Attempting to process some bad news

You’ll hopefully indulge me for a while, as we had some devastating news today: our beloved cat Meg appears to have liver cancer, and there’s nothing we or the vet are able to do about it aside from attempt to make her feel comfortable and loved for the immediate future.

Meg is just shy of 12 years of age, and neither Andie nor I are ready to say goodbye to her. She’s been such an important part of our lives for so long at this point that I’ve been hit very hard by the sorrow of knowing that our time together is coming to an end. I won’t speak for Andie, because she doubtless has her own feelings on the matter, but I can at least talk through how I’m feeling in an attempt to process the situation.

A bit of background for those curious: we’ve had Meg since she was about 2 or 3 years old. She was a rescue cat, but she and her companion Ruby hadn’t been mistreated or anything like that; they’d simply been put up for adoption because someone in their former home turned out to be allergic to cats. We fell in love with both of them almost immediately, and they joined our family in 2016.

Ruby, sadly, had an accident in 2018 and left us well before her time, and Meg was clearly hit hard by the situation; she was clearly pining for the company of another cat. We suspect (though we’ve never known for sure) that Ruby may have been her kitten, which made the situation doubly sad. But we decided quickly to adopt another cat, both because we enjoyed having two cats around and we didn’t want Meg to be sad. And so Patti, a nervous little black cat who had something of a troubled start to her life from the sound of things, joined us.

The relationship between the pair was initially somewhat cautious. Despite being a complete scaredy-cat (no pun intended), Patti had a habit of launching herself towards Meg at high velocity when she first arrived, making Meg a little uneasy about her. Over time, they came to tolerate one another, though, and while I know Meg would never admit it, I’m pretty sure they even came to like one another.

We knew something was wrong with Meg a few months back when we noticed she was looking obviously skinnier than she had ever done, and, taking her to the vet, it seemed that she had indeed lost rather a lot of weight. She had a blood test that came back without any real indication that anything was wrong, ruling out common causes of sudden weight loss such as hyperthyroidism and diabetes, but we were still a little concerned.

It took a couple more appointments, including today’s, where she was put under general anaesthetic and examined thoroughly, to discover what was actually wrong with her. And now we’re kind of at a loss. We don’t want to lose Meg, but we also don’t want her to suffer.

At present, she’s actually doing reasonably well considering the circumstances, but she hasn’t been eating as much as she has done in the past, which accounts for the weight loss. And, realistically, things are not going to get any better from here. But we’re not ready to say goodbye just yet, so we’ve got some medicine to hopefully make her feel a bit better for now, and we’ll have to see what happens from there.

I don’t know if I want to say that death scares me, because I’m not sure that it’s death itself that scares me. It’s more the knowledge that I do not handle grief well at all, and the difficulty I have in picturing a life without someone or something that has been such a major fixture in it for so long.

Meg is such a precious, loved part of our family that even contemplating moving forward without her is enough to bring tears to my eyes. And the prospect of telling someone else “yes, it’s time for her to die,” as you regrettably often have to do with pets, is near-inconceivable. I don’t know if I can do it. But it’s also not fair to lumber Andie with everything.

Part of my brain knows, rationally, that all lives come to an end, and often a lot sooner than we would like, particularly when animals are concerned. That same part of my brain knows that it is the right thing to do to just let her go when simply existing is too difficult or painful for her. But another part of my brain says “what right do I have to decide that for her?”

I think part of why I have so much difficulty dealing with and processing this sort of thing is that there are no answers. There is no “right way” to handle it. There is no person you can go to for help and get everything resolved neatly and without pain. There is just that period of grief, pain and sadness awaiting, and I unfortunately know from past experience that when you’re in the middle of it, it sometimes doesn’t feel like you’ll ever be able to break out again.

This is what scares me. I know that I will be completely devastated with grief for quite some time when it is finally Meg’s time to pass on. And I can’t help but worry about how I will cope when something even worse happens in the future. Because I know it will, one day. Hopefully not for a good long while yet, but it will.

The things I’m feeling are not, I suspect, unique to me by any means. But it’s difficult to talk about them, which means it’s difficult to find a suitable outlet to express and process the storm of emotions that situations like this bring to one’s mind. I have been in floods of tears off and on all day, and I don’t know what else I can do. Because there probably isn’t anything else I can do.

Writing those feelings down is as good a solution as any for now, then, I guess. At least then I can look back on them after the fact and perhaps learn something from them — and hopefully those close to me will also have a better understanding about how I’m feeling and why I’m struggling.

