A new hope

It’s been quite a week.

My Mum has had a rough few years. Eight years ago, aged 71, she lost John (my step-Dad) to cancer. One moment he was fine, the next he started deteriorating rapidly, was soon bedridden, and spent weeks waiting for for death to take him as his body wasted away. Three months and he was gone.

Auto-generated description: A collection of multicolored spools of thread arranged on a storage rack.

Mum sold their beautiful big retirement bungalow she’d nursed him in, and got a smaller bungalow in the small town where she’d grown up and her cousin still lives and owns the amazing wool shop.

Two years later she had a mini-stroke, fell and broke her ankle, and had to hand in her driver’s licence while she recovered.

Then came COVID-19 and the isolation, followed by misdiagnosed heart failure, and then cancer of her own. She needed major surgery, but the doctors said she wouldn’t survive a general anaesthetic (because of the misdiagnosed heart failure).

She prepared to have the surgery with an epidural. On the day of the op, they decided she couldn’t have the surgery without a general and so that’s what happened. Then there was the radiotherapy and follow up tests every three months since. She survived it all.

Auto-generated description: A cat is lounging in a garden surrounded by greenery and colorful potted flowers.

Then her beloved, very elderly (and very fat) cats died one after another.

She’s been through a lot!

Just before xmas last year she had a chest infection. She’s had breathing problems on and off for as long as I can remember. As a kid she said it was bronchitis. Later it was asthma. Now, like me, it’s COPD.

She hasn’t recovered from this episode and is struggling to do everyday tasks including personal care. Her neighbour has been a godsend throughout and describes my Mum like she’s her own mum. I’ve been trying to help from a distance (a four hour drive away) to organise home help, etc.

Last Sunday I noticed that my neighbours on the ground floor had a For Sale sign outside their relatively (these days) spacious one bed flat. I messaged my Mum saying it’s a shame she can’t move in there. Me and my wife could help her with the things she can’t do for herself plus keep her company and she gets to see her grandsons in the flesh more than twice a year.

I didn’t really expect her to take it seriously, but as her helpful and caring neighbour said, “It’s a no-brainer.” The neighbours downstairs told me that they hadn’t decided if they were selling or letting, but today I viewed the flat opposite which, although I’d forgotten about it, has been on the market for longer. It’s also in good condition, and my neighbour is not in a chain and has somewhere to move to.

It’s given my Mum some hope. It’s a big move at her age. Fingers crossed it all works out.

The code of life

Big kid has been learning about WWII at school. He took in a photo of his great grandfather (my Grandpa on my Dad’s side).

Auto-generated description: A person is wearing a military uniform with a side cap adorned with insignia, smiling slightly.

Grandpa Fred was a coder. He was in the Royal Signal Corps decoding Morse code messages from the Nazis. When war broke he tried to join the Royal Navy. Because he knew Morse code from his job at the Post Office they sent him to Scotland. If he’d joined the Atlantic and Arctic conveys he’d very likely have ended up at the bottom of the cold, dark sea, and we wouldn’t be here.

As a teenager, I remember spending hours typing in pages of machine code from computer magazines into my Dragon 32 PC hoping not to make a single error and produce a playable game “Bomber” at the end.

We’re all coding - encoding and decoding - stories that give our lives meaning and purpose.

Weaving our own unique patterns in the fabric of space-time, searching for answers and connections in the world wide web, and gazing at the stars in awe and wonder for millennia.

Using threads from the code of life created by and handed down to us by our ancestors and their ancestors before them since time immemorial.

From cave paintings to fossils and footsteps on the moon, from the Pyramids to the Parthenon and the Pentagon, we’re leaving reminders of our existence, building structures that help us to organise, process and understanding information about our world.

Now we’re coding large language models and training them on the whole of human knowledge and history hoping that they can tell us the meaning of life and/or not destroy us in the hands of our new Nazi overlords, or serve us up tasteless slop.

I’m not sure what Fred would have made of it all. Like my great grandfather Frank before him, he was from another time, conservative, happy with his lot. He loved Oldham Athletic (“Latics”), the Telegraph crossword, driving carefully, and Freemasonry. He wrote letters on a typewriter.

He had all his teeth removed at a relatively young age in a “buy one get them all removed free” kind of too-good-to-be-true offer, and spent the rest of his days struggling to eat food that wasn’t tasteless slop with dentures that never fitted properly. Raw egg mixed with milk and Ribena was a particular favourite, if I remember correctly.

Fred would have loved his great grandkids. It’s a shame they never got to meet.

He would probably have said, “Give over, lad!”

