I miss being dumbstruck alive by sensual things. I’ve been writing postcards and sending them intermittently to friends across the world. Further away the better. There is something tangible about bad handwriting, stamps and a printed seal. A time capsule of silly scribbles you may never receive.

I love buying postcards from galleries and side street shops. Its a teenage habit of mine I’ve never shaken despite considerable pressure to do so. In my late teens, I used to bunk off college/university and spend hours in Aberdeen Art Gallery spinning plastic racks of Marilyn Monroe. Many of these remain on my wall to this day.

I love the faith you have to place in the postal services. The fact you’ll never get an immediate acknowledgement from the recipient. To believe it will be carried by van, train, plane, aeroplane and finally on foot to a letter box near you. That’s amazing isn’t it? I miss picking up a pen and feeling wonderfully naive.

Saturday Night Mass in Zaragoza

I don’t believe in the Father, Son or the Holy Spirit. As a secular liberal I actively oppose all Abrahamic sky-gods on principle. You only have to watch the news to see what they have to offer and it’s not pretty. Just there are occasions, where I find myself a wilting agonistic, one longing for a communal bond with my fellow wo/man. It happened by accident of course, when I travelled to Zaragoza, and checked into my 3* hotel. Muddled and half asleep, I collapsed onto my bed for a solitary hour’s rest before dinner.

Come evening, I surrendered to my roaring appetite and headed towards the city centre for meatballs and patatas bravas. Along the way I took instantly forgettable pictures of the Cathedral Basilica on my smartphone. Why I persist in taking photos I never check or upload onto Facebook for approval I do not know.

Zaragoza city centre was jostling with life on my arrival and the sky had faded into a particularly tender shade of blue. Africa swifts were swooping down for dying insects, doll kids were playing tag and a marching band of lanky olive teenagers were blowing their own trumpets. Life here is good.

Before settling down for the dinner, I pushed open the cathedral’s main door and intruded on a Saturday night mass. I had no intention of staying long. I just wanted to have a wee look and nothing more. Skirting around the back like a Protestant ghost, there were rows upon rows of t-shirted families blessing themselves in front of old men in white robes. I don’t understand Catholic rituals or what you’re expected to do.

Having spent so much of my adult life London, it now feels strange for me to mingle in an exclusively local place. A city where everyone looks the same. Apart from the revellers checking their WhatsApp messages at the back, this could have been Zaragoza forty years ago such was the regional sense of familiarity.

When the cathedral began singing I realised this wasn’t a proper mass at all. I could barely breathe as the coral ensemble sang. This was music without applause or fanfare. Singing for the love of singing. Shrivelled chess pieces on wooden thrones provided the bass and the mixed choir pitched in with a feminine treble. Listening to ‘Gloria’ soar down the cavernous nave, it felt like I was witnessing a medieval painting bursting into life.

Travelling can throw up these moments of spiritual commonality. Even if like me, you don’t believe in anything at all. But putting my indifference to organised religion aside, I wouldn’t want to see nights like this disappear entirely. For if nothing else, I now have one beautiful memory of Zaragoza that I could not possibly save, picture or record.

Show up

Everything feels so temporary in autumn, although I much prefer the Americanism ‘the fall’. Usually I have these fizzing climaxes and quixotic dreams whirring in my brain, but they’ve fallen dormant since mid-summer and I have no idea why. Running past girls dying their hair the colour of the sky, I’ve cropped my head like a peppercorn and I’m looking forward to going away.

Walking home to an inanimate roundabout telling me to have a great day, I go on sugar raids and early morning runs amongst glass fronted units of investment. I need to reassure myself that it’s fine to have nothing to say. Too many people have something to say. Word gets round eventually.

Show up


The Prince and the Writer

Astrological ClockBooking my flights to Venice last September had none of the usual fanfare. No shiny guidebook purchased from Waterstones, no ‘going local’ through disruptive technologies or Spritz cocktails. This was a flash visit for a purpose, a clandestine mission lasting less than 36 hours. After a deeply frustrating summer and a broken fairytale pulling my strings, I threw the dice and gambled on Venice.

On arriving at Marco Polo Airport around noon, I had the afternoon to work out the route if I could find my hotel in time. Armed with only a rucksack, I repeatedly told myself this was not a holiday, I couldn’t contemplate doing anything fun. Chopping along the lagoon waters at breakneck speed, I sat next to a brash American family as cormorants sped past us on the aquatic highway. Young couples on mini-breaks took shameless selfies and a Dutch family hawked up guttural consonants throughout the sea bound journey.

