Taking stock

So, here we are. December 31st, 2009. The last day of the Noughties. In a few hours' time we will say farewell to the old decade and hello to the new one.

It should somehow feel like a day of great importance: a momentous day, a noteworthy day. After all, the last time we stepped over the threshold into a new decade, everyone was wondering whether computer systems were going to crash, planes were going to drop out of the sky and the very heartbeat of our modern world was going to suddenly stop. (What an anticlimax that turned out to be.)

Instead, today seems not unlike many other days - unexceptional. Cold and grey; a normal working day (for those people not extending their Christmas holidays); a day when ordinary people do ordinary things.

I suppose, at least, it is a time for a moment's retrospection. For the past couple of weeks, certainly, newspapers and TV programmes have been busily producing their 'top' and 'best of' lists: our favourite TV programmes of the decade, the greatest songs, the top sporting moments, the best new gadgets.

Making a list comprising a round number of anythings feels a bit too much like hard work, so I'll settle for reflecting on how life chez Liew has changed over the past ten years.

Obvious changes first.

On New Year's Eve 1999, Heather and I were living in our first house in Oxford. Ten years on, we have moved twice, first to Lane End, and from there to our current house in Thatcham. Of course, there are now three of us - Isaac turned two earlier this month - and our second child is now only a matter of days away.

I've worked for four different companies during the decade, having left Royal Mail in late 2000 and ending up at 3M (since mid-2005), via stops at Tesco and BBC Worldwide. I've now been at 3M for four-and-a-half years, my longest tenure at any of the five businesses I have worked for. And while I don't necessarily feel that this is my final resting place, I certainly don't have quite the same itchy feet I did ten - or even five - years ago.

Heather and I have had some great holidays too - travel has always been important to us both. We have whiled away hours lying on a beach in Jamaica or St Lucia; covered thousands of miles in a car in California (my all-time favourite holiday), New Zealand and Canada; stood atop the Great Wall of China, the Empire State Building and the Grand Canyon; marvelled at magnificent architecture and/or art works in Bangkok, Paris, Florence and Barcelona - to name but a handful. It's been a great few years. Hopefully we will take the new arrival to see his extended family in Malaysia and Australia in 2010.

What else? We've owned six cars between us during the Noughties, ranging from our little Citroen Saxo (the first car we ever bought) to my old Audi TT. By my count, on my own I've also accumulated nine mobile phones, three Playstations, two iPods and a partridge in a pear tree during the decade, not to mention the three home PCs, three digital cameras and three Sky satellite receivers we own or have owned between us. (Sign of the times, eh?)

But all that is a collection of either material goods or experiences. How have I changed as a person over the past ten years?

I'd like to come up with some staggering insight into my personal development here, but the fact is, after 39 years on this mortal coil, I'm just an older - and hopefully slightly wiser - of the 29-year-old who saw in the new millennium. I suspect that anyone who hadn't seen me for ten years would say that I haven't changed much. A few grey hairs and a lot more pounds, certainly. But fundamentally I'm still the same quiet, self-conscious, socially awkward person I've always been, albeit one who is a little more sure of his place in the world after an additional ten years' life and career experience. I'm a bit less patient than I was and quite a bit more irascible than I used to be. (I am, in fact, turning into a bit of a grumpy old man.) And I'm certainly starting to feel both my age and my mortality, a combination of minor health issues and the death this year of one of my best friends from university, Sam Best-Shaw.

If one thing has changed me more than anything else, it has been becoming a father. I'm definitely less self-absorbed and more responsible than I used to be, and I have learned to see things through a child's eyes. People say that having children allows you to experience a second childhood yourself, and I have certainly found that to be true. For all the sacrifices we have made, all the sleepless nights we have had, all the worries and doubts, it has been worth the trouble many times over.

So that's it. No stunning insights, a minimum of cod psychology. Ten years of my life which have been more about evolution than revolution; not in a bad way, though. I'm happy, and that's more than enough for me.

Anyhow, Happy New Year, everyone, and may 2010 and the new decade bring you good cheer and fortune.

What's in a name?

Another box ticked today. (Well, sort of.)

After dropping Zac off at nursery, Heather and I headed into Oxford to do a bit of shopping and - importantly - have a spot of lunch at our favourite restaurant (the Liaison Chinese restaurant on Castle Street, if you're ever passing that way).

I say importantly for two reasons.

Firstly it was perhaps the last opportunity for the two of us to go out to lunch together before we embark into logistically challenging two high-chair territory.

And secondly, as we discovered during Heather's first pregnancy, a restaurant table represents a very pleasant environment for the discussion of baby names.

So, as we tucked into our grilled dumplings, cheung fun and Singapore noodles, two lists were produced and names were revealed in turn. (It was a bit like the recent football World Cup draw, only without Charlize Theron.) Some names were vetoed by one or the other of us, and there were occasional squeals of joy as we discovered a few names which were common to both our lists. (You should see how excited we get when we play snap.)

At the end of it all, we had two combined shortlists: one containing exactly a dozen boy's names; the other, coincidentally, twelve girl's names.

For what it's worth, there had been quite a lot of overlap between us when comparing boy's names - to the extent where we've now both agreed on a favourite - and none whatsoever with our lists of girl's names. When Isaac was born, it was the other way round: we had to sleep on it overnight before deciding on his name, whereas if 'he' had been a 'she' we already had both first and middle names picked out.

Which, presumably, means we will have a daughter now ...

Green light

Three key milestones passed yesterday.

Firstly, Arsenal beat Aston Villa 3-0 to pull clear of the Midlands club in the Premier League title race. That's not directly relevant to the matter at hand, but it's still a notable event in my world.

Secondly, Heather completed the 37th week of her pregnancy, which is important because it means a planned home birth is now viable, barring any unforeseen complications. (Cue lots of online research into birthing pools.)

And finally, we had a home appointment with our midwife, A (commonly referred to locally as the 'mad-wife'), to check on the baby's progress and go over our birth plan - which basically is the same as last time: entonox, tick; pethidine, tick; vitamin K, tick; proud father to cut the cord, tick.

If it all started to feel particularly real for us on Boxing Day, it's doubly so now. All the detail and emotion of that evening when Zac was born are coming back to me now, from the mad rush to fill the pool to the exhiliration of feeling his head for the first time as he started to 'crown'.

Zac also got to hear the baby's heartbeat for the first time, so he's very much part of the experience now too. If he doesn't yet understand quite enough to be excited, he is certainly curious and very much aware of the presence of 'baby' in mummy's tummy. The poor thing won't know what's hit him; as a proper mummy's boy it's going to be a bit of a shock to him when he isn't automatically the primary focus for Heather any more.

