Play to Win

I read something this week that I found deeply strange. Apparently a junior rugby tournament is to be held where there will be no winners and no losers. No scoring and non-competitive. Everyone is equally prized just for turning up. I know that this has happened in school sports days and the like for years but it still strikes me as being wrong. Very wrong indeed.

Because this tournament is going even further in that. Should one team be markedly better than the other and have a stand-out star player, then the recommendation is that that player should be removed from the stronger side and made to play on the weaker team. Not that we know which the best team is because we won't be scoring, remember? Nor will we know who the really good player is because they've all been told that it's not a competition and they're only playing for fun. Everyone is equal.

This, apparently, makes the game fairer, doesn't it?

Doesn't it?

Is it fair on the kid who's worked hard on their abilities and learned their tactics to be told that those who have sat on their backsides in front of a Playstation will get the same recognition?

Is it fair on those who aren't as good to be artificially raised to a position of equality that they cannot - and possibly don't wish to - keep up?

Is it fair on all of them to be taught that there are no winners and no losers in preparation for a life where there most assuredly are in almost all the important aspects?

Is it fair that I receive the same amount of payment from my publisher as D*n Br**n does even though my sales are the minutest fraction of his? Of course not. It would be laughable to suggest so and the the lawsuit-loving Mr Br**n would have me in the dock quicker than you can say 'risible plagiaristic page-turner'. Allegedly.

And quite right he would be too. Above all else these children who are being so misled by their well-meaning rugby teachers will know for themselves who's best and who's worse. You can bet your house that they'll be keeping score, as any right-minded sportsperson should. And, sadly, the better ones will crow about their unrecognised victory to those who wouldn't-have-scored-so-many-points-had-we-been-keeping-score. That's how we learn that winning is better than losing.

Life's not fair. All you can do is work hard, be your very best at the things you can and live with the other stuff.

Which is why I haven't played rugby since I was a boy.

© Shaun Finnie 2014

Sleepy, Not in a Hollow

Some things in life you just have to put up with. Bad drivers; rising inflation; Keith Lemon. Others, you choose to accept for a while. A leaky roof; the damp patch on the bathroom ceiling; the wonky cupboard door where the hinge needs replacing. These things can be fixed and probably will be if you ever get around to it. These are minor irritations in the big scheme of things (compared to Keith Lemon) but some things around the house can't wait to be repaired or replaced. A broken toilet; a blown kettle; a damaged pizza cutter. When they need fixing they need fixing now, and this week I got round to fixing one of those important things.

Our bed had finally become too soft and saggy to sleep on. It more resembled a hammock than a mattress, so big was the dip in the middle.  I'm all for snuggling up close to the Beloved of a night time but it's nice to make the choice ourselves and not have the mattress decide for us. Nobody likes enforced intimacy, least of all the Beloved. It's been sinking lower and lower in the centre for a while and wasn't going to heal on its own so we chose not to buy each other a Christmas present this year. We saved our cash and put it to a joint gift from the New Year Sales.

We managed to find a new mattress for less than thirty percent of the original label price, a huge bargain which saved us hundreds of pounds. And it's brilliant, really thick, luxuriant and just the right level of firmness. It reminds me of a posh hotel room bed. Sadly though my Beloved doesn't leave mints on the pillow every evening.

We'd had the previous mattress for over a decade so there's no wonder that it was no longer at its best. It was about half its original thickness but not consistently so, so it was lumpy and bumpy in all the wrong places. Its coils were uncoiled, its hexagonal honeycombs had crumbled and its cover was torn and punctured so that its pointy bits and pieces poked unpleasantly into mine. The new one is so solid that even with me rolling around on it all night it holds its shape, and its solidarity has taught me how bad the previous mattress had become.

I only ever use one pillow. I have done for many years. I thought I'd just grown to like having only theone, that it was my choice, but now the reason has become clear. The bed had simply become so saggy that one pillow raised my head sufficiently. But now that I've re-learned how solid a mattress should be I've realised that one pillow isn't enough. It leaves my head sloping back and downwards at a painfully more-than-jaunty angle. So much so that I'm choking, head back, swallowing my own tongue. Not only that but I'm also, apparently, snoring though I'm not convinced about that. I certainly haven't been noisy enough to wake myself. I'm sleeping the best that I have in a long, long time.