You Winchester, you lose some

I was chatting to one of the other parents at school yesterday morning and mentioned how little kid is totally obsessed with space, all day and every day. It’s literally the first thing he talks about when he wakes up, and he falls asleep watching Brian Cox videos. They had a special space day at school yesterday, too.

Auto-generated description: A child is dressed as an astronaut with a homemade space helmet and is holding a paper plate designed like a planet.

She helpfully suggested visiting the planetarium at Winchester, about an hour’s drive away.

I hadn’t thought about going anywhere outside of London.

Later yesterday afternoon I picked up my guitar for the first time in months, wiped all the dust off it, and strummed the chords to one of my old band’s songs, written by the singer who, coincidentally, hails from Winchester.

By evening, I’d forgotten all about school mums, planetariums and old mates, and I was more concerned about finishing my book and finding out whodunnit?

On page 306 of my book, right in the middle it said (in all CAPS and bold):

WINCHESTER

I checked out the planetarium and ordered four tickets for a nice family outing during half-term .

This morning I told little kid about it and he said he didn’t want to go.

On yer bike! (Your voice matters)

Last week we had the local cycling group at the school offering free bikes and training to families.

We’d love free bikes, of course.

Two problems for me, though:

  1. There’s nowhere safe and secure to keep them.
  2. The roads and drivers around here are downright dangerous, and no dedicated cycle lanes.

I couldn’t help myself imparting this information in no uncertain terms to the two smiley elderly ladies handing out the marketing leaflets.

Afterwards, big kid gave me some feedback.

“Dad, when you shout it makes me want to freeze out of fear.”

Me: “Oh no, sorry, did I shout at those ladies?”

“No, you didn’t shout at them. You used your political voice. Your political voice makes me want to listen.”

Cleaning up

Big kid has been on lunch monitor duty at school for the past couple weeks. He enjoys making sure his little bro is all right, and, it turns out, cleaning up all the mess the little kids make. So much so that the headteacher commended him for his efforts.

Yesterday, on the drive to somewhere near enough to school for them to scoot in from, big kid announced:

“Dad, when I’m older, I’m going to clean up this town!”

I said it’s a big job and suggested he might want to think about starting now, and starting with the streets around the school with some of his friends. Fortunately, there’s a local group who already do just that.

It would be good to get started when the school street starts next month.

So far so good

Six weeks into my new full-time role at work with the additional two days a week focussed on fundraising for a new youth work.

I’ve scoped about 15 potential grant funders, small and large, and submitted 4 applications or pre-applications.

It seems to be grant application season as many of the closing dates are in February and March.

Unfortunately, one funder switched their closing date to Thursday last week after previously advertising it as Friday (The Wayback Machine agrees with me). Another closed their online form the day before or on the morning of their published closing date (Friday). Luckily, perhaps, they didn’t remove the live application form page I had bookmarked so I could still submit.

It will be annoying if our applications are disregarded in these two cases, although the lesson is don’t wait until deadline day.

I’m not beating myself up about it. We only had a few days to put something together, and I was chasing/waiting on my boss to draft and agree final wording. It’s a learning curve for all of us, and lots we can do better.

AI tools were genuinely helpful, and also provided useful feedback on our applications - need to remember to do that step before submitting them next time.

Too good to be true

This week at school my proud Digital Leader presented a school assembly on the dangers of the internet, and in particular too-good-too-be true offers.

Last night I got a notification that he’d spent £8.99 on his Kobo, using his £2 a week pocket money account. Which was odd as I could have sworn he was in bed with his kid brother watching space videos at that moment.

A quick investigation found that last month he’d subscribed to a free trial of “READ EVERYTHING YOU WANT!!!” Kobo Plus, and his trial has ended.

We had a little talk and, suitably humbled, I reimbursed his £8.99.

All in a day's housework

Busy day so far.

New school street comes into effect next month, so to prepare this morning we parked away from the school and the kids scooted in with me chasing after them on my flat feet.

Need to teach little kid how to use his brake.

Had to pop into the school office to ask for a parents’ evening form.

Went to Tesco to buy the items that Waitrose couldn’t deliver later.

No time for breakfast, instead peeled, chopped and boiled spuds, chopped and fried onions with lentils, prepared carrots and leeks for honey-roasting, cut broccoli florets for steaming, mashed potatoes and spooned on to onions and lentils mixed with gravy and HP sauce in a baking dish, grated Red Leicester to go on top.

Emptied our general waste bin, wet and dry recycling bins, and the food bin.

Unblocked the kitchen sink with the plunger.

Put my laundry away.

Washed up.

Put the groceries away.

Time for a late brunch.

