BACK TO THE FUTURE

ME: How are you doing?

COACHEE: Not brilliant.

ME: How so?

COACHEE: It's that I wanted to see you about. My confidence seems to have taken a big knock, and it's showing at work. I'm worried that my boss is losing confidence in me, and my recent results haven't been great. I wouldn't say he's warning me, but the atmosphere is frosty between us, and he's getting impatient.

ME: I see. When did all this start?

COACHEE: a few weeks ago now.

ME: and have you any sense what is interrupting your flow of confidence?

COACHEE: well, the medical thing hasn't helped.

ME: medical thing?

COACHEE: yes, but I don't suppose it's relevant here.

ME: No? What is it?

COACHEE: Well I've been told I may well have cancer of the spine.

ME: Wow. That sounds pretty serious. Tell me about it.

COACHEE: I've had terrible back ache for some time now and it got so bad that I went to see the doctor. I was popping painkillers like they were going out of fashion, so in the end I went to the GP. He examined me and said he thinks it might be cancer of the spine. Since then, I've been going for all sorts of tests - quite uncomfortable and obviously worrying - but they can't seem to find what's wrong.

ME:I see. When did all this start?

COACHEE: the back pain?

ME: Yes.

COACHEE: About four months ago.

ME: .... and what was happening in your life at that time?

COACHEE: Nothing. Nothing out of the ordinary anyway.

ME: Nothing?

COACHEE: Well, we were moving house of course. And I'd just learned the wife is expecting again. And my Mum was diagnosed with lung cancer, so she's been pretty needy. And my Dad wasn't well either, thinking about it. And my son was ill too for a while; we were quite worried about him. Actually it must just have been about the time when my wife lost her job too, though she's got another one now, thank goodness. And my other lad had just got into a bit of bother with the police. he was lucky to escape prosecution. Oh, and of course I'd changed my job role too - taken on these other areas of responsibility as you know.

ME: So nothing, eh?

COACHEE: Ha! I see what you mean. Quite a bit really.

ME: Anything else?

COACHEE: No I don't think so, apart from I got the new car then.

ME: That's your new sports car is it?

COACHEE: Yeah. Great car.

ME: Have you noticed that almost all the factors that you've described require you to be the support, rather than be supported?

COACHEE: I guess you're right.

ME: And even the most basic of holistic diagnoses would tend to associate lack of support as problems in the back.

COACHEE: Ah.

ME: How many miles do you drive?

COACHEE: About 40,000 a year.

ME: I used to have the same sort of sports car as yours.

COACHEE: Great aren't they?

ME: Yes. But they're ruddy hard - on the back.

COACHEE: Mmmmm.

ME: Show me exactly where your back pain is. (He does) You'll forgive me I hope for saying this, but the site of your pain is about eight inches to one side of your spine. I'm no doctor, but it's a bit difficult to see how that could be spinal cancer?

COACHEE: now I think about it, that's right!

ME: Look, again, I'm no expert in back problems, but I used to get them regularly when I drove a sports car big mileages. I'd be prepared to bet you a tenner that if you use a different car - your wife's for example, for a fortnight, you'll have no more back problem.

COACHEE: You're on.


By telephone a couple of weeks later:

ME: How are you?

COACHEE: Owing you a tenner it seems.

ME: Back sorted?

COACHEE: Yes, and the relief of that seems to have sorted the work issues too. My boss is saying now how well I'm doing. Oh, and I've changed my GP.

A SHORT HISTORY OF.........GRENADES

I bought a grenade yesterday. Not a purchase I make every day of the week. I was joking with the chap behind the counter about whether I could claim it against tax. He rightly said that when the taxman sees the word grenade he is unlikely to be sympathetic.
The object I bought yesterday is probably a bit heavy for a grenade - 2 or 3 lbs, but it should do the job. I bought it to split wood. It is a pyramid shaped device made of very hard alloy. You put the spike end in logs, hit it hard with a lump hammer and Bob's your Uncle and Fanny's your fire fuel.
It was not always so. Grenades and I have history, which came to mind at this purchase.
Years ago, in my murky past, I learned to throw them. You would stand in the grenade bay facing the sergeant instructor. You would pull the pin with your left hand, and show him it, so you didn't throw a dud. A surprising number of people panicked and did just this. No boom. Once the pin was out, you would extend your left arm in the direction of the target (an old tractor tyre) and throw the grenade overarm with your right. The arm of the grenade would fly off, thus initiating the three or four second fuse. One or two cackhanded people actually dropped the grenade in the bay. That was what the sergeant was there for. In that event, he would grab you by the shoulders and push you back, into the side bay, specially designed for the purpose. The grenade would then explode in the main bay, harmlessly. I say harmlessly, but not quite. If any duffer were to drop the grenade, their humiliation would be complete as the entire squad would come and have a look at the damage. It was instructive. Shrapnel embedded itself in the brickwork of the bay walls. It took little imagination to see what it would do to a human body.
About the same time, a friend of mine, who was also an artillery officer, had a small collection of grenades in his rooms at University. They were second world war Mills bombs, made safe of course. He and I both held "positions of responsibility" in our hall of residence, and had rooms opposite each other. So other students used to come to our rooms for various halls of residence reasons. A favourite game we had at the time was to gaily toss these grenades to each other, much to the alarm of anyone who came in. I remember once one of the foreign students - a chap called Mr. Yipp, if I remember correctly - came in. He looked astonished to see the two of us playing catch with a grenade. "Don't worry," said my friend, "It's not dangerous till you pull the pin." He pulled the pin. Mr. Yipp's eyes widened. "No, no, no," my friend soothed, "it still isn't armed, till you release the arm." Mr. Yipp sighed in relief. Then my friend made a show of fumbling the thing and dropping it on the floor. A quick look at each other and then he and I were running out the door, and down the stairs. Before we had got to the next floor, Mr. Yipp, absolutely terrified, had past us!

