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 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”.

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.

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.

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.

Recently though, aside from selling the more valuable stuff, I’ve been simply throwing or giving things away. And yes, that does include the “I remember” items. I’m not sure how it’s come to be. I still pick up those things and think “ah yes, that happened”, cue flashback of some key event followed by a little melancholy. But instead of putting it back automatically and mentally ticking the it’s important box, another switch has been flicked. I am considering the real value of these things. Are they worth anything. Am I ever going to use it again. Do I still care?

Suddenly about 70% of the things are being evacuated from their safe place to the nearest bin, 25% to charity and 5%… Well that 5% is safe, for now.

What I’m unsure about is whether it’s because I’ve reached full capacity for the amount of stuff I hold and now need to be ruthless about getting rid of them. A bit like a river after torrential rain bursting its banks. Or perhaps I am making room for the changes in my life, changes that will inevitably lead to the acquisition of new stuff. Or the result of the answer to the final question. I’ve simply stopped caring about these sentimental things. And if that’s the case, is it because I’ve given up trying to get back to some impossible past or is it simply that I’ve reached a point of maturity where I’m now realising that these things were little silly things that I felt was important but have since moved on.

I’m not really sure of the underlying reason(s) for this change. But, the real nugget of gold comes from the possibility that I’m talking about more than that meets the eye.

Or perhaps it’s merely the misery of being a teenage adolescent. Whenever I drive past one I look upon them with pity and a sort of secret smugness in knowing that I’m way past that stage. Especially the ones still wearing school uniform, those receive an extra dose of pity. They must be truly miserable waking up at the crack of dawn, assembling their ball and chain and trudging off to some dire situation where they’ll be lectured on something or other vaguely important. The moment when things don’t go according to plan though, it’s like their world has imploded.

Ever notice, how, when the younger ones are walking along they are always leaning forwards in a particularly peculiar manner as a result of having to carry heavy backpacks? When they grow up a little, granted, they gain a little coolness and dignity but their misery is imprinted in their faces like a ghastly tattoo. And if you chance upon their conversation, you hear so clearly the self-conscious one with the low self-esteem, trying too hard; or the one in the centre of attention, thinking that they know it all; and the one who isn’t talking at all, is no doubt contemplating some malaise and thinking that they are uniquely miserable.

The truth is, it probably is the hardest duration of our rite of passage.

Consider the average child, although having limited freedom he, or she, is quite happy. Arguably in the happiest era of their lives. Their miniscule needs and minute desires are easily satisfied with little knowledge or concern for superfluous yearnings. In the most part, they have no need to provide or care for themselves or others because it’s all been taken care of. Indeed, it is probably the epitome of “ignorance is bliss”.

Now consider the other side, adulthood. Although responsibility becomes a nuisance, it is always rewarded with greater freedom of the being. No longer plagued by teenage angst, the adult can stalk the earth like dinosaurs acquiring all that’s pleasing to the eye.

So the teens, festering in their own despair, sit contemplating as the archetypal troubadours. And how could they not? Restrained everywhere by rules and yet all the while bursting with their inflating sense of self. This is not even to mention the secret struggles within themselves which is so often the basis of their mental anguish.

But then again, maybe it’s just the episode of our lives when we’re most alive. When we’re just beginning to explore the complexities of our inner psyche, unhindered by the increasing cynicism of maturity.

The latter always strikes home when I visit China.

When I see family, I am always presented with a more conservative agenda (in the non-political sense) of the expectations placed on me than I receive otherwise. This fact is of great importance. It makes me realise that even though while growing up, I felt my freedom thoroughly restricted, the barriers that I met are in fact much smaller than what they could have been. But then again, I may never have clashed with those barriers had the society I lived in never required me to. Living in a society where the general philosophy on life is more liberal and the hierarchy in family is radically different has certainly had a positive influence on the remainder of my upbringing although it did cause a lot of problems in the first instance.

