Looking back, moving forward

Monday, May 11th, 2015

As I rush headlong toward my XLth birthday (it looks much more acceptable in Roman numerals, apart from the fact it makes me look fat), I've been thinking quite a lot about the years behind me, compared to those ahead of me.

Let's face it, I'm probably around halfway through my life, and it's at periods like this where you start to ask yourself if you've done good, if you're pleased with what you've done so far and thinking about what you want to do with the rest of it.

I spent my teenage years in education with just one unwavering aim - to become a newspaper journalist. It's all I ever wanted to do. The one thing I had in my mind for adulthood was to write for a living. And I achieved my goal: I qualified with a degree in journalism, got a job on a regional newspaper and worked my way up the ladder until the changing face of journalism in the 21st century meant that further progress was severely inhibited.

And I will admit that, six years ago when the company I'd poured years of time, energy, love and skill into decided it wasn't enough and I was to be sidelined and overlooked, it hurt. It bloody hurt, and it affected me for years, until the time came where priorities shifted in my head and I realised a new horizon beckoned.

I left that company last year after more than 17 years of dedication to its cause, 17 years of putting my heart and soul into trying to make it as successful as possible. But enough was enough. I wasn't being treated correctly - in fact, few people were - so I decided to get out. It was a brave, some might say reckless, decision to just turn tail and split, but it was the right thing to do for both my sanity and my future. And almost six months later, I haven't once regretted that decision to leave. Life is good; in fact, life is so much better when you can see and experience it more clearly, and not through a fug of stress and anger.

And in the months since I left, my life has metamorphosed into a better, much more interesting and enjoyable existence. I still write for a living, but it's much more creative, much freer and nourishing. I write what I feel, not what I'm told to feel. I write my truth, not a twisted representation of it. I use words I never could within the constraints of news reporting. In fact, I write... as a copy editor toward the end of my time on newspapers, I never got to write anything of my own. Unless it was a theatre review... and look at me now (and here too)!

And it's not just writing that has changed for me. My approach to life has changed. I have more time to give now, whether it be to family and friends, charitable organisations such as Parkinson's UK or the RSPCA, or just the new dog we got a couple of months ago. We couldn't have had a dog before as both Gareth and I were in full-time employment and it wouldn't have been fair. But now I've fulfilled a lifelong (and I really mean lifelong) ambition to have my own dog. And it feels good to be able to do that, to tick one off the Bucket List.

I don't have an actual Bucket List - maybe I should - but as the big XL approaches and I look back on what's gone, I can be happy that I achieved my first big goal pretty quickly, and damn well... but now life is in a new phase, and I can't wait to see what it brings. And you know what they say... don't look back, you're not going that way.

In memory of my godfather

Tuesday, March 31st, 2015

My uncle Gordon pictured at my mum and dad's
wedding in 1972.

I've reached the age of 38 without having any major bereavements to deal with, thankfully. They have happened - people have died! - but nobody close to me while I've been of an age to really feel its full force.

My paternal grandfather died five years before I was born, and my paternal grandmother died three years before. I've always found it sad that they never got to meet me. My mother's father I did get to meet, and do have memories of, but again he died when I was only five and so I was far too young to comprehend the truth of the loss. My mother's mother is still going strong at the grand old age of 93, but the inevitability of old age brings with it the shadow of destiny.

Earlier this month my godfather/ uncle died of lung cancer (and perhaps asbestosis). He had been frail and thin for some time and was in the process of getting help from social services to get domestic assistance, but one morning my dad found him collapsed in his bathroom with what was subsequently labelled a suspected heart attack. This was perhaps brought on by the news the day before that he had stage two lung cancer. Wheels were set in motion to give my godfather as much help as he needed, but sadly within days he had succumbed, and he passed away peacefully in hospital on Tuesday, March 24th.