TWITTERINGS

The house is surrounded by birds.
Swallows are back from their African holiday. Or is it the other way round?
"Let's go to Laytham, you know how the chicks love it."
"What again? We go there every year. What about a change?"

A starling family has got in and nested under the eves just above the family bathroom. My ex father in law called them rats with beaks. Not far wrong. They're buggers for puncturing the sarking felt and finding a way in. And their brood keeps up a constant boring cheep, whilst I am on the khazi. Quite upsets my prime reading opportunity.

Her indoors did an unusual mowing marathon. But the dandelion clocks are indefatigable. The goldfinches are gorging.

But yesterday, there was a real surprise. A bird sat on the family room window sill. I entered the room, and he looked at me almost guiltily. He was a sparrowhawk, and he must have heard my sharp intake of breath. One glance. One guilty "I have just been a-killing" glance, and he was gone. A beauty. A thrilling, killing beauty.

ZEN TODAY

"You be Bosatsu.

I'll be the taxi driver, driving you home."

(With thanks to Gary)

PATER NOSTER

Our Father which art in Heaven.

Why did you fuck off in the first place?
And why have you stopped paying the maintenance?

READING LIST

A short reading list for aspirant zen students:

On Having No Head - DE Harding
Instant Zen 10,000 Ways
The Heart of Understanding - Thich Nhat Than
The Art of Happiness - Dalai Lama
The Inner Game of Tennis Timothy Gallwey
No death, No Fear - Thich Nhat Than
The Art of Peace - Morihei Ueshiba
Stillness Speaks - Eckhart Tolle
The Outsider - Albert Camus
An Introduction to Zen Buddhism - DT Suzuki
Everything Being Nothing - Tony Parsons

WELL HUNG

My take on the General Election result is this. People want change. They view all politicians as being more or less as bad as one another. Countless doorstep interviews with constituents have collected this view. Hence the result - a preference for change, but an uncertainty as to who will provide it.
The prospect of a Conservative / Lib Dem coalition is an interesting one. Nick Clegg has come of age in the campaigning, even if his party was once again defeated by the first past the post system. Under PR, they'd have 150 seats. One could see him as a senior Minister. Likewise, the humane presence of Vince Cable in Cabinet has to be preferred to the odious George Osborne. Whilst full PR might not be the answer - and indeed in my view is not radical enough - electoral reform is most definitely wanted. No one outside the arms industry really wants Trident like for like replacement. Its huge cost burden could and should be ploughed back into redressing the apalling public sector debt that is the legacy of Labour's project. But a seat at the top international defence table shouldn't be given up lightly either. Europe might be a sticking point. One could see differences on taxation being bridged. The Liberals would push the Tories to be more humane. The Tories would push the Liberals to have sharper teeth. Cameron could prove by a formal coalition that he really does stand for change. Clegg likewise. So, a muddle. But potentially not a bad one.
But, to quote the old song, why are we waiting?
For several weeks if not months a hung parliament has been a real prospect. You'd think that with that truck coming down the road at you, you might just decide to get out of the way rather than wait around to get run over. You'd think that contingency planning would be such that one quick phone call would do it.
"Nick, we're on plan B then."
"OK David."
"See you later."
But it isn't. We're dawdling in the middle of the road till the tyre marks are on our neck, at a cost of about 10% of the FTSE value, so - far from academic.
And that pivots me back towards my usual despondency.
Mainly, these people just aren't up to the strategic, forward looking and imaginative act of truly governing in the national interest rather than the smaller, "business as usual" game of point scoring party politics.

