Strictly-shaped hole; and Spirit of Harry

My dancing shoes. Moab, Utah.

Ever since last weekend there has been a Strictly Come Dancing-shaped hole in my life.  I genuinely felt a bit depressed on Monday morning knowing that I had seen Harry Judd's Quickstep, Vienese Waltz and Tango for the last time.  And of course, I am missing the sight of the lovely Aliona gracing my TV screen, with her outrageous hair and her outrageous outfits.  I can confirm that Aliona has replaced Natalie as my favourite Strictly professional - purely on the grounds of her choreography and dancing abilities you understand.  


Some scientific (google) research reveals that Aliona has been dancing since the age of 5, so it is a fair bet that she has accumulated the required 10,000 hours of practice.  By contrast, Harry - even assuming he managed 8 hours a day for every day of his time on Strictly - has amassed a paltry 800.  To my mind this makes his performances all the more remarkable; the ability to master so many dances to such a high standard in such a short period of time is staggering.  There must be some underlying talent, but I think much more than that it is a testament to the power of trying real, really hard.  I call this the spirit of Harry


It has been five days since Strictly ended, and I feel it is time to move on with life.  Contemplating this year's series brings two thoughts to mind. First, I wish I could do a good Argentine Tango. And a decent Quickstep, come to think of it.  At some stage I will have to do something about that.  Second, if I want to get better at climbing, I probably just need to try really really hard.  As Kanye West said, "determination, dedication, motivation". The spirit of Harry lives on!

Outside at last!

Nick Mattieu finds another invisible hold
on Huggy (Sit Start), Burbage South boulders.
Photo courtesy of Jamie Waddington
(Jamie Waddington Adventure Photography).

Its been a while.  I think the last time I climbed outdoors was in February. So, after a gap of nine months I finally returned to outdoor climbing with a trip to the Peak District. Burbage South boulders to be precise.  I woke at 6am, left the house at 6.30, picked my friend Jon up at 7, and was ordering a cup of tea at the Outside Cafe in Hathersage by shortly after 10. Such a flying visit is possible - and even pleasurable - due to the wonder that is a modern car.  Its amazing how quickly you can travel when you're prepared to be flexible as to the motorway speed limit. And, crucially, when you're not in a twenty year old camper van with a top speed of 60 miles per hour. In your face, bongo bus!


Jon and I met up with Jon's friend Dave, Dave's friend Bart, and Bart's friend Nick.  Nick turned up first, so Jon and I had no idea who he was.  Apart from a polite 'hello' we studiously ignored him.  This was less to do with Jon and I being reserved Brits, and more to do with Nick sporting sunglasses and dreadlocks and therefore looking like a Good Climber.  In fact, he was a good climber, but also a thoroughly nice bloke.  As was Bart, who it turns out had given up his job in the UK Government Cabinet Office so he could become a teacher in Sheffield and have more time for climbing. He complained that the hours were longer and the pay rubbish, but then revealed that he climbed in the peak district most evenings through the summer months and twice at weekends. "And," he added, almost as an afterthought, "the holidays are pretty good".


It was a fantastic day. The weather was glorious - misty first thing, clearing to beautiful sunshine by mid morning.The sort of day when I can't help thinking there's no where I'd prefer to live than good old England. The autumn colours were stunning. And despite it being late November the sun was warm enough for us to climb in tee shirts, but not quite warm enough to warm the rock  - perfect friction conditions for a day of gritstone bouldering.   Some people say that gritstone has no holds.  The slabs, blunt aretes and desperately insecure sloping top-outs certainly make it feel like that way.  But I prefer Johnny Dawes' definition - that gritstone is actually just one big hold.  I don't think anyone has ever encapsulated the art of gritstone climbing better.  Once you get the hang of the delicate moves, the friction, and the fact that you can trust the sticky rubber of your climbing shoes to cling on in the most improbable positions when it seems like there are no footholds at all, it becomes an intensely enjoyable experience.  


It can also, if you climb for long enough, be an intensely painful experience, at least as far as fingertips are concerned.  The friction-providing texture of the rock gradually wears away the skin on one's fingers and by the end of the day's climbing I felt like mine had been thoroughly sandpapered.  If you climb on grit long enough you get used to it and your fingers adapt, becoming harder and more resistant.  No such luck for my delicate pink city-digits.  We climbed until our fingers could take no more, by which point the sun was starting to set and we decided to call it a day and retire to the nearby pub for a recovery pint before the mad dash down the motorway to London.  


I can't remember a more enjoyable day I've had climbing in the UK - great rock, great weather, and great company.  We even bumped into Jamie the photo guy, who agreed to snap us for the day (see his pics here). And best of all, my dodgy ankle and knee seemed to cope without any complaints. Whisper it quietly, but after six weeks of steady progress at the indoor wall, and one session on the grit, progress is even better than I could have hoped for.  The surgeon originally told me I'd be back climbing within twelve months.  At this rate, by April 2012 I should be even stronger than before.  Its as if the enforced lay off has given me a renewed vigour to push myself further and harder.  And as I sat at my desk on Monday morning, with aching shoulders and a tired brain, struggling to hold my takeaway espresso between fingers still tingling from a day on gritstone's finest boulder problems, I reflected on just how good it is to be back outside at last.

The pursuit of excellence

Excellence personified.
 (picture courtesy of Reuters)

Last night I found myself at the Royal Albert Hall, in the company of Anita, Wonka, Trotter and Proboy.  It was mine and Anita's first outing with the Monday Night Music Club (well, less of an official club and more a loose collective of Swindon and London based lawyers, traders and accountants) and we were there to watch a band called Pink Martini perform their particular brand of jazz-classical-swing-big band-fusion world music, accompanied by the BBC Concert Orchestra.  I know, I know, I was sceptical too.  Particularly about the name.  But I have to say, it was absolutely amazing. (The lead singer was particularly amazing, a striking blonde American lady in an elegant evening dress, with the word LOVER tattooed across her back in enormous gothic script).  Watching this eclectic collection of musicians performing absolutely at the top of their game, in the company of good friends, might just be the one of the best ways to spend a Monday night, ever.  


Watching Pink Martini perform (every time I type that name I feel strangely embarrased) reminded me of a story four times olympic gold medallist Matthew Pinsent told a few years ago.  Interviewed on Radio 4, he was asked about his favourite sport to watch on TV. He replied that he would watch absolutely anything, as long as it was being performed at the highest level of excellence.  I recognised that sentiment in the Albert Hall, when I realised that I too would watch, and listen to anything, as long as it was the best in its field. There is something completely uplifting, inspiring, about watching elite performance, whether in sport, music or anything else.  


