As 2012 comes to an end so the inevitable opportunity to look back on the past twelve months presents itself.
And, in-keeping with a post I published late in 2011, the chance to lay out a few hopes for the next twelve months is too irresistible to ignore.
So, what what were the things which marked out 2012 for me? Here’s the list.
At the beginning of the year I couldn’t imagine getting excited about the Olympics. Within only a few days of the torch relay I was swept along by the euphoria. Yes, the sporting events were unexpectedly compelling (possibly because most were short bursts guaranteed to hold even the most disinterested of TV viewers).
More importantly however, the opening ceremony achieved something none of us realised we collectively needed: the reassurance that when when push comes to shove we can organise things well and those of us who weren’t involved can enjoy it without the usual cynical subtext.
It was a real shame the effort bombed spectacularly. It failed to gain any sort of traction on the Internet or within the circles I’d hoped to influence. No matter. It was good work.
This year also saw me tackle one of my personal challenges. I’ve finally got my current account in order. I can now look at my bank account balance on a daily basis and not fear what it says. I’m not exactly rolling in it (there’s still plenty to sort out yet), but it’s a major achievement.
Back in January I completed on a professional challenge a former boss inadvertently set when he ‘advised’ me that because of my technical background, I’d never make it editorially. I took on editing the About the BBC blog at the beginning of this year, nearly five years after my former boss’ ‘encouragement’ and just over seven after i joined the Beeb as a webmaster. I work with some truly amazing people and feel as though I’ve grown as a result. Raise a glass, if you’d be so kind.
I turned 40 this year. So far, I am loving my forties.
I rediscovered the joy of drinking tea from a cup with a saucer. Not only that, I also discovered that strong tea is the way forward.
Cycling has become part of my daily routine again. I’m enjoying it too.
Learning how stress and anxiety effects me and discovering new ways of managing it has been liberating.
I’ve learnt to love strategies, key messages and statistics. There. I’ve said it.
I did succeed in my aim of not getting quite so involved in the BBC Proms – my God, the summer was glorious. So much so in fact that I only got along to one Prom. The best, in my opinion. Peter Grimes. A tear-jerker of a success.
I’ve managed to turn things around in the kitchen. There are statistically fewer monthly disasters at the end of this year compared with at the beginning.
So. That’s all good then. Collectively, a real result.
Cynical journalists pour scorn on the readiness of individuals to set goals for the coming year, reckoning the motivation no more than a knee-jerk reaction to the Christmas excess. Shame. That isn’t how it is at all. Having a plan – or at least, a few tick boxes – makes things a bit easier. It also provides the basis for some copy 12 months from now. Everyone’s a winner. Those cynical journos are lazy thinkers.
What about 2013? What’s the plan for the next twelve months?
Continue to stop wasting money; strive to pay off more debt.
Consolidate this blog around the subject areas I’m interested in and develop its audience.
Develop my coaching skills. It takes practice. Any volunteers?
Get to the gym once a week maybe more (in addition to the cycling regime).
Have at least one trip to the cinema, two trips to the theatre and read one book a month.
Get a radio doc commissioned. A bold goal, but not necessarily out of reach.
Stop biting my nails. It’s boring.
End the year feeling less-defined by my love of my employer than I am at present. Pride is one thing, emotional dependency is something quite quite different.
And finally …Make 2013 the year I finally write the most difficult thing of all: some fiction. One short story, maybe more. That’s all.
A few days ago I did something I don’t normally do. I ploughed through my blog entries, audioboos, videos and YouTube favourites to see what I could recall from this year. The process threw up some surprises – I collated them.
Speaking to Biddy was a real joy. It summed up the ultimate thrill I sometimes experience, that of chance encounters and the unexpected thrills which can emanate from them.
Despite not being in front of the camera, Biddy Baxter was part of my childhood. Through her spearheading work in children’s entertainment, I felt part of a family, unwittingly participated in a forerunner of social media (writing letters into the show in the desperate hope for a response) and began my love affair with BBC Television Centre and my present employer (it still hasn’t quite sunk in I was part of the team who was team delivered the Corporation newest corporate website, and yet now I do stop to consider it seems only right I did given my obsessive love with the organisation).
The point about this interview with Biddy is that it sums up everything. It acts as a signpost to the past, a marker for the present as well as being something special to hang on to for the future. I remember the excitement I felt when I received a signed letter from Biddy thirty or so years ago. It’s that same excitement you hear in my voice during that interview.
