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I suppose I should have done the looking back at the end of last year, rather than at the beginning of this one. But to be honest, saying goodbye to the global shite of 2022 took priority.

On the more personal level, it was a more positive and uplifting year, with some long waited for clarity arriving, in fits and starts. Which will hopefully make 2023 even clearer.

The one thing that I knew last year, and for a number of years before that, was that I had already met the best man that I know.

To be fair, he didn’t start out that way, well not as a man anyway. As a baby, and as a child, and as a teenager, and then as a young adult, he was never more trouble than joy.

There were moments, there are always moments in any period of growth and development, when the wrong thing was done, or said, or not done, or left silent.

But through all of those times, and all the joyous and ridiculous moments, was a powerful and passionate drive for fairness and justice.

And there was always the honesty. He was always honest, even if it came at a price.

Thankfully, that has now mellowed into a more measured approach, but don’t push too hard because justice remains sacrosanct.

I have always felt that you can judge the worth o a person by the quality and loyalty of their friends, and in this he is not short of either.

Added to that are those he chose to be family, and to be the closest of all.

I have never been satisfied with the majority of my life, and have never considered that there were accomplishments to present with pride, but there is one clear exception.

i am still not sure how I had a positive part in his development, and I am forever thankful to his mother, but somehow I helped add the best man I know to the world.

For every laugh, for every tear, past, present and future, I thank you. For the joy of being able to say that I am your father, I thank you.

And for the fact that you may end up looking like me when you get older – sorry, thems are the breaks!

Strange to be back after such a long time – August last year was the previous occasion for the dumping of brain sludge here.

And it’s not from a lack of thoughts, ideas, impressions; but more that there were too many. Too many voices, too much noise, too much anger and frustration.

I started this because I was told to stop dumping my tirades on Facebook, although I do still link this through, and for a while it was a useful vent.

But last year it got harder to filter all the voices sufficiently so that something vaguely coherent could get put onto the screen.

And I don’t mean the silent voices that have been constant companions for most of my life. They are easy to deal with; Radio 4 as a background also serves as a deadening of that silent noise.

However, Radio 4 has it’s own listening penalties, as it presents all those people, and actions, and decisions by those in power, that add pain, and strife, and suffering, to too many lives.

The one thing that has become even clearer is that there is something fundamentally wrong with anyone who votes Tory. The swamp – nuzzling antics of those are driving this country away from democracy and decency at breakneck speed have maintained my level of anger.

Putting the ‘political’ world to one side, the majority of the voices have been the internal arguments with myself – looking for a clarity to who I am, who I want to be, and where the hell am I going.

I know, 66 is perhaps a little late to start internal examination, definition and redirection, but up to this point there has been enough on a daily basis to keep the mind away from making those choices.

Then work finished, and people began to move, and the regular became more irregular, and the future became a very silently noisy blank.

Other things and acquired responsibilities emerged to fill time, and add frustrations and angers, but by then the door to the blank had been opened. Although the one slightly of the wall positive was becoming a sort of parent to an 83 year old!

But the one thing I have had is some new voices, and they have made all the difference.

I do not want, in any way, to give the the impression that those who were there consistently were not important. If it wasn’t for my son, and my soul sister, I would never have made it through, and they continue to give me so much strength through their acceptance of whatever I am.

But I have gained three new voices that have clarified, and demonstrated, and lived the moments, that have changed how I see the road forward.

All three have been enlightening, and challenging, and supportive. Each in their own way, and each as a very different person.

An astonishingly intelligent young woman, with so much understanding and strength in her frailties. A ridiculously good looking man, with an endless capacity for clear and empathetic analysis. And the best of all hobbits, with the capacity to see beauty and joy in all of life.

And all adding to my being, accepting me into the most glorious neuro-divergent gang ever!

And it doesn’t mean that the silent shouts are gone, because they aren’t. And sometimes they crowd in and the light gets duller, and the blank ahead looks bleaker.

What it does mean is that, with them, and my son, and his beloved, and his mother, and with a couple of other strong, and distinctly singular women, I am never going to without a hand, and a shoulder, and a hug, and a walk, and a home for my heart.

And that is all that I need. Because if my heart has a home, then bleak can be dissipated, and I can, to steal a phrase, be kind to myself.