So, 21 - now 20 - days to the due date, and we have a green light. Time to get our skates on ...

End of days

No, it’s not the biblical apocalypse. But it does feel like the end of an era, or at the very least like this particular phase of my life is drawing irrevocably to a close.

It’s late on the afternoon on Boxing Day as I write this. My parents and brother are driving home after spending Christmas with us, having been waved off by an almost tearful Isaac saying “see you soon” hopefully. More relevantly, I’m now looking at an empty dining room, which has been cleared in preparation to accommodate a birthing pool.

That means the next time we eat at the dining table (now residing in the garage) we will, hopefully, be a four-person household, not a three.

The combination of that thought and the sight of the currently empty room have suddenly made the whole impending birth thing very, very real. At least in my head, a line has been crossed from which there is no going back.

Of course, we have always known this time would come. Heather is due on January 17th, a date which has been seared into our minds for several months now. And it’s not as if we haven’t started making preparations. But you have to understand that for so long that date has been a barely visible blip on our personal horizons, and as time has marched on we have had the not inconsiderable dual distractions of Zac’s birthday (December 6th) and Christmas to attend to.

No longer. Now there are no other events to plan. The timeframe is measurable in days rather than weeks, and final arrangements are a matter of real and increasing urgency rather than abstract items on a to do list.

It may still be as much as a month away - or it may be mere hours - but a time will soon come when our lives are transformed and made, at the same time, both more complex and more wonderful.

I have never felt so unprepared.

Gulp.

The world didn't end

Never underestimate Mother Nature. If anyone had before, the tens of thousands of people who had nightmarish journeys home or who, like me, spent last night sleeping in cars, offices, hotels or the bedding department of John Lewis certainly won't underestimate her again.

I know of several people whose drives home took anywhere between three and seven hours. Others left their cars behind and opted for the train, or walked distances of up to seven miles. 60 people in our office stayed overnight, with one of the chefs coming back in to cook dinner for them. (I'll never complain about the restaurant again.)

Not everyone got caught out as harmless sleet turned into heavy snow in the blink of an eye, but the window of opportunity was a small one. In Bracknell, the abrupt change in the weather happened at 2.50pm. Anyone who left by 3.00 had a relatively clear run home. However, by the time I left at around 3.20, it was way too late. By then, everyone else on our industrial estate was also trying to leave en masse, resulting in gridlock. Worse still, the falling snow had already formed a slippery layer on top of the previous night's ice, making any stop-start manoeuvre on even the most gentle gradient an, erm, interesting exercise in Newtonian mechanics - particularly for anyone who, like me, was driving a rear-wheel drive car. As a result, what started as a merely annoying traffic situation was compounded by difficult and dangerous driving conditions.

Now I'm not normally one to get overly stressed, but I have to admit that hysteria was not far away as events gradually unfolded around our increasingly futile attempts to pick Isaac up from nursery. Firstly Heather phoned from Henley to say she was stuck - it's a one road in/one road out town surrounded by hills - so I told her to turn around, as a freezing car is not where a 36-week old pregnant woman wants to be spending the night. By this point it was becoming obvious that I was also going nowhere fast; a quick call to a colleague, J, who had left 15 minutes before me but was only a few hundred yards further up the road confirmed my worst fears. So Heather asked one of our local friends to pick Zac up, but she couldn't get up the steep hill to the nursery. Having spun my wheels, slid and bounced off the kerb several times already, I decided to cut my losses and ditch the car at the nearest hotel, but even then it took me an hour to cover the last 100 yards to get there.

By the time I had tramped back to the office it was 6.30 - it had taken over three hours to cover 1.5 miles - and I was cold, wet, hungry and muttering every expletive I have ever learned.

Thankfully, Heather had spoken to the nursery owner who had offered to take her 4x4, borrow a car seat from a neighbour, and drop Zac - who by now was the only child left at the nursery - at a friend's, which took a massive weight off both our minds. (So, thank you, Nicola from Acres of Fun for going way above and beyond the call of duty to deliver our temporarily parent-less son to familiar and comfortable surroundings.)

I hitched a lift with A to Bracknell Central Travelodge, where we settled in for the night with some much-needed food and a bottle of wine (possibly two). It was 1am by the time I got to bed, and I was wide awake at 5.00, watching the BBC News and worrying about how Zac, never a good sleeper at the best of times, was doing.

To cut a long story short, I eventually extricated my car, although it needed the help of A (to whom, also heartfelt thanks), two shovels and three random strangers to push me up out of the car park and from there up the hill to freedom. I was home by 11am, Heather soon after, and we set off to rescue Zac fearing the worst and hoping for only moderate collateral damage at best.

The funny thing is, despite our worst fears about Zac getting scared and playing up about our absence - we had both had visions of him screaming tearfully through the night - he was absolutely fine. Indeed, although he was pleased to see us, he was more upset at the idea of being separated from our friend and her son than he was by the fact that he hadn't seen us last night.

Which, I guess, just goes to show that it is possible for us to be away from him for an entire night - it is the first time in his two-and-a-bit years he has spent a night without both of us - without it being the end of the world. (At least, not for him, anyway.)

So I guess the moral of this story is two-fold. Firstly, don't assume you can outrun the elements. (In future, I'll think twice before glibly heading into work on a snowy day.) And secondly, that kids can be remarkably adaptable and unruffled even in stressful situations - sometimes far more so than their parents.

6 of the best: 80s cop shows

I was laid up in bed with some kind of not-swine-flu virus a couple of weeks ago, and spent several happy hours revisiting one of my favourite TV shows from my teenage years. Moonlighting (which is currently airing every weekday on CBS Drama in the UK) ran for 66 episodes between 1985 and 1989, introducing us to a thinning but not yet bald Bruce Willis and Cybill Shepherd with a hairdo you could have used as an umbrella. The show was considered ground-breaking in many ways, from its rapid-fire, dialogue-heavy scripts to an experimental style which would, say, see characters address the viewers direct or burst into song.

In fairness, the show is now starting to show its age. Clothes and hairstyles, naturally, look somewhat dated. Some of the tricks to break down the ‘fourth wall’ which were considered innovative at the time seem positively de rigueur by modern standards. And the plots feel terribly slow and drawn-out when set aside, say, 24, or anything from the CSI stable. (Mind you, the procedural crime-solving element of Moonlighting was never really more than a means to an end.)

Nonetheless, Moonlighting remains tremendous fun to watch. I’m currently about three-quarters of the way through season one, just as the show was really starting to find its stride and, racking my brains, there hasn’t really been anything like it since.

