Confessional time again, although I do not think this is much of a ‘crime’ then just something that many people would find unusual. I really do not like driving very much. Which is perhaps odd, as I do quite a lot of driving when it comes down to it with going back and forth on the dreaded M25 to work or perhaps the long trip up North to my father near Newcastle. Then again, maybe this is precisely why I am at best ambivalent to getting behind the wheel, and I am guaranteed to respond positively to any suggestion from the Lovely Wife along the lines of ‘would you like me to drive?’ As with several areas of life we nicely complement each other here… I am not taking advantage of her as the Lovely Wife actually seems to like driving. Even if I did not have a company car hybrid my car would always be a boring work horse while the Lovely Wife would want the thoroughbred.

Anyway, out here in Asia on business someone else is doing the driving (when public transport is not really an option, as I much prefer using trains when available). In Beijing, where I am writing this, I am heartily glad of the fact I do not have to drive as I would not last five minutes. There is a particular art it seems to driving here, which involves treating lanes as optional, a willingness to get perilously close to other vehicles and liberal use of the horn – generally it seems as a warning of ‘I’m coming through’ rather than the rather pathetic gesture of annoyance it often is at home. I guess I should be cowering in the back (nervously noting the lack of useable rear seatbelts, something particularly striking in someone who grew up in the period in the UK where wearing then became compulsory in both back and front). But I am not. Indeed, my generic fitness tracker is telling me I am actually quite chilled, which surprised even me. But, thinking about it, there are a couple of reasons why that might be. First, I find China endlessly fascinating and there is so much to distract me – like the gentleman in minimal beekeeping gear (a hat with a net) checking his bees from one of about ten makeshift hives lined up at the side of a busy road. Then there is the group of older ladies in uniform with their massive petrol driven strimmers, efficiently pushing back the encroaching vegetation.

In addition, I am generally a good passenger. Perhaps because I dislike driving so much I think you have to accept that you are putting your faith in your driver, something I have only rarely regretted (and once regretted and survived, never repeated). So I’m letting the taxi driver do what he needed to and, at least physiologically, not worrying about it too much.

Compare this to my most terrifying moment behind the wheel, driving a hire car through the Turkish city of Izmir. Initially we (a bunch of lads) found driving around (typically, although we were based in Bodrum, the main focus was visiting many of the Greco-Roman sites as we could rather than partying the night away every night) rather stressful, but soon started to adapt a bit so that we started to do what the locals do. But somehow I ended up driving through the only city we had to negotiate and in my head (obviously not in reality – well I hope not) I drove through it with my eyes closed in terror as vehicles, mobile market stalls and at least one cow seemed to hurtle towards me from all directions.

We survived. But thinking of that experience means that I’ll leave it to the experts from now on, given half the chance.

Apart from leg injuries I am enjoying my sojourn in Asia, especially this brief period where the Lovely Wife is out to share the experience with me – at least out of work hours. Sadly, this is not a holiday, but for moments it feels like it. This weekend, for instance, had some very special moments, not least at the zoological parks here in Singapore.

Zoos are a controversial topic, and I am not going to debate pros and cons of modern zoos – instead let’s all agree on the abominations some of them were in the past – I still remember some of the places I was taken as a child where the conditions the poor animals were kept in where not only inappropriate but positively disgusting, even to a child. Sadly I have been to several major zoos where the penny does not yet seem to have dropped, and even when championing the very real need for captive breeding programs and consumer education (among the ‘entertainment’), which keeps me just about in the pro-corner, there is still a lot of work to do with some institutions and there are some species that just cannot cope with captivity and need to be treated especially carefully in terms of how we conserve them.

But Singapore zoo (and night safari) certainly impressed me. I am not sure about the poor polar bear, but some of the big predators – who often suffer the most and in the most obvious fashion – seemed a lot more relaxed than I have seen in similar places. In particular, the pair of white tigers was positively playful with some rather engaging pair play/mating behaviour. I have just noticed I have used the word ‘playful’ when describing a tiger. I think the only thing that put more of a shiver down my spine than watching a large predator leaping around its enclosure was looking directly into the eyes of a group of spotted hyenas, only a few metres away and in the dark. Those eyes said no mercy, and I was very glad of the ditch that kept us apart.