Among his final words were: "Every time I close my eyes, all I can see are green fields." This is a heartbreaking yet oddly comforting epitaph from a man who was, all his life, a fiercely independent bachelor. He was his own man and did his own thing, and was always a loyal godfather to me, even when I saw him far less often in latter years.

He was mad about Egypt and all things Egyptian, ever since he carried out his National Service in Suez in the early 1950s. He never returned to Egypt after leaving the forces, and with that terrible thing called hindsight, maybe we should have arranged for him to do so, because while he spent his final years in England, I think he left a part of him in the Middle East.

Now that he's gone, my focus has been on supporting my dad, his brother. My dad has been tasked with sorting everything out that needs sorting in the wake of the death of a loved one - power of attorney, execution of the will, informing the authorities, liaising with the coroner and funeral director, speaking to bereavement counsellors, and most upsettingly of all, going through my godfather's personal belongings and papers.

It makes me realise just what a mess we leave behind when we go, especially when we go unexpectedly. My godfather did have a will and all his important papers were gathered together in one or two places, but it is the personal stuff which affects those left behind so much. The things that make a name on a death certificate a real human being, the things they loved and saved and cherished.

Among the bills, pension forms, statements and letters was a cutting from the Derby Express of a story I wrote while there on work placement back in the mid-1990s. I don't remember writing that particular story, but I suspect it was either my first, or among my first, bylines as a reporter. My godfather had carefully cut it out and kept it aside. He also had a collection of photographs he'd taken in Suez, and of his family when he was growing up in the 1930s and 40s. It was odd to see my godfather as a young man, on holiday with sunglasses on and a beer, posing with a sombrero and doing all the normal things people do - but in beautiful, otherworldly black and white.

There were also his medals, his conscription papers and the exact address of the camp where he served in Egypt. I went onto the Suez Veterans' Association's website and saw acres of reminiscences from old soldiers, loads of photos and an entire network set up to help people like my godfather reconnect across the decades. But I fear my godfather had no idea about it. He was 83, he didn't need the bother of the internet. He didn't even have a microwave! And I found that sad too. Using that blessed hindsight, I could have let my godfather see all those old pictures and messages from possible colleagues by getting him online somehow. Now that's not possible.

Of course I like to believe that when you're gone, you kind of get to know and see anything you want. Enlightenment, if you like. And that my godfather is somewhere with his old mates reminiscing about old times, probably in a bar in Egypt somewhere, wearing a fez and smoking a big, fat cigar.

A date is yet to be set for my godfather's funeral, but it will be a sad day indeed, both because it brings to an end the life of a very funny, loyal man, and also reminds us all how precious life is, and how we must live each day as fully as we can.

In memory of Gordon Alan Stratford, 1931-2015

وداع

It's fun to stay at the RSPCA

Monday, March 9th, 2015

Meet Bobby, thought to be a collie/ spaniel cross

One of the many things I wanted to do when I decided to quit my job late last year was volunteering. I didn't really mind who or what for, I just knew I wanted to feel like I was doing something positive and valued and valuable. Giving something back.

So over the last week or so I've been getting involved in my local RSPCA rescue centre at Bryn y Maen, up in the hills above Colwyn Bay. It's the only RSPCA rescue centre covering North Wales (the next closest is Shrewsbury), which, when you think about it, is a hell of an area to cover taking into account the fact North Wales is a very rural and animal-orientated part of the country.

I had my general volunteer's induction on March 1st, and then my kennel induction yesterday. The people up there are fantastic, they are so warm and friendly and welcoming, and most of all, so loving towards their animals. They have dogs and cats of course, but also small animals such as guinea pigs, gerbils, ferrets and rabbits, as well as cockatiels and then the less domesticated type such as geese, cockerels and goats (they have one sweet little goat called Pete!).

It's heartbreaking but also very rewarding working in the kennels. I'm very much a dog person, never been particularly interested in cats (or they me) so it's a real privilege getting to work with them at Bryn y Maen. I can't pretend it's all glamorous. There's the less salubrious side of animal care, such as cleaning out the kennels and washing away dog poo, but that's a very important part of the animal's welfare, making sure it lives in a clean and safe environment, so you have to take the rough with the smooth.