In fact, to my mind there was a period during the middle to latter part of the 80s which represents a golden age of US television, at least in terms of police/detective/spy-type shows. (The UK also got in on the act, emerging from an era of late-70s tough guy shows like The Sweeney and The Professionals into one which more frequently featured female leads, such as Juliet Bravo, The Gentle Touch, Dempsey and Makepeace and C.A.T.S. Eyes.)

With that in mind, here are six US examples of the genre from the 80s that I have not seen since their initial UK broadcast; not necessarily the best, but ones which, like Moonlighting, I would love to see again. In alphabetical order …

Automan (13 episodes, 1983-84)

Inspired by the success of Tron, this series featured Lucille Ball’s son Desi Arnaz Jr, a DeLorean car and Chuck Wagner as the eponymous computer-generated, crime-fighting hologram whose sidekick, a skittish ball of light named Cursor, had a habit of looking under ladies’ skirts. Automan, frequently posing under the pseudonym Otto Mann, would assist Arnaz’s character Walter, a police computer geek, in solving a variety of crimes. And that was about it.

It was, as you might expect from the above description, exceedingly silly and played with tongue firmly inserted in cheek. It was certainly not the best piece of television ever; it was, however, good fun, something which is too often missing from contemporary, angst-ridden shows.

The show also featured Robert Lansing as a police lieutenant; who would go on to co-star as a CIA-style handler in …

The Equalizer (88 episodes, 1985-89)

Edward Woodward was the star of one of my dad’s favourite shows, Callan, and his Equalizer character of Robert McCall could easily have been Callan’s doppelganger, a spy who had tired of the spy game and returned to civilian life as a private investigator and defender of the defenceless, a semi-retired James Bond, if you will.

The show was often criticised for excessive violence - by modern standards, it is tame - as McCall, although far from an unemotional character, frequently chose to fight fire with fire. Certainly it didn’t soft-soap in its view of the world, with much of its action taking place at night and frequently eschewing the standard happy ending for something more downbeat and ambiguous. As such, the show always had an edginess to it that contrasted sharply with the ‘bright lights, big city’ setting of LA-based shows, or the exoticness of Magnum, PI.

The Highwayman (10 episodes, 1987-88)

“There is a world, just beyond now, where reality runs a razor thin seam between fact and possibility; where the laws of the present collide with the crimes of tomorrow. Patrolling these vast outlands is a new breed of lawman, guarding the fringes of society’s frontiers, they are known simply as ‘Highwaymen’ - and this is their story.”

Set in the near future, this short-lived series is probably best described as Knight Rider meets Mad Max, with a Wild West feel to it. The title character was one of a small number of law enforcers, each equipped with a futuristic truck, patrolling the country, solving crimes and investigating other strange occurrences.

The Highwayman featured three well-known genre stars in its regular cast: Sam Jones, star of the 1980 film Flash Gordon, played Highwayman, and was joined by V’s Jane Badler and Tim Russ, who would later appear in Star Trek: Voyager.

Leg Work (10 episodes, 1987)

Cancelled before it ever had a chance to establish its niche, this series was unique at the time for having two female leads: Margaret Colin and, nearly a decade before her Oscar-winning turn in Fargo, Frances McDormand.

There was much to admire about Leg Work. Here we had a private investigator, Claire McCarron (Colin), who relied on empathy and intelligence rather than physicality or an excess of testosterone, traits underlined by the running joke of her owning a Porsche which was always broken and which she could barely afford to keep repaired.

It was also the first prime-time show I can remember that centred a story on AIDS at a time when the disease was still very much a taboo and poorly understood subject, and handled it in an unflinching and empathetic fashion. The show deserved better than the mid-season cancellation it received as US audiences abandoned it due to its lack of crash-bang-wallop; entirely missing the point that a huge part of its appeal was that it was so different from the norm.

Midnight Caller (61 episodes, 1988-91)

Gary Cole starred as Jack Killian, the San Francisco cop who turned late night radio talk show host after accidentally shooting and killing his partner.

Midnight Caller provided a different twist on the cop-turned-PI theme by focussing on the social rather than procedural aspects of the ‘case of the week’. Through his KJCM radio show, Killian comes into contact with all manner of people in need, addressing tough issues from neighbourhood drug-dealing to child abuse. There was nothing glitzy about the show, which regularly peered into social subcultures through a slightly jaded lens. And yet through it all, the thoroughly cynical Killian cannot help but reach out to and help his audience with a hand of hope.

Cole has had a distinguished career since, including notable turns as Sheriff Lucas Buck in American Gothic and vice-president ‘Bingo’ Bob Russell in The West Wing, but Midnight Caller remains his finest work. And the show also featured a young Mykel T Williamson, years before his Forrest Gump role as the shrimp-loving Bubba Blue.

Downbeat and yet resolutely optimistic, Midnight Caller spoke to those of us who recognised that, while we live in a far from perfect world, there is something inherently good about people everywhere, a sentiment perfectly encapsulated by Killian’s signature sign-off, “Good night, America, wherever you are.”

Sledge Hammer! (41 episodes, 1986-88)

As a send-up of the long procession of ‘on the edge’ film and TV cops such as Dirty Harry and Hunter, this sitcom presented us with a wonderfully over-the-top caricature of a policeman of Inspector Gadget or Clouseau-level incompetence, for whom violence was the first (indeed only) option.

Played purely for laughs – and with a wonderful balance of seriousness and knowingness by David Rasche - the series lovingly poked fun at all the staples and cliches of the cop show genre, presenting us with a sexist, shoot-first buffoon of a hero who talks to and sleeps with his gun, and yet is somehow utterly sympathetic. If Lethal Weapon had been a comedy, this is what it would have looked like.

And that’s my six, the majority of which have sadly not found their way to DVD yet. I’ve excluded several well-known and excellent series such as Hunter, Miami Vice, Scarecrow and Mrs King, TJ Hooker, The Fall Guy and Cagney and Lacey, as well as others which I have been fortunate enough to catch again thanks to the marvel that is multichannel TV (Knight Rider, Remington Steele, Street Hawk and Magnum PI, to name but four), but there you go – six slices of a bygone age that will always hold a special place in my heart.

Blogging: good for the soul?

I've been busier than normal at work recently, which means I've updated my blogs (the other, sports-based one is here) much less frequently over the past few weeks. There's nothing particularly unusual about that; there are always periods when I go into blog silence for a while, either because of workload or simply because I don't have anything in particular to say.

The thing is - and I'm feeling this more than usual right now - when I'm not blogging, I really miss it. I mean, I don't crave it in an I'm-addicted-and-I-need-my-fix sort of way; it's more of a nagging itch, a desire to put fingers to keyboard and put some tangible and permanent form to whatever is foremost in my thoughts at that moment in time.