This latter encounter was at the rather wonderful night safari. This is a unique night time zoo which focusses on nocturnal animals and was quite magical. There is a tram that takes you round some of the site but we ignored it in the end – the loud and overly enthusiastic recorded commentary irritated us both and we thought we would leave that to the families. As reasonably able bodied people (albeit one of us limping a bit) we wandered off along the various trails at our own pace, with a relatively small number – on this evening at least – of fellow intrepid explorers. It was worth the shoe leather. I have never seen a Slow Loris alive and in the flesh – probably never will again. Small deer graze and interact with each other just off the path, completely unconcerned as you walk past and/or stop and stare. In one place, one slightly sleepy Binturong (related to Civets) was turned into three very curious ones, all sniffing at us, just as the signs had suggested we do to them (apparently they are supposed to smell of popcorn; not entirely convinced on that one). Perhaps because there were relatively few people on the trails the animals were so, well, relaxed, but also it pushes the point that for these species night is their time, and the time to see them at their best. Some of these species are found in day zoos, and I suspect some of them suffer stress from the noise and disturbance of visitors at a time when ideally they would be resting.

So thumbs up to the night safari and let us keep thinking of ways to better look after our wildlife – and how to stop and if possible reverse their habitat destruction as if there is any reason for captive breeding there has to an eventual end game for reintroduction, otherwise you are breeding museum exhibits; personally I do not think that is good enough. Also, thumbs up to the constant messaging in the zoos here on saying no to illegal trade in animals and animal parts – I would also like to see this emphasised more in other zoos.

The main highlight for us… Well, for us I think we both agreed that the fruit bats are stars. Not only the larger ones, but also the first animal we came across coming into the zoo, near to the toilets. A small colony of fruit bats hanging down from the roof of the covered walkway, each one maybe six inches in length. Very sweet, and as we watched one of them suddenly changed the position of its wings to reveal the tiny baby it was grooming. Sold from that point, I think.

Sometimes you just cannot win, I thought as I limped onto a plane today to Malaysia for a day meeting tomorrow. A few minutes before I had been not limping, feeling my leg was getting back to normal and happily admiring some rather lovely orchids that slightly incongruously can be found in one of the terminal buildings at Changi airport in Singapore (together with a rather impressive spread of sunflowers on a terrace overlooking the departure gates). Now I was in some level of agony because, as I slipped my boots off for security I felt the muscle – the one I have been trying to nurse back to health for about a month – tear rather badly. I managed to avoid swearing somehow (there were very small children around) and just limped on with it. The irony us I probably need not have bothered – it was just that the sign said removed high boots and the DMs fitted that description. If I had decided not to be overly conscientious I would be well on the road to recovery, rather than back at square one, or possibly worse.

While I am hardly a sporting great, running is really important to me, and being injured hurts a lot more than the physical pain, because it brings frustration as well. I miss the pleasure of the feeling after a good run. I am not quite in the ‘I enjoy it as I do it’ category, although there are people who clearly do – in St Albans we regularly see a young lady training with what we assume is the St Albans boys school cross country team in the Abbey Orchard, and from the slightly insane grin on her face she is obviously getting something out of the activity in the moment as well as in retrospect. I worry about fitness loss and weight gain (which I can very much ill afford) and then the terrible, nagging doubt that this time it will be serious enough to stop me running altogether, in any meaningful way. I guess that will come at some point – I do not think I have the true grit that the septuagenarians who often pass me in big races, with often with a very curious gait that while looking odd clearly Works For Them. But I am certainly not ready for that point now, if my body will let me.

The harsh reality is that I am getting older and my body is not as robust as it was twenty years ago when some friends introduced me to running and I finally started to get a bit fitter. Like a lot of things, I have a tendency to be lazy unless forced – the Lovely Wife will be sympathetic but point out that my lack of effective stretching has partly caused the problem. Not enough flexibility means there is the possibility of breaking – and at the moment I am broken.

So I have to promise myself to be better, and to accept that even if the pain goes quickly, I have to let it heal. That probably means no running until July at least… At that point it will be getting late to get ready for my 22^nd and final Great North Run; I intend this year to run for charity, possibly dressed once more as some kind of animal – but whether I will be doing it or not feels, tonight at least, very much in the balance.

