It's becoming increasingly clear that my assessment of my own personality a little while ago was pretty accurate really.

John Nice-but-Dull.

A couple of weeks ago, I turned 47.  Now, conventional wisdom has it that, with age, comes stability. emotional strength, the ability to take what life throws, etc.

It's bollocks.

I'm not at all sure I'm any more emotionally mature than I was at 17.  I've learned to grin and bear it better than I ever used to, acquired a stack of coping strategies, found ways to avoid coming across as too peculiar, but... 

Alone, with nothing but my own neuroses for company, it takes nothing at all, a word, a comment, to send me into the same pit of despair I used to live in as a teenager.

I have a piece of text, that was sent to me recently, which I've labelled "In emergency, read this".  It helps, but unfortunately it also makes me weep.  There are, apparently, people who are much tougher than this, to whom such emotional outbursts seem like madness.  I wonder what it's like to be them?

Life is a River. Capitalisation deliberate, in respect of what I've just been watching.

Anyway, it is.  A river with many twists and turns, many tributaries, many paths, many a meander along the way, and many a tricksy current.  Not an especially fast-flowing river, it can be navigated to the left, to the right, but the current is strong.

All of us are afloat.

Some sit in the boat, and let the current take them, occasionally looking at the banks passing by, worrying on how they wish life wouldn't pass them by, never seeing the paddle at their feet.

Others try to paddle back upstream.

Yet others, though they paddle, merely pull the boat into the bank, and wait in the calmer water, but never venture ashore: Waiting, always waiting, and never see the glory of the sea.

A few, too few, drive the boat, explore the banks,  pitch camp on islands, bathe in the rolling rapids, dance naked on the grassy shores, blaze their trail on trees, feast on the river's riches, urge their boat to new horizons.  The river moves on, so must we, alluvium, adrift in the rolling flow.

Quite suddeny, without warning, all I want in the world is a face.  An honest face to fill my world.  A face I'm allowed to be in love with.

There have been so many lovely faces, all of them out of bounds.

Not a-fucking-llowed to love them.  Not one.

Well, not really a setback, as I wasn't particularly expecting it all to fall into my lap anyway, but a first professional rejection, at any rate.

Ginger's agent, sadly, doesn't feel she can take me, as it would conflict with some existing clients.  Fair enough.

Interesting to note that the disappointment was acute rather than chronic.  A minute or so of very intense emotion... which completely passed almost at once.  The alternative plan is slightly scarier, as it envolves me promoting myself, and looking for work on my own, without the benefit of an agent to guide me - but that's probably no bad thing.

In the first place, let me treat of the nature of man and what has happened to it; for the original human nature was not like the present, but different.  The sexes were not two as they are now, but originally three in number; there was man, woman, and the union of the two, having a name corresponding to this double nature, which had once a real existence, but is now lost, and the word "Androgynous" is only preserved as a term of reproach.  In the second place, the primeval man was round, his back and sides forming a circle; and he had four hands and four feet, one head with two faces, looking opposite ways, set on a round neck and precisely alike; also four ears, two privy members, and the remainder to correspond.  He could walk upright as men now do, backwards or forwards as he pleased, and he could also roll over and over at a great pace, turning on his four hands and four feet, eight in all, like tumblers going over and over with their legs in the air; this was when he wanted to run fast.  Now the sexes were three, and such as I have described them; because the sun, moon, and earth are three; and the man was originally the child of the sun, the woman of the earth, and the man-woman of the moon, which is made up of sun and earth, and they were all round and moved round and round like their parents.  Terrible was their might and strength, and the thoughts of their hearts were great, and they made an attack upon the gods; of them is told the tale of Otys and Ephialtes who, as Homer says, dared to scale heaven, and would have laid hands upon the gods.  Doubt reigned in the celestial councils.  Should they kill them and annihilate the race with thunderbolts, as they had done the giants, then there would be an end of the sacrifices and worship which men offered to them; but, on the other hand, the gods could not suffer their insolence to be unrestrained.

