Number 34

Right - better not have my usual breakfast - really hard to draw porridge, from what I've heard. Good excuse to stuff myself on easy-to-draw and colourful food.

Number 33

I don't know much about these, but having opened the challenge have found out that the world centre for them is around Avebury in Wiltshire - an hour and a half away from us. Reading up on them after the challenge, the debate is between people who believe they're man-made - which is hard to believe, looking at the pictures of the complicated ones - or whether they're made by aliens - which is hard to believe, looking at the pictures of aliens - I will give the definitive verdict.

Number 32

Claire had warned me earlier in the week to keep ten past seven on Thursday free. At 6 o'clock on Thursday I opened the challenge, secretly hoping it said 'Eat two whole lobsters'. But it said ...

Great. I've always wanted to try something like this, but was waiting to have something wrong with me. So what was happening at ten past seven? A reiki session, Claire told me. I knew this was some kind of Japanese hocus-pocus, but didn't know what it involved.

I've got good at staying calm and keeping my expectations neutral, and I was doing these as I rang the doorbell on the dot. The therapist appeared, looking relaxed and friendly. She showed me into the sitting room, where some monks were singing ambient music. 'OK, can you strip down to your underwear and lie down on the couch, please?' she said. 'Oh Jesus,' I thought, regretting choosing my old Dukes of Hazard pants and starter bra. 'Only joking,' she said. A wave of relief went over me – was this part of the therapy?

I lay on the sofa and closed my eyes as instructed. 'I'm going to put my hands over your face – they smell of chocolate brownies.' In other circumstances, this would be fighting talk, but I went along with it.

The first effect was an immediate warm feeling on my face, like being under a sun lamp. I do – or, more accurately, did – meditate occasionally, and knew the feeling that you get from it. But the feeling that it takes ages to get when meditating started immediately – a feeling like my eyeballs were moving upwards ... then the colour show:

1. Different-coloured circles appearing one by one then shrinking as the next one appears.

2. Blobs of clotted blood dancing around on a background of fresh blood.

3. Clouds of tiny bubbles darting around in bluish water.

4. Same as 2, but with a different basic colour.

5. A dark blue carpet with fine gold lines in a clover pattern.

In the middle of the show there were two other effects: first some random worry-type thoughts, which I can't remember, like when you remember the feeling a dream gave you but can't quite pin down the details. All I remember is that Pam Ayres featured.

Then, towards the end, I suddenly had no idea what position my body was actually in, but it felt like I was standing up and bent into some awkward shape – back twisted, head turned right round. Not painful at all, but the fact I couldn't feel I was lying down was strange.

After the twisted body interlude, I sank back into the colour show. This was eventually interrupted by the sound of the door of the room opening, followed by various household noises. I gradually remembered that I lived in the real world. I had no memory of the beginning of the session, but had a vague feeling I didn't want to move.

'Have you nodded off?' said the therapist, handing me a glass of water.

'No ... just ... light great ... colours ... Pam Ayres feeling.'

'Have a drink.'

I had a drink of water, and sat up, feeling groggy but great. As I came round, I described the experience to the therapist, who seemed pleased with the result. I asked her to take a photo of me pretending to see colours.

'Thank you and goodbye, Doctor Haining,' I said as I left ... 'Hang on ... haven't I seen you before somewhere?'

Number 31

OK. With backing singers.

Number 29 update

Bubble machine turned out disappointing - it just parps out a weak bubble every couple of seconds. But ... we hired a motor punt on the Thames, which was fantastic, and switched on the bubble machine during the trip. There weren't many bubbles, and they went in our eyes; it was hard to crop a photo to make it look like there were a lot of bubbles, and they were fun.

Number 30

Everything hinges on the result of the test. Ideally, I will end up with an ambitious wishlist involving travelling the world and spending years mastering new activities. At worst, I might only have time to boil an egg and read half a newspaper.

OK ... here goes. Typing in that address has used up a good part of what I had left for a start. Right ...
... height in inches ... weight ... Do I expect to be married for most of my life? Well that depends on the result of the test. (Does it add or take away from lifespan? Presumably if you marry a young Moldavian woman when you're over 100, it could shorten/end it.)
What fitness quintile am I on? Well, I'm no oil-painting ... hang on ... no, it's exercise - I'll award myself a Q4 - might gain me an extra few years.
I reside in ... none of the US states you can choose from. I reside in don't know. Is that good or bad?
The driver of the automobile I most frequently travel in is sometimes/never/don't know drunk. This is getting bizarre.
OK, so ... none of the ten biggest stress-causing life events have happened to me in the last year, for which I'm very grateful.
I'm guessing I'm outside the 15% least depressed of the population, and I regularly wear a seatbelt on the way to my non-manual job, where I often have five food-types for lunch, which is less than ten per cent fat - that's a high-scoring flurry to finish with.