As I type this I am listening to a podcast of Michael Johnson on Radio 4's Desert Island Discs. He describes growing up in an average family, one of five siblings, where the accepted aspirations were to go to college, get a good job and work hard.  He explains what was involved, on a day to day basis, in gradually getting himself into a position where he was the fastest runner on the planet over 200 and 400 metres.  He talks vividly about the multiple decisions that he had to take about pace, tactics, and what his opponents were doing, in each of five distinct phases of a race that in its entirety took only 40 seconds.  Excellence seems to be a theme at the moment - last week Haile Gebrselassie, for a long time the holder of the marathon world record - a staggering 2 hours 3 minutes and 59 seconds, almost twice the speed of my own marathon effort  - was interviewed on the morning news.  Asked what his secret was, he gave a self deprecating laugh. "There is no secret," he replied, "just dedication, commitment and hard work".  


In truth, what I find truly inspiring about top level performance is not necessarily the performance itself, but  the sheer effort that has gone in to getting to the point where that level of performance is even possible. Gebrselassie revealed that he runs 160 miles a week, every week, in training (that's around one marathon a day).  The work that Michael Johnson must have put into breaking the 200 and 400m world records, not just during the course of the races themselves, but in the preceding weeks, months and years, is staggering.  He tells a story about the sacrifices involved along the way - about how the last Thursday in November is Thanksgiving, the biggest and most important holiday in the American calendar.  But to him it wasn't thanksgiving, it was Thursday, and Thursday was a training day.  He never missed a day of training in ten years.  Ten years!  "I wanted to be the best I could be. I wanted to be the best I could be so badly that I was there every day.  To be the best you have to take advantage of every opportunity, and every day of training was an opportunity for me."  A true inspiration.  I'm off to do some pull-ups. 

Nothing of interest happened in my life in September

September in East Dulwich.

A couple of weekends ago we had some friends round for Sunday lunch. We ate in the garden; it was a thoroughly enjoyable afternoon.  Over Anita's special dessert my friend Alasdair pointed out that I hadn't written anything on my blog for a while.  (It is always a real treat when someone reveals that they read my blog - even more so when I realised they've paid enough attention to notice that I haven't written anything). My immediate response was that nothing of interest had happened in my life in September.  Alasdair suggested that should be the title for my next blog. Thanks mate! 


Of course, it isn't true.  Loads of stuff happened in my life in September. In no particular order: I started walking without crutches (liberating!); I watched my ankle swell to the size of a grapefruit (scary); I started using crutches again (depressing); I met up with ex-work colleagues I hadn't seen for five years (a lot of baby chat); I went out in Soho (drunken); my mum turned seventy (she doesn't look it); we went to my first two-Michelin-starred restaurant to celebrate (delicious);  I travelled to Brussels (lots of good beer); I travelled to Belfast (lots of rain); I delivered my first overseas training session; for the first time I realised I had a job which sometimes felt more like fun than work (although I probably still wouldn't do it for free); I saw my breath condense in the morning air for the first time since last winter yet still enjoyed a late-September heat wave (I wore shorts and a t-shirt on the way to work); Lara graduated from her new-born bath seat; she started eating solid food (more mush than solids); we finally acquired a coffee table for our sitting room (thanks Mark!); I started doing weights in the gym (the first time since 2005); I did four sessions of physio; my swollen ankle returned to something resembling normal; I booked a weekend ski trip in March (can't wait); for the first time since April I feel like the end might be in sight.


For someone with such a loving family around me, Ive spent an inordinate amount of time in September wishing for something more. Feeling like something was missing, ike nothing was happening. Like time was moving on but I was standing still.  One more thing that happened in September: I went climbing for the first time in six months. I could only get my left shoe half on, I was as weak as a kitten and I down-climbed everything because I was too scared to jump off. But one morning in a sweaty, chalk-dust filled climbing wall in central London was enough for me to realise what I've been missing.  I have to remind myself that it isn't the case that nothing of interest happened in my life in September.  It just sometimes felt that way. I wonder what October has in store?

A little perspective

A different perspective. Luna Park, Sydney, Australia.

There is a great moment in the film This Is Spinal Tap, my favourite film of all time. The band are in Memphis, gathered around Elvis Presley's grave.  "Well", says Nigel Tufnel, stuck for something profound to say, "it certainly puts things into perspective." "Too much!" replies David St Hubbins, "Too much ******* perspective!" On the whole, though a little perspective is no bad thing. 


I have reached a stage in my recovery where I am out of plaster and off the crutches.  I can walk unaided (albeit with a limp) and have started gentle rehab exercises - cycling and light leg weights - in the gym.  I feel like I should be back to normal, yet I still have some way to go.  My leg is completely weak and my ankle remains both swollen and very stiff.  Running, climbing and skiing seems some way off - the physio reckons I have at least two months of thrice weekly gym sessions until my left leg is up to full strength. It is a thoroughly frustrating time. Combined with a return to work and a bout of extreme Lara-related tiredness, I have started feeling a little sorry for myself. 


Then today, I had lunch with some work friends, one of whom is currently in a wheelchair.  After a short delay whilst we waited for the restaurant staff to set up a ramp up to the front door, he greeted me as a fellow member of the "thirteenth of April club". It was on or about that day, around the time I was surfing the stairs with Lara, that he was hit by a car whilst cycling home.  He remembers nothing about the accident or even his journey home that day.  But he was able to describe in detail the injuries he sustained as a result.  A femur fractured in three places, a double pelvis fracture, two punctured lungs, various other internal injuries too unpleasant to recount.  For several weeks whilst his wife and young baby waited to see if he would live, he remained in intensive care, for much of the time in a coma. He was kept alive by a variety of machines, even at one point undergoing dialysis after suffering kidney failure. Five months on he remains in a wheelchair, living in a rehab centre, completely unable to manage even small sets of stairs and some way off being able to return home. Eventually the bolts and pins holding his leg together will be removed and he will walk again. The doctors tell him they'll be amazed if he returns to work before the new year, but that, he told me with absolute defiance, is what he'll do.


Despite it all, he remains remarkably upbeat. As he pointed out to me, at least he's still alive. As I said, a little perspective is no bad thing.