At last, after a good deal of reflection, Zeus discovered a way.  He said:  "Methinks I have a plan which will humble their pride and improve their manners; men shall continue to exist, but I will cut them in two and then they will be diminished in strength and increased in numbers; this will have the advantage of making them more profitable to us.  They shall walk upright on two legs, and if they continue insolent and will not be quiet, I will split them again and they shall hop about on a single leg."  He spoke and cut men in two, like a sorb-apple which is halved for pickling, or as you might divide an egg with a hair; and as he cut them one after another, he bade Apollo give the face and the half of the neck a turn in order that the man might contemplate the section of himself:  he would thus learn a lesson of humility.  Apollo was also bidden to heal their wounds and compose their forms.  So he gave a turn to the face and pulled the skin from the sides all over that which in our language is called the belly, like the purses which draw in, and he made one mouth at the center, which he fastened in a knot (the same which is called the navel); he also molded the breast and took out most of the wrinkles, much as a shoemaker might smooth leather upon a last; he left a few, however, in the region of the belly and navel, as a memorial of the primeval state.  After the division the two parts of man, each desiring his other half, came together, and throwing their arms about one another, entwined in mutual embraces, longing to grow into one, they were on the point of dying from hunger and self-neglect, because they did not like to do anything apart; and when one of the halves died and the other survived, the survivor sought another mate, man or woman as we call them,--being the sections of entire men or women,--and clung to that.  They were being destroyed, when Zeus in pity of them invented a new plan:  he turned the parts of generation round to the front, for this had not always been their position, and they sowed the seed no longer as hitherto like grasshoppers in the ground, but in one another; and after the transposition the male generated in the female in order that by the mutual embraces of man and woman they might breed, and the race might continue; or if man came to man they might be satisfied, and rest, and go their ways to the business of life:  so ancient is the desire of one another which is implanted in us, reuniting our original nature, making one of two, and healing the state of man.

Each of us when separated, having one side only, like a flat fish, is but the indenture of a man, and he is always looking for his other half.  Men who are a section of that double nature which was once called Androgynous are lovers of women; adulterers are generally of this breed, and also adulterous women who lust after men:  the women who are a section of the woman do not care for men, but have female attachments; the female companions are of this sort.  But they who are a section of the male follow the male, and while they are young, being slices of the original man, they hang about men and embrace them, and they are themselves the best of boys and youths, because they have the most manly nature.  Some indeed assert that they are shameless, but this is not true; for they do not act thus from any want of shame, but because they are valiant and manly, and have a manly countenance, and they embrace that which is like them.  And these when they grow up become our statesmen, and these only, which is a great proof of the truth of what I am saying.  When they reach manhood they are lovers of youth, and are not naturally inclined to marry or beget children,--if at all, they do so only in obedience to the law; but they are satisfied if they may be allowed to live with one another unwedded; and such a nature is prone to love and ready to return love, always embracing that which is akin to him.  And when one of them meets with his other half, the actual half of himself, whether he be a lover of youth or a lover of another sort, the pair are lost in amazement of love and friendship and intimacy, and will not be out of the other's sight, as I may say, even for a moment:  these are the people who pass their whole lives together; yet they could not explain what they desire of one another.  For the intense yearning which each of them has towards the other does not appear to be the desire of the lover's intercourse, but of something else which the soul of either evidently desires and cannot tell, and of which she has only a dark and doubtful presentiment.  Suppose Hephaestus, with his instruments, to come to the pair who are lying side by side and to say to them, "What do you people want of one another?" they would be unable to explain.  And suppose further, that when he saw their perplexity he said:  "Do you desire to be wholly one; always day and night to be in one another's company? for if this is what you desire, I am ready to melt you into one and let you grow together, so that being two you shall become one, and while you live live a common life as if you were a single man, and after your death in the world below still be one departed soul instead of two--I ask whether this is what you lovingly desire, and whether you are satisfied to attain this?"--there is not a man of them who when he heard the proposal would deny or would not acknowledge that this meeting and melting into one another, this becoming one instead of two, was the very expression of his ancient need.  And the reason is that human nature was originally one and we were a whole, and the desire and pursuit of the whole is called love.  There was a time, I say, when we were one, but now because of the wickedness of mankind God has dispersed us, as the Arcadians were dispersed into villages by the Lacedaemonians.  And if we are not obedient to the gods, there is a danger that we shall be split up again and go about in basso-relievo, like the profile figures having only half a nose which are sculptured on monuments, and that we shall be like tallies.