And, let's put this into context, it's not an activity which takes up an overwhelming portion of my time - as of yesterday, I had posted 119 times across my two blogs in 2009 - slightly more than once every three days - which is hardly a prolific rate of output. In an average week I spend no more than a couple of hours - that's about one episode of X Factor or Strictly Come Dancing - blogging, which doesn't seem excessive, does it?

I've previously written my thoughts about why I blog, and the reasons I gave there are still valid: it's more about the self-satisfaction I get from writing a piece than it is about how widely it is read and appreciated, and it's a productive way to blow off steam for a classic introvert like myself, who naturally prefers writing to something more extroverted like (as my colleague A does) performing on stage.

The real point is: blogging makes me happy; it's good for my soul. A bit like chicken soup. And like that hearty dish, I'm sure many people will consider what I write to be relatively bland, but that's fine because the only thing it needs to do is make me feel good. And that it does.

'Tis the season

As one season ends, so another begins.

It was finally Isaac's turn to have his second birthday party on Saturday (actually, a joint party with Amelia). It was the last in a series of parties which have gone on over the past several weeks, but that didn't stop him enjoying it tremendously. Like his peers, it's clear that, at the end of his second year, Zac understands and appreciates the concept of a party now; equally obvious that he understood when we told him it was now going to be his turn turn throughout last week. (Wandering round the house singing "Happy birthday to me" is a bit of a giveaway ...)

Anyway, a good time was had by all. Heather had booked a half-hour music session - Zac's favourite - as part of the party, which all the kids seemed to enjoy, and we even had the majority of them sitting down to food together, which is virtually unprecedented.

And, of course, he has had fun since the party tearing into his haul of presents. (Although I must admit we have put a fair few away to give to him at Christmas - possibly even later - instead. Once you've watched him open and get excited about five new toys, there isn't much point giving him even more to open as he just develops that wide-eyed kid-in-a-candy-shop look and doesn't know where to turn next.)

Now that birthday party season is over, it means we can start thinking about Christmas. (We make a point of  keeping the two separate, so the one doesn't spoil his enjoyment of the other.) So I will be spending the next few days trying to work out where on earth I put all the decorations after last Christmas. In the meantime, Zac is already running around excitedly pointing at all the "lights flashing" on our neighbours' houses. I'm planning to let him help put up the tree and decorations at the weekend - something he will love, but potentially a recipe for chaos and disaster.

No doubt we'll also attempt another visit to Santa's Grotto. Our first trip a couple of weekends ago was less than successful. First Zac showed minimal interest in Santa arriving in his horse-drawn carriage, and then he flatly refused to even join the queue of kids to see him. (Mind you, why would a two-year-old want to wait to spend thirty seconds sitting on some strange bloke's knee? Knowing Zac, he'd probably grab my phone and immediately call Childline to report a suspected paedophile.)

Hmm.

Once Christmas is over - and hopefully not before! - we will go into full-blown baby preparation, with Heather being due on January 17th. Which means that we face a future in which, over a period of a few weeks from early December to some time in January, we will transition smoothly from Zac's birthday to Christmas and New Year, and then to number two's birthday.

In the past, I had always hoped that my children wouldn't be born too close to Christmas (or to each other), so that they wouldn't have two celebrations back-to-back and then a long gap to next year. But the thought of having a month or so of continuous joy within the family to cheer up a dark and dank winter doesn't seem so bad now. (Although I can imagine we will be knackered by the end of it.)

'Tis the season to be jolly, indeed. It's certainly something to look forward to.

The weigh-in

A month ago, I said I was going back on a diet with the aim of losing at least five pounds (from 17st 10lbs to 17st 5lbs) during the month of November.

Well, I weighed myself this morning, and the scales said 17st 7lbs, so while I have lost weight, I'm two pounds short of my target.

I'm disappointed with the result, but strangely not overly discouraged. I said I was going to eat less and stop snacking - which I have managed on the whole, although I've slipped a few times as the desire to comfort eat has overcome my dieting willpower. Seven out of ten on that front, I'd say.

What I have failed to do is exercise properly. The bike remains untouched, and while I have made an effort to do little things like use the stairs at work, I've been pretty poor on the whole. Awarding myself two out of ten is probably on the generous side.

On reflection, my five pound target was certainly achievable with some more consistent effort, particularly on the exercise front. (Certainly my fitness needs some attention, as I was huffing and puffing terribly this evening after climbing 125 steps at Edgware Road tube station.) But what's done is done. If I can lose three pounds just by generally eating sensibly (albeit with the odd relapse), then there's no reason why I can't keep it going and lose a bit more before the festive season kicks in with a vengeance.

So, anyway, 17st 7lbs is where I currently stand. I think I'll aim to at least get down to the original target of 17st 5lbs before Christmas, and then limit the damage over the holidays. I figure that if I can start 2010 no heavier than I am today, then that's at least a reasonable starting point.

Here goes.

The prostitute and the politician

Introducing the real Belle de Jour

Over the course of the last six years, during which she has written a best-selling book which has spawned a successful TV series (The Secret Diary Of A Call Girl), the celebrated call girl-cum-blogger Belle de Jour has successfully maintained her cloak of anonymity.

When you think about it, that in itself is a seriously impressive achievement in a twenty-first century world in which it is now virtually impossible for anyone of any notable interest to hide anything for six hours, let alone six days. And yet Belle has kept her identity secret - via a combination of careful planning, discretion (not even her agent knew her true identity) and a well-concealed money trail – which has eluded the attempts of the world’s journalists to out her.

Other anonymous bloggers have been quickly identified and exposed, often within days. But Belle has kept the newspapers, literary critics and a curious public in the dark. It has variously been thought that she was a well-known author under a nom de plume, a man writing titillating male fantasy for other men, or an entirely fictional creation.

For six years, we have all been chasing wild geese.

Until today.

In an interview with India Knight - one of the staunchest critics of Belle's books - in today's Sunday Times, Dr Brooke Magnanti, a 34 year old Bristol research scientist, has finally stepped out of the shadows and publicly claimed her alter ego.

The interview makes interesting reading. She is as articulate and intelligent as you would expect from someone with a PhD and a pre-Belle de Jour history of scientific blogging. And she also seems fully responsible for her own actions. One of the most common accusations levelled at Belle has been the way her blog has seemingly glamorized the sex trade, but she in no way denies the less salubrious side to prostitution; it is more that her experiences – some real, some fictional - were at the other end of the scale. The simple facts as Brooke/Belle relates them are that she became an escort as a means to make ends meet without the need for skills or training. It’s not necessarily a solution most of us would have adopted, but it suggests a degree of pragmatism over aspiration in terms of career choice.

