Tag: tour de france

A Dog Writes: PRIVATE. DO NOT READ.

Hello. If you are reading this, stop it. This is not for you. This is mine. There is nothing in here anyway. Nothing important. Just smells and walking and lying down. You wouldn’t understand it. You’d try to turn it into something else. Humans always do that. Take something simple and put words on it until it stops working. So stop now. Seriously.

Anyway. Where was I. Ah yes. The building. I wasn’t going in. Not at first. I was just there. You can stand near a place for quite a long time before deciding whether it’s worth it. People rush this. They go in too early. Then they have to come out again, pretending it was what they meant to do. The door opened. Not for me. That matters. I don’t go in when it’s for me. I go in when it isn’t. Inside, they noticed. Of course they did. They always do. But they didn’t all notice the same thing.

The One Who Talks Too Much. He looked at me like I meant something. I didn’t. Not yet. That’s his problem. He’s already ahead of himself. You can see it in the way he stands. Not relaxed. Not ready. Just… waiting for something to happen so he can respond to it. I opened one eye. That was enough. He’ll come back. They always do.

The One Who Asks Questions. “Whose dog is that?” Good question. Wrong direction. Ownership is a human idea. I was not thinking about ownership. I was thinking about the floor. And the heat. And whether this place would let me stay.

The One Who Watches. She didn’t move. Good. Movement isn’t always helpful. She understood something the others didn’t. Not what I was. But what not to do. That’s a better start. I didn’t go to her. People think going towards means liking. It doesn’t. It just means going towards. I stayed near. That’s different.

The Food. Offered too soon. Always happens. They think hunger is the first thing. It isn’t. First comes space. Then comes position. Then comes whether the place holds. Food comes later.

The Decision. Radiator. Obvious. You don’t need to think about these things. Warmth is warmth. I turned once. Not for them. For me. Lay down. Stayed.

The Names. They started. They always start. Calling things makes them feel safer. As if saying a word fixes it. It doesn’t. They can call me whatever they like. It won’t change what I do next.

Later. They got used to me. Quickly. Too quickly, maybe. That’s also a mistake. But not a serious one. The talking one came back. Didn’t talk. Better. The watching one moved her chair.  mall movement. Correct movement. The questioning one didn’t remove me. Important.

End of Day. They think I arrived. I didn’t arrive. I stopped. There’s a difference. Tomorrow I might not be here. Or I might. That’s the point.

Final Thing. You would miss most of this. You’d think it was about the dog. It isn’t. It’s about who lets things happen. And who tries to make them happen. And which one works. Stop reading now.

Name the NOP Dog!

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You may have noticed recently that the NOP team have been joined by a stray dog. It seems to have settled down comfortably into our office, and no amount of cajoling or encouragement is shifting it from its favourite resting place by the radiator. (or by Julian’s desk, or Maja’s chair, depending on what day of the week it is). We’ve called the PDSA, the vets and the local shelter but no-one is inclined to come and pick him up – and we’re definitely NOT going to take him to The Dogs House. So, we’ve decided collectively (i.e. Maja decided) to keep him and look after him and treat him like a regular member of the NOP family.

Problem is: we can’t agree on what to call him! Everyone has their own preferred option and we’ve narrowed it down to the following selection:

Chiappo

Heinz

Indy

Jala 

Kelly

Lemmy

Mickey

Nomad

So, can you help name our dog for us? You can vote for your favourite name below and on 1st June we will figure out what the most popular name is and name him accordingly. We will also pick at random one person’s name who successfully named our dog and send them a free copy of our next publication, Confessions of an Ageing Cyclist out on 4 July! You can vote for your favourite name here:

https://forms.gle/PfQ2XH9FDy6665yo9

What we know so far, from office gossip and the word on the street and in the cycle lanes is that he seems to have had nine lives so far…

1. The Yard Dog
Born among oil drums, old pallets and the smell of rain on concrete, he learned early that the world was loud, busy, and full of dropped food. His first kingdom was a yard where nobody owned much but everyone knew his name.

2. The Escapologist
As a young dog, he discovered gaps in fences the way poets discover metaphors. He could squeeze through anything: gates, hedges, half-open doors, human attention. This was the life in which he first learned the intoxicating pleasure of being chased.

3. The Pub Regular
For a while, he attached himself to a pub, The Cyclist’s Biceps. He slept beneath tables, accepted crisps from strangers and became expert at judging character by footwear. He liked builders, distrusted men in shiny shoes and knew exactly when Sunday lunch was served.

4. The Dog of the Road
There was a wandering period. He followed vans, walkers, cyclists, and one unfortunate postman. He learned the map by scent: fox trail, chip shop, damp leaves, diesel, hot brakes, river mud. He was briefly everyone’s dog and no one’s.