Plato: Symposium (quoting Aristophanes)

Well, I predicted it, and here it is.  Nice Time is automatically followed by stupid, stupid descent into Directionless Misery.

There's something that I'm not.

I'm not even sure what it is, but I'm not it.

You know.  So do you.  And you.  And I probably never will.

But it means I'm not... your focus.  Nor yours.  Or yours.

Or anybody's.

In answer to an unspecified question: Yes.  Not for the reason expected, nor for any reason I dare admit to anyone who's able to do anything about it.  But yes. Fuckit.

Life's a bloody funny thing, is it not?

I'm not, as friends will attest, the greatest fan of children.  Mostly I encounter them in supermarkets, trailing unwillingly behind their stressed and harrassed parents, and generally making a nuisance of themselves.  I am, I freely admit, something of a curmudgeon in this area.

The concept of childhood, however, I find intensely moving.  Those mawkish NSPCC adverts, with tiny, wide-eyed waifs gazing helplessly into the camera; the lost child crying for its mother; the small kid let down by those it trusts.  But the joy, too - that innocence, which every child's so eager to lose, and every grown-up at some time becomes so eager to recapture.

And today it has snowed.

There are snowmen.  There are snowballs.  There are small urchins, wrapped almost spherical in impossibly snug layers of sweaters and scarves.  There are fathers, their long black woollen coats bearing the marks of direct hits, gloves damp with the evidence of joyful retaliation.

Laugh or cry?  Both.

The hubris of it, the sheer, bare-faced cheek.  The very idea that I have the skills, the talents, the professionalism to go out there and pretend to be able to do it.

I'm just at the point of ringing up one of London's best headshot photographers, and his portfolio is full of the great and the good.  And it scares the living shit out of me that I'd even dare.

Does life get any better than this?

The smell of warm croissants, a big mug of coffee at my elbow, enjoying a re-read of the latest chapter of a friend's new novel, a work-in-progress that I'm privileged to read before almost anyone else. Appalachian Spring quietly chirruping out of iTunes.

A free man, a free day, a whole new life ahead.

For one extraordinary moment, I was unable to cope with how happy all this made me feel, and I wept.   I am a lucky man.

A nice sendoff.  Curry, booze, a card, many handshakes and well-wishings.

Won the Halfway to heaven quiz in the evening, too.

Now a free man.  Odd... doesn't feel much different, most of the time, but then there are these sudden realisations of quite what a huge change has occurred.  All things are possible.

How many months, years, have I been moaning about this place?

January 31st 2007 will be a landmark day.  The end of my tenure here... no, let me rephrase that: Not an ending, a beginning.  The beginning of... who knows what, but a beginning, most certainly.

And I'm not the only one, either.

There's going to be an undercurrent of emotion behind my smiles today.  Again, not for the ending, so much as for the fact of the occasion.  No matter what happens, my life changes. Here, now, today. 

Forever.

It is now, as it always was of course, but now more than ever, entirely up to me what I do with my life.  Fate's given me a handy kick up the arse, just to remind me.

Feeling quite upbeat today (probably due to the lack of excessive drunkenness last night, I shouldn't wonder), but with a new dilemma before me.

Talking to Ginger, and in my own head, I'd pretty much made up my mind that I couldn't afford training, and that my 27 years of amateur experince would have to be sufficient.  The more I research, however, the more I find that casting organisations, and places like Spotlight, put rather more emphasis on accredited training than I'd hoped.

There are courses that are more tailored towards mature students, but can I afford them?

Big thinking needed.

Lovely Tarek, at the coffee booth at Marylebone.  After months of having my breakfast ready for me as soon as he spotted me, today, for the first time, he offered to warm my croissant for me.  Quite why he should choose to do so now, I've no idea.  It's a fairly mundane kind of thing, but I was sort of touched.  I've never seen anybody else get their breakfast heated up - in fact I had no idea they even had a microwave in the booth.  He's been such a breath of fresh air in my mornings over the last six months, I think I really should tell him that it's my last few days.  Seems vaguely silly - he's "only a coffee-booth employee", and I'm "only a customer" - but his ready smile and friendliness have been invaluable some mornings, and he's clearly a thoroughly nice guy.

And by way of balance...

