johniebg

If only Wimbledon’s centre court had a roof years ago, just imagine how rain free all those summers would have been. Which reminds me, anticipation and humidity linger in the air – it is that time of year when we pack up families and jet to sunnier climbs in the expectation of sitting around tables and doing much as we would in our own back gardens.

Cunningly I have managed to avoid such things by sidestepping flippant friendships and not having any children. My family is also very small (in numbers) and aged. So Prideesh and I never feel obliged to go anywhere on holiday with anyone but ourselves. And because of all the above, holidays tend to be about packing a rucksack full of books and throwing in a couple t-shirts and shorts. Well, that’s me anyway. For Prideesh it’s roughly the same except a much smaller bag for books and twelve times the number of shorts and shoes and tops etc.

The key though for this little nugget of non-fiction is the bag full of books. Holiday books are a special kind of beast. They are often not the kind of book you would read while commuting or propped up in bed of a night, or sitting in the conservatory during wet and balmy weekends. Holiday books are like holidays, they are always there tempting you with the promise of something wonderful and different. Sometimes they live upto that promise.

I am a slow reader, which means my record for a single weeks holiday is four books and that was a week in Assos spent entirely on the apartment balcony or seated in a waterfront bar. The downside is my rucksack holds roughly twelve books, which means I have accrued a bit of a backlog of reading material over the past few years.

So with bookshelves bulging I have come up with a rather novel idea, why not just read the books and not just wait for the holiday? I know, genius!

And we come to the purpose of this text, the agenda. The books listed below are a combination of those that have travelled on holidays but have never been plucked from the rucksack or those that have been recommended by friends that I have not yet got around to reading.

The mission is to read them in the listed order, being their current order in my bookcase. Once each book has been completed it will be reviewed and that review posted here, the writing of reviews I have learned is entirely a different kind of writing skill.

Brute Force – Andy McNab

Andy McNab’s Remote Control is still one of the best books I have ever read. He has fallen off the pace over the past few years, to the point I stopped reading his books. So I thought I would check up on this his most recent offering.

Twilight – Stephanie Meyer

Parent’s love it because the story analogises morality and sex with marriage. Kids love it because Harry Potter is now over and they need something interesting to read. Looking forward to reading this.

The Solitary Man – Stephen Leather

Picked this up in Tesco’s in a two for a fiver deal. It seems to be a story along the lines of Batman without the bats or Bruce Wayne. But it starts in a prison and the main character breaks out and all sorts of mayhem ensues, allegedly.

Diaries Into Politics – Alan Clark

I read the first of these diaries back in 2004 and loved it and I mean it was just fantastic considering I have no time for politics or politicians. Alan Clark is just a great diarist with a devious mind. Had been almost afraid to read this sequel just in case I am disappointed.

Slaughterhouse 5 – Kurt Vonnegut

I am not sure whether my colleague Jan is German or Dutch or something between But that is his name and he recommended this to me, this being a fictional account of a man’s experience of the Dresden bombings by the allies at the end of WWII. The tatty copy Jan held in is hand had Vintage Classics written on the cover so I guess it’s considered to have some worth.

Deadly Intent – Lynda La Plante

I know the author is a bit of a legend but have never read any of her books before. That is going to change this summer it would seem. The blurb on the back mentions a fatal shooting, drugs and a female Detective Inspector.

Summer Things – Joseph Connelly

I picked this off a table in Waterstones a good five years ago with the ideal of finding out all those things trendy people get upto in the summer. But then when I got it home I saw the picture of Joseph Connelly on the back with big bushy beard and smile that spoke of pompous. I might be wrong, we will soon find out.

Excession – Iain M. Banks

I do not ordinarily read Sci Fi but this comes highly recommended by another colleague and I have learned that reading outside of comfort zones can be hugely rewarding.

The Man in the High Castle – Philip K. Dick

Another recommendation from a guy at work, this one South African but without the guttural accent. I think he said he moved away when he was young. Mr Dick (author) will be well known to many people as someone who’s books subsequently become movies. Sadly for him not while he was alive. This book is a fictional look at a world where the German’s won WWII and share America with the Japanese. The story being about characters that theorise what it would have been like if the English and American’s had won the war. So I am told.

Absolute Friends – John Le Carre

Just before Bush Junior got elected the second time I watched an interview with John Le Carre where he stated Bush getting elected a second time would be a very bad thing for the world. But if he did we should try our best to retain some kind of world dignity. I somehow believed this book was on that theme and immediately brought it, but, recall reading the back made me think it might not be. Guess I am about to find out.

Dark Horse – Tami Hoag

Another Tesco’s two for a fiver special. This about a washed up female cop that befriends a child in need. I love contrasted stereotypes, so this looks promising.

The boy in stripped pyjamas – John Boyne

I love friend recommendations and this is another one, from my bestest friend. I always thought of this as one of those books people say they own but can never actually tell you what it is about. A bit like Time Travellers Wife. In my defence I found Time Travellers wife overwritten and I only brought boy in pyjamas June this year.

Lord of Misrule – Christopher Lee

I quite admire Christopher Lee from what I have seen and heard of him. Brought this in 2005 because someone also said it was brilliant.

Scarred Hearts – Max Blecher

Brought this while looking for an insight into sanatorium life and promptly forgot all about it because my focus shifted.

The Watchman – Robert Crais

Tesco’s special with a cool title. All that was needed for it to land in my basket.

ILIUM – Dan Simmons

Supposed to be a re-telling in Sci Fi terms of a Greek classic. We will see.

