Dog food to the mind.

I like it when the birds flock to the garden, and I can watch them from the window. Sometimes I try to tempt them by throwing designer shoes and handbags out onto the patio.

We used to go to the phone kiosks on the way down to the chalet. The phone lines didn’t reach down there. They’d dial the number with the end of a biro, and pass the phone across. We’d get excited and tell all about what we had been doing.

As the blue Cortina approached the chalet, he’d get out from the car, and lift away a section of the fence to allow the car to pass. The chalet was a double. From inside, the patterned glass made it seem as though the washing line was rotating, even on the stillest of days.

Each night we would wind the cable around the base of the standard lamp.

The radio one road show would come to town, but it was years before the two of us would visit. Town was a car journey away; there was generally no need to go there unless we needed something not supplied by the camp’s shop.

Being by the seaside, we could play on the sand or in the sea. The tide would go far out from there; at least it seemed so then. There was a stream that fed into the sea, and we would play in it wearing our Wellington boots. One time I tried to hold my kite by burying the handle in the sand. It had to be rescued after it crashed into a neighbour’s house.

There was a walk through the woods, up by a stream and past a museum with old cars. It was lush green in those woods, and there was sometimes the chance of a treat from the museum shop.

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Driving around the harbour on the way up to the new house was a luxury, as it took a circular diversion from the main road, when we were already excited about having seen the restaurant called the Angry Cheese. If we arrived when the tide was out then all of the boats would be stuck in the mud, and there would be gulls picking at scraps from the bed.

Just past the harbour proper, where fishermen used to haul in their catches the air smelt heavy of uncooked supper, there was a jetty, and then the long straight promenade with the fairground at either end. The one near the railway crossing was the best, it had an old galloping horse ride and a long plastic slide, bigger than a helter skelter, where twice I got friction burns when my hand slid down on the plastic.

You could walk the length of the beach from here, up to the steep steps that took you back to the new house, or just go part way and then back along the side of the railway track with the trains hooting and the passengers waving, and the watercress growing on the side, ready to be transplanted into the lunchtime salad.

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We normally tried to get the end breaker, by the car park and with the view down the stretch of beach leading up to the steps by the railway. The space between the breakers was insulated from the wind, and the wooden structures, encrusted as they were with seaweed, barnacles and tar, gave a great frame for the foolhardy to play upon.

Along the promenade there were vans selling ice cream and steps over the concrete wall. Even – at one or two points – slip roads so that you could take a boat down to be launched. Or a 4×4, to get stuck in the sand.

The sand on this stretch wasn’t soft and golden, but a solid and always moist clump. Ideal for sand castles, whose moats could be filled from the sea before giving up their defences altogether to the impending tide.

Families would camp there for days, dissuaded only by the rain showers, when they were forced to relocate to the amusement arcades or the pub. The lights bathed the town with a neon glow, behind which, and back up into the hills, the more traditional Victorian stone buildings could be seen, weathered and pastel.

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One time it had been raining. Was raining. Fairly hard, but it was Wales so it was what we expected. Each time we saw a storm cloud we blamed the cubs, or the scouts. They were bound to be camping, somewhere, and that was normally the problem.

We’d seen the scouts earlier in the day. They were looking miserable, in a field, for their field misery badge.

But this was our holiday. The red rover, when it worked, was big enough for us all to sit comfortably and have our packed lunch, all salad and sandwiches, probably some hard boiled eggs and roast beef, and maybe some marmite and jam.

We’d had that, on a road high in the hills, trapped between a million sets of gates that we were careful to open and close to stop the sheep or the farmers from escaping, which meant that one of us had to get out of the car act as gatekeeper. That day I had escaped, pretty much. We’d laughed as the car had gone over the cattle grids, and had ended up, in the early afternoon, by Harlich castle.

This was you nearest castle to where we were staying. Coincidentally, or maybe because of its location, it was also our favourite. We wanted to look round. The rain was coming down, but this didn’t seem to matter. So we parked, paid up, and tramped up the wooden stairs from the front, where once there had been a moat. If the weather continued much as it was, it would soon be full again.

It must have been the early 1980s. Folding macs, which could then be attached to a belt, were all the rage. At least in our house. Always be prepared. Never know when Arkala will try to drown you. We all had green and blue macs, but Dad’s was red, and bright red at that.

The castle was fairly quiet that day, because most people didn’t want to battle the rain. “Follow the little red man” called out the leader, and we followed him around the grounds as he repeated his cry, pied piper style but without the necessity to kill us all at the end of the story.