Summer is over.

View from our home for the last three weeks.
Traverse City, USA.

I write this from Gate M11, Terminal 5, Chicago O'Hare Airport. I am about to board an overnight flight to London. We've just had an excellent day in the company of Pauly, Dan, and Pauly's new girlfriend, Ashley.  Pauly and Ashley have been together for a little over four months.  In Pauly years (like dog years, where one year equals seven human years), that counts as a long term relationship.  We ended the day on the beach (I had no idea Chicago had beaches), undoubtedly the last day on a beach for some time.  


It is the end of our three and a half week trip to the US.  Good times with Greg, Carrie, Ethan and Lauren.  Mornings enjoying al fresco coffee, afternoons on the beach, evenings eating out on the deck and shooting hoops in the yard.  A couple of nights ago Carrie stepped out on to the porch and commented that 'fall was in the air'.  The last few days have indeed ended in distinctly autumnal evenings. The mornings are ever so slightly cooler and the sunlight seems subtly different.  For three and a half weeks I have worn nothing more than shorts, a t-shirt and flip flops.  Now I am back in jeans and trainers. Tomorrow we land at Heathrow, and I'll probably put a jumper on.  By Tuesday I will be back in work, in a suit.  


Holidays are finished. Autumn is on its way.  I can't help thinking that summer is over.  And that makes me feel sad.

The unmentionable ingredients

The exact moment that the Tipping Point is reached.
Anzac Day, Sydney 2008.

A number of my regular readers (I think there may be two, possibly three including Anita) noted in relation to my last post on the recipe for a successful wedding, that there seemed to be one or two details about the Charleski bash that I omitted.  Yes, I admit it, there are a few non-essential wedding ingredients which I neglected to mention.  So here goes.


First, excessive Champagne consumption. A few years ago Anita and I went to visit some some friends of ours in Spain for a weekend.  I won't reveal who they were other than to say they live in Valencia and share the same first name.  Lets call them both Alex Harris for argument's sake. We were on our way back from a week's climbing in the high granite peaks of the pyrenees and were generally smelly, tired, and looking forward to a weekend of relative luxury.  Fast forward a few hours and between the four of us we had consumed an enormous omelette, half a side of the finest Serrano ham, several bottles of hearty Rioja and almost an entire bottle of very nice single malt.  Amid the hangovers and general carnage of the following morning, Mrs Harris admitted that since they had had children they didn't really party that much, so when they did, they tended to "go for it".  I was shocked and awed in equal measure.  Is this what happens once you have children?  Well, in my case, it would seem the answer is a resounding yes.  The Charlski wedding marked our first weekend away without Lara, and we were determined to make the most of it. In my case by cracking into the pre-dinner Champagne with gusto. Which was excellent, by the way.


Second, Cigars.  You either love them, or you hate them.  I generally hate them. Even the expensive, high quality, hand-rolled-on-the-thigh-of-a-cuban-maiden types.  That is, until I've consumed enough alcohol to reach The Tipping Point (the point at which all rationality is abandoned, judgment becomes warped and previously Bad Ideas suddenly appear, with absolute certainty, to be Good Ideas). Once the Tipping Point is reached, even the fattest, longest, strongest smelling cigars seem like a fantastically good idea.  It has happened many times - my friend Phil's 18th Birthday (I bought us both fat cigars to symbolise him becoming A Man); my university freshers ball; the 1998 UBBC dinner dance (although the Cigar Incident was overshadowed by the Debagging Incident in which my friend Tom's trousers ended up hanging from a chandelier).  On each occasion I reached a point where all I wanted, more than anything in the world, was to smoke a big fat cigar.  At this point I think I need to offer an apology. Jono, I'm sorry - I appreciate that you spent a lot of money on some very expensive Monte Christo No.4 cigars and I am flattered that you shared them with me. I really did enjoy it - right up to the point that the room started spinning and I had to retire to the toilet for an extended "rest".  


Third, Raspberry Vodka shots. Bad Idea suddenly becomes Good Idea on achievement of the Tipping Point (see above). In a state of misguided generosity I think I bought twelve, which I distributed to those foolish enough to get involved. I hope you enjoyed them more than I did. 


Finally, a Person Who Is More Drunk Than Everyone Else.  Every wedding needs one. It allows you to go home, safe in the knowledge that no matter how drunk you were, you weren't as drunk as That Person.  Unless you were That Person. Which in my case, I was.  In general I would like to think that I added to, rather than detracted from the entertainment  (for the record I'm sorry if I hit anyone when I hurled my (single) birkenstock sandal across the dancefloor whilst performing my one-legged air guitar tribute to Bon Jovi). 


All I can say in my defence was that I am a father of a young baby; I don't get out much; I am out of practice.  In short, I blame it all on Lara. 

Recipe of the day: a perfect wedding

The artists formerly known as Charleski. Sydney, 2009.

Everyone loves a good wedding.  Anita and I have been to a few in the last five years. In 2007 we peaked at seven in a year (eight if I include our own).  But since then the number of invites has steadily decreased as more of our friends join the married ranks and fewer remain unmarried.  Just as it seemed that fortieth birthday parties might be the new weddings (we have been invited to our first, next spring) we got the call up to the wedding of our friends Laura and Jon (collectively, "Charleski") in late July.  Larura and Jon used to live in East Dulwich, but currently reside in Sydney, Australia. They rent a house with a view of Sydney Harbour, drive a convertible Jeep Wrangler and generally live life to the full. They don’t have any children (yet) and when we spend time with them we feel young. Spending time with Laura and Jon generally involves staying up late, eating good food, drinking copious quantities of fine wine and laughing a lot.

The Charleski wedding was a triumph and it got me thinking about the essential ingredients for a great day. On one level a wedding is nothing more than a massive – and often very expensive – party. On another level, of course, it is so much more than that. Beyond the required legal formalities there are many possible ingredients for a successful wedding, but looking back on what made Laura and Jon's day so brilliant I think only four can really be considered essential. The rest, as they say, is gravy.

First, friends. A potted history of Charleski goes something like this: Jon has been best mates with his best man Ollie, since they were eight. Ten years later Ollie met Laura at university, where they became best mates. Ollie then introduced Jon to Laura and the rest is history. So in Jon and Laura’s case we have a friendship triangle or, if you will, a friendship sandwich (with Ollie as the filling - it brings tears to the eyes in more ways than one).  If the wedding was anything to go by, both Jon and Laura seem to have a sprawling and diverse collection friends, many of whom go back to school years and beyond. Some of them have strange names – 'Catfish', 'Toph', and 'Book Guy' amongst them. A surprisingly high number seemed to be called James, although its entirely possible that I drunkenly introduced myself to the same person several times. 

