Tag Archives: iPhoneography

Communication

By mickyates | Published March 18, 2013

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Communication

talking without words
an instant impression
of time
the constant value
revealing itself
in the depths
of our hearts

Written 1969

It was a week of variety. There was a collection of toilet pods, pink for ladies, blue for men. Fun and funky, and who would have thought that images of toilets could ever look like an alien space ship, recently arrived in the Capital City at Sketch, a Mayfair restaurant..

The image pops out, telling us something new. Communication without words, just like the verse said all of those years ago. Photography is morphing into constant sharing, like a diary of everything we do. No words needed, just the image.

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Before that, an intriguing new hotel called 21C in Cincinnati, a museum concept where business meets art. When the image is of an image, there is a double impact. There are so many things to ponder, and images to share. The artist created the sculpture, and proudly set them in place. The hotel created an ambiance, and a mood, to show them at their best. And the photographer took a view that was unique. Images on images on images. It’s a visual world after all.

On the way home, the plane’s technology worked just fine, and you never will need that life jacket. The transfer from Cincinnati to Boston was easy. Delta’s seats had space and comfort, and the in-flight Wi-Fi helped us all to stay connected. The crew tried hard and smiled throughout.

Images in flight.

It was pretty on the ground, and the air was clear allowing a few quick pictures. But inside the cabin, subtle things defeated a perfect trip. On a night flight, airlines sometimes offer their business customers a “quick meal”, to cut down eating time and to let them get more sleep. After all, the flight from Boston to London is only around 6 hours, and you loose 4 or 5 hours on the time zone shift overnight. It’s not called a “Red Eye” for nothing.

“Yes sir, I will bring you a quick soup and not the full meal, so then you can sleep”.

Nice promise, but pity it arrives at the same time as everyone’s meal. Just too hard to organise things I assume. But then, why say that it was possible? Words become promises, and promises that aren’t delivered lead to reactions and pain. So which will I remember most about that flight? The fleeting glimpse of the ground 35,000 feet below, which could have been on any flight, almost anywhere. Or the specific disappointment of insufficient sleep?

We’d all accepted a delayed flight, as we couldn’t do much about it, and the airline carefully explained what had happened – so we were all sympathetic. The words worked. Eventually the plane landed smoothly in London, and the pilot was pleased that we offered him our business. Rain welcomed us and an image beckoned of the airport around us.

Unfortunately the dock wasn’t ready, as though Heathrow had never had a plane arrive before. We all paid intent attention to those essential messages on our smartphones, and even took a picture or two. We all managed to avoid the outside world. Still, a little annoyance about the dock overshadowed things. It wasn’t the words or images. It was the lack of words. Of warning and sympathy. No words could reassure.

Whatever images inspire, if the simple words of communication disappoint, it all falls apart.

Sketch was a very cool restaurant, designed to be a visual treat. Art meets food. The staff was immaculately turned out, and everything was very professional.

Did they need a little too much “push” to change us to a better table? “I won’t comment on that, madam”. So we all moved on.

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The food was excellent, served quickly and with a little panache. Looked and tasted good, too.

The sommelier asked

“Would you like a drink, madam? Certainly, madam”.

[Not that I approve of the way you are drinking my wine … but I will try not to let that show on my face].

Of course when he forgot to bring the drink the whole effect was spoilt. Words of apology become words of reaction.

The negative words overtook the positive, if only for a few moments.

Images are so diverse, so strong, and so creative. And there are an infinite number of them. What is this do you think?

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It’s a light at Sketch – abstracted. To the artist, it doesn’t really matter, as the shape and colour is all. But to others, knowing what it is needs words. And if the words disappoint, so does the image.

Great intentions let down with small mistakes. Beautiful images lost because of simple words.

Images can’t cover for words or deeds.

“Quality in a service or product is not what you put into it. It is what the client or customer gets out of it.” Peter Drucker

Posted in Art, iPhoneography, London, Photography, Poetry, United Kingdom, Writing | Also tagged communication, images, iPhone, promises, words Leave a comment

Clouds

By mickyates | Published February 6, 2013

Clouds

Clouds like nymphs fleeting heavenward.
High above in childish fantasy,
Pictures melting, fast deserting

Loosing glory, gaining solitude.
Bursting forth as living water.
Sometimes grey, looming ominous.