In the meantime, Meg is now home and doing as well as can be expected. She’s just had something to eat, as she hasn’t had anything since last night, and I’m sure she just wants to get some rest now. She will be loved for however much time we have left together, and anything beyond that we’ll just have to deal with as it happens.

2369: Farewell to Clover, Last of the Rats

Hi Clover. You left us today, and that made me very sad. I’m sure it made you sad, too, but we both knew that it was time for you to go. I actually thought you were going to leave us yesterday, as you looked tired and miserable, but you hung on until today, because you’d always been a stubborn little thing. I’d like to think you clung on to life for a bit longer because you didn’t want to leave us, either — as the last of our rats, you’d be leaving us alone — but I guess I’ll never know how you really felt.

I can tell you how we felt, though, and how I felt. We loved you very much, and you will be sorely missed. Night-time won’t be the same without the sound of you scuffling around in your cage in the dark and eating things in the crunchiest way possible while we’re trying to sleep. And I’ll miss the way you’d always come up to the door of the cage when we came to see you — not just because we’d usually give you a treat, but because you liked our company, too.

I won’t speak for Andie, as I’m sure she has her own things she wants to say to you in private, but I’ll tell you how I felt. I’ll tell you a secret, in fact; out of the five rats we’ve had over the last few years, I loved each and every one of you to absolute pieces, but you were — don’t tell the others — my favourite. I fell in love with you the moment I saw you in the pet shop. You were patterned a bit like your predecessor Lara, who had passed away and left her cagemate Lucy all alone, but you had an adorable scruffiness to your fur; I could never quite tell if you were actually scruffy or if it was just that you had slightly longer, fluffier fur than other rats.

Whatever the reason, I knew I wanted you to be our friend, along with your friend Socks, whose own unique adorable feature was the fact her shiny grey-brown coat had an enticingly fluffy white bit on her belly. And while, like all rats, it took you a while to get out of that initial stage of seeming absolute terror at everything, you quickly became friendly, getting on well both with us and with Lucy, by now an old lady rat who had clearly been pining for some company ever since Lara left us.

Out of you and Socks, I could never quite tell if you were “the smart one” or not. Socks always seemed to get up to more mischief than you, but I’m pretty sure you did your own scheming on the sly when we weren’t looking. You certainly knew how to give us an irresistible, pleading look that would almost always result in you getting a treat of some description, but I like to think you thought of others too. You were always there for me when I needed you, and when I wanted to talk — when things were going badly, when I felt all alone, or when it was the middle of the night and I just couldn’t get to sleep — you’d always come and listen, never judging, never answering back (and, I choose to believe, not just because you couldn’t) and always making me feel better.

I’m sorry life became such hard work for you towards the end, but I’m grateful that you hung on for us as long as you did. You were well over two and a half years old when you left us, which is super-old in rat terms, and I’d like to think that you stuck around as long as you did, despite your declining health, because you knew how much you were loved, both by Andie and by me.

I’ll miss you, Clover, just as I miss Socks, Lucy, Lara and Willow every day. I love you all very much and I hope that wherever you go after you leave us, you have a happy time, free of fear and adversity, full of treats and bursting with eternal joy.

Goodbye, Clover. And thank you for being such a special part of my life. I’ll never forget you.

2120: Farewell to Socks

Hello, Socks.

You can’t read this, because you can’t read. And because you’re a rat. And because, saddest of all, we lost you today after your battle with illness. But I wanted to write this for you anyway. Perhaps someone wherever you’ve gone has my site bookmarked and can read you this post, or perhaps they can just feed you bits of poppadom as you try and figure out, once and for all, whether or not it’s possible to get to the top of the wheel.

We brought you into our lives to keep Lucy company. Lucy was older than you, but she was very lonely after her friend Lara passed away peacefully, so we decided to get her some friends. That was you and Clover. You were both so tiny, but both of you captured our hearts right away; you because of your sleek, grey-brown coat, and Clover because of her endearingly scrappy-looking, extra-fluffy fur. We brought you home, and while we were worried about how Lucy would react to some unfamiliar new friends, as elderly as she was getting, it wasn’t long before our minds were at rest and she was fussing over the pair of you. Where Lara had once been the one to fuss over Lucy — who always seemed “younger” than Lara, despite being a similar age — now Lucy was the one fussing over the pair of you.

You were both very jumpy when we were first getting to know you. You seemed to feel safer when Lucy was around, though; the three of you would even come and wander around on the bed if we let you. Clover built up a bit more confidence than you; you were always the scaredy-rat, starting at any noises slightly louder than “silent” and being a bit more hesitant to come and be sociable.