The only problem now is that we have the old mattress to dispose of. Of course we'll take it to the tip (when we get around to it) but currently it's still in our bedroom. It's propped up against the wall at the end of our bed, looming over us while we sleep like some kind of posture-sprung guardian angel. If it ever decides to flop down on us during the night, attacking us like a deleted scene from 'Paranormal activity', we may need to reuse it. It'll be cleaner than the new one will be.

© Shaun Finnie 2014

My Toe is Like a Crocodile

I've never broken any of the bigger bones in my body. I've done the odd finger and a bone in my foot once (car engines are surprisingly heavy) but nothing serious. I'd actually not broken anything at all for quite some time. It wasn't something that I was complacent about, I didn't invite danger to come and try breaking a part of me just for the fun of it but it was something that I thought of occasionally. I've not broken a bone in my body for about twenty-five years.

My record has recently been broken. Snapped in two. Shattered. And so has my little toe.

It was my own fault, totally. I did something stupid, so ridiculous and dangerous that I'd urge everyone to think twice before trying it. Send your granny or even a loved one to do it instead. It could end up breaking your toe.

I emptied my bin.

I know, it was a foolish thing to do, especially as it meant going through my back door - the same back door that I've had for decades without incident. So how come I chose that moment to ram my little toe into it at full force? How come I didn't just put my foot through the gap instead of catching the frame? I've no idea. The only excuse I can think of is…  erm…  no, I'm empty on that one. I guess it's one of those things that they call "an accident". You know, those things that solicitors who advertise on daytime television don't believe exist.

There was a sickening crunch. There was a pathetic whimpering sound. The world spun and greyed out for a second. Then there was a wobbly thud as I plonked myself onto a kitchen stool. The bins would have to wait.

My Beloved was (as ever) a star in a moment of crisis. She ministered hugs and strapping and delicately eased it back into position. How toes can point at such strange angles is beyond me. Weird angle, weird size (the swelling was almost immediate) and weird colour.

You know how many of us have been looking (in vain) for the Northern Lights this past week? How the aurora was supposed to send streaks of yellow, green and purple throughout the heavens but eventually didn't show? I know why. It must have got a dodgy satnav like the ones they sell on Barnsley market because it was way off line. Instead of sending its magical markings into the skies it had sent them across my foot. It was, I have to admit, quite beautiful. If you discount the pain. Strangely enough I had a little trouble doing that at the time but a couple of bottles of Old Speckled Hen soon rectified that situation and I eventually appreciated the artistry that my body had wrought. Who needs tattoos?

There was nothing to be done of course. It's not like I could go to hospital and get it set. No, I just had to keep it strapped and grin & bear it. And make sure that my Beloved took the bins out from then on. It was a little inconvenient but after a few days it wasn't too bad at all.

Until I thumped it again.

This time was completely my own fault. If I'd moved the box that she'd been asking me to do for a few days then I wouldn't have had to limp around it when I went to close the curtains. And if I hadn't have stumbled when doing so then I wouldn't have slipped and kicked the wooden leg of my sofa. Same toe: same result. This time the whimper was louder with a touch of anger, but the pain and discolouration was just as vivid. How could I have done it again? Decades without any trouble and now two cases of the crunchies in a week. It was ridiculous.

But not as ridiculous as walking into a bookshelf the very next day. I almost screamed this time. I was certainly reduced to hopping and swearing. Same toe: worse result. It had had enough by now and decided that it had to take matters into its own… er… toe. It swelled up protectively. Within an hour it was almost the size of my big toe and the nail had turned black. If Dulux had a colour chart called "Acid Trip" then I think that they'd pasted one over the end of my foot .I'm sure that you're smiling but it wasn't funny. Stop it, it's not.

It's like my house and the furniture in it are magnetised. They seem to be pulling my shredded toe towards them in a manner that they never have done before. Maybe they're haunted. Maybe the house hates me for that one accidental missed mortgage payment. Maybe I'm just getting clumsy in my old age.