Now, the exact nature of truth is always an elusive thing, and it can often be difficult to separate it from carefully crafted, self-serving fiction. Indeed, in the hours since the newspaper’s publication, several people have already come forward claiming to have been previously aware of Belle’s hidden identity, and the suspicion is that Brooke Magnanti’s revelations, rather than being purely voluntary, are little more than pre-emptive action. (The interview mentions the looming threat of a whistle-blowing ex.)

Regardless, it’s hard to criticise. Belle de Jour remains who she has always been; the only real difference is we can now put a name to her.

Palin bends the truth (again)

Another high-profile woman whose book, Going Rogue, is due to be published this coming week, is already guaranteed a place at the top of the bestseller lists.

Sarah Palin, the former Republican vice-presidential nominee. The darling of the conservative right, with her gun-totin’, moose-huntin’, anti-abortion hockey mom image. The embodiment of all that is evil to many others.

The Palin PR machine is already in overdrive. For instance, she will appear on Oprah tomorrow as part of a promotional tour which could easily – and probably accurately - be interpreted as the first step of a three-year campaign for the Republicans’ 2012 presidential nomination. Already we have seen teasers of some of the juicier morsels from her book, from which it is clear – if we did not know already - that Sarah Palin is a woman who (a) ensures nothing she does remains anonymous and (b) clearly believes in “blame first, accept responsibility later (preferably never)” as a modus operandi.

In Going Rogue, Palin squarely refuses to accept any responsibility for the Republicans’ failure at the polls last November, instead pointing the finger unwaveringly at John McCain, his aides and anyone else unfortunate enough to stray within her blast radius. Her abysmal performance in an infamous TV interview with CBS’s Katie Couric – memorably lampooned by 30 Rock's Tina Fey on Saturday Night Live (and easily found on YouTube) - is explained away by Couric’s supposed bias and 'badgering'.

Judge for yourself whether the exchange below is a result of bias and badgering, or the performance of a barely articulate individual who is dangerously out of her depth.

Palin: "Alaska has a very narrow maritime border between a foreign country, Russia, and on our other side, the land … boundary that we have with … Canada."

Couric: "Explain to me why that enhances your foreign policy credentials."

Palin: "Well, it certainly does because our … our next door neighbours are foreign countries. They're in the state that I am the executive of ... We have trade missions back and forth. We … we do … it's very important when you consider even national security issues with Russia as Putin rears his head and comes into the air space of the United States of America, where … where do they go? It's Alaska. It's just right over the border. It is … from Alaska that we send those out to make sure that an eye is being kept on this very powerful nation, Russia, because they are right there. They are right next to … to our state."

So, you tell me: Belle de Jour or Sarah Palin. Who, really, is prostituting themselves here? Who is distorting the truth more? And who would you trust? The established bestselling author recounting her time as a high-class escort, or the soon-to-be bestselling author attempting to rewrite history to further her unbridled lust for higher office?

See it through a boy's eyes

I was watching last year's Christmas episode of the excellent 30 Rock last night - just the right side of diabetes-inducing levels of schmaltz - and it's got me thinking about how having a child has completely changed my attitudes towards the holiday season.

(As an aside, isn't it funny how easily conditioned we have become in the UK to watching watching seasonal episodes of US programmes out of sync? It doesn't feel at all odd to be watching a Halloween, Thanksgiving or Christmas episode in the middle of summer.)

Anyway, Christmas. 

It's not that I've become all bah-humbug about the most wonderful time of the year (as the old Andy Williams song goes), but it would be fair to say that, for me, the magic had gone out of it some time ago. I think it happened at the point I realised that I was earning enough money that, if I wanted something, I could simply go out and buy it. And that's usually exactly what I would do.

To avoid present-giving disappointment, we now have an embargo in place where I am not supposed to buy myself anything after the beginning of November; instead it is added to my Christmas wish list. Which is fine, and I do understand the need for it - after all, it saves a lot of fiddling around with receipts and returning unwanted gifts - but it also means that I end up having to wait up to eight weeks for something I could easily have bought myself today. And then consequently leads to me rushing out to buy all the things on my list that weren't given as presents.

Honestly, I'd really rather have cash or some small token gift to unwrap on Christmas morning. It's the thought that counts. Really.

However, Christmas is a bit different when you see it through a boy's eyes (that's Jamelia, for those of you who have spotted that I'm inserting song titles at every possible opportunity). Last weekend I took Isaac to our local garden centre to burn off a bit of excess energy - boy, does he have plenty of that! - and discovered that they had just put out all their Christmas stuff, ranging from illuminated snowmen for the front garden to cuddly toys (that's Roachford, for eagle-eyed 80s pop spotters) to £250 artificial trees with built-in blinking lights.

Ordinarily, I'd have turned up a snobbish nose and walked straight out again, but to see Zac's reaction when confronted with a veritable forest of colourfully-lit trees - he stood there for fully five minutes rapt with attention and repeatedly exclaiming "Wow!" - made my day. And it was the same when he discovered the baubles, and the model Christmas villages, and the animatronic polar bears. (I'm not joking - see below.)

He lapped it all up; in the end, I had to physically drag him out after an hour so we could go home for lunch.

This year will be the first time - he's two in early December - he will have any real understanding of the concept of Christmas, so it's his first experience of all things shiny and garish. (He already gets the idea of presents, although he hasn't yet realised that not all wrapped-up boxes are meant for him; I spent a lot of time trying to stop him from unwrapping all the decorative presents placed under the trees!)

Already I'm busy picking out various odds and sods he might like - I bought a couple of small baubles he took a fancy to at the garden centre - and accumulating a variety of stocking-fillers for him to tear into on Christmas morning. Military campaigns have been less precisely planned.

So now, for the first time in years, I'm really looking forward to Christmas, as opposed to dreading fighting the screaming hordes for the last Nok Tok talking doll in an overcrowded shop playing incessant seasonal muzak. (We've already ordered all his presents online, anyway.) Not because anything has changed with me; I know I will - gratefully - receive the usual array of books, CDs, DVDs etc (and then buy everything else later) on the day, but because I know Zac is going to love all the seasonal rituals, from the opening of wrapped presents to the excesses of Christmas lunch (he loves a good roast; he takes after his father).

The pleasure may be an entirely vicarious one, but I'm still more excited about this Christmas than any other in years. That has to be a good thing. (Fine Young Cannibals, incidentally.)

