The View From The Garden

I ought to be working. But it's raining again. I spent a horrible wet day on Friday building a fence for a lovely lady whose gratitude shames me because, well, I feel my work was not as good as it could have been. I mismeasured, or misremembered the length and as a result, no standard panels would fit meaning I had to build them from scratch using feather-edged boards. It's an ok job, but it could have been better. And I still have one more panel to build to fill in the odd-sized gap remaining. It wasn't satisfying. I am better at plants.
I should be making that last panel. But it's raining. Again. I can't use the necessary power tools outside in the rain so that is out of the question. But I could be building the panel in the workshop. Instead, I am here, writing on the computer in the warm and the dry because, today, somehow, I needed to.

Leaving aside the stark and surreal contrast between this life and the other one I wrote about for years - the one where I traveled on aeroplanes, stayed in hotels, had meetings in cities far away and had a salary, this is a disheartening day. The East Wind blows rain-laden clouds of such leaden grey intensity that the atmosphere underneath feels tangibly compressed by their weight. In the workshop, I wouldn't see this. It would be out of sight and out of mind. So why am I procrastinating?

Well, partly, I feel the need to write something, to exercise this vocabulary that so rarely is given free rein in my new life. There are words in here which I have not recollected for months. Perhaps this beating of paths through the encroaching mental undergrowth might maintain some semblance of accessibility to the carefully collected lexicon. So, here I am, writing. I can still do it, it seems. At least, after a fashion.

And so, some ideas that accumulate over the days and weeks of manual labour  remain to be examined. Some evaporate before they can be acknowledged - a most frustrating phenomenon. Others lie there of sufficient weight and significance as to not be swept away by the torrent of distraction and chaos of everyday thought.

Most prominently one thought dominated this past week: I am struck by the dominant demographic of my clients. This can be explained most demonstrably by the phrase I hear most often: "Sorry it's a mess but my late husband was the gardener..." trailing off and accompanied by a wistful downward glance. It breaks my heart every time; The stoic acceptance of loss and the determination to keep living nonetheless. The full social calendars I observe hanging on kitchen walls demonstrate the almost convincing efficacy of inclusion and distraction.

I knock on the door and confess my forgetfulness: "I don't suppose you have a hammer I could borrow. I seem to have forgotten mine today". I am directed to a shed where neatly laid out hooks hold cherished tools, unused for years. I take down the hammer, respectfully. I think about whose hand last wielded it and what expectations were in the mind of the wielder. Of course I cannot no so imagination and speculation are all that can be brought to bear. And I put it back carefully in its allotted place once I have finished with it, with a nod to its deceased owner to show my gratitude. It is humbling and makes me want to go home and declutter to spare the pain and effort of my family when I am gone. Only, of course, I still use my tools so I probably won't.

The other phrase I hear, which is much more heartening, is a sincere "Oh! But that looks lovely!"; A matted forest of brambles and leylandii hacked back, paths and borders revealed, cleverly devised structure now once again evident. I see the happiness in the eyes and the genuine smile at a garden restored and allow myself some satisfaction.
This is something my old job never really gave me. There was never personal  gratitude for anything I did, at least not in this immediate way. It feels like it makes a difference to individuals in the way selling storage subsystems to large computer companies did not. Nobody ever viewed my work and was over the moon as a result.

It may feel like gardening is a slow route to poverty but it has it's other rewards. Of course they won't pay the mortgage, but it's healthy. There is the exposure to daylight and fresh air. There is the exercise: I can view my job as being paid to do what others have expensive gym memberships for (and it is astonishingly efficacious in this respect!) And I don't have to surrender. There is no reason to accept any subordinate position just because someone has employed you to weed their borders or cut their hedge. Indeed, only one client has attempted that and was gently reminded that respect is due to everyone, regardless of their profession. Being articulate is a wonderful and deeply satisfying facility to adjust the perception of others, especially when they have grievously underestimated one's intelligence.

I know it makes my knees hurt and this affects my dancing which is sacrosanct, but I think I shall carry on with it for a while. I can afford to, if I continue to be frugal. Gardens are beautiful places, even in November in the rain. And I have no Idiot Manager in Houston berating me for not completing some online course on diversity or pestering me for fabricated yearly targets. This has to be better, poorly paid or not, doesn't it? Better for the body, the mind and the soul I am unable to believe in? Yes, I think so.
And as for intellectual challenge, well, here I am, aren't I?