I never fail to be surprised at just how interesting Asia can be, even in the simplest of things. Even in my short time here in Singapore and even while I struggle with the jet lag. Come to think of it the most difficult thing is probably not the time difference and more the climatic difference – from fifteen degrees Celsius (combined with a stiff and cold breeze off the Quantock hills – conveniently, at least for us, keeping the significant part of the threatened rain in South Wales on the other side of the Bristol Channel (sorry to any Welsh friends out there) to over thirty degrees and humid. Almost hard to breathe but then as a confirmed North Easterner I do not really do well in heat of any sort, much preferring to lurk in the shade. In fact apart from being away from the Lovely Wife probably the thing I miss most is that I’ll be away for all of May – one of my favourite times of the year. A month where the birds are fully in their breeding season and the summer visitors starting to arrive, culminating in the arrival of the swifts at the end of the month and the literally screeching arrival of summer. It is often sunny and bright with that kind of light intensity that the season brings but without the wearisomeness that can develop as the summer rolls on an mellows into a pedestrian pace – May is a month that skips along like a six year old girl, full of unrestrained joy. Well, in my head anyway. So I’m going to miss the British spring, here’s hoping for a great June to compensate.

Anyway, back to Asia. Whether it is Japan, China or here in Singapore, there is always something to look at. Different ways of expressing things (and not just in terms of hilarious English – let’s be clear about the number of terrible uses of English in the UK – including having to looked out for ‘Slow Children’ and worried about the mental state of the poor ‘This door is alarmed’). Pictograms, warning signs and reminders to jog on the left are fascinating. But it is food that is the true wonder of many Asian countries for me. Having landed two hours beforehand I was obviously determined to shock myself into getting rural Somerset out of my system a kill or cure way by walking around one of the many food halls here. Assaulted by colours, smells and noise, I could wander around these places for ages constantly seeing things that make me think first ‘what on earth is that?’ closely followed by ‘I wonder how it tastes?’ Sadly, or perhaps happily for my already ample waistline, I think go into equivalent of being caught in the headlights of all of these culinary delights and end up unable to choose. It is a common problem for me; at a music festival Canada a few years ago I ended up going hungry because I could not decide what type of poutine to have – and considering that poutine is basically cheesy chips with gravy (and in this case some meat and/or vegetables thrown in) that is indecision of the highest order.

It may take me some time to get used to the heat – I’ve not had the courage yet to venture outside in my running kit yet in fear of heat exhaustion – but there is plenty to keep me amused in the air conditioning (outside of work of course). Most amusing thing so far is some cooking oil branded as ‘Duck’, going on the reassure us that it is 100% vegetable (to put off any concerns that the name might be more a description of contents, I presume!).

I love the country I live in or rather I never get tired of it in terms of learning things about it.

We are away for our anniversary and the Lovely Wife and I take turns to arrange where we go in secret so it is always a surprise for one of us (incidentally, I understand that for some people this is the worst thing they could imagine, but it works for us, probably because we are lucky enough to enjoy lots of the same things and understand also what might be enjoyed by the other half).

Anyway this year we are in a place I had never heard of but in a County I have a lot of time for – Somerset – in the seaside village of Watchet. My first impressions is that it has reached the point of quirky in terms of its residents – a lot of elderly people but at least one proto-Mod and a gay couple who proudly carried the signs of a Northern Soul life in their earlier life. There is a very amusing and high quality local cider bar and the barmaid in the best food pub in town works on her own in the chip shop on Mondays.

Like a lot of West Country seaside towns, art seems to be a big thing, but Watchet has two fascinatingly different claims to fame. Both are represented by bronze statues on the short esplanade we can see from our (old coast guard) cottage. But they could not be more different, even if they are by the same sculptor (for the record, Alan Herriot).

One is a tall, emaciated and forlorn figure chained to a dead albatross. The poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge stayed for three years at nearby Nether Stowey (a lovely village and the house he lived in, run by the National Trust, is well worth a visit) and here, in the daily company of William Wordsworth and William’s sister Dorothy wrote most of the poetry he is famous for, including the ‘Rime of the Ancient Mariner’. This was inspired by all accounts by his experience of nearby Watchet and the town is rightfully proud to acknowledge the connection with the statue, and on a rough day… It is not difficult to be grim looking out to the grey, surf covered Bristol Channel.