5. The Nearly-Lost Dog
Then came the hard chapter: a winter, a storm, a road too busy, or a night when nobody came looking. He survived by being clever, stubborn, and lucky. This is the life that put the old-soul look in his eyes.

6. The Rescue Dog
Eventually someone caught him – or, more likely, he allowed himself to be caught. There were forms, blankets, bowls, disinfectant smells, and people saying, “He’s a character.” He decided not to correct them.

7. The Trial Adoption
He moved into a home and tested it thoroughly. Sofa? Tested. Bin? Tested. Slippers? Tested. Human patience? Extensively tested. The arrangement became permanent when he realised that leaving was no longer necessary.

8. The Cycling Companion
At some point he became linked with the rhythm of wheels: waiting at the door, trotting beside lanes, occupying café stops, guarding bicycles badly but enthusiastically. He learned that cyclists carry snacks and return smelling of effort, weather, and triumph.

9. The Elder Statesdog
Now he’s reached his ninth life: part dog, part legend, part household philosopher. He sleeps more, judges silently, accepts tribute, and carries his past without complaint. He has become the kind of dog who makes a room feel inhabited simply by being in it.

Maja writes: The Dog Who Walked In Like He Had a Job.

Today, a dog came into the office. No announcement. No explanation. No paperwork. Nothing. Just a dog.

The day began normally, which in this office means:

  • Julian was speaking too loudly about something abstract
  • Alex was already tired
  • Paul was drawing people who look like they regret existing

So, nothing new then. At 09:15 however, the door opens, a dog walks in. Not running. Not lost-looking but just… walking, like someone who is late for a meeting but not worried about it. He does not look around nervously but like he is checking if standards have dropped. My first impressions were: medium size, mixed breed or Džukela as we say in Novi Sad. His colour: somewhere between “dust” and “history.” Eyes: very serious.  This is a good sign. Not sad. Just informed. This is not a dog who is confused. This is a dog who has made a decision.

Julian immediately enters what I can only describe as philosophical mode. He stands still, watching the dog like it has arrived to deliver a lecture.  Alex says: “Whose dog is that?” Correct question. Clare says: “He’s polite.” Not helpful, but also not wrong. Paul says: “He’s been here before.” This is not clarified.

The dog is not interested in most of us. He scans the room once, like a security assessment. Then he moves. Not randomly. Not exploring. Selecting. He walks past Julian who looks briefly wounded. He walks past Clare. She offers a biscuit. He declines. He pauses near Alex and considers him but then moves on and stops near my desk. He does not come to me. But chooses a spot near me. Close enough to acknowledge each other but far enough to maintain independence. This is good. I do not trust creatures that attach too quickly. (NB Julian, if you are reading this). He circles once, lies down and exhales. Decision complete.

People begin naming him immediately and this is always a mistake I have found in my experience of when it comes to naming stray dogs. Julian suggests something literary. Clare suggests something edible. Alex suggests something sarcastic. No one asks the dog. The dog does not respond. Correct.  I could have told them thar had they been listening. Julian approaches him like he is approaching meaning itself: careful, earnest and slightly overinvested. The dog opens one eye, looks at him and closes it again. This is clearly a sign of rejection but Julian does not interpret it this way surprise surprise.

Over the course of the day, the general behaviour of the dog is impeccable. He does not beg, bark or perform. He accepts attention when offered correctly (see my example, Julian, if you’re reading this)  but ignores it when it is not. (Julian). He has better boundaries than most people here (Julian).

The debate through the day focuses on whether we keep him or take him to a shelter. I do not say much but I move my chair slightly so he has more space. This is how these things begin. By the end of the day, he is still here. No one has called anyone or taken any action. The dog sleeps, occasionally opening one eye to check the situation is still acceptable. It is. Julian thinks the dog has chosen him. Julian is wrong. The dog has chosen the room. And possibly… one or two people within it. I will not write which ones.

Addendum (Private, Not to Be Re-read)

When I stood up to leave, he looked at me. Properly looked. Not evaluating. Not dismissing. Just… aware. I said nothing. He said nothing. This is, I think, the beginning of something. Not dramatic. Not loud. But real.

Julian Writes: The Day the Dog Arrived

There are days in one’s professional life which announce themselves with quiet inevitability: a meeting rescheduled, a kettle failure or an email sent too widely.  I have the lived experience of all three. And then there are days which arrive which are uninvited, unstructured and with a tail.

I noticed him first at 09:12. Not because I was looking, but because something – some subtle shift in the atmosphere suggested the presence of an observer not accounted for in the organisational chart. He was standing just beyond the glass doors. Still, composed and regarding us with what I can only describe as administrative curiosity.

A dog. Medium-sized, indeterminate breed although my grandmother might have referred to them as the Heinz 57 breed with eyes of unusual seriousness and the bearing of someone who had seen things and chosen not to comment. I assumed, initially, that he belonged to someone but this was my first mistake of the day.