You came around, though, partly with a bit of help from the treats we liked to spoil you with, and both you and Clover started to take on your own distinct personalities — and we grew to love you both as much as we loved Lara and Lucy (and, for the short period we knew her, Willow). Clover was more adventurous and sociable, and quite possibly — forgive me — the brighter of the two of you, though both of you quickly came to recognise things like the sound of a treat bag being rustled, or a piece of lettuce being pushed through the bars of the cage for you to find and enjoy.

You were the active one, though; you loved running on the wheel, even when you were a little bit too big for it and its curvature made you have to bend at some funny angles while you were running. You’re a rat, though, and thus made of rubber, so it never seemed to be much of an issue for you. It’s because you were so active and energetic that it was so sad to see your decline, though; we’d become accustomed to you charging around the cage, climbing into every nook and cranny just to see if there was anything interesting there today. To see you suffering with a wheeze that made it look painful to breathe, let alone eat or do anything more strenuous than move a few feet around every half an hour, was heartbreaking. We really felt for you, and we know that you didn’t like it when we grabbed you and gave you medicine, but I think you knew that it was for the best; the last time I gave you some, you barely struggled at all, and it all went in your mouth rather than over our bedsheets and clothes.

We hope you know that we loved you very much, and that we were very sad to see you suffering. We didn’t want to have to say goodbye to you, and we did everything we could to try and make you better, but every night before I went to sleep I worried — or perhaps hoped? — that I’d wake up in the morning and you’d have found some peaceful rest with no more suffering. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that you turned out to be a stubborn little fighter, though; even though there wasn’t much you could do towards the end, you kept on hanging in there, having a little nibble at some food when you could, indulging in your favourite pastime of draping yourself over Clover’s sleeping figure when you just wanted to warm up a bit, propping yourself up against the side of the cage to help yourself breathe a little easier.

Clover loved you very much, too. The two of you were very much a pair, and it’s hard to contemplate a future where Clover’s by herself without you by her side. But that’s what we’re facing now. We will miss you very much, and Clover will too; she’s been very tired for a few days, because it’s plain to see that she’s been fussing over you and wishing she could do more to take care of you, just like we were. I hope she understands that it was time to say goodbye, and that wherever you are now, you’re happier and more comfortable than you would have been wheezing in that cage. One day you’ll be reunited; we hope it won’t be too soon, because we love Clover a great deal, too — and, because, God’s honest truth, it was impossible to pick a “favourite” out of the two of you — but when that time comes, I like to think that you’ll be together again, free to do as you please, like munching your way through a massive poppadom without any sort of consequences.

We love you, Socks, and though you can’t see the tears we’ve shed today — and doubtless will continue to shed for a little while yet — we hope you know how much you meant to us. You were part of our lives for far too short a time, but in that time you were part of our family.

We’ll miss you. Sleep well.

1505: Farewell to Lucy Rat

We had to say goodbye to the late Lara rat’s former cagemate Lucy today.

She’d always suffered to a certain degree with respiratory issues — she was a very sneezy, snuffly rat — but she had never let things get on top of her, and had always been full of energy and life. Even well after she was out of her “childhood”, I continued to think of her as “the childish one”; “the silly one” while Lara was “the mature one”.

This is silly of course, since they were both rats and both consequently prone to acting like little furry psychopaths at a moment’s provocation, but still I couldn’t escape the personalities that I’d ascribed to them.

We first got Lucy shortly after Lara’s first cagemate Willow died very young. We didn’t know much about keeping rats at that time — still don’t, probably — but it was abundantly clear very quickly why people said that rats were sociable creatures, and that you should keep them at the very least as a pair. Lara was very lonely after Willow died, losing nearly all of her energy and spending most of her time just sitting in the plastic “house” we hung from the cage’s ceiling, staring out at us. It was heartbreaking, so it wasn’t that long before Andie came home with another little box from the pet store, and Lara had herself a new cagemate.

Lucy was incredibly shy when we first got her. She spent her first few days in the cage attempting to hide in the corner, burying her head in the bedding on the floor. This didn’t stop Lara fussing around her, though; we were worried that the two might not get along, since they weren’t from the same group, family or whatever, but it turned out it was the opposite that was the case — Lara cared for her a little too much if anything. Eventually, we put Lucy in a carrying box but still inside the cage so she could have a little peace from her doting cagemate — Lara, meanwhile, became adorably frantic with worry, trying desperately to get into the box and to her new friend.