Everyone else on the vaporetto was decked in holiday attire and carrying bulging suitcases. I felt considerably out of place as we pulled up at St. Marks Square. Battling amongst a swarm of visitors I marched towards an astrological clock with sweat trickling down my back. Much to my dismay patches the size of Venice were already starting to develop.

Still blisteringly hot in early September, I checked into my one star hotel and was curtly directed by a mute receptionist to my room upstairs. I had to squeeze past a monstrous boiler just to get inside. Collapsing onto my rickety single frame it immediately began to squeak – this was going to be a long night and bloodsucking mosquitoes certainly made sure of that. Such was the sense of decay, I could have mysteriously died and my body would have lay undiscovered for about 25 years.

Calle-dei-FabbriMy interview took place a few days before the Scottish independence referendum and I felt incredibly tense refreshing Twitter for new polls. The #indyref certainly contributed towards a heightened sense of anxiety, one which crystalised my entire summer and fed into my Venetian journey.

Meanwhile I had to get this job whether Scotland became an independent state or not, and finding the office was proving difficult. Navigating a densely packed medieval warren and trying to pinpoint a tiny calle is not easy. With the lagoon heat saturating my energy, I kept on getting as far as Rialto fish market and nervously backtracking to my hotel exhausted and hungry.

Unlike Scotland nightfall descends more vividly in southern Europe and I failed to find the office despite searching for hours. My all-important interview was at 11am and not being able to find the office would hardly be a ringing endorsement of my intelligence. Even with my spatial awareness deficiencies, I simply had to find it after coming all this way.

After dining in a backstreet tattoria close to St. Mark Square, I coughed up my Euros for a pizza and returned to my upstairs hovel. Darkness had pulled its cloak over the island and there was a tangible switch in atmosphere, a balmy restlessness of knives and spoons entwining in lobster restaurants. Lying on my creaky bed frame, I conceded to my overheated melancholy and purchased £10 phone data triggering multiple What’s App conversations.

Venice NightMy first message came from an eccentric Croatian guy called Matej who had been communicating intermittently with me on Skype for months. Highly intelligent with superb colloquial English, Matej told me about the job and encouraged me to apply for the role, but pleaded with me not to mention him at all. I never knew what to make of the veiled secrecy. Being a straight up northern European my instinct is to apply for jobs the traditional way and let emails take care of the rest.

Things are done differently in Venice as I soon found out. Matej aggressively pleaded with me to meet him at Rialto Bridge saying “I’ll be really pissed with you if you don’t come!” On Skype chat he always appeared to be a shape shifting chameleon, and had a bizarre penchant for self-publicity. His alter ego Facebook page left me wondering exactly what ‘Matej’ I was going to meet later that evening.

He was also a domineering figure and clearly enjoyed playing games with people. Luckily I liked him but was suspicious and nervous too. I always appreciated his friendliness and sense of humour, but I didn’t know what to make of him, or what his motivation might be for inviting me to apply.

Unsure whether it was a good idea to meet him beforehand, I left the hotel and entered the darkness with mosquitoes famishing my wrists. Guided by spooky gas lamps and painted arrows, I arrived at Rialto Bridge teaming with flashing cameras and selfie sticks. Matej was standing there on the lower steps, a skinny flamboyant man with a rib hugging t-shirt, and we shook hands and both silently observed a hitherto internet character morphing into life.

Matej stressed we couldn’t hang around Rialto in case somebody saw us. Venice is a small island and you bump into friends and acquaintances every day. As a stranger in a foreign land, I blindly followed him down a series of calles past a fifteenth century monastery, which had been serenely converted into a beautiful hospital. In hushed tones he made it clear we couldn’t be seen talking in public, as far everyone in the office knew, we weren’t aware of one another’s existence.

Along the way I learned a Swedish guy was being considered for the job as well. Matej’s plan to parachute me into the office was suddenly in jeopardy. I felt threatened by this development too. Suddenly this trip wasn’t an inauguration after all and I could end up flying back to London with nothing.

Arriving at a back street tenement in Castello, I was introduced to three people in a gloomy Hopper-esque kitchen. Accepting one of their beers, Matej went on to explain the owner ran the office like a saloon bar and “you need to tell them how you can make the company lots of bookings without spending any money.” Then somewhat depressingly he lamented the state of the website and lack of bookings, much to the annoyance of his room mates, who were probably all too familiar with this angst ridden story.