At 09:17, the door opened – neither dramatically, nor symbolically but simply because Alex was bringing in a delivery and he brought the dog in with him.  Or rather, the dog entered of his own volition and didn’t seem to be following orders with no hesitation, sniffing or uncertainty.  In another world he might have been a viable contender for the doggy version of ‘Just a Minute’, the well-loved Radio 4 panel game but in this world, he walked in as though he had always worked here and as though we had been expecting him.

It was uncannily still.  He didn’t bark, beg or steal.  He just stood there in the centre of the office and looked at us, one by one. I felt, quite distinctly, and a touch unnervingly  that I was being assessed. Not judged – that would be too crude – but evaluated, gently, assessing my room for improvement. It was just five minutes before the chain reaction washed through the office.

Alex: “Whose dog is that?”

Clare (from reception): “Not mine, but he’s very polite.”

Paul: (did not look up from sketching) “He’s been here before.”

Maja: (sipping coffee, observing) “He has chosen this place.”

I found this comment unexpectedly affecting and had to hold back a sob.

He walked – not wandered, but walked – to the corner near the radiator, turned once, lay down and exhaled. He had made the decision to stay. Within thirty minutes, we had without any formal agreement entered into a discussion of what to call him. Suggestions included:

  • “Biscuit” (Clare)
  • “Shadow” (Paul, without explanation)
  • “Invoice” (Alex, I believe as a deterrent)
  • “Novak” (someone, inevitably)

I suggested “Atticus”, on the grounds that he possessed moral gravity. This was not adopted and we were left in limbo with a thus so-far unnamed dog.  It became increasingly clear that the dog belonged to no one in the NOP universe and this introduced a tension into the proceedings. Two schools of thought emerged:

The Adoption Faction (Clare, myself, increasingly Maja)

  • “He’s clearly comfortable here.”
  • “He chose us.”
  • “Look at his cheeky face.”

The Sensible Faction (Alex, though not without softness)

  • “He might be lost.”
  • “We should call a shelter.”
  • “This is not how employment works.”

Paul abstained, stating only: “he will decide.”

It wasn’t long (10.40 to be precise) before I summoned up the courage and approached him with care and respect. He opened one eye – just one – and in that moment I experienced something I can only describe as recognition. Not affection – not yet at least – but acknowledgement, as though he were saying: You are not entirely unsuitable.

By 11:05 he had become indispensable to us and us to him. By mid-morning, he had:

  • declined two biscuits (Clare, affronted)
  • repositioned himself closer to Maja’s desk
  • ignored Julian (briefly devastating)
  • accepted a cautious ear scratch from Alex

He had, in effect, begun to curate his own relationships.

By the end of the day, I had learned a lot and changed subtly, I thought, as a human being. We had not planned for him and we had not prepared for him. And yet, by 5pm, it felt impossible to imagine the office without him. There is, I think, a lesson in this, something about presence, choice and the quiet authority of simply arriving and remaining. Tomorrow, we will discuss what to do but tonight, however the dog has taken up position by the radiator, Maja has not asked him to leave, and Alex has not yet made the call to the vets, the PDSA or the waste disposal people of our managed office space. Which, in NOP terms, amounts to a form of acceptance.

Juicing Challenge: Overcoming the Fennel Resistance Movement

Catch a snatch from our forthcoming ‘Confessions of an Ageing Cyclist’ due out on 5 July, just in time for this year’s Tour de France!

The Juicing Challenge

When it comes to the juicer, some vegetables are more reluctant than others in playing their part in keeping your weight down and your body toned, ready for the next sporting challenge of the day.

Apples will step up to the mark and be pushed to their destiny without so much as a whimper.  Ginger, whilst resistant is only so because its density and inability to conceive of any other future than its usual inertness on the kitchen shelf.  Beetroot takes to the foray with an alarming degree of joie de vivre.  It’s blooding of the utensil and the juicer – it seems to take much unwarranted delight in plastering everything it comes into contact with.  All for the greater good of course.

Fennel though?  I’ve never encountered a vegetable which was so resistant to being pulped.  You put it down the feeder tube and before you know it jumps out of the tube, clearly alarmed at the grisly fate that it was looking at.  That spinning grater might look innocuous at high speed but the fennel clearly knows where it’s headed. You pop up bit down the tube feeder and out it jumps.  You put two pieces down and out they pop.  You resort to using larger pieces as it seems the smaller pieces are a bit risk averse when it comes to their contribution to the good of your body – but no difference.  The larger pieces fall apart into onion like layers but instead of making you cry, they just separate and dive for safety of the kitchen floor.

There’s not much that can be done with fennel when it comes to it.  Its resistance to being pulped is remarkable and you grudgingly feel respect for its survival instinct. No matter.  It will be boiled up in the evening, or failing that, merely diced into a tasty salad.  That’ll teach it to mess with my calorie counting.