Manual Labour is not meditative

Ye gods! How long has it been since I sat at a computer to do anything other than register for self-assessment tax returns? A long time. It is very odd to think I used to sit at a computer for hours every day, it being my main means of communication, reference, organisation and entertainment. But now, most days, I am outside in a garden somewhere mowing, weeding or planting shrubs. It is certainly a healthier way to live and my arms are clearly now those of a man who lifts and carries heavy things on a daily basis. I have to admit; They gym is nothing compared to daily manual labour for building strength. As an aside, one of my younger clients, in her early 30s, required me to pick up slabs from a friend of hers for a project I am working on. When I arrived, he hailed me thus: "Aha! You must be Pete! She told me 'He's old but he's very strong'". I am not sure if that is exactly a compliment. There were a dozen slabs of 20kg each which I had to carry up 15 steps, through the garden, down 20 steps and into the van. No wonder I eat so much these days!

My concern though: The world can get quite small when your commute is within a 10km radius. It could result in perhaps narrower, less colourful horizons and I confess this is a worry. Conversations these days tend to be largely about plants or garden plans, with the occasional midwifery discussion when we sit down for meals at home. I know a lot now about invasive placentas at least. But this isn't going to maintain the sparkle, I fear.

The question is then: When one does not move outside of a small local radius for one's work and rarely has discussion beyond the prosaic, how to keep the mind active and wide-ranging? Travel, I am told, broadens the mind, and it certainly broadened mine in the decades I was on an aeroplane almost every week. Now I don't travel, will my mind narrow or just stay the same?
I barely get time to read my new Scientist magazine every week and a huge pile of unread editions are piling up. I fear the closing down of intellect and the ossification of opinion and political viewpoint that seems to result from living in a smaller, more familiar world. And I am not even retired yet!
What to do.......

A friend has persuaded me finally to write, due to the reaction my facebook vignettes seem to garner when I attribute character and opinion to the myriad creatures in my garden (real or imagined). My friend is a very switched-on kind of chap with an excellent grasp of human motivations and he suggested that this might have appeal. And so, I shall be setting up another  page on this platform, or possibly on WordPress, where I have other historical writings, to give voice to the frogs, insects, birds, small mammals and other less definable characters who inhabit my tiny parcel of Gloucestershire. I am not sure when I will get time to do this, though Autumn is on its way and by the nature of my new career, the amount of work must decrease, possibly to almost zero (though I have some community garden development projects that are all year round now). I shall have to ensure I make time.

Because, frankly, if I don't do something soon, I fear I shall regress to the intellect of a potato (albeit perhaps one of those interesting ones like Anja or Pink Fur Apple).

Right now, however, I have to rush off now to light my pizza oven for a small gathering. I shall of course make sure no wrens have taken up residence in the lovely dry wood stacked within. They would be very cross and berate me loudly from a safe distance.
In the meantime, watch this space.....

The Benefits of Writing on Mental Health

Often, I look at the figures for views on this blog and wonder who I am writing it for. On the face of it, being a public forum, anything written here could be read, reproduced and potentially used to subsequently beat me with. In the grand scheme of things, this little collection of hand-picked and carefully combined words has no purpose. I imagine it enlightens nobody. It is a self-indulgent outpouring of opinions and feelings which is just a tiny part of the great cacophony of what constitutes public discourse. So, why do it?

I have no idea if a parallel can be drawn between mental exercise and physical exercise. Constantly performing a physical action strengthens and ingrains the mechanisms involved. Repeating a mental action must then surely have a similar effect. Repeated practice of a language, for instance, improves one's proficiency in that language. And also, it has carry-over benefits into other areas of cognition.
Does writing work similarly to improve some aspects of mental acuity or fitness?
I don't feel on the face of it that not having regularly written for a long time has diminished my vocabulary or ability to articulately explain a concept. But would I be able to tell?
Regardless of this, there exists a body of evidence that says regular "creative" writing (as opposed to correspondence regarding one's gas bill or an inquiry about a mower seen for sale on gumtree) has a measurable effect on mental wellbeing.  I suppose "wellbeing" in this sense probably needs some kind of qualification. I suppose I mean freedom from anxiety and constant dark thoughts. Possibly also general a high level of "zest for life" might be a part of it. A wider definition almost certainly exists but I shall assume that we tacitly understand between ourselves what well-being means.