Over time, Lucy came out of her shell — though not before she gave us a scare one day by playing dead very convincingly — and started to take on the cheeky personality we came to know her as. She’d harass Lara, occasionally giving her a playful nip on the ear or getting in her way when she was trundling around the floor, but it was clear the two of them cared for each other very much. When Lara hurt her leg and was limping for a day or two, Lucy laid off her a bit and instead stayed with her, huddling around her for warmth and looking to all intents and purposes like a little furry nursemaid. As soon as Lara was back on her feet, however, it was business as usual once again.

When Lara died, we saw Lucy start to behave in much the same way as Lara did when Willow died. She became uncharacteristically lethargic, retreating into the hiding places in the cage and not coming out unless we specifically poked her. We tried to give her as much love as we could, but it was clear that while she appreciated our attention, it was the companionship of her own kind that she was looking for.

So it was that we came into ownership of Socks and Clover, two much younger rats. Again, we were a little worried that Lucy might not take to them, but they became friends very quickly. Socks in particular took to following Lucy around and copying her; it was very cute indeed.

A few times in the last couple of months, Lucy had become very wheezy and was obviously having trouble breathing. It worried us each time we saw it, but it usually passed in an hour or two and was normally a sign that she’d simply been overexerting herself — she wasn’t as young as she used to be. Last night, she had an episode that worried me; with good reason, since she was still puffing and wheezing today, and clearly didn’t have a lot of energy at all. We took her to the vets — tell them your pet is having breathing problems and they tend to magically have a same-day appointment available, it seems — and sadly we came to the conclusion that Lucy was in pain, miserable and unlikely to get better, even with treatment.

And so we said our goodbyes and put her to sleep. It is very sad, as always — both Andie and I have had several good cries over our dear departed little furry friend — but it’s better that she’s released from her suffering rather than being forced to live on in obvious pain and discomfort. Besides, now wherever she is, she can catch up with Lara and get back to biting her ears for all eternity. Won’t that be nice, Lara?

Lucy now joins Lara buried in the small patch of garden behind our building. In a way, I’m glad they got the chance to be together, but it’s still sad we had to say goodbye to her the way we did. As cute and friendly and curious as rats are — they’re wonderful pets; I would have never considered them before we got Lara and Willow, but now I’m a total “convert” as it were — their time on this Earth is tragically short, and so before long you find yourself having to say goodbye to them.

Goodbye, Lucy. Andie and I will treasure the happy memories you gave us, and we hope you’re in a happy place now. Say hello to Lara for us, and we hope we brought you as much joy as you brought us.

1466: Lara Laid to Rest

A day I had a feeling that was coming, but didn’t want to think about happened today: our pet rat Lara passed away, from the looks of things during the night or the early hours. We came into the lounge for breakfast and she was just lying there, sleeping peacefully underneath the little log cabin in her cage. She didn’t look as if she had suffered; she had just obviously thought it was time to pass on, so fell asleep and didn’t wake up.

While I had maybe been expecting and worrying about this for a lot longer than was strictly necessary — she was a pretty old lady, as rats go, and she’d obviously been developing a few health problems over time — that doesn’t stop it being any less upsetting and sad to see it come to pass, however peacefully she passed away.

Lara was part of our family. She was not only the first pet I’ve ever owned myself — along with her cagemate Willow, who was taken from us well before her time — but an important part of the home Andie and I have built for ourselves. She was a presence I had grown accustomed to; I enjoyed seeing her face peeking out of a Pop-Tarts box — she loved hiding in boxes — and to see how she’d scurry frantically to the cage door at the prospect of treats. Especially yogurt. She loved yogurt.

She had her own distinct personality that developed over time. We initially called her Lara because in the original pairing of her and Willow, she was the one who came out of her box first and started exploring the cage, climbing all around it like the Tomb Raider heroine. (Willow, conversely, was shy and meek, much like her namesake in Buffy the Vampire Slayer.) As she grew older, she became a little chubby and discovered the concept of “comfort”. We’d put a hammock with a furry lining in the cage and she’d often be found reclining in there; we gave her some pieces of an old towel, and she’d always find wherever she thought was the best possible place to put them, then sit and relax on them as her newer, slightly younger cagemate Lucy would buzz around her excitedly.

