An open letter to Jeremy Corbyn

Dear Mr Corbyn




I have always been a socialist, and have almost always voted Labour ( the exceptions being voting tactically in an area Labour could not win, and in some local elections ), but I only became a Labour party member to support your candidacy. I, along with so many others, saw you as someone who would return Labour to its correct place, to fight for a fairer society and for the majority of British people who have not been represented in politics in recent decades, and in your promise to return to being a party led by the will of its members.




And you have fought for these things. You have shown Labour to be a strong, radical, socialist alternative. You have withstood attacks from the right wing of your own party and the constant denigration by the British media, and I have been proud to be one of your supporters. However, your recent comment on Brexit is not only a failure of your party membership, but a betrayal of us.




The vast majority of the Labour membership - 86% of us - are in favour of a referendum on details of the withdrawal agreement and that one of the options should be to remain in the EU. Many have been pinning our hopes to end this self immolation on Labour, so to be told by the leader that Brexit would still go ahead under a Labour victory in a snap general election is the most shocking betrayal.




Mr Corbyn, one of your greatest features is the strength of your convictions, and I understand that the history of the British left has not alway been easy with the EU - seeing it, not always wrongly, as a neo-liberal capitalist mission. This has been, and is, one aspect of the whole, but it is at tension with others; human rights, social progress, regulation of the excesses of corporate power. The EU comprises the most progressive nations on the planet as members - Sweden, Finland, Belgium, the Netherlands, Germany - or close associates, such as Norway. All these countries and more are far to the left of where the UK has been for decade, and should be models we emulate, so to pretend the club of which they are members and, indeed, run is some capitalist conspiracy is ludicrous. The EU is project is an active entity, shaped by and shaping the members and a socialist-lead UK should be part of that.




There is the argument that Labour represents many areas that voted Leave, so is beholden to its constituents. On the face of it this is a sound argument - we are an representative democracy whose politicians are elected to conduct the will of the people. However, leaders must also lead. It is often a fine balance - to serve but also educate and inform. In this instance, this is nothing but an excuse and rank cowardice. It is clear that, not only were the British people misled and lied to, but that there is no possible outcome of leaving the EU that does not render vast swathes of the country much, much worse off - and those working-class, under-privileged, poor communities that so often voted leave will be and are being hit hardest of all. It is the duty of those who represent these communities - as so many of the Labour MPs are doing - to talk honestly to their electors about the position in which we find ourselves and what the immediate decisions for our future, and that of our children and grandchildren.




Brexit is the most immediate threat to this country’s well being and prosperity. Mr Corbyn, as leader of the opposition, as leader of the party that should represent those most at risk, you should about face on your attitude. For the members of your party and for the good of your country, you should - you MUST - state that you will fight Brexit until there is no other choice. How can 86% of your own party support you otherwise?

A belated political awakening

I’ve never been someone who goes to political meetings much less speaks at them or takes part in political activism. I’ve always considered myself a socialist and an internationalist, but I’ve kept my activity to voting in elections and discussions, online or in person. I’ve assumed that the march of history is in the right direction and trusted in this progress.




Frankly, I’ve been a lazy bastard. The progress of history has only been in the right direction when people have worked for it, and there are always forces of conservatism that want to halt and reverse this progress. This evening I took the mic at a Left Against Brexit meeting and said so.




In the run-up to the referendum I was complacent. I couldn’t believe that people could possibly back the likes of Nigel Farage and Boris Johnson, could possibly believe the transparent lies blazoned across the sides of busses, and vote against what was clearly against their best interests. In my runs and walks around Sheffield the Remain posters I’d seen in windows had far outnumbered those that called for Leave.




I thought that it was enough to just vote, and the result was like a punch in the gut. I don’t think I’d felt such pain from an election result since John Major’s victory, when we had felt so certain of a Labour win, and I had never felt so estranged from my fellow citizens.