Firstly, I suppose, it seems that to tease out those formless and menacing fears which beset us in unguarded moments might clarify their composition from their tangled interconnections. This may allow us to examine their individual assertions and effects upon our mood. The linear nature of this method of expression means only one thought at a time can come down the fingers to be typed on the keyboard, making the others stand aside and wait their turn, or once examined diminish to the extent they no longer need saying, and hence become less troublesome. When I lie awake at night, fears of financial disaster haunting my existence, the precarious nature of my cashflow or workloads dominating the dark perspective, taking them one at a time does seem to disempower some of the more vociferous worries. So, we potentially have this as a benefit.

Also, whether as a result of my neurological mishap, my advancing age or merely currently having a lot on my mind. I get a lot of aphasia. Last week for instance I flapped my hand impotently at the radiator trying in vain to remember the words "tea towel". This is increasingly a frequent occurrence. Given the heightened risk of dementia in survivors of brain injury, I cannot pretend this does not worry me.  It causes me to practice vigilance towards all aspects of my mental behaviour in case any sign of decline becomes evident (though what I could do besides stockpiling opiates, I am not sure).

Maybe ranging far and wide over the full range of our vocabularies is a Generally Good Thing. It might be seen as a verbal "beating of the bounds" where we travel to the far extent of our lexicon to see what resides there. There may be words depicting concepts the expression of which might be useful to us in some current frustration. Like a tool found in the recesses of the shed which enables us to finally complete some household job which has been annoying us for a while, the discovery of exactly the right word might enable us to confront and clarify something which has been on our minds for a while seeking a voice.

In the spirit of discovery, I have enrolled as a research subject on a scientific study on the effects of writing about traumatic events on our mental states. I have no idea how well-conceived and constructed the study is but it seemed a fun thing to do in the furtherance of Human Knowledge.

So, with the assumption that using as many words as are available to me on a regular basis, in order to retain vocabulary, and that the principle that examining thoughts and committing them to writing must surely aid clarification, I think I may resume this blog. If nothing else, writing allows me to retain a pretension towards intellectualism that my new life and actual intellect may not really warrant. And for that alone, I shall keep tapping away!

Where do we go now?

Nothing is the same. Except me. I, as a general collection of cells, (mostly) endure but in all other aspects, everything is new. I read back to myself some of the posts from my Old Life and there is a strange ambiguity to them. As I sat on aeroplanes, pitching up in airports in Germany, Norway, China, the life that had seemingly constructed itself for me seemed like a kind of fortress: Its complete all-worked-outness seemed eternal, as constant as the continents. The house, the marriage, the kids, the job, all smoothly in place and there in the middle of it, me. We should never forget the shifting of tectonic plates however.

So now, just a few years later, everything that comprised that life has been replaced. Divorced, new partner, different (and eye-wateringly expensive though smaller) house in a different county, job gone, salary and professional status a mere memory, kids grown up and flown. Psychosomatic illnesses all disappeared.

And now I am a gardener. Whereas for over thirty years I made my living using my intellect, my technical knowledge and my affability, now I use my body. I mow lawns, I weed borders, I make raised beds. And all the mathematics and engineering I set about learning to ensure a prosperous future, back when I was young and not quite so cynical, all superfluous. And I almost never sit at a computer. Except to do my book-keeping - a necessary and tedious evil of being self-employed.

I confess, sometimes I shake my head in disbelief. I take my hand fork and jab the back of my arms as a surrogate for pinching myself (which would be difficult with gardening gloves on), just to make sure I am not dreaming. I am not, as far as I can tell. This is the reality. And I am happy.
Mostly. Oh, there are times I wake in the night and can't get back to sleep for the strangeness of it all. How such a complete life could, like the Roman Empire, be so all-encompassing, so perfectly administered, so well constructed and yet topple and disintegrate into a fact of history. But though life is incredibly financially precarious, I no longer have to deal with idiot Texan managers and their aggression, their self-important failure to grasp their own insignificance and mediocrity.
I grasp mine and am the better for it I think.