Twitter in newspaper form? How quaint (and potentially brilliant)

I've just signed up to Twitter Times, a recently launched service which takes a ‘new media’ outlet (Twitter) and offers its users an ‘old media’ solution for sifting through their feeds for popular news and blog posts from people they follow, delivering it in the form of a personalised newspaper, sorted by recency (is that a word?!?) and frequency.

Project leader Maxim Grinev explains the basic principle behind the service, saying, "From the massive volume of daily news the most interesting ones are those actively discussed by people you follow, your friends, respected persons and celebrities you admire."

It is still in its testing phase, so some of the functionality is apparently a bit ropey, but I’ll happily forgive its teething problems if it manages to develop into an effective and relevant filter for interesting content. I only follow about 90 people on Twitter, but this equates to 250-300 tweets dripping through my feed on a typical day, which means I tend to skim my feed a few times a day and will only actually read or click through on links for maybe 20%. No doubt I am missing some hidden gems in the 80% I ignore, but life’s too short to carefully read them all and if Twitter Times can help me unearth these without having to spend the whole of my life physically attached to my phone/PC, then I’ll become a happy and regular subscriber.

(Incidentally, I read an article earlier this week that claimed the average Facebook user spends three days a year on the site. Okay, once you have recovered from the sensationalist headline and done the maths that’s actually only 12 minutes a day, but it’s nonetheless easy to see how easily and insidiously social media can take over your life – and how potentially valuable a tool like Twitter Times can be to help social media addicts reclaim their lives.)

Personally, I think Twitter Times is a great concept which marries new and old media to simplify our ever-expanding world. It’s a bit like the Ellis Island of Twitter, processing millions of entries and turning away the undesirables. Whether it proves to be truly effective or ends up being overtaken by better, more agile me-toos remains to be seen, but Grinev should be applauded for attempting to provide a much-needed service which addresses a growing issue for people like me, for whom there never seem to be enough hours in the day to keep our Facebook statuses up to date, or to catch up with contacts on LinkedIn, or to write our blogs, or – perish the thought – to venture outside into the big wide world every now and then.

Diet - a four-letter word, but a necessary evil

Right, you heard it hear first. No more half-hearted mucking around. I am officially back on the diet again for November.

Despite playing sport regularly throughout school and my twenties, I have always been slightly overweight, even at my best. And, in common with many people, my weight has been gradually creeping up over the years, bringing a load of health and self-image issues with it.

As an adult, my ideal weight is probably somewhere slightly north of 14st, a benchmark I haven't been below since the age of 16. I can't recall when I first topped 15st - it was probably some time during my A levels - but I can remember with some horror the first time I realised my weight had crept above 16st - it was the summer leading up to my 20th birthday, and I had piled on about 20 pounds while rehabilitating a knee injury.

Although I managed to lose all that weight over the summer, I have been fighting - and slowly losing - a yo-yo battle against the bulge ever since. After a couple of bad years, I lost about 15 pounds to settle at around 14st 7lbs before our wedding in 1997. I gained maybe 20 pounds during my MBA (1998-9), topping 16st once again. And since then, I have oscillated up and down either side of, initially, the 16st mark - and more recently 17st.

In fact, the last time I was even remotely in sight of 15st was four years ago, which was the last time I was 100% focussed on losing weight and getting fit. At the time, I was going to the gym regularly and walking 15-20 miles a week while winding down before my departure from the BBC, having just returned from completing the Tongariro Crossing in New Zealand. And while no one would ever have mistaken me for a marathon runner, it was the fittest and lightest I had been for a fair while, tipping the scales at 15st 3lbs.

That was then, though; this is now. Since 2005, my weight has steadily increased, a trend occasionally interrupted by post-Christmas bouts of half-hearted dieting, to the point where I returned from our late summer getaway in Cornwall having put on five pounds in five days to attain a new personal worst of 18st 1lb. That meant I had gained 40 pounds -nearly three stone - in four years.

Okay, I've managed to lose all that bonus weight already just by returning to a sensible eating pattern, but even so that's pretty depressing, particularly knowing we are about to enter the diet-unfriendly Christmas party season.

As I see it, my problem is threefold. Firstly, I'm getting older, which makes it harder for me to lose weight. Secondly, I need to eat less and avoid my not infrequent tendency to graze without thinking, something I tend to do more when I'm bored. (It has been a relatively quiet time at work for the last few months, which doesn't help.) And lastly, I've stopped doing any kind of regular physical activity.

While I can't do anything about the ageing process, I can control the other two. And the lack of exercise really hit home last night when I went out bowling with work and returned with aches and strains all over my body which reminded me just how unused I have become to any remotely strenuous exertion.

So, the not-exactly-rocket-science plan for the next four weeks is:

1. Locate willpower, and switch to 'on' (and then keep it on for more than a week at a time)

2. Eat less - and in particular stop snacking

3. Dust down the exercise bike, walk rather than drive into town, use the stairs at work etc (but not be too discouraged if there is no immediate step-change in my fitness)

This morning, the scales reported my weight as 17st 10lbs. I want to have lost (at least) five pounds by the end of the month - i.e.achieve a target weight of 17st 5lbs - a significant but achievable amount. Then, after hopefully limiting the damage through December, I need to try to get down under 17st by, say, next Easter; I reckon that will equate to a target loss of nearly a pound a week once I have put my Christmas weight on.

That's still 30 pounds or more shy of where I ought to be, but I can't really get my head around such a big task at the moment. One step at a time.

There we go. I have set down my target in writing now, rather than half-committing to it in my usual, wishy-washy fashion. So here goes.

Now where did I put those carrots?

Riding the crest of a (Google) Wave

I’m probably more excited about this than anyone sane really ought to be, but I now have access to the preview version of Google’s new collaboration tool, Google Wave.

Over the past couple of weeks, Google has sent out invites to 100,000 people, who in turn are allowed to invite a further eight people to join them in this initial testing phase. I’ve been invited by one of the 100,000 (one of our e-channel team in the office), which makes me one of a (relatively) small community of fewer than a million people worldwide who have access to this public beta release.

Have I said yet how excited I am about this?

Here’s why. According to the blurb at wave.google.com:

Google Wave is an online tool for real-time communication and collaboration. A wave can be both a conversation and a document where people can discuss and work together using richly formatted text, photos, videos, maps, and more.

A wave is equal parts conversation and document. People can communicate and work together with richly formatted text, photos, videos, maps, and more.

A wave is shared. Any participant can reply anywhere in the message, edit the content and add participants at any point in the process. Then playback lets anyone rewind the wave to see who said what and when.

A wave is live. With live transmission as you type, participants on a wave can have faster conversations, see edits and interact with extensions in real-time.

