Examiner

There was always a thin crack between the curtains in the living room of my childhood home. On really sunny days, when we weren't all in there, my mum kept the curtains closed so as not to fade the furniture and carpet. On such days I can remember standing for what seemed like hours staring at this slice of golden light and in particular the dust particles that danced there.

I would pick out one mote and follow its progress for as long as it stayed within the beam, breath held for fear of disturbing it's flight. I imagined it to be a spaceship, navigating an asteroid field. Or a microscopic superhero, flying to the rescue. Or simply saw it for what it was, a miniature piece of natural wonder. It would swoop and shift and spin on eddies too small to be felt.  Eventually it would vanish as it flew back into the darkness of the room and I would move onto the next glowing subject.

It was at about this time in my life that we discovered I had poor eyesight and I can now see (if you'll pardon the pun) that this may be the reason for my episodes of Dust-watch. I'm short-slighted, so only those things close to my face are clearly defined, and the give-away to my parents was how I'd watch television.  I would lay on the floor in front of the TV, half underneath it, with my knees hooked over the cross-bar of the set's legs. I thought nothing of it other than I could clearly see 'Top Cat' from there. But a visit to the opticians was to prove otherwise.  

Although it was hard to be a small child wearing glasses I did enjoy those visits to the optician; the dark room, the trays of lens, odd machines, mirrors and lights. The whole place was a cross between a magician's cave and a mad-scientist's laboratory. My optician even looked the part. He was short and wore what I seem to recall as a three-quarter length grey-brown, lab-coat. He was bald on top with a half-crown of hair (like Lobot's headgear in 'The Empire Strikes Back') and was immensely calming, due to a soft, sing-songy voice that could relax away a years worth of 'Four-eyes' based abuse.

All my family attended that optician at one time or another and his catchphrases became part of our lives:
"Is better 1... or 2... 1... or 2... or not much difference"
"Look at my shoulder... now look away... now look at my other shoulder... now look away"
Today a visit to a small, impersonal booth in Boots or Specsavers just doesn't have the same magic.

I am now a full time, card carrying specks wearer (and proud of it) and ironically I also spend pretty much all day with my face staring at a screen much closer than my old TV set. My life is far too hectic for hours of idle contemplation (although some might say otherwise) and I'm currently at a disadvantage when it comes to sunlight, as my office has no external windows. Instead I will have to hope that, even without my vigilance, somewhere the light still shines so the dust may dance...

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Intervention

Fate often tries to step in - but once in a while it does you good to tread on it's toes! MW and I are currently sitting in limbo waiting to hear which school our son will be attending next year. Having done all the Fate-bashing we can on his behalf I'm put in mind of my own transition from primary to secondary school.

At the time my home was in Benfleet, Essex at the bottom of the famous Bread and Cheese Hill (not my claim but that of a group I once saw on Facebook). The slopes of the hill are covered by a cemetery, which is apparently slipping slowing down the slope (not so much your walking as 'luge-ing' dead) and a large wooded area called Coombe Wood. I attended a primary school in Benfleet and the base of the hill was the playground of my youth: Rhoda Road North where we raced (and crashed) go-carts, the waste-ground just before the cemetery and among the graves themselves (it amazing what a lack of game consoles and nine million cartoon channels reduced us to back then). Occasionally we would travel further to seek out the pond at the heart of Coombe Wood...

About a year before leaving primary school my family moved - a short hop up the hill to Thundersly (now that is famous - check the lyrics to Billy Bragg's 'A13, Trunk Road to the Sea' if you don't believe me). When the time came for secondary school my parents thought I should attend Thundersly's King John but I was adamant about going to Appleton back down in Benfleet. My sister was at Appleton already and the majority of people from my primary school would be going there as well. The distance to both schools was roughly the same, however to attend Appleton would mean coming back up Bread and Cheese Hill each day. But I dug my heel into Fate's plates and got my way!

Thing was I never really enjoyed it once I got there. Whether this would have been my reaction to any school or just this one I'll never know. My arguments for attending fell apart quite quickly. My sister, being that much older than myself, left almost as soon as I arrived. As to my old friends I lost track with most of them partly because even if I saw them at school the hill got in the way at night, cutting me off from 'Playing Out'. The hill became a barrier between me and my old life (and Fate sniggered all the the way to the podiatrist!)

Thankfully It wasn't all bad. I came away from secondary school with good grades and an interest in acting (which would shape my future). And I can't feel any animosity towards the hill, which was one of the great stomping grounds for my dog and I. In fact Bread and Cheese Hill became quite lucrative as I would invariably pocket the bus fare home and walk back though Coombe Wood.

Moral? Can't think of one. But if you find yourself stuck up a hill, don't bitch - just enjoy the view...