Similar experiences are to be found throughout the year. And as I recall them here and now, I notice I go all dewey-eyed thinking about them.The most obvious is bumping into Graham Norton on a bike ride from Lewisham to Tower Bridge in London.
The reason for the bike ride was simple: I was at that moment in the year feeling incredibly unhappy. Those feelings had been ongoing for sometime and it struck me as the most obvious and cheapest kind of therapy to get on my bike and get some endorphins charging around my body.
The significance of the piece I ended up editing together for the BBC Proms this year as a result of that bike ride may – possibly – be lost on some people. Let me explain (briefly) here.
First off, the many BBC Proms videos I’ve made stem from one week in April 2007 when I was laid up at home as a result of a bicycle accident. Bored out of my mind, I ended up making a small promotional piece for the Proms. I posted it on my blog and – before I knew what was really happening – a number of people were encouraging me to make more. That work became an important part of my career progression and also a creative outlet which brought a great deal of pleasure.
This year, a different medical ailment prompted me this time to turn to my bike. And in doing so I bumped into someone who was at the centre of my first piece of video production (prior to the Proms work). In March 2007, I spent ten days doing work experience on a new independent show for a revamped BBC Two. The show was the Graham Norton Show. I made a video diary about my experiences then (the team incidentally thought I had been an uncover reporter for the News of the World – the cheek!) which is what had spurred me on to do something about the Proms.
So there was a feeling of delicious synchronicity about bumping into Graham Norton that Saturday afternoon. And, now I look back on that video I can also see – with a spot of hindsight thrown in too – how the message I was giving off was pretty clearcut too. Classical music really isn’t difficult. The idea that we have to make something perceived to be difficult (when it really isn’t) more accessible, is ridiculous. There is only so much those of us who adore the genre can do to encourage those who haven’t considered it to consider it. If I haven’t persuaded you by now, then you’re a lost cause. You’re on your own.
It’s a short hop from the BBC Proms to the Orchestra of the Age of Enlightenment. That which I pursued at the Royal Albert Hall ended up falling in my lap (albeit on a considerably smaller scale) courtesy of the OAE.
Presenting the pilot for the OAE Pub Gigs wasn’t necessarily the breeze I had thought it might be, but I did come out of it the other end and – in case you weren’t already aware – that has led on to a fully fledged tour of pubs in the next few months in London. I’m really looking forward to that next year and sharing more about the rather bizarre experience that is .. presenting live events. That is what I would loosely describe as an achievement for 2011, one for which I do rather depend on the likes of Will and Ceri at the orchestra.
While we’re on the subject of achievements – and blowing one’s own trumpet – I can’t let this moment go by without reference to my ‘moment’ on BBC Radio 5 Live (below).
In radio terms, this wasn’t something I was expecting to make it on to Pick of the Week. It wasn’t in itself ground-breaking journalism. Just a simple series of interviews secured on a trip to Amsterdam during The Next Web Conference, sent back to the editor – Jamillah Knowles – in London with a few scripted links recorded by me in Amsterdam to bring the whole thing together. It was one of those moments when – completely sober – I noted how incredibly exciting the process of radio journalism can be. (And I wouldn’t mind doing it again, despite what you read here.)
If I was to take the crude approach to reviewing the year, it would be analysing statistics. And in case you’re wondering, there is no bias towards classical music. Instead, it’s light entertainment. For the third year running I notice that there’s an undeniable almost distressing spike in my blog statistics around about May. This is only down to one thing. Eurovision.
I still find it difficult to understand why it is that anyone would consider coming by my blog around Eurovision time. I’m neither officially engaged in the Eurovision process, nor anywhere near as knowledgeable as some other blogging fans. Consequently, the inevitable feelings of fraudulence bubble up to the surface. And yet, it’s reassuring. Not least because this year was a very special Eurovision year for me. One I suspect won’t be repeated for some years to come.
Latvia in 2003 was my last visit to Eurovision. Back then my lack of experience bled into the at times overly-emotional response to the childhood dream I felt I was experience. After that personally momentous week I’d held off from going back, convinced that I’d stick out like a sore thumb, that I didn’t know enough and that I absolutely didn’t deserve to be there in the press centre with the other fans and journalists.