And I will live to ... (press button - camera zooms in on my sweaty, twitching face for twenty seconds) ... 86.64 years!

Well, I'm happy with that, although it will be a crushing blow to all future young Moldavian women, and I can only apologize to them. So that gives me another 36 years to fit in the five things which I will now start thinking about. Strangely, it's very close to my (living) dad's age now. Hope he's OK.

Number 29

We're off for a few days camping. There's a plain cardboard box in the boot of the car, with a folded slip of coloured paper with '29' on it. I open and read it.

Hmm. What could that be? Maybe it's one of these ...

I wouldn't mind, because I've had real problems with stagnation of the liver and hysteria recently. If I'm really lucky, could be a pair of these - practical and eyecatching ...

If it's one of these, I'm not going to use it - my cheek would never go back into shape!

I open the box with hands shakier than a Hamilton Beach Vibrator. Oh, it's a ...

Very unexpected. Never thought I'd own one of these. Although the picture on the box suggests it's a magnet for young blonde women, it strikes me more as something the childcatcher would have kept in his bag if he'd been born in the age of plastic.

I wonder what the suggestions are ...

I will have to play this with caution. At best, I could be treated with the same kind of suspicion as 50-year-olds who hire themselves out for children's parties as entertainers or mobile disco DJs. And using a bubble machine to lure young children into a bush could go quite badly wrong. I'm picturing an ashen-faced jury as a psychiatrist holds up the bubble machine in court (I might suggest that to the manufacturer as an alternative box image). I'll make sure that whatever I do, my wife and microscopic daughter are doing it too. 

Number 28

Claire hands me the new challenge when I get home from work.

OK then, I will. I have always wanted to eat lobster, as Claire knows, but it's too expensive. But Claire has got hold of a money-off voucher for Loch Fyne, so off we go. Sounds like more of a treat than a challenge to me, but I'm not complaining. She's pre-ordered my lobster. Here he is.

The chef gets to work - not one for the squeamish.

Ten minutes, later, it's there in front of me.

I just check with Claire that the challenge wasn't literally to eat the whole lobster, but just the normal, meaty bits, and I'm off.

Clearly a serious business - I'd held a smile for 23.2 seconds, waiting for the shutter to click.

And it's gone. A one-kilo lobster, inside me. Very nice too.

Number 27

I go to Waterstones – a rare event in itself – and turn left into Fiction. I start to scan the shelves, and think about what my criteria should be for choosing a random novel. After five minutes, I decide the book should:

•         be by a writer I've never heard of
•        have no clues what it's about on the cover.

It's trickier than I thought. There are too many books, and most are either by familiar names, or obviously thrillers, romance, historical, etc, and so give too much of a clue. So I decide to focus on a limited area. The Waterstones Book Club bookcase seems perfect. Guess which one I eventually choose.

Did I say 'Scroll down?' No – I said 'Guess' It's your own time you're wasting.

Yes – well done! I choose the blandly named, blandly covered All that is by James Salter, whose name could only be more bland if it was John Saltless. I open it and take a photo*. 

The first paragraph isn't promising. The only thing I can think of to do based on it is throw myself into a fast-flowing river at night. I quickly rule this out for safety reasons. I decide to cheat and use the first two. So, what have I got to work with? A tier of iron bunks ... hmm ... hundreds of men with their eyes open ... nope ... an endlessly-throbbing engine ... I briefly consider cheating by just looking through all the novels until I find one with an opening paragraph that includes a cheese sandwich or a short bike ride, but decide to plough on.

Okinawa is the only thing. I make a list** of some things I could do:

1. Learn exactly why they're arriving in Okinawa, and what happened. I have some images in my head – flame-throwers ... a posed photo of men forcing up the stars and stripes near Okinawa. YouTube. 

·        2. Find out what's unique about the island – I think it has the longest-lived people for a start – and its basic history.

    3. Learn some phrases in Okinawan.

    4. Cook an Okinawan recipe.

    5. Look at an online Okinawan newspaper and see what's going on there. Get Google to translate the news in Japanese. I know there's a US base there, so there might be online news in English.

    6. Find out the five best things to do in Okinawa if I ever visited.

    7. Read the book.

*The staff and several customers look worried. Photographing pages of books in a bookshop seems to disturb people.

**Staff now talking to manager and pointing at me.

Number 26

10. The potting shed. The peaceful corner where I'm sent to play the accordion. Hmm ... maybe that paintwork needs attention.

