A Bowl of Shreddies

I am going to be submitting these pieces to a local Plymouth publication called Anthologia on the theme of 'Tradition', this first coming from a childhood tradition of going very early to an air show at the Kentish airport Biggin Hill and eating our breakfast in the car.

It’s 8.30am and I’m sitting in the open boot

Of my family’s white Volvo Estate

Clutching a blue picnic bowl of Shreddies

As I have done every year since I can remember;

My sister’s bowl is white,

She is shorter than me –

How long has it been since then?

We breakfast in Indian seclusion,

A bold patterned throw over the door,

Impatience for the coming day

Crowded in with the cool boxes and fold-up seats.

Soon, I know, the sky will become

The biggest stage I have ever seen –

My dad made sure of that by parking

As far from tall vans as he could,

Allowing for an unbroken swathe of blue

From horizon to zenith.

As I munch through my ever soggier Shreddies,

Memories of last year play out

In my mind’s eye:

A jet moving through the air

In imitation of a begging dog;

Star shapes in red, white, and blue

Fading into purple clouds;

A drawn-out thunderclap

Ripping the sky apart;

Biplanes stalling - falling

From precipitous heights.

Bowl empty, I am already salivating

For chilled chicken drumsticks and pork pies,

Wishing I could eat them on the roof

Closer to the display

In the big open sky.

Review of A Clockwork Orange (performed by The Actor's Wheel) at the Barbican Theatre, Plymouth, June 10th, 2017

The moment the lights went up on this show last night, I said to my friend Mark 'I will not be able to write a review for this; I simply will not do it justice'. To prove myself wrong, here is the review I said I could not do. It was simply a genius piece of acting from all involved that I felt could not go unmentioned.

I may not know how to start a review in a way which does justice to its subject, but when deciding how to open this adaptation of Anthony Burgess’s A Clockwork Orange, director Kevin Johnson has hit the nail squarely on the head.

From out of the darkness comes a chorus of the versatile and pervasive question ‘What’s it going to be then, eh?’ which returns countless times throughout to remind a viewer of the power of every choice the main character, Alex, makes. This opening is haunting, not just audibly through its canonical repetition, but through the use of light – another device which is used to spectacular effect throughout – which mimics Queen’s ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’. At first, I feared this performance may be too heavily reliant on song, turning Burgess’s masterpiece into a modern-day Sweeney Todd, but as the initial dance sequence wanes, the old recognisable moloko bar comes into focus, and our ‘humble narrator’ steps forward to begin his tale. What follows is an inventively choreographed amalgam of ballet, street dance, traditional theatre, and a mind-blowing utilisation of the stage.

Much like at Stratford-upon-Avon’s RSC Theatre, moveable boxes are employed to mimic walls, beds, and benches, but The Actor’s Wheel take this technique to another level. These boxes become cars, with the addition of ‘street-lights’ and ‘bridges’ (handheld torches and boxes) being passed overhead; they become plinths on which items stand to signify different locations, from the minimalist home of Professor Alexander and his wife, to the rich glamour of the Cat Lady’s abode. But most remarkably of all, they are climbed over and through and around, carried and slept in by Alex as he is stripped and examined and subjected to the processes of life in prison and the correctional facility. And where boxes will not suffice, the cast become props themselves, moving Alex through the space with often complex manoeuvres. Picture frames also play a significant role, illustrating the media presence, as scenes are often visibly ‘framed’ to be reported or printed for mass consumption, or the authorial presence, as Alex is ‘framed’ for his crime, the picture frame transformed into a set of handcuffs.

Yet, none of this would’ve been quite as affecting, firstly, without the contrasting medley of classical music and ‘grime’ (to quote Kevin Johnson) which gives each scene its character and provides the soundtrack to Alex’s life. Certain actions and scenes indeed benefit from and work with the music to give them added power, so that every punch, kick, and sexual thrust becomes a violent work of art, occasionally dealt in slow motion in homage to Stanley Kubrik’s film adaptation. This marriage of sound and vision all leads to the final scene of the first half. Already frightening as a tableau of illuminated cables raying out from a restrained Alex, screaming and gagging with his eyes held wide open, this scene strikes the nerves still further thanks to the strength of the orchestral music used in his torturous conditioning.