But then there's the other side, where you get to spend time with the dogs. They have so many dogs up there desperately in need of a good home, who spend all their time in these kennels or out and about being walked by staff and volunteers within the grounds. But being in a kennel is a pretty stressful experience for a dog, they're not meant to be cooped up in such relatively restricted environments, and so it's so rewarding to be able to take them out on their leads and let them have a run and a play and a sniff and just be as a dog should be - happy, content and loyal.

The one side effect of volunteering at an animal centre is that you begin to fall in love with some of the "in-mates", and I did just that last weekend when I met a dog called Robert (Bobby to his friends). He is the friendliest, gentlest, most placid dog you could wish for, although as with so many rescue dogs, he has been affected by his past. He used to be bullied by another dog so that he couldn't get the food he was being given, and he was taken into the RSPCA as skin and bone, and now he is very wary of other dogs. Basically, afraid of them, which obviously makes his kenneled environment very stressful for him. Bobby never barks, he takes food from your hand with the greatest of care, he loves nothing more than being stroked, and he sits and heels when called. He is six years old but all he wants is a calm, loving, safe environment. And I thought Gareth and I could give him that.

So for the first time in my life I'm going to become a dog owner. I've always wanted a dog but never thought it was fair leaving a dog on its own all day every day while we were at work, but now my circumstances have changed, it is possible for us to do. Ever since I was a young lad and I used to help look after my uncle's Old English Sheepdog - who, to this day, I still think about and love to bits, God rest his soul - I've wanted a dog. So adopting Bobby is a real dream come true.

I put a deposit down on him yesterday and we've spent plenty of time with him over the last week, getting to know him and bonding with him. I'm just waiting for a call to arrange a home visit and then we could well have him within two weeks.

Bobby has his issues - his fear of other dogs and innate pessimism about new things - but these can be ironed out with good training and the excellent advice of animal behaviourist John up at Bryn y Maen. These wonderful people don't just give you a dog and wave goodbye - there's so much care and personalised attention goes into adopting a dog to make sure, above all else, that the dog is happy as well as the potential new owners.

All I want is for Bobby to be in his new home with us, but it takes a little time, and so it should. Having a dog is a life-changing decision. But it's a change we're more than happy with and one I've been preparing for for 25 years!

Feeling snoozy...

My favourite photo of Bobby, summing up his loving nature.
Look at those eyes!

My Top 6 Favourite Brit Awards Blunders

Thursday, February 26th, 2015

It's almost traditional now for the annual BRIT Awards ceremony to have some sort of controversy or mishap surrounding it. It's getting to the point where they really ought to consider a new award for Best Blunder just to make sure every skill-set is covered. And after last night's Fallen Madonna mishap I thought I'd look back over some of my favourite BRIT Award blunders of the last 25 years or so (the awards have actually been going since 1977, as a way of marking the Queen's silver jubilee - there, you didn't know that, did you?). Right, on with the show...

February 13th, 1989 - Samantha Fox and Mick Fleetwood do Ant and Dec (badly)

In 1989 the BRITS were inexplicably co-hosted by Page 3 Stunna Samantha Fox and Gandalf lookalike Mick Fleetwood. Whoever thought to put those two together deserves the first ever BRIT Blunder Award because it was just an embarrassment of under-rehearsed announcements, failing autocues and some poorly organised backstage shenanigans (for instance, a pre-recorded acceptance message from Michael Jackson was never transmitted, and when the hosts welcomed the Four Tops onto the stage, Boy George walked out instead - never a satisfactory replacement). Plus, the vast difference in height between Samantha (5ft 1in) and Mick (6ft 4in) made even camera movements tricky. Oh, and then there was that pink hair...