Publish and REDACTED!

This was supposed to be a comprehensive account of events of the last couple of weeks in this corner of the interwebs. Instead, thanks to the events of the last twenty four hours, and on the advice of REDACTED’s lawyers, I’ve had to make some amendments.

Nevertheless, I hope it will help to clear up any misunderstandings and fill in any gaps about what has been going on.

Unfortunately, most of my source material has now been REDACTED, breaking the very fabric of our beloved internet. Forgive me for not taking screenshots.

OMG!!1!

The dust has REDACTED, it’s all REDACTED over, and it’s all REDACTED under the bridge now (or is it?), so what REDACTED time to start REDACTEDing over the muck of the very recent past all over again?

I don’t really want to do that, and I held back from saying anything directly at the time, or since, mainly because I didn’t feel like there was anything I could add that others hadn’t already REDACTED or that wouldn’t simply fan the flames of the REDACTED of the REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED that descended from their REDACTED REDACTED horses to demand REDACTED Rotten’s evisceration and expulsion from the internets for being a REDACTED-loving REDACTEDphobe.

And I didn’t want to upset or offend anyone.

But most of all, I didn’t want to be on the receiving end of someone else’s REDACTED REDACTED.

So out of sheer bloody-minded cowardice and self-preservation I sat back behind the safety of my keyboardless AI slop consumption screen and watched the entirely human generated shitshow go down with an ever increasing sense of unwanted vicarious and voyeuristic unease.

I’ve taken part in plenty of online arguments and fights over the years (hell, even some real life and in person ones, too), mostly in closed communities, but occasionally in public forums.

My memory isn’t what it used to be, but I can’t recall there was ever a winner in any of them (and if there was it certainly wasn’t me - although it’s not the winning that matters, of course, it’s the taking part), and no perceivable good has ever come about other than that the flames eventually burn up all the oxygen of publicity and peter out.

Oh, and I hope I have learned that its not worth the emotional toll of getting involved. I learned The Power To REDACTED.

I’ve also faced unfounded accusations in the workplace.

And I still carry the scars of my REDACTEDs’ arguments when I was a child.

So all this arguing and accusing evoked in me some difficult emotions and memories.

LOL!!1!

As someone who still feels relatively new to REDACTED (after two years), and certainly not feeling part of the already well-established community - I’d already been “told off” by one of the sensible centrist liberal adults for lacking a REDACTED or REDACTED opinion because I drew a metaphorical and frankly dogmatic bloody line in the sand of the ashes of the thousands of murdered children in REDACTED, and planted a tattered REDACTEDbow flag in the rubble opposing the REDACTEDide of REDACTEDinians in REDACTED by REDACTED, and the Good Ol’ REDACTED of REDACTED’s role in funding and arming it - I was aghast to witness the self-declared grown-ups bitching and fighting amongst themselves over who was the fairest of them all.

A few of the most fairest of them all promptly decamped to set up in another part of the world wide web where they will be safe from REDACTEDists and REDACTEDs, and fairytale queens cosplaying as old ladies bearing poison apples.

Speaking of apples, it was First Man REDACTED who ate the forbidden fruit from the tree of knowledge of good and evil and brought about the Fall of Man. First Man REDACTED, and First REDACTED Eve, lost their innocence and became ashamed of their nakedness. Their sinful obsession with REDACTED made them the world’s first REDACTEDs.

Led by judge, jury and executioner in-chief First Man REDACTED, the REDACTEDers had decided that REDACTED Rotten’s use six months previously of “REDACTED” was non-binary and cast-iron proof that REDACTED is, in fact, REDACTEDphobic, and that cannot be tolerated - or at least, it cannot be tolerated six months down the line when First Man REDACTED, who wasn’t cyberstalking REDACTED Rotten at all, just happened to notice that REDACTED had paid for a subscription to REDACTED’s newly unelected REDACTEDist henchman REDACTED’s REDACTED.com.

Not only was he a fully paid up member of the REDACTED billionaire’s despised social network, REDACTED had publicly praised REDACTED’s REDACTED exploration ambitions and his REDACTED cars!

As if this wasn’t REDACTED enough on its own, REDACTED was named as a REDACTED of the REDACTED indieweb REDACTED social network REDACTED, set up several years ago as a community-minded alternative to the toxic REDACTED by the ever so manly monikered REDACTED.

“HOW COULD MANLY MONIKERED REDACTED EMPLOY REDACTED-LOVING REDACTEDPHOBE REDACTED ROTTEN?!!!!”