There's one particular bus driver, who always drives the number 30 that arrives in Loudwater at 14:08 (not that he's ever on time - can easily be 15 minutes either way).  The first time I presented my Travelcard to him, he was most dismissive of it - "but that's a train ticket", "yeah, but we're not getting any money, are we?" (the latter after I pointed out that there was an agreement between Arriva and Network Rail to accept Travelcards in the Wycombe area).  He allowed me on his bus, grudgingly, but ever since has greeted me with probably the most contemtuous glance I've ever seen - as though I were personally stealing from him by daring to travel with my obscene piece of ticketery.  What's more, when he arrives at the bus stop, he accelerates first, then screeches to a halt, several feet from the kerb, and usually several yards beyond the bus stop.  I'm sure if there was abig puddle there, he'd make sure he drove through it.  Everybody else he greets with a ready smile.  I'm sure he won't miss me, and I'm sure I won't miss him.

One week to go.  This time next Tuesday, I'll be packing my things into a stout cardboard box, and getting ready to depart.  This time next Wednesday, I'll be waking up to my first day of freedom.

Odd to think that this isn't really my job any more.  My colleagues are already doing a lot of my work (and with more effort than I have for many a year, if I'm honest!).  Proving surprisingly difficult not to be defensive about it.  I've been out of the office for a couple of days - returning to my desk this morning, I found that somebody had been using my computer.  Tried hard not to feel indignation...

I. Must. Not. Care.

After several years of slowly declining conscientiousness, it's an amusing irony to find myself feeling protective about the job now!

I'm terrified.

Not, as you might think, of the impending redundancy, or of thus being out of work; nor of the idea of throwing myself on the mercies of agents, casting directors, other actors, etc.

It's hard to say exactly what I'm so scared of.

But I'm absolutely bricking it.  The feeling of fear and impending something, without an actual something to hang it on.  And it's growing. 

At the bottom of Amersham Hill is Stuart Newmans - an estate agent.  As I walk past, early in the morning, he's always there, every day.  Tall, rugged, one might say - with more than a touch of the Tommy Cooper about him. A big man, but with that curious daintyness that some tall men acquire.  Maybe he is Stuart Newmans (do independent estate agents still exist?) - certainly he's at the very least the manager, so dedicated does he seem to be to his business.  As I pass, he's either working at his computer, arranging the window displays, tidying brochures, or any one of the myriad of other tasks involved in the running of an office (I've never seen an office junior in there).  He conveys an impression of competence, of calm efficiency (it being an estate agency, this impression may be false, of course).

But it's his face that's always caught my eye.  He has, without doubt, the saddest face I have ever seen.  He fixes his computer screen with a gaze of such despair, such desolation, that I have to look away.  It seems to me to be the face of someone whom life has repeatedly knocked, again and again; every small defeat stealing away a little of his joy, until all he has left is this simple focus on the professionalism of his job - as though that, in itself, had become an escape for him, a distraction from the horde of disappointments and sorrows that crowd outside.  There in the neat, ordered, melamine-clad whiteness of his work, surrounded by the certainties of his trade, driven by the daily routine, always immaculate, in his crisp shirt and smart-if-not-actually-fashionable tie, life retains some shape for him, some purpose, that it lacks when he closes the door behind him, late at night, and heads for home.

I extrapolate wildly of course.  He may be blissfully happy.

The first tentative but concrete steps taken.

I went to visit my old friend Ginger last night, who I've known through the Artisans for a long time - his wife Joan, and both his daughters, Lisa & Suzi, have all been members at various times, Joan only this week retiring from our committee after many years.  He himself directed us in Entertaining Mr. Sloane in 2005.

The idea was to pick his brains and borrow from his lifetime's experience of acting.  I'd hoped to glean a few useful bits of information as to where to start, who to approach, etc., but bless him, I couldn't have hoped for a more helpful mentor.  Everything from how to get the best from my Spotlight photo, to how to prepare for auditions.

I was fairly sure that this was what I wanted to do before, but I'm even more so now.  Thank you John, it's much appreciated.

The Artisans AGM last night.  An eventful, but unproductive evening.

Gave Joan a lift, looking frankly radiant - so nice to see her so well after her stroke.  She's stepped down as secretary, unsurprisingly, so the group gave her warm thanks, and decided to honour her by creating a new class of membership, that of "Honorary Life Member", she to be the first recipient thereof, to reflect the group's respect and love for her.  Nice to be able to repay her kindness to me, for the lovely things she said for my Jo Stoneham Award a year and a half ago.