The other statue could not be more different – a slightly rotund old fisherman, sitting a few yards away of the doomed Mariner cheerfully looking out to sea. This is John Short, known as ‘Yankee Jack’ who is the village’s most famous sailor. He was a great singer of Sea Shanties who became town crier after retirement from the sea so must have had a powerful voice. But the important part of the story is that in 1914 Cecil Sharpe interviewed him and recorded a wealth of the traditional songs that Jack was well known locally for and preserved this important part of English culture for prosperity. He is obviously well liked locally – since we have been here several people have been seen patting the statue on the shoulder, and during the St George’s Day celebrations he had acquired a number of balloons.

The weird thing for me is that every time we pass the statue of Yankee Jack is to think ‘why is that old guy sitting out in this cold wind?’

In all honesty I would not be surprised if (in my fantasy inspired head) if the statue (accompanied of course by a creaking noise of bronze impossibly in motion, c.f. the Bronze Colossus in Ray Harryhausen’s wonderful ‘Jason and the Argonauts’ if you want a sound reference) twisted its head around, raised a bronze pint of cider and wished us a good evening.

I worry about myself sometimes.

Sometimes I think I can be quite an angry person. The Lovely Wife will tell you that while the thought of raising a hand to another person is something I would never intentionally do, inanimate objects are pretty fair game. There is something both entirely normal and also rather odd about punching walls, doors on banging on keyboards as the damn device of evil once more locks up or inevitably the next upgrade of iTunes has destroyed all your carefully constructed playlists. Or in that same context, when my iTunes library, supposedly safe on an external hard drive somehow gets corrupted irreversibly (I have two backups now for the reconstructed version). In terms of weirdness we all know that at best our fist will be sore and at worst, as well as the sore fist, we’ll damage the thing that has been unfortunate enough to have our anger and frustration physically exacted upon it. The part of my brain that actually thinks knows that this is stupid but I still go ahead and do it.

On the normal side for me I recognize it as a displacement activity as the real, biological action is not open to me. It is commonly seen in animal behaviour where the normal routes of behaviour are thwarted. You need to do something, so you execute a behaviour that is open to you in place of one that is not. It is sobering, but in the end we often want to take our frustration out on someone. But with my corrupted hard drive there is not someone I can take my frustration out on (thankfully) so the keyboard gets it instead, or the desk. Even when there is someone to blame there is a part of my brain that, luckily for me, is hard wired to know that punching them in the nose is a Bad Thing. But the sobering thought for me is that in reflection that does not mean that my anger is any less real, which brings me back to where I started.

Even the calmest people I know – and I know some people who are really very chilled indeed – get angry sometimes. When they do, it can be much scarier than people like me, especially if you are on the receiving end of that anger. This is precisely because if it is something bad enough to cause them to blow their top then it must be something that really gets their goat and secondly it is out of their normal behaviour. For someone I know it only comes out when driving. For others it can be about any subject, but is an incremental build that is completely impossible to see until the point of no return is reached; at which point you had better take cover in the light of the resulting explosion.

For me, I reach the boil extremely quickly and have a real problem hiding my anger. That said I cool down very quickly as well, perhaps in part to self-awareness that when angry I am less the avenging angel and more the red faced buffoon. I just do not do ‘angry’ that well I guess.

More and more I find that when dealing with people, calm and polite – and even a smile, if you can manage of it – usually wins the day over any other approach. My dear late Mum was an expert at this. If anything needed complaining about she always got the job and executed it brilliantly, with the ‘I know it must be my fault… I realize this mind sound very silly, but… I really hope you can help me…’ were the kind of approaches she regularly used and nearly always got satisfaction – and often a good chat in addition (which would always make her happy). So with people, that’s what I aspire to. Mind you – if there is no one to talk to then the inanimate objects still had better look out. Even my Mum, on the day the top came off the pressure cooker and sprayed dinner all over the kitchen ceiling gave the cooker a mighty kick.

I did not stay around to see what the result was of this action and instead made myself scarce for the rest of the day. I think you can understand why.