Coloured scarlet by dying embers.
Broken by light, blue beyond.
Where are they going, or coming from?

Written Summer 1967

Last weekend I was at the ICEHOTEL, just outside Kiruna, Sweden. It’s about 200km north of the Artic Circle, which makes it Lapland. Approaching from the south, the land looked cold even before he touched down. Reminded me of a song by Billy Joel.

“… we were strapped against those Scandinavian skies
The landing gear came down and touched the Swedish ground
And we were all so paralyzed”

For once, passengers took their time leaving the plane, to be sure their coats were fastened, and that fingers wouldn’t freeze so they could take happy snaps of the last hour of the sun.

It was cold. But then when something is planned for and anticipated, it feels good. Warm coats. Thermals. Lingonberry juice. Everyone tried to be nonchalant, like they had done this a thousand times. But no one quite knew what to make of the parking signs outside for the huskies and their sleds. Locals looked bemused.

As in all hotels, one constant is the bar, the centre of conversation and amusement. This one was no different, though it had a million glasses made of ice.

“Would you like to keep yours, sir?”

Warm lips created soft indentations, and the light sparkled on a myriad bubbles, both in the liquid and in the ice. Bubbles everywhere.

At each turn, artists created their visions in ice. Some stark, some complex. Most magical. And all thought provoking.

“Eternity”. A frozen couple, standing together, staring into the near distance. Guardians of ideas and hopes. Standing at the foot of a bed of ice.

Every year huge blocks of pure ice are taken from the Torne River. A building is created. Art inspired. Glasses used. Beds made. An ice church welcomes all faiths, and vows are exchanged. And every year it all slides gracefully back from where it came. The ultimate “eco-hotel”.

Much inspiration. Very hard to capture, despite the technology everyone brings. Nikon, iPhone. Somehow the ice decides its own brand, how it will shine, what colour it will be. Thousands of images. All fleeting. Like some grand impressionist attempt to define the cycle just fails, because nature itself is in charge, not the artist.

However there is nothing uncertain about sleeping on a bed of ice. It’s real. And it does tend to focus the mind. Why did we do it? I guess because somehow it had always seen a challenge, something unusual.

“Come to the desk when you are ready. Just wear your thermals (and boots of course) – and get your sleeping bag. Run like hell and get tucked in! Don’t worry, it’s a constant -5C, so it can’t get as cold as outside. And we have alarms installed. We don’t want anyone to drown if there is a fire.”

We were hoping to see the Aurora, and we learnt how to chase it on snowmobiles. But freezing fog made that impossible. The clouds were not quite ready to drop yet another load of snow. Nor were they keen to leave. Instead they swooped low onto the land, to be sure everyone knew who really was in charge.

Other times the clouds gave moments of magic. Blue. Wispy clouds. Sunset and sunrise. But not now. Not when we were searching for the Lights.

I reflected, remembering past poetry, past events. Past vistas. It seemed that the clouds were defining everything, not the ice. The artists could work with the ice. It was solid and had clarity of view and purpose. But no one could work with the clouds. They were imperious.

The clouds decided what colours he saw. How much we saw. What we felt. Whether we were warm or cold, grumpy or happy. And the clouds were the mother and father of all we saw. They created the water that froze. They hid the landscape. They pampered the trees.

And they changed at will. Whenever they wished. However they chose.

“Happiness is like a cloud. If you stare at it long enough, it evaporates.”

Sarah McLachlan

Posted in iPhoneography, Photography, Prose, Sweden, Writing | Also tagged Billy Joel, clouds, ice, ICEHOTEL, instagram, iPhone, Kiruna, snow Leave a comment

On The Pond’s Edge

By mickyates | Published January 2, 2013

On The Edge Part 1

Listen to the speed with which things stay the same,
listen to the silence.

Share the edge
Share the win
Share the loss

There is a shine to the depth
which can reveal its limits
whilst refusing to notice its blackness.

