A Treat or a Trick?

I am the kind of person who finds it really difficult to change my mind about something when I have determinedly formed a view about it. And for years, the concept of 'Trick or Treat' every Halloween has been no better example of something I detest. I always feared for the little old ladies getting endless gangs of 'old enough to know better' yobs banging on their doors demanding money.

Yes, you're supposed to think that it's all about 5 year olds dressing up for a bit of fun and remembering their please's and thank-you's in exchange for sweeties, with doting Mummy standing just feet away. But come on... you know that for every sweet faced little excitable young cherub, there was a bloodthirsty oik in the next street causing havoc.

Welcome then to Victory Heights (the 'estate' - even though I hate that description - where we live in Dubai). Which is continuing to hold up its excellent reputation as being something out of The Truman Show / Stepford Wives / stereotypical middle class 1950s suburbia. But long may that continue. Because as I drove home tonight, the streets were awash with little groups of well-behaved, parentally-accompanied children of 5 or 6 years old. Not a BMX-er in sight.

Many of the houses were decorated with Halloween decorations. And everyone knew not to go near the houses without decorations or lights. But there weren't many of those it seems as almost everyone was taking the opportunity to get into the community spirit, with not a hint of aggravation or aggression on anyone's mind.

I was only home from work in time to have the door knocked once, before the non-discussed, but somehow universally agreed curfew of 7.30pm came about. But we were greeted by the most polite children - probably about 7 of them, aged between 5 and 10. They were offered a bowl of sweets.. and each took only one, before backing away nicely offering lots of thank-yous! A shame that this took me so by surprise, but a good surprise nonetheless.

And, having braced for an onslaught, we've now got so many sweets left over! To add to the mountains that Jack and Emma brought back from their first Trick or Treating experience (well... in for a penny, in for a dirham). Even Michele enjoyed it (although came home more empty-handed than the kids).

Perhaps I've been wrong all these years. Perhaps it has something to do with the spirit of our community.  Or maybe we were somehow just being visited by the ghosts of communities past...

Anyway, here's a couple of photos of some creatures you wouldn't want to meet on a dark night...

Next week (no doubt): "Penny for the Guy, please Sir?"

35

Ooh-er. 35, eh? That's like, properly moving along in life. The second half of my 30s begins today - the downward half (which probably means it will go faster than the uphill climb towards 35).

It's predictably cliched to say it, but birthdays are definitely coming along faster and faster these days. And (depressingly) I find myself more and more ambivalent to them. Michele asked me last week what I wanted to "do" for my birthday. Between us, we couldn't come up with much.

But the fact is, I don't really mind. I'll have a big party at 40 I'm sure. But right now actually, the kids' ages makes it difficult to organise anything major, and to be honest I'm just enjoying this time of life (not my age, but more the fact of having young children) in a quiet way.

So whereas, when you are younger, it is the presents you look forward to (and cards are, you know, nice and all), you open the cards first, and fast, so you can get to the presents.

Now I am older, the cards were actually what I was looking forward to most today. Michele has started making her own (which are coming along really well - a hobby she started a few months back, and has really taken to - I never knew she had so much hidden creativity!) so I was really impressed with her card to me, because I could tell that she had put time and effort into making it.

And also because Michele had told me how the kids had sat down (of itself, something to celebrate!) and each made me their own card. In advance, Jack had asked me "Daddy - what are you into? Football maybe? Cars? Because I want to make you a really nice card that is all about you."

So this morning I opened cards from Michele, Jack and Emma that had all been personally made especially. And Rhys gave me lots of smiles too. That's really what makes me happy today.

We're Maid Up! (But you couldn't make it up)

And so, 7½ years into our Arabian adventure, we have finally succumbed. We have hired a live-in maid.

To those not familiar with Middle Eastern life, this probably sounds alien, decadent, slightly like we're getting a bit above ourselves ("Live-in" you say? What, like "in your house?").

But it really isn't. In fact, for you eyebrow-raising doubters out there, it is probably fair to say that for some time now we have actually put up with more abject disbelief from friends here who have not been able to comprehend why (and more importantly how) we have managed to live so long with young children without help.

And after about a week, we are beginning to wonder too! Those in the UK possibly take a little for granted the availability of a spare pair of hands now and then to "have the kids for the night/weekend/week/month(?)". But for 'we who have nothing' (especially now that we have 3 energetic and demanding little angels), it has at times been a drainin experience. I know that Michele in particular has been feeling somewhat harassed. And so the release has been enthusiastically embraced.