It was maybe the quickest that we had ever looked around the place, but we did it, and we were pleased.

Later, when we were home, we sat in the big lounge and watched TV before bed, and wondered whether the scout tents could float.

At night, when you are in your bed staring up at the ceiling, look carefully: do you see? Against the corners of the ceiling, the sky people. They live for this moment and you might notice that they start to fly down to you, their wings flapping gently against your cheek to help you rest and sleep. Then, when you are out, they start their playing, dancing and singing, running up and down with joy. They sometimes come right down and walk across your face as they do this. You wouldn’t know it, of course, but the images from their playtime frolics are what make you dream.

I don’t need to tell you not to be sad. Most likely you will out celebrating. Try to raise a happy thought about times with me, as well.

I want to be burned. On no account in a wooden coffin. That’s a waste of a good tree. A recycled cardboard one would be okay, or one from http://www.ecopod.co.uk. I could live with that.

Did you know that many coffins are made of chipboard overlaid in veneer. Chipboard decays slowly, releasing harmful gasses into the environment – quite aside from all of the things in its manufacture.

My coffin needn’t, necessarily, be a huge construction. To make my body size fit into the smallest space, I would like all usable organs to be removed. Sell them on eBay. Give them to your friends. Hide them in a colleague’s desk. Perhaps even let them go for transplant. Did you know that, if your organs aren’t used to save lives of others, they will be taken out as part of the embalming process. Presumably lost down the drains. Or used to stiffen milkshakes in (insert name that would get me sued here). So what’s the point in not being a donor. You won’t be buried intact. May as well save lives.

Its funny, though, calling it saving lives. Really its just postponing death. You can’t save life. It ends – its just a question of when. Remember, kids, childhood’s over the moment you know you’re going to die.

All this is assuming you don’t just get my body stuffed. I’m assuming you won’t, but if you do, I’d like my eyes to be replaced with big red lightbulbs that stick out – the sort that you see on fairground rides. Then I could be placed in a glass case and, whenever someone walks near, the eyebulbs would light up and my mouth wired to moved, and say, “Bugger off” or “lend us a tenner”, whilst my arms flail about. Perhaps I should make recordings, just in case.

Of course, you could seal my body inside a glass case, together with some sort of plant and some bacteria/ insect / pet cat, and see if it comes up with a whole new ecosystem.

Like I said, this seems unlikely. So, I’ll be burned, in my cardboard coffin (hell, use the box that the tv came in if you want, just smash up my legs with an axe so that they fit). Its a shame, if I was to be buried it would be to the song “there’s a world going on underground” underground by Tom Waits. Being cremated, I’ll have to make do with “I’m the Firestarter”.

And what to do with the ashes. Well, there’s no point in leaving me to fester in an urn for all eternity. You could sprinkle me onto a sand pit. Make me into an egg timer. Get me turned into a diamond. All would be good: I’d either serve a purpose, at last, or finally be beautiful. Maybe just tap spoonfuls of me into the air vents of random but beautiful cars, so I get to travel in the vehicles I never owned. Use your imagination. Don’t get too tied down to a place. You need imagination for remembrance, nothing more.

Have a party. A big party. Drink loads. Try to drink so much that you pass out, with one eye still open. Its both big and clever to do this.

With luck, there will be at least half a century to go before any of the above will apply.

There was one time we were away. We wanted to call home, say how we were, what we’d been up to. Chat. Reassure.

It must have been about 14 years ago. There were no mobile phones, but the village had a phone box. Two phone boxes, to be precise, but one was out of order.

We went to the box, thinking we could have a quick call – it was about 7, 7.30 I guess. Summer, so the evening was light. Then it was to be off to get some food, and then, I guess a drink. And back to the guest house.

But we hadn’t allowed for the woman. In the phone box. Dialling. Hearing the phone ring out. And then redialling. And redialling. And redialling. The queue didn’t realise this to start with. It was only after twenty minutes that we paid more attention to the growing numbers behind us, and the lack of any decline in front of us, and realised that something was amiss.

Someone knocked on the door.

“I’m trying to get though,” she said.

It was met with an apt response. We only had to wait for another ten minutes after that before she gave up, left the kiosk, and the queue died down in minutes.

Our target phone number was answered in three rings.

Who are you. Really? When you’re standing in front of theunblinking refelction in the mirror.

Its a difficult question.

What do you see when you wipe the glass clear. A face. Recognisable in appearance. But inside? Who is really there? What thoughts, what hopes, dreams, belief? The eyes are dulled in the reflection, devoid of the spark that should make them engage.