This year however, with only a few weeks before the final accreditation date for journalists, I managed to secure myself a pass to the press centre. I went to Dusseldorf for only 24 hours and live blogged my experiences, had a similarly thrilling experience in the UK press conference as I had in 2003, before returning home and watched the final on TV in my lounge.
That process garnered the most hits on my blog I’ve ever had. Something I value a great deal. Even now. Despite the fact that the Eurovision is – in the grand scheme of things – a pointless, meaningless piece of instantly forgettable mainstream light entertainment.
And it’s that feeling – that overwhelming feeling of euphoria mixed with almost disbelief – which helps me explain one blog post I’m both proud of and frightened of. One I wrote this year on a tube journey back from work one day. A post which resulted in a number of people at work taking me to one side and asking me, “Are you OK?”
Aside from the sudden and unnerving attention my blog and I was getting, I was absolutely fine. What I explained about Letter from the Den: Plot 74 was that it wasn’t so much a cathartic experience as an unexpectedly reassuring experience. It really was possible to sit down without a page of notes, without an idea of what it was I wanted to achieve and to write. And to enjoy the process. And to divorce myself from the piece when the final full stop had been committed.
The process is something all who enjoy writing should force themselves to do from time to time. It is exhilarating and very, very self-affirming.
As I come to write that difficult end of year review, it is these elements – and no others – which fill me with warmth about 2011. It is these experiences which propel me into 2012 too, moments which make me look forward to the moment Big Ben signals the beginning of a new year with the potential for new opportunities, new experiences and new thrills.
Raise a glass. Pause to consider your own year. Share it, if you so fancy. Otherwise, think about Tomorrow.
The sun is hot. Very hot. There’s the smallest of breezes, but the excitement from the crowd here on the South Bank more than makes up for it.
The Festival Hall is the new must-go-to location in Central London. I’m sitting on concrete benches. Beside me is a lady drawing up her to-do list in her notepad. On my right, two well-spoken thirty-somethings friends sit and chat, meeting for the first time in many months. They share surgery stories. One of them says that a patient at the hospital nearly died today. That was his high point today. Both seem quite happy.
In front of me people lean against the wall, looking out over the river as they knock back the cans of beer they’ve bought at the nearby supermarket. Nobody minds they haven’t gone to the bar. It’s all quite bohemian really what with their long hair, canvas shoes and shades.
It’s lovely to be here. There’s a relaxed vibe about the place. And it’s much needed. The architecture – the concrete – has a surprisingly reassuring effect on me. It’s as though my mother has put her arm around me. “There, there chump. It will all work out.”
Do Mums really know that? Or is that the best they can say? Do they believe in themselves when they say it or are they just offsetting their own insecurities? We believed them when they said it back then. Why does it all seem so unbelievable now?
The South Bank resonates. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve used that word ‘resonates’ this week. I’ve worked on the basis that the bigger the word the more successful I’ll be in securing my place in the big scheme of things. I can’t say I think it’s worked especially. I suspect I’ve ended up feeling more and more out of step with everyone else around me and those I come into contact with. I haven’t changed. So what’s happened to them?
The South Bank. It’s a key place for me. I love it here. It feels like home. London’s version of style. My own personal version of 1960s Carnaby Street. An opportunity to watch people. To tap into conversations. To feel alive.
I came here for the first time in my early twenties, desperate to establish contacts with players in the London Philharmonic Youth Orchestra to bolster my own little black book. Later I used to wander around here on weekend walks with The Chap. It was here I wrote about for my first writing assessment for the correspondence course I began nearly ten years ago. And it was here I was planning meeting up with my cousin I haven’t seen for nearly 20 years over the weekend.
It’s a special place. A moment of exquisite serenity. Something to savour.
The first completed questionnaire completed and submitted to the GP in pursuit of a referral for CBT
I dropped the form the doctor asked me to complete for a referral back to the surgery on my way in. The moment needs recording. It’s a little odd seeing everything in black and white as you hand it over to the receptionist. Almost like I was handing over my own death warrant. A testament to failure as an individual.
Here’s what was on the questionnaire. I had to mark each statement 0-3 with 0 meaning never and 3 representing nearly every day.