9. The shower. I am normally in here after a run, so I am high on endorphins. I also had my six ideas in here.

8. The piano. Probably has a few stories to tell. It was Ruth Gardener's before it came to us, and who knows before that. It is played a lot by me and Fred, my dwindling students, and used by Lola to make up songs. I wonder if pianos remember all the tunes ever played on them when they're drowning. 

 7. Bed.

6. The shoe basket. Always evolving. Increasingly dominated by Fred's tanker-sized trainers.

5. Kids' art going up the stairs in chronological order.

4. End of ancient washing-line in outbuilding, which was the shared washroom for the cottages behind. You can sense the hundreds-of-years-old gossip in the air.

3. Kitchen window-sill. In this area, there's everything you could need, from a giant wooden staring eye, to a Blue Peter badge, to a doll's arm. This is also where Derek lives with his girlfriend.

2. Top of the piano. An abandoned tropical corner where Aardman Animation seem to be filming an adult movie.

1. Back garden. Sit and listen to birds twitter. That's what I like to do.

Number 25

"Helen, I need to talk to you about the cover design ... and by the way, I've recently noticed the thick dark hairs on your hands. I like that."

Number 23 update

I wrote it. I posted it. I'm very proud to be his father, and I told him. It felt good to write it, and I hope it will make him feel good.

Number 24

 

I was quite excited when I opened this on Sunday morning, because I'd read about these 'laughter clubs' in India, and thought it all sounded like ... well, a laugh. I was amazed and really pleased there was one five minutes from our house. I'd read that simply by starting to laugh artificially in a large group, you automatically start to really laugh, which releases all kinds of beneficial chemicals*.

Apparently, laughter evolved in humans because our natural groups were too large for grooming** to work as the bonding thing. Tests have shown, and anyone who's been to a good comedy night knows, that laughing with a big group of strangers makes you feel good about yourself and about the people you're laughing with.

I set off excited about the buzz I was about to get from mass laughter, but realized I didn't have the five pounds to pay for the session, so had to nip to the cashpoint. I wasn't stressed – the laughter of 30 or 40 people would cover the sound of me sneaking in a bit late. I'd just go to the back of the crowd and slowly tune in to what was happening.

I parked up at five past six and pushed open the door. A lady of a similar age to me was standing there watching the doorway. There was no one else there. 'Laughter yoga?' I said, awkwardly. 'It's the Wimbledon men's final', she said, looking concerned. She peered out of the window. 'I don't think even Audrey's coming '.

This already wasn't the free-wheeling, hide-in-a-crowd-primal scream thing I was hoping for.

'I'm Caroline – I'm the teacher ...' - another lady appeared – similar age, similar look of embarrassment and horror - '... and this is Sue – it's her yoga room'. She leant so desperately out of the window that she almost fell out. 'I'm just wondering if Audrey will be coming ...'. By ten past six we were all resigned to the uncomfortable scenario. 'Shall we start?' said Caroline, meaning 'Please can we not do this?' 'Yes!' I said, enthusiastically, but thinking 'Please can we not do this?'. 'Let's stand in a circle!' said Sue. But her eyes didn't lie – they were saying, 'Please can we not do this?'. 'Just a second,' I said. I went over to the window, praying that Audrey was there. Whatever Audrey was.

'So ... let's start with some ha ha ha, ho ho hos with clapping!', said Caroline. 'OK!!!' I said, keenly, hoping she was about to offer the option of losing an eye. Caroline and Sue started off the activity, peeping to check I was throwing myself in to the same extent as they were.

I remembered from reading about laughter yoga that the teacher is a) not supposed to be funny, and b) not supposed to talk much at all. Caroline was breaking both these rules from the start – she was talking non-stop and, fortunately, very funny. In fact both the women were natural physical comics. During the improvised comedy-catch game, my forced laughter immediately turned real as we did ridiculous dummy throws and fancy catches. I also started to realize how surreal the whole thing was, which also made me laugh, so after five minutes, I was laughing twice at the same time, which is always a plus.

The two women were so good at slapstick and clowning, the it was impossible not to really laugh. Although it's not quite the laughter yoga invented by Dr Madar Kataria in India (they played a recording of him chuckling in the background), it did the trick. I really, really laughed, and felt all the benefits you get with that.

The last activity – humming meditation – was a replacement activity for the small group. We sat back-to-back in a triangle, closed our eyes, stuck our fingers in our ears, and hummed, with instructions to experiment with the volume and pitch of the hums. For the first minute, I was mainly checking that they were doing it too, and not just laughing while they videoed me. Once I was satisfied they were humming too, I got into it, and played around with everything from almost inaudible Paul Robeson humming to glass shattering high-pitched stuff. I was just making a mental note to take up deaf-blind humming as a serious hobby, when I realized that the background noise had gone. I took my fingers out of my ears, to find that the laughter ladies were in the middle of a conversation that had clearly been going on for a long time. I reckon I had been making a humming knob of myself for at least five minutes.