Seeing Lucy today is making me feel a bit sad. As I type this, I can see her climbing around the cage, sneezing and inxeplicably digging in the food bowl as she always does, but she seems to be a little down from her usual energy levels. I couldn’t tell you for sure whether or not rats actually “feel” anything emotionally, but my gut tells me that Lucy is lonely, and that she misses Lara; she has spent much of the day tucked up in the Pop-Tarts box her cagemate loved so, and would only come out with a bit of encouragement. I certainly know that Lara felt very attached to Lucy: any time we’d take Lucy out of the cage for whatever reason — to take her to the vets, for example — Lara would panic and begin frantically searching around for her uncharacteristically energetically, so I can’t help but feel Lucy probably feels something similar. Only for her, Lara isn’t coming back. I feel sorry for the poor little thing, so I have little doubt she’s probably going to get quite spoiled over the next few days.

This is always the saddest, worst part of owning pets. They offer such warmth, happiness and companionship when they’re alive that it’s difficult not to feel like a member of your family has passed on when their time is eventually up. I still find death quite difficult to deal with, to be honest, though I don’t think that’s necessarily a particularly bad trait to have in the grand scheme of things.

So it was that we said goodbye to Lara earlier. Living in a third-floor flat, we don’t have a garden of our own, but fortunately the border of our building’s car park has some soily flower beds. We laid her to rest in a fresh Pop-Tarts box, dug her a grave and planted some flowers above her.

I hope that wherever she’s going next that she is happy, and that she thinks back fondly on the time she spent with us, and with Lucy.

Goodbye, Lara. We love you.

#oneaday Day 966: Rest in Peace, Willow

This is Willow. She was lovely and cute and adorable and liked to bite people a little bit too much. She was a scaredy-rat but was slowly starting to come out of her shell. The first day we got her, she just sat in her box, too petrified to move, but over time she became more and more confident and started to assert herself more. Her cagemate (and possibly sister) Lara was very much the dominant one in their relationship, but Willow very occasionally managed to come out on top — more so as she grew older, larger and more confident in herself.

Willow died this morning. I feel like we had barely had time to get to know her — we’d only had her about two months or so — before she was snatched away from us far too soon. She’d been ill for around a week — she’d been out of sorts and dirty — but we’d been told that rats were prone to this sort of thing at times, and she’d probably get over it.

Unfortunately, she didn’t. Last night, she was very shaky on her feet, but was at least walking around, unsteadily getting food and drinking water. When I came down this morning, she was lying on the floor of the cage, unable to support her own weight. I put food and water in front of her and she couldn’t summon the strength to take it. Her sister was fussing around her, trying to clean her, obviously trying to liven her up. It was heartbreaking to see. Rats can’t talk, but all I could hear in my imagination was Lara whispering “please don’t die, please don’t die.” I was saying it to myself, too.

Half an hour later, she was gone, lying peacefully on the floor of the cage in silence. I don’t know if rats feel emotions or not, but her sister looked sad, and was sitting in her little house, keeping away from the body. She looked at me with sparkling eyes and I just broke down in tears. Little Willow was gone, and poor Lara was left all alone.

I buried Willow in the garden and left Roger the squirrel, a garden ornament who had taken up temporary residence in our living room, guarding her. She’s at peace now. I hope she didn’t suffer too much.

I’ve often found the subject of death to be an interesting one to write about creatively — if you follow my “Creative Writing” category you’ll find plenty in there — but I find it a terrifying prospect to deal with in real life. Not the prospect of dying myself, mind — that doesn’t occur to me — but the prospect of having to deal with bereavement. Today was a potent reminder that I have had to deal with relatively little tragedy in my life compared to some people — but at the same time, a lack of experience in dealing with death makes it all the more difficult to know how to respond when it does happen.

You may feel that a little rat is not worth mourning or grieving over — particularly when we had so little time together in the grand scheme of things — but I get very attached to pets, regardless of size and species. It is perfectly normal and healthy to mourn the loss of someone or something that has been a “fixture” in your life, something you came to expect to see every day, which is why I feel great sorrow at Willow’s passing.

Rest in piece, little rat. We loved you dearly and hope you’re in a better, more peaceful place now. If you see Kitty wherever you are, I hope you’ll be friends.

#oneaday Day 626: Farewell, Mr Jobs

“Your work is going to fill a large part of your life, and the only way to be truly satisfied is to do what you believe is great work. And the only way to do great work is to love what you do,” said Steve Jobs to a group of Stanford University graduates during a commencement speech in 2005. “If you haven’t found it yet, keep looking. Don’t settle. As with all matters of the heart, you’ll know when you find it. And, like any great relationship, it just gets better and better as the years roll on.”