This fact secures my conviction in the belief that it’s not really the role of the government which has caused the sense of suppression in China but rather that of society, and society begins at home. Of course every government plays a role in the control of a society but in my experience, the limitations applied to freedom in China are no more than one might expect to find at home, except more formal. And in certain circumstances, even when the government hasn’t stepped in, the reaction from society alone is enough and we certainly have a hand in that. Western media often finds something to be terribly surprised at although more often than not it’s just a difference in culture. Yet it continues to be only those who have grown up in both cultures who have an understanding of this.

I have lived in the UK for longer than I have done in China and I did much of my ‘growing up’ here. Well that’s not strictly speaking true either. I often feel that I’ve already received much of my maturity at an early age while still living in China because that’s what was expected. You functioned like an adult even if you didn’t have the emotional understanding to do so. Despite an advancement in years, I don’t feel that I’ve matured much since. Certainly I still find myself in cringe-worthy moments where I wonder how I could be such a big idiot. But in terms of emotional maturity, well that part of growing up I did here at least. If you can call increasing cynicism maturity.

But more often than not, I feel that when I read articles in the papers and elsewhere, they’re all terribly ignorant. All the ideas, opinions and facts have been gathered and explored in a manner akin to someone who has just regurgitated pre-conceived ideas. People find time to be judgemental about something and yet they don’t take the time to try to understand. I believe that’s the very definition of ignorance. Once, while reading a simple food/travel memoir, a random, out of turn and completely ignorant comment popped in about China’s political past. I stopped reading straight away. The comment was completely irrelevant, contributed nothing to the merits of the article and quite frankly made the whole reading experience negatively pleasurable. The only thing it succeeded in doing was leaving a bitter taste in my mouth and perhaps the author a smug appeal to knowledge of history. And it’s certain not alone.

In fact, in my whole reading career to date, I’ve only found two non-Chinese authors to be writing from the point of view that reflects an understanding of the nature of what it is to be China. Although I don’t claim to be terribly well read, that still seems like a disappointment. The first of these is the most recent book I finished, Reginald F. Johnston‘s Twilight in the Forbidden City, in which he described a Nei Wu Fu which is not too dissimilar to any other bureaucratic giant. The second is a fantastically researched article in the Guardian. After reading the latter I had to go back and check the author and was surprised to find it wasn’t a Chinese person, well at least she had an English name. I am quite sure this must be true of other cultures too and I am certainly guilty of this crime myself.

When I meet my peers though, I get a more liberal representation of life but the path we have trodden is radically different. As they tell me stories about when they were growing up I feel a sense of relief that I escaped the difficult rites of passage. It also reveals my teenage years as rather hedonistic in comparison despite the fact that it was hardly wild by any stretch of imagination. It made me feel a little embarrassed because it presented to me the possibility that all these ailments we find in life only exist because we have nothing else to worry about. Maybe we are struggling against nothing.

Sometimes I was surprised at the things I was told because it was evident that my social norm had been cut off around 15 years ago, the rest of China had moved on but what I knew of society had stayed the same. I’m not sure how I should feel about that. I suppose in some respects I should be glad that in the not too distant future, my understanding of social norms here and in China would have converged and the transition in lifestyle would be small. On the other hand it seems a shame that society has become homogenised and culture and tradition is slowly phased out. Meanwhile, I guess the parallel standards are still upheld.

I wondered, is it the fact that those childhood memories are still so vivid for me causing this parallel standard, that had caused me to feel like time has gone so quickly. Or is life really slipping through our fingers like grains of sand? If nothing has changed, does time move on? Perhaps in reality very little changes, except for names and faces.

A click on the touchpad quickly tells me no. It’s just a reminder I put in my diary, so that I procrastinate less and get on with the job on hand, writing. I had read somewhere before that if you try to make a routine out of things, you’re less likely to procrastinate so that was my planned strategy.

I proceeded to the computer, sat down, opened my browser and then checked my email; then my Facebook; then my twitter account… A good 20 minutes later I still haven’t embarked on the task that my well-meaning intentions have begged me to do, write. The sad fact is that, when your livelihood depends on it, procrastination really isn’t a good plan.