So, no longer will I write about being in a pressurised cabin 37000 above Russia, or hotels in Paderborn. I will write about my life as a relatively menial service-sector worker and the experiences of what I encounter as I go about maintaining order and careful disorder in the gardens of Gloucestershire. I may have left a profession behind, with all the trappings, but I take largely the same mind with me into this new venture. Observation is still just as possible. As Xavier Le Maistre catalogued his voyage round the confines of his room in autour de ma chambre so shall I remark upon the prosaic happenings in horticulture. I have no idea how interesting it will be, and I shall not do it here, because I feel a hiatus is required to mark the monumental transition. But I shall do it somewhere. Words need to flow if the mind is to be retained in a form I am comfortable inhabiting.

This post is not Gluten free

I make bread. I never buy bread. It's a habit of mine. It's quite easy but also, can be as technical as you want to make it. You can throw (literally) the ingredients into a mixing bowl, for an easy loaf for example: 500g flour, 9g salt, 290g water, 7g dried yeast. And you can mix it up thoroughly into a dough with the handle of a wooden spoon and just leave it for an hour or so. Kneading isn't strictly necessary. Time can have the same effect. And then you can tip it out, fold it and shape it and leave it half an hour somewhere warm and then bake it. The temperature will depend on your oven. I use 230°C for six minutes then turn the loaf round and take the temperature down to 190°C for about another half an hour. You can make bread this simply, with only a few minutes actual intervention. It really is that simple, and generally it will be better than what you can buy.

Why do I make bread? Well, it started when my daughter had her first anaphylactic attack in response to nut allergy about 20 years ago. Prick-testing showed her to be allergic to all nuts, soya (and all pulses), egg, gelatin, tree pollen and cats. This severely cramps your style when you are three and makes birthday parties a nerve-wracking affair for all concerned.

But we discovered that pretty much all "manufactured" bread contained soya flour, or even stranger, lupin flour. And the bread in the in-store bakeries ran the risk of contamination with nuts, which could have been fatal. And so, we bought a breadmaker and this was a wonderful thing! Every morning, for a two minute preparation and a setting of the timer, we could come down to fresh bread at breakfast. We made white bread, wholemeal bread, bread with olives or sun-dried tomatoes. what a feast every loaf was.

But soon, I tired of the "breadmakery taste" which seemed to characterise every loaf. Oh, it was certainly better than most bread you could buy, but because of the construction of the pan in the machine, you always got a slightly caramel flavour, which was not unpleasant, just samey.

Then, after my brain haemorrhage when I was rather rudimentary for a while, tasks requiring procedural actions and no decision making were all I could manage. So, I made a lot of bread. And I started making it by hand. And this was something altogether different. I did, as it might be described, catch the bug.

I think this qualifies as a Cornucopia.

A local and nationally renowned mill ("By  Appointment to HM The Queen" no less) runs bread making courses lasting a day and explaining about aspects of the process, and a splendid lunch was thrown in to boot. We came away not only with a huge box containing flours and our produce: cottage loaves, plaits, Chelsea buns, pittas and other wonderful types of bread I forget now.

During the course, a kind of conversion took place in me. The revered and eminently knowledgeable chap running the course, with some authority, explained to us how bread is made in industry.  He told us of the Chorley Wood process and how a loaf can be made from flour and other ingredients in as little as half an hour, by high speed mixing, extra fast yeasts optimised for carbon dioxide production, and how this caused fast rising but led to collapse of the structure necessitating the need for extra gluten to be added. He explained how the bread went into steam ovens to be cooked at 90°C meaning that in some cases, along with all the unfermented starches and unmodified glutenins and gliadins (the proteins commonly referred to as "gluten"), the yeast might still be active right in the middle of the loaf. And all this using the cheapest ingredients possible to still be able to call it bread.
The purpose of the bread industry is not to make bread, but to make profit.