So - welcome Sally to our life. She is 35 and from the Philippines. And she seems to love cleaning. A lot. Up at 6am (despite our having told her not not to be) she dusts, cleans, picks up toys, polishes, hoovers, picks up more toys, washes, irons, picks up toys again, feeds Rhys, tidies, cleans again, etc, etc, etc. She's great. And seemingly more than happy with her room at the back of our house that measures only about 9' by 6' (large by most local standards).

But now begins the process of getting her a visa. All non-UAE nationals working and living in the UAE must have a sponsored residence visa in order to be able to stay here. For most people the sponsor is one's employer (as is the case with me) and dependents are then sponsored by the principal bread-winner. So Sally (like Michele and the kids) has to be sponsored by me - a process which you would think would be easy to follow through. But this is of course the UAE where 'Bureaucracy is Best', and where unemployment is a proudly low statistic due to the policy of being able to easily make even the simplest of processes that much more complicated by involving, on average, 7 more people that it needs to.

For any Western visitor to the UAE, you would ordinarily arrive at the airport, face the usual mumblings that pass for immigration questioning at passport control ("Where you from? Why you come?"), and get a well placed, never to be removed (due to the force with which it is quite literally stamped) 'visit visa' stamp in your passport, enabling you to remain for 30 days (or so it says; actually it's 60 days, but let's not let a thing so trivial as accuracy get in the way of good old fashioned confusion here).

The problem for Sally is that, being from the Philippines, she is not allowed to simply show up and obtain a visit visa. Like all other people from the short list of specific countries from where maids can only be employed (also including India, Sri Lanka and Bangladesh) she must apply, before coming here, for a 30 day "Tourist Visa".

And here's the punch - once here, and having found a maid's job with a family like ours, you go to convert your tourist visa to a full length residence visa and find..... that you can't. It is, of course, only possible to convert from a visit visa (the one you can't have, being that you come from the Philippines) to a residence visa.

In other words:
- you validly hold Visa Type A;
- you want to convert (and have the sponsor backing to allow you to convert) to Visa Type C; but
- you cann't go straight from A to C. First, you must go and get yourself Visa Type B (the one that you weren't allowed to get at the outset because of where you are from, and the one that you don't ultimately need or want anyway and are only being forced to get so that it can be immediately cancelled and replaced with Visa Type C).

A painful process. But presumably (you, and logic, would think) this cumbersome A to B to C process just requires some more form filling doesn't it?

Well know. Obviously... it requires you to leave the country, and then immediately turn around and re-enter with a (this time pre-approved) visit visa, in order that the authorities can then immediately cancel the visa (presumably with the ink still wet) and convert your visit visa into the residence visa you wanted all along.

And here's the best part of all. Is it simply a case of simply walking three steps over the border, before turning 180 degrees and returning, I hear you ask? Well, no, nothing so mundane.

The official line is, of course, to get on a plane.... and fly to Iran. To the island of Kish to be precise. I swear this is the commonly advertised solution that the Government state is the solution to the problem that the Government created.

All to be funded by your generous, afore-mentioned bread-winner.

On second thoughts, does anyone want to come and have our kids for the weekend?

Moon

Based upon a review that caught my eye in Empire magazine a few months ago, and because I then saw it in the sales at HMV when in the UK a few ago, I bought and this weekend watched a film called Moon.

Quite low budget by today's standards (around US$ 5m), and even lower in terms of principal characters (one, if you don't include Kevin Spacey's voice), it was really rather good. Here's the basic plot summary, reproduced (without any permission, kind or otherwise) from Amazon.co.uk:

"Sam Rockwell plays Sam Bell, an employee of Lunar Industries, the company responsible for mining a fusion energy source called Helium-3, which is vital to Earth's efforts to reverse a serious energy crisis. Sam is all by himself, and as he nears the end of his three-year contract, the solitude is starting to get to him, while his sole interaction on the Moon is with GERTY 3000, a computer voiced by Kevin Spacey. Things start to go seriously sideways when Sam crashes his vehicle while out inspecting one of the giant Helium-3 harvesters. He comes to in the base infirmary, seemingly none the worse for the wear; but an unnerving surprise awaits him when he goes back to check out the accident site..."