Second, refreshments.  People have got to eat, after all. And they have got to drink. Often to excess.  Jon and Laura opted for a very excellent hog roast, served straight from the carcass, meat, crackling and all.  This was consumed al fresco on long open air tables in the grounds of a magnificent country house in Devon. The pig was washed down with copious quantities of high quality wine, sourced from various vineyards in France by Jon and his dad. For both Jon and his father wine has become less of a hobby and more of an obsession. Jon once told me that if he goes more than a week without buying another case of wine for his collection – his “baby” as he refers to it - he starts to get a bit twitchy.  Their choices did not disappoint, particularly the 2007 red. I should know where it was from, although the details have long since escaped me. I do know that it was lively, fruity, and very drinkable. In vast quantities. By me.

Third, disco dancing.  Thanks to Radio 4 I now know that disco originated in Paris in the mid twentieth century.  Clubs would traditionally provide live musical entertainment, often in the form of a jazz quartet.  One impoverished club owner, unable to pay live performers, opted instead to play records on a gramophone.  Libraries – Biblioteques – already existed, and now the Disc-o-teque was born.  Thankfully things have moved on since then and Jon and Laura opted for a Ceilidh followed by a friend of a friend with his decks and a laptop. I recall dancing a lot, most of it one legged, some of it spent holding my plaster-encased leg out in front of me in a rudimentary air guitar style.  At one stage I was hoisted onto an unknown reveller’s shoulders and spun around the dance floor. Jon told me afterwards he was concerned I’d end the night with two broken legs.

Last, but not least, love.  According to Andrew Lloyd Webber, it both changes everything and makes the world go round. According to the Beatles, its all you need. Whatever. Jon and Laura clearly love each other very, very much. To prove it, Jon cried during the ceremony. (For reference, man-crying at one’s own wedding is entirely acceptable. Man-crying at someone else’s wedding is not). As if to reciprocate the love, Lara cried during Ollie’s best man speech.  The Charleski love was obvious, it was there to see and there's not really much more to be said other than it was - and is - uplifting.

And there you have it - fewer ingredients than a sponge cake. When Anita and I got married, the vicar who married us, the lovely Bernard Schunneman, reminded us that very little is required for a legally binding marriage beyond a bride, a groom, someone to officiate, and a couple of witnesses. Add friends, food, wine, disco dancing and a shed load of love, and you have the recipe for a perfect wedding.  Congratulations Mr and Mrs Borowski!

A taste of freedom

Feeling free atop the First Flatiron, Colorado, USA. 

Today’s post comes to you direct from Traverse City, USA.  Behind us lie work, London and the British summer (eighteen degrees and raining when we left); ahead, 24 days of summer holiday fun in the company of Greg, Carrie and the extended Johns clan.  Freedom beckons: the freedom to do everything or nothing; to go shopping, swim in Lake Michigan, drink coffee, eat fudge, sunbathe, read a book or two.  It is the first summer holiday I can remember where I have not come away with a bag full of ropes, harnesses and climbing hardware, which in itself feels strangely liberating.

I am also, at long, long last, free from the plaster cast that has dogged my life for the past four months.  On Wednesday morning I left the plaster room at Kings Hospital minus one smelly purple samiento cast, and sporting instead a very high-tech looking removable ‘air cast’.  It has a variety of velco straps and buckles and comes complete with a pump to allow me to get that ‘just right’ fit.  Pump notwithstanding, it is not particularly comfortable, nor is it the most graceful item of footwear I’ve ever owned. But at least I can take it off, which at the moment I am doing at every opportunity.

Released from its purple incarceration, my lower left leg was something to behold.  I had a glimpse four weeks ago and things seem to have deteriorated significantly since then.  Once I had removed the thick layer of dead skin (a strangely satisfying task that took about half an hour – my heel looked like it was encased in a thick layer of parmesan cheese) I was able to gaze in wonder at a leg that is basically the same thickness from knee to ankle.  It is also strangely hairy – my left knee now looks like it is wearing a beard. And I have a clearly visible bump where the damaged tibia has grown back thicker and stronger than before.  Now I just have to learn to walk like a normal person. Early signs are encouraging – the consultant seems to think the bone has healed quite well, and my physiotherapist was surprised at the range of movement I already have in my ankle.  When asked to pull my toes back towards my shin it turned out I have about 70% of the range of range of movement of my good foot.  Since the toe-to-shin direction of flex is crucial for walking, this is, apparently a Good Thing. 

This is, annoyingly, only the start of my rehab. I’m told it will take at least three months to build the muscles in my leg back to a normal state and for the time being I’m back on the crutches (which seems like a backward step after last weekend’s crutch-free wedding dance antics - more of which in a separate post). The physio was gentle with my ankle at Wednesday’s manipulation session, although I get the impression that on my return to the UK things may soon turn brutal.  But I can take it – I have had a taste of freedom and I like it!

The science of sleep

Lara asleep. Again. It's just not fair!

I am typing this whilst sitting at my desk in the study (“the library” if I am feeling really poncy).  The sun is streaming through the window, the trees outside are bright green and swaying in the breeze.  On the stereo is a CD of Portuguese jazz, recommended to my by my friend Proboy (“Mate, its amazing. Amazing. I think I’m in love…” ).  Lara is enjoying her morning nap next door in the nursery.  In short, life is good. At least it would be if I wasn’t so tired.  

In those first exhausting weeks after Lara's birth - a constant cycle of eating, pooing and crying (Lara - not Anita and I) - the standard advice seemed to be that everything would get better after three months. Almost true, but not quite.  Lara certainly changed – smiling, sleeping, laughing more and crying less. But the tiredness didn’t get any better. In fact it got worse.  I don’t know why we expected anything different really. The initial tiredness simply compounded itself as the days and weeks went on.  And although night on night I probably now get somewhere between six and seven hours of (admittedly often broken) sleep, I don’t think I have ever recovered from those initial weeks and months.  I used to think of myself as a strict eight hours a night man.  Not any more.