And so, enthused, I now had good reason to indulge my passion. When we left the course, he also gave us some of his sourdough culture. This is a mixture of wild yeasts such as lives in the air and on the husks of the grain and bacteria such as lactobacilli which like to hang out with yeasts. In short, it is a community of micro-organisms which all resides in a kind of pasty mixture. You feed it with flour and it adapts to the type of flour and the environment in your kitchen. Each place I have lived has caused my sourdough culture to produce different flavours in the bread. I assume this is because the population changes to include the residents of the new kitchen and worktops.

Latest bakings: Seeded Wholegrain sourdough

The beauty of sourdough is that it is a gentle process which is in some ways the antithesis of the Chorley Wood process: It takes time. Of course, you can make bread using yeast. I often buy a block from the bakery at the supermarket. It is good and strong and will lift dough which is "enriched" (mixed with oil or butter) which sourdough sometimes struggles with. But for my daily bread, I use sourdough (which is not sour by the way. A healthy culture, well fed will not go "lactic". That only happens if it is not fed adequately.

A sourdough fermentation can last days. Personally, once it is kneaded for five minutes or so, I tend to favour an overnight dough, usually no longer than twenty four hours in a fridge or cool kitchen. This long process, usually done somewhere cool, allows the yeasts and bacteria to "do some of the digesting for you". It also produces the deliciousness lacking in too much commercial bread. fermentation by products are what give the deliciousness. And slower and cooler give more. Of course, it grows and you have to "knock it back" (knock the gas out) at periodic intervals lest it take over your kitchen.

As I said earlier, you can make bread simply. Or you can get into the more complicated factors like hydration levels and different protein levels in flours. Simply put: bread flour needs at least 12% protein. British flour struggles to reach this, but that makes it good for biscuits. french bread uses "stronger " flour i.e. flour with more gluten.

54% hydration, yeast dough. Traditional cottage loaf and rolls

Hydration is an interesting variable. It just means the proportion of water to flour. I use between 54% (for a cottage loaf, a sandwich loaf or anything requiring a shape to be retained during baking) and 80% (for a ciabatta or focaccia.) The less water, the "tighter" the "crumb". This just means the bubble are smaller and the bread is more dense. Perfect for a good cheddar and some pickle.

A lighter crumb is a lower density, light bread with big bubbles. You don't knead this, but fold it at intervals, usually 45 minutes or an hour, four or so times. It makes bread that is perfect for soaking up a good olive oil.

ciabatta loaves. 75% hydration. Messy but worth it!

I have been making bread for 20 years in one way or another. It doesn't take much time once the process is clear in your head. I do ten minutes mixing and kneading, put the dough aside, leave it a period of time, knock it back for a few minutes, shape it, leave it a couple more hours and bake it for between half an hour and an hour. Actual intervention time is about twenty minutes and  I bake usually five or six loaves. I like to fill the oven for the sake of efficiency. I can freeze loaves when cool and apparently they are lower GI once thawed and so better with respect to insulin response. My usual batch of bread costs me, in UK money, £1.50 or thereabouts for ingredients and obviously, a few units of electricity for baking. For contrast, the local farmers' market sells large sourdough loaves for £3.50 to £6 a loaf. Food once a staple of the peasant diet is artisan and out of the reach of normal people. Or you can make your own.

I am an evangelist for good bread. I believe the stuff made in factories is bad for us. I am not a conspiracy theorist. I just understand the economics, the processes and the chemistry. People who tell me "I bloat when I have bread" say in puzzled tones that they can eat mine with no discomfort. I think my explanation above may hint at reasons why this might be. And I now bloat if I eat shop-bought bread (and I am by no means a "sensitive type" I can generally eat anything pretty much that falls within the category of "food").

Now I no longer have a salary, I cant afford to turn up with an expensive bottle of wine to a dinner party. But I can turn up with bread that will stop the conversation in the room. And the bread is no longer just a vehicle for more exotic foods. It is a star in  its own right.

I also run occasional courses of my own, and the look of delight when people open the oven door to behold their first loaf of bread, all crusty and perfect is a joy I never get tired of. The subsequent proud photos I receive always give me a deep sense of satisfaction that someone else is now finding their way in this wonderful craft and may bring me to new ways of baking by their discoveries.