No big effects as such, this movie stands or falls on the acting of the lead actor Sam Rockwell (him of Frost/Nixon, The Green Mile and, er, Charlie's Angels). And in one crucial respect, the role demands his acting to be (literally) spot on. Which it is.

At only 97 mins long, it can easily be watched in one sitting (or perhaps two if, like me, the existence of children in your life has made it virtually impossible to watch anything any more longer than about 45 mins without falling asleep).

The sleep thing by the way is no reflection on the quality of the film. I thought it was quite original, and really enjoyed it. Michele, on the other hand, thought it weird and not really her cup of tea (which I attribute to the same originality and, perhaps, its lack of Jennifer Aniston/Julia Roberts/Matthew McConaughey).

An "Old Love"

I have become increasingly aware recently that I have unintentionally but perhaps unavoidably allowed my once lauded knowledge of (and interest in) music to drop down life's list of priorities. In part this is no doubt due to ever increasing distractions of having kids daily life. But the silver lining to this otherwise really rather dark cloud is that it does occasionally enable me to stumble across albums of yesteryear that, in my humble opinion, still trump the sheer awfulness of 'what kids call music today' [cue eery sensation of deja vu from various conversations I recall having with my Dad around 20 years ago].

And so, for no particular reason other than that it was what my ipod shuffle threw at me yesterday evening on the drive home from work, I present:

 Eric Clapton's 1992 MTV Unplugged Album

I remember first hearing this album, randomly, in a colleague's car (someone who was at the time old enough to drive, while I was still taking lessons) on the way home from a WHSmith inter-branch 5-a-side football tournament in Richmond. An oft-quoted memory for many I'm sure.

The thing about this album is that it suits any mood, and any time of day. It is just about the right length, it is not made to sound better as a result of clever production. It's just a very talented guy, in front of an intimate audience, singing some great old songs in a simple but (at the time) fresh style. I collected a number of the MTV Unplugged albums (including, if I recall, Kermit the Frog's - get it here! - worth listening to if only for the cover of "Wild Thing"!). But Eric Clapton's is still my favourite by far. I will listen to it once every few months, and then forget about it for ages, until I rediscover it again. Timeless quality.

Anyway, this shameless plug also enables me to try out some of the new features of this upgraded blog, such as linking in MP3 clips from Amazon. Hopefully this link provides you with a taster. Enjoy.

Blog v.2.0

Time for a new blog post, and a fresh look to the blog as a whole. Problem is that, as a result of tweaking and playing around with the layout, it is now quite late and I now need sleep.

But, as they say, a rest is as good as a change...

More to follow.

What is the true definition of Pride?

Is it attributable to something the kids have done? Well, sometimes perhaps. But not today.

Is it something to do with nationalistic euphoria over one's football team? Er, no.

No, today, my pride is my own... at having made it through this year's period of summer solitude (while Michele and the kids are in the UK escaping the heat) without.... (drum roll please).... having overslept on any work day!! Yay - well done me!!! Believe me, this is the first time in around 4 years that this has happened!

It has of course probably been helped this year by the fact that my time as a W.A.N.K.E.R. (Wife Away, No Kids, Eating Rubbish - all of which is true by the way) has been relatively short. Just 3 weeks. But that is not to say that just because I have been able to enjoy uninterrupted sleep every night, and lie-ins at the weekend, it has been as enjoyable as it sounds. I know many friends who live alone, and who relish their independence. But for all the frustrations that children can cause you, I am now (fortunately) firmly of the view that I am a family man.

I miss them all when they are not here. I miss the noise, the chaos, the mess. And that's just Michele(!).

And I can't wait to see them all tomorrow. It honestly doesn't really matter to me where in the world we are for our family summer holidays (UK), or whether we have a 'plan' for what to do on each day. I am just going to enjoy being around the kids (and not in Dubai), having some quality time with them and Michele.

I just need to get through today, and draft my handover notes.

Oh, and pack!

We're - Gonna - Score - One (Four - for - you).... ENGLAND!

This is an interesting analysis of the national psyche when it comes to supporting, and explaining the rationale for supporting, the England football team.

Many reasons have been offered as to why England crashed out in the second round (I nearly wrote "crashed out early" then, but realised that use of the word "early" would have been a perfect demonstration of what is often said about English supporters - that we consider ourselves as having some pre-destined right to progress to the final stages, if not win the entire thing).