There is a word to be said which lightens the load
whilst it hastens the gathering changes.

The seer once noted the multiple futures
and offered the newspaper jacket.

The headlines he wrote
and the instant response
just meant he delayed the stories.

Tell me old man what is the correctness
of edge, and sorrow, and joy.

Tell me the difference so I can reply
with edge, and pain, and politeness.

Share the edge
Share the win
Share the loss

Written 1999

It’s the New Year

Time for resolutions, reflections and predictions.

Too many times I have tried making resolutions, and failed. mainly because the resolution was just unreasonable, or was too much of a change in habit or action.

If a resolution is going to stick, it seems to me that it needs to be both realistic and to be shared with others. Of course I have read all those motivational books – “do it for yourself”. But so often resolutions involve other people – be kinder, listen better, don’t get angry.

There’s a classic philosophical question which fits. “When branch fall in the forest. if there is no one there to hear them fall, do they make a noise?”

And, there is another story. Hui-neng, a well-respected Buddhist monk who later became known as the founder of the Zen school, one day happened to be passing by two monks.

“Two monks were arguing about the temple flag waving in the wind. One said, ‘The flag moves.’ The other said, ‘The wind moves.’ They argued back and forth but could not agree.

Hui-neng said ‘Gentlemen! It is not the wind that moves; it is not the flag that moves; it is your mind that moves.’

The two monks were struck with awe.”

Then I remembered a poem I wrote a while back, about being “On The Edge”. Yes, it was about being different, changing, edgy. But when I read it properly I realised it was also about things being the same.

Listen to the speed with which things stay the same,
listen to the silence.

And the poem talked about “multiple futures”, which seems to be appropriate for New Year choices.

On New Year’s Eve, it was raining heavily, and the pond had a brooding and black presence. The last day of the Old Year, so it seemed to fit the mood and the moment.

Then, New Year’s Day, it was bright, sunny and full of joy.

The same pond. The same plants. the same fish. Just different illumination. The plants and fish hadn’t changed, but their context had. The scene was completely different.

When we move through life we can’t control everything. Contexts change. Realisations occur. Things get illuminated. And shit happens.

So what we can do is think about multiple futures, and try to anticipate. The pond doesn’t change. But the way we look at it does.

But will you really “see” if you don’t share? First, of course, you must “see” for yourself, to reflect and wonder.

And, second, you should share with others, to describe, discuss – even argue – but then delight in the unfolding changes.

Happy New Year – and may your resolutions come true!

Share the edge
Share the win
Share the loss

Posted in Bath, iPhoneography, Photography, Prose, United Kingdom, Writing | Also tagged iPhone, New Year, rain, sun Leave a comment

A Flood Of Memories

By mickyates | Published December 31, 2012

A Burtonian Poem

a mist descending
rolling with tidal motion
over the blackened parapet
of the Trent Bridge.

in Hartshorne a farmer wakes early
to milk his cows,
for him every day is the same.

children making early morning tea
for their parents.

the walls of a bed sit explode
in the agony of a hangover.

black coffee enters a thousand throats.

the Sun rises high above the valley,
casting the shadow of Winshill across the traffic
at the Swan.

slowly the suburbs awaken,
to read the Mail or the Daily Express.

birds sing in the trees throughout the borough.

school boys in dark blue,
a duffel bag on their shoulders,
a girl friend in their hands.

shop girls arriving at work,
to make up and talk of their weekend.

the market traders prepare their stalls
to do battle with Paddy.

in the bed sit
a young man is sick

shift workers
return home to sleep.

cars flow steadily down the Ashby road,
to meet the chaos of Bargates
and the waiting traffic wardens.

Written 1969

He drove into town, for the first time for ages. The floods were very bad – the worst for years. Even the swans sought refuge. Rivers Trent and Dove merged to form a new inland lake. The floodwalls just manage to stop an invasion of the town. Christmas lights sparkled on the water, daring it to come closer.

The Trent keeps flowing.

He recalled the times he walked the Burton streets. Drinks at the Queens, bowling on Saturdays, browsing in the bookstore on Station Street. Later, walking in the Trent meadows, maybe getting lucky. There were no fancy restaurants, and the pubs just had beer. The market was by Royal ascent, and was the only place for both potatoes and presents. Now of course Sainsbury’s vie with Tesco.