The past two years have been hard. It has felt as though we have lost our country, which is somewhat ironic. It has felt as though so much of the progress we were making has been lost. Corbyn’s election as Labour leader on the back of the Momentum surge, pulling the party back to where it should be, representing this country’s working people and poor and disenfranchised rather than being soe Tory-light pretending that market forces and public private partnerships can improve things, has begun to feel hollow. The Labour leadership’s position of not fighting against Brexit, and Corbyn’s own disinterest in leading on this particular issue have been galling.




So I have become someone who attends political events and speaks at them when I have something to say. I have vowed and signed up to take part in activism to shape the world into how I think it should be for the benefit of the many. I dearly hope it is not too late to stop the utter disaster that any form of Brexit will surely be - that I have not left it too late to help. And, even if I can’t if the worst no-deal barely-better-than-Armageddon Brexit - or if we reverse this insanity and pull back from the brink - there will be more fighting to do.




Lazy bastards of the world unite; you have nothing to lose but your sense of desperate helplessness.

Book Review: The Book of the Unnamed Midwife by Meg Elison: Marginally less bleak than The Road

Perhaps it's not surprising that a book set during and after an apocalypse is bleak, and this is less bleak than Cormac McCarthy's The Road, but in many ways it's still a book that I'm not sure the word 'enjoy' attaches to.




A sudden, rampant plague starts to kill people in massive numbers. Women seem even more effected than men, perhaps only a tenth as many surviving, and not a single child survives birth.




A maternity nurse recovers from the fever, waking in her apartment to witness that the ravages she had been trying to treat - or ameliorate - have left devastation. Her first encounter with another human being is an attempted rape, and she quickly decides to disguise herself as a man for safety.




Her travels to eventual safety are fraught and disturbing. ( This is not a spoiler, by the way; the novel is prefaced with a future monastery-like scene where a woman leads some boys in making copies of the Book of the Unnamed Midwife, so we know there is some sort of continuation ).




One thing that gave me pause - not while I was reading it, as the writing is of such a high quality that it wasn't until I paused that questions came - is that in the first part of the book her encounters with men portray them almost exclusively as wanting to rape and and own and control the few remaining women in the most horrific ways. I don't think the evidence of how the vast majority of people behave after disasters maps onto this (although this is of a scale unseen; I know complete devastation has happened more locally and would be interested to see if there is a difference) but then I began to see this as much of a metaphor for toxic masculinity as anything else. If this were written by a man it would probably come across as some awful rape fantasy like those appalling Gor books.




As the story progresses we get asides, mentioning what happens to some of the people the wanderer ( she chooses different names constantly, and I do like how Elison then sticks to that name while it is in use ) or just to mention what is happening in other parts of the world - all of which tend to be at least as bleak as the main narrative.




Well worth reading - but, of course, bear in mind the sexual violence warning, and general timbre - but I think I'm genuinely looking to the next volume. I'm hoping this will be less bleak.




original review on goodreads
https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/2485957571?

Friday Run: Beautiful Backroads to Bolsterstone and back

I've not been on a long run in a while and had planned one for today anyway, but after the team meal at Akbar's last night I felt the need to burn some calories. It also helped that it was much cooler, positively fresh even as the day reached noon.




As so often, I had little idea of which way I would go as I left the house - Rivelin Valley? Up over Loxley Common? Bradfield? Wharncliffe Woods? Toward Sheffield? A moments indecision and I set up Wadsley lane and the steady climb toward Worall, with that familiar view of the fields dropping down into the valley and the woods climbing the far side.




At Worrall I almost baulked at seeing how overgrown the path the Hagg Stones was, but pushed and high-stepped the couple of hundred metres through high grass, nettles and brambles before it opened onto the field beyond. I've never been entirely clear where the path goes across this field, but sticking close to the tumbledown remnants of the wall has always seemed the best bet.