No peace for the wicked – Adrian Magson

Got this at the same time as Boy in Pyjamas. This was recommended by a guy in Waterstones Birmingham. It’s got a cover that looks like it might be self published (i.e. simple and pretty rubbish) but it might not be.

Blood Brothers – JA Kerley

Got this via Amazon’s Vine program early 2008, read the first five pages and thought it cliché and popped it back on the shelf. Then Dexter came along and this book became popular. I believe it is based on a similar theme to Dexter.

Schools Out – Christophe Dufosse

Picked this up because European authors tend to be more liberal with their analysis of childhood innocence. And innocence is something I have a particular interest in, in literary terms of course. This is the english translation.

Brave New World – Aldous Huxley

One of those books I read at school and loved and meant to read again during each of the twenty six years since.

Snatched – Mandasue Heller

Tesco’s special on a theme close to my heart, despite the authors first name sounding like a computer username.

Sinai – William Smethurst

In 2002 I almost got a job working for the UN based in Sinai supporting their technologies while they monitored the Isreali and Palestinian conflict. I brought this at a jumble sale while on standby in case the guy they chose decided it was not for him (you spend two years on base). They never called much to my huge disappointment.

The Notebook – Nicholas Sparks

This is supposed to be a great love story and I have aspirations of writing a great love story one day.

Life of PI – Yann Martel

Recommended to me in a pub almost a year ago and then found it on my desk at work the next day. No idea who recommended it or who left it on my desk. Keep waiting for someone to ask for it back and thought it about time I read it.

 Initially

This book writing journey began in 2002 for a lot of reasons I will not cover here. I also realised in 2002 that a vivid imagination does not a book make. So the objective became about writing anything and everything to an online journal. In 2006 I tried writing another book but failed again because a book needs a story not just an idea and characters. That led me late in 2006 to start writing short stories and most of 2007 was spent making up for my shortcomings in grammar. It was also spent writing lots of dialogue because I heard that was important too.

As 2007 came to a close I was about as ready to write a book as any parent is for their first child. I had failed in 2002 because I did not know how to write and failed again in 2006 because I knew not what a story was. But I persevere and I studied.

The story

It was a cool overcast day in October 2007 and I was standing in the high street waiting on Prideesh, who was loitering in Smiths. It was busy and I was people watching. I think most people do but especially people that write, hunting mannerisms and creating backstory for the unaware. I watched a girl of about ten emerge from Boots and amble alone along the high street wearing what girls that age do. She also wore a tired pair of emu boots, a white boots bag swinging from her hand.

Some part of what struck me was her grace, a poise that was almost woman that stood her from the crowd. It is hard to describe what then happened in my mind but it was like every neuron fired at the same time. Everything I had thought and experienced through these writing eyes suddenly connected and illuminated like a a giant oak with every limb decked out in lights. I had the basic concept for a whole story.

The idea grew and grew and before Priddeesh emerged onto the high street I had imagined specific scenes and the key characters. From that night on I have been listening to the characters talk, their conversations and imagining their actions that would lead them through the story. Daydreaming has been a strength of mine for as long as I can recall. Although it was not often thought as such during my largely fruitless academic years.

Plotting

Still a little cautious after my previous book writing attempts and having studied the structure of the sort of book I wanted to write I started creating a plot outline. Some people say you do not need them and some say you do. I know not all people are the same. I would use the outline much as a director does a storyboard. It would be a framework for the story but not the whole story. It would point in the right direction but not be a road map that was diligently followed for want of better paths.

So that is what I did and it took me to the beginning of 2008 to finish the outline. It was a hugely rewarding process and I have to say for me vital. It also showed to me later while I was writing how naïve I was in my imaginations for what the story was and how short the outline fell. But it was still useful for the first half of the book.

People

You do also hear that some writers nail everything about their characters before they get going on the story main and I did ponder a great deal on character profiles and did start writing them. But the characters were so distinctive in my mind I knew what they were if not exactly who. So I decided to let them become who they were as the story evolved. I am very glad I did that now with hindsight. At the time I did not write more than a few paragraphs in character development prior to writing and what I did write only served to enforce the image in my mind and were never used in the story main. It was a huge amount of fun defining who they were as the story unfolded.

Viewpoint

Which brings us to perspective. I have written a few first person short stories and they are quite easy to write if you have the narrator’s mindset in yours. I am not saying a first person perspective book would be easy to write because you are narrowed by the fact you only see from one person’s viewpoint and stringing that out in an entertaining way for over three hundred pages must be difficult. But I wanted a book that had lots of characters, one of them is a child and I wanted to see things from her point of view and from the main characters: a woman. From all perspectives. So I went omnipresent. The decision was easy doing it was very hard.

So January 2008 arrived and I began writing. And before we go any further I want to make a few statements least you jump to the wrong conclusions. First and foremost this is not some glorious march towards a published finale. The book was finished at the beginning of April 2009 and I am one month into waiting for my first agency reply. Neither is this essay meant to be instructional or written from a point of authority. It is simply my experience during a stories genesis from desire, concept and creation. This is written mainly for me least my perception of this greatest experience diminish with the effort required in getting it published. I hope you find it entertaining and if you have written or tried to write a book then you will probably see a lot here that will echo. I hope the experience shared is a problem halved, or something like that.

Day dreaming

So with that said it was January 2008 and I began writing. Well I made the mental decision to start writing having spent months dreaming endlessly, and dreaming some more and then dreaming a lot more. In some part I would have been happy to just dream about the story more than actually bring it to life. But this life used to be littered with failed projects started enthusiastically which drives me these days to finish them. The problem then though was that I had no idea how to start the story.