The Statutes Fair still takes over the market in October. It was founded in 1824 “for the hiring of servants”, and was once called a “human flesh market”. It doesn’t change. As he walked through the marketplace, he remembered that day in 1966, when he first went to the Fair with his girl. And he remembered the party where “Good day Sunshine” was the dance music du jour.

Today the Abbey, a thousand years old, is a restaurant. The car parks are bigger than the market stalls. As he dined, the staff was knowlegeable about the history of the place, with tales of monks trying recipe after recipe to create the perfect beer.

Local brewers, who ran the town, later built the Victorian swimming pool. Now the global Coors sign glows across its fiefdom.

In his day, the pool was due for demolition, but that took years, and the heavy smell of chlorine was still a persistent memory. He did remember submitting a design for the new pool, in a contest at school. But no one bothered to reply, even though he built a cardboard model with a curved roof.

Today they claim a “state of the art” fitness centre.

He was fiddling to get WiFi, a sign of the times which would have been magic in the clubs of old. Yet, even with this modern twist, faces from the past floated by, like broken branches on the swollen river. He wondered what became of them all?

“We will be at war with the Chinese in 5 years” said a school friend – in 1961. The Power Stations both sides of the town were deemed nuclear targets. What was it like to live in their shadow? He could barely remember.

The Trent keeps flowing.

It’s time to meet the family. The ancestral tree shows that nearby Tutbury had been “home” for over 500 years. The antique shops in that High Street bear witness to so much, and the graveyard in the Church to so little. Mary Queen of Scots was imprisoned there for a night – but who remembers anything else of that town?

He wonders what happened. How was his line broken, and why was it fragmented to allow him to wander the world?

There is much news to swap, and many stories to tell. Pictures are shown. Yet there is a sense of flood. The waters cover the details of the land, and make it all murky and brown. Detail gets lost, and things merge.

Generations flow, and people move on. Learning happens. Success and failure. Dreams change. Things shatter. Conversation takes unexpected twists.

There are new bars in town, and the old schools are no longer there. The new hospital gets mixed reviews. Family is treated there, yet it all seems rather a perfunctory experience. They weren’t really happy about it all. Is it just a personal view of entitlement, or a thoughtful perspective on patient care?

When he walked these streets, there was no such concept. He cut his thumb, building balsa planes, and the nurses seemed fine. He still has the scar. Just physical, not mental of course.

Aubrey de Grey says we can all escape death by surfing the longevity curve, waiting for technology to catch up and solve the problems we have. A fantasy? Not really. It already happens. What is now routine surgery was unimaginable when he was growing up.

It would have been considered magic (or at least that’s what Arthur C. Clarke wrote).

Family conversation often takes strange twists. Let’s debate the new migration that makes the town a melting pot – welcome to some, unwelcome to others. Respectful debate veers so close to lines which are moved as generations change.

How can anyone forget that the town has centuries of history, of Romans and monks, of battles and beer.

He leaves. He’s really pleased to have seen everyone, and thoughtful about what it all means. Yet he knows he will never know why it all happened as it did. He will never be able to connect his sense of himself, of where he is today, with that understanding of where he came from.

But the Trent doesn’t forget. The Trent knows.

The Trent keeps flowing.

Posted in Burton on Trent, Family, HDR, iPhoneography, Photography, Prose, Travel, Tutbury, United Kingdom, Writing | Also tagged Burton, change, Dove, Family, floods, iPhone, memories, Trent Leave a comment

Escape to the future, Escape to the past

By mickyates | Published October 30, 2012

Escape

There is a moment of sheer horror when truth is open for all to see.
When eyes that are closed are scared of the night time, and strangers that smile become the immortal.

If it t’were done, said the man, then get the f*** on with it.
Success is a virtue for those that don’t have it.
Speed is a problem for people in slow-mo.
Taste is a matter of feeling and substance.
Heat is a moment with wonderful distance.
If it t’were done, said the man, then get the f*** on with it.

