Any mind mappers out there? I’ve recently been reminded how much it helps to see things in pictures.
Charting has long been an interest; probably since those distant lectures on systems analysis on my MSc course. The enthusiasm continued during a brief and largely miserable career as an intelligence analyst with the police, when I spent my days drawing sprawling, complex charts showing links between criminals and organised crime, and mapping out the hierarchy of their gangs.
Mind mapping is similar, but rather more useful, showing ideas or other entities in a tree-like structure, emanating from a central point.
I came across some interesting and sophisticated mind mapping software last week which I’ve been playing with. If you want, try it for a few days. I’ve been mapping the structure of the book I’ve half written, an exercise which has taught me that the book doesn’t really have any structure at all, which in turn explains, at least in part, why the unwritten half of this great work exists only in the form of an invisible vapour, wafting around my ears, instead of in the shape of words arranged on a page, in a book, on the bestseller shelf, in WH Smith, on every high street, in every nation in the English-speaking world….
Eight and half sodden miles on Sunday, and another 4 or so tonight.
When filed away in the great back catalogue of excursions, Sunday’s won’t have a star against its name, yet it was a success, and an important one to get done. It’s the longest non-stop plod I’ve managed since a distressing glimpse at the calendar forced me back into the saddle a month or so ago.
A couple of weeks back I vowed to discover some new territory for long runs. Today I headed back down to the canal but breaking the usual habit, forced myself east. Looking at the atlas later, I noted that had I continued running in the same direction, I’d have ended up in Tokyo by way of Brussels, Warsaw, northern Kazakhstan and Ulan Bator. It offers more cultural variety than the westward journey, where you’d arrive in the Land of the Rising Sun only via Swindon and Quebec. I’ve always rather fancied visiting Japan, so it was a matter of some regret that I made the decision to turn off at Southcote gravel pit, heading northwards instead through the council estate to rejoin the Bath Road, where I could turn left, back towards the village.
Earlier, I’d stared through my office window at the inclement conditions: torrential rain and a breeze stiff enough to contort the massive laurel at the far end of the garden, wondering whether, or rather when, I should do the manly thing. It stopped at last, so I took my chance, though it all started up again within minutes of my exit. It was as if I’d fallen into some trap, but I didn’t much mind.
My days as a notorious trencherman may be over the time being, but their legacy, my prodigious avoirdupois, lingers. I dwelt on this fact as I lumbered towards the canal in the rain, like some lost hippopotamus yearning for the quiet life. Away from the pointing fingers, the gasps of surprise, the derisory cackles of the crisp-munching youth, assembled outside the Co-op in a line, as if queuing to join the pilgrimage to adulthood.
I needed something to take my mind off the travail ahead, so took an iPod along for the trip. I was glad I did. It added a bit of colour to a monochrome day. I listened to some new Bob Fox stuff. You won’t have heard of Bob Fox. He’s an ex-miner from Northumbria who became a folk singer somewhere along the line. I’ve always had a soft spot for him since an evening I spent in the Grove in Leeds, back in around 1994.
It was midwinter, and the snow was deep. I was staying locally that night, and decided to walk to the Friday folk club at the pub. I’d never have made it by car. The ring road was blocked by frozen traffic and burnt-out clutches, and the roads around the Grove were impassable. It explains why there were only about four of us in the the pub. One of them, fortunately, was Bob Fox, who was due to perform that evening, and who’d travelled up the day before. It was soon clear that there’d be no folk club that night; even the organisers had been stranded elsewhere. So we sat around a corner table in front of the wood fire and drank beer and talked. After a few ales, a couple of guitars appeared. Rather embarrassingly I’m sure, I sang one or two of my adolescent compositions which Bob Fox was polite about. He sang a great song called Farewell Johnny Miner, a lament to the moribund coal industry. It was the first time I’d heard this, and it’s remained one of my favourite folk songs to this day.
We talked about the Beatles. I’d recently heard some folkie somewhere sing Eight Days A Week, and it had opened my eyes to the possibility of making early Beatles pop songs into gentle accoustic folk ballads. I’d even learnt the chords and issued what I’m sure was a horrible version, though the beer helped to wipe away our collective embarrassment. But did it plant a seed in the mind of Bob Fox, I wonder? Because on Sunday morning, trudging through the waterlogged fields alongside the canal, heading towards Japan, listening to a new album, I heard him sing From Me To You. An exquisite rendition. Just a couple of notes changed in the melody, and sung wistfully rather than belted out as a rock ‘n’ roll number, it becomes a totally different experience.
I came to a gate with a heron sitting on it. It was unusual for this elegant creature to be so unphased by the approach of a humanoid but I guess the understandable dread at seeing something like me bearing down was marginally exceeded by the thrill of finding such a splendid vantage point overlooking the weir, where no doubt a variety of tasty fish would be exposed.
I also listened to the two new Rickie Gervais podcasts. I’m a fan. I lent my DVD of The Office to Paula, my hairdresser, assuming that she’d give me a free haircut, but she still charged me thirteen quid last time I was in. And hasn’t returned my DVD, which she insolently described as “quite good” as she mowed great stripes into my head.
If you’ve not heard the Rickie Gervais podcasts, do yourself a favour. If you’re reading this sometime in the 22nd Century, this is likely to have moved, so try here instead.
Word of the Day. Remember that idea? I once threatened to contrive to use Dictionary.com’s Word of the Day in these diary entries. I gave up after a while. I could sense my sanity being eroded by the effort. But as I ran on Sunday, I was struck by how many words close to my heart had been chosen over the last few days:
trencherman: a hearty eater.
avoirdupois: weight; heaviness.
inclement: harsh; severe — especially said of the weather.
travail: painful, arduous work;
I may have to revive the plan.
Returning through the far end of the village, I found myself in the middle of a small gypsy encampment. It hadn’t been here the day before. A fellow in a bashed-up trilby was whistling loudly, and tunefully, as he used a yard-brush and a bucket of soapy water to scrub down a squealing black and white pony tethered to a lamp-post.
Different lives, different preoccupations. The hoodies by the Co-op; Bob Fox; the heron; Rickie Gervais; the gypsies; me. The wonder is not that we don’t all co-exist in peace, but that we’re not in a perpetual state of bloody conflict.
But it was 8½ chalked up, with 500 more to go.
