Homeward Bound.

I first created this wish list of things I might like to do when we returned to the UK in 2010, after having been in Brazil for just over a year. Now, six years, two children and an explosion of crow’s feet and grey hairs later, I've dug it out to see how it stands the test of time.

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Existentialism for Beginners.

Sometimes, to provide relief from the occasional (wonderful! rewarding! heartwarming!) monotony of hanging out with the kids all the time, I talk nonsense. Occasionally, this strays into cod-existential blatherings. 

For example, if my daughter tells me she’s scared, I now think I am being very funny by telling her ‘We’re all scared. It’s the human condition. Better get used to it, kid.’

Because I am funny, you see.

And that would all be very drôle and clever if if weren't for the fact that my daughter has decided to play me at my own game. 

It all started yesterday. We were walking to school as usual, talking as we went. My daughter was busy telling me that there were crocodiles in the gutter. And dinosaurs. And lions. Then, in a blinding flash of revelation, she had her epiphany. ‘Everyone is monsters,’ she said. 

'Everyone?’ I said, kind of worried. 

‘Yes! Everyone is monsters.’

I had no idea. I mean, sure, in my darker moments, the thought had occurred to me. But to have it confirmed like that, well, I’ll be honest, the air took on a sudden chill, the sun shone a little less brightly.

And the worst part? The worst part was that she found my anguish so damn funny. 

Needless to say, I've hidden all the Kierkegaard.

A Headful of Stars.

I was just lying on the balcony with my daughter after breakfast (cereal for her, toast for me). She looked up at the high-rise opposite, at the crowded nest of aerials on the roof. Space rocket, she said. Then she looked at the next block over, another mighty omphalos crowded with aerials. Look, she said, another space rocket. It was a lovely bit of magical thinking, I thought, which time-machined me right back to when I was a kid, when I thought anyone who did repair work on a TV aerial was inherently mysterious, quasi-magical. These people climbed up to the highest points in my infant world and communed with the magical forces that brought me the Daleks and Doctor Who. They were practically spacemen themselves, up there, sifting through the ether, talking to stars. 

Full Circle.

It's taken almost forty years for my philosophy on life to boil down to something broadly similar to my mum's rule about the living room: you have to leave it in a slightly better state than you found it.

The Perfect Indictment of Capitalism.

From the closing scenes of The Constant Gardener (the movie):  

So who has got away with murder? Not, of course, the British government. They merely covered up, as one does, the offensive corpses. Though not literally. That was done by person or persons unknown. So who has committed murder? Not, of course, the highly respectable firm of KDH Pharmaceutical, which has enjoyed record profits this quarter, and has now licensed ZimbaMed of Harare, to continue testing Dypraxa in Africa. No, there are no murders in Africa. Only regrettable deaths. And from those deaths we derive the benefits of civilization, benefits we can afford so easily... because those lives were bought so cheaply.