Written 1998

So why this, why now? It’s because of a deal. The past and the future. Escape is always a negotiation between the two. A deal starts with what is, and moves to what should be.

He was in Paris on business this past week. Now, on other days, a trip to Paris is always an adventure. There are things to see, and people to observe. There are new tastes to acquire, and thrills to seek.

The adventure is still there, but there is something a little numbing about the Eurostar routine. It’s a comfortable way to travel of course, and the blackness of the tunnel marks a helpful moment in time. But the routine of a bus is not the same as a road trip. Ask the Beats. The crazy, DeLorean effect of time shift means that it’s just another taxi, just another office, just another meeting.

You are spoilt, the voice says. Others would love to be doing this. Maybe so, your quiet voice says. But your loud voice knows otherwise. That voice knows the pain, the hard work. It’s a job and that’s that.

Macbeth, Act 1, Scene 7

If it were done when ’tis done, then ’twere well
It were done quickly: if the assassination
Could trammel up the consequence, and catch
With his surcease success; that but this blow
Might be the be-all and the end-all here,
But here, upon this bank and shoal of time,

Let’s hope that there is a difference between plunging a dagger into the back of a King, and making a business trip. Well, at least we read that there is. Macbeth’s problem was, of course, his wife, everyone agrees. Yes, he did the dirty dead. But was it his own choice, or did his Lady spur him on? Isn’t that all a bit ridiculous? People inspire others, to do all manner of things. But at the end of the day each of us decides what to do.

Macbeth killed. Fact. Can’t blame the Lady for the dagger.

Was success a virtue in its own right?

Did Macbeth’s success lead to an inevitable dénouement? Fate is at work. When a deal is done, do we recognise that moment of delicious unveiling? You know it’s for real. Yet you worry that there will there be a twist that blows everything apart.

There are too many questions.

The train speeds on. Missing stations. Hurtling into the fog with no chance of stopping in time. How the driver must trust. Signals. Radio. Putting instinct to one side and keeping steady as you go. Is it true that there is a Dead Man’s Handle? Is Macbeth nearby?

The passengers in the cabin pay attention to their tablets, and dismiss the quality of the air. No one notices the Tunnel. It’s a tube, which starts at one end and finishes at the other. It’s all over almost before it starts.

Always a schedule, always a plan. Speed.

The staff were friendly, they even joked. Was it really a stew? Road kill a fellow traveller offered. Taste in food. It begs the question, is there taste in a deal?

“I am a reformed lawyer – but not quite, as I still like to taste the blood.”

Could have been Lady Macbeth, washing her hands to get rid of the mortal stain. The Lady had style. She had taste. Occupying seat 43 another lady had style. Had taste. And she still hated the road kill. What deal had she been doing in Paris?

There’s something aesthetic about a deal, taking a view, connecting the dots. It’s a dance – sometimes a dance macabre, sometimes it rocks, and sometimes it’s just a jig, backwards and forwards. But it has its own rhythm, its own style. A deal is tasteful.

Or, as Macbeth discovered, it’s not when it has no taste. No style. No right.

Taste. The flavour of the deal.

Open the window, please; it’s hot in here. It’s always a game, negotiation. What would good look like? What are our asks? What are our gives? Who’s the good cop?

It gets warm. Ever had a “cold deal’? If you think you have, then to be honest you don’t know what a deal is. It’s always hot. It has pressure. There is a tiny volcano just beneath your seat.

Hold on, don’t move. Hold on.

You want to escape the heat.

You want to calm things down and slow events. You want to escape the volcano.

Macbeth tried. It was a deal that he thought was menacing and cold. But then there were ghosts testifying to the deed. He couldn’t escape. The past showed through, the prophecy foretold when the trees moved.

Escape the past – not possible.

There’s the heat.

Escape to the future.

Posted in Art, France, HDR, iPhoneography, Painterly, Photography, Prose, Writing | Also tagged dagger, deal, DeLorean, escape, HDR, iPhone, Macbeth, negotiation, Paris Leave a comment

Personal Brand – Imagery & Philosophy

By mickyates | Published October 11, 2012

Correction

philosophy
is not
what should be
nor is it
what was
it is simply
what is

I wrote that simple verse in 1969 (!) but it came back to me after the events of this past couple of weeks. And the picture? Well, it was an early morning shot, in the rain, at the company offsite I was at just a few days ago.

