NASTY

"You want to donate?”

The cashier nods down to the collection box on the counter and fixes me with a startlingly intense stare. Do I want to donate? That’s a question I wasn’t prepared to answer when I stepped into WHSmiths for a White Americano and packet of Extra Strong Mints for the youngest.

The people in the line are watching, judging. The youngest is watching, judging too. But also I guess looking for guidance on what to do the next time someone in a shop asks him if he wants to donate. The truth is, I don't. For some reason the disdain I feel for people I don’t know asking me for money far outweighs any compassion I might feel for the poor and needy. Especially when they’re wearing yellow ears. But she’s still staring, and it doesn’t look like the transaction is going any further without an answer. Which means a dozen people’s day has been halted as a result of my callous indecision.

MOLLUSC

Our final afternoon on the Greek island of Kefalonia, and we’re snorkelling around a cluster of giant mushroom-shaped rocks sprouting from the sea opposite Ithaca. Apparently thrown by Cyclops at invading pirates. As if being half blind is an excuse for not tidying up after yourself. Anyway, they’re great to jump off and, especially when the sea is calm, the most photogenic objects on the island. Which means I take the same photos of them every time we’re there, in the mistaken belief that one of them will be perfect, and I will look at it often, even though it’s exactly the same as the last, and I won’t. That’s the problem with always having a high quality camera in your towel bag. When you have the opportunity to preserve that perfect moment for all eternity you tend to take it, thus missing it completely.

The eldest lets out a gurgled exclamation and points down to a huge snail moving surprisingly quickly over the rippled sand below. With the magnification effect of the water it’s hard to tell how big it is, although it looks about a foot long. It’s decided that I’ll dive to get it, having the biggest lungs. Also we’re all slightly worried it might be dangerous.

WONDERLAND

Greetings from Wonderland.

I can’t of course be sure you’re seeing this - if you’re in the real world that is. Or even that I’ve written it. Because that’s the thing about Wonderland - doing something doesn't mean it’s happened, just as not doing it is no guarantee it hasn’t. Wonderland is all about faith; the deaf, dumb and blind variety. Believing what you’re told to be true even if it blatantly isn’t. And then Wondering how the hell things got this bad, and when it will all be over.

On the face of it Wonderland is a wonderful idea. I mean, what do you do when you realise your organisation is basically crap and never going to get any better? Simply because it’s got people in it, and people are - unavoidably - human. And that’s no longer good enough, because what you’re promising is perfection. Which is something your glum and disinterested workforce can barely spell, never mind deliver. And when you can’t get to where you want to get to in the real world what do you do? Create another one. Hey presto: Wonderland.

And that’s where I am most of the time these days. I say ‘time', but that’s one of the things that doesn’t apply here. Along with logic, and giving people credit for even a smidgeon of intelligence. You’ve probably been here yourself without realising it. For example, you’re on a station platform, your train is due at 8:08 and is ‘on time’. With a single fluid motion you turn to the station clock and see it’s 8:08, then swivel back to the platform. No train. Where it is? Nobody knows. And it doesn’t matter. The real question is where are you? And the answer is: Wonderland.

CROSSING THE LINE

About a mile from home I pull up behind a slow moving vehicle with flashing lights and black and yellow chevrons. Assuming it’s a street cleaner I weave a little with view to overtaking. Unexpectedly, an arm extends out of the offside window and flaps wildly. It’s a signal I vaguely remember from my driving test days back in the eighties, but I can’t remember what it means. It’s charmingly manual, presumably deriving from a time before light bulbs, and reminds me of when driving was still unpredictable and full of mystery. Rather than something that just happens when you’re between places, as it is now.

I cross once again over the crown of the road and the arm flapping changes into something a little more erratic, as if the driver is attempting to slap the side of his truck immediately behind the window. I wonder whether he’s having some kind of fit and signalling for help.