For what it's worth, my own view is that the players rather than the manager are to blame. Capello managed to take a group of players who were not performing, and get them into shape for what was a very successful qualifying campaign - but then it was they, not he, that fell apart when the main event started. Once the game starts, there is surely little that he can do to affect the result beyond substitutions.

I also think that the media frenzy of the English tabloids creates an atmosphere of admittedly admirable national unity that, for whatever reason, seems conspicuously absent from daily life for most of the rest of the time. But this serves then to create an extreme level of pressure on the players to perform. They are ridiculously overpaid, and should not be paid at all to play for the national side, but there is no proof that money engenders an ability to overcome feelings of pressure and nervousness. The point made in the article linked above about the difference between the reaction of a goal-scoring English player compared with any other player (namely a release of built up aggressive tension versus simple jubilation) is well made. I suspect that starting with a bad performance, as England on the whole did against the USA, only serves to pile on even more pressure to perform match on subsequent match. Nobody operates at their peak when under great stress.

The arrival of Rhys on the day that the World Cup began has meant that this time round the tournament has largely passed me by - save for the England matches, I have had little interest in watching any other game. So in a way I am glad that this wasn't the tournament that would replace 1966 as the one that gets spoken about for decades to come. There's always next time.

But between now and then, I hope (but doubt) that players can become more like players again, rather than the overpaid, vain celebrities that their wives and girlfriends are also so frequently labelled.

I hope (but doubt) that next time we will have a manager who is English, rather than Italian (whether Capello stays or goes, the fact remains that when he eventually ceases to be England manager and then immediately picks up the inevitably equally well paid next job somewhere else in Europe - why is that so inevitable by the way? - he will surely take no time at all to cleanse himself of his "Englishness").

I hope (but doubt) that The Sun takes a more tempered approach to stirring national pride.

And finally (since Jack was adamant, the morning after the England defeat, that I was not going to be able to do this since having taken him to the pub to see his first public game last week), I hope that I am allowed to go to a pub again at least once before the next World Cup in 2014!

Football... but not yet the Facts of Life

Last night, for a treat, I took Jack with me to watch England attempt to salvage their World Cup campaign against Slovenia. We went to a bar called Nezasaussi (I think that's right) at the Al Manzil Hotel in Dubai. A bar that could claim to be both a sports bar, and at the same time a family bar (entirely smoke free which, despite the smoking ban in the UK, is still somewhat of a novelty in Dubai).

And they had a limited entry policy so that it was comfortably busy, without being '4 deep at the bar' busy. Which of itself would not have been a problem anyway, what with the waitress service that is common in all bars here!

Anyway, the occasion was one long question-fest for Jack, whose eyes were as big as saucers for most of the evening as he soaked it all up (the atmosphere, not the beer - even though he did ask for one!). And it didn't take long for my 5 year old to develop the intricate art of football punditry, albeit tinged with an element of grand-standing: "Daddy, when I'm a professional footballer, I'll pass it more and score all the goals."

When you take Jack out by himself for such a male-bonding type event, I always know that he will be on his best behaviour. He was happy to watch the game, with his arm slung round my shoulders at times (like the definitive late night drunkard being propped up by his mates). One of those moments I will remember forever I think. The result of the game was almost an irrelevance.

This weekend: Emma's 3rd birthday party. Life does seem all about the kids these days!

The Watkins Family: Now available in Widescreen!

So today, 4 became 5 with the birth of our second son, Rhys Daniel Watkins (weight 7lb 8oz for those to whom this matters).

To attempt to describe the miracle of childbirth is to belittle it I'm sure, because it really is an indescribable feeling to see one's children come into the world. And the shameful irony is that the one doing all of the work, namely Michele (although I am quite proud of the all important hand holding, hair stroking duties that I feel I performed admirably), is the one who never gets to witness it 'close up' so to speak.

When the head emerges first the face is eerily peaceful in its expression. It is as the remainder of the body follows, like perfectly packaged flat-pack furniture, that the release from its wombed restraint suddenly causes the little body to come to life, and the all important first infant cry breaks what you have to then not actually realised was quite a peaceful atmosphere (Michele, to her credit, has never once screamed on the birth of any of our children - although I think the gas and air that she was sucking up in great lungfuls may have had something to do with that).

Regardless, even after 3 children (and there will be no more), the moment of realisation that this little person is your sole responsibility to mould, educate, develop and grow is an incredibly powerful one.