Central to this, of course, is Ashton Corbin, who has fully immersed himself in the character of Alex. The necessary depiction of his suffering affected me deeply due to its sustained realism, the mob violence, perpetual gagging, and quiet sobbing evincing sympathy for a character who is indeed a victim of social conditioning and the lack of free will in the societal system. Corbin balances this with a rough boyish swagger expressed in such a realistic fashion, and the ‘nadsat’ mentality and lingo which trips from his tongue like a native language so that, by the end of the night, I was blurry-eyed with reluctance to see his contented upturned face disappear as the lights went down.

A viewer may struggle to keep up with who is who as the demands of a large cast assign actors several roles, but the same personality is rarely seen in the same actor twice. Their unique chemistry with Alex helps differentiate the various roles, particularly in the case of Millicent Flavin whose fragile mentality as Alex’s mother never once trespasses into the quietly professional Dr Branom. Plus, the incorporation of sexual and political humour into several interactions, and the casual manner of Alex’s interspersed narration, prevents this from becoming an entirely serious, on-edge performance. For the virgin viewer of anything related to A Clockwork Orange, this rendition by The Actor’s Wheel most assuredly stays true to its source material, giving the occasional wink to Kubrik in the process, and thus provides the comprehensible best of both worlds. 

A Review of 'Beans and Other Poems' by Mark Jones

I was given this quirky little collection of poetry to read by my friend and fellow Plymouth poet, Mark Jones, to whom I promised I would write a review. I hope I can do it justice.

Before even passing the cover, any reader can take a guess at what they're in for: a bizarre blend of poems which refuses to take mundane topics seriously, and having been labelled 'surrealist', it's little wonder why. Perusing through this pick 'n' mix of poetry, you are greeted with something different with every turn of the page, from the comically blunt and witty to the absurdly self-expository. It is, admittedly, a bit hit-and-miss as to whether you get Jones's obscure concepts - 'Love in the form of croquet balls' may be something we'll never quite understand - but his word choices are often some of the most fitting you'll ever encounter. 'Terror at 10:27pm' provides you with 'nasal ambulance calls', while the titular 'Beans' recreates the humble can of beans as erupting with 'volcano juice'. 

He deals with things we, as humble humans, encounter on an almost everyday basis - aside from sultana siblings and robot tomatoes, maybe. Food, if you couldn't already guess by the title, is a notably dominant theme in this volume, presented in often spasmodically rhymed stanzas. This does let down a few of the poems by interrupting the apparently uniform rhyme scheme, while other times a cheeky forced rhyme pushes things back into recognisable form, evident in poems like 'Seagull' and the unexpectedly witty 'Power Danger' ('Ranger Danger' maybe?) 

One thing a reader will soon become aware of, however, is that Mark Jones has instated himself as the King of the deprecatingly terse sentence, reducing the versatile burger to an 'Artery clogging/Weight gainer' and the loathsome seagull to a 'High flying shitter'. He's certainly not messing around. With wit-laced gems like 'Save the Eggs for Later' and 'Spoonsmith', this man's unexpected humour is one to look out for. A little awkward, but full of confidence – and certainly better received than the flatulence one might expect from consuming this volume’s namesake.

To anyone wishing to check out more from Mark Jones, you can follow this link to his Facebook page, Jonesthepoet.

A Timid Tongue in Budapest

Came back from a trip with the University's History department to Budapest on May 27th and wrote this 3 days later in response. The lemonades were possibly the best I'd ever had, the currency is in those ridiculously huge notations, and I am still surprised so many places speak English.

Feels like an ordinary city,
a flight that goes for ninety minutes 
lands you on common ground.
In the darkness,
one street to the next is familiar,
a Tesco glaring its beacon of homely light
in what you must keep telling yourself
is a foreign night.
And soon, buildings rise up,
rustic and molded,
unchanging in the morning sun,
so you come to realise you are in fact
'somewhere else'.
Tables spill out onto pavements,
tongues spill out the language of goulash -
but also more fish and chips than you expected.
There is a clear market for your
hard-earned ridiculous currency
in eating with the locals,
from a menu labeling the Hungarian specialties 
which you never manage to try,
sold by a waiter whose tongue is braver than yours.
There is a clear market for your
hard-earned ridiculous currency
in trinkets, resplendent with gem stones,
unpriced to build up attachment to what translates
to a twenty-quid bracelet -
this wrinkled vendor knows 
your girlfriend's expensive taste better than you.
Pretty soon you must abstain or starve.
Away you go, to the open plazas punctuated by
historical full stops on horseback,
and more Gothic facades than a nineteenth century estate agent.
There is no escaping the past here
in a city occupying a perilous position of reluctant modernity,
such that few buildings dwarf you to any great height
and drivers won't stop for a red light.
You wander in amazement,
knowing these walls didn't survive the war,
the aged lost to a gruesome recollection of the Holocaust
in a monochrome TV set.
Their hand touches your shoulder
as you sip fruit-laced artisan lemonades,
wishing they were this good back home -
even wishing this was home.
But your tongue is not brave enough,
even to catch your bilingual waiter's attention
so he can part you with more cash
and set you free into this isolated colourful war-zone.