Finding a place is so often done without thought; people are doing things not because it may be right, but because it fits into convention and expectation. Perhaps they don’t want to think about it? Maybe drifting from place to place, job to job, is the ideal?

But perhaps people have low expectations. Or no expectations. Achievement is a reduced scale; the abililty to save enough for a new car, or holiday, or a promotion above the head of a colleague. All minor self obsessions, a little people following Narcissus with blinkered lack of wonder.

Are my hopes any different? My dreams? Who can say. I don’t have the acope to read your mind. I can’t scan your brainwaves for thoughts – I’ve tried, of course, but the TV needs a new aerial. For now its just observation. And TV.

TV’s shared consciousness is a comfort. I know how to fit in here; so do you. Passive participation. You can even drink tea at the same time. And then, tomorrow, around the water cooler – a conversation with those with whom you might otherwise refuse to speak.

Of course this ignores the elite. The elite are those on screen. The stars. People for whom personal identity is fame – at least to their fans – whose adoration and following supplies their place in the world, without concern for individuality.

In the mirror. Beneath the surface. Inside. What is the identity. What place in the world. What value the person?

What person?

Hello. I never paid much attention to you at School, University or in those clubs or workplace when we used to know each other. You used to try to speak to me, but to be honest; you were a bit of an embarrassment. I was trying to get in with the cooler kids / gang / programmers, and you and your buck teeth were a pain in the neck.

I don’t know why you’ve bothered looking here for me. Think of it. The name. Friendsreunited. If you were a friend, would we really need this site? Of course not. We’d have stayed in contact, and there would be no need for some social regenerative facilitation in order to allow us to speak again.

I say that in jest. We never spoke to start with. How can we speak again?

Perhaps you’re from the other crowd. Fucked up your life and stuck in a rut, hoping that everyone from your previous peer group did the same, that you can share cynicism and regret, and maybe, just maybe, that will get you into the pants of the one who you used to fancy, a long time ago, think you still do, think there could be just the slightest chance, despite that person not replying to your calls or messages or emails, moving away, unannounced.

So what are you doing now? Me, I’m running a multi-national company, living in three countries, and have a beautiful partner and kids. I was lucky, of course, to do all this so young, and I have to work hard to maintain the salary.

Life is good.

And you?

If I work really hard they might give me a promotion, then I can get a new suit, ooh, and perhaps save up for a new car, the Fiesta looks nice doesn’t it, one of my neighbours has got one, red, I think, makes him seem even more dynamic than ever, he parks it on the drive in front of his house, lovely estate, his is a luxury house as the paint in the bathroom was a different colour, I only got a single bedroom but that’s okay, only me there normally, well, aside from when the club arrives for the wife swapping at the weekend.

There was a lorry in town with a red phone box on the back, stolen from the street. (A K6, I think, for those who are interested. Also known as the Jubilee type.)

The man removing said box was quite knowledgeable about them. Said he’s like one himself. And that the one that had been removed would most likely be refurbished and then reinstalled somewhere else.

New street furniture is so dull, and I simply can’t imagine it capturing the emotions in the same way. Sure, Alec Clifton Taylor was emotional about concrete lamp posts, but that was in terms of hatred, nothing more. And it must have been about 20 years ago, at the very least.

Modern technique seems so often to be to remove the detail, to the extent that there is frequently no room left for the expression of anything more than a purely functional design. It seems amazing that so few people notice the reduction and cultural homogenisation of their environment. New phone boxes are based on a US design – gone are the glory days of a GPO competition. Clifton Taylor would no doubt applaud – and then be appalled – to see that concrete lamp posts are replaced, but are perhaps worse than ever, with the current plain cylinder. No room, even, for the weathering and bedding in afforded to the concrete design, or to the fantastic wrought struts of the Victorians.

The environment about us is bastardised by the removal of the familiar and the well made, and its replacement with designs whose only appeal is that of cost. The aesthetic is lost, as pavements are blocked with badly placed steel posts and advertising boards. Worse still, the long term sense of cobbles or blocks that weather well and can be relaid when works are required is thrown out for the convenience of tarmac, smoothing over everything for the two weeks before cracks appear or it is torn up to replace a leaking main.

I blame that attitude that says that a car is simply for getting from A to B. That’s no more true than clothes are simply to keep us warm, or TV is to stop us from thinking. Sure, it may be true for some, but it willfully ignores the benefits of a well designed environment.