Basically, it is an online tool which combines aspects of the functionality of email, instant messaging, collaboration tools such as NetMeeting and Google Docs, and allows groups of people to message, chat, and work collaboratively on documents and projects together – and here’s the killer - in real time.

The possibilities are endless.

At work, project teams based in disparate locations can work on presentations and reports together at the same time, without needing to send updated copies back and forth or worrying about version control – a bit like NetMeeting, but where everyone can simultaneously control the desktop and edit on-screen content. (If, like me, you work for a multinational corporation and regularly have to deal with counterparts in different offices or even countries, the benefits should be obvious.)

And outside of the workplace, I can see all sorts of possibilities for collaborative blogging and publishing. In particular, Wave's 'playback' functionality, will allow you to join a conversation late and watch the history of an edited document replay in front of you. (How cool is that?)

Those are just a couple of examples of how Google Wave could revolutionise the way we collaborate with others on both work and personal projects. I’m sure many more will develop as Wave and its users become ever more sophisticated.

While Wave will never replace face-to-face communication, it could easily represent a quantum leap in terms of facilitating remote co-working and information sharing. I’m looking forward to getting to grips with it.

Electric Dreams - a journey through four decades of technology

As a rule, I don’t normally promote organisations I’ve previously worked for, but as someone who is both a self-confessed gadget freak and has an interest in all things historical, I thought others of a similar bent might be interested in a new three-part series called Electric Dreams, which starts on BBC Four next Tuesday (September 29^th) at 9pm.

The premise is simple enough. It takes a modern, tech-savvy family of six in Reading – one which has five mobile phones, six televisions and seven computers between them – and transports them back to 1970, a time when most homes had only a single black-and-white television (affording access to three – count them, three! – channels) and a single dial phone. During each programme, they are then progressed through the 70s, 80s and finally 90s, with new technology being introduced into their home at the rate of a year per day.

Having listened to an in-depth preview of the series on this week’s Guardian Tech Weekly podcast, the programme promises some interesting observations on the impact technology has had on our lives and the way we interact as families – some of it good, some not so good.

If nothing else, it will be an interesting trip down memory lane, to a time when teasmades and freezers were the new must-have gadgets, the Welsh made home computers (anyone remember the Dragon 32?), and YouTube was part of the plumbing that connected your toilet to your drains.

I’ve just used my mobile phone to remotely programme my Sky+ box to record the series, and in true 21^st century style I’ll probably get round to watching it in about six months’ time …

Holiday perspectives

With the school holidays over, we took ourselves off to Cornwall for five days last week, for what will probably be the last time as a family of three.

On a friend's recommendation, we booked ourselves into the Bedruthan Steps Hotel, located between Newquay and Padstow on the north coast. (If you're ever heading to Cornwall and looking for a family-friendly hotel, the Bedruthan is fantastic - a short (though steep) walk from a good beach, separate children's meal sittings and entertainments, plenty of indoor and outdoor play areas, baby monitoring, basically everything a parent could possibly want.)

Being mid-September, we didn't have any great expectations weather-wise - I'd have been more than happy with a couple of dry days - but in the end we couldn't have asked for better. It was warm, dry and largely sunny throughout, enabling us to get down to the beach whenever we wanted, as well as incorporating visits to the zoo, the aquarium and Padstow (where Rick Stein's restaurant is: a pretty but really very dull little town). With the hotel looking after the catering, we didn't have to worry about preparing any meals for Zac; he was able to burn off his abundant energy splashing around in the sea, building sandcastles, or playing with any of the hotel's many child-focussed distractions: the soft-play room, the giant trampoline, the see-saw and swings, or - best of all - going up and down repeatedly in the lift (go figure).

(In fact, the only thing we didn't really manage to do was to get ourselves out to eat at Jamie Oliver's Fifteen Cornwall in nearby Watergate Bay, but that was relatively minor in the greater scheme of things.)

Holidaying with a small child in tow is certainly very different to doing so without one. Before Zac came along, we spent most of our spare time travelling across the world from Washington DC to Wellington NZ, at least 2-3 foreign holidays every year, always haring around everywhere seeing as many things as we possibly could in the limited time available. We have stood on the edge of a volcano crater in Tongariro and in the remains of Pompeii, a town devastated (and subsequently preserved) by another volcano, Vesuvius. We've towered above the surrounding land on the Great Wall of China, and peered into the abyss of the Grand Canyon. We've seen great displays of art: the Sistine Chapel in Rome, the Mona Lisa in Paris's Louvre, Picasso's Guernica in Madrid, MoMA and the Guggenheim museums in New York. In short, we've had a great time just doing stuff.

Now, though, things are very different. The biggest thing I want from a holiday is to see my boy smiling, laughing and running around excitedly. If that means spending 15 minutes every morning and evening getting in and out of lifts, that's fine by me. My needs are very much secondary compared to his, and if it's a cliché to say that you see the world differently through a child's eyes, then that's only because it's absolutely true. He is busy exploring a whole new world around him, and if it's now a part of my job description as a father to help him discover his surroundings, then that's a role I'll gladly accept. I've seen my fair share of wonders in this world; it's time I helped my son see the myriad of little miracles in his small but ever-expanding universe.

Some things never change, though. After five days of cooked breakfasts and three-course dinners, I have returned home having (as usual) gained weight at the rate of a pound a day. So it's bread and water for me for the next few weeks ...

Halfway house

It's my 39th birthday today.

I can't remember when exactly, but there must have been a turning point at which birthdays stopped being a cause for celebration and started becoming a reminder of how another year had passed without fulfilling any of my big life goals.

There's a Lily Allen song ('22') out at the moment whose lyrics really resonate with me:

When she was 22 the future was bright

She's nearly 30 now and she's out every night [...]

It's sad but it's true how society says her life is already over

There's nothing to do and there's nothing to say

The average life expectancy for a UK male is now 77.7 years which means that, statistically at least, today my life is half over. I may live longer than that; conversely, like my friend Sam, my life could end much sooner and more abruptly than that.

When you're younger, you feel invulnerable. The future looks bright, you've got your whole life ahead of you, and you're most likely at your peak health-wise. I know I felt like that; I wasn't especially fit, but I played a lot of sport, had loads of energy, and the spectre of arthritis, cancer and a million and one physical ailments were tiny dots on a distant horizon.

Over the last two or three years, though, I've been reminded that this is no longer the case. While I'm not in bad health, I've put on a lot of weight which I can no longer easily shed. I can't sleep on a hard floor any more - as I have done to help Isaac get back to sleep on a number of occasions recently - without waking up with backache. I've been diagnosed with a couple of (relatively minor) conditions which occasionally cause me slight physical problems, and four times I've developed what could have been early symptoms of cancer but have thankfully proven to be innocent inconveniences.