Sharply down a hill then the path leads to Burnt Hill Lane which climbs for a kilometres before the turn onto Onesmoor Bottom and another couple of km of climbing. It is glorious here; it is rare to see a car, just the rolling fields and woodland stretching away on all sides. Cows, sheep and horses in occasional groups in the fields. The stiff wind whipped the dust from the back of a combine cutting back the stubble and some grouse chased in to pick over the remains




The sky is a in uneven quilt; one side different textures of grey, flat or roiling, the other gloriously chaotic stacks and rags of clouds bobbing like cotton wool or twisting up into the shapes of creatures of ancient myth. Further on it become more broken and leaks out golden light that will shower its blessing somewhere around Hoyland or Wombwell.




Here, the first spots of rain immediately fill the air with petrichor; thought it is now cool the ground is dry and hard still after these arid months.




The road crests and begins to descend, at first shallowly and then precipitously, switching back to mitigate the gradient. but I spot a path and this brings me sharply down the the edge of Broomhead reservoir by stairs and the roots of trees. The reservoir path itself I've walked and cycled, but i'm not sure I'e ever run here before, and I glory in taking its twists and turns, and, higher up, as it becomes a matter of close focus to step correctly between the gnarled roots and rough stones. It stays this way along the south bank, around the east tip, and all the way back on the north bank of the Broomhead, until a gate at the tiny Ewden Village leads out onto the road that continues the rest of the way down, past the lower More Hall Reservoir all the way down to the road at the bottom, this stretch of which is actually called Main Road.




I follow it back though Wharncliffe Side to Oughtibridge. The heaviest of the rain came down while I was in the woods around the reservoir, although it's still steady, so I decide on the cover of Hollins and Beeley Woods, running the path in the reverse of my usual direction. Surprisingly, I feel I have the energy to eschew the footbridge at Middlewood and carry on along Clay Wheel Lane, taking and extra loop down the the bottom of Hillsborough park before swinging home to bring the distance above 25k.




That was joyous. It took me perhaps 4 km to find my legs but it is far too long since I had a long, meditative run like that. And I think I burnt off *most* of the curry, too.




https://www.strava.com/activities/1762607185

Book review: Gnomon by Nick Harkaway: Catabasis for Democracy, with Shark

I'll admit up front that Harkaway's debut, The Gone-Away World, is one of my favourite books and his subsequent novels aren't too shabby either, but his fourth is quite remarkable. It is set partially in a near-future Britain run by the System, a data network that both organises the citizenry into an active direct democracy and keeps their lives efficient and safe. Data privacy is a thing of the past; you can query someone's identity and life by direct access to the System and Harkaway skillfully shows how this affects social mores.




This set up, of course, immediately makes the hairs of discomfort prickle on the napes of our necks; whether liberal or conservative or whatever mix, such phrases as "if you have nothing to hide you have nothing to fear", "Those who give up liberty for safety, deserve neither" and "Panopticon" cannot help but spring to mind, thought the author does an excellent job of being even-handed in his presentation of the view.




The book starts with a death of a subject in interrogation by the Witness, the security arm of the System. This is presented as a unique occurrence, and immediately taken seriously and handed to the talented and driven Inspector Mielikki Neith. The manner of the interrogation is disturbing and reinforces fears about the ubiquitously invasive arm of the state, but this is leavened over time by the seriousness with which this event is treated and, well, by the fact that the System seems to work, and seems to be benevolent and effective.




I had said the book is set partially here. We soon are introduced to narratives which seem entirely unrelated - centred around a brilliant Greek mathematician who, following personal tragedy, has turned his skills to the stock market; the former lover of the 4th/5th century Bishop Augustine of Hippo, herself a philosopher and alchemist; and a talented Ethiopian artist who (barely) escaped his country for England in the political chaos following the fall of Haile Selassie.




Each thread is superbly written, capturing the differing voices and setting and moods. The writing contains a density of allusion and meaning and texture - yet with a lightness of touch - that immediately brought to mind Umberto Eco or Neal Stephenson at his more focused, and Paul Auster. It seems clear that these stories cannot be divergent and Harkaway indeed begins to weaves threads between them, though some of the clues turn out to be fish that, at the least, seem to be scarlet in certain light.