Back in those heady, bygone days of 2014, the BBC – still not a swear word – produced an 8 part series entitled ‘The Missing’.

Starring Derren Nesbitt, what was not to like?

And I remember settling down with a drink and a chunk of cheese to enjoy the latest drama from the national broadcaster.

However, as soon as the premise of the series became clear, the disappearance of a pre-teenage boy, I had to stop, and didn’t watch any more of the first series, thus missing the nation’s introduction to Tcheky Karyo as Julien Baptiste – the most perfect imperfect character.

But I digress.

The reason that I stopped watching was very simple and straightforward. The disappearance of a son had been on and off, a nightmare that I had endured ever since my own son was born.

At the time that the series was shown he was 23, so there was no obvious logic to my inability to continue watching, but what it did do was begin to reveal broader change that had become a part of my life.

I had always been prone to emotional response, although after a clinical depression diagnosis at the age of 16, I had worked for many years to develop recognition and coping mechanisms to retain some control and concealment of the extremes that were inside.

And, as my son, amongst others, will attest, I have been known as a bit of a sniveller with films, TV, and his public dramatic performances.

It was, looking back, a useful means of releasing small amounts of emotion in a comparatively safe way, as well as providing others with some amusement.

Coincidently, the release of series 1 of ‘The Missing’ was around the same time that I had reached the bottom of a very deep hole, and was dragged up from that by the best, and longest hug of my life.

From then, whether gaining momentum to climb up out of the hole from the drop down, or most probably from the unconditional empathy of a, then, total stranger, I have also realised that emotions are not only extremely useful measures and indicators of where and how you are, but a release and a relief for the soul.

The reason for this pontificating?

I watched an episode of a series about the Easter Rising in Dublin in 1916, which included the death of an 11 year old boy.

And I continued to watch, albeit with tears in my eyes.

And I am glad that I continue to show how I feel, because it’s good for my soul.

And it reminds me, every day, for I usually blink away tears at least once a day, that a hug can be so much more than a hug.

And my son will always be the best person I know.

And that too was typed through tears, and a sniff.

Isn’t it ridiculous that, no matter how good, bad or indifferent the past was, there will always be a certain comfort in the certainty of knowing.

Knowing what happened, maybe even why it happened, and what the outcomes were, good, bad or indeed different.

A few years ago my life was diverted by a force of nature from a direction that was neither healthy, happy or holding the promise of a positive future.

Between then and now I have been through a number of iterations, each one moving me along a new and interesting road, providing a new view both internally and of the world, adding different and more positive options.

Now, coming from a place of deep and morbid depressive vistas, I would never claim that this has been a ‘sunny uplands’ road with no laybys of doubt, mordant questioning and constant suspicion that I will awake to find that nothing has changed.

But I am coming to the conclusion that, unless I am totally delusional, things are looking rosier, more interesting, different, with more possibilities.

I am still angry, and as long as Tories, men, sociopaths and narcissists continue to screw with the lives of people that I care about, and everyone else who isn’t included in the above groups, then I shall continue to retain that anger.

But acknowledging that whilst I will always be male, I am no longer a man on any official documentation, and my attitude to misogyny in all its forms, and to call it out whenever I come across it, has broadened my appreciation of those that have suffered it from day 1.

And discovering that what people think doesn’t matter has been liberating beyond belief.

Don’t misunderstand me; there are people that I hold very dear, whose views and opinions I value above everything, but I am also confident that they accept me for whoever I am.

It is just a huge relief not having to be concerned that every word I say needs to be balanced against the test of who it might alienate, even amongst the groups I remain permanently angry with.

Having the treadmill of a full time daily grind removed is also a huge blessing, even though it leaves a question mark where the future is.

What surprised me is that, although I am in no way sure of what will fill the space, and that adds a frisson, it is a lot less scary and a lot more exciting than I expected.

Based on my parents’ lifespans, there is quite some time to go before the future finally becomes the past, so it is just as well that it is becoming easier to remain above the darker zones.

And i must acknowledge the reason that I am where I am is due to some very particular individuals, all but one being women.

My son has been an exemplar to me of what the best of a human being can be, alongside the most tasteless sense of humour imaginable.

And I have been accepted and understood by a diversity of the best of women, each unique, and strong, and glorious, and deserving the best of lives.