After discussing the Scotland’s exit from the UK, I said my farewells and headed back to the hotel following the yellow arrows. Mataj’s cloak and dagger tactics had been a great help and I warmly reassured him I would stonewall him at tomorrow’s interview. With the office directions firmly embedded in my head I was confident I could find the place and get through this final, final round. Like everything else you need to throw the dice for extraordinary things to happen. I had lost enough in the proceeding months.

I flew over to live three weeks later.


Touch the Sky

As modern as tomorrow, there’s something tangible sitting in my black reclining seat, surrounded by shiny bits of silver and tubes of muesli. Picture a decade and you’ll find yourself here, overlooking workers eating salad boxes outside BBC headquarters. Watching split screens, listening to a bewildering range of accents and a slimline French girl with disconcertingly wide eyes.

Ambitions and eulogies soar in the glass palace opposite me. It takes a gregarious type to entertain so many vested interests for ten hours solid. And that’s before you factor in the What’s App messages, emails and midnight phone calls to Shanghai, Chile and New York. I can only bow to my own inertia in that respect. I can only talk for so long before I shut down.

I’m merely a observer of personalities and soaring ambitions. Money is the point, but it’s not what motivates them. They want something bigger than remuneration and no one in the glass palace ever struck me as being overtly materialistic. Not in the traditional sense, because it goes beyond money, it goes beyond the champagne and lobster cliches and four-day weekends in Monte Carlo.

What I find more interesting is why people try to achieve what they do. Why people keep working fourteen hours a day when you already have everything you possibly need. They play for glory and glory alone. The effervescence of London’s West End is exhilarating at times. Especially when I remember where I come from, and the shy insignificance I feel watching the globe converge in front of my very eyes.

Hard choices

From working in a rickety town house in Venezia to a ridiculous Russian startup run by 20-year-old rich kids, to corporate Britannia in Oxford Circus. I’m forever spinning against the spectre of global competition. London is perpetually moving forward and banishes the vulnerable into exile. How can you compete against LA, Shanghai and New York? It’s really fucking hard to achieve anything.

I have no sense of accomplishment living here. Dates, plays and interviews make my life vibrant and calamitous. I love walking home along the Strand like a shadowy figure from the 1930’s. St’s Paul’s Cathedral is still my favourite London landmark after dark. Even now in my eighth year of asking. I collect glossy theatre programmes for £3.50 a piece and overload on books I never have time to read.

The lists I enthusiastically compile get ticked off and are repeated the following day. Still my confidence is fragile and I much, much prefer working at home. It astounds me at the age of thirty four that I’m so naive and dumbstruck by seemingly ordinary things.

Keep it in the ground


I think most people write because they don’t want to sleepwalk through life. Writing is a means of keeping memories alive. If you don’t record, paint or obsessively photograph or film every living moment then why are you even here? I write to stay alive as you forget what matters otherwise. That’s the one thing that scares me the most. Not being able to remember my stories for better or worse. I also want to keep a record of my changing. I am always changing.

School years are easy to remember if your parents keep hold of your jotters, paintings and teacher reports. Thereafter you have landmark birthdays with complementing photographs, graduation days and long hot summers doing nothing at all. Memories feel more tangible when your everyday life is administered year by year.

Only now I find months and years morph anonymously into a cloudy void. This year doesn’t feel any different than the previous four. I’m sure plenty of things have happened, but for some reason I barely notice the difference. Perhaps amnesia has set in prematurely because I’ve lived in the same flatshare for five years. Working as a freelance copywriter chasing unpaid invoices and ignoring voicemails is a repetitive trade at times.

East London Bedroom

An inconspicuous lifestyle in East London doesn’t provide much visual stimulation either. I’m sure the past few years would have been more memorable if I had gone backpacking in Chile or got married to a blonde jazz singer in Melbourne. Alas, when I wake up in the morning there is no orchestral soundtrack accompanying my footsteps to the bathroom. My laptop screensaver is the same as the year before. Pulling open my black Primark curtains I see the same tattered plastic bag swinging from the communal birch tree every day.

Grand Central Station

If it wasn’t for my WordPress blog then I wouldn’t be able to trace anything at all. Blogging provides a highly subjective recorded history, but a necessary one if you want to join up the dots. For example I can’t honestly remember when I flew over to New York for an OK Cupid date (yes that’s right).

If I scroll back I can remember arriving in Grand Central Station. It was unseasonally hot and I was jet lagged for the first time. Walking around I remember the towering sense of civilisation, meeting Nicole, queuing outside MOMA together and buying Mexican beers in a Harlem grocery store. But the timing of this otherwise memorable trip escapes me. It could have happened anytime in the last three years. Now that’s what you call experiencing life on a big scale.