Always, Forever, Eternally

I haven't got any updated material from university to add here so I thought I'd just throw an old piece of poetry your way. I cannot remember when or why I wrote this one, but I still like it, even after 2 years. 

Ever and always we find ourselves wanting

What can’t and never will be;

Forever wishing with our religion

What can’t, will be, just for us.

In loneliness we pray death resurrect,

Can’t and refuse to be alone;

In fear we beseech war make peace,

That what destroys can rebuild again.

Ever and always we hide in dark places

Away from what is and now will be;

The scars forever burn in memory

Of what will now always be.

Creative Non-Fiction - A Rambler's Guide to 'Dam

NB: This is the updated version which I submitted as my final piece for my Second Year Creative Non-Fiction module (which got me 72/100 = a First :D)

 A Rambler’s Guide to ‘Dam

Let me paint you a picture: You’re in Amsterdam, student Mecca of Europe, and you’ve stumbled upon the Red-Light District – purely by accident – though not far enough to be drawn in like a moth to the pink and red neon lights. Lacking a sense of navigation, you approach the nearest doorway to ask for directions and are faced with a Dutch lady in four inch stilettos and gaffer tape taking a cigarette break. (Do I need to explain the gaffer tape? Just imagine those black censor bars they use on TV). Now, you have three options: proceed with asking directions, murmur embarrassed apologies and leave, or alter your question to fit the situation and ask ‘How much?’ What do you do?

Welcome to Amsterdam

As you are reading this, I can only assume someone you know has come back from Amsterdam and now you’re curious. Well, that’s good because nothing brings people together like travelling to a city famed for sex. In retrospect, this could have been the reason why my boyfriend, Jackson, chose it as our first holiday destination despite only knowing each other 4 months. Somehow, a year later, the charm remained –  both his and the city’s – compelling us to return. Unfortunately, not wiser than before, as I had purchased a pocket guide to Amsterdam in the hopes of getting more out of our visit this time around. Apart from just about managing to guide us to new places, both that little pocketbook and I would have gotten more from the exchange if I’d used it as a coaster. Even the websites I scanned proved to be lacking in the personal touch of someone who had been there.

‘Ensure you are prepared for all elements’ they tell you, ‘good walking shoes are most certainly important’, take advantage of the ‘local cuisine’, and essentially do all you can not to look like a tourist. Of course, this comes from a book designed to be a guide for tourists. So obligingly you’ll leaf through it like it’s your Holy Bible of Amsterdam, while throwing several jumpers, a bottle of sun cream, an umbrella, hiking boots, condoms, and some spare camera batteries into your suitcase. But the things I learnt on Dutch soil put the word of your prophet to shame.

…no visitor should leave without experiencing the city's world famous bike culture…

For starters, He won’t have scrimped on explaining that most people in Amsterdam ride bicycles and will, therefore, insist that cycling the city is an ‘absolute must’. What this means is safety of the cycling tourist will be given priority, while conveniently forgetting to mention the pedestrians. To illustrate this point, if I was a cat, I’d be down to my last few lives by now, the amount of times Jackson has had to pull me clear of an oncoming pedal-powered juggernaut. Their tinny little bells, echoing across the city, should’ve given me fair warning, but the tourist is a breed of person whose observation is extremely selective. Even strolling through leafy residential avenues, I somehow ended up missing the single cyclist coming towards me.  So, you, munching on your stroopwaffel as you take yet another #Amsterdam selfie, will be able to thank your prophet for the inevitable #holidayinjury.

Lesson 1: It is impossible NOT to experience the bike culture, even if you’re not riding one.

Recommendation: Travel with a sharp-eyed companion, such as – but not – my boyfriend. They also come in very handy if you, like me, have trouble navigating these quaint and quirky streets.

…ditch the map and lose yourself in the labyrinth of narrow lanes…

‘I’m sure we came this way’ I said to Jackson for the dozenth time that day, and ‘I recognise that shop’ because every street less than six feet wide looks identical: rainbow coloured waffles, macaroons, and doughnuts; military ranks of steaming pizza slices; dim smoky coffeeshops like modern opium dens; great wheels of cheese; tacky souvenirs; gimp masks (though the last two can easily be confused).