Then we got on to the year's programme, and I dropped my little bombshell.  I'd originally said, before the redundancy was certain, that I'd direct the summer show.  Now, of course, because I'm going to be trying to make a go of professional acting, I can't really commit to anything... just in case.  This didn't go down awfully well.  I probably came across as pompous and conceited - especially since there's every chance that I'll get no work at all.  Think I pissed Nicola off royally - she didn't even say goodbye.  But then, I had hoped to have a chat with her about it before the meeting, but she was very late, so I couldn't.  I feel rather shitty though, for not having warned her before.

For the first time in some while, I had nothing alcoholic to drink last night, and went to bed because it seemed like a reasonable time, rather than because I was dead on my feet.

Maybe it was the mushroom risotto.

I dreamt a succession of the most intensely vivid dreams, such as I haven't for a very long time.

I was bankrupt (almost true!) and working for a bankrupt firm.  I seemed to be personally responsible for financing it, even though I had no money myself.

Later, I was running as fast as I could towards a sunlit grove of trees, where, for some reason, I was looking forward to dancing naked (sorry for that image).  The moment I arrived, it clouded over.

There were at least two more scenarios that have now escaped me.

And I woke to find I hadn't won the lottery.  Going to be a long three weeks (see dream 1, above)

Man has been to the moon.
He can travel through the air - many times faster than sound, if necessary.
He can make a razor with as many blades as he has digits on each hand.
He can make computers so powerful that they can simulate reality.

But he still cannot make a peel-off film on a pack of food that actually peels cleanly.

This mood-swinging is starting to really get on my nerves.

The slightest thing, the very slightest, and there's this huge emotional response, out of all proportion to the stimulus - which rarely warrants any real emotion at all.

The really peculiar thing is that, while my right brain is flapping all over the place, waving onions under my eyes and having a fun time tweaking all my emotions, my left brain is fighting like mad to retain composure, and talking to people with the best impression it can manage of a calm, relaxed and urbane human being, and being at pains to put the other person at their ease.  Failing, often, but trying, nonetheless.

And each half is aware of each other, across the divide. Watching, but going their own way.

Right: "FuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckbollockswhydidIaskthatOhGodit'sallgonewrongandI've fuckedupagaincrycrycrycrycrycrycrycurlupanddieunderthedeskmummymummymummymummy"

Left: "Yes, that's fine, don't worry"

Bloody exhausting.  Swans' legs under the water, paddling away like fury, all serenity above.

I know this is hardly news to most people - we all do it.  Haven't had it quite this bad for a long time though.  When it takes all my physical strength not to shake like a leaf while talking politely to a work colleague, that's a worry.

Real ones, rather than metaphorical.  In less than a month, I'll probably never clap eyes on these folk again, in spite of having shared bits of my early mornings with them for the last half year.  Seems worth recording them, at least a little.  This is not an exhaustive list, naturally!

1. Romford to Liverpool Street

Three-quarters of the passengers on the 4.53 are postal workers, on their way to Farringdon, where there's a big sorting office.  Let us, therefore, begin with:

The Couple

Two male posties (well, maybe just work in the sorting office, hard to know). Always sit together, always walk together.  Stand just a little closer together than mere friends tend to.  Look good together, in fact.  I really do hope they are a couple, they seem to fit.

James Bolam

Very reminiscent, in looks, of the aforesaid actor.  A lined face, showing many past cares, but a look that suggests great laughter in the face of adversity.

Incredible Talking Man and 'Friends'

He talks. That is his nature.  His usual ploy is, on arrival in the carriage, to pounce upon one of his colleagues (postal workers again), sit down next to or opposite them, and begin to talk.  They may be asleep, or be reading a paper or book; it matters not.  If they don't respond, he'll repeat the phrase, with a "hmm?" or a "huh?" thrown in, in an attempt to elicit some reaction.  If they look away, he'll even go so far as to manouevre himself into their eyeline.

Quiet Carriage Man

"THE THING I LIKE ABOUT EARLY TRAINS", he confides to his friend, and thus the entire carriage, "IS HOW LOVELY AND QUIET THEY ARE".