And that was it – I was feeling quite high at the end of an hour, and would definitely do a group session in the future. In fact the perfect Sunday evening natural high could well be an hour's laughter yoga followed by a skinny dip with humming.

   The laughter ladies do mental flossing.

*... and, depending on the state of your pelvic floor, some that rot the carpet

**ape-type, not Rolf Harris-type

Number 22 update

The best way to round off a sunny Sunday lunch with friends in the garden involving a whole bottle of wine, is to strip off and throw yourself into your local river. I cycled with my wife and microscopic daughter to the 'drop-off' - one of the few places where the Windrush is deep enough to dive in - and stripped off.

Like a young Tarzan, I made my way elegantly down the bank ...

concentrated my mind with a brief Johnny Wilkinson pose ...

then unleashed the 'sea lion'.

The cold made me foolishly excited, and I was whooping as I put my boxers on my head in the classic way.

A duck* swam in front of me. Luckily it was EXTREMELY LARGE.

I'm not certain what my microscopic daughter made of this - her face was a mixture of sympathy and amusement; I can only hope it doesn't leave her scarred.

Time to hop out and skip gracefully up the bank like a mountain goat.

As the spot is pretty remote, I only bothered loosely holding the towel in place when getting dressed, and I can only apologize to the woman who suddenly appeared with her dogs. Although I suspect she must have done something pretty awful in a previous life to deserve that sight.

The swim felt like being in the Amazon, let me see a familiar place from a new angle, and was ace. A warning to any dog-walkers - I may be doing it again.

*Twitchers will recognize it as Muscoverupis danglis - a popular summer visitor to our shores.

Number 23

I like to think this letter will be the start of a lifelong correspondence to rival that between Lord Chesterfield and his son, in which Freddie thanks me warmly for my advice, and describes how it has taught him the fine art of becoming a gentleman. Perhaps a slightly more likely scenario is that he will greedily rip it open, and when he sees there is no cash inside, drop it unread onto the floor.

Number 22

There are two ways to do this. The cowardly way would be to find a lonely bend in the Thames, get in the water with shorts on and remove them under water, carefully watching to make sure there's no one around, and trying not to attract attention.

I, however, will buy a ticket for a family swimming session at the Windrush Leisure Centre, and strip off in the changing room. I will march proudly to the pool, shout a cheery 'Good morning, families' before entering the pool with my famous 'sea lion' dive. People like confident people, so I expect quite a lot of the families and staff will come up and congratulate me on my boldness.

Number 18 update

An anatomically accurate map of my heart, with all the people, things and places that have a place in it. I couldn't get a good run of time to do this one, so did it in five-minute bursts. It deserved better! And yes, it's deliberately blurred. Oh yes, too damn right it is.

Number 21 update

I wake up extremely tired and hungover at 8 o'clock to the great news it's my big lie-in. It couldn't have come on a better day. I go straight back to sleep and dream about a ridiculously flamboyant chef on an Inca boat, who is in trouble with the modern day police for some reason. As he is eventually led away, I am woken by some polite and high-pitched throat clearing. It's an extremely smiley, miniature waitress, waiting to take my breakfast order. I order a cooked breakfast with coffee and close my eyes again. More throat clearing. 'Any ketchup or brown sauce?' 'Brown sauce, please'. Five minutes later, I'm woken again. 'We haven't got any brown sauce.' 'OK' I doze again. Some time later ... 'Ahem ... would you like any sauce?' I'm awake now anyway, so I leaf through 'The Visual History of the World' for the first time since I bought it at a car boot sale eight years ago. I'm examining the photo of Mussolini strung up by the feet when the waitress comes in with my tray. It's a large breakfast with coffee and juice following on the next delivery – not a bad feat for someone who's microscopic.

I almost never have a cooked breakfast these days, but today the idea of eating three pounds of fried meat before leaving my bed seems an excellent one. It turns out to be a lot better than a poke in the eye, too – can't be faulted on any technical points such as touching beans and egg. When the waitress pops in to ask if everything's OK, I tell her it's 'flippin' delicious'. She goes away, but returns a few minutes later and hands me a note. 

She takes away the breakfast stuff as I turn to a photo of the Battle of Badajoz for my last ten minutes of relaxation. On the dot of eleven, I  get the bill.

Blimey. She's back again. She seems to think it's funny.