Being overwhelmed is all part of the Amsterdam experience, but it quickly becomes a maze; if you’re touting a map like a sore thumb, you’ll see what I mean. Every road runs parallel and perpendicular to the web of canals which make up Amsterdam Centrum. You’ll think ‘this should be easy’, and proceed to transcribe the prophet’s word into a checklist of ‘world-famous’ landmarks and restaurants from the city’s ‘culinary melting pot’, which will look something like this:

·         Ancient church

·         Famous-local-artist museum

·         Site of historic significance

·         Market browsing

·         Photo with I amsterdam sign

·         Obscure Dutch restaurant

By the following afternoon, however, you’ll be standing astride a bridge, viciously rotating your wallchart of a map, and trying to navigate in relation to one of the many churches sprinkled throughout like immense and ornately gothic middle fingers.

Lesson 2: Getting lost is inevitable, with or without a map

Recommendation: Take it easy. Just as Rome wasn’t built in a day, Amsterdam’s streets cannot be conquered in the same time frame. Although their paving team would beg to differ.

…a quaint warren of cobbled streets…

Do you remember those ‘good walking shoes’ that were of biblical importance? You might want to downgrade them from Doc Martens. Of the many streets you will traverse during your stay, He alleges that several are cobbled. Equipped with a mental image of charming, rustic avenues of knobbly stones, I entered each new street in expectation of these promised treasures – which I was told paved a cluster of nine Straatjes in Amsterdam’s version of Oxford Street. In their place were smooth woven carpets of vibrant red brick. The richly clean aroma of marijuana permeating the air seemed to take on a lonely tinge without them, the crotchless panties cheapened as if they were being sold in an alley in Soho. Only on the third day, standing on a bridge in the aforementioned manner and whining to Jackson that ‘all the churches look the bloody same’, did the word of the prophet come true. My feet, thanks to my thinner-soled footwear, eventually felt every hard lump of the promised land – all 500 feet of camera-wielding-tourist-polished stones hugging the base of the thirteenth-century Olde Kerk.

Lesson 3: Cross out the word ‘cobbled’ in your Bible

Recommendation: When you find a patch of cobbles, cover every inch before moving on just to get the full experience. But in hindsight, it’s for the best that they are confined to a picturesque courtyard given the instability of British tourists on a night out and the lack of railings around the canals.

…floating along the canals by guided boat tour is a great way to get under the fabric of the city…

Sparkling like a silken thread through the eye of the bridge, framed by hanging baskets of candy-pink petunias, the city’s 165 watery thoroughfares are highly photogenic, making them the crown jewel on every avid traveller’s Instagram page. It’s little wonder then that your prophet will stress the importance of a ‘magical’ canal cruise, and as a couple you will find yourself compelled to obey – but I would urge you to resist. Jackson and I made our first visit in the middle of August, during the Gratchenfestival, a week-long music festival for which people hire boats to see musical performances on and around the canals. Some of these boats are beautiful mobile picnics carrying sun-worshipping Dutch folk, or immense party barges, heard long before they are seen, and for the measly sum of €8, you can join them – careening the wrong way up the canals in a dinky pedalo. Jackson had been ambitiously eager to join them. ‘They’re surprisingly cheap’ he’d remarked as we stood on a bridge watching rowdy shirtless Brits causing waterway traffic jams; we were still there an hour later.

Lesson 4: A Brit will find their own way under the fabric of ANY city

Recommendation: Enjoy your sunbathing and picnicking on terrafirma. Try to find the perfect suntrap, if you can, even if it means wandering into an unfamiliar area. You can always ask for directions. Sound familiar? Before you make your decision, however, you might want to find out what else this area has to offer. 

…the Red-Light District is a world of its own that does not easily divulge its secrets…

I know what you’re thinking: peep shows, sex toys, dare I say it – prostitutes? The prophet need not profane His lips at your expense; you practically guide yourself. But that’s not what occupied our time, and, unless you’ve got nothing better to do, neither should it yours. Initially, nothing seemed out of the ordinary until the woman in gaffer tape caught our eye – or was it the other one lounging moodily in the window beside her, breasts looking like two onions in their orange mesh bikini? We took in similar windows and establishments with a concealed smirk, eventually sitting with legs dangling over the canal. Follow my lead and it will make your experience of De Wallen (to give it its proper name) a much more fulfilling one:

·         - Window shop for bizarre bondage gear.