I read recently in National Geographic magazine (ironically read on the toilet in the middle of the night after waking with Lara at 3am) that sleep is something of a scientific black hole. Amazingly, despite decades of study, scientists know almost nothing about it. Some things I learned form National Geographic that scientists do know about sleep: from birth, we spend a third of our lives asleep. The proportion of sleep time spent dreaming declines from about 50% in newborn infants to 25% in toddlers. Only one in five teenagers achieve the optimal nine hours of sleep a night (which may be because a teenager’s natutal sleep cycle – unlike an adult’s – tends towards getting sleepy later at night and waking later in the morning – diametrically opposed to the school timetable). Insomnia affects nearly half of adults aged 60 and older.  Staying awake for 24 hours – which, worryingly, I have previously done both whilst at work and driving home from the Alps - causes mental impairment equivalent to consuming three shots of whiskey in an hour.  More worrying still is Fatal Familial Insomnia. FFI is a disease which results in a total inability to sleep. As D.T. Max reports in stark terms in his National Geographic article, “First the ability to nap disappears, then the ability to get a full night’s sleep, until the patient can not sleep at all. The syndrome usually strikes when the sufferer is in his or her fifties, usually lasts a year, and always ends in death.”  FFI is caused by an inherited genetic defect and fortunately is extremely rare – it has been found in only 40 families worldwide. 

In the 1980s experiments were conducted by scientists at the University of Chicago in which rats were placed on a disk suspended above a tank of water.  If the rats fell asleep they would slide from the disk into the water, and would awake instantly. After two weeks of enforced sleeplessness all of the rats were dead. The only problem was, examinations showed that apart from being dead, the rats were otherwise perfectly healthy- no signs of disease and no damage to any organs. The rats appeared simply to have died from tiredness. So despite the research into genetic disorders, sleep patterns and the effects of sleep deprivation, the big question – why we need to sleep – remains a complete mystery.  The only thing we do know for certain is that we sleep because we are sleepy and without sleep we are certain to die.

In a way it is comforting to know that there are still some things we know very little about.  A bit of mystery in life is a good thing as far as I am concerned.  And ultimately I don't need to know why I need to sleep. All I know, like the scientists, is that I really, really really do need to sleep.  And with that, I can hear Lara waking up from her morning nap.  At least one member of the family doesn’t seem to have trouble sleeping.

What's the point?

She's probably thinking too. About milk.

I seem to have a lot of time on my hands during the working day for thinking at the moment.  I take the train into work; I walk (or rather hobble) half an hour from the station to the office; I repeat the journey in reverse at the end of the day.  What used to be a twenty minute cycle ride is now more like an hour’s commute. I’m under less pressure during the day so I can actually sit outside and take my time over lunch.  All of this leaves a lot of time for contemplation. I now realise this is not necessarily a good thing.

I’ve been in my new job for almost six weeks. The hours are great, the people I work with are lovely. I’m back in a busy office and my job is relatively interesting.  But I can’t help wondering what the point of it all is.   That may sound a little strange, so let me explain.  Not long after we returned from our world trip, feeling buoyed after a year of climbing and travelling, and depressed at the thought of a return to long days in front of a computer screen, I read a blog written by Dave Macleod (another of my climbing heroes – I have lots) about making difficult life decisions. He was writing in the context of improvement in climbing ability. As he wrote, “How are you going to get better at climbing? Don’t work now to get freedom later. It won’t happen.  Find work that gives you the freedom now. Getting through the issue of finding the right work that fits what you want to do (as opposed to fitting what you want to do around your work schedule) will most likely involve some radical action and some quite scary decisions or risks. It’s just easier to stay safe and not do it. But then, in no time, twenty years will have gone past. Don’t turn around in twenty years and find yourself asking the same question.”

I thought about that a lot over the course of the following year, as I found myself increasingly unhappy with work, and increasingly frustrated with the knowledge that I had tasted a life lived differently, but which was rapidly disappearing into my past, seemingly never to be repeated.  People would tell me how envious they were of our trip and I would respond by telling them that everyone should take a year of work to pursue their passion at least once, but that they should be aware that if they do so, it will ruin their life forever.  I was only half joking.  As the date of Lara’s arrival drew ever closer I found myself struggling to see how I could possibly balance my own interests - climbing, skiing, photography – with my desire to spend time with wife and new daughter as well as the demands of my job.  Ultimately, Dave Macleod was right, and the solution lay in some radical (and, yes, scary) decisions. 

Well, Dave, I’ve given up an obvious career path and good promotion opportunities so that I can work manageable hours, call my weekends my own and take long holidays. I have the time to climb and to ski, and am desperate to do both.  But the closest I can get to the great outdoors is the latest edition of Rock and Ice magazine.  And I know it’s irrational, but when I’m on the train, on the long hobble to and from London Bridge station, or when I’m sitting outside with my lunchtime sushi, I find myself thinking: what’s the point? Today I felt so down I went into Snow & Rock on the way home and bought a brand new headtorch (Black Diamond, lime green, half price). I have to admit, that cheered me up quite a bit (I’m wearing it as I type). 

The question of course, as my management consultant Paul might say, is a no brainer. Because every day when I get home form work, as soon as I walk through the door and hobble up the stairs, I scoop Lara into my arms and listen patiently as she gurgles away with a huge smile on her face.  I bounce her on my knee, I rub my face against her fuzzy bald head and I inhale the smell of her soft baby skin.  I remind myself that I have a beautiful daughter who I see every morning and every evening. Next year I will work a four day week and she and I will share a dedicated mid-week “daddy day”.  And it is in these moments that I can see with absolute clarity what the point is. Because in six months or so I’ll be back climbing.  Within a year I’ll be skiing again.  But this time with Lara is a once-only offer. And no salary, career, or promotion can buy that. 

Purple is the new orange

The scabby deformed object
formerly known as my left foot.

I have both good news and bad news to report today after this morning’s hospital visit.  First the good news: they removed my orange cast, which had started to smell like a particularly fetid tramp.  The bad news: they replaced it with another – purple – one, which will be with me for another month.  Although Anita might disagree - she really didn't like the smell, whilst I had got used to it (a sort of comforting dribbly-pillow odour) - on balance, the bad news far outweighs the good.