1. Little interest or pleasure doing things 3 2. Feeling down, depressed or hopeless 3 3. Trouble falling or staying asleep 3 4. Feeling tired or having little energy 3 5. Poor appetite or overeating 3 6. Feeling bad about yourself 3 7. Trouble concentrating on things 3 8. Moving slowly/being fidgety 2 9. Thoughts you would be better off dead 0 10. Feeling nervous or anxious 3 11. Not able to control worries 3 12. Worrying too much 3 13. Trouble relaxing 3 14. Becoming easily annoyed 3 15. Feeling afraid as if something awful might happen 3
It was quite a relief to answer statement 9 with a zero. Things aren’t irretrievable at least. But still, I’m caught between looking at the list wondering whether most people think like this anyway and feeling quite sad reading the reality of the situation.
How on earth did it get to this? And of course – in true journalistic style – who exactly is to blame?
What I had forgotten about all of this – compared to my previous experience when I was in my late teens – was to what extent this ‘thing’ a lot of people find themselves suffering from from time to time is a pernicious kind of thing.
A deceiving kind of illness. Bandy the word depression around and people start assuming they have to tread on eggshells around you. That you are somehow completely and utterly disabled. Unable to perform basic tasks. No good to anyone. And that you need to be completely roped off.
And yet it’s not always like that. Sometimes it can exist just underneath the surface, like a pigment in the skin, or a locked colour correction casting a bias across every shot. Difficult to remove because the operator can’t remember how it got there in the first place.
There’d will be pockets of the day when suddenly the ‘layer’ goes away. When it’s forgotten about. Clouds parting to reveal the deep blue sky. It’s not always on the surface. Sometimes it dissipates. Damn it for being so inconsistent.
And then there’s the shame. Should I be so open about all of this? Is there a danger? A massive risk? Most people will be understanding. Some might engage reading about it. But you know there’ll be someone out of touch with reality who judges and scorns. Maybe that’s why it’s good to document the process.
My iphone flashes up with a text message. From across the steamy bathroom I manage to read, “… am saddened you shan’t be joining us … ” before I sink my head below the waterline and start worrying about whether or not we’ve made the right decision not to attend our friend’s New Year’s Eve event.
He and his partner are hosting a party this evening, you see. It’s the first party they’ve hosted for New Year. It’s the first time me and Significant Other have been invited to someone else’s New Year’s event. It will be very special for them – their first new year together – and the menu will be reliably spectacular. There are party games too. On that basis it should be the perfect new year event. Given that someone else is cooking, this particular event will demand little effort on my part, and will guarantee scintillating company, good food and a bit of fun afterwards. Lovely.
And yet it’s also an event we’ve turned down, our reason being we’d prefer to be doing “the quiet thing” tonight.
This is a joint decision, naturally. We both quite fancied having a night in – Significant Other is considerably less keen on New Year’s Eve celebrations than I am – given that we feel now in the holidays as though we’ve been with other people all Christmas (we haven’t, it just feels that way).
Needless to say, I feel like a shit. A nasty, lazy, anti-social shit.
There are plenty of times when our friends have driven over to see us of an evening – at least ten occasions when they’ve driven over for New Years. My head rises breaks the surface of the bath water. My inner parent shouts out: This year it feels like we can’t even make the effort to return that same effort. Tut tut.
In it a collection of middle-aged (some older specimens who we’re sure have had work done) decimated the New Year traditions.
Parties were analysed: agonisingly long and drawn out events all heading towards one single goal – midnight – which only presented the thorny dilemma of when after the big bongs it was permissable to leave for home. Was it better to host an event or attend one? What to do when cornered by a bore. Was it OK to take your own food and a chair. And, most important of all, what exactly were we marking and how do you get home afterwards? In conclusion it seemed this contrived celebration threw far more dilemmas and irritations than it opportunities for fun. Best give it a wide berth.
These are, of course, all hideously shameful excuses masking the truth about how I quite like to mark New Years Eve. No wonder for my part in the turning down our New Years invitation, I feel like a shit.
Despite most people understandably dismissing New Years Eve as an inexplicable construct missing a suitably embarrassed architect and intelligence urging me to do the same, I find the opportunities presented by a quiet ushering in of a change in year irresistable. Like appraisals, I rather enjoy the chance to reflect on things. If I didn’t I wouldn’t have anything to blog about (I’m well aware some may challenge whether I have anything to blog about anyway, thank you).
Anyone driven by seemingly pointless and unachievable goals is often reminded of the benefits of stopping to consider exactly what it is they’ve achieved. It’s certainly more realistic than the other tradition at this time of year of making shallow promises for the future, the sole purpose of which is to quell the inner critic at not having achieved enough.