I’ve been accused of being spontaneous and a stickler for being organized in something like equal amounts over the years, but neither is entirely correct. With certain aspects of character it can be possible to determine which is the more default positioning simply by realising which aspect comes easier than the other. I tend to believe we all have things that come more naturally to us in many areas of our life which provide a wonderful opportunity to irritate the hell out of each other on one hand and really help compliment and help each other out on the other side.

The reality is that I’m not spontaneous in any way. The Lovely Wife understands this and therefore is reassured that I am unlikely to suddenly buy a piano, or reveal that I have actually sold the house and we are starting our new life pig farming in Patagonia. Where the skill comes in is in carefully planned spontaneity. Masterminding a weekend away where a series of lovely coincidences come together to make it truly memorable is the true mark of the planner’s art. Until I thought about it recently I never realized how much fun a carefully timetabled schedule could be (providing it is not an exam schedule, obviously).

There are lots of good reasons for being a forward planner. For a start, it helps us in the never ending fight to make sure we see friends and family enough (we fail, but it is a brave failure). Life is so busy (for everyone) these days that I would be completely lost without our schedule of where we are supposed to be, and increasingly that planning is months ahead – we are booking things for next January.

But why bother? Well one thing is that without looking that far ahead you can forget certain events that otherwise you might have wanted to see. People have asked how we can possibly afford to go to the theatre as much as we do. It is a fair question. The truth is I have an upper limit in what I will pay for a ticket (and it is a low threshold) but if you keep the ear to the ground, are flexible and book as soon as you are able there are plenty of bargains to be had. If you are lucky and do not mind an uncomfortable restricted view then you can get opera or ballet tickets at the Royal Opera House for as little as £6 for some performances and since neither of us were blessed much in the height department we do not fear the dreaded ‘restricted legroom’ threat. When booking for new shows the other risk of course is that show is rubbish or the set will break down during those cheap ticket previews but that is a risk worth taking. I think the only show I remember as being so awful that maybe the ticket was a waste was a musical version of ‘Gone with the Wind’ some years ago – it was interminably dull and far too long; we and most of the rest of the audience left well before the end. There was also a time when we went to see a preview performance of the last version of ‘The Wizard of Oz’ put on in London at the Palladium, where part of the set was a circular, mechanical, Yellow Brick Road that rotated and therefore allowed the actors to keep moving while not getting dizzy walking around the stage.

Unfortunately, it broke on the night we were there. True to the adage, the show went on with the cast improvising but it did remind you what previews are for.

And every so often you get a nice surprise. I always book tickets at Shakespeare’s Globe as early as I can as I know we always like to go once or twice a year. I never look beyond what the play is, as the Globe is pretty reliable entertainment. So a few years ago when Twelfth Night was part of the schedule I had no idea I was booking some of the hottest tickets that summer, with Mark Rylance and Stephen Fry (as Malvolio) starring; I’m pretty sure if I’d waited for the casting announcement I would never have gotten hold of them. So while we are close enough to London to enjoy it, we are planning to keep this up as long as possible, which means I’d probably have to go and the check the usual websites for anything interesting that might be coming up on the distant horizon…

I was quite amused by the news story (well, it is not really news but did seem to get a fair amount of coverage) that there had been a bit of a kerfuffle over a showing of the 1978 adaptation of Watership Down during the Easter period and the ‘trauma’ it apparently caused by upsetting young children. Obviously I am not amused by the thought of childhood trauma but more that this is something of a long running cause celebre in this household so it was interesting to see a private conversation spilling over into the media.

I’ll make my position clear – I adore this book. I think I must have read it at least three or four times a year from about age 8 to 14 when a friend started punting some quality heroic Fantasy at me instead. It was the only book that my English teacher in the first couple of years at the Newcastle Royal Grammar did not roll his eyes at during our reading sessions at school (I do not think he was that impressed with more usual fare of Doctor Who novelizations) Unfortunately, love of a book means that inevitably I am (at best) ambivalent to the film adaptation. They make a decent stab at it, and the voice work is great (John Hurt works for me as Hazel as his slightly weary voice epitomises exactly how I see this character, see below) but in the end the heart and soul of the book and the well-drawn characters of the individual rabbits are lost and I personally see it as a bit of a pale imitation. To the Lovely Wife it is the disturbing movie where ‘they all die’, a view stemming from a childhood trip to the cinema which apparently resulted in upset as recent reported (where I recall my reaction being eight year old indigence at the death of a certain character who does not die in the book). After a recent viewing we have come to a conclusion that actually the Lovely Wife never got to the end of the movie (Spoilers: They do not, I repeat, do not ‘all die’) and what she remembers is the very unsettling sequence featuring the destruction of the warren. Which is upsetting and deliberately so – it must be or the whole point of our heroes leaving in the first place is undercut.