I pull in closer behind and swing out again in an effort to understand what’s going on. That’s when I notice the second vehicle in front, a kind of small yellow steam-driven contraption - like a roller, but I can’t see what it’s rolling. Is this what it’s all about - a roller in transit between jobs? Surely they’d put it on a truck wouldn’t they? Unless I’ve happened upon the world record breaking Endurance Rolling Team in the process of completing the Scottish leg of its round the world endurance rolling attempt. I suppose I’m honoured to be delayed by such an heroic undertaking. 

But I’d still rather get home, so after the next bend I throttle hard and, with a jaunty toot and a friendly wave, surge past both vehicles. I catch a glimpse of the truck driver who seems to be shouting something out of his open window. No doubt an apology for the inconvenience caused.

Twenty minutes later I’m in the driveway trying to chip the thick white paint off my tyres with a screwdriver.  It never occurred to me that people painted white lines on roads when anyone else was about. Without telling them. The white goo is becoming stiffer by the minute, and I chip away with increased vigour, afraid that at some indeterminate point in the future it will become permanent. I’m in new territory here and have no clue about the properties of this substance. Other than that when you put it on a road it stays there a very long time. Which suggests that if you put it on a car it won’t be going anywhere fast. Other than where the car’s going of course.

MINEFIELD

What doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger. Then it kills you.

I’m sat staring at a laptop, fingers poised, frozen in a trance of helplessness and despair. I have approximately 30 minutes to write a short essay on the challenges facing the trucks used by aid workers in a location of my choice and how they are overcome. Or rather, the youngest has. But he’s got his head on the table and is blubbing quietly to himself. The Britain’s Got Talent Live Final is on in half an hour and he wants to watch it. Live. Far more than he wants to write about overcoming the challenges facing the trucks used by aid workers in a location of his choice.

As someone used to tackling the absurdities of government tenders, I’m no stranger to answering seemingly unanswerable questions to impossible deadlines. But nothing comes close to this. You see, this is not something I was ever expecting I’d need to know about. Let alone write a short essay on, with pictures, in time for the Live Final of Britain’s Got Talent.

UNCOUPLING

"Jes, for God’s sake you’re going to get us killed!"

Aloft on his mountainous machine the tractor driver bobs along obliviously like only a tractor driver can, while all around him lose their heads and blame it all on him.

I pull back in behind and thump the wheel. We’ve been stuck behind him for 10 minutes! What idiot has fields so far away from where he keeps his tractor? And with all that power why can’t he find a couple of extra gears to make the bloody thing go faster than 35 mph! Can’t he bob any quicker!

‘We’re going to miss this train!’ I vent.

'It doesn’t matter, just be careful!'

It does matter. The fact we’re not going anywhere on it makes no difference. At this moment in time, while looking at the back end of this agricultural road block for the eleventh consecutive minute, getting to the station is the most important thing in the world.

You see, the Flying Scotsman is coming to Dunfermline and we have to be there. Why? Because we go back a long way. When we lived in Yorkshire we’d go and see it often, in pieces, being lovingly restored in the National Railway Museum. Now we live in Scotland and it's coming to see us. When he was two, the eldest fell in love with the thing, and slept for years with a small replica next to his pillow. We pulled it off the cover of the first edition of Great Locomotives of the World. Special offer; the best 99p we ever spent. Such was his devotion that he took the bold move of introducing the Brio version into Sodor, the only non-fictional vehicle on the network.

SEE IT, SAY IT, SOD IT

It’s not very good is it. I mean, how many people go "Wow, yes, I now feel empowered to play my part in keeping Britain’s railways safe". And how many people just go "it’s not very good is it"?

Which isn't what you'd expect from the railways. That pioneering force. That great British engine of social and cultural change. A hundred years ago the railways were busy changing the world, connecting our towns and cities, giving us all a way to get to work, and something to complain about when we got there. Before the railways we didn't even share the same time zone. And there was no WHSmith. And now what do they give us? Sloppy slogans and nonsensical announcements.