So after some deliberation I did what I often did with my short stories, the very first thing I wrote was the end. Well actually it was the epilogue which was finished as January turned to February of 2008. It was a useful process (writing the end) because it set in my mind what I was heading towards. The very next thing I wrote was the prologue. So in the very first two chapters I had created the beginning and the end. And in doing so created a vast canvas onto which to paint the drama.

Even then I still struggled to get going. A feeling I can only correspond to accounts I have read of stage fright. Would the promise of the book outshine the reality. And how the hell by the way do you start the first real chapter of a book?

So I spent endless hours at home reading the first chapters of my favourite books. And then in Borders and Waterstones reading the first chapters of current best sellers and notable classics.

Struggling

Eventually I got going and wrote that first chapter. Then I re-wrote it, wrote it again, then edited and then re-edited, then re-wrote. Then edited, then cut and then re-edited. The second chapter took longer because I went back and re-edited the first chapter again. The third chapter took longer because I went back and did chapter one and two again. Repeat as above for the first six chapters which took me to sometime in March. At which time I sat down and calculated my daily word count and realised it would take me seven years to write the book.

So I just got on with it. Well I got to 30,000 words and something occurred to me. 30,000 words is a benchmark. It is 100 pages of a novel. Priddeesh and I celebrated, went out for a meal and then sat down and read the 100 pages as a whole. The story was there but the narrative was confusing, it changed basically from one chapter to another. Sometimes in the middle. I had still been struggling although not lingering so long on re-writing chapters. Eventually I realised I had no idea who I thought would read the book!

Realising the obvious

It is stupid I know but I was looking at the writing process from a reader’s point of view, not from the business point of view. Which essentially meant I was writing the book for myself. And because my reading expectations change with the books I read. The narrative of my story was a reflection of the books I was reading. It was a difficult problem to realise, being like looking at yourself in a different mirror each day and trying to work out what is different. Eventually you realise it is the mirror. So I stopped and really started thinking about who I really thought would read the book and more importantly, who might publish it.

I found that adult fiction falls into two different categories: literary and commercial. The later stands a lot more chance of getting published but it focuses on the story and not on literary writing style. I had assumed that a good story well written would be enough. It is not.

My goal is not to achieve literary greatness or a Nabokovian reputation for imagery, accolades or heaps of cash. I think anyone that knows creative writing knows that is very unlikely anyway. Above all I wanted to write a story that would be read and by that measure, I would need to write another. That was the beginning and end of the initial remit. The problem was in my audience viewpoint, which was constantly changing because I had been the audience. I needed a consistent voice and for that I needed to know who I was writing for. Just as you adjust your word selection and voice and attitude between conversations with a grandparent, a child, a mother or father, a young woman or young man, your peer group. I needed to adjust the story’s voice accordingly and keep it there. I made that adjustment based on the fact I wanted it to be commercial. I imagined my audience reading on beaches or on trains.

The voice took a while to level but it did and then with a consistent voice I found it easier to weave words and paragraphs, pages and chapters. And finally I was enjoying myself.

Ideals

Having shrugged off the burden of inexperience and actually started writing I realised my imagined ideal of book writing was way wide of the truth. In my imagination writing a book would be a matter of pondering scenes and dialogue and then furiously tapping away and producing pages and pages of prose. I laboured to 60,000 words with the expectation I would soon hit my stride and would begin flourishing my writers wand, deliriously creating my masterpiece at a blur. But the reality slowly dawned on me. This labouring lark was how it was. Apart from some brief moments of inspiration, writing was actually more like being half awake and late and trying to squeeze the last out of a tube of toothpaste. That is how I would best describe the actual writing process.

I had given up my job at the end of March 2008 because I was in serious danger of falling asleep on the 60 mile stretch I drove home along, a desire to sleep which was the net effect of the interest I had in the job. From May through to August I did not write a single word while finding and then acclimatising to the new job. And then in September we moved house and I juggled writing with decorating and commuting. As Christmas 2008 arrived I was up to 90,000 words and considered myself to be on the home stretch. Which was naïve because the story was only two thirds completed.

Writing

But I was now writing and more importantly loving it. By the middle of the book I really knew who the characters were and had abandoned the plot outline. Because the characters and the situations now dictated what had to happen. Not in a predictable way but as you might freeze frame a video never seen before and discuss likely outcomes. I distilled the multiple possible paths to the ones I felt made the story the most interesting. And then I pressed play again and started writing. Although of course you always doubt yourself and there is always the temptation to just daydream.

The end of the year was a turning point. You do not write 100,000 honest inventive words and not learn a lot of lessons. I had learned a lot. If I was ill equipped to write a book at the beginning I now knew some of what it took. At least to get the story onto the page in a rough approximation of creative. So 2009 started and I left behind all the fears about the story and its worth, batted away the need to daydream, gave myself time and got into a routine. Thinking on creative ways to climb out of each rut or dilemma.

I typed the last paragraph of the story at roughly 19:30hrs on April 9. I had finished the book, draft one and 155,000 words. Which I now know was only two thirds of the book writing process completed.

Edit

Having finished the story I quickly came to the realisation I had a great big mess on my hands. Not that there wasn’t a great story in there somewhere, it just needed the fat trimmed off. Welcome to the editing process.

Most of the fat came from two sources. Firstly in large chunks of the story that were more about me explaining to myself what was going on during key points, whole pages of dialogue and exposition explaining dilemmas and points of view that the reader did not need, would fall asleep reading. Maybe even worse.