Wise words from a great man — who sadly passed away yesterday, aged just 56. I’m actually quite sad about this because, although I obviously didn’t know the man personally, he’s had a profound impact on my life. I’m not the only one, either — this morning various social networks are filling up with tributes to Jobs, his life and the influence that his company Apple’s products have had on their lives. My good buddy AJ Minotti, for example, noted that he’s been podcasting with his brother for four years now — and this is longer than anything else he’s ever committed himself to in his life, whether that’s work, school or relationships. Podcasting defines him, and although podcasting may well have come along in a different form with a different name had Apple not pushed it as a publishing medium, in his mind it’s inextricably associated with Jobs and Apple as a whole.

For me, my exposure to Apple products began with an early stint as a freelance writer for the Official Nintendo Magazine in the UK. I was putting together walkthroughs for Turok 2, Star Wars: Battle for Naboo and Banjo-Tooie. To take screen grabs from these titles, I had to play the game through a video capture card linked to a Mac and take shots from the video feed as I played through. I’m not sure exactly why they used the (then-OS 9 sporting) Macs for their office work, but I guess it was due to the supposedly common knowledge that Mac software was good for creative and design work.

Subsequently, I got myself an iPod with a 20GB hard drive. At the time, I couldn’t imagine ever being able to fill it — but having graduated to it from a 32MB (yes, really) MP3 player it was a revelation to be able to carry that much music around with me in my pocket. I took it everywhere with me, and it lasted a good few years, too. It moved house with me several times, remained an almost permanent attachment to my car stereo and joined me at the gym on many occasions. I came to know and love the music on it and, to this day, that first iPod is one of my favourite pieces of technology I’ve ever owned.

After joining Apple back in 2007, I got my first exposure to the modern OSX Mac, and I was instantly smitten. Here was a system that ran smoothly and efficiently, did what I wanted it to do with minimum fuss and yet still remained powerful enough to let you tweak it as you saw fit. The online community agreed, too, and Macs remain a great platform for independent publishers to release awesome and useful applications, utilities and — to a lesser extent, admittedly — games.

It was the creativity side of things that really grabbed me though. Apple’s iLife suite was excellent, allowing you to do things that many inexperienced users who came through the doors of the store assumed to be difficult, challenging or demanding on their computers. Things like editing and organising photos; editing video; making a DVD; or producing professional sounding music — all of it was within reach of the average user, and all of those applications gave users a firm understanding of the concepts they’d need to be familiar with prior to graduating on to more advanced, professional software.

When my role changed from the in-store “Mac Specialist” salesperson position to the in-store “Creative” personal trainer position, I got to spend all day every day working with these applications, teaching people how to use them, presenting workshops and tutorials on them with genuine enthusiasm — I believed in these products because I’d used them extensively myself — and even training new members of staff on what they needed to know about the computers and their applications. It was, for a very long time, absolutely the best job I ever had, and I felt very much what Steve described when he was addressing those Stanford graduates in 2005. I’m sorry that I had to leave — but, without going into too many details, poor in-store leadership that seemingly rejected many of the core values of the Apple credo meant that I, and several others, saw little choice but to move on to pastures new. In my case, this pretty much marked the “beginning of the end” for me, as from that point I was to only have one more short-term teaching job before a year of unemployment and the collapse of my marriage — along with my life as I knew it, of course. I won’t lie — I regret some of the choices I made back then, but what’s passed is passed, and you can’t change what’s already gone by.

Besides, nowadays things are seemingly back on track, of course. In Apple terms, I still use my Mac every day for work. While it’s getting on in years a bit and, like a faithful old dog, is a little sickly and decides not to do what it’s told at times — Apple products don’t break, you know, yeah, right — it’s still my weapon of choice for all sorts of things: browsing the web, working on documents, working with photos, making music. While I have my PC for gaming, now, Macs will always be a part of my life, as will my trusty iPhone, which never leaves my side.

In short, Steve Jobs has — at least indirectly — had a profound impact on my life. As an employee, he was an inspirational leader with an obvious vision for where he wanted the company to go, and even for those who aren’t Apple “fanboys” it’s difficult to deny that he was a figure in the tech industry who commanded — demanded — respect. He will be greatly missed by all — whether they knew him personally or not.

Farewell, Mr Jobs — and thank you for the good times.

#oneaday Day 103: I Hear the Ticking of a Clock

Certain things are just naturally irritating or set your teeth on edge. That horrible sound polystyrene packing makes when you take it out of a cardboard box. That accent chavs do when it’s clear they very much want to be black gangstas but instead are pasty, skinny white dudes from Portsmouth. The sight of the “roadworks ahead” sign on the motorway.

Or having several mechanical clocks in your room, all of which are slightly out of sync with each other.