Two unrelated things – a poem and a picture, more than 40 years apart? No, they really are connected, as imagery and philosophy are both part of one’s personal brand.

Philosophy? Doesn’t that just mean how we reflect on things? What’s that got to do with branding?

I was trained in Philosophy, or at least had a qualification in the subject. David Hume was always a favourite – and his proof that miracles do not exist was life changing. Not sure that going to gigs and organizing marches is quite the same thing, but at least there was some kind of thought behind it all. Of course, that was before Sartre got involved with darkness and nothingness … that’s another story.

But, if philosophy is reflection, how does it impact us as individuals? There is the kind of reflection that comes from things we have done, either well or badly. Sometimes we just want to learn. Sometimes we want to make excuses. And sometimes we are forced to reflect because of outside influences or events. We philosophize about all of these things, to try to draw patterns and create guideposts for the future.

Last week, the philosopher was talking to a group of young people, explaining how things were going in the business, and where they needed to go. And he made the suggestion that they all define their “personal brand”, because that is important to them as individuals and would be helpful to the group.

But what does that really mean? Is a “brand” a half-fiction, like a good advertising campaign – based on some core idea or truth but with a fantasy twist? Is it just fancy images and superficial content?

Is it a statement of fact – I am what I am – and it can’t be different?

Or is it a work in progress?

It was a talented group, with an eclectic mix of day-to-day skills spread across diverse cultures, different jobs and across thousands of miles. A year ago it was rather a mixture, and maybe a bit fragmented – drawn together for the first time and not sure how the pieces fit. This year, everyone was seeking a sense of purpose and the understanding of a common future.

And it all had a rainbow hue and a twinkle in the eye.

So what is this “brand”, and how does it reflect philosophy?

Well, a brand is partly defined by the skills we have learnt, the education we bring, our family history, and the intent that forms. It’s driven by our personal philosophy, which has been created over time. The classic definition is that a “brand” is a promise or benefit, supported by a reason or technology as to why it’s true – and it all sits on an image, a public face which is consistent and hopefully inspirational over time.

Of course.

It’s more. What mistakes did we make? What will we admit? What would we do differently? And, most importantly, how can we help others learn and grow from what we have done and from where we have been?

Of course.

And, imagery is part of a brand, whether personal or otherwise. How do you speak? How do you project? What’s your style? What will people remember? Imagery. Not superficial, but constant. Not without purpose

“Clothes make the man. Naked people have little or no influence on society.”

So said Mark Twain. Or, as Gandhi said:

“Be the change that you want to see in the world.”

Of course.

And it’s still more. What do we value? What don’t we accept? Where is the line drawn? Where we will leave our mark in the future? What will we be valued for – and what will our tombstone say?

“There are two lasting bequests we can give our children: One is roots, the other is wings.”

said Hodding Carter.

Brands are built on values. We each own our brand. And our brands reflect our unique philosophy, our past and our future. The brands reflect our values, which are not fixed but always in motion.

What are our roots? And where will we place our wings?

It then changed. There was the insanity of indoor hockey, the recreation of the Olympic moment (but without the weeks of rehearsal). Certainly too much of a good time, and there were images galore.

Yet there was the camaraderie of a team – forming, storming, norming, and hopefully performing.

And it changed again. The corporate idea of how it should all be. Meeting with other teams, where the values are at stake, where the lessons need to be broad. Where there’s fun but with some purpose, however well hidden between the lights and the music.

So what happened to the personal brand? Did it get submerged, lost? Or did it get honed, sharpened?

Time will tell.

One thing is for sure.

The ideas of philosophy, of what is, will endure.

The question is, what’s your philosophy?

What are your values? And what is your brand?

Posted in HDR, iPhoneography, Photography, United Kingdom, Writing | Also tagged brand, HDR, image, imagery, iPhone, leadership, personal brand, philosophy, prose, writing Leave a comment

Golden tresses hung on clay

By mickyates | Published October 2, 2012

Golden tresses hung on clay.