Days like today scare me.  Or rather, the prospect of days yet to come, when I've left my job, and am thrown entirely on my own resources and my own company, and when I feel as lost and lonely as I do today.  Above all, what this neurosis craves is closeness and affection - I fill the gap left by their lack, with as much online conversation with friends as is possible.  Inevitably, and not unreasonably, my friends are not always able, willing, or in the appropriate mood themselves, to indulge me in this.  All that keeps me together then, is the mundanity of sitting in an office surrounded by other drudges.

I'm terrified of where this sort of mood may take me when I'm alone on a regular basis. 

I'm actually planning to immerse myself in solitude, the thing that I love and I fear above all things.  Can I really think this is a good thing?

While wandering through the little shop where I buy my lunchtime sandwich, I found myself in the queue for the till behind a little old lady.  "Oh go in front of me", she said, "I've got all this lot, and two lotteryb tickets to do".  Bless her, so with many a smile and many an "are you sure?", I did.  How sweet.

As I reached the door on my way out, a boy, perhaps 13 or 14, came in through it.  He held the door open for me.

Maybe there is hope after all.

Impossibly sad this morning.  For reasons far too foolish to explain.

I was all poised to wallow in self-pity.

Then a small event occurred which really shouldn't, by rights, have boosted me as much as it did, but which took me from the blackest pit to a point of complete equanimity with the world.

It wasn't as if I didn't have anything to look forward to tomorrow already - on the contrary, I did, and I knew I would enjoy it.  But now I had two things to look forward to, and somehow that small difference was enough to completely overbalance the seesaw the other way, and herald a lovely evening.  Probably not a good sign, that I'm so easily mood-swung, but I'm not about to complain just at the moment...

...seems to be a crying night.

Not a particularly sad night, you understand, but a night when emotion seems intent on bubbling to the surface.

It began with More 4's Peter and the Wolf - I knew that the music would begin the moment Peter managed to get out of the house, much like the colour suddenly appears when Dorothy lands in Oz, and yet, when it did, I was convulsed in great, wet, sobs of joy.  The whole thing was so utterly beautiful from start to finish, and somehow that seemed more than enough excuse to cry my eyes out.

Then there was an advert, which happened to use Sigur Rós's Hoppipolla... and I was off again...

I fear there may be more.  In fact, I rather hope there is.  Tears are the bathwater of the soul.

Maybe it's just old age.

There was a time when a big New Year's Eve party really appealed to me, when getting very drunk and leaping about with many like-minded people seemed the obvious and inevitable way of seeing in the next 365 days.

I have opportunites to attend such occasions this year:  I'm invited to a party in west London, and a good friend wondered if I fancied coming along to a club with him, or perhaps meet up to watch the London fireworks.

The last of these seems the most attractive, but I confess that what I yearn for is dinner, wine, and good conversation.  The number of people with whom this might occur is fairly small, and they're (so far as I know) all already committed for the evening.

There's a chance that I'll do what I've done in previous years, and have a quiet night in, in my own company.  Not such a bad thing, and potentially good for the soul.  Makes me almost feel a bit guilty though, as if I'd be spurning the company of those who've invited me out... very far from the truth, it's just that I really don't know if I can face it.

Over the years, I've cooked Christmas Dinner in a lot of different kitchens, for a lot of different people.  It's a thing I enjoy a great deal - I love cooking for others in any circumstances, but doing it in an unfamiliar kitchen is an extra adventure.

No matter how many reassurances, though, it's hard to escape the feeling of being an invader.  Just because I've been invited to cook in somebody else's culinary domain, doesn't prevent my feeling that it's somehow an intrusion.  All very peculiar.

This year's gastronomic incursion was an entirely novel one, too - G & S have recently moved, to a brand spanking new property in Dursley.  Really nicely-built house, too - it has the feeling of quality manufacture about it.  The kitchen, of course, was virtually pristine - the stainless hob had not a mark on it, the oven smelt only of hot metal - even the microwave gleamed.  I did manage to apply a thin coating of grease to a number of spotless surfaces, but nothing that G wasn't able to remove...

It's been a generally very good festive break:  Saturday's retail therapy in excellent company, a pause for breath on Christmas Eve, then gluttony, drunkenness, charming gifts, heart-warming text messages and good company.  What more could one require?