From the first, and best, who turned me around, to all the others who have come into my life since, and the mother of my son, I am blessed with the best of this world, and their impact on my life has made whatever the future reveals to be the best place to be.

This is not a question addressed to any particular person, but to a country, a country I have visited three times in my life, a country I felt I had an affinity with, a love for.

But I can’t go back, even though they are now on the travel green list.

And I am sad, and disappointed, and angry.

Not for me, because a visit from me matters not a jot, but for the country, and for those that are suffering.

Israel should be a beacon for what can be achieved, but it has become yet another example of historic echoes.

I suppose that, considering it’s rebirth, driven by guilt and terrorism, it wasn’t the most auspicious of starts, with the forceful evictions of Palestinians to make way for new settlers.

Evictions that have never stopped, no matter what the western powers who have ensured the continuation of Israel may say in their ineffectual remonstrations.

My father was born in Palestine, in 1923, and on that basis I guess I would have a stronger claim to live there than many of the current Israelis who see the continued and continuous suffering and subjugation of the Palestinian people as acceptable.

Yad Vashem, the holocaust memorial centre in Jerusalem stands as a powerful reminder of what man is capable of inflicting on man.

It should also stand as an even more powerful reminder that displacement, segregation and attempted destruction of a people can never be justified.

The Jewish people have, over the centuries, been accused of many things, and have a tortured history of being the scapegoats for many who needed to blame, obscure and deflect attention.

But that can never be a justification to treat another people with inhumanity.

There is so much that has been achieved in Israel, so much to be admired and applauded, with so much potential for the future.

But, when you drive a people into a corner, behind walls and wire, and continue to mistreat and displace the 20% of your population that remain, you cannot be surprised that there will be a response.

Violence can never be justified, indiscriminate violence even more so, by either side.

And disproportionate slaughter and destruction by a superior force can never have the honour of justice on its side.

I am a Jew, but I can never be a Zionist.

Because everyone has the right to live in safety, and not be forever waiting for the next assault, the next removal.

We are swift to condemn China and Russia for their assaults on ethnic minorities.

It is time the western powers put the concern for votes to one side and condemned again.

Not a pair, but just one, lone sock.

Actually, it has been there for a few days now, so will definitely be dry and should be paired up with it’s partner.

You know what happened; you empty the washing machine, don’t check thoroughly enough, and it got left behind.

And you only noticed it’s absence from the drying rack when everything was ready to be folded and put away.

One sock on a drying rack is a little excessive, so onto the radiator.

And that is where it remains.

Now, I assume you are now waiting for the slick and seamless translation of this indication of domestic slackness into a broader based metaphor describing the zeitgeist.

I was sort of waiting for that as well, but so far it hasn’t put it’s hand up to indicate it’s arrival.

So, perhaps we are looking at my personal zeitgeist, represented by an article of clothing being deliberately ignored – and yes, you can look at something and ignore it.

I have been doing it with this sock for a few days now.

There is a vase on the windowsill behind and to the left of the sock that is full of daffodils, full of the yellowness of what spring should be, and framed by a window dashed by the wind blown rain outside.

There are also my parents’ brass candlesticks, last used to shine a small candle light into the darkness on Holocaust Memorial Day.

And an empty gin bottle, with a string of lights inside, to add a small glow into dark nights.

Still no metaphor, no great revelation, no lightbulb flash of inspiration.

And maybe that is okay, because the daily trudge that is required to get through the day to day, within this indistinct period when the daily boundaries merge into a mush of repetition, that trudge absorbs the energy that revelations need.

The positive is that those I care about are still with me, in spirit mostly at present, and still as well as when it started, and moving forward and changing their lives for the better.

And that is good enough for me, for now.

I have made small, incremental changes that could make the future more interesting, but that will wait for another day.

For now, I shall prepare some bacon, mushrooms, tomato, toast and eggs, watch the rain streak the windows.

Oh, and put the sock away.

I have avoided writing anything during the various closedowns, lockups and general dystopia that has been the last 12 months, mainly because the various voices shouting at me inside my head were must too discordant and disorganised to extract any sense.

And there is absolutely no reason why the following will have achieved any more clarity, but I need a break from writing a CV for a car salesman, so here we go.