·         - Make up names for the ladies in the windows.

·         - Watch people’s reactions to said ladies.

·         - Laugh at the truck drivers trying to navigate the tiny streets.

That’s not to say you should adopt a look-but-don’t-touch attitude for your whole trip. Go ahead – hug the 7-foot golden penis in the Erotic Museum (it makes for a great holiday snap), buy some novelty condoms or an apron with a furry footlong.

Lesson 5: Some secrets are often hidden in plain in sight

Recommendation: Let out your respectfully raised inner child. Look but don’t stare. Have maximum fun with minimum mess, and when you’re done, venture back to some semblance of normality. Just make sure you have money left because all this walking will have made you hungry. But where will you go?

…Amsterdam offers the hungry traveller plenty of unique culinary experiences…

Considering the time of day, moon phase, and current temperature, your prophet will suggest the perfect restaurant for you and your ever-shrinking wallet, while helping you blend in by taking you to ‘where the locals eat’. But realistically, your I Love Amsterdam t-shirt will make you stand out more than going to McDonalds because the locals eat everywhere. The trick is to let your senses guide you:

The open-front pizza vendors set us salivating from 3 streets away; the hand-made baguette sandwiches resembled works of art; we could taste the cavities in the air outside the ubiquitous confectionary patisseries.

‘But how do I get a real taste of Holland?’ you ask. His answer will be exhaustive and largely obscure – raw herring, for example – but wading through you will come across ‘frites’, reliable old chips in a paper cone. The oddly named Manneken Pis, voted ‘No.1 Holland Fries’, served them to us slathered in mayo and satay sauce, and topped with onion. Of course, if you’re craving sugar, the Dutch have you covered too. Up a flight of stairs only a few degrees shy of a ladder, we found the Pannenkoekenhuis Upstairs, serving dinner plate-sized pancakes to a tiny teapot-filled room of just 10 people at a time.  

Lesson 6: Fussy eaters need not fear when chips are still an ‘experience’

Recommendation: Only leave your culinary comfort zone when you are ready. No one is going to judge you for eating chicken chow mein in Chinatown every day. However, there is one temptation I will leave you to be the judge of.

…smoking cannabis or hashish is permitted in the city's coffeeshops…

Of everything you are expected to have done while visiting Amsterdam, the drugs will always be number one. It’s as if lax laws somehow equate to it being compulsory. Not being smokers, I never thought we’d find ourselves in such a bohemian place, jars of the dried herb ranged alongside loose leaf teas and coffee beans, but, by chance, Jackson’s colleague was on holiday too and invited us to join him.

The mere act of entering this establishment feels like a rite of passage as you acclimatise to the heavily scented air and the shrouded half-light thrown out by a combination of fairy lights, spotlights, and Art Deco fixtures. Figures wreathed with mist sit in the shadows, while others, seated at the ornate wooden bar, alternate between milkshake and Mary Jane. For the inexperienced, as I was, it can be intimidating, but I guess that’s what the resident feline was for; a dopey black and white cat, who must have been high as a kite, 24/7, sunning himself in the window.

Lesson 7: You are still permitted the atmosphere; no one says you HAVE to join in

Recommendation: If smoking is your thing, looks like you’re all set; if not, go anyway. Your prophet won’t openly promote coffeeshops, only throw advice at you in the hope it will stick, but that doesn’t mean you can’t see that other world.

You’re still standing beside the doorway, the woman’s cigarette burning low, scattering ash onto her painted toenails. She looks at you expectantly, standing to one side as if to invite you in. Amsterdam is waiting. What do you do?

Creative Non-Fiction - Specialist Subject Final

So here is the [almost] most up-to-date version of the Specialist Subject piece - which I will be using for my first assessment. I have yet to apply any changes to it following last week's workshop but from what I remember, I got a rather mixed response to it, some good and some bad (or rather, constructively critical). Needless to say, it's still going to be undergoing further changes so watch this space.

This whole world is steeped in science. You cannot take a step or a breath without interfering with some unseen life force, like vibrating a thread on the universal spider’s web. Stepping out one day on a brisk Winter morning with the expectation of being drenched by the rain, I was pleasantly surprised to be met with the contrary – zenith blue skies bathed in sun, and the pavements exuding their acidic scent post pluviam. But I was in no way spared my saturation, for I was still weighed down, like a sponge heavy with water, with that unseen life force: science.