It warms my heart to know that I live in a world where things such as this can exist...

Brief conversation with the stunning young man behind me in the coffee queue at Marylebone.  He asked me in the loveliest, gentlest, sexiest voice, if there was anywhere on the station where he could get warm.  I should have answered, "in my arms", but instead I smiled foolishly and said that the only warm place was probably in a train.  He smiled straight at me, and complained that his train didn't leave until ten-to, a good 40 minutes away.  I wonder if he travels that way regularly?

The journey to Wycombe made short and joyous by a moving and delightful short story by the foremost literary genius of the 21st century.  Next time I must bring tissues.

A squirrel leaps exuberantly from spindly, leafless tree to spindly leafless tree, the thin branches bending and bouncing in great extravagant arcs in the golden winter sun.

The imminent, scary prospect of freedom. An ending, so that there may be a beginning.

What I need can never be,
Not ever, in this life.
Not you,
Nor you,
Nor you,
Nor you,
Nor you, nor you, indeed.
Not you, not you,
Not even you,
Not ever, in this life.

It occurs to me that I've never really faced, not really faced, the likelihood that I'm going to remain a single and lonely person for the rest of my life, as I have been for the 46 years I've so far seen.

I can think of no reason why the current sitution should change.

Do I resign myself to it?

Or do I resign myself to the subtly different prospect of spending the remaining decades falling in love with people who can't return my feelings, as I have the last four decades?

Now that most of the financial information's been presented to us, about the impending redundancies, and now that the offer is substantially more generous, I am presented with a choice:

I can take an immediate (or nearly so) redundancy - a few weeks of handing over my job, a very handy chunk of cash, and (hopefully) pay in lieu of the remainder of my notice - which would also be a handy (though rather smaller) sum.

or

I can choose to "transition" - taking up to six months to hand over my work, and thereby doing a more thorough job of it.  At the end of that time, a bonus.  Small, but again, handy.  There might, again, be pay-in-lieu, and I should have accrued another year's service, so a little more redundancy pay would be added.

How eager am I to cut and run?

Does the lure of extra dosh exceed the powerful desire to get the hell out of here?

If I go as soon as may be, I'd have to start looking at the possibility of trying out the acting career I've been daydreaming about, and quite quickly.  If I do that, where does that leave the Artisans?  I have, after all, just said that I'll direct next year's summer play...

If I stay for the extra six months, will the inevitable loathing for the situation be more than I can bear?

I should probably get quite drunk tonight.

I've long known it.  People are kind, but I can't really escape the inevitable conclusion that I'm actually really rather dull.

Yes, I'm fully aware that this morsel of self-pity does nothing whatever to improve that.

I'd have to say that prospects are looking up.

The redundancy settlement is due to be much more generous than we'd all feared, so that's one definite plus.  All that remains now to be settled, is the timing.  I've opted not to apply for any of the jobs in Zurich, so the future of the Build Lab (my little empirette within the company) is a bit uncertain as yet.  It currently lives on twenty or so rather aged machines in a 19" rack.  Can't see them wanting to move all that to Zurich, somehow.  Maybe the Lab will simply be discontinued - there's a vaguely similar facility already in Zurich that might be expanded to perform some of the tasks... or maybe it'll just stop.

A quick departure with Pay-In-Lieu, or a multi-month migration?  I wonder which it'll be.

Meeting this morning.  There probably won't be any firm details, but we shall see...

"We would like to apologise to customers at Romford.  Due to overrunning engineering works in the Southend area, all services from Southend are delayed"

1) "We would like to apologise".  Go on then.

2) I'm a passenger, not a customer

3) "Delayed"  Now, it's really rather silly to lie, isn't it?  They're not "delayed" at all, are they?  Look at your own information boards.  See that word in red?  What does it say?  That's right, and what does "cancelled" mean?  Does it mean the same as "delayed"?  No.

4) When there are overnight engineering works, it's very common for them to overrun.  Not good, but hardly a surprise.  So why is there no contingency?  Why no buses, no extra trains run on the part of the line (the majority, in this case) that's not suffering the overrun?

5 It's fashionable these days, not to speak of  "a train", but to say, "a service". Are you familiar with what the word "service" actually means?

Everyone else's woes, unwittingly triggering mine.
I can't not listen.
But the cost.  The cost.