On Solitaire, and what it means.
What does playing solitaire say about us? And is how we play indicative of the kind of person we are?
For example:
- If someone plays three decks rather than one deck, does that mean they enjoy challenges?
- If they play Vegas-style, do they enjoy keeping scores?
- If they play a timed game, do they respond better to deadlines?
- If they shuffle through the deck quickly and miss things, do they hurry through life and make mistakes?
- If they play very short games, are they bad at finishing things?
- If they use undo, a lot, are they bad decision makers?
- And if they don’t play solitaire at all, is it really because they have more important things to do?
The Secret State?
A Russian beauty who is glamorous, successful and something of a social butterfly, check; with friends in high places and a dark secret, check. Kidnapped by and later fell in love with a man with a bullet in his head called Renard? Errr, not quite.
The saga of Anna Chapman et al could have fallen right out of James Bond, so you can understand why there is such a racket around the whole debacle. But should the incident also make us consider our own defence system? Or perhaps you think that we’re already doing too much?
We regularly hear reports of how Britain is turning into a nanny state where the government has a prescription for everything, even if it seems to solve nothing. But perhaps it is a matter of necessity. As a long series of unfortunate events happened to America, causing it to continuously step up its defence system, we watched on the sidelines and did the same. Because even though these events didn’t occur in Britain, they demonstrated a need for preventative protection. And we weren’t alone.
In this particular story, the element of surprise is near impossible to pinpoint. For the majority of us, the second guessing between Russia and the Allies ended with the Cold War, or at least that’s what we’ve been told in our history lessons. But how can this be the case if Russian spies, and their counterparts, aren’t just for conspiracy theorists, novelists and film makers; when in fact, they can be publicly traded like goods on the stock market?
All this espionage would have been taken as a given in the days of the Cold War. But equally, over protection was also expected. So if we remain highly defensive and still employ espionage, have we exited the Cold War? Or is it simply because we are now able to trade spies publicly that it can no longer be the Cold War? Or perhaps it’s just that we have moved into a new era, one which is tending towards the Hobbesian state of nature. In which case we have the unfortunate fortune of expecting a life that will be solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and long.
Incidentally if you do want to read about the meticulous preparations that went on behind the scenes of the Cold War, you can find them in an updated version of Peter Hennessey’s book “The Secret State”.
If I were a great man…
If I were a great man, the woman standing behind me would surely be my mother.
As one goes through life, one inevitably takes some things for granted; friends, for example. It’s all too easy to fall into the trap of “me, me, me” without even realising it.
Conversations are the first indication of decay. How often, while conversing with friends, one feigns or even takes an active interest in what they are saying but all the while desperately teasing the conversation back to oneself. As their words tap on your ear drums, the coin of your thoughts slip clumsily between the fingers of your consciousness waiting to be tossed into the limelight.
Other times you find yourself wondering why your friends aren’t doing more for you like returning your favours or turning up on time, if at all. But then why should they? What is it to be friends anyway?
But more often than not, we neglect our family. It is a matter of abuse really; we know we take them for granted but we do it anyway. We go to family events because it’s an obligation but we see our friends for pleasure, most of the time. We fly into a fit of fury at the drop of a hat, about the smallest things. The kind of emotion we would never think of dispensing to friends, unless we really meant it.
On the other side of the coin, the family silently offers up relentless support. Making you food or doing your laundry, or perhaps just offering company. The unspoken duty diligently kept, in most cases, but often without thanks or acknowledgement. If anything, the more that’s done the less it is appreciated. Funny that.
Anyway, long story short, my mother is quite spectacular.
How long is it to “I’ve got my foot on the ladder”?
When you start considering other career options just so you can inch closer to the city you love, to do the job you love, you have to wonder if it’s going a bit wrong; if you’re lacking in direction. But then again, if you consider the average number of jobs people go through (suggested at over 10 in a lifetime), this doesn’t seem like such a big deal. And given journalism as my chosen profession…
So far in my short life I can count cinema worker, project support administrator, contracts and CRM administrator, call centre worker, cutlery seller, part time consultant and telesales person as my sources of income. And now, journalist. Well, no one has paid for my mind yet, or my words as its representative so I guess I’m only a pretend journalist. Not saying that they were all career options for me but sometimes having so many reincarnations makes it pretty hard to represent your best skills on a CV.
Looking ahead the future seems a little bleak. No, that’s not really true. It’s more like bleary. Somewhere in the distant, the token to my type lies shining in the eternal sunshine and the yellow brick road is obscured.
There are two things that come to mind about the last nine months of my rebirth, my learning journey. The first of these is no one (that I’ve met), who has a full-time position at a national publication is under the age of 26, and even then they might still be taking shifts at multiple publications. This makes me want to slap my forehead in despair. Mostly with concern about what I’m going to do between now and the three years it’s going to take me to reach 26, when I already feel like my mental age is somewhere in the mid 30s.
The second is “write what you know”. This second terrifies me. Just what do I know? Aside from being a self-assured know it all, I’m not sure I know anything. Justified true belief points only to my mind, the feelings and thoughts inside; nothing else. Should I be devouring an encyclopedia rather than literary classics? Because reading the work of real journalists, I am constantly awed by the tit bits that they throw in on the side. Sometimes I do wonder how long they had to wait to instil their bit of wisdom into something completely unrelated just to show their wit.
But really, deciphering what you really know is pretty hard; and I see a real probability of knowing a little of everything and a whole lot about nothing. Turning my attention to food journalism, what I had pinpointed as my passion under my last strategy review, I can’t help but feel under qualified. Despite being an avid and competent cook, it’s nothing compared to stints as a professional chef which seems to be true of most food journalists. Then again, there are those, like Lennie Nash, who are heading in the opposite direction. I may have over generalised in my desperate push to replace my sandwiches with steaks. So which way to go?
Right now though, it just seems like an awful long way from anywhere.
Does nothing surprise Londoners?
A while back I heard, then saw, a woman discipline her child; quite severely I might add. It made me wonder what was considered good parenting and what constituted successful parenting. More to the point, no one looked up or even made any sign that they were aware of what was going on. This was on a very quiet train carriage and I’m quite sure the people on it weren’t over a certain age.
The other day, a man stood outside a bus shouting abuse at the bus driver in an attempt to get on the bus. Not the wisest move, even if it is pouring down with rain and the bus was stopped at a traffic light anyway. He then marched to the front of the bus and proceeded to throw his bags on the floor giving an ultimatum “I’m not f***ing moving unless you let me on the bus.” Quite the scene I can assure you. No one met his eye, no one stopped. Who knows what happened at the end of that episode? I sped on to catch my train, not wishing to get wetter than I was already.
Yesterday a man wearing what appeared to be a hospital gown walked past a pub. He may still have had a tube sticking out of him, he may have been a patient. No one stopped talking or glanced his way. He could have come from or gone anywhere but the only collective thought that seems to have passed was “oh, ok then.” Faces might be pulled if it was really, truly shocking. But who knows what that constitutes? I haven’t seen it yet.
What surprises me though is how no one seems to be surprised. Sure when you read things in the paper there is tut tutting; or the occasional “oh my god you’ll never guess” among friends. But the real gasp-inducing feeling of surprise? It doesn’t exist. Or at least I haven’t had the fortune to observe it, but maybe I’m just not looking hard enough. If someone stopped to gawp at something one day I might find myself stopping too, to gawp at the gawper.
I guess when I become a proper Londoner, I’ll cease to be amazed at the lack of surprise.