Watership Down is not by any stretch a children’s book. It is far too complex for that, an epic tale of adventure populated by a range of diverse (and likeable) characters that you care about and with a background of a fascinating and well thought out rabbit culture and mythology. It is heavily allegorical (a bit too much so in places) but also knows when to have fun.

It also features one of the best examples of leadership to be found in fiction. In Hazel you have a lead character who appears to be totally average, an everyman that has a slightly nuts little brother. Over the course of the book he proves however to be the right rabbit at the right time to lead a ragtag bunch of rabbits through trials and tribulations to a new life – and be bright enough to save them all when things go badly wrong. Crucially it is his ability to see and use the talents of the other rabbits – Bigwig’s brawn, Dandelion’s speed, Blackberry’s intelligence and artifice – to the best advantage of all that is the reason they succeed. He inspires loyalty and is prepared to take chances and think in a flexible way. None of the other rabbits would think of making friends with a mouse, of all things. Hazel does and as a result sets up something absolutely vital for the survival of his people. Perhaps the most dramatic scene in the book is when, in a last attempt to avoid a bloody conflict, the partially lame Hazel goes alone to confront General Woundwort and politely asks him to leave in peace. The attempt fails, but Hazel escapes because the General cannot be bothered to kill this insignificant cripple and in this error seals his fate. In this meeting are exposed all the differences between these two leaders; a massive bully that cannot conceive anyway of leading except through force and the brave individual thrust into the position of leader and just doing his best.

I have seen some reports that the BBC is considering another adaptation. I would love to see an even darker and adult take on the book, and I really hope that they take the time to allow the richness of the book to spill over into what is effectively an epic quest fantasy (and latterly infiltration thriller). But I think they will need to warn people that this is not at all about fluffy bunnies.

It is now a week on from the atrocities in Brussels so I feel able to actually put something down. As some will know I was in the city at the time and I would like to thank everyone who sent me good wishes over various platforms – I really, really appreciate it.

Travel to Brussels is a regular thing for me, a standard routine of train, hotel and meetings. While it is not the greatest thing of all time to be away from home and the Lovely Wife up until last week it was hardly a stressful exercise.

On Tuesday I had the second of three back to back Trade Association meetings. The offices are at the terminus of one of the Metro lines, so it is very convenient to stay downtown and take the Metro to the offices and the service is pretty reliable.

The hotel I was staying at is relatively small and about fifteen minutes brisk walk from the nearest Metro station. As I switched off my telephone which had been streaming BBC Radio I half heard Moira Stuart saying something about explosions but I did not really register it, my brain was thinking about the meeting later rather than anything to do with the journey or what might be happening on the news.

I left the hotel and walked as normal to the station. There did seem to be a lot of people coming out of the station, but it took a Metro worker making it clear the station was closed for the penny to drop that something was wrong. At this point I thought that maybe there was an issue with the network and thought it would be easier to get a taxi from the hotel, so I walked back.

Of course by the time I was back the hotel had locked its doors and a security man had arrived. And I found out what had happened at the airport and at Maalbeek station.

I have to say I was pretty shaken, particularly at the attack on the Metro. This was a station I would have been going through if I had left thirty minutes earlier.

Some weeks before, feeling particularly morbid perhaps, I had wondered what would happen if someone had wanted to attack the EU institutions, and I must admit as I was going through Schumann – the next stop from Maalbeek and where the Commission buildings are – I had felt extremely nervous. While I was sitting in my hotel room watching the horrific scenes unfolding on the BBC World News feed the memory of thinking about this just kept going around in my head.