February 12th, 1992 - The KLF retire live on stage to a deafening soundtrack

In 1992 there was the BRITS' first ever "artistic rebellion". We've come to expect frank speeches and arresting hand signals from some of the sozzled singers over the years, but the first time an act actually hijacked the ceremony was when the ever controversial KLF opened the show with a death metal version of their hit 3am Eternal. The performance ended with Bill Drummond firing blanks over the heads of the audience from a vintage machine gun alongside the announcement that "Ladies and gentlemen, The KLF have now left the music business". And they pretty much did. Within weeks the biggest selling band of 1991 announced they were packing it all in and deleted their entire back catalogue, their last artistic effort being the dumping of a dead sheep at the entrance to the BRITS after-party, tied up with the words "I died for ewe (bon appetit)". In hindsight, The KLF might have been pushed into all this by the fact they had to share the Best British Group Award with Simply Red.

February 19th, 1996 - Jarvis Cocker waggles his bum at Michael Jackson fans

The most memorable BRITS boob has to be 1996's stage invasion by Pulp frontman Jarvis Cocker during an extravagant performance of Earth Song by Michael Jackson. While MJ is up on a cherry-picker asking why humanity doesn't care about forest trails and crying whales (how can he tell they're crying?), Jarvis wandered onto stage to drunkenly protest against what he saw as the indulgence of an over-inflated egotist. His protest is actually pretty pathetic when you watch it back, as he seems to arrive on stage and then have no idea what to do, and proceeds to simply pose in a very Cocker-like way, and waggle his bum at the crowd. The fact he was waggling his bum at a bunch of crazed Michael Jackson fans in the mosh pit probably didn't get help his cause. But still, it provided a memorable BRIT moment which has passed into legend.

February 9th, 1998 - John Prescott is drenched by Chumbawamba

Politics should never interfere with music, in my opinion. But in 1998 the BRITS decided it would be a good idea, seeing as the Labour Party had so magnificently swept to power in the previous year's General Election, to have Deputy Prime Minister John Prescott sitting in the audience with his wife, watching the ceremony, among the Britpop glitterati. This didn't go down too well with the Scottish dance group Chumbawamba, who decided to hurl a bucket of iced water over him, stating: "If John Prescott has the nerve to turn up at events like the BRIT Awards in a vain attempt to make Labour seem cool and trendy, then he deserves all we can throw at him." Despite apologies from EMI Europe, Chumbawamba have been unrepentant about their watery assault of Two-Jags ever since.

March 3rd, 2000 - Non-entity invades stage and insults rock legend

(Go to 2 minutes 20 seconds in to see the blunder begin)
In the year 2000 the BRITS were to be the scene of an artistic showdown between the waning Spice Girls and the newly solo Geri Halliwell, but it wasn't this girly cat fight that made the headlines. Nobody had ever heard of DJ Brandon Block before March 3rd, 2000, and even 15 years later you'd be hard pushed to think of any other reason to recognise Mr Block other than for his BRIT blunder. He had drunk so much that when his joshing mates claimed Brandon had won an award and ought to get up on stage to accept it, the inebriated DJ stumbled into action, interrupting the announcement by Rolling Stone Ronnie Wood and actress Thora Birch of the Best Soundtrack Album. Block was pulled off stage by security and an exchange of fruity insults went on between the Stones guitarist and the non-entity DJ, before Block charged back onto stage only to be met with Ronnie's half-pint of beer in the face. In case you were wondering, Notting Hill won.

February 25th, 2015 - Minotaur assaults Madonna

Finally, it's got to be 2015's BRITS blunder (no, not the incessant but welcome muting of Kanye West). Madonna's unceremonious fall backwards downstairs while singing Living for Love was unintentionally hilarious. A dancer dressed as a minotaur yanked the cape Madonna had wrapped around her neck and it was meant to come off with ease, but it seems the cape was wrapped around her neck rather too securely by good old Velcro and the whole lot went at once. Cue international megastar slumped in an undignified heap on the floor before millions of TV viewers. But you know what? The thing is, rather like Michael Jackson all those years ago, Madonna just got back up and carried on with the performance, through to the end, like a true professional. People might have had Cocker-like objections to Jackson's Earth Song performance, and others might secretly enjoy the bursting of the Queen of Pop's bulging bubble, but when it came down to it, they both showed their experience and professionalism by not letting the audience down. And you've gotta give them credit for that.