But so too is the feeling that I was already experiencing whilst driving home, that was so aptly soundtracked when my ipod found The Verve's song - "Lucky Man".

Indeed I am.

Welcome to the world Rhys. I hope we do you proud.

...or is it History in the Making?

So my previous blog post proved to be relatively close in terms of Conservative seats won (I was only 6 out, and possibly only 5 if the last remaining seat stays Tory, as is expected).

But I was clearly wrong when I suggested that history was repeating. Having been aged -1 at the time of the last hung parliament, what is currently happening this week in Westminster is, for me, history in the making. And I'm loving it.

Just this evening, we have seen (i) the PM resign, (ii) the possibility of the (to some extent) assumed Tory/Lib Dem coalition being thrown into disarray by (iii) the now possible Labour/Lib Dem coalition being offered. And then (iv) the Tories hang out an Alternative Vote Referendum carrot. If you turn off, you'll miss something. And I'm still recovering from having little sleep on election night.

The great irony is that it is Nick Clegg's Lib Dems, who came third in the election, and who lost seats rather than gained any new ones, who will now ultimately decide when and how this ends. Nick Clegg is the politician who now has all the power in Westminster at the moment, even though that will immediately end once he chooses in which direction he will turn his party. My view is that it should be towards the Conservatives, for fear of business only being possible with some almighty (and therefore unmanageable) coalition of Labour, Lib Dem, Scottish and Welsh Nationalists, Greens and the DUP.

Meanwhile, the age of 24 hour news coverage is coming into its own. Many times I have railed against Sky News, but the effect of actually now having enough newsworthy events to (probably for the first time) fill a rolling news program for several continuous hours has shown them to be woefully not up to the job. Just in the last two days we have had this...

Then half an hour later (and as a direct result) came this....

And then the normally unflappable, albeit a little pompous Adam Boulton (Sky's answer to David Dimbleby), although probably a little tired after goodness knows how many continuous days of work, showed his true colours with this 'debate' with Alastair Campbell.

I'll admit on this occasion, that you wouldn't see these kind of things on the BBC. The Guardian summed it all up well here.

Great stuff.

It's all just a little bit of History Repeating

5 minutes until polls close. The excitement of an election night is, I think partially due to the fact that it happens relatively infrequently. Probably only 3 or 4 times in my material living memory. 1997 was a good one. Since then, our presence in the UAE has made it logistically more difficult to follow the UK coverage (always BBC by the way!), but this year I am making a special effort despite the time difference.

But I am always sceptical of the ability of so many millions of people to really understand what they are voting for. The parties it seems are today so close together in understanding what needs to be done (fix the economy, end the war in Afghanistan, improve education standards and the NHS, cut crime) but is it really possible for a collection of clearly intellectual men to be so far apart in how best to fix those problems? I think not. Every time you hear one of them say that the others' policies are going to lead to fewer policemen on the street, higher numbers of illegal immigrants, I'm afraid I just don't believe it. Because I know the "other" would immediately dispute such an accusation.

As such, I am increasingly of the view that the election is won or lost purely on the charisma and leadership personality of the party leaders. Tony Blair looked like a statesman. Especially when compared with the drab John Major. Now, 13 years later, David Cameron against Gordon Brown seems like deja vu.

So who is your money on. It's 10pm in the UK, Dimbleby is in charge. I say Cameron edges it by a whisker with 311 seats. But not quite enough to form a government alone. Which will cause Gordon Brown to resign over the weekend once the Daily Mail has sharpened its knives during the course of tomorrow. We shall see...

Burning down the house

Two separate and seemingly unrelated incidents:

Incident One

Michele, the kids and I returned on Saturday from a very enjoyable 4 day mini-break in Muscat (the capital of Oman). Here are some photos. The nearly 6-hour drive (which was longer than planned due to Emma's unprecedented number of pot(ty)-stops) was managed with the assistance of a portable DVD player, Mary Poppins and, for a bit of musical variety, the soundtrack to Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.

On arrival at our hotel we found out that Tom Jones was performing that night in the hotel grounds, to 4,000 local... er... Muscatians. Obviously without tickets we were unable to attend, but come 8.30pm with the kids asleep, Michele and I crept out of our hotel room and peered out the window at the end of our corridor to take a peek at the show. It hadn't yet started, so we turned to walk back to our room only to bump into the showman himself on his way from the bar to the stage. Looking every bit of his near 70 years I should add.