The other source for unnecessary chunks of story were either born of my occasional leaning towards over description and from trying to make points of philosophy that I leveraged into the story to serve my own agenda. Ultimately the edit showed them for what they were and nothing that wasn’t part of the story or the characters agenda survived the first edit. That left me with 145,000 words and was completed May 7.

Then after a brief pause I began the second edit which worked at the word level. Was every word part of the story? Was every sentence saying something that drove the story forward. You might think that might have been covered in the first edit. But the editing process has been like peeling away layers. You only see a fault or problem when you pull away the previous layer, then when that problem is fixed and that layer is pulled away it reveals more problems. But with each layer the problems narrow and you eventually have a finished product.

In the last two paragraphs I have detailed what is essentially a very painful process. Having poured heart and soul into every word, deleting words or paragraphs is tough. Especially when you can recall the creation of those specific words took hours of sweat and juggled meanings and context. A really tough process. But in the end for me it became all about the story and the people that were part of the story. If it served neither then it had no right to be there. Once I got over the initial trauma and started seeing the benefit, the editing became a hugely liberating experience.

That is where I am now, post second edit. The whole story now sits at 142,000 words and hangs together with no rucks or mishaps that I can see. That is not to say it is finished. There are lots of rough edges, grammar and spelling mistakes and a few hiccups in flow. But I almost can’t see them now for being drawn to the story. But it is out now with five people that are a good cross section of the intended audience. It is being proofed.

Submission

The gap between edit one and edit two was spent writing a letter to the agency of choice and the synopsis and polishing the first three chapters.

The first and only agency at this time is Darley Anderson and I spent a lot of time researching their crime/thriller agent: Camilla Bolton. She apparently likes a covering letter on one page and a synopsis under 1500 words.

Writing the synopsis was a really interesting exercise. As I had never written one before I studied the art. And it really is an art. As a consequence it is also very difficult because what makes a book interesting is the detail. In a synopsis you only have words enough for the essence of the characters and the story’s bare bones. And then you have to imbue it with some of the book’s writing flare - bloody difficult. What the synopsis did force me to do was revisit the plot and in doing so I realised a few omissions. And from that I realised a key story thread which was actually very pedestrian. Nothing earth shattering but a few key details that needed switching about and then mixing with a little extra creativity. These really added to the depth of the story I think and required just a little bit of work. So the synopsis was a very beneficial process if taxing.

I also knew Darley Anderson only signed three new authors last year and the world is entirely different this year. My chances were very slim, but they are looking for someone!

But not me. The letter came back during the time it took to write this essay. It contained words like: ‘Enjoyed reading’ and ‘talented writer’ and ‘strong literary style‘ but Camilla also broke my heart a little. Because it also contained words like: ‘not fit into our highly commercial framework. Good luck.’

I have not yet re-read those first three chapters to see what she saw – too painful right now.

The end

We live and learn and we move on. The next agent has been identified and this essay is almost at a close. I wanted to finish on a note that you might have been wondering about. Why was writing the book one of this life’s greatest experiences?

There is something magical about the creative process, in all the scope of creativity. By the time I got to the middle of the book I had intermittently enjoyed the process but it was so dogged by uncertainly it had been more a labour of love. The revelation for me was in focusing the audience and just embracing the process. Enjoying it for what it was. I knew I had a really good contemporary and ageless story because its themes resonate almost everyday. I had also created characters that I could almost reach out and touch. It is hard to explain. Finishing the book became about telling their story, I felt almost obligated on their behalf. People say writing is a lonely experience but it was not, it was brilliant. I walked with these characters for eighteen months and spent eight of those months carving their story into words. Their voices are silent now and their story is told. I miss them but can revisit whenever I choose.

In the mean time this mind has already turned to the next book and his voice is already chattering away, although he will have to wait until this autumn before he can breathe.

1. WERE YOU NAMED AFTER ANYONE?

Yes, dead relatives

2. WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU CRIED?

I cry all the time but seldom about real life anymore

3. DO YOU LIKE YOUR HANDWRITING?

It’s ink and functional, what’s to like?

4. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE LUNCH MEAT?

Chicken

5. DO YOU HAVE KIDS?

I am not a goat, I don’t have children either.

6. IF YOU WERE ANOTHER PERSON WOULD YOU BE FRIENDS WITH YOU?

I am probably too much hard work but we’d meet up occasionally and have a laugh.

7. DO YOU USE SARCASM?

Seldom, it betrays a need to be superior. I do try to be funny.

8. DO YOU STILL HAVE YOUR TONSILS?

Yes

9. WOULD YOU BUNGEE JUMP?

Why ever for?

10. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE CEREAL?

Porridge

11. DO YOU UNTIE YOUR SHOES WHEN YOU TAKE THEM OFF?

No although you have to get the knot just right. Buy slip-ons

13. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE ICE CREAM?

Vanilla

14. WHAT IS THE FIRST THING YOU NOTICE ABOUT PEOPLE?

Women: Body, breasts, hips, legs and face in that order. Men: Roughly the same. Your eyes and brain do this before the information ever makes it to your conscious, I sometimes look again.

15. RED OR PINK?

Red

16. WHAT IS YOUR LEAST FAVORITE THING ABOUT YOURSELF?

A tendency to judge without any substantiating data. It is a nurtured instinct.

17. WHO DO YOU MISS THE MOST?

Nobody, I have many fond memories.

18. DO YOU WANT EVERYONE TO COMPLETE THIS LIST?

No … it is verging on tedious.