If you don't already, I urge you to give it a try. There are some excellent videos on youtube I could point you to. I am still learning from them myself. It is better for you, even a loaf such as I described at the beginning of this piece. The making of it grounds you and leaves you feeling peaceful but accomplished. Of course, you get the occasional failure, but generally, it is a pastime that only brings deep gratification.

The Worth of A Diverse Portfolio

And so I finally find time to sit and write. Bit of a long one as a result. Sorry about that. It has all been building up in my head and so probably will lack a little structure as the stream-of-consciousness unfurls through my dancing fingers on the keyboard.
So, I have time to write today. This is mainly because today, I do not have any jobs on, though really I should be preparing for tomorrow's fairly major task; And also my dear lady is asleep upstairs after a long and productive night shift delivering babies. Hence I am unable to use my power tools, which is causing me no end of frustration as I have some beautiful timber I am just about to cut up to make a box for a friend. I have the fence all lined up on my circular saw and have calibrated it particularly accurately using the in-built laser line, a good metal rule and a magnifying glass (this latter because sadly even with my glasses now, resolving millimetres on a rule is a challenge). And so here am, sitting on my hands because I LOVE using my power tools and at the moment cannot.

And this brings me to a strange thought: These last weeks, my new-found means of (self) employment entails me doing for other people those jobs -pruning hedges, hanging trellis on walls, putting up gates, that kind of thing - which I happily do at home for leisure, only now people are paying me to do it. This has to be a Good Thing. And with the inclusion of the magnifying glass and a pencil sharpener to ensure my marking-out is accurate, I am extremely pleased with my handiwork. And so are others, it would seem.

So, when I think about how I made my living for over three decades, using my intellect and my extremely in-depth knowledge of, initially, electronic engineering, it makes me do a kind of internal double-take when I suddenly realise I am no longer using that for which I had trained for so many years.

Will I miss it? Yes, I think so. But I have a microcontroller and some other electronic bits and bobs here which I am getting together for a project so I will probably keep my knowledge up to date to some extent. But the challenges on a daily basis are not technical in the same way. That said, last week I bought the wrong size gate for a customer and found I had to build a suitable one from scratch using the wood and screws I just happened to have in the van. I was quite proud of it, and gratified this only took me twenty minutes or so (though frankly it wasn't difficult).
The challenges are therefore present, but different.

A sturdy bespoke gate built from scratch by my own fair hands. And a rabbit.

The other challenge I perceive is one of values. That sounds rather nebulous and a little existential perhaps. Actually it is not the former but may well encompass the latter. Allow me to elaborate:
when I was a corporate salary-slave, I had a particular role in a professional world. I traveled to far flung countries, I had meetings discussing the configuration and movement of literally millions of dollars' worth of product. I went out for dinner in expensive restaurants. My customers were in the region of tens of millions of dollars a year. People saw this as to some extent responsible and glamorous. I must be somebody to live that life.

Now, my customers are of the order of tens of pounds a day. I travel about in an old van. full of cement, wood and tools. People ask me what I do and I reply "Anything really. I maintain gardens, I put up fences, I hang doors". People on the whole seem rather less impressed with this response than my previous International Man of Mystery persona could provide. And I thought this would bother me. But it really doesn't. Were I inarticulate and felt intellectually inadequate, perhaps I would feel differently. But here I am writing this, able to divert, should I choose to the proteins comprising gluten, the best type of solar panel and charge controller, which philosopher I prefer for consolations in unhappy moments. Only some of this formed part of my education. The rest can be gleaned from books or online.

And this leads me, in my characteristic serpentine fashion, to the point that has been begging for examination in my funny-shaped head these last few weeks:
Where do we find our social value? Was I a somebody and am now a nobody?

Cars and houses seem a big thing in this particular game. I have a car and a house. Neither are remarkable. People wouldn't point to either and be impressed. Both are very ordinary. And yet, I am privileged to have either of them and feel so. My car gets me to see friends, to the shops, to dances. In that, it serves its purpose as well as something several times its cost. My house has more bedrooms than I need most of the time (three). Occasionally they are full of sleeping visitors, but usually, more likely, crates of beer bottles and boxes of books.  It is comfortable, warm and dry and I love living here.
My job, similarly will hopefully, once I have built a customer base, finance my lifestyle adequately. Or maybe I will founder and have to get a job in a shop. We'll see. For now, it looks promising.