Now, roll on BRITS 2016. I can't wait to see what blunders it has up its sleeve.

Is there such a thing as "too good" customer service?

Tuesday, February 24th, 2015

Last week, to celebrate Gareth and I's first anniversary (or, in years together, 19th anniversary!), we retraced some of our steps from 2014 after we had the civil partnership ceremony. Our "honeymoon" (remember how I hate that word!) took place at Langley Castle in Northumbria, near Hexham, and we enjoyed it so much that we decided to mark our anniversary by returning to the scene.

It's a proper castle experience, with four poster beds and window seats and 6ft thick stone walls and passageways and turrets and flags and all that heraldic stuff that you want when you visit an English castle. It's not cheap by any stretch of the imagination, but for a once a year treat, it suits us just fine.

But this blog isn't about how wonderful and happy we were in an expensive castle, that would be boring (not to say, repetitive!). No, I thought I'd talk about the hotel we went to after Langley, which for reasons which will become clear, will remain anonymous. Not because it was so bad, but because it was kind of too good - or rather, trying to be too good. Let me explain...

After Langley we traveled to North Yorkshire and stayed in a spa hotel not far from the beautiful seaside town of Whitby. Now, first things first, I can hardly blame myself for booking a hotel which offered services which I wouldn't ordinarily be interested in, but aside from that, the level of customer service kind of creeped me out a bit.

I have plenty of hotel experience, from the dirt cheap Ibis Budgets through to the aforementioned top of the range stately homes. But never have I come across the type of service which greeted us at this particular hotel.

We parked up and wandered into the lobby to try and check in, but were told we were just a little bit too early and could we wait 30 minutes or so. Absolutely fine. We were asked if we would like breakfast, and declined as we prefer to generally pay less, eat more healthily and find somewhere in the locale to invest in. It was at this stage that a suited gentleman appeared out of the ether to encourage us to partake in their breakfast - the best breakfast we would ever taste. We declined once more. So far so reasonably normal.

But then a barrage of in-your-face over-friendliness began which really put me on the back foot and sort of disturbed me a bit. The suited gentleman proceeded to refer to me as Mr Stratford constantly, almost at the end of every sentence (and there were many sentences). He also insisted that he should be given the keys to my car so that he could bring my car from the car park to the hotel entrance so our luggage could be unloaded.

I insisted that that would not be necessary and that we were happy to transport our own luggage, but the matter would not be dropped. He went on to say that he would like to drive us in a golf buggy to our car, so that we could fetch our own luggage back in the buggy. I said no, it would be fine, we would wait until the room was ready with our keys and we would fetch our luggage ourselves.

Not dissuaded from treating us like crown princes from some mega-rich Arabian province, the suited gentleman proceeded to insist we had a "hotel orientation session", which essentially consisted of a personalised tour of the entire spa complex so that we knew where everything was. Now, as I type this I realise this reads quite innocently, simply an example of good customer service on a level which perhaps isn't reached often enough these days. But it was the constant use of "Mr Stratford" and the unceasing insistence that everything I might want to do for myself could be done by a member of staff which perturbed me. When I go to a hotel I expect to be treated with respect, politely, and have any need I require to be met, within reason. But this gentleman was really overdoing it, acting as if we had paid an inordinate amount of money for a personalised service above and beyond the attentiveness of any staff I'd ever known before.