In weaving the threads together we are treated to an exploration of liberty versus safety and convenience, public transparency and the dangers of the malicious hacking of the democratic process (I cannot possibly imagine where that last idea came from...) but, as well as the clues to the central mystery, the nested narratives also show real human stories of tragedy and love and loss and betrayal and reconciliation and hope. There are also some beautiful metaphors about books, and the power of good ideas and arguments to succeed by literally changing the person who hears them.




This novel is a tour-de-force, brilliant and important and a bloody fantastic read. It could be argued that, toward the end, Harkaway explains things a little too clearly and leaves less ambiguity than Eco or Auster would, but this is, I think, due to the wider audience for whom he is writing; frankly, this book already asks a great deal of the reader and such ambiguities on top of that are not to the taste of a lot of people. However, this book deserves plaudits and huge sales and awards scifi and literary alike. It will stay with me for a long time and I am sure that, when i re-read it, I will find layers I missed this time around.




A word on format. I read this on my Kindle, partly as the 700 page paperback appears to be printed in 8-point font (yes, the info page says 11.5-point, but I suspect that to be the System gaslighting me) and found this all the more useful as I could immediately check unfamiliar words and references. If you are reading a hard copy and don't have a thorough knowledge of Greek mythology, I suggest keeping close to wikipedia.



( originally published on goodreads https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/2059658585?book_show_action=false&from_review_page=1 )

Sunday bike ride in the woods and on the road

I've been on the road bike a lot recently, so decided to take my trusty Kona today to give me more variety - and, hopefully, stay more in the woodland shade. Out through Beeley Woods, then the climb to Wharncliffe and the cinder roads, which then joins the trail made on the route of the old rail line. I used to come out this way a lot, but the trail has been even further improved - the surface, far more seating areas and informational signage, a few "Wild Wood!" trails for kids through areas of coppiced birch. The main trail is mainly gravel packed into the dirt, which has worn away on some stretches and occasionally narrows to less than two metres. My 29" wheels eat it up whatever, and it's smooth enough that I lock out my suspension.





I suspected I'd get the 19 km to Penistone and head back from there by road ( I have an almost pathological aversion to returning by the same route if I can possibly avoid it ) but carried on out on the long curve of the Trans Pennine Trail section of the National Cycle Network until it hit road at Dunford Bridge and then a climb and drop to meet the A628 Woodhead Road.





It took a real effort of will to turn left toward home instead of taking the long, glorious loop above the Bleaklow Moor out toward Manchester, to circle back via Glossop, the Snake and Ladybower, but I sensibly turned left.





A phenomenal fast descent on the road - easily topping 50 kph on the mountain bike, I'd probably have reached seventy had I been on the Tifosi. Not a huge amount of traffic, but some drivers really have no idea about passing. The closest was one tiny hatchback whose wing mirror actually passed below my jutting elbow.





I decided against joining the trails that lead south a couple of km down, as from memory they get pretty extreme, climbing and dipping over the valleys formed by various streams, instead joining a gentler bridleway that lead to Langsett Reservoir, then a mix of trails and glorious back roads past Upper Midhope, Midhopestones and Underbank to Bolsterstone, again unfortunately missing the Male Voice Choir practice.





The long fast drop to Wharncliffe Side ( slightly held up behind a BMW being sensibly cautious inits descent ) and I'm all but home. Feeling it a little in my legs, but managed a final climb up Langsett Avenue which is quite pleasing after by far m longest ride in some years.





It's almost like my summer Sunday mornings as a kid. I'd rise early and head out on my Carlton racer to Castleton, Glossop, Wakefield - sometimes the same trans-moor loop that formed part of my return today - to get back for 2 PM and my mum's enormous Sunday dinner. No wonder people would joke I must have hollow legs from the amount I ate. I kind of wish I'd had this mapping technology then. to see the hours and distance I managed in my early teens, those three and four and five our rides, or other times exploring the city or heading down into Derbyshire. But, had these technologies been around perhaps I'd have been distracted by other things and those rides may not have happened.