19. WHAT COLOR PANTS AND SHOES ARE YOU WEARING?

None – its the weekend and its the summer: shorts.

21. WHAT ARE YOU LISTENING TO RIGHT NOW?

http://www.helpmechill.com/player.htm

22. IF YOU WERE A CRAYON, WHAT COLOR WOULD YOU BE?

Feck off!

23. FAVORITE SMELL/S?

Cooked Chicken

24. WHO WAS THE LAST PERSON YOU TALKED TO ON THE PHONE?

I seldom talk on the phone anymore, I have a Blackberry

25. DO YOU LIKE THE PERSON WHO SENT THIS TO YOU?

Less with every question.

26. FAVORITE SPORTS TO WATCH?

American Football playoffs, Soccer quarter finals onwards.

27. HAIR COLOR?

Mousey ish

28. EYE COLOR?

green/brown/hazel

29. DO YOU WEAR CONTACTS?

No

30. FAVORITE FOOD?

Chicken or Pizza Express Polo Ad Astra

31. SCARY MOVIES OR HAPPY ENDINGS?

Happy endings with a twist

32. LAST MOVIE YOU WATCHED?

Sentinal – nice title not very good movie

33. WHAT COLOR SHIRT ARE YOU WEARING?

Blue t-shirt

34. SUMMER OR WINTER?

Summer and winter for different reasons, who thinks up these questions?

35. HUGS OR KISSES?

Oh come on!

36. FAVORITE DESSERT?

Vanilla ice cream - didn’t we cover that already?

37. MOST LIKELY TO RESPOND?

Are they meant to?

38. LEAST LIKELY TO RESPOND?

Who cares

39. WHAT BOOK ARE YOU READING NOW?

Gone Tomorrow, Lee Child and Wuthering Heights, Emilly Bronte

40. WHAT IS ON YOUR MOUSE PAD?

My hand and mouse

41. WHAT DID YOU WATCH ON TV LAST NIGHT?

I don’t watch TV much, not last night

42. FAVORITE SOUND(S)?

Is this too much cleavage?

43. ROLLING STONES OR BEATLES?

Neither – never was much into that kind of thing

44. WHAT IS THE FARTHEST YOU HAVE BEEN FROM HOME?

Jeesus - Bali

45. DO YOU HAVE A SPECIAL TALENT?

Yes - perseverance

46. WHERE WERE YOU BORN?

In a hospital on earth, I’m indigenous

47. WHOSE ANSWERS ARE YOU LOOKING FORWARD TO GETTING BACK?

Jesus, can I pick the questions?

48. HOW DID YOU MEET YOUR SPOUSE/SIGNIFICANT OTHER?

We were in the same geographic location at the same time. I said Hello. She said Hello back. She then got married, I waited a while.

49. IS THE CUP HALF FULL OR HALF EMPTY?

I have a beaker.

50. IF YOU COULD SIT DOWN TO DINNER WITH FIVE PEOPLE WHO WOULD YOU CHOOSE?

Jesus, mostly because I want to see whether he really was white with a beard considering he was born in Palestine. I’d quite like to confirm he really was just a man, which seems obvious to me but lots of people disagree. Paul (the guy that Jesus apparently appeared to on the road to Damascus), I’d quite like to know what really happened with him and whether he ever gave any thought to the consequences, did he ever imagine it would become anything like the Catholic church for instance. I’d invite god but of course he wouldn’t show up. I’d invite Pete because he invited me and for his cracking upside down one liners, which are funny and not sarcastic, I think. Lee Child because I aspire, Nabokov because I’d really like to know what drove him to write something so beautiful and so socially contentious. Did people look at him differently after. I’d also like to know whether Hitler ever thought his concepts would ever become what they became. Or did it all just snowball, was he misunderstood and misrepresented, that sort of thing. I suppose Moses would be quite interesting, but then he’d not show up either. How many is that?

The first hint that all would not be well came when I got off the train. It was Monday 22 December. I got on my bike at Paddington and was caught unawares by one hard rattling cough. Thinking that was strange as my chest has been fine for several months, I pedalled off and thought nothing of it. The air freely into and out of my lungs.

Tuesday afternoon the same happened. A single rattling cough in a day of healthy happy breathing.

I had christmas eve off. My first of five days without a commute. But of course I had a chest infection. Well it was actually an upper respiratory infection. Or so I was informed by the conveniently co-located nurse. Coolio I thought. I also had a savage cold but that was half a day from showing its face.

Christmas and Boxing were spent doing all you know humans do when they have upper respiratory infections and colds. The weekend came and the cold faded but my lungs still sounded like weary old maraccers.

Monday I had to go to work because I was the only person available to care for computing and co-workers. It was not even that cold as I free wheeled into a practically deserted station. A taxi had illegally parked right outside the front entrance so as I negotiated the speed bumps I considered whether I would pull in behind or in front of the car.

The next thing I knew I was doing an impression of a 747 landing without undercarriage. Except where wheels should have been my elbows were bouncing along the tarmac. ‘That’s going to hurt later.’ I thought as my ribs and then hips crashed into the road. No idea where my bike was. It just was not there anymore. My blackberry skidded passed me.

Working without thinking I crawled forward on the road to reclaim my Blackberry. Realising that a car had been the cause of my brief moment of free flight. It had been parked and despite being lit up like a christmas tree (me and bike) had not seen me. All that I recall of the car was it being small and silver and not dissimilar to Priddeesh’s. It then reversed and then drove around me and then out of the station at pace.