The "hotel orientation session" took Gareth and I on a tour of the restaurant ("In the evenings the tables will not be as bare as this, Mr Stratford, they will have candles and there will be low lighting. All very tasteful!"), then the wine cellar ("plenty to choose from there, Mr Stratford!"), then the conservatory, and then the gardens. Now, fair's fair, the gardens were beautifully landscaped and when Gareth and I escaped the suited gentleman's clutches later on, we did have a walk around the grounds and they were the best thing about the entire hotel. But I didn't need to be shown the gardens, I would've been happy to be told about them and to discover them myself at my leisure.

The orientation session had only just begun. We were then taken into the hotel bar lounge, marched to the very centre of the room and told where the bar was, what was on the food menu and what ales were being served. Everybody else in the room stopped what they were doing/ eating/ drinking/ saying and turned to look at the two interlopers being given a grand tour of the hotel. Who did they think they were? As all eyes stared at me, I realised that some of these customers might be thinking I was famous or rich in some way. Dressed in scuffed boots and leather jacket, I hardly felt the part.

That was the bar done. Next was the spa. "We don't take people all the way down to the spa on an orientation session, Mr Stratford, for, you know..." At this point the suited gentleman lost his words, and I interjected: "Privacy?". "Yes! Yes, Mr Stratford, quite right!", and then he proceeded to stand with us halfway down the steps to the spa and tell us which button to press in the lift, what we should wear between bedroom and spa, and what time the children's "splash times" were so we could avoid the kids. "Unless you're teachers, are you, Mr Stratford?" When I told him I was not a teacher, he replied: "Well, that's just as well, Mr Stratford, because children are the last thing you probably want around you during a half-term, aren't they?"

Our hotel orientation session was over... for the time being. Our room wasn't quite ready, so we were urged to take a bite or pint in the bar lounge as we waited, but after my experience as a bogus millionaire during the tour, I didn't feel I wanted to return to the scene just yet so we insisted on a walk around the grounds as we waited.

As it happens, following our walk we did decide to have a bite in the bar (though not the bite I might have preferred, as one of the barmen was lick-the-mirror handsome!) and as we tucked into our sandwiches and fries I was tapped on the shoulder by the suited gentleman to tell me my room was now ready and that when we'd finished eating he would help bring my car round with the luggage. ARGH!

We circumnavigated the luggage escort experience as the gentleman was blissfully absent when we went to check in proper, but before you could say "The Shopkeeper from Mr Benn", up he popped again to single-handedly carry all our luggage (one suitcase and two plastic carriers) over to the lift, into the lift, up in the lift, out of the lift, along the corridor and to our room.

When we reached the bedroom door, Gareth quite naturally attempted to open it using the electronic key card, but it was snatched from his hand by our guide. He showed us that we were wrong to take the key cards out of the slipcase we'd been given as all we had to do was wave the slipcase in front of the lock and the door would open. He demonstrated this with the pride usually seen in a parent's eyes when they watch their child's first steps. Boy, was he proud of those hands-free electronic door mechanisms!

You guessed it, he didn't leave us there. He proceeded to give us a "room orientation session", heaving our suitcase onto the bed and then giving us a five minute tour of the room and its facilities. "You'll find the TV remote control up here, Mr Stratford, and the tea and coffee-making facilities over here."

And then the mind-numbing: "Do you have any particular tea requirements?". Gareth and I looked at each other blankly for a few seconds, wondering what to say. Gareth said he had no particular requirements, but was then told that any type of tea he wanted could be obtained: flavoured teas, herbal teas, fruit teas. "We stock Yorkshire tea, but any brand can be obtained for you, Mr Stratford".

Note: NOT from the hotel in question

After reassuring him that regular tea was fine, we were then shown where the hairdryer lived, and the ironing board, how the bath taps worked, and where the bathrobes hung. We were shown how the patio doors opened and what was outside on the patio, and also given a bit of history about the building and what the special builder's marks were on the brickwork.

Back inside we were told that if we wanted to bring a bottle of wine of our own into the room - "or indeed any form of alcohol, Mr Stratford" - all we needed to do was ring room service and the "appropriate glassware" would be brought to our room, "free of charge!". I spied the two generous tumblers on the tea tray and considered they'd be appropriate for anything I'd be drinking in my room, wine or water.

