Commuter dreamzone

I’m pretty tired at the moment.

A combination of having a five-month-old son and staying up too late watching (frequently strange) films means that, on the bus to and from work, I’II often enter that weird dozing dream state, where time slows to a crawl and you’re neither fully awake nor fully asleep. The noises around you still permeate your brain but they become ‘dreamified’ and incorporated into a surreal experience.

So the drone of traffic becomes a hypnotic soundtrack to the alien-like jabberings of other passengers. Mobile phone ringtones and the subsequent ‘Hello?’ become radio transmissions through space, and the rhythmic vibrations of the bus itself become the thrust of a rocket’s hyperdrive.

Then the bus brakes suddenly and you jerk awake, slowly becoming aware of the drool on your chin.

Take all that and throw in crisp withdrawal and it’s only a matter of time before I’m subjected to a nightmarish, potato-based experience.

Edit: Oh bloody hell. I've just turned on The Apprentice and it's about making and selling crisps. Currywurst crisps. Lord Sugar, you utter *beep*.

An apology...and introspection

It’s been well over a month since the last update, which is an unacceptably long hiatus in blog terms. Apologies to my avid reader(s).

I’m sure some of you will be suspicious - have I failed and simply been unable to make the confession? Did I crack one evening and scoff an entire 12-pack of McCoy’s, crying at my capitulation and yet unable to stop shovelling the flame-grilled flavoured ridged crisps into my mouth?

Happily, the answer is no. I’ve not cracked and, in fact, my resolve is stronger than ever.

But recently I've been watching the widget on the right count down to Crispageddon, the blowout to celebrate our year-long crisp drought. It's quite hypnotic. But it's also another countdown - when it finishes I'll be another year older. Another year closer to the grave.

I'm at that stage in life when those feelings of immortality you have as a child and young adult have faded and you become increasingly aware of your body's fragile existence, of your finite lifespan. You are an ageing organic entity, at the mercy of disease and physical trauma. The little things you notice: grey hairs, creaking knees, the time it takes to recover from a hangover, the severity of a hangover. And also those sad tales of people you know, people your age with life-threatening illnesses, struck down and struggling to survive. That hits you like a blow from an ice block. You are mortal.

Will abstaining for a year have any measurable impact on my life span? Maybe it’ll extend it by a couple of minutes. I wonder, when you get right to the end, what would you give to spend just a little more time to be with loved ones? Would you ask for more life, like Roy Batty in Blade Runner?

Anyway. To lighten the mood, I’ll leave you with a poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. It’s a beautiful and well-known sonnet, widely understood to be about the man who would go on to become her husband - Robert Browning - but which, in fact, is about her love affair with crisps.

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height

My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight

For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.

I love thee to the level of everyday's

Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.

I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;

I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.

I love thee with a passion put to use

In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose

With my lost saints, --- I love thee with the breath,

Smiles, tears, of all my life! --- and, if God choose,

I shall but love thee better after death.