Life's Goal

Feeling stiff as a plank this morning, as I sleepwalk upstairs to feed our cat, Gepetto, before he wakes us. Playing football again after a four-week layoff is no joke.

My hamstring is playing up, so I spent most of the time in goal - a living target for any misguided shot. Quite a few got past uninvited while I struggled to focus, think smart, log on to that inaccessible software that every keeper craves:  intuition or, in more technical terminology, getting it right.

Sometimes, you don't know how you saved a shot that would appear unstoppable to sober eyes. You don't really need to know why; just do it. The best saves are inspirational, illogical, far-fetched. Twisting out a leg or fist, diving mindlessly to right or left with no sense or motive; landing in shock to find the goal still yawning empty and safe.  The best saves are untranslatable, unsurpassable, momentous.

How come they can't explain those equally desperate misses?

Camden Barnet

At my Camden barber's, where a non-designer dry cut costs £8.00 and coffee means hospitality, not the hope of reward. It's more like a bric-a-brac shop, with ornaments betraying their dusty heritage. Hair-wigs hang like scalps from the ceiling; and snaps of Nicosia and Blackpool rub shoulders with photos of now-famous actors, presenters and pop stars, taken when fame was a lowly wish. On the wall above, an interesting collection of cut-throat razors, which I hope will not be needed.

The owner, Mustafa, is off today, as is the usual chat about Northern Cyprus, politics and British perfidy, interspersed with gardening tips. I sit in silence, listening to Turkish TV, as my Barnet falls victim to the scissors' snip.

For those unused to Cockney rhyming slang, 'Barnet Fair' means 'hair'. Barnet Horse Fair has been going since 1588 apparently, which makes me wonder how long my greying crop will last.

A haircut is a kind of little death, I feel, which makes me miss Mustafa's tales of atrocities even more. It's a reminder we're losing hair in the places we need it, and gaining some in the parts we don't. I miss Mustafa, for all his rants and reaction. I don't need a haircut really - and at the rate Mustafa's stand-in is snipping, might never do so again.

Like many refugees from reality, I only came in for a chat.



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Caught in a World Wide Web

I've just been "personally invited" to a complimentary webinar. "Do you currently leverage employee career development as a human capital management and business strategy?" the email reads. "If so, how is it impacting retention?"

As guilty far too often of such business-babble myself, I can hardly complain. I probably deserve to be bombarded by such crap from an anonymous  donor: like some ghastly verbal transplant that one neither asked for nor needed.

"Is it tied to internal mobility strategy, and aligning employees in the right positions?" the missive continues. "Do employees currently feel satisfied with the career development opportunities that your company provides?"

Is worker satisfaction, that tired old panacea, still kicking in the employment mortuary? As a sole trader, I can speak quite candidly for all my workforce.  Given the current climate, plus recent fuckups by business leaders and governments, I imagine they're just glad of a job.

Barking at Bougainvillea

Surfacing in the pool, in the shade of a lemon tree, I'm greeted by seven barking but friendly rescue dogs. Their owners, our friends here in Malaga, have saved them over the years from various degrees of torment. One a near-thoroughbread, was kept in a cage when not being put out to stud: a canine sex slave. They all swim too, which should be fun to watch. Looking round the bougainvillea-stained walls of this garden, I feel that barking, even for humans, is a natural response.

Definitely a dog's world.

Luxurious Limbo

Maroonned in the First Class lounge at Gatwick with hours to wait for the next flight to Malaga. Listening to endless 'power conversations' from VIPs in disguise - "What I need done is as follows..."; "I have no idea at all why he wants a meeting..."; "I told them plainly: London isn't Istanbul..."  Conversations whose import is clear, but whose purpose one will never know.

My true-love is trying not to guess why our 6 a.m. flight was cancelled, and whether the technical faults the nice BA woman mentioned could be catching. Is technology out of control? Is disaster contagious? Could this be the end? We sit, counting planes rather than sheep, anaesthetized by champagne.  Resistance is useless, I think, knocking back another glass. Life is a metaphor after all. The final destination is oblivion. Being together is what counts, I add.

She snuggles up on the sofa. "Do you think we'll make it?"

Level Thinking

How level is the English playing field? Somebody seems to have fenced it off recently and sold most of it off for housing. The field appears flat to the casual eye, but some have a leg-up, especially the equine class: knights of old, scattering peasants at will. Locomotion has changed, but not inequity.  It's hardly fair - and there's another absolute. "Fair dos", "Fair play" - accusations ring clear across the sporting plain. "Not fair!" Why should we be so in love with 'fairness' if it clearly doesn't exist?

Perhaps the term's popularity lies in its unreality: the need for wish-fulfilment. Just form a queue and all's well. We can forget the rest. But who thinks life is fair? To be fair, very few. It's only a game; but not when we lose, which is another thing we're meant to be good at.

With life so uneven, it requires a level approach. In an age of greed, being a loser seems the only crime. Which makes us all losers and equals.

An Apple a Day

Am in the Apple shop at Covent Garden, waiting to get my iPhone 4 fixed. Its coverage ranges from the dumb to the ridiculous, and email is hit or miss. As it's a miracle of technocracy, or meant to be, I'm assuming it's all my fault. I'm also looking for an iPad2 16GB, but they seem to be out of stock.

So far so good.