And at that, he was off. I was just getting used to having a constant commentary in my ear about where I was and what I could do when he said he'd leave us in peace and swept out of the room backwards, closing the door behind him. I looked once more at a stunned Gareth, crossed over to the door and flicked the lock.

Now, all this sounds very nice, doesn't it? A polite man very politely giving us a polite tour of the hotel and its facilities and then politely leaving. But the intensity of this man's breathless determination to meet his customers' every needs was overwhelming and disconcerting. I felt like a child, incapable of doing anything myself. I mean, I didn't care where the hairdryer was, but if I did need it, I'm sure I was capable of opening a drawer and finding it there.

On the one hand, the level of customer service and care at this place was second to none. They meant well, and they did well. Every single member of staff, to a fault, was super-polite and professional and couldn't do enough for you. But it also kind of felt like we were in some sort of institution, some nightmarish holiday camp where everyone wears fake smiles and pretends nothing bad ever happens. A veneer of paradise which was in no way a sham, but which was forced, plastic, ersatz.

Sadly, we won't be returning. We felt uncomfortable every time we left our room as we would often be accosted by the suited gentleman, hovering in the lobby, and asked if we needed our car bringing round if we were going out for the evening. No. No! It's my car, I'll drive it, thank you very much!

What do you think? Would you revel in such over-attentive customer service? Or do you prefer the polite but hands-off unless asked kind of customer service that I do?

Here's to the future

Wednesday, December 31st, 2014

Dear Past, Thank you for all the lessons. Dear Future, I'm ready...

And so another year passes into history. It's a strange time of year, New Year's Eve. On the one hand you have people wanting to go out and celebrate the passing of one year and the birth of another, singing songs, holding hands in complicated ways and knocking back the pints like there's no January 1st.
But on the other hand you have the melancholy that a New Year can bring. Few people can deny that January can be a thoroughly depressing and disheartening month. That post-celebratory period when nothing seems very enjoyable: the weather's usually appalling, there are debts to pay after the excesses of Christmas, and everybody's on a misguided drive to "better themselves", to diet or exercise or quit something in order to make them feel they are a better person, or at least making progress toward becoming one.
The truth is, we are who we are and it's difficult to change that, especially with a half-hearted diet or exercise fad. People seem determined in January to turn over a new leaf, make a change, start afresh... but so many people fall at the first or second hurdle, slipping back into their familiar routine.
And so January can be a depressing time, when ambitions are raised and dashed, and the half-lit gloom of a winter's month conspires to convince you that life is just so bloody boring and dull.
And then February comes with its Valentine's Day and promises of an early spring, and things start to improve. And then March and April bring their Easters and warmer weather, until we're back into the swing of things come May.
That all seems a bit of a ramble, reading it back, but it was a stream of consciousness, so I'm leaving it in! But what I did want to say was that New Year, for me, is a mixed bag of emotions. I'm happy to welcome in 2015 with a few drinks and a song, but underneath the surface merriment, there is a nagging feeling of melancholy. I wonder what 2015 will bring?
Certainly, for me, 2014 was a year of renewal and change. In December 2013 I had what might be described as a mini breakdown. I was signed off work, depressed and disillusioned. One day I might actually write about it.
It took me a month to get back on track and "rediscover myself", as my doctor ordered. And I did that, so by January 2014 I was re-focused on the future and trying to get out of it what I wanted.
It can take time to figure out what that is, too, and sometimes you have to identify what you don't want first before coming upon what you do want.
And so by the end of 2014 I've got married (after 18 years together already!) and quit my job, a job I'd been in for far too long, which was not healthy for me, and which I no longer fully believed in. It was time to make a change for the better while it was still possible. It was a brave move, but very definitely the right choice.
And with brave choices comes the fear of the unknown. But whatever 2015 holds, for me as well as mine, it must be faced with strength and fortitude, with enthusiasm and, where appropriate, joy.
Because life is not a rehearsal. You get only one of them, and this is it. It's so important to make your life what you want it to be, or as close as possible.
You won't get another chance. Not in this lifetime...