Some observations from this morning’s session in the orthopaedic clinic. First, the machine they use to remove the plaster cast is awesome.  Its like a circular saw, but which vibrates instead of rotating.  It will cut through solid plastic and plaster of paris with ease, but has no effect on anything soft. I had a couple of minutes' worth of fun with the Welsh plaster technician slicing through the plaster and then pressing the lethal looking blade into my hand.  (The orthopaedic clinic is wild – wild I tell you). Second, and I’m sorry for banging on about this, but things really could be worse. This morning I was nearly run over by a small one-legged boy - maybe seven years old at most - doing wheelies in his wheelchair whilst his mum chased him down the corridor waving his prosthetic leg.  He high-fived all the doctors and seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself. Inspiring and humbling in equal measure.  Third, a foot which has been left unwashed, and encased in plaster for three months, is really, really minging.  When they first removed the orange cast I gazed in wonder at the deformed scabby object that used to be my left foot.  I picked tentatively at what looked like a thick coating of wax and was amazed as a huge flap of dead skin effortlessly peeled away in my hand.  I handed it to the plaster technician for disposal – she assured me she had seen much worse, although she might just have been being nice.  I thought it was too good not to share, so apologies if any of you opened today's post whilst eating.

I had a lengthy conversation with the doctor about why my leg is healing so slowly. Apparently its all to do with the way my Tibia (shin bone) broke – essentially diagonally along its length – which means a lot of the outer layer of bone, which contains the blood vessels essential for re-growth, were stripped away.  When I asked him if it was normal for a fractured Tibia to take this long he replied “well, it really was quite a bad fracture”. That made me feel pretty good about myself, I have to admit.  Long term I’ve been advised not to ski until twelve months post-break, which pretty much rules out next season.  I am completely gutted, although am seriously considering a snow-shoeing holiday as the next best thing.  When it came to the short-term prognosis I put my foot down (pun intended) and insisted I had to be out of plaster by 4 August - our departure date for a three week trip to the US. As luck would have it they had a free appointment on 3 August, and I am now booked in for full plaster removal.  By then I will have been in plaster for a third of this year.  Wednesday 3 August can not – I stress, can not – come soon enough. 

Categories of fun

Cold, tired and fed up: it must be type 3 fun.
Pauly feels the pain hiking the Aspen Bowl, Colorado USA.

According to Kelly Cordes, pioneer of the "fast and light" (a.k.a. "cold and hungry") approach to mountaineering, shack-dwelling dirtbag, fellow broken leg veteran, and one of my all time climbing heroes, there are three categories of fun. Type 1 fun encompasses those things that are, on their face, fun.  Going to the cinema or theatre, climbing on warm rock in the spanish summer, enjoying beers on a hot day with friends, playtime with Anita and Lara on the back garden astroturf; all of these things are Type 1 fun.  Type 2 fun covers those things which some people might not think of as fun, but which clearly are. Things that involve a bit of suffering, but despite that – or because of it – are fun.  Running a half marathon is classic type 2 fun.  Likewise camping in the rain, a hard workout at the climbing wall, or peak district bouldering in february.  Type 3 fun is reserved for those activities which most people wouldn’t see as fun, and, in truth, aren’t actually fun at the time. They are those things which, at the time you are doing them, you wish you weren’t, but you look back on afterwards (usually from the comfort of a warm tent, or even the pub) and realise were fun.  Getting soaked to the skin, lost, hungry and scared in the Scottish highlands in January; running a marathon wearing soaking wet trainers; spending an endless night trying to sleep under a Land Rover next to a major road; climbing seven pitches into the dark in the Blue Mountains of Australia and then realising we didn't know the way down. All these things feature in my personal list of type 3 fun activities. 

In my pre-fatherhood days I would often see couples out walking in Dulwich Park, usually with a sprog in a pram.  Not running, just walking. Round the park, essentially in a circle.  I struggled to see, through my naive sprog-free outlook, how this could be fun.  Since the arrival of Lara, I very quickly found out that walking around a park, pushing a pram containing a small baby (usually fast asleep) could be fun, albeit firmly of the type 1 variety. No big deal, you might think.  


But since breaking my leg I have started to question the entire basis of my fun categorisation methodology.  Two weekends ago, newly liberated from my big blue cast, I went for a walk – or rather a crutch – around the park with Anita and Lara.  We did one circuit (it isn’t very far) and it took about an hour.  It rained almost continuously, my leg ached and after half an hour the palms of my hands were in agony. By the end I was exhausted.  But despite all the discomfort, I thoroughly enjoyed it.  So much, in fact, that when Anita asked if there was anything special I'd like to do on Father's day, without hesitation I requested another walk around the park. Even though it was forecast to rain. In fact, because it was forecast to rain.  We might get wet - a bit cold, even. And I could wear my favourite gore-tex jacket. It would be an adventure!  It was then that I realised - with some shock - that a simple walk around the park had somehow been elevated on the fun scale.  Perhaps not type 3 fun, but definitely type 2.  Has my broken leg in some way recalibrated my fun-o-meter?  Is a broken leg worth an extra grade on the fun scale?   

I have decided that in order to re-set the scale I need to undertake a proper Type 3 fun challenge as soon as I am sufficiently recovered. Something to aim for when I am back up to full strength.  At the moment I don’t know precisely what this will involve, beyond a certain amount of discomfort, tiredness, and probably some bad weather.  A friend at work sent me a link to the "South Downs 100" - an off-road ultra-marathon over 100 miles of the finest southern English countryside.  They limit the race to 100 entrants and pick you up in a van if you are still running after 32 hours.  It definitely has all the ingredients for pain, suffering, possible disaster and defnite type 3 fun.  All I need is a couple of running mates.  Toby? Hugh? JC? The next South Downs 100 I could feasibly enter is in August 2012, so you've got plenty of time to think about it.  In the meantime I’ll keep on crutching round the park. 

Happy father's day (for yesterday)!

All her own work.

Yesterday I celebrated my first ever Father's Day as a father.  I don't think I ever really celebrated it properly before as a son - I'm ashamed to say that I would generally forget to buy my dad a card in time, so it would invariably turn up late.  Unfortunately for me dad never forgot it was Father's day - my sister's card would arrive bang on time each year to remind him. Dad, if you're reading, I am a bad son and I'm really sorry.


Luckily for me, my daughter is far more organised than I.  Not only did she buy me a card, a book entitled "Me and my Daddy" and a pedicure set for my withered foot, she also made a beautiful present out of a picture frame and some left-over Scrabble letters.  And all that at three and a half months!  