So then I found myself Googling procrastination. Actually it was ‘procrastination research’ so at least I could tell myself that I was doing some research into something I might want to write about. I had originally intended to write something on a recent journey from Tarifa to Lagos (to anyone interested, that little gem is still available for commission by the way) but that has clearly gone out of the window.

The first page I come to is some kind of Canadian website. A quick look at the design and content tells me it’s not very promising. I was especially turned off by the huge reading list, apparently all topical research on the subject. That is far too much investigation for my liking and more on par with a University essay than small musings. Although it did give me a name to play with, Steel.

After a little light digging I found another Canadian website, this time apparently from the University of Calgary. It actually had most of the same information as the first website except this one had better design, and it was endorsed to a degree by this Steel guy. There I found a quiz which was supposed to tell me how much I procrastinated. Of course if they had recorded the amount of time it took me to finish it then they could probably give a more accurate measurement of my rate of procrastination. After 90 odd questions, it finally gave me an answer.

They say that the reasons why you procrastinate can range everywhere between a task being too easy or too hard to you don’t have enough time. Or maybe you just plain don’t want to.

Anyway, I was a moderate procrastinator. Apparently Steel’s main bit of research took 10 years to complete so I was already in a better position. This pleased me somewhat so I proceeded to eat a couple of dates, read the Guardian. Oh, and write this. Maybe it was just high-level multi-tasking all along.

Not too long ago someone asked me “do you feel trapped?” I had been talking about my love for the seaside.

He reasoned that because the vast openness of the seashore signified infinite possibilities, my longing to be by the sea must then mean that I pined for freedom, albeit unconsciously. Why else would it induce such a reaction in me?

Perhaps at that point in time I was feeling a little at loss. And maybe I did secretly long to be by the sea more than other times in my life. But I am quite certain in the fact that I have always held a desire to be by the sea. Surely this cannot mean that I have felt trapped all my life? If so that would be a very sad life indeed.

I closed my eyes and imagined myself at the seaside and it was almost as if the sun was shining on me right there. There was just a sudden rush of warmth and joy that I couldn’t express. And I said so.

The first time I ever visited the seaside was on a trip that took me to Qingdao and Dalian. We went to visit some distant relatives who I had never met, haven’t seen since and probably never will again. I don’t recall the precise moment when I first laid eyes on the sea but I’m sure it wasn’t spectacular. I was only about four so I suppose even if I did view it with wonder I would have long since forgotten.

But I do remember having a fantastic time.

It was the first time I had ever taken a train journey, and it lasted for days because it was so far away and the trains were a lot slower in those days. We went to pick cockles at dawn just as the sun was rising. I’m sure that if I did it again I would have taken it under some romantic notion but back then I didn’t even know you could eat cockles because it was on that trip that I had seafood for the very first time. I just thought it was amazing that these shells were alive and some had all sorts of little crabs and shrimps in them that would run away when you pointed at them. And crabs! They walked sideways! And I remember picking up huge strings of seaweed and insisting that we should take them home as I had eaten them before and it just seemed like the done thing. And you know I did all that building sand castles naked and getting washed away by the sea and vowing never to return business that kids do too.

I have since been on many trips to many different seasides. Some were memorable and others were less so. But I never pondered why it was that I found the seaside to be so incredibly exciting, just passively accepted it as fact. And why should I have done? What difference would it have made?

And yet since I was asked this question, I got curious. I sat on the beach on my most recently trip and tried to untie this knot.

Looking out to sea I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and tried to experience it as I had imagined it. Either my senses had deserted me or they were deluding me before because none of the elements of my imagination existed. I was just by the sea, tired and almost feeling a little agitated. Opening my eyes I looked out again. No, it was more irritation. I soon gave up on that exercise and went to sleep. A few days later though when I looked out to sea that old familiar feeling had returned. I tried to pin point it and arrived at nothing.

I wondered, was it the nature of the sea?

Two days later when it started to rain I was by the sea again. Apparently it, that is the nature of the sea, had little effect on the way I felt about it. Of course if I was venturing into the sea and not merely standing by its side maybe I would have felt differently.

Anyway, after days of pondering I still had nothing, except what I began with: “What difference would it have made?” Maybe it’s just in my blood.