Ride and pics at https://www.strava.com/activities/1688872959

Book Review: Gods, Monsters and the Lucky Peach by Kelly Robson: Eco-punk, time-travel, business & politics

A wonderfully fresh, inventive, lively and thoughtful read.




We are at some point in the future where humanity seems to be rebuilding itself following various disasters, largely ecological one of our on making. I say "seem to be" because Robson never states this, just has the characters allude to things in their history - or, rather, things in their present that hint at the history. This naturalism is one of the things I loves about the writing, the way the ordinary interplay of the characters builds a vision of the world for us. Which works, at least in part, as the characters are so well drawn.




The two main characters are Minh, an old-guard ecological systems designer who moves around on six tentacled prostheses instead of her 'natural' legs and is of the generation who have gone through the hardships of trying to recolonise the surface after decades of subterranean life and Kiki, a young, ambitious engineer who initially idolises the older woman.




One of the conflicts of the book is that the banks, who had made money through investing in recolonisation and the surface habitats (and seem to hold everyone in massive debt; an ongoing theme is how all the characters just seem to accept crippling levels of ongoing debt as part of existence, a comment on student debt in the US and elsewhere I assume) are turning their focus to the lucrative business of time travel.




Minh and Kiki are part of a team hired to travel back to the Tigris basin, around 2000 BC, to take environmental samples to bring back to the present. There is conversation that this real work of time travel is being minimised due to pressure to take tourists (critique of the distorting effect of commerce on pure science), but i was never quite sure what the end-game of the mission was. I had thought it was to find hardy specimens to help restore the ravaged planet, but there was later reference to changing history.




I loved the layout of the book, each chapter beginning with a short segment from the viewpoint of the king and priestess of the small civilisation of the Tigris as they begin to see changes brought on by the technology of the visitors - the new stars of communications satellites, for example - followed by the building of the main tale.




Very much worth a read, and I look forward to more from Kelly Robson

First 20+ km bike ride in far too long - and it was magnificent

That was not so early a start as planned, nor as long a ride, but it was glorious. It’s been some years since i swapped wheels for running shoes as my main form of exercise and recreation and, even then, I’d explored these lanes on a mountain bike rather than the slight, fleet frame of a proper racer



As usual, spoilt for choice I set out with little initial idea of where I was headed; I had a general urge to go out past Bradfield onto the roads with their race-smooth surfaces, but began by heading up toward Worrall before turning up Burnt Hill Lane, taking Onesacre Bottom and Onesacre Road to climb up into the hills.



It is stunningly beautiful; fields of sleepy-headed wheat are ripening toward bright yellow, the trees are almost shockingly green against a sky of white-smeared blue that makes the hedgerows seem listless, almost military olive drab and khaki by comparison with this wanton lushness.



There follows a wonderful 5 km stretch as the road drops around a hundred metres. It is all dips and rises and bends on amazingly smooth grey tarmac, bounded by walls of ferns in all their cool, frenzied verdancy. I move along at a fair clip, watching ahead as much as I can with the turns and sudden elevations for traffic coming the other way, or even walkers, though my only encounter is a farmer in his Land Rover on one of the straighter stretches. It would be glorious to close this stretch off for a race; hurtling along here would be better than any rollercoaster.



Reaching the wonderfully named Wigtwizzle, I’ve the decision between turning up toward Mortimer Road, where I could take the long circuit bordering the moors above Derwent Reservoir, but I’m not sure if I have the legs for that in this heat, so drop sharply to the right (again, resisting the urge to loose my brakes and plummet down the steep curves) down past Broomhead Reservoir and the sharp climb toward Bolserstone. Downhill again to Ewden Village - a road so steep that you almost feel gravity will  tip you over the handlebars, my caution with the brakes warranted by a family out for a stroll,spread across the width of the road as though a search party scanning the terrain.