For example, when did it become necessary to remind us what a station does by putting the word 'stop' after it? And since when did things start 'arriving into' them? And how long has it been possible for something to be 'formed from' eight carriages. You'd think an organisation that spends all its time going to and from places would be on top of its propositions.

AVENGED

And…Action!

"I’m sorry sir, you’ll have to put that away," instructs the security guard.

“Why?” I ask innocently.

"There’s no filming or photography here I’m afraid."

“Why?" I ask again, getting into the part. "This is a public street.” 

Pause. The tension builds.

"You can take a picture of the trucks," he counters. "But the signs and number plates are confidential."

"You're talking a load of absolute bollocks," I spit with beautifully controlled malevolence. "What harm can there possibly be in us taking a picture of a crane!"

"Dad, please, come on!" pleads the eldest from stage left.

But I push on regardless, twirling my rhetorical war hammer to deliver the killer blow:

"And there's absolutely no way a number plate can be confidential!"

KNOT GUILTY

"Go on then, tie him on."

The secret of being a successful adult is to only do things you can do. This is particularly important for people who, for example, build bridges. Or fly aeroplanes. Less important for those of us who don’t do anything that really matters to anyone else. But still quite important in so much as if you want someone to give you money for doing something, it really ought to be something you can do.

Consequently, very few adults do things they can’t, particularly when there’s someone watching. We leave that to the kids. For example, the fact that not a single kid in the class can sing in tune does not detract from the sick-making appeal of the Christmas carol concert. In fact it makes it all the more sick-full. The fact that a kid can’t draw doesn’t stop you pasting its artwork all over the fridge. In fact if it could draw, we’d probably be much less inclined to exhibit its work, on the grounds that being able to do things should really be left to us adults (and we don’t want the little brat to develop an over-inflated opinion of itself do we).

IN THE ARMPITS OF GIANTS

The guy next to me is huge. I mean really huge. I know I shouldn't - it's probably not his fault, and even if it is why shouldn't he be huge if he wants to be - but I'm thinking evil thoughts. Such is my state of compression that I'm not going to be able to do anything useful with either of my arms. And I have a proposal to write. And even if I hadn't, I'm feeling my consumer rights have been violated. I mean, should easyJet have sold me seat 10F if it's already spoken for by the right hand side of the guy in 10E? 

But what can I do? If he was steaming drunk or a screaming child I could complain and perhaps be moved to another seat. But he's not. It's not about what he's doing, it's about what he is. Big.

TICKET TO SUCCESS

"Return to Edinburgh please," I say, glancing across at the train arriving at the opposite platform.

"You’ll not get that one,” the ticket operative remarks, flatly.

I’ll not get that one! Now that’s the reason he’s sat at the other side of a sheet of glass spewing forth boring little pieces of reformed rainforest, while I’m partly in charge of a semi-successful, often creative production company.

I’ll show you 'not get that one’. I snatch up the tickets (which I sense he has spewed forth a tad slower than usual to help prove his point) and bolt for the door. I have learnt, and he obviously hasn't, that we’re not limited by what we can’t do, but what we think we can’t do. The world isn't made up of people who can and people who can’t. It’s made up of people who can, some of whom think they can’t. It’s all about having the right mental attitude which, if you ask me, he hasn’t.

CANON BALLS

"That’ll be 279 pounds," says the sales assistant.

"You mean 259 pounds right?"

"No that’s 279 pounds."

I check the price tag, and repeat - with renewed confidence:

"No, you mean 259 pounds - look."

"No, that’s the price with the discount."

"Exactly. The discount. The 20 pound discount that is the reason I’m here today buying this camera from you."

"But Currys don’t actually give the discount, Canon do. You’ll have to go online to get it."

I pause for a moment to consider the implications of what I'm hearing. Not that Currys and Canon are actually plural entities. I know that not to be the case. No - that I've been deceiving myself into thinking that the price tag is telling me what the camera costs. When actually it's telling me what it will have cost at some point in the future after something else has happened. This is a price tag with its very own tense.