Sometimes I store nuggets of news and commentary like a topical squirrel, ready to feast on them in the Winter months. And Winter approaches!

• Jonathan Freedland’s comment on the world’s verdict if the US rejects Obama is accurate. 2000 was a fraud and 2004 was a less than inspiring competition (and a less than significant majority); the choice that American voters face this year is as clear as it could be - and if the majority opt for more of the same rather than much-needed and much-desired change - not just for the US but for the whole world, because that’s what the American Presidency is - then the rest of the world, who have essentially been cheated out of a vote in the matter by living in less powerful countries, will be righteously furious. American politics is world politics, and responsibility for the leader of the world rests with the American people. Vote well please, friends!

• Here are some truly incredible photographs, or rather photographs of truly incredible stunts. They’re from a new book, ingeniously called “Incredible Stunts”. I found the safety-equipment-free wingwalking grandmother particularly wonderful.

• And finally, I thought that this was very sweet.

Returning to my thoughts from January on The Guardian’s reporting:

1. Here is a good example of reporting with an astonishingly smug and opinionated bent, as bemoaned.

2. Here is an example of something else I’ve noticed The Guardian repeatedly (that’s: repeatedly) doing - repeating themselves with quotations

A large cargo plane crashed at the end of a runway and split in two while trying to take off Sunday at Brussels airport. …

Francis Vermeiren, mayor of the nearby town of Zaventem, said the plane did not catch on fire when it crashed after attempting to take off. Vermeiren was coordinating rescue efforts at the airport.

‘The plane is not on fire but it has split into two,’ he told VRT radio.

I think it’s time I wrote a journal entry about my current situation, which I will do shortly.

It seems that my Materialistic Guilt Complex has become complete; I bought Selma Songs by Björk and Life in Cartoon Motion by Mika yesterday for a total of £8.88 and spent today hating myself for such greedy wastefulness. It’s not such a curse; at least my neuroses are directed primarily at myself now (I handed somebody their just-bought PS3 yesterday without feeling a desire to force-feed them all of the meals that the price of their extravagant materialism could have otherwise bought* [for some reason - timing and astonished disbelief, I think - the PS3 has become the emblem of my hatred for capitalist and social selfishness]), and the end result is that I waste far less money, give more to charity and feel generally like a nice sort of fellow. But the hangover is certainly depressing after I slip up and - golly gosh - spend any money.

*7,000.

Life and the decisions we make should be a constant fight between practicality and idealism. The ideal must never give in to its most reasonable alternative, nor should realism or pragmatism ever be neglected in placation of the unobtainable dream of absolute perfection.

This is what makes life beautiful. Standing on the lighter side of the scales, we see the despair on the heavier side, but when everything is balanced, we can glide from side to side. The challenge is not to make the ideal real, for that is impossible - the challenge, and the wonder of the conclusion when we achieve it, is to make reality into the ideal.

Here’s an interesting one.

I’m not one of those who enjoy swearing; I don’t revel in it or strive to fit a curse between every other word like some. But I do appreciate the extra items in my vocabulary, and I’m not counted in the gathering of people who worry that each time they say “fuck” a fuckfairy will die.

My general philosophy on morality, as most of you will know, is this: that what is wrong is what forseeably does more harm than good (commence debate on the definitions of “harm” and “good”). Given that I use “swear words” (let me presently make known my distaste for the categorisation, which suggests that there is something to differentiate these words from the rest of the language, when in fact the difference is the product of the labelling itself) as I use any other word in the English language and without prejudice, I can’t claim that I gain any especial pleasure from uttering them. I only find them useful, as I do the words “revolting”, “fascinating”, “sad”. To stop using swear words, though difficult at first, would not throw me into a depression. And some people have a problem with swearing. Some people have a problem with hearing other people swearing. And, however unreasonable their request, I can’t deny the fact that for me to stop using these words when such offendable characters are liable to hear or read them would be to do something that forseeably does more good than harm.

Some would suggest that it’s a matter of principle: that I should be free to use whichever words I wish and that those who tut and grimace and leave the room in response are suffering only from their own superstition. This assertion is correct. But I am free to use those words. If I choose not to for the sake of someone else’s contentment, is that anything but commendable on my part? As for the phrase “a matter of principle”, it stinks of fundamentalism to me. “Matters of principle” are entirely contradictory to the philosophy set out at the beginning of this essay. I don’t believe that anything should be based on principle; I suggest that everything should be based on circumstance. (I also realise the slight irony of making such a straightforward assertion.)

It’s hardly a life-changing issue, but, as ever: discuss.

I just found out that one of my past headteachers is in a mental hospital. His young wife died while he was still head of our school, and he went on to have a mental breakdown, though I hadn’t realised how far it has since come. (It’s sad because he was a reasonable man, and friendly, and, for all my issues with the British education system, I quite liked him.) It’s strange to think of someone that you know in a situation like that. It’s strange to think that somebody can steer so far from who they once were, perhaps irreversably. I refuse to acknolwedge that there is such a thing as insanity, but it’s horrid that people can become so obtuse within their own heads that they’re dangerous, or unable to look after themselves, or, worse, unable to be looked after by those of their friends or family who would like to. Having to commit a friend, a father, a brother to that must be heartbreaking.

Some news you hear just makes you want to cry.

Human hands and fingers are the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle; when they every one interlock, they form the outside edge, ready for the great work of art, the big picture, the solution to the puzzle, to form within.

I just love the fact that we’re all fucking buzzing with potential and, yes, sometimes there’s so much of it it’s impossible to organise into something coherent; and sometimes it hides away, and so successfully that it can feel like it’s gone forever, but it’s always back; and sometimes there can be so much it’s overwhelming and you feel totally lost, like a child in a hurricane of beautiful, sharp, glittering crystals - but every so often, either you make the right move, or the potential makes the right move, and you find yourself in the centre of that whirlwind, and you can see everything. Oh, I love being in the eye of that storm. I love the knowledge of the fact that, even though it can seem neverending while it’s happening, eventually the storm will die down, and we will all be surrounded by those beautiful, sharp, glittering crystals. Which is to say, everything will fall into place.