That period of reflection doesn’t need to be long and drawn out. It doesn’t need to be accompanied by a massive orchestra or a breathtaking fireworks display. It doesn’t need to be a painstaking review of the previous twelve months.
It just needs to be a simple nod to the past twelve months, which in my case just so happen to have been a very good twelve months, thank you to everyone involved in that. It should also involve a mental note of how I might avoid this year’s little errors next year – I must use my left hand to operate my iPhone and adjust the height of my monitors at work to avoid RSI. All of that should be done in an office all cleaned up ready for a new year. After all, a clear desk means a clear mind.
Then it’s a glass of sparkling wine masquerading as champagne, an opportunity to peer at the fireworks from the south bank of the Thames followed by the same late night movie and bed. There’ll be no jumping up and down, no screaming “Happy New Year!” when Big Ben strikes midnight and no party poppers.
We’ll just usher in 2010 in a low-key way. I rather like that proposition. And I hope that’s OK with everyone – especially our friends whose party I hope goes with a bang.
The arrival of my Proms Season Ticket soothes the stresses and strains of a demanding day
I didn’t get anywhere near the end of my to-do list at work today. Come to think of it I barely moved off the first thing on the list.
There were too many distractions. Too many people asking me how to make this, that or the other work. I lost count of the number of times I had to remind myself exactly what it was I was working on before I was interrupted.
No matter, I thought. I’ll go to the gym. I’ll break the back of my motivation and commitment issues by making the second trip to the gym this evening.
It never happened. I left work too late, the tube train there took too long to arrive, I lost patience and so I went home instead.
Looking ahead to the beginning of the BBC Proms 2008
Like the rumble of a distant timpani roll, the BBC Proms season nears its start.
I ended up trotting up to Prince Consort Road this evening to drop off the passport pictures for my season ticket, using the opportunity to time exactly how long it takes to go from High Street Kensington tube station to the Royal Albert Hall.
It felt like it was a considerably shorter route, although the journey home via South Kensington confirmed that there’s really nothing in it at all.
It’s ridiculous. The more I look at it in the cold light of day – to be a part of the media industry it seems one has to look at things at objectively as one possibly can – all I am really getting excited by is a great long series of concerts which stretch out over the summer. They’re mostly from the same venue too. There must be countless concerts in the capital and up and down the country throughout the rest of the year too, and yet this particular concert series always sets my heart racing. It’s like Christmas all over again and a completely different Christmas from the Eurovision-related hysteria I always succeed in getting myself succombing to.
This year sees me purchasing a season ticket for the first time. I’d always sworn blind I was a radio and tv consumer, preferring to imagine the interior of the Royal Albert Hall over actually being there. Now I feel as though I want to be a part of it and, it seems, a season ticket is the best way to subscribe.
Setting up the Thoroughly Good Blog on WordPress for the first time after two successful years on Yahoo 360
Like what you see? I do rather like it myself. It will certainly suffice for now. There’s something so terribly fresh about the design, the title font and this font come to that. I do get so very excited about fonts.
This is the start of the Thoroughly Good Blog version 2. This posting isn’t the usual kind of tentative start to a blog. You know the kind of mean “I’m not really sure what to do with or what to say but I’m going to use it as a diary … “ Blah blah blah.
No, this is merely the continuation of a blog which originally started on the Yahoo 360 network. It’s been going for 18 months but the time has come to strike out and provide more people with an opportunity to leave comments. At least, that’s the hope.
Some people will probably look down their noses and say “Oooh, you’ve left this too late” or “Don’t you think you ought to make it look consistent with the other blog before you start on this one?”
Possibly. But thinking about it on the way to work this morning, I rather liked the idea of people having the opportunity to have a nose around the place whilst the new blog is being built and fitted out. It’s a bit like having the opportunity to wander around the house you’ve commissioned someone else to build as they build it. I’m hoping the builders will be finished by 15 July, because the 15 July is a big for so many different reasons.
Between now and then and the foreseeable after, don’t think there won’t be anything to read on here. Don’t think either that the stuff to read on here is a mere repetition of the stuff on the Thoroughly Good Blog on Yahoo. There’ll be bits and pieces everywhere. You will, I’m in no doubt, be totally sick of the words Thoroughly Good Blog come 15 July.