The force of the blow had been strong enough to buckle the chainwheel on my bike and completely turn around handlebars that would never previously turn. I knew my elbows had taken a beating but I climbed to my feet as the train entered the station. I could move all limbs without any screaming back at me. So I got on the train.

By Reading I had blood consistently dripping from both arms onto my jeans so stuffed some tissues up my sleeve. My trusty first aid colleague at work then applied bandages to both elbows and I applied plasters to the scratches and the like.

I have been cycling 25 years and have never worn a helmet. Over confidence I suppose and from being witness to people that do. Who universally seem to think a hat makes them safe and proceed to bike about without a care in the world. But you cannot plan for chance, so now I considered was the time for me to get one.

There could be some detail here on what a nightmare finding Selfridges was - this is abridged: The only department store on Oxford street without a pulsing one hundred foot high sign declaring the stores name is Selfridges. Which has a sign that is four foot by two, metal and two foot of the ground. So I walked past it and got to centre point through the post christmas shopping frenzy before realising. And then walked back through the same frenzy. 

I purchased a crash hat that looks like a world war two german infantrymans hat. Mostly because if I am going to look like a arse on my bike I might as well look like my kind of arse. I also replaced the front light that disintegrated that morning and brought two extra. Mounted and fitted I now look like something from Close Encounters cycling down the street.

The bike did still work after a fashion - the chain would keep coming off but I kept putting it back on. But wearing my new crash hat and with all lights fitted I got off the train at the local station and the bike fell to pieces. I almost did a few seconds later.

The bike is now being looked after by the local bike doctor and I was cared for very well by the very attentive Priddeesh who had returned from the local NHS bandage warehouse (NHS Trust to lesser people) with all but a CPR machine with which to care for her wounded soldier.

The stock check of injuries is the loss of five inches of skin, bruised ribs, arms, back and thigh. I suppose I was lucky. I am still struggling with the slowly diminishing upper respiritory infection.

My journeys to the station are by foot these days and spent looking meaningfuly at anyone with a small silver car and a bike shaped imprint on their front bumper.

I am sure there is a saying or lyric that sounds like that.

Cycling to work for me has been an evolution of needs. Which started in June with the daily need to traverse the 1.8 miles from Paddington Station to Mayfair and back again.

In the beginning there was no bike. Just a choice between bus and walking. As the summer mornings and evenings in London were rain free and 1 mile of the journey involved a walk across Hyde Park, walking was the preferred option. Of course I took the bus while the blisters healed. But they soon did and the hardened skin served me well.

As pleasant as the walk through Hyde Park and the Mews leading to Paddington was, I really did not want to spend over three hours commuting to work and back each day.

Buses were good. If one turned up. Which as a rule they did not. And I quickly grew tired of regular 45 minute waits for buses that were scheduled to rumble past every eight minutes.

So the evolution of the commute came to focus on a bike. I love cycling. It is three times faster than walking and you get the same scenerific qualities.

The only trouble being it is difficult getting your average garage variety mountain bike on a train. So the focus turned to a foldy-up bike. One that could be carried on the train and then deployed at Paddington.

One was acquired and the daily commute dropped from over three hours to just over two. The union proved to be one made in heaven (figuratively speaking). Or union between man and bike was heaven, union between man, bike and London commuter traffic was problematic. But I got used to the fact nobody cares if you are on a zebra crossing, that there really is no right of way. And that traffic lights only really mean red after they have been red for more than ten seconds.

And then the nights started drawing in. Soon enough it was dusk as I cycled home and it became apparent I would need lights. Not to see the road with, but to let everyone know that the shimmering image of spokes and luminous pedals was actually given impetus by a biological being that needed to survive. And that worked for a while.

Until it got proper dark and it became apparent that I would need to be lit up like a christmas tree to avoid severe injury. Especially when me and my foldy-bike narrowly avoided a journey across the bonnet of an impatient Jag.

So now my attire for commuting, given the addition of inclement weather, starts with my pigeon blue woolly hat with white stripes (explained later), matching scarf, jeans (I keep my suit in the office), big thick black coat and luminous yellow jacket of which you regularly see builders, road sweepers and bin men wearing.

The hat is pigeon blue because two days after I first wore it I was serenaded by a repeatedly swooping pigeon as I peddled down Park Lane. I can only assume it thought the trailing scarf was fluttering wings and somehow could not see the 93kilos of human man perched on bike beneath hat. My attempts to pedal faster only spurred it on in its amorous endeavours. Fortunately it was not prepared to risk the peril of swooping so close to so many double decker buses as I scuttled across to Curzon street with my hats virtue still intact.

So, to the point of this overly long tale. I got on the train at my local station this morning, one of the last in a long trail. People never cease to amaze me just how rude they will be. Anyone shows me their elbow just to jump a space in the orderly flow of humanity gets my pedal in their quads. Regardless of gender and the woman are the meanest. The older they are or the more they can flick their hair whip like the more right the seem to think they have.

For some reason these past few weeks people have been extraordinarily polite to me. Making way for this intrepid traveller as I have rarely known.

This morning was not that different. I parked the folded bike in the luggage rack and shuffled along with the rest.

Being an old hand at the commuter lark I know the lengths people will go to make sure nobody sits in the seat beside them. As we trailed along I noticed a guy sat at a table with two other laptop users with a collection of bags sat in the seat beside him. You are not supposed to ask to sit there because the bags might belong to someone else or being English we are supposed to naturally shy away from inconveniencing people. Bollucks to that I’m European.

Alright fella can I get that seat? I said.

