Sony Awards here we come

Life moves in decidedly odd directions sometimes.

Got a tweet this morning from BBC Radio Gloucestershire asking me whether I was interested in commenting on the heady world of dad blogging. Sure, I replied, thinking they meant give us some background thoughts. Two hours later I was live on air talking about whether dads feel they have enough involvement in parenting and explaining why it is I blog.

Remember this chap?

 

 

That’s a little how it felt. But I can’t deny it was great fun, and I can see how interviewees can be gently led into saying things that later they really wish they hadn’t; it’s very easy to forget, sat miles away with a phone to your ear, that you’re not just having a cosy chat with the person at the other end, you’re actually live on air with, erm, a number of people (a ‘number’ being the collective term for local radio listeners) listening to you talk nonsense.

Having said that, I’m assured I have a lovely radio voice, and I’ve been invited back to do a regular guest ‘blogspot’. Next one is on 30 July at 1.40pm (because of course you’ll all want to listen, won’t you?) For those who might be interested, I think you can listen again to the show here. I should be around the 1.50pm mark.

 

I was going to leave it there, but I can't help but make one last point. I've blathered on before about how technology has already changed the way we do things, and this is just another example. A few months ago I start blogging; simple enough to do, write some nonsense or other, post it to a blog, voilá. At the same time I join twitter, talk some more nonsense, tell a few people about the blog. Then one day out of the blue get a request, via twitter, from the BBC asking whether I'd be up for an interview, then get offered a regular slot on the show talking about....the blog. I know people complain about how we're all turning into screen zombies, but I have to say that as a result of all this I've met people and discovered communities I never would have even known existed before, and it's bloody marvellous.

 

So whilst normal ranting service resumes next time, for now pat yourselves on your back, you lovely people, you. And listen in on 30 July at 1.40pm. You know you want to.

Ninja!

I ask you. A man with an avowed intention to give it all up and go and live on a commune somewhere, and then he only goes and gets himself an interview for some fancy arsed corporate job. “I hate the City!” he wails, “I need to get out!” and then off he promptly trots at the beck and call of the first besuited headhunter that happens to walk past.

I mean. Really.

I did ask myself what on earth I was doing and waggled the fickle finger of frustration, but then I reasoned to myself thus: it never hurts to talk to people, it’s only meant to be a short term thing anyway (three years or so), we can't just stop paying for stuff, and, well, yes it is quite an exciting role, and a wonderful opportunity, and, oh, well, they asked me. And of course having now been for the interview I’m fairly certain that they’re not actually going to ask me to do the job. In the spirit of détente I accepted that explanation and went for a drink.

Maybe it’s fear. Terror of the unknown. Scared that maybe the grass won’t be greener and I’m better off staying where I am, even if where I am happens to be stood ankle deep in mud and slowly sinking further. It has a name, you know, this hesitancy of mine. It’s a medical condition: Betterthedevilyouknowitis. From the Latin for ‘too lazy to act’. Disillusionment breeds sloth. Or is it sloth breeds misery? No fair, no foul? No jam, no bread, or something.

What a depressing day. Here, have some French ninja cats while I go and make myself a cup of tea and stare out of the window wistfully for a bit.