From red ochre cave paintings in southern France to tweeting rubbish about football, there is something incredibly human about keeping a record. Skipped behind my bookcase lies a collection of diaries and notebooks I have curated over the years. With literary quotes squashed in the margins justifying their existence, I keep filling them out and dumping them alongside their older colleagues. A scrapheap of memories no one will ever read.

If I am lucky enough to have a family of my own they’ll eventually be boxed and kept upstairs in an oak wooden loft. Maybe they’ll be sparingly reopened for an old quote or a nostalgic rummage through the past. Only to be put back in their place again, a written bond with a young man that no longer exists.

In addition to my dusty notebook skip, I keep shoeboxes full of old letters, gifts and Valentine’s Day cards underneath my bed. Occasionally I take a look at them, but I haven’t checked them or my ex-girlfriends emails for over a decade. I know I will never look at them again. But I can’t bear the thought of getting rid of them either. A skip or recycle bin makes no difference to me. Deep down I want someone to read my stories when I’m not here.

Aberdeenshire Pictish Symbol

Before I longed for a written legacy I remember being assigned a primary school project to recreate the standing stones of the Picts (an ancient warrior tribe in northern Scotland). The Romans called them the ‘Painted People’ because of their elaborate monstrous tattoos embroidered on their chests. On building Hadrian’s Wall in 128AD, the Romans essentially formed an ideological frontier that stated civilisation lay down south – roads, aqueducts, fortresses.

Northward bound was a land of mist, barbarians and Pictish standing stones. The same stone circles I tried to recreate with my Dad’s chisel. Looking back it was one of my all-time favourite school projects, bashing away at a lump of rock in a bitterly cold garage. I’ve resoundingly failed to experience the same sense of joy doing work ever since.

Artifical Intelligence

A large number of Pictish stone circles have survived in Scotland. Whatever messages the Picts were to trying convey I cannot fathom even now, but their recorded history remains accessible even today. Like the Picts we too express our own stories in equally vivid and complex ways, but assuming there will still be an inhabitable planet 2000 years from now, I don’t think any of my A.I descendants will be recreating my stories on an interstellar spaceship.

Electromagnetic Pulse

In some respects my skipped diaries are physical reminders of my narcissistic desire to be exhibited just like the Picts. While stone circles remain visible, our digital archives could easily be wiped out by a nuclear inspired electromagnetic pulse (EMP). Collectively we need the Internet to function as a global society.

Electrical magnetic storms have the ability to destroy our civilisation just like fire pulped the ancient scrolls of Alexandria Library. A world without Wi-Fi would be nasty, brutish and short if a magnetic dystopia were ever to take place. Don’t try and order a pizza on your iPhone when it happens.

Internet Dsytopia

Bit rot – the slow deterioration of data software such as floppy discs also renders our digital civilisation useless to future historians. Cloud based services are not worth anything if technology moves so fast that you can’t even open them. Unlike calfskin vellums and hardback books accessible in public libraries today, our collective knowledge requires constant software upgrades just to stay alive.

Augmented Reality

My stories are unlikely to be remembered by anyone and that’s assuming I’m fortunate enough to have children or grandchildren interested in genealogy. My WordPress subscription has to surely expire at some point. What happens if the software company goes bust or evolves into an augmented reality server projecting to a visually attuned audience?


While it probably isn’t a tragedy if my ex-girlfriends emails are unable to be read by future generations. I still want to keep them alive somehow. By taking one glance at them you hear the voice of another person, someone still alive but lost forever. We are always changing and writing helps you capture a particular moment in time. Writing to me is one of the greatest human inventions, holding us all together, providing an emotional bond with the dead, living and unborn.


Change is the one constant on a writer’s journey to the recycle bin. It doesn’t matter how eloquent and grand your thoughts are in the twenty-first century, all it takes is an epic server upgrade and your life stories will become robot.txt. You see that’s the progressive irony of our digital revolution. No amount of technology can save your words, especially anything that is stored on an electro powered server.

A memory palace is more likely to be derived from handwritten notebooks than your Facebook archives. If I want to preserve this particular record it would be wiser to print it off and laminate it for safe keeping. But even my words will fail to outlast the stone circles of an ancient Caledonian tribe. That’s real power if you ask me. All this superlative technology spinning in the sky, and the symbols that will out last us all have been carved with a chisel in the ground.