Oh, and if you're wondering about the title of this piece it refers to the old joke…

A man walks into a café and says, "Gimme a crocodile sandwich, and make it snappy".

© Shaun Finnie 2014

Back to Life, Back to Reality

I gave myself quite a lot of time off over the Christmas / New Year holidays. I had a long wind down towards it and I've given myself a long easing back in period too. All in all I've had about three weeks away from doing any real, committed, serious writing.

This was A Big Mistake. I'm finding it really difficult to get back into the swing of things again. The words aren't flowing. The stories and characters are clichés. And 'Bargain Hunt' is just a little more tempting than usual every lunchtime.

The life of a self-employed writer is different from most jobs. Normal workers pretty much get straight back into their role as soon as they return to work. There's usually a boss breathing down your neck and some procedures in place to make sure that you produce whatever it is that you do in a timely and quality controlled manner. Not for me. I have nothing stopping me wandering to the paper shop or having a cup of tea and a chat with my Beloved. I am my own boss and my own slave driver.

It's really about motivation. In a normal workplace there's someone around to make sure that you're pulling your weight. They have various metaphorical carrots and sticks to ensure that you do the job that you're contracted for. Me? I have… me. I have to tell myself to get it done, to coerce and bully myself into churning the word count. Any self-employment must include a large dose of self-motivation and that's not always the easiest thing in the world.

It's been great having a work-free end to the year but now my favourite coffee shop is open again and I can plop myself into my favourite armchair there, writing all day fuelled on seriously strong Grumpy Mule coffee. In fact, that's where I'm writing this. What I need now is a series of well-paying commissions with tight deadlines. There's nothing like the threat of not getting paid to encourage productivity.

That's it. That's this week's blog. I know that this piece may seem a little disjointed and rambling but, hey, I've got to ease myself into the writing year somehow, right?

It's About Time

Here we are then at the beginning of a whole new year. Hopefully it's started out good for you and will continue to improve as the year progresses. However you celebrated, I hope it was how you wanted it to be.

But let's think for a moment. Is January the first really any different from any other day? It's a good excuse for a party, certainly, and those fireworks manufacturers need to make their cash sometime but it's really just another tick of the clock, isn't it? Why chose that particular combination on the clock's YMCA hand-jive to cheer? In fact, why do we set our watches and calendars the way that we do anyhow?

The idea of turning our planet's orbit around the sun into a standard unit of time seems sensible to me. It's pretty constant and predictable at around 365 and a quarter days so we're quite comfortable with the concept of a 'Year'. And our earth's rotation around its own axis is stable too. Again, a 'Day' is a great way of measuring time, to track the number of sunrises regardless of how long or short the gap between them might be, depending on the season.

But  for shorter units than that? How come we have the seemingly arbitrary idea of twenty-four hours in a day?* And the apparently equally random sixty minutes in an hour?** Whoever came up with those must have had their (however bizarre) reasons but credit to them for making the entire world go ahead with their way of thinking. Personally I'd have had us all counting our time in units of tens. That seems to work for most people (although perhaps not Anne Boleyn). We live with what we've got though and, the French being a notable exception, most people for the last few centuries have got on with it quite well.

In the end though it's not about measuring your time in minutes, hours and days but in smiles and hugs. Every shadow passing over the sundial is an opportunity for fun, love and productivity, not just another tick to be tocked off. You'll never look back on your life and say "I wish I'd looked at my watch more often".

We'll only pass through 2014 once. Live it well.

Notes for those vaguely interested

* Why we have 24 hours in a day - The ancient Egyptians divided their working day (i.e. sunlight hours) into tenths and then added an extra 'hour' of twilight at each end, giving a twelve hour day. If a day was twelve hours long then it stood to reason (to them) that a night was twelve hours long too, which is why they had twenty-four hours in their day, a tradition that we've carried on.

** Why we have sixty minutes in an hour - The Babylonians, who were a bit better than me at maths, liked to do their workings out in a base-60 system. Good for them. I got a bit lost reading a heavy book on why that was the case but even I can see that there's a clue there to the number of minutes in an hour and seconds in a minute.

© Shaun Finnie 2014