Lockdown 1 was a blessing, for me. It brought endless good weather, a ritualised regularity that gave each day a form that made life an easy progression.

It arrived in time to relieve me of the looming depth of a life smothered in a sludge of descending depression.

And I wasn’t happy either, at all, not even a little bit!

I appreciate that it was a shite shower for many, many people, and I am profoundly sorry for that, but it saved me.

And gave my mind room to return to reading again, and breathing again, and sunning again.

And apologies for all who suffered the reappearance after an extended absence of my legs!

Lockdowns 2 and 3, or wherever we are now, were and are a very different story, and only partly because the sun had gone.

The treadmill of work returned with a vengeance, and has proved a concentration struggle on a regular basis, and therefore a constant frustration that never goes, and never quite leaves the gaps between sleep.

The disappearance of daylight also seems to have decided to influence the mood, creating a direct correlation between a lack of light and an increase in the darkening mood.

And each time, looking for a distraction, I looked past my window to the wider world, all that was there were obfuscating, lying and profoundly dangerous men doing there level best to destroy civility and civilisation.

And, although he helped to retain my sanity, and my levels of fitness, with two walks most days, the pup hasn’t ye replaced the silent wisdom of the older lady I used to walk after work, and talk through all of life with.

But there have been distinct positives, summed up by the title of this splurge.

During the warmth of the first lockdown, I would regularly meet an older, dapper gentleman walking his dog as I was walking my loan pooch, on both of the two different routes I would take on daily basis.

We would exchange a ‘Good Morning’, and then a brief chat, as our paths met and continued in opposite directions.

And then one day he hit me with a simple, and hugely profound observation.

‘If we were walking in the same direction, we would never have met.’

I still think about that, and it still churns, and it still says a mountain of philosophies about life.

I have also recently discovered the distinct joy of talking to myself, out loud, during walks in the woods after dark, with a dog as reason for being there.

And more particularly, swearing endlessly at all those who have angered me during the day, which has mainly been a small group of Tories and Americans.

Thankfully, the dog didn’t take any offense, as none was addressed to him.

Progression is harder to define, although I have written my first private CV commission, and much more satisfying, a story for my favourite 5 year old.

I have also started to make distinct calculations on how the future, and provision for the future, may be achieved with less stress, and more freedom.

That is definitely a work in progress.

And the state pension will start arriving in March.

And the people I love are still as dear to me as ever, although not within touching distance again just yet.

And each, in their own way, are proving their strength, and awesome individuality, and diversity of goals.

And, at the end of it all, the fact that they are all here, there and everywhere, but still with me in my heart, means that there I enough to make the rest worth suffering until it is resolved and opened again.

And it will once again be time for a crowded table for a Sunday night meal, with lashings of gravy!

From close, and from afar, each day I have seen astonishing people achieving astonishing things. They are not known, outside their circles. But within those venn circles, they are applauded and loved.

For some, getting from day to day is the impressive achievement. For others, it involved dramatic life, and location, changes.

For many, it has been contending, conquering the restrictions, isolation and achieving the self-reliance within the lock down.

Some has been observance via social media, some face to face, but each with their own approach to beat each hurdle.

There have been health problems, scares, challenges and threats. there has been new lives, and the end of lives.

But each have been who they are, and continue, and claim the high ground. And each has shown why they are the loved centre of their circles.

Those I hold most dear have faced the stress of the past 4 months and are there, and standing, and still looking to the future. Change, different choices, passing over disappointment; rising above them all.

Each who I hold dear, and close, and in my heart, are those who keep me up, and moving forward, and wanting more.

Those who know me know who I mean, because it is all of you.

I am the sum of the people I know, and the huge diversity of understanding, and empathy, and joy, and laughter, and love.

Each day I take so much from those I know, and hope that I will be able to return the compliment one day.

until then I fill my heart, and my soul, and my life, with all that these wonderful people give generously, and freely.

I am blessed by you all.

I wish to state categorically that this government, its statements, policies, philosophies – I am being generous – and activities do not represent my hopes, aspirations, or my idea of what a modern, progressive and affluent country should be.

I thought I would just state that up front, in case there is any confusion. Although I don’t think what follows will present a different picture.

The leading protagonists in our lives at present, the ones that are laying the tarmac for the road ahead of us, do not care about us. At all. Not even a sliver.