We had a memorable day, starting with brunch by Anita, which we enjoyed with Sophie and Hugh and their two boys.  (Hugh told me over brunch that he didn't actually recognise Father's Day, on the basis that it is a capitalist conspiracy instigated by the global greeting card industry.  He's probably right.  He also pointed out that he didn't celebrate Monther's Day because, for Sophie, "every day is like Mother's Day, so there's nothing special to celebrate". So far Sophie has yet to confirm this theory.) After a trip to the playground, where Raffi did a small wee in his pants, the Frenches left and we had a family siesta, followed by a long walk around Dulwich park. We topped it off with an ice cream "english style" (i.e. eaten under a tree, sheltering from the rain).  We rounded off the day with posh fish and chips at the Sea Cow.  My theory on fish and chips is that if I don't feel physically uncomfortable when I leave the table, I haven't eaten enough.  Yesterday was no exception.  A perfect end to a perfect day!

Blue Down, Orange To Go

The withered one is on the left.

So, this morning I had my enormous blue plaster removed, and I think my life has improved about 1000 per cent.  My new svelte ‘sarmiento’ cast (so named after Dr Sarmiento who invented it in the 1960s – it is moulded to the knee so supports some weight on the knee cap) is smaller, lighter, better fitting and, importantly, orange (blue is so April 2011).  I can now, for the first time in two months, bend my knee.  What a difference!  Aside from the twinges of pain when I do bend it (after two months of total inaction my knee now feels like a rusty hinge), a world of possibilities has opened up.  I can sit up in a proper chair, I can get in the bath all on my own (with the aid of my special leg condom), I can lie in any position I choose in bed, and I can sit in the front passenger seat of the car.  I feel like an adult again.

As expected, the muscles in my left thigh have withered away to almost nothing, to the point where simply lifting my lower leg out in front of me seems like a monumental struggle.  And although my left leg now feels incredibly light, whenever I put any weight on it I have the strangest feeling that the entire leg is going to crumple beneath me.  A few more months on crutches lie ahead, as well as quite a lot of hard work to full recovery. But I will get there.  I’m back in hospital in a month’s time when they will decide how long this cast should stay on for.  I am crossing my fingers that it will be off in six weeks, but I have learned not to get my hopes up.  With any luck by the time we go to the states in August I will be plaster free and able to get in the pool to give Lara her first swimming lesson (one can’t start early enough).  I will still probably be on crutches by then, but at least I'll get a lift through the airport on one of those buggy things with a flashing orange light (every cloud...). 


There is light at the end of the tunnel. Life is good! 

Camping is fun!

Room with a view - camping in the Cordillera Blanca, Peru. 

Last week I lent my Terra Nova tent to our friends the Frenches. One of my most prized possessions (sad, I know), I bought it for my first camping trip with Anita.  I was conscious of the amount of strife I’d endured with an ex-girlfriend in a too-small tent (she got sick of my old two-man model – apparently getting changed lying down and having to take turns sitting up in the limited head room isn’t for everyone. I now realise I could have saved a lot of trouble by simply changing girlfriends, rather than tents).  The new model sleeps three and – crucially – allows the occupants to all sit up at the same time. Built to withstand the harshest conditions of Himalayan expeditions, I think the Frenches plan to use it in Dorset (at least they will be in safe hands).  Hugh wisely opted for a trial run in his back garden.  On Monday afternoon he called me: “Erm, David, could you explain the significance of the red pole – it appears to be a different length to the blue poles”.  Ten minutes later he was back on the phone: “Right, all the poles are in, but it’s a bit flat. Any tips on making it more… three dimensional?”  After another ten minutes I received a text – the tent was up. Mission accomplished, the Frenches were ready to rock and roll.  What’s not to love about camping?

Not long before I knacked my leg Anita and I had discussed the possibility of a camping trip with our friends John and Charlie and their sprog Sophie.  Sadly that particular plan – along with a few others – had to be put on ice.  Even for me I don’t think crawling in and out of a small tent and sleeping on a thin foam pad with a full length leg cast qualifies as fun – even type 3 fun.  For a short while though I was extremely excited about taking Lara on her first camping trip.  I think more than the prospect of a sleepless night in the confines of a tent with a small baby, I was really excited about the symbolism of the trip. There is a great tradition of camping in the Phillips family, passed down from my parents, and one I certainly aim to continue with my offspring. My mum once showed me a picture of myself, aged less than one year old, sitting on my potty in the middle of a field in the Lake District, so I know I started early.  And I think it is fair to say that most of my favourite childhood memories involve camping – whether it was Whitsun in the Lake District, weekends with the Scouts, or the annual Phillips family summer pilgrimage to “Camping Le Ville L’Eglise” in France.

Just a small selection of my favourite childhood camping memories: The warmth of the cook tent on a cold morning; The sound and smell of the gas stove; Pulling on a warm fleece after a freezing morning swim in Coniston Lake; The excitement of passing the magic mushroom heading north on the M6; Celebrating my sister’s birthday, every year, in a tent in the Lake District; Mass camping trips with Great Sankey High School; My dad cooking 160 fried eggs and taking bets on how many yolks would break; Building dams in the stream at Hoathwaite Farm; Incurring my mum’s anger after soaking all my clothes within an hour of arrival; Lying inside a Vango Force 10 tent marvelling at how the orange fabric makes everything glow;  Snuggling into a soft down sleeping bag;  Listening to the comforting hiss of a gas lamp; Spam sandwiches before day hikes;  The annual slog to the summit of Coniston Old Man (I still love it); Marvelling at my dad’s ability to eat tomato soup, shepherd’s pie, and strawberry angel delight one after the other from the same bowl (as a child it seemed beyond my comprehension – I have since done much, much worse);  Tent inspection on Scout camp; The slimy toad and his band of wannabe French soldiers in Evian (Liz knows who I mean); Sun; Rain; Wet clothes; Sheep poo; Wellington Boots; Hiking Boots; Flip flops; Jelly Shoes; Going to sleep when it gets dark and waking up with the first light; Kendal Mint Cake; The unmistakeable smell of lying on the ground in a damp field.

After my first camping trip with Anita (to Coniston – the weather was, unusually, glorious) she proudly announced she’d never camped before. I was boggled – I had just assumed she was a seasoned camper.  I suddenly felt a sense of guilt that I’d made her poo in the woods because I was too tight to pay for a campsite with a toilet block. But against all odds she was undeterred and I am pleased to say that Anita has fully embraced the Phillips camping tradition.  I hope its genetic - I might have to live my camping life vicariously through the Frenches for now, but it won’t be long before I am back up to full camping capacity and at that point little Lara isn’t going to know what’s hit her.