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Arrest

My biggest fear has always been crowds, the tight press of too many people in one place. This is Ochlophobia apparently. I know it's not Claustrophobia as of the two occasions when I was trapped anywhere neither was particularly harrowing - and I was thankfully rescued from any distress each time by a damsel! Once was in the toilet at a restaurant in Loughton, the second from a gun cupboard in a stately home in Yorkshire (and thereby hangs another tale...)

With me the fear has more to do with the fact it's people who are surrounding me as I also battle with acute shyness, which to this day restricts me in so many ways. Even in an age when technology offers us a remote, anonymous standpoint I still falter. The rise of the mobile phone means nothing to me as I'm afraid to speak or text to anyone. I even find social networking on the web hard work (do people really what to know what I think of their comments and posts?). I made a conscious effort to fight this shyness during my student days but the physical fear of large bodies of people still restricted my life - I was never a big fan of gigs or rallies (and orgies were right out!). In the late eighties I managed only one pilgrimage to Glastonbury and had but one opportunity to shout "Maggie! Maggie! Maggie! Out! Out! Out!" at the Houses of Parliament.

Of course demos did also equal police - a special breed of person intended to create an aura of fear and respect - so I was probably better off out of it. However, I'm surely not the only one who finds it hard to fight irrational, unfounded guilt when suddenly seeing a police car driving behind me. Also I remember being told in school by a visiting policeman that a good indication that someone is lying will be if they scratch their nose. To this day, even when I know I'm telling the truth, when speaking to someone in authority my nose itches unbelievably - (Bewitched-ophobia?)

But one of the most crippling fears I have when in a group of people, including those that I know, is the fear of doing or saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. The inability to speak out when you know the right thing to say or have the solution but are afraid to do so in case of resulting ridicule. However, my greatest example of this has a far more surreal and sinister tint.  

Once, a friend and I, after an evening of over indulgence, became all philosophical and metaphysical. In the haze that followed we discussed the reason for life, existence, space and time - worlds within worlds and angels being pin-heads. Alas the details are lost to me now (I seem to remember something about a doughnut of all things) but we knew we were on the right track as piece after piece fell into place. As the verbal equivalent of a twister grew about us (the special effects for this would be amazing) we came ever closer to the Nirvana-answer until there is was on the tips of our tongues. Yet we we were simultaneously struck dumb by a fear - if we spoke that ultimate truth out loud the Universe would stop! Finally, in a hushed whisper, I spake...


...Nothing happened. The world continued for us and all the people upon it who crowd around me...


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...Or was it a bagel?.


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Assistance

"Catch me, I'm falling into my past.
Deeper, the deeper the louder the laugh!" - Madness - March of the Gherkins

I would never call myself a forward thinker. I'm far happier looking back on the past and reliving fond memories. This may be because I have a very good memory for memories. With some people its phone numbers or faces, with me it's events in total. Sights, songs, sounds all spark memories - not smells though. My nose sort of packed up twenty years ago, so I can't really smell something now to give me a memory and of course anything post 1992 has no point of reference!

On some occasions it works too well but in the wrong way - my nose that is. On entering a perfume section of any department store my nasal cavities clamp shut in revulsion. Same with flower gardens and 'Lush' stores, if they're still going. Other times I get false, phantom smells from long ago -
"Do you smell piccalilli?"
"No"
"Just me then"
However, a lack of smell does come in handy when unblocking drains or back in those unhappy nappy days.

A good memory, on the other hand, was essential for a good night night out with friends. After several pints the conversation would often turn to favourite sweets or children's programme of yesteryear. If someone got stuck it would often fall to my memory to save the day.
"Remember - they were like minstrels - but without the hard shell" (Galaxy Counters)
"Oh you know. The one with the bear - in the garden - with the magic squares" (Issi Noho).
Of course the advent of the internet and iPhones have made me obsolete on such occasions (and must ruin pub quizzes).

Thankfully I'm in a relationship where we both work to our strengths. MW is the planner - sorting the family's timetable for the week, remembering to pay bills on time and seeing in her mind's eye where we'll be in five years time. While I'm the data store she can turn to at any time and ask,
"Where have I seen him before?"
"In that film - with the talking gorilla -  but he had longer hair and a limp."

It's a skill... 

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Hurry

Following on from the 'Fluctuation' story I should reassure you that thankfully My-Wife (Then-Girlfriend) and I didn't have to live in The Hole for very long. Six months later we moved slightly further north into a much nicer flat (the one with the urban fox). The Fox's Rest, as I shall call it, was a great place and our home for the next five years or so. Convenient for both the station and the shops and the best cafe in the world (hats off to you Maggie and the bliss you plated up for us on a Sunday morning).