The leaders of the US and the UK are either narcissistic puppets, or narcissistic fools, or both. At best. At worst …………

Neither has any shame, certainly. And are happy to swap directions, on anything and everything, without acknowledging the change, or admitting potential error. Unless they can use it as deflection by blaming someone else.

The hypocrisy surrounding  Huawei, and Chinese relations, is a perfect example. Whilst both the US and the UK were happy utilise Chinese money to support national debts, or to sell industrial and technical assets to, when an election looms China is the enemy.

The US will foster animosity because China is the clearest financial opponent they have on the world stage. And trade wars are a common enough activity in the dehumanised world of global capitalism, that its use as an electoral tool is to be expected.

The UK however, apart from having to adhere to US aggression as a means of achieving an, as yet undetermined, post Brexit deal, also managers to exhibit the crassest of hypocritical behaviour.

Whether Huawei is state-controlled, and could somehow gain power and leverage over 5G, is potentially a cause for concern. And China’s record on human rights is significantly short of what we should expect from a country.

But neither of these points are new, or news. This involvement has been a long standing one, and extends to the building of nuclear power stations. And, whilst suddenly we are incensed by their human rights record sufficiently to threaten future commercial activity, we are more than content to continue providing Saudi Arabia with weaponry, used in a proxy war that has slipped from the headlines.

The same hypocrisy circles around Russian interference in UK and US elections. Whilst the specifics open up so many potential questions regarding the validity of recent votes, the broader issue should be why is it a problem?

Or are we expected to be naive enough to think that both the UK and the US are not busy doing exactly the same to Russia, and China, and anyone else they feel remotely threatened by?

The response on either side of the Atlantic to COVID-19 has been equally farcical. Blaming, shaming, reversing, reverting, and blatant lying, has marked both administrations.  With the additional commonality of self-interest. Contracts worth millions, handed out for favours, with no oversight. The apparent generosity to support business revealing swaths of workers with no help, and no prospects of any. The classic smokes and mirrors of repeating large scale expansion programmes as new ideas.

And the callous short-changing of those who have, and still are, risking most to help during the pandemic.

Huge rifts within society have been laid bare over the last 6 months, and this should lead to fundamental change to the fabric of the society we are part of.

But, the hypocrisy, the expediency and the callous stupidity of those in power will ensure, unfortunately, that the hoped for change will not happen.

Because they have the perfect excuse to do whatever they want. They were given the power because the lies were believed. They will exploit that power to fulfil their personal agendas.

As for the rest of us – hold tight to that community spirit that emerged during the pandemic, you are going to need it more than ever.

29 years ago, I received some unexpected news. Later that same year, I was successfully presented with the result of that news, and have been trying ever since to work out what being a parent is all about.

Based on the outcome, over the years, of that one and only excursion into parenthood, I – we, there are two parents after all – didn’t do too bad a job. He is awesome. Kind, generous, caring, empathetic and just. Not perfect by any means, thankfully. But definitely one of the good ones.

And, during the course of those almost 29 years, I have tried to be the right sort of parent at the right time.

Because the minutiae of requirements, needs, answers change. As circumstances, age, life’s many complexities change.

The main point of it all, so far, appears to be that, whatever the current circumstance, the love is always there. And the door is always open.

Each day, the constant wondering of how life is going for my child remains. The worry, the desire to relieve any pain, simplify complexity, resolve situations, make them happy; that never goes.

But there is also the faith that they too have learned, and understood, and appreciate the development and growth. And, coming from a good place, the choices will be the right ones. For them. For their impact on the world.

And as time progresses, and responsibilities shift, I watch more, and say less, about what should be done.Because I believe they know what the answer is, or are capable of working it out.

But that stepping back is hard, because the instinct to protect, to save, to steer, remains strong.

And sometimes, not knowing whether it needs to be done, I step forward, reduce the gap, and redraw a road map or two, just in case.

And I know its not needed, because my child is aware, and understands.

But I also hope they understand that I only step forward because they are loved, unconditionally. And whatever the action, whatever the choice, that remains indestructible.

I have seen, lately, the glorious outcome of a door always open, and a love always there.

And I know that I will always be there, balancing the urge to step forward, and the endless pride of not needing to. And every day, adjusting the degree, the angle, the approach.

And not always getting it right.