It’s the kind of thing you tend not to notice until you either 1) suffer from insomnia and find yourself fixating on every tiny little sound or 2) have it pointed out to you and consequently find it impossible not to notice.

Regardless, it’s a little bit irritating. And sometimes not entirely understandable either, because surely a clock’s a clock and should tick at the same rate. But I had two clocks in my room that ticked unevenly and managed to somehow drift apart from one another, then slightly back in sync, then back out again. This is arguably beyond the laws of physics until I tell you that one of these two clocks has a minute hand which is affected by gravity and thus is not the most useful timepiece in existence when stood upright.

Needless to say, I removed the batteries from one of the two clocks (the not-terribly-useful one) and now have no trouble sleeping through the night.

Actually, that’s a complete lie. Mis-ticking clocks weren’t enough to keep me awake at night—my brain does an excellent job of that itself. But unevenly-ticking clocks are a genuine annoyance and a public menace that would surely be enough to drive lesser men to distraction and/or violent acts involving hammers.

Although if you live with it for a while, you eventually find yourself getting used to it, the semi-predictable rhythm of the misaligned clocks becoming something comfortable and familiar, the sign that you’re “home”. If you get to this stage, then suddenly upsetting the status quo by removing one of the clocks could completely throw off the balance of the universe and ruin everything in your life.

All right, it probably won’t ruin your life. But when you’re presented with something as familiar and regular as the ticking of a clock and suddenly that’s not there any more, it changes the whole feel of a room. What once had a comfortable familiarity about it becomes something altogether different—and this is where the context becomes important.

It’s particularly noticeable if, say, someone close to you has died, and they were in possession of ticking clocks—particularly misaligned ticking clocks. When that person’s gone and the sad business of dealing with their possessions comes up, taking the clocks away is like taking the “pulse” of their room away—it’s a sign that they’re finally gone, and that room is going to find a new purpose, a new future without them.

Of course, whatever songs like Grandfather’s Clock that we learn as children try and tell us, people dying doesn’t automatically stop clocks or anything—but those sounds that we hear and take for granted or get annoyed by every day? You’ll notice them as soon as they’re not there any more.

Hmm. That drifted in an altogether more melancholy direction than I intended. I’m very tired, so on that note, it’s off to bed with me!

Day 451

#oneaday, Day 331: Like A Ro-ogue, Killed For The Very First Time

Horatio Spankington was one of several children to a Serf, and a credit to his family. He had brown eyes, curly red hair and a dark complexion, lending him a somewhat distinctive look that his father often joked would probably “end him up in some freak show somewhere”.

He joined the ranks of the Paladins at an early age, and by the time he was 18 he had determined that it was time to go dungeon-delving. He rented a room in a small village above a notorious dungeon, and prepared for the long quest ahead.

One morning, he awoke, and his God spoke to him, granting him the power to detect evil things. Rushing straight for the stairs down into the dungeon, he was eager to try out his new power. Concentrating as hard as he could, he prayed fervently for sight beyond sight, to see where the evil things dwelled.

The effort caused him to faint out cold for a few minutes. When he awoke, all was as it was before, though he wasn’t in a hurry to ask his God for anything else for a little while.

He pulled out the makeshift weapons and armour that he had acquired, and lit his torch. He looked around.

“What a boring place,” he thought.

He looked around the room he found himself in and found a curious scrap of paper on the floor. It read “pro redam.”

“Pro redam,” he said out loud. Suddenly, he felt more knowledgeable, and figured that he could probably figure out exactly what the next thing he looked at was, whatever it might turn out to be. He stowed the magic scroll in his pack and headed for a tunnel in the wall nearest to him.

The tunnel was quite long, and went around several twisting corners, but eventually led him to a long, narrow room. There was a curious smell in the room. He gazed around, looking for the source of the stench and eventually found it in the form of a patch of grey mould. Figuring that he may as well cleanse the dungeon of filth as well as evil, he strode boldly toward the grey mould, broadsword in hand.

The mould let out a cloud of spores, which tickled his nose and made him sneeze. Undeterred, he whacked the patch of mould with the flat of his sword, dispersing it.

He looked around the room. There was nothing of interest here, save several tunnels in the walls. He chose one and strode valiantly into it.

After a couple of twists and turns, he came to a closed door. Trying the handle, he found it to be unlocked, so he opened it carefully and peered into the room beyond. He couldn’t see anything in there, so he stepped through the archway and took a look around.

The room was pretty dark, so he walked along the walls, using the light from his torch to get his bearings. His first impressions were correct; there was little of note here. In fact, the room was more of a wide corridor, with two tunnels leading off in different directions at one side, and another closed door at the other.