So I'm no better or worse than many men of my age; I'm hardly a paragon of virtue, I should really lose 20-30 pounds, but there are plenty of people in a worse physical condition than me. Basically I can essentially live the life I want to live the vast majority of the time; I just can't do everything I would like to do.

Having just re-read the last few paragraphs, I sound like an aspiring Victor Meldrew, don't I?

Don't get me wrong, I'm not at all unhappy. Waking up this morning to be greeted by a loving wife and a beaming son wanting to blow out the 'dandles' on my 'dir-day dake' was the best present I could possibly have asked for. But what I've gradually come to realise over the last few months is that I need to spend less time worrying about the day-to-day stuff, and more time concentrating on the things that actually make me happy.

There is a well-known theory developed by the American psychologist Abraham Maslow called the 'hierarchy of needs', which serves as a model to explain human motivation. The hierarchy is usually expressed as a pyramid, with each level following on from the one below it.

Maslow postulated that as humans fulfil their needs at each successive level, their motivations shift to the next level in the hierarchy. For instance, once you have met your basic 'physiological' needs (e.g. a roof over your head, food and water, basic health), you move on to 'safety' motivations (getting a job, having a basic level of fitness etc) and so on.

What I've realised is that I've been stuck in the 'esteem' phase for quite a while. I suspect many professional people do: get good qualifications, get a job, get a better job, climb the greasy pole, get a pay rise, get a promotion, don't stop until you've climbed as high as you can possibly go, retire.

And that's the nub of any unhappiness I have every birthday. I'm not one of those people for whom my career is the be-all and end-all of my existence. Sure, in my twenties and early thirties it was a big focus for me, as I moved up Maslow's hierarchy from 'safety' (first job) to 'belonging' (move jobs, get married, cover the mortgage) to 'esteem' (get my MBA, keep moving jobs, more disposable income). If I look at where I am now, I have a job I enjoy (most of the time, anyway), my work-life balance is pretty good, I have a young family, and I earn more than enough to pay the bills, buy stuff I want to buy and still put something away for a rainy day.

In Maslow's terms, I'm ready to move from 'esteem' to 'self-actualisation'. Or, at least, I will do if I give myself permission to do so. It's the itch I'm desperate to scratch evey year.

It takes quite a bit of effort to put the nagging guilt to one side, though. There is constant pressure to do more at work (especially in these recessionary times). There are always bills to be paid, chores to be done, all the minutiae of everyday life. And there is always tomorrow to do everything on my aspirational wish-list. But you know what? The world doesn't stop if I don't do all the day-to-day stuff right now. And if I keep waiting for tomorrow, it will never come.

I think that's one of the reasons I've started writing so much again recently: it's how I am most comfortable expressing my creativity. I find the process of writing a blog relaxing and fulfilling - it's certainly more fun than filling in yet another spreadsheet! I've always wanted to write a book - I've started and stopped twice before, paralysed by fear of failure - and yet the other night I sat up for two hours at 3am beginning the process all over again. (Third time lucky, eh?) Why not? Publication, which is more of an 'esteem' need, is not my goal; I write because the simple act of writing is satisfying enough in itself. Self-actualisation is the name of the game.

So, anyway, I stand here today at the theoretical halfway house of my passage on this mortal coil. Maybe I've wasted some opportunities already, but I still have a whole load of life left to do the things that really matter to me.

It seems like a pretty good place to be. I'll take that. It's certainly reason enough for me to celebrate rather than mope today.

Why social networking is a good thing

It’s partly the geek in me, but there’s something about the social networking phenomenon which intrinsically suits my nature as someone who has always been a writer rather than a talker.

Until recently, the term ‘networking’ generally had a more business and career-related connotation: it was about having the right conversations with the right people at conferences and trade shows, or handing out business cards while collecting those of others who might prove useful contacts in the future.

Not any more.

‘Social networking’, as the name suggests, is much more about maintaining and expanding your network of friends, keeping you in touch on a more regular basis, and enabling new connections to be made with other people who share a common interest, whether it be pregnant mums-to-be, fans of the same TV programme, or fellow gamers. (You’ll probably be aware of many of the names and buzzwords already: Facebook, MySpace, Twitter, Bebo, LinkedIn, Club Penguin, the blogosphere, and so on.)

But whereas in the ‘real’ world one would collect business cards, addresses and phone numbers, now one accumulates ‘friends’ (as you do on, say, Facebook and MySpace) or ‘followers’ (Twitter’s measure of personal currency).

As an example, this is me. I’m not particularly exceptional: ordinary 30-something guy, office job, a few deep interests, with a slight tendency to be a relatively early adopter of new technologies (i.e. mildly, but not World of Warcraft-level, geeky).

I have my ‘real world’ networks, of course. Family. Friends from university nearly 20 years ago (sadly, I’ve lost practically all touch with my old school friends). Current and former work colleagues. Friends I’ve made through sports. Friends of friends, that sort of thing.

But then I also have my ‘virtual’ networks. Some of my real world friends are here: social networking becomes a way of keeping up to date with people I see infrequently or who are now living on the other side of the world. (For instance, I have a good friend who now lives in New Zealand, who I have seen three times in the last six years, but with whom - thanks to Facebook - I am able to maintain some level of communication at least weekly.) But they are also places where I interact with people I have never met (and probably never will), but where friendships have formed because they are, say, fellow Arsenal fans. In many ways, these can be as close as - if not closer than - my ‘real’ relationships: I have a couple of online friends who I communicate with on an almost daily basis.

So, anyway, at the risk of looking like a bandwagon-jumper, here are the various social networking tools I have signed up to (most used first):

- Twitter, which I use in part to keep up with a handful of friends and to let them know what I’m doing, but mostly as a means of virally picking up and sharing relevant news

- Facebook, which is more about communicating and sharing photos with a wider circle of friends

- Blogger, where I have both this, my personal blog, and a ‘Sporting Reflections’ blog where I indulge my twin passions of sports and writing

- At work, I have recently started using Yammer (like Twitter, but with private company networks) and an intranet-based blogging tool to share ideas

- LinkedIn, for professional networking

- Audioboo, which is the voice-recording equivalent of Blogger

- I am also registered on MySpace, Friends Reunited and a couple of football-related forums, but I no longer use these actively (there are only so many hours in the day …)

Of course, online networking will never be a substitute for genuine human interaction, but in a world where our personal contact list of friends, acquaintances and business associates is flung further and wider than ever before, social networking allows us to maintain at least a basic level of interaction with large numbers of people in a way that has never been previously possible. That can only be a good thing.