“MANLY MONIKERED REDACTED MUST IMMEDIATELY “PRONOUNCE” HIS PERSONAL ALLYSHIP WITH TEH REDACTED COMMUNITAH!!1!”

“REDACTED MY AUTHORITAH!!1!”

FAFO!!1!

Don’t get me wrong. I think REDACTED could and should be more careful with his REDACTED utterances, particularly in his role as a REDACTED of his own REDACTED, which I presume he welcomes anyone and everyone to use, contribute to and subscribe to. It does look bad that he’s also a REDACTED REDACTED, and paying REDACTED to use REDACTED, AND praising REDACTED (especially in light of REDACTED’s overt REDACTED salutes).

But in my humble, unwanted and irrelevant white middle-REDACTED male REDACTED-gendered opinion, none of that defines him as a REDACTED-lover or a REDACTEDphobe. I mean, he could be both, or one or the other, or neither. I don’t know. I think it’s disingenuous to pretend otherwise.

That said, it doesn’t mean people can’t be offended by any or all of it six months ago, two weeks ago, now and forever more. In REDACTED’s defence, it seems like he did make some kind of apology at the time even if it wasn’t good enough, and it was compounded by his publishing of later REDACTED posts complaining about being ‘REDACTED’.

REDACTED, a REDACTED REDACTED who did take offence at REDACTED’s “REDACTED” comment REDACTED her subscription to REDACTED’s REDACTED service, and REDACTED about her REDACTED. REDACTED REDACTED her in full, and while it shouldn’t have REDACTED, could have been REDACTED much better, and undoubtedly left a very REDACTED REDACTED in the mouth for REDACTED, First Man REDACTED and plenty of others, that really should have been the end of it.

As others have REDACTED better than me, it does appear as if First Man REDACTED had it in for REDACTED and saw REDACTED’s blue REDACTED account and his praise of REDACTED as an opportunity to exert some kind of REDACTED or “REDACTED” upon him. While I’m not suggesting REDACTED set out to invoke the REDACTED REDACTED, he knows as well as anyone what it’s all about and The Power To REDACTED get involved in other people’s battles.

So it’s somewhat ironic, if no less unpleasant, that in seeking to give up his Power to REDACTED in order to REDACTED the internet, he has now had to REDACTED his REDACTED REDACTED in the face of REDACTED REDACTED.

The goat singer

In the echoes of the goat singer’s song,
where Dionysus whispers through the vines,
we find ourselves entwined in ancient rites -
fertility rituals of death and rebirth,
of new life and new wine.

Here, survival is the meaning of everything:
the stars beyond our reach, the earth beneath our feet.
Good versus evil, truth versus lies,
blame and luck, conspiracies and fate.
Destiny waits like a vulture on the tiles,
and bad choices remind us,
Of the arrogance leading us down paths we can’t retrace.

We are always wanting more -
more wine, more power, more love, more life.
But injustice follows us like a shadow,
inescapable, irretrievable, inevitable.
“You paid a price to come this far,”
As if suffering were currency,
as if pain could buy redemption.

Euripides knew it well:
the gods are not just.
They play with mortals like toys,
throwing dice with our fates,
laughing at our despair.
Moral ambiguity reigns supreme,
and protest is futile,
a scream into the void that answers only with silence.
Cynicism grows like weeds in the cracks of our souls,
but still, there is hope -
a flicker, a spark,
a stubborn refusal to give in to the darkness.

Diatribe becomes spectacle,
entertainment for the masses,
as we watch our own downfall unfold
like actors in a play we didn’t write.
Insanity creeps in,
whispering in our ears,
telling us we’re not good enough,
that we’ll never be good enough.
And maybe that’s true.
Maybe we are all doomed to fail,
to fall,
to lose everything.

Desertion, rejection, loss -
the Fall of Man,
the absence of God.
We cry out, but no one answers.
We reach out, but no one takes our hand.
Tragedy guaranteed,
but still, we’re alive.
Apart from the ones who aren’t.
Now there’s the real tragedy -
the ones who didn’t make it,
who didn’t survive the journey,
who didn’t pay the price,
or who paid too much.

Suffering is knowledge,
the bitter fruit of humanity.
We taste it every day,
in every breath,
in every tear.
But even in the darkest moments,
there is light -
a glimmer of something beyond the suffering,
beyond the pain.
A hope that refuses to die,
a faith that clings to the edge of reason,
a belief that maybe, just maybe,
we are more than the sum of our broken hearts.

And so we keep moving,
through the desert,
through the wasteland,
through the ruins of our shattered dreams.
Because even though the road is long— or there is no road and we have to find our own way - we are still here.
We are still alive.
And that, in itself, is enough.