Quick Nurse! .. He Still Has A Pulse

Yesterday a constant bass throbbing disturbed the work of many people in our building - good job it was Friday afternoon; it went on for some hours and people scratched their collective heads wondering what the noise might be. At 3pm prompt, stepping into the car park of our Stretford corporate headquarters, might heart skipped an involuntary beat as I realised what the noise had been. They were doing sound checks at the nearby Lancashire County Cricket Club for this weekend's concerts featuring The Arctic Monkeys and Amy Winehouse, among others. Why did my heart skip a beat, I imagine I can hear you asking; and the answer is that that is what live music does to me, always has, wherever or whatever it is, I love live music and hearing the throbbing bass lines, barely discernible as one of Amy Winehouse's songs, I just wanted to be one of the thousands of people who gather and experience the gig.

Musing on my maturity, once again, it reassured me that I still enjoy the odd frisson of excitement. Climbing from the Cumbrian coastal village of Sandwith up to the lighthouse on St Bees Head last week, I experienced such a thrill as the vista opened before us giving stunning views over the Western Hills of Scotland and over one of the largest seabird colonies in the UK (OK, OK, I know I'm drifting into waters where you may well consider an anorak to be the appropriate wear again, but stick with it).

Earlier today, passing the Railway Hotel in Greenfield - a fabulous live music venue - I notice a poster advertising Martin Taylor - yes, Martin Taylor, the phenomenal, world-renowned jazz guitarist. I experienced another such thrill - do you see a theme developing here - and was excited all day until, only moments ago, I discovered that he was on last week while we were busy being excited at St Bees.

That burning core of light, that makes us who we are deep inside, remains unchanged; I don't have to settle for a middle age of mediocrity; but I don't have to strap myself to a Harley Davidson or throw myself from a cliff just to prove that my heart is still capable of pumping adrenaline around the system. The things that push my buttons are still there, albeit I'd have enjoyed Martin Taylor at the Railway more than the Arctic Monkeys I think.

To illustrate the point I have included one of the photographs Mrs C took of the relaxing view from St Bees Head last week.

I Knew It!

As soon as I heard about people throwing themselves from high things for thrills into water of indeterminate depth and current strength I thought to myself: that will be the next thing on the list of idiotic things for middle aged people to do to prove their imagined youthful vigour. Imagine my warm, dry and safe smugness when this quote from the BBC News summed it all up:

"A middle-aged man drowned and another was seriously injured when they jumped into the sea off a pier in Essex, in a stunt known as "tombstoning".

This is Mrs C's and my annual holiday fortnight: the first week at home and then a week in Keswick with the dog, (for any burglars reading, our two burly sons will be at home protecting the family pile). During this first week the most excitement we'll probably get is allotment sitting for my Father in Law, Mr W, who is enjoying the summer weather (I hesitate to say sun) in North Wales. We have already had a bountiful crop of raspberries and gooseberries and, to judge by our last visit, it won't be long before we are replete with beetroot too.

My advice to anyone thinking of chucking themselves from a lofty perch into the seething waters below, is to take a step back and reflect on the greater and more profitable experience that can be had from growing vegetables.