BLOSSOM

PLACE YOUR X HERE

There's an election coming. Had you noticed? I had, and there is much to feel depressed about.
For a start, the prime ministerial candidates' TV debates are turning what could be a serious opportunity for the nation to engage in debate on political policy and system into a leadership cult of personality X factor.
Secondly, the policy differences are so minor, and so missing the point of people's political disengagement that, even on a more serious look at form than a paddock parade of the leaders' tie colours, the runners and riders look tired and self serving.
Trust is the issue, and none look trustworthy.
The intensification of the spinning and symbiotic relationship between government and the media since 1997 is at the core of this. Two dubious invasions and their casualties, the reasons for which are shrouded in lies, have knocked more nails in the coffin of trust. Finally, and in very recent memory, the revelations about MP's expenses have put the final stitch through the nose.
Politicians realise well that there is widespread disengagement with the political system in this country. Their so called radical ideas to fix it though just aren't. Rather, in the wake of the expenses scandal, they are sad attempts at self preservation. They miss the rather obvious point that fixing disengagement with the system means fixing the system. And since they are the system, the elected turkeys ain't voting for Christmas. Never mind fixing the House of Lords. What about fixing the House of Commons in a systemic sense? What about fixing an utter lack of participation in day to day government?
I doubt that I will be voting. People have said to me "if you don't vote, you have no right of complaint." Rubbish. If you go into a pie shop and there are beef pies, pork pies and chicken pies, you are perfectly entitled not to buy one. Especially if what you want is a vegetarian pie. Or a cake. Indeed, the chances of ever getting the pie you want are decreased not increased by buying what is already on offer. If no one voted, there'd be no legitimacy to the current system. On May 6th, make a democratic decision for change. Stay away from the polls. Dig your garden. Watch a film. Snuggle with your partner. Open a bottle of wine. Gaze with wonder at the moon. Don't vote.

XATISFIED

You get on a plane. You hire a car. You drive to the region of Xativa, an area of Spain fragrant with orange groves. Not far from that historic town you turn off a main road down an unlikely looking rutted track close between orange and almond plantations. After three or four kilometres, you go up a gravelled drive framed by olive trees and with lawns of wild rosemary. You come to my friends' house, where we have been staying with them, chilling out in spectacular style, lounging in pool and tub and drinking the Valencian sun.
Well away from the awful developments at the beachside of the Costa Brava, Xativa is an ancient town clawed from a huge rock, a citadel above it and clamorous, stylish streets beneath.
You go to Pepe's. This place is a simple street corner delicatessen cafe. You are welcomed as Pepe, rotund and tattooed with as impressive a display as a man's torso should take, bustles around you. All linguistic effort is spared as you simply ask him to feed you. That is his trade, and he performs it with joy. First come perfect little paves of bread, just cooled enough to pick up and break. With them, an oil from heaven and an old balsamic, infused with vanilla. Next, he brings the wine, a roll of local red velvet for the tongue. Glasses are big, as they should be, allowing for much swirling, sniffing and appreciating. Then he goes to work in front of you on the nearly black iberico ham, carving it from a leg there and then, trimming and fussing until you have before you a layered plateful. It is sweet, with melting fat, and tickles the palate. Almost immediately then comes a platter of cheeses, Manchego of course but others too, coated in rosemary and other herbs, and presented with nuts and dried fruits. Next is a warm, salty, ever so slightly fishy duck salad with - wait for it - rosemary ice cream and lemony pickled peppers. Another bottle of wine. Then comes beef, a proper Chuleton - a very slight salt crunch to its surface and positively sexual red innards spilling juice onto the serving board. With this are softly cooked tranches of aubergine and potato, and griddled asparagus. For the ankle biters, Pepe conjours up sausages and potato chips. No, not chips - potato chips. There's a difference. Then it is a digestif. A toast from Pepe and down in one. Next, as if a next were needed, a massive desert tray with fruits - pineapple, kiwi, orange and others, hazlenuts, a meltingly soft chocolate brownie, and the best chocolate ice cream I have tasted outside Italy. Cafes cortados. And a feeling of utter fullness and pleasure. The bill comes to little more than you would pay per head in a sit down fish and chip place back home.
Why can't we do it here?
Why can't we find on any provincial street corner, a Pepe, in love with food, wine, conversation and the good things of life, busy building a profitable and delicious community of satisfied eaters?
Why instead do we subsist in Britain on sub standard, processed, mass produced, chain logoed crap?
Why do we tolerate it?
Do we not see that we are breeding a Britain illiterate in the joys of proper eating, drinking and the celebration of life?
And yet we worry instead endlessly about "diet" and "healthy eating". What idiots we are. What smug, small minded, nannying, pathetic idiots we are.
I am filled with gratitude to my friends in Spain for their great hospitality and for showing me in Xativa one more example of how we Brits get food so, so wrong and our continental neighbours get it so, so right.
Viva Espana.
Viva Pepe.

HARD TIMES

www.guardian.co.uk/politics/2010/apr/01/labour-gordon-brown-hard-man

Now that is politics I can believe in.

HOW'D YOU WANT YOUR EGGS?

I am fond of asking her indoors "how'd you want your eggs? Fried or fertilised?"
Happily she almost always responds "fertilised."
What a babe!
Then we get down to the business at hand. And afterwards maybe have a poached egg or three. During thE process of poaching eggs it is well known that you have to add vinegar to boiling water to make the eggs gel together.
I've discovered that this is in fact a conspiracy worked on us by vinegar manufacturers. You don't need it all. What you do need is eggs that are fresh. They stay together.
And not, obviously, those that are fertilised.