That was how he saw things, all those years ago, and he wrote it all down, and shared with his love. But had things changed? Was it all golden? Were there tresses? And what happened to the clay?

It was an early morning at Heathrow. Things were calm after the Olympics, and it was all pretty routine. Security was fast – though how many times must he be told to take his jacket off, and put things on a tray. Is his memory that bad? He had time for a coffee and spicy juice before following the crowd to the plane. Outside, autumn was appearing, like some kind of calming cloak, covering everything. It seemed to get the approval of the onlookers, all keen to get some certainty in the weather.

Odd though that there are no seasons inside the red white and blue tube. Just a trolly with the same coffee and snacks all year round. But there was a window to the outside, and after the usual cotton wool views, the first sight of Norway did indeed show that the gold was starting to appear. Not in huge amounts – spotted across the landscape like dandruff amongst the trees. But bright, clear and demanding attention. He was confused, though. What were those brilliant white spots on the field? Hard to make out. Then he realised that it really was autumn. The white spots were hay bales in their protective coats. Ready to feed the cows during the harsh winter, soon to be upon them.

Taxis are always easy – will that be by card, sir? And do you speak English or German (obviously not Norwegian).

He’d forgotten, though, that he wasn’t alone. She was there, ready to take on the world – or, better said, ready for battle after breakfast. The best meal of the day everyone calls breakfast. When that was first noted, did anyone know about airport sandwiches? He thought not.

It was all pretty straightforward. He went to the office, exchanged pleasantries, started doing business … and then he saw the tresses. Of course he’d seen them before, but today they meant more. He had that poem in his head, and was trying to make sense of it to tell the story of the day.

Once there was a not-so-quiet revolution. For the first time, kids went to Uni instead of the Army. Music rocked the world, and everyone challenged the rules. Mind expanding, eclectic, crazy colours and liberation. No one thought about the future – yet everyone protested about the present. Everyone loved everyone – except of course those that they didn’t – and then they argued and protested. He remembered that demonstration against Maggie. And he remembered the tresses.

Lots of them

Black, gold, red. Straight, curled. Plaited. Short. Long. Masculine. Feminine. And in between.

And there, today, so distant from those days in space, time and money, were the tresses. Long, grey, tidy. They wouldn’t have looked out of place at the Uni Bar. But today they controlled the room. Led the people. Pushed, joked and generally knew their value. The tresses unconsciously bound him to both the past and the present.

It went well. Mission accomplished. And there was still time to enjoy Oslo. Well, at least to sample the food in a restaurant getting ready to face the cold, windy nights with heating and blankets. Not necessary today, but always present, just in case. A pleasant evening amongst colleagues and friends. And, despite that last Akvavit, an early return to the hotel, knowing there was more business to do in the morning.

What he didn’t know, though, was that the airport would develop a unique flaw. “Sorry everyone, we can’t fuel the planes. The entire airport is offline”. Like some kind of warning on his computer. “Cannot connect to the network”.

And then he saw the clay. It was beneath his feet, connecting everything. He walks on it. Uses it. Molds it. Yet none of us really ever see it. It grounds us, just like his plane was grounded, stuck in the clay. Not in the air, flying free. But stuck.

The BA Captain was an unexpected star. First, instead of hiding behind the bureaucracy of the moment, he came out to talk, to explain, to reassure. Then, he managed a small miracle – or was it just a competitive strike?

“Ladies and Gentlemen, we managed to get the last bowser of fuel. So, if you wouldn’t mind (getting your asses in gear) we will leave in 10 minutes”.

Job done.

Leaning back in his seat, in that same tube, with the same trolly but different drinks, his mind wandered. Analysing the day, thinking of the gold, admiring the tresses, and wondering where the clay was now.

And it all came together. The real meaning of the phrase.

Golden tresses hung on clay. A civilisation grown from strands. Combinations and permutations.

The magic of being human, creating worlds of inspiration out of normality. The magic of love and friendship, built from simple origins.

The reality of living.

Sipping his drink, he smiled to himself. He knew he’d explain it all somehow.