So, what seem to be the usual markers of "success" are present, but perhaps my own "humble" examples of that are not perceived as being particularly high up that scale. Does this therefore make someone less "worthy" of regard? Does it cause them to be less likely to be invited to parties or have their company eschewed as being less desirable than that of more obviously "successful" people?
My experience is, actually, in general no. By having good manners and attempting to be genuinely nice to people, and as interesting as I can aspire to be within the confines of my intellect and personality, I have found people are as happy to talk to me and associate with me as an odd-job-man and gardener than when I was jet-setting around the world. It is not always the case, but when I do encounter those who look down upon my car, or who see me as a "loser" for lacking ambition and hence "success", I find in general, they tend not to be very careful in how they form opinions, accepting values from unreliable sources such as advertising or celebrity TV. Or prone to making incorrect assumptions about the nature of happiness and worth.

And so, I conclude that happiness and one's self of self-worth can be easily maintained without the cost of an expensive car or the soul-eroding responsibility of a "high-powered" job. In fact, it seems easier and cheaper to live a well-thought-out but simple life. And that is exactly what I am doing.

My Gap year comes to an end

Three hundred and sixty five days have elapsed since I became unemployed. After thirty two years of gainful and eventually lucrative employment, I was let go via a phone call I mistakenly answered on the beach during my holiday. That was over a year ago now and I still recall the mixture of outrage, relief and fear the call brought with it; Outrage because how dare a manager call me from the other side of the world and launch straight into contract-speak about the end of my career whilst I was on holiday; relief because the final year had been a nerve-wracking roller coaster of managing perceptions of my performance in an impossible job; Fear because I have a huge mortgage and no means to pay it beyond my redundancy payout which is beginning to run out.

The world of employment has become a largely inhumane place. I was lucky that I had relatively good pay and conditions. Others have to scratch a living on zero-hours contracts. But even so, that was no way to divest yourself of an employee. It was cowardly and inconsiderate because no consideration is required, at least beyond that of being a decent human being. Even that was lacking here as it seems no longer to be required in a manager. disappointing.

Possibly by writing this in a publicly visible setting, I burn my bridges. Well, I can't say many bridges have appeared to employment so maybe I lose nothing by this. But somehow I find this helpful to write.

In the last year I have completed probably three hundred job applications. Of those, I heard back in the negative for about six, had three interviews and been ultimately unsuccessful in getting a job. I suspect my age might be a factor. In the interviews it was clear I had significantly more experience at a higher level than the hiring manager and nobody wants an employee like that, do they? After some interviews, I received no further response at all. How indifferent and arrogant is that? Well, another sucker will always come along, won't they!

And so here I am, an electronic engineer, chock-full of all kinds of knowledge, speaking passable French and German, 25 years experience in sales with a major tech company, articulate and healthy. And unemployed. One of a number of cast-aside people with skills to offer that nobody seems to want. And yet industry screams "We need engineers! technologists! Scientifically literate candidates!" as if there were none available. And there are. They are just "too old". Perhaps deemed too expensive to too close to retirement to be considered.

Reading the industry press, my situation is far from unique. Indeed, it seems an endemic problem; Skilled and experienced people in their forties and fifties finding themselves surplus to requirements. It seems a shame that this pool of talent is going to waste. But wasted it is.

And so, I resign myself to never getting another "proper" job again, at least not in the sector I trained for. What to do? Oh, I have a plan. I am not sure if it will come off, but what choice do I have? Too old for tech, too young to retire.

It has been a good year. I went round most of Europe in a van (I never told you about that, did I? 4500 miles in a little over a month, meeting lovely people, some of them from here! Perhaps I should write some of that down) toured Scotland and lived on a beach at the foot of a mountain by the sea for days on end. I spent weeks this summer in Cornwall bobbing about in a canoe. I landscaped the garden. I made hundreds of loaves of bread and ran a baking course. We built a new pizza oven and filled the greenhouse with incredibly productive plants.
I am really good at being unemployed. I am always busy! But now it's a year and I need to do some work. So, I sit down to my business plan, review what I have to offer and find myself... hopeful. Let's see where my new path leads.