Maybe he didn’t hear me although I thought I was pretty clear. Or maybe so many had walked past and not asked he thought he had got away with it. He ignored me.

So I tapped him on the shoulder. Can I get that seat there fella?

This time there was no avoiding me. He diverted his gaze from the laptop screen, possibly thinking about telling me they were not his bags. And set eyes on me. Admittedly I am a fairly broad character and hadn’t shaved for about ten days on account of a long weekend in Exmore. But a look of temporary horror crossed his face. And then he couldn’t move quick enough. Almost taking out the other two laptops and hurriedly pulling his bags onto the floor and standing to let me through.

It was only when I sat trying to figure why my unshaven face would cause such a reaction did it occur to me I probably did look like a grizzled old(ish) bin man. It is a look I plan on cultivating. At least while commuting.

Of course the topic on everyone’s lips right now is the matter of the venerable John Sergeants exploits with a Russian ballroom dancer. And for once for a political figure (albeit a reporter) it is not a matter of sexual scandal for which we speak.

It is actually of ballroom dancing that we speak. Or rather Mr Sergeant’s ability to put a smile on our faces rather than actually knock out a heart stopping Salsa.

This is my third season of Strictly although only my second as a mostly avid viewer. My previous incursions to the show limited by my dislike for the judges inability to see the obvious in favour for rhetoric. And my seemingly well placed mis-trust in the BBC’s adherence to phone voting figures.

But now in this much monitored world of phone voting the dialling public really do feel for the first time in years within any voting arena. That their vote matters. And they are right. Our votes are also now making a difference, which is very appealing.

Last week we saw the last black contestant fall by the wayside after some careful complimenting of a wonderful singer but clumsy dancer. Everyone was scandalised that it wasn’t dear John that left.

This week there was some ridiculously high judge voting for all the ‘pretty (men and women lumped together)’ dancers and some careful complimenting of dear John. We were supposed to think that it was not plausible for John to stay when only pretty dancers remain. He had his run - Asta la vista. But Cherie went and John stayed. I was one of the masses that voted for him.

From outraged judges to scandalised ballroom purists many seem perplexed at John’s feats. But has anyone dragged such a beautiful woman across a dance floor in such an ineloquent way. Has anyone managed to look like they are walking quite so sedately through a cha cha cha. And just enjoyed the music and the moment and the blonde Russian that they actually looked like they might nod off in a fit of melancholy. No and neither has anything in the last few months put such a smile on so many faces and god knows we need excuses to smile. So it is not surprising that the public are picking up a phone and making a difference. When there is so much in this world we are utterly powerless to influence.

And of course there is the satisfaction of seeing the pretty people faced with an early exit or the trauma of the dance off. When dear John never had to endure either. There really is something quite satisfying about that.

At the end of the day if you want Strictly Ballroom and all that entails then you are welcome to the tired and dusty halls of Blackpool. Strictly Come Dancing is an entertainment show that gets its high ratings through the spectacle and audience participation. It is good because of both these things and not from any one, so stop bloody winging that it starts and ends with the dance competition.

Sadly of course. Most of the above was typed yesterday. Only to find that John withdrew today. The headline was that he was worried he might actually win. But it was a lot more dignified on his part than that. I will keep watching this season purely in the hope I get to see Rachel Stevens do that Rumba again. But my position on the sofa next year is being given careful consideration.

Well he did it. And I suppose the fact he is black is significant but I do wish the press would stop printing pictures of almost delirious black only crowds. That hints that they hope something a little more sinister might brew.

I hope not. McClaine’s defeat speech was magnanimous and I thought heartfelt, if his followers didn’t show themselves in the same light in that same moment. But they showed the world what it missed out on by not electing another republican president. And we are all the better for it judging by the shock waves of the last eight republican years. That will continue to reverberate throughout this small corner of the universe.

I really do hope that the more sinister aspects of the American government that have been shown to us during that same time period do not take it upon themselves to kill our great hope.

It started with an unanswered phone call and a voicemail message that included all sorts of accusations and choice forms of language. The voicemail belonged to a 78 year old man. The accusations involved claims that one of the callers had slept with his granddaughter, which turned out to be true. That the pensioner would probably kill himself when he found out. There was more along the same intellectual baseline.

The fallout initially started with just two complaints. Within a week the call was being discussed in the House of Commons by the Prime Minister. The debate seems to go on wherever you go. I even got stopped by the Brazilian cleaner in the work kitchen yesterday and asked for my opinion. One of the two callers has now resigned and the other one. Well he couldn’t afford to resign. And suffers the indignity of being suspended.

My problem with the whole thing is that I find it hard to see where the debating points lay. There can be no opinion because the issue is cut and dry. There is no debate around comedians pushing the boundaries of acceptability, there is no discussion around the fact the granddaughter did sleep with one of the two callers.

It is not about accepting the prank in its intended context of humour. Just because Chris Moyles or one of his posse makes prank calls does not mean you can justify calling anyone and being generally abusive even if you laugh while doing it.

It is not about the fact the 78 year old man is a celebrity and therefore deemed outside the increasingly fuzzy boundaries of socially acceptable behaviour.

These two callers could have stood on a stage and said the same things without making their call. That would appeal to some, make some laugh or just confirm the opinion of these two held by a good many. And that would not have resulted in resignations or suspensions or the prime minister discussing radio shows. That is a benefit of a society underpinned by free speech.

The fact of the matter is these two people did call another human and treated him with utter disrespect. That broke a basic tenet of human behaviour. Nobody should be permitted to do this. There simply is no debate.

Cormac McCarthy is probably more widely known in recent times for his book made into movie: No Country For Old Men.