Here I made an error. I couldn’t remember whether the semi-private road that follows the north shore of More Hall Reservoir was fully suitable for my flimsy wheels, so carried on rather than taking the turn. I’d completely  forgotten about Fairhurst Lane, possible blanked from my memory by pain, shorter though just as punishingly steep as te hill down which I’d just come. Even though I didn’t quite make it all the way up, it left my legs twitching and wobbly. That said, it lead to the stretch of Carr House and Thorn House Lanes, another couple of kilometres of smooth, winding, dipping joy, dropping me to Wharncliffe Side and the 5k steady descent by the River Don leading me home.

Book review: A Murder of Quality by John le Carre: Smiley goes Sherlock

This is an odd entry in the works of le Carre, chronicling the later life of George Smiley. Following the events of Call for the Dead Smiley, no longer with the service, is living a quiet life in London. He is contacted by an old colleague about the a letter she has received from the wife of one of the masters at a venerable Public School (that is, a very old, expensive and exclusive private school) in Dorset, in which she states the fear that her husband is intending to kill her. Smiley calls another master there, the brother of one of his late friends, to find that this woman has indeed been murdered, so travels down to hand the letter over to local detectives and becomes embroiled in the investigation.



So, this is George Smiley as a free agent, outside the Circus. It seems that le Carre may have been toying with setting his character up as a detective - more Father Brown than Sherlock Holmes, although there is something Holmesian in the way the plot unfolds, with Smiley's vast, if ponderous, intellect processing all the details and building a picture nobody else can see. There is also something of Agatha Christie about the layers of upper-class English manners and class distinctions, in this book those stratifications are precisely the point rather than being, as with Christie, simply the medium on which the puzzle of the plot is hung.



It is clear from early on that this is a blistering attack on the British class system and the snobbish, restrictive forms, rules and structures that protect those at the top - something the author confirms in both the original afterword and a new one, added to this edition in 2010.



In this, le Carre also acknowledges the book's shortcomings as a thriller (although, by modern terms, I would not class it as a thriller at all, but a mystery) and this is indeed true, perhaps largely as it comes between his excellent debut and The Spy Who Came In from the Cold, which may be the finest spy thriller ever written. The novel is very old-fashioned, some of the supporting cast are fairly flat sketches, and some of the attitudes - especially those toward women - are very much of their time (although that balanced against some very progressive notions) but he already shows his eye for detail and ability to infuse a scene with colour and meaning (even if most of colours are the shades of grey of post-war Britain) and, despite the flaws, this gripped me enough to read in three sittings.



Now, I am very much looking forward re-reading The Spy Who Came In from the Cold.

Book Review - Mothership: Tales from Afrofuturism and Beyond, edited by Bill Campbell

In recent years I've been making an effort to read more broadly, and my encounters with Octavia E. Butler, Nnedi Okorafor and N.K. Jemisin have brought me into the sphere of Afrofuturism. I'd been yearning to delve deeper so this seemed the perfect find



I'm aware there is much debate about what exactly Afrofuturism is, and the "and Beyond" of this title should have suggested to me that editor Bill Campbell trawls his net widely; there are the kind of thing that I might have expected (although somehow I expected nothing in particular, and thought myself wide open, clearly I carry the cultural baggage of of a certain age and ethnicity and gender and geography and class and experience, so the stories that showed a standard SF future but with a Afrocentric slant, or some variant from a past less dominated by European colonialism - or simply from a point of view not rooted in that history.



