Author: ivan

I was musing the other day, as one does, that there are some useful parallels to be drawn between running and writing.  And some less so. I was thinking about the relationship between joy and pain, mind vs duende and, obviously, shoes.  Although I do not yet possess a pair of writing shoes.  Thinking about it, I tend to write in socks.  By which I do not mean that I am some sort of Jimmy Cricket / Mr Bean -style sock-labeller, but someone who wears socks while writing.  Or to be precise, typing.  I do wear shoes while I’m writing in Starbucks.  Although I notice the little people consider shoes both optional and occasionally, nutritious.  But I digress.

(more…)

It’s been a bit of a struggle to adjust to working for myself, as the last few blog posts have suggested.  But I’m hoping I’ve turned the corner.  Got back on the horse.  Persuaded the horse to turn the corner, drink some water, perform a couple of quick stepovers and do the fandango.  Mamma mia, mamma mia, can you put me on the bridle.  Ok.  Enough already.  The point is, things are looking up. (more…)

It’s not often I make F snort yogurt out of her nose and convulse with laughter – well, except when I am attempting to explain the creative process or why I can’t finish the novel this week because I’m (a) washing my hair; (b) admiring the onion monster in the garden; (c) thinking up ways in which thinking about writing is like having your own Judaean People’s Front Committee meetings going on in your head, constantly; or (d) ooh look, an ickle kitten – but I managed it this week.  And all because I said, in all seriousness, ‘I am a duck, I swim.’ (more…)

It has been a week for finding the familiar in the unfamiliar.  Of revisiting the past, through a series of ‘sliding doors’ style vignettes, and reliving experiences – some good, some bad.   The shock of the old and the clumsy trip over the barely remembered.  I’ve been made to look in old mirrors, and find no Dorian Grey, or Mad Old Hatter, or indeed anyone I recognise in there.   The people and thoughts I’ve found are instead cloudy and blurred, or digitally enhanced and pixellated.  My memories are fogged through lack of use – overgrown weeds in the dark corners of the mind-garden. (more…)

Ok. Enough with the angst for a while. Please note that this period ‘while’ is undefined, both by me and by Bill Bryson (in the highly enjoyable Troublesome words of the title). And please note that reading what is essentially a dictionary for pleasure is not the same as reading ‘It pays to improve your word power’ in Reader’s Digest. Ok? One’s for bed and one’s for the doctor’s surgery. (more…)

I’m growing old. Empirically, mechanically and emotionally – I’m older. I know this. I can see it, feel it, touch it. Occasionally, I can smell it, or rather feel the rush of having aged when a smell cuts across boundaries like little else. As we grow older our taste buds reduce in number (or so I’ve read), so I assume I won’t be able to taste getting old. And it seems somewhat cruel that while my ears keep growing, I will hear less and less of life. (more…)

I’m sat here, in the study, with only the faint hum of my iMac and the occasional patter of my fingers on the keyboard for company. Overhead, the distant thrum of another metal duck wheezing its way to Heathrow. Earlier there were a pair of magpies karakacking harshly at each other. And the builders next door were using their giant metal fart-machine to cut bricks. Perhaps the magpies were heckling the builders. (more…)

This week was my first week of supposed ‘freedom’. It’s been exhausting. And I haven’t written a single creative word. Although on Thursday I did utter some fairly creative words when I tasted the mystery substance that I had spooned into our dinner in the spirit of cross-cupboard-shelf diversity and exploration. Some lids are simply meant to be left sealed, kids. (more…)

This week, I expect there will be some new readers of this blog. Welcome. Pull up a pew*. Although if you really believe that this is a church you are sorely misguided. But now I mention it, the Cult of Monk Quixote has a certain ring to it. So on second thoughts, pull up a pew, give me all your cash and start wearing odd clothes (you’ll soon discover that I believe the concept of things matching to be vastly over-rated). Anyhoo, welcome one and all. Or as is infinitely more probably, one.

* I have just attempted to find ‘pull up a pew’ in my new Allen’s Dictionary of Modern Phrases, hoping to discover some hidden reference to the Reformation in my sub-conscious, or perhaps some deep aversion to acanthus wood, but no such joy. I have, however, discovered that ‘go phut’ is a Hindi expression meaning to ‘burst or split’. I think it should be my duty to be more educational from now on. Ahem, I digress… (more…)

I spent at least some of Sunday poking mild fun at the Pope via the hashtag #popefacts. I had hoped to get some new (fun) followers for my nonsense – which I did. And I also got some less-fun followers. People taking it all a little too seriously. (more…)