I was going to write about something else today but I must share this with any of you out there (probably men) who have had lifelong issues with shoelaces. For I am one such and as of yesterday evening I am a free man.
Throughout my life every pair of shoes I have ever owned has formed an Escape Committee for laces within minutes. No matter how tightly I tie the things they work loose after about twenty steps. Till now my best solution has been to lick my fingers and then rapidly tie both feet in, relying on the extra friction generated by the wet material. Not the perfect answer and a bit of a one shot strategy as only the foolhardy would lick fingers that have recently caressed laces that have been flapping all over the capital's multi-flavoured streets.
Well, I read an article in some paper about six weeks ago promoting a book about lace tying. All I remember is that it's meant to be a good move to tie the first knot, the one under the bow, either left over right, or right over left and definitely not the other way. It made no sense to me at all at the time. But yesterday evening something brought it to mind and I determined that whichever way I had done it for forty years I would on this occasion do it the other way instead. So I did, and very strange it felt to do it. Decades of muscle memory and unexamined physical habit fought me to the end and only by express directions to myself, out loud, was I able to accomplish the task.
And IT WORKS! It really does. I was absolutely astonished. Not once, NOT ONCE did I get that lumpy feeling as the lace works loose and lies under the sole as the foot presses down. Not once did I have to face the tricky decision whether to bend at the waist to retie, thus stressing my sacroiliac ligaments, or bend at the knee, thus putting an area of trouser material on the unswept, unwashed paving stones which lie daily at the mercy of wandering dogs and freerange vomiters.
So if you suffer from lace creep, do try it. Just do the first half knot the other way round from usual. And enjoy.
I seem to have chosen a slow news day to announce my intended return to Planet Blog, allowing an extraordinary number of people to notice my few lines on the subject. Pure chance you understand, and not the cold and clammy hand of New Labour spin. For it was only yesterday that I sent off the last of what I have been working on over the past year or so. As I watched the final motorcycle messenger creak down the garden path the tension eased, my mind seemed to empty and a vague feeling came to me that there was something I used to do, something strange, something with words...
It was meant to be like sneaking back into Luton airport after a quiet holiday. It ended up more like a Beckham moment at Heathrow. Anyway, many thanks to Zed, who in my absence has not only won a major blog award but has evidently also become a Time Lord - managing at a stroke to compress about a fortnight of SAAP days into one afternoon. Impressive. I will do my best to merit the attention.
In a strange and completely uncontrived parallel one of the major changes in our house recently is that Saturdays are no longer days carefully arranged around me following Carlisle United on Ceefax between 3 and 4.45 pm, but are days tightly orchestrated around the arrival of Doctor Who on BBC1 at 7 pm.
Our two chldn were quite sceptical at first when it was suggested that we watched the Doctor's return but I was determined to get them to try it. "What was it about," they asked.
"Well, it's about a bloke in a flying phone box." Not impressive, at least not on a Star Wars sort of a scale.
"It's really good. You'll hide behind the sofa." No apparent progress. Unsupported assertions cut no ice in our house.
"There'll be lots of shots of disused quarries." I sensed that vital tipping moment was still some way off. I needed something and I needed it fast - something with youth appeal.
"One of the blokes who was in it is in Little Britain now." Visible interest.
"The one in the wheel chair?"
"Well, no actually." Interest levels receded to undetectable. One last shot.
"Er, the music's brilliant." I launched into a creditable solo rendition.
"Wudda duh duh, wudda duh duh..."
"Oh," they chorused, faces bright with recognition. "We know that. It's Captain Pugwash!" Damn me if they weren't right. Eight notes. One hundred percent identical. My head reeled. I hadn't felt so strange since someone told me that Pink Floyd's 'Interstellar Overdrive' was based on the theme tune to Steptoe and Son.
Anyway Mel and I wanted to watch it so it got watched. And, fortunately, it was a huge success so my critical credibility. my brand, came out enhanced. The New Who is indeed very good, pacy and funny enough to outweigh Billie Piper's experimental acting.
Old news I know. The same day as the Boat Race and about as significant in many ways. Popes have come and gone in the days since but blog to me is mostly about stories from life. Tonight I'm off out to hear an artist speak, so perhaps I'll have something to say about that soon.
Some time and some inclination have appeared. Energy levels rising. Good.
Embarrassment falling. Typing immminent.