On one occasion while at the Fox's Rest we received from MW (TG)'s mother some tickets to attend a private viewing at the Nation Gallery's Salisbury Wing. Not being great art lovers we were uninspired until we spied the magic words - "Free bar and buffet". The subsequent debate lasted a good five seconds and on the night in question we boarded the train to Charring Cross dressed to the nines. Well, my better half reached nines. I find it a push to reach fives - sixes if I change out of my jeans.

Unfortunately for us the weather decided to take turn for the worst during the journey. On arrival at Charring Cross we found that the heavens had opened to Biblical proportions. Using what cover we could we got as far as the shops at the south side of Trafalgar Square then waited for an opportune moment to cross the the final distance. Through the downpour we could see the gallery smugly temping us with its promise of free plonk. If we didn't move soon we miss the buffet.

Time was running out and then so were we! Hand in hand we dashed across the square and right on cue the Rain God turned it up a notch (or five). Before we had reached the first lion it was obvious that even if we made it to the gallery without drowning there was no way they would allow us in. In silent understanding we looked at each other and laughed. In a state of  mutual saturation, we turned round and walked back to a pub by the station, there to steam dry at our leisure with a pint...

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Fluctuation

Our cat is odd. Actually that’s unfair but the thing is she’s 18 years old and still looks like a kitten. She's always been small for her age but it’s never slowed her down. In past houses where we’ve lived she’s beaten up all-comers, even though feather to their heavy-weight. She's even seen off an urban fox!

Age is catching her up, however, in so much as she’s deaf as a scratch-post and has a tendency to shout. Yet, throughout the years there has been one true cat constant. Whenever we’ve gone to the vets and been met by a new face attached to a stethoscope they would say, “Are you aware she has a slight heart murmur?” Needless to say that after 18 years, and countless vets, we are.  And as already stated it has certainly never hindered her.

In fact there has been very few health scares. There was one occasion when she was about eight months old. At that point we were living in a Hole in South-East London (I don’t exaggerate) and so kept her as an indoor cat. The big, bad outside world was full of terrors in the shape of cars, lorries and the pit-bull who lived upstairs. On returning home one evening I was greeted by my wife (then girlfriend) who informed me, with a look of panic on her face, that something was wrong with the cat!  

A quick inspection of our first born (for so she was treated) showed that the mere slip of a thing had a distended stomach. Cat and I were dispatched with haste to the vets. This being a time when I was a fresh-faced would-be actor without the luxuries of later life (namely car or money) the trip entailed a long walk from Hole to bus stop, bus to town and walk over four pedestrian crossings to vets.

On arrival I gently lay her on the table, explained the problem to the vet and all but got down on my knees to plead for her life. The vet diligently looked her over and examined the offending bulge.

“Yes…", he said with a serious look. "She’s fat. Possibly needs to get out and exercise more.”

Embarrassment reigned.

“Are you aware she has a slight heart murmur?”

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Mixture

With Christmas just over, and my belly arriving everywhere a good ten seconds ahead of the rest of me, it’s easy to see the evil that is cake! Everyone will tell you that I have an extremely sweet tooth and have a stronger addiction to chocolate cake than would be possible with any other recreational substance. But recently I also rediscovered the joy of baking them yourself.

Kids love to make a mess and mine are no exception. So the idea of chucking around flour, eggs and milk and then finally eating it is one that none of us could say no to. A Sunday afternoon can now pass for the three of us in the joyful whirlwind of sieving, cracking, whisking, melting and baking (although the inevitable wiping, washing and mopping are always a solo turn on my part).  We currently have two signature dishes; a lemon drizzle cake which practically dissolves of its own fruition and a chocolate cake (what a surprise) whose ingredients should entitle me to a seat on the board at Cadbury.

I can remember doing the same thing with my mum as a child but with one big difference – licking the spoon! This was always the Holy Grail of the make and bake, the blissful bit that came between the mess-fest and the concluding consumption. When the cake had been transferred from mixing bowl to tin my sister and I would jostle to be the first at what was left over. Scraping and gathering every last bit of the sugary mixture and then finally licking it from the wooden spoon which to a child was like something from a giant’s table. Forget the goose with the golden eggs and the singing harp here was the giant’s true treasure.

But, alas, this is no longer the case - thanks to Edwina Currie! Though it was decades ago the seed she sowed lives on. Due to fear of salmonella parents would rather see their child and a stranger playing catch in the road with a rusty knife than come within a mile of a raw egg!

And yet somehow, having never experienced it, they still feel drawn to the bowl. Somehow, instinctively they know it would be a taste sensation. But I’m a victim of society, living in fear of the ‘raw egg police’ who pounce on those that practice a combination of spoon licking and bad parenting. So despite their pleas and moans I deny my children their rightful reward. With a sigh they slip away to find alternative distractions until the cake is ready, while I condemn the true treasure of baking to the sink of sadness…