Thankfully I was able to call home before the mobile network was shut down, so the Lovely Wife knew I was safe. Then I had to come to a decision on what to do. I know that some travellers proceeded to get out of Brussels straight away; hiring cars and driving to airports in nearby cities where they could catch a flight home. In the end I just sat tight and hoped that things would calm down and I was more concerned about the many friends and colleagues I had in Brussels and whether they had been caught up in the events. To date, as far as I know, thank God, no one I know has been hurt – it does not make events any less shocking, but makes it personally easier to handle.

The main reason for putting this down in words though is to pay tribute to some people who are often overlooked. When people look for good in a situation like this – or, if you are religious like me, God – it is not in the dark events but in the response to them by normal people. In this case for me, this was the hotel staff.

Shops can close and send staff home, but hotels have guests that need looking after. Most of the men and women at the hotel I prefer are pretty young, and it were clear to me that they were as scared and upset as anyone else would be. But they held it together, were calm, professional and did everything they could to make me (and I presume the other guests) feel as safe as possible.

There is a point where you exchange a look with a stranger that communicates a straightforward message that, while we do not know each other, we are in this together. I felt that on Wednesday from hotel staff, the young policeman who went through my bag as I queued to get into Gare du Midi and again from the Eurostar staff that brought me home.

I only pray that this kind of connection can become more of a binding force between us rather than the divisions that terror attacks and sometimes knee jerk reactions to them can cause.

I wrote this originally on Monday 21^st so if this seems a little frivolous I apologise. I will comment on this week’s events next week, when I have had time to reflect. Until then I want to think lighter thoughts.

It always amazes me the random things that we find on each other’s CD shelves. I do not mean something like a small ceramic duck, or a signed photograph of Russ Abbot. I am thinking more of the slightly odd music choice that sits out of place with the rest of the shelf occupants. Look at your CD collection – I’m sure you know which one I am talking about, it is probably the one that is shoved in the corner or moved so anyone glancing at the shelf might miss it.

It is time to confess my CD sin.

Actually, I have multiple sins to confess. The lesser of the two is probably the copy of the very best of Val Doonican, with the late crooner cheerily grinning out from the cover in the usual avuncular cardigan. Worse perhaps, at least in terms of the sheer level of transgression, are my multiple Barbara Dickson albums. Yes, you read that correctly.

The trouble is, sometimes I quite like Easy Listening.

I know that is a terrible thing to say and I’d much rather champion the heavy rock or multiple alternative artists that are lurking in there as well, but there is no hiding the fact that they are rubbing shoulders with Dean Martin and Matt Monroe.

I guess part of the problem is parental indoctrination. Val and Barbara (together with Johnny Mathis and Elkie Brooks) were a large part of my parents listening pleasure and needless to say that meant I had them played at me throughout my childhood. This normally seems to result in one of two outcomes. First there is the outright rejection of it and I know plenty of people who would not even contemplate having any of their parent’s music in their house, never mind actually play any of it. But the other possibility is that at least some of the music worms its way into your consciousness and actually you end up rather fond of it. Maybe because I had a happy childhood with very dear parents that playing some of their music just make me feel relaxed and happy.

There is terrible music out there but most of the time it is more the case that some music works for you and doesn’t work for others. I will groan a bit at old Val singing ‘Delaney’s Donkey’ (though it is quite funny) but then again there is a song like ‘Elusive Butterfly’ which I still think is a lovely song, beautifully executed.

I put it on and I am ten again, and I can almost feel the hugs from my late mum.

A few years ago the Lovely Wife indulged me and allowed me to drag her to see Barbara Dickson when her tour included St Albans. I was quite nervous – not so much for the possible agony that I might be putting the Lovely Wife through, but more that the voice and delivery would not live up to the more perfect production of the records I grew up with. Obviously I did not need to worry – she was amazing. But it was at that time that I noted how important this music was to me.

So please don’t abuse me too much – my music tastes are pretty eclectic and I’m sure there is something you like that I do too. But I do have to sit back and chill sometimes… Maybe with the only record (to date) I have had dedicated for me on the radio – back when I was ten. And that song was ‘Born Free’ by Matt Monroe. I still think that it is a stonking good track, so I’ll just plead guilty as charged (M’Lord) and go get my headphones.