As is always the case when you bump into famous people unexpectedly, he played it cool and pretended not to notice us. It's not unusual.

Anyway, I was able to catch some of the concert later by being able to see over the cordoned-off concert area from the hotel pool deck. I was pleasantly surprised. Even under the hot lights of the stage, and in temperatures that were already pushing 40 degrees, he pulled off a 90 minute show with great volume and flair. All the better to me for not having had to pay to see it!

Incident Two

Yesterday evening, around 10.15pm, the distinct smell of burning electrics was emanating from the cupboard under our stairs at home. More specifically, from a metal junction box mounted on the wall, one component of which I found to be rapidly overheating. I rang the local maintenance company who are contracted by Emaar (the master developer of our estate) to undertake all maintenance for Emaar properties. They arrived (a collection of bemused Indian men), claimed to have no knowledge or explanation for the problem, and promptly left suggesting I call Emaar.

10.30pm. I called Emaar. They were uninterested since the property was "out of warranty". I enquired as to whether they might be more interested if the property were on fire - but (not picking up on the veiled sarcasm) they could merely offer me the number of the local fire brigade, in the event that it might come in useful. They then suggested I call an alternate maintenance company.

Which I did. As was quickly becoming predictable, they could not attend due in this case to me not being one of their subscription customers - "'tis not allowed sir." Far be it from me to suggest that sometimes, rules are made to be broken...

10.45pm. I call Emaar again. A different call centre person. So I must explain the entire story again. They suggest I call the telecoms company (du), since it would seem that the junction box relates in some way to the cables providing telephone, cable TV and broadband to the entire house. I call du. They cannot help since, as far as they can see, all of my phone, TV and internet services are operating. I suggest that they may be operating, but that they are not facilitating for me much in the way of useful conversation. The problem though, I venture to suggest, is that these services may not be operating if the house burns to the ground. They seem to indicate that if, at that time, we would be interested in discussing a reconnection of the services, then they would be better able to assist.

11.00pm. I shut down all power to the house. Yet still the junction box has power. Manage to isolate the problem to an overheating reserve power battery. With all power off, and the battery therefore cooling down from something now approaching the temperature of the sun to more acceptable levels, we go to bed. I dream of Hell, and other hot places. Before realising that I am not in fact asleep and really am here in Dubai.

This morning, we begin the process of repeating the previous evening's telethon to determine whether any of the aforementioned companies may have slept on it, and woken up with some common sense. I then immediately realise again of course that we are, as I say, in Dubai, so I may be expecting too much....

Anyway. Notwithstanding Tom Jones' excellent performance a few nights ago, I cannot help but think that the karma of me being a sneaky, non-paying observer of his concert has come back to bite me. If only I'd realised that I was tempting fate as he was singing this.

A little bit of sunshine

This morning on the way to nursery:

Bill Withers (on the radio): "Ain't no sunshine when she's gone. It's not warm when she's away. Ain't no sunshine when she's go-one. And this house just ain't no home. Anytime she goes away...."

Emma (as if from nowhere): Daddy, why the little girl go away?

Daddy: Um, I don't know Emma.

Emma: Maybe little girl come back.

Daddy: Yes, maybe.

Emma (seemingly satisfied with this state of affairs): Mmm.... but little girl naughty.

Back once again

Benefit to you, dear reader, of my being continually bored at work: I get to add another post to my blog. That's two in, like, a really short period of time.

The 'con' to my 'pro' though is that I have no capacity from here to add any fancy gimmicks, like links, or photos, or video clips, or some other such filler. Also, I'm not ashamed to admit to experiencing a slight feeling of betrayal at having to be posting this using my company's Windows-based operating system, and not my new Macbook, what with me now being a full paid up "Apple System Supporter" and all (you work out the acronym).

But never mind. Here nonetheless is a blog post. The first of 2010. And an example of my new year's resolution to get back into the mood for this blogging lark.

Nothing of consequence immediately springs to mind to talk about here right now. But no matter. Consider this first post of the year to be the written equivalent of gently pressing down on the seat of an old chair that's been left idle for a while, to reassure oneself that it is sufficiently stable and will hold together under the weight of what is shortly to be placed in it.

What it is my intention shortly to place in it.

Probably.

If I have the time.

And I deliberately haven't defined "shortly".