PS: It's interesting looking back on my blog post from December 27th last year and reading how I was feeling with the onset of 2014. I was looking forward to it and was convinced it was going to be a good one. Which it was. So this encourages me to look to 2015 with even more enthusiasm and a positive outlook. Let's see what the morrow may bring...

Pictures of you (and you and you)

Thursday, December 18th, 2014

I had a work leaving do last night, even though I left two weeks ago. We all had a great time, first quaffing a few drinks at the Albion pub in Conwy, then scoffing a meal at Alfredo's restaurant in the town. A handful of us returned to the Albion for last orders. A good night was had by all, and I thank everybody for coming along. It meant a lot to me.

Anyway, the booby prize for those who came is for pictures of them to be posted on the interweb (and I expect my blog stats to go through the roof and for the number of hits to be reported diligently at the next Daily Post news conference). For those unable to make it, this will no doubt give them a chuckle...

First up, two people I spent a lot of the last five
years at work with, Eva and Joel (quite what
Eva is doing to poor Joel is a mystery. Maybe
it's a Slovakian massage or something).
Joel looks half-cut, but was actually 100% sober
for a change.

Then we have Neil (my former boss, a phrase he doesn't particularly like) and Mari,
a reporter I've worked with for more years than either of us will ever admit to.
Mari was really up for this photo...

...Neil not so much. So Mari went for the jugular. By the way, they are spectacles
on Neil's head, which he puts there so he can see up to people.

Here we have Owen (who came as a Frenchman),
Dion (who looks like butter wouldn't melt but
 we all know it so would), Samantha (who looks distinctly unsure about
these guys) and Steve, who looks like he's
not sure about anything.

Here's Steve looking a little more confident about who and
where he is, with glam Samantha, plus Judith, whose
curled fist makes her look ready to lash out at any
moment. She's also looking off-camera. There's
always one...

There is an "out-take" from that session, where Samantha and Steve are deep in conversation and Judy looks far less aggressive...

Group shot of Blake (aka Eric Morecambe), Laura (caught in mid-swish) and
Tom, who's probably about to say something vaguely intelligent that nobody's
listening to. Maybe it's about the poo on his plate? In the background we have Jo
(who we'll come back to) and a preoccupied Andy, who's probably texting the
latest work experience girl to arrange a hook-up.

Me (the handsome one on the left) and Tom,
who looks pretty satisfied with himself. And
so he should be - he has plenty to be proud of.
I won't say where his right hand was in that shot
(actually, maybe that's why he's so satisfied...)

Andy and Rhodri. Don't they make a nice couple? Neither of them look like
they want this photograph to happen!

Two goons. I never look good in selfies. Rob looks like someone's tickling him,
which may have been his wife Helen as she'd just been told by a fortune-telling
fish from a Christmas cracker that she was passionate.

Rob with said wife Helen. She looks very demure here, but trust me, you don't
cross her. Rob did once, and now look at him. Also, Rob was very amused by
the sign behind him reading "a touch of cream". I'm saying nothing.

Mari again and Jo, properly this time. Again, don't they make a nice couple?
And there's Rhodri in the background thinking: "Thank God Andy's going."

And finally, me and Owen (the Frenchman
from earlier on). Don't they make a lovely couple?

Absent from these pictures but who did come along for a drink are David, Bryan and Jez (who I learned used to be a bingo caller in Caernarfon. I can so see that).

Thank you again for everybody who came along, thank you to those who were unable to make it but who were there in spirit, and thank you to everyone collectively for raising £117.50 for Parkinson's UK when they had a whip-round for me. That means the most to me.

I won't miss the job I've left, but I will miss the people. Every single one of you.