The Road is a little different. A man and a boy walk east to west through America in a post apocalyptic world where all we know has burned, melted, been plundered, raped, eaten or committed suicide. So we are not talking jaunty tale of father and son at one with wildlife here.

Instead this is a world of mankinds possible future that does not preach or shout of our failings in the here and now. It just tells a very real story of what the future may hold. It is despairing and at times hard to read. Not from McCormack’s no fuss literary style but the sheer reality that is conveyed. At other times one man’s love for his child and the innocence of that child shine through the endless realm of dark skies and shifting oceans of ash.

If there is one fault in this story it is the need to make what is essentially a short story into a novel to make it commercially viable.

But apart from that this is the sort of story that should be read at schools. It resonates in the same way Lord of the Flies and Walkabout did as a life lesson that stays with the emerging mind.

Many consider atheism to be a belief system, which is of course contradictory. The definition of belief is an acceptance of something as true, by way of an emotional and often spiritual sense of certainty. As such a belief system is not underpinned by an opinion based on known facts. Belief is the sort of system used to explain ghosts and gods. I have no doubt a good many humanists of the modern day employ the same gut thought in their belief of mankind as god.

But anyone that has worked through the information that is readily available in this current slice of time and concluded god does not exist should not have to suffer the label of atheist nor believer – both being constructs of faith societies.

We think, therefore we are.

God based faith is a perfectly acceptable medium for those that make a conscious effort towards ignorance. And there are a great many that put a lot of thought into building complex constructs to perpetuate this ignorance.

But in this modern world where we have so much knowledge it really does take that leap of faith to ignore the truth before our eyes. The moment you accept evolution as being the journey of life you must have problems with faith. You can wriggle and plot on ways that evolution fits into the genesis stories. But the problem you will always have with that Jewish Genesis account of this worlds creation, is that it evolved from Babylonian stories adopted by incarcerated Jewish slaves. How do you ratify as truth a legacy of stories that evolved via word of mouth over three thousand years ago, stories that evolved through hundreds of successive generations that really did not have a single clue about anything other than agriculture – the great perpetrator of human life on this planet.

It is only in the last four hundred years that man has started building a knowledge that has been underpinned by great thinkers such as Newton and Darwin. And most of what we know today has been learned in the last one hundred and fifty years. If faith is a wilful step of ignorance, actually believing those legendary genesis stories as a truth today is an act of stupidity.

Believers with faith tend to focus on those that prise open their clam shut minds, so it stands to reason Darwin would become the focus for those that scuttle from cover. Anybody that has read the origin of species will know that Darwin knew little of what he was opening the door to and a lot of what he thought was wrong when correlated with what we know today. But we should consider Darwin wrote in a time when most people thought the world was seven thousand years old, that fossils really were the remains of animals that didn’t make it onto Noah’s Ark and that a glowing Caucasian created everything you behold. Which makes Darwin quite remarkable.

But Darwins principle of evolution through natural selection is a seed for thought that can only grow if you open your mind. Believers will make chanted claims such as: ‘Incomplete fossil records’ without the slightest comprehension of what they are talking about. Of course what we know is incomplete. Does that mean we shut up shop and stay ignorant?

A sense for reason will acknowledge that we cannot take a three thousand year old text as a definite truth ordained by a since absent deity. A sense of reason will take a simple truth and look at in context.

We did think the world was seven thousand years old and then it we thought that maybe it was older. Thought evolved as we studied more and came to realise through successive thoughts that the world was four billion years old. Since that time, with the information we have learned in that time, we have come to think the world might be four and a half billions years old. We are big enough to know that any statement of known fact is based on what we know at that time. We know that what we learn may change that, but we are not so ignorant to believe that what we know is right and will always be so, because someone told us so.

We know that the world is probably over four billion years old and cellular life probably appeared very shortly after. We do not know how that occurred. It is very likely we will never know. Of course we will never know anything for certain, we can only take what we learn and shape our thoughts with what we learn.

It was thought that single celled life quickly evolved to multi celled life. But we now know that single celled life was probably the only form of life for almost three and one half billion years of this planets life. We know that repeated meteor impacts almost wiped out life on this planet on multiple occasions and that somehow single celled life evolved only six hundred million years ago into multi celled life.

We do not know exactly when of course. It was about six hundred million years ago. And then multi celled organisms continued to evolve around the simple Darwinian principle of survival, that when resources for propagation fail the best adapted to the environment will survive.

And so through a continuous cycle of growth and changing environment on this planet through hundreds of millions of years, through ice ages and through the absorption of carbons into the ground from all cellular life and then through the shifting plates of this earth’s surfaces and the molten fires of volcanoes that released carbons to create a shield that warmed the earth’s surface that melted the ice. Through meteor impacts that wiped out dinosaurs but not all life, through the continuous flux of weather and temperature and mutation in reproduced cells that in turn perished and sometimes survived. We eventually come to life as we now know it. Which is thought to have branched out from other life forms about six million years ago and further branched out to closer incarnations of Homo Sapien two and one half millions years ago.

We do not know everything of course. And to say we do is just plain wrong. We know evolution is what brought us to this point. Evolution will never change as a substantiating concept for our existence but it would be ignorant to assume what we now know will never change. Just as we build and re-assess our knowledge of all things. Humanities great legacy is the quest for knowledge and understanding, despite its tendency towards belief.

It is a great shame that those with faith have held sway over humanity for so long. And that humanity through this still struggles to wriggle free of belief. But then I suppose there would be little for me to write about.