedestrian crossings where clarity of thought once reigned. The smell of decay when you change your socks (if you can still reach your own feet)… Continue reading “Can you learn to surf at 50?”

Lost in the mist…

figures lost in the mist

I’ve been a bit lost recently.

Not the ‘manfully driving around tiny country lanes refusing to ask for directions’ or ‘wandering around the local Lidl licking fridge windows’ kind of lost but the listless, lacklustre, (alliteration ridden) lost of the middle-aged, middle-class man. A man in the middle of his life, struggling between the sweet dreams of ambition and the painfully setting concrete of reality.

Is this ‘The Crossroads’ that they sing about? Am I standing on a dusty intersection in Buttfuck Idaho playing a beat up guitar hoping that a demonic venture capitalist will snap my soul up after they spot it on Instagram? Is this the beginning of the end and therefore the end of the beginning? Am I at a junction with choices or have I arrived? Destination: Middle Of The Road.
Continue reading “Lost in the mist…”

And on the seventh day…

The rain stopped. Of course we all knew it would eventually – it doesn’t ever rain forever – that would be tantamount to Biblical and who needs that? I was starting to crinkle a bit around the edges and there was a definite whiff of mildew in my darker corners. But cease it did and inevitably the sun came out from behind those breaking clouds…

So the enormous timber frame construction kit that I’ve been whittling piece by piece in a miniscule temporary workshop has finally seen some daylight. Trying to man-handle six metre glulams inside a half built kitchen that only measures five by three has been somewhat trying but needs must when Beelzebub barfs into your beverage boiling pot…

Built using Pythagoras, trigonometry and an exceptionally short pencil this spruce skeleton has tested my maths, memory and man muscles but at last it is fully upstanding. Proudly perpendicular to the horizontal. Plumb to the prone. Erect.

Only thirty eight rafters to cut and I’ll be done…

I didn’t surf today. Too busy getting the splinters out of my big, burly man-hands…

Into the snakepit

I was sitting peacefully on my own in the sea a couple of days ago (on a surfboard obviously – I didn’t go for a wander along the beach and think ‘Oh – that looks like a nice damp spot for a moment of quiet non-upright semi-immersed introspection’) when somebody paddled out and sat next to me.

I prepared myself for the usual half nod and uncomforable silence that stands for “I am a surf-man and I will take my rightful place in this hierarchy of two!”. I was met however with a broad smile and a cheery greeting. We exchanged names, lifestyle choices and then discussed our personal decision to surf a smaller quieter peak than join the plethera of surf practioners at other ‘better’ waves.
Continue reading “Into the snakepit”