I just so happened to be heading towards the campus medical centre, which got me thinking about science. Not the physics which carries an apple from its tree to a patch of unforgiving concrete below. Not the chemistry which causes it to bruise in contact with said concrete. What I considered was the biology which guides the fly to the rotten core to lay its eggs. The living rice grains which boil forth are not something which many people would wish to go near with a ten-foot barge pole – I, myself, have often gagged when finding them carousing in the ripe juices at the bottom of a dustbin – but I have continuously found myself in awe of biology’s visceral intricacies and miracles in all their stages, from conception to dissolution. In this instance, I was only thinking about what could be wrong with me. Acidic taste in the mouth. Was it acid reflux? Food poisoning? Dehydration? I never usually got sick thanks to the strength of my immune system so it was kind of a big deal. It made me wonder just how resilient my insides actually were.

Faced with a dark clammy lump of meat on a tile and a scalpel as a teenage biologist, I had felt little in the way of excitement to carve it open and see what lay within. The resemblance was closer to the repast of a cannibalistic surgeon than a clinical classroom experiment. In my gloved palm, its cold solidity and disembodiment unnerved me, while the rancid odour of meat emanating from it seemed to bloom in my nostrils. I took a step back. It wasn’t that I was squeamish or averse to the sight of blood. I’d watched the daily decomposition of a mouse’s corpse from inanimate ball of fur to scattered bones with an almost poetic reverence; there was no poetry in this – until cloven open by a less reluctant hand. Here was an object I could put a title to. This pulsating fist-sized engine was possessed of chambers webbed with fibrous white tendons, muscular vermillion walls, aorta and vena cava protruding like fleshy straws from a thin cloak of fat. The lid had been lifted. Seeing this heart laid bare had instantly rendered the human body more beautiful than the textbook diagrams had led me to imagine.

Where before, the pruned labyrinthine mass of the cranial lobes resembled a rainbow crash helmet, now it was more a large and vulnerable pickled walnut. The chest cavity undulated with the swell of delicate coral branches and flesh curtains pressing against their white prison bars, instead of simply two misshapen pink balloons swollen with bunches of grapes. Then came the discovery that we somehow managed to compress thirty feet of digestive tract – from top to literal bottom – into our ninety inch torsos and wrapped it all up in twenty-one square feet of skin (enough to stretch across your doorway). Meanwhile, each and every cell of that body was engaged in inexorable and ever-diminishing renewal. I felt exhausted just reading it!

Unfortunately, as a result of that large pickled walnut, humanity has adopted an inflated ego which compels us to assert ourselves as the most superior life form, intellectually more advanced and so forth; an asset which we proceed to laud over the rest of the world like a shameless post-Eden Adam. However, upon closer inspection, Adam can be viewed as no more than an upright hairless ape with a censor button, which led me to wonder: how big does our ego really need to be? An animal such as the duck-billed platypus is, in form, virtually unchanged from creatures which existed 110 million years ago, yet thrives to this day. Even several fish, such as sharks, and other water-dwelling creatures like the horseshoe crab and leech-like lamprey, have undergone very little change from their prehistoric ancestors. If we are truly the superior species, then why has it taken us so long to get here? It was at this point that I started to doubt the value of intelligence.

In order to see where else the human design is failing, I turned to the microscopic. Allow me to introduce the Tardigrade or Water Bear. An immensely resilient invertebrate, no bigger than a full stop, this minute creature is capable of surviving at temperatures approaching absolute zero or exceeding boiling point (and you thought you had it rough when the air-con stopped working on the ‘hottest day on record’). Even when bathing in solar radiation or crushed in a celestial vacuum, these tiny teddy bears are seemingly indestructible, leaving us, as a species, kissing their infinitesimal toes in respect. Inevitably, like the children that we are, we begin to mimic such adept creatures through biomimetics. The humble though irritating burr, for example, inspired George de Mestal’s Velcro, while the properties of sharkskin are being tested as a defence against bacteria.

I pondered if such a thing could work on my throat as I returned home. I didn’t get an appointment that day (surprise, surprise), but I’d been told to call back tomorrow. I listened to the dull rhythm of my footsteps, like a metronome, like a pulse. Some may choose to segregate themselves from their primal past by ignoring the world’s biological drumbeat, force it to fade in the face of chemical advancements and greater steps in space than anyone has taken before. But when we owe our current victory to the successes of that past, then that drumbeat should be impossible to ignore as it’s beating inside our own heads.