That would have been plenty to both sate and whet my appetite, but there is more here. It is almost misleading to call this anthology Afrofuturism (if that is the use of a fashionable term for attention, it is forgivable); this is a collection of fictions of inclusion, of voices of groups marginalised in art and culture, their voices and viewpoints. This collection is a shining example of the joy of exploration beyond one's usual boundaries. The standard of the stories is superb (not every single one to my taste, for instance the few ultra-shorts, but I am not really a fan of flash-fiction) and there are a handful of tales that took my breath away - those by Victor LaValle, N.K. Jemisin, Ernest Hogan, S.P. Somtow, Junot Díaz - and I'm sure others I'm leaving off- were the highlights.



One of the joys of anthologies is finding writers I may not have otherwise come across, and this has certainly opened my horizons. It is a perfect illustration of two of my favourite quotes:


"Reading is an exercise in empathy; an exercise in walking in someone else's shoes for a while." Malorie Blackman

“Fiction gives us empathy: it puts us inside the minds of other people, gives us the gifts of seeing the world through their eyes. Fiction is a lie that tells us true things, over and over.” Neil Gaiman



So read widely. Read people who are not like you. Read people who have different experiences, different histories, different outlooks. Read colour, read gender, read sexuality.



Read difference.





( originally posted at https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/2396430194 )

Mental health update

I've had my worst day in some time, since my time off work last year. After returning to work on progressive hours to get me back into the flow, I was finding full time too much; the energy it takes to get through the work, of focusing and the performance of dealing with clients and colleagues, of worrying whether I am up to doing this or should even be trying, was just leaving utterly drained. Outside of work I hardly had the energy or inclination to do anything at all.



So, I requested reduced hours, backed by my manager. After initially trying to fob me off with half-hour shorter days, that would have been no help at all, I've gone to a four-day week of normal shifts. I'm only a month and a half in, but I can tell it's helping; the three day break gives me time to recuperate, so it doesn't just feel like a downward spiral from which I'll never recover. I'm beginning to gain the energy to do things out of work, although it takes a hell of a lot of effort.



There are still some really hard days, of course. It's not unusual to have a workday where I feel like I'm struggling early on, where I'm having trouble drowning out the thoughts that I just can't do this and You're fighting an uphill battle that you're going to lose anyway, so why not save the effort? but I push through this and it tends to settle down and I actually end with something of a sense of achievement.



Monday was one of these. Right from the start I knew it was going to be tough; I was having problems focusing and felt outside myself and wanted to give up, but stuck with it until these feeling subsided, and it was a good day. On Tuesday I was fine, hammering away at the coalface and getting lots done. In retrospect, perhaps I was having a little trouble concentrating at times, but that might be entirely post hoc. Suddenly, right after a phone call with a client - which was lovely, no issues at all - it was like being hit by a freight train. The volume level in the office had risen suddenly, as it sometimes does, but it seemed so loud I could hardly breathe. Everyone seemed to be shouting into their phones or across the office to each other. I was having trouble writing up my notes, the world spinning around me. I actually thought I was going to throw up.



I managed to finish my notes and practically sprinted away from my desk. I just needed to be somewhere away, somewhere quiet. I locked myself away in one of the disabled toilets - a room instead of cubicles, and there's nobody in our organisation that would be more inconvenienced by me blocking this than any other loo.



And I couldn't leave. I just had to sit there, on the floor, trying to gather myself. Not even gather my thoughts; when this hits it feels like a tornado in my head, everything whirling around so much that I am aware that thoughts are there but they just flash past like snowflakes, barely visible as individual things, never mind graspable.



I must have been there for 45 minutes, by which time it was lunch so I walked around in the fresh air and winter sun for half an hour, went into Waterstones, although I have no idea what I looked at.



Back at my desk, I was aware I was away from the phones for the rest of the afternoon - admin and casework I could do at my own pace, but I found myself just staring at the screen. I couldn't make sense of anything. Not like I imagine severe dyslexia or alexia is - I could read the words, but just couldn't hold any meaning in my head. What was I meant to be doing?