I don’t think I will ever tire of camping.  Whenever I am lying in a warm sleeping bag inside a small tent, listening to the gas stove purring and waiting for the first cup of tea of the day I cannot, honestly, think of anywhere I’d rather be. My heart still soars whenever I drive through the Lake District - give me a tent over a five star hotel any day. Warm, dry, wet or cold: as my dad used to say: ”camping is fun!”.

Status Anxiety

Poorer, but no less happy - another night sleeping in our 1986
pick-up truck.  Yosemite National Park, California.

I’ve been reading a great book by the imaginatively named Alain de Botton, called Status Anxiety.  If you can get hold of a copy, do so.  (I 'borrowed' my copy a while ago from my sister - sorry Liz, I don’t think I actually told you – it was on that bookshelf next to your spare room and I just helped myself).  The central premise of the book is that status – traditionally thought of as a matter of one’s position in society, but in a broader sense a matter of one’s value and importance in the eyes of the world – is considered one of the finest of earthly goods.  De Botton reckons that high status brings pleasant consequences including “resources, space, comfort, time, and a sense of being cared for and thought valuable – conveyed through invitations, flattery, laughter (even when the joke lacks bite), deference and attention”.  However, whilst the hunger for status can spur us on towards excellence, it can also bring us harm.  In particular, it can lead to a destructive fear that we are in danger of not conforming to the ideals that society has laid down - that we are not occupying a high enough rung on the ladder of success, or are in danger of falling to a lower one.  De Botton thinks this is capable of ruining extended periods of our lives and he calls the condition ‘status anxiety'. De Botton goes on to explore the causes of status anxiety – both perceived and real.  He points out the shifting nature of concepts of status, as between different societies and through different periods of history, whether it derives from athletic prowess, accumulation of wealth, intelligence, or birthright. It makes for fascinating reading. I haven’t got to the end, so I don't yet know whether he offers a miracle cure.

I have, in the course of the last month, changed my job. Whilst I will stay at the same law firm, I will no longer be a fee-earning lawyer.  In other words, I will be a cost to the business, rather than a source of profit.  In my new role as a 'Professional Development Lawyer' (a rather fancy name for someone who trains other lawyers without having to actually do much lawyering himself), I have waved goodbye to daily timesheets, to unpredictable (and often long) hours, to the stress of dealing with client queries (always urgent), to billing, to having to constantly check my blackberry (in order to be truly ‘responsive’), and to the pressure to record seven and a half chargeable hours a day, every day. But I have also said goodbye to being a senior associate at the City's leading litigation firm, to having a nice office with a trainee to mentor, a great team of junior associates and a fantastic secretary, and to the excitement of working on some of the biggest – and most difficult - disputes in the UK Courts.  As a senior associate I was, I would like to think, respected by both my peers and my superiors, liked by my co-workers (if not all my clients), and generally valued for my contribution to my team and the firm as a whole.  I was on the promotion track and would, with hard work and a bit of luck, be admitted to the partnership within the next couple of years.  In short, I had status.

So why the change of job?  There are many reasons, but I think they all point to two (interlinked) things: time, and fun.  Ultimately I found myself short of both. The stress, late nights, unpredictable (and often seemingly unreasonable – until I remember what my hourly rate is) client demands, endless blackberry checking, the tedium of huge commercial disputes, the thousands of documents, even the lack of time – all these things were bearable as long as I was having fun.  But over the course of the last year I found myself increasingly leaving work feeling unhappy, annoyed, or a combination of both.  I could never really put my finger on why until it hit me as blindingly obvious: I just wasn’t having that much fun any more.  As I have said before, being a lawyer is all I ever really wanted to be, even if I don’t know why (perhaps I just love a good argument, as Anita and my mother will both no doubt attest).  So I suppose I’ve lost my lawyer mojo (two words that I suspect are rarely found in the same sentence).  Maybe temporarily, maybe forever. Will I ever be a ‘proper’ lawyer again?  Who knows.

Anyway, having revealed my innermost agonies for your delectation, I suppose I should return to the subject of this post.  One part of the switch to my new job involved agreeing a new (lower) salary.  I dutifully drew up an excel spreadsheet to see what the effect on my monthly income would be – I have a mortgage to pay, after all.  And the funny thing is, taking a substantial salary cut, whilst not ideal, is not what has worried me the most. Instead, I have been plagued by a sense that by stepping away from fee-earning, I am stepping down from something, moving to a lower position.  What I suppose I am really struggling with is the feeling that I won’t be valued. That I won’t be as well respected or, perhaps, as well liked, as I was as a lawyer at the sharp end. I suppose I am worried that I will miss, in De Botton's words, the “resources, space, comfort, time, the sense of being cared for and thought valuable – conveyed through invitations, flattery, laughter, deference and attention”. Ok, so I never got that much deference, but people did generally laugh at my jokes (most of the time).

In a couple of weeks’ time I will be off the sofa and into the office to start my new job.  At that point perhaps I will simply have insufficient time to worry about such matters.  And I should remember that for me, changing jobs is all about giving myself more time, having more fun and being happier.  In his book De Botton quotes the nineteenth century philosopher John Ruskin.  In 1862, in Unto This Last, Ruskin urges us to set aside our ordinary wealth and power-based notions of status in favour of a ‘life based’ view.  As he wrote, “there is no wealth but life, including all its powers of love, of joy and of admiration. That country is richest which nourishes the greatest number of noble and happy human beings; that man is richest who, having perfected the functions of his own life to the utmost, has also the widest helpful influence, both personal and by means of his possessions, over the lives of others.  Many of the persons commonly considered wealthy are, in reality, no more wealthy than the locks of their own strong boxes, they being inherently and eternally incapable of wealth.” Literally, wise words.

This post has gone on far longer than is decent. So, if you are still reading, I’ll share one last nugget of wisdom, this time from the Greek peninsula in the fifth century BC.  De Botton recounts a story about Alexander the Great passing through Corinth, where he visits the famous philosopher Diogenes. He finds Diogenes penniless and dressed in rags, sitting under a tree.  Alexander, the most powerful man in the world, asks if there is anything he can do for him.  “Yes,” replies Diogenes, “you could step out of the way. You are blocking the sun.” Alexander the Great, famed for his vicious temper, simply laughs, and says if he weren’t Alexander the Great, he’d certainly like to be Diogenes.  I think I would too.