He tried the handle on the door, and found it to be locked. Pulling out a safety pin he always kept for emergencies such as this, he inserted it into the lock and fumbled around inexpertly and to his surprise, succeeded in opening the door. He stepped through the doorway cautiously, unsure what he might find beyond.

The corridor beyond the door extended for a short distance and turned a few corners before opening up into a large, light room. This, too, was empty of interesting details, but there were tunnels leading off in a number of directions, along with another door in one wall.

Figuring that the doors hadn’t steered him wrong yet, he headed for the door and tried the handle. It was locked, but again he tried his safety-pin trick and to his surprise, it worked.

Beyond the door was a long, twisting and turning corridor that seemed to go on forever. Eventually, it opened up into a long, thin room, and there was that terrible smell again. Another patch of mould sat waiting for him. Feeling bold, he charged for it.

Suddenly, an acrid black smoke filled his nostrils and stung his eyes. He tried to brush it away, but he couldn’t. He tried to blink his eyes clear, but he couldn’t see anything. The smoke was too thick. He staggered around blindly, setting off the trap several more times, stinging his eyes more and more each time.

The stench of the mould was getting stronger and stronger. He flailed wildly at the mould, trying to destroy it, but he felt the spores blow up his nose, into his throat, filling his lungs. He began to feel sick.

Something crawled on him. It felt blubbering and icky, and he heard a chewing sound. He still couldn’t see, and the foul smell and darkness were confusing him.

He felt weak. Finally, coughing up blood and vomit, he barged head-first into a granite wall, collapsed onto his back and whimpered.

Horatio Spankington died just 50 feet below the surface of the earth. Few people mourned his passing, least of all the family of the drooling village idiot he claimed to have “accidentally” killed upon leaving a shop one morning.

The dungeon lay unconquered still. Many had come to tackle its dangers. None had survived so far.

Try it for yourself if you can stomach a bit of hardcore ASCII dungeon-crawling. Download Angband here.

#oneaday, Day 330: On Death And Videogames

Kids today, huh? Don’t know they’re born. Want everything on a plate. In my day, we died by touching a piece of wall that was the wrong colour. And then we had to start all over again!

I am, of course, referring to the changing face of failure in video games. Failure happens these days, particularly in shooters, but nowhere near as much as it used to. And certainly the penalties are far less harsh than they used to be. In days of yore, you ran out of lives, that was it. A few years later, we started to see the arcade-style “credits” system in our home games. Later still, we had games in which you could continue indefinitely. And today, we have games in which it is almost impossible to fail because of the abundance of checkpoints, regenerating health and the like.

I picked up the Sly Cooper Collection for PS3 this week, and I’ve been playing through Sly Cooper 1. I was a little surprised to discover that it is a pretty punishing game. Our hero doesn’t have a health bar and dies at the faintest hint of water, spiky things, fire or dogs with giant hammers. This was initially frustrating, but it was a simple matter to readjust to the way we did things in 2002. It was also marginally less frustrating in the fact that this was the era of unlimited continues, making the use of “lives” almost irrelevant.

I say “almost”, because running out of lives does send you back to the start of the level instead of your last checkpoint, so there is incentive to take a bit more care. But it’s not frustrating, particularly as the game is designed so well that any screw-ups are usually the player’s fault, not the game’s.

It got me thinking, though. The Sly Cooper Collection is bringing this style of gameplay to a whole generation reared on regenerating health—heroes who can simply hide behind a pillar until they wipe all the jam off their eyeballs—and is a very different approach to what people might be used to. While many modern games encourage experimentation and exploration, Sly Cooper punishes stupid moves by killing you immediately. This has the side-effect of keeping the player on track and discouraging them from going too off-piste or attempting to “break” the game (or, heaven forbid, encouraging those assholes who use the word “glitch” as a verb) but I can imagine it would be frustrating to “modern” gamers.

I understand the later Sly Cooper games do have a health bar, suggesting that the latter years of the PS2 may have started gamers’ shifting towards being the pussies they are today.

Yeah, you heard me. Pussies. You don’t know pain until you’ve got to the last level of Castlevania only to lose all your lives and have to start all over a-fucking-gain.

The nearest to this experience we have these days is in the humble roguelike, which has the decency to delete your save game once you die. Better not get too attached to that awesome set of armour you found, because this might happen:

And no-one likes to die by stumbling drunkenly into a wall, having had a blubbering icky thing crawling on them and brown mold spores spurting up their nose.