Even though the office had quieted and it had been almost two hours since I left my desk, I knew I really couldn't do this. The inner voice was right. My manger was away from his desk and the deputy manager seemed in high demand elsewhere - besides, he didn't know about it and I felt suddenly so embarrassed, and didn't feel it was worth troubling him. I just wanted to slip quietly out, but some part of me knew I couldn't so I sent a quick email to the boss - I'm sorry, I'm really struggling today I can't do this. I need to go. I'm sorry - turned off my PC and left.



I jumped on my bike and took a circuitous route home to try to clear my head. I curled up in bed for awhile, in the warm womb-like comfort of the duvet. It was a nice afternoon and I'd thought to go for a run, the rhythm and exertion and serotonin release of running is one of the was I keep going, but I was so tired I could hardly move. I felt drained, probably not more drained than I ever have but that bone-deep weariness which, like severe pain or cold, is difficult to comprehend if you've never felt it or to remember accurately when you have.



This morning I slept through my alarm (although I'd only slept fitfully during the night, I vaguely remember rising enough from slumber to silence my phone) and woke again after 8.30. I'm not sure whether I'd planned on not going in, but that sealed it, so I texted my manager an apology and curled back up, trying to ignore the light of day. Tomorrow would be the last day of my working week, I guess I'll just have to take it as it comes.

Review: Dirk Gently season 1

I’ve just watched the first series of Netflix’s Dirk Gently, and I enjoyed it a great deal.

But.

But I have many problems with it. Let’s start with the positives. Some good performances, nice script (way better than the Will smith movie Bright, that Max Landis also wrote), along with lots of wackiness and a good plot, which reflect the source material, along with a violence and darkness that doesn’t necessarily, but was well handled. I really loved Bart the Holistic Assassin, superbly portrayed by Fiona Dourif.

And, I confess, most of my problems are in other ways that the series diverges from the Douglas Adams books on which it is loosely based, so can be viewed as purist ire which I am not denying.

The first is actually fairly minor, in the annoyance level anyway. The character of Dirk Gently is played wonderfully by Samuel Bennett as an wide-eyed innocent, socially inept almost to the level of autism (although the innocence part is slightly punctured at the very end). This is so very at odds with the character as written I found it to be quite jarring - a problem I recognise someone not coming to the show via the books wouldn’t have. Adams’ books have Dirk as an amoral, conniving - if charming - huckster - saved by the fact that his madcap theories of Holistic Detection actually work out (mostly), but who is nonetheless entirely in it for the money and seems to take pleasure in conning people. I can see why here they went for the safer option, but it does take away from the depth somewhat.Some of this amorallity was transferred to the sidekick - but, even then, only as something in his past which became a rather sick-making and obvious moment of character growth, completely with strings in the background music.

Another divergence is to make Gently’s powers, well, almost like a superpower while In the books (I am sorry, I know I shouldn’t compare different media) it is a talent he has that he can more-or-less stumble onto the right thing. I know that sounds like a minor change, but the way this is presented in this TV show makes it much grander, and also emphasis a kind of intractable fate while Adams, an arch-skeptic, makes it quite clear that it is NOT fate, merely chance, that ties everything together. Dirk just ‘has the knack’ of being in the position where these chances combine. Added to this, the ‘secret government organisation’ to which Gently is connected was so very out of place as to be pointless.

There was an adaptation a few years ago on the BBC, with the Stephen Mangan playing Dirk Gently as brilliantly as he does everything, which was utterly pitch-perfect. As well as being underfunded and hidden away on BBC2 at some ungodly hour so hardly anyone was aware of it, never mind watched it, comparing the two shows the potential strengths and weaknesses of the sort UK and longer US series formats. In the UK everything has to be tight and to the point and serving story and character, but the viewer barely has time to get into it (especially when it is cancelled so soon), while the longer series allows development and exploration of the world and the characters, but can lead to unnecessary padding and extraneous levels of plot that can sometimes take away the focus.

Don’t get me wrong, I really enjoyed the series and will be watching season 2 - possible in just a couple of sittings - but I reserve the right to hold an original book and BBC adaptation purist grudge.