1066 All Stars

Current weight - 11st

Starting weight - 12st 6lbs

Lowest weight - 10st 12lbs

Thoughts

* I wasn't sure that I could be bothered to write this update. I get these occasional moments of thinking, what's the point? Who reads it? I post these things and no-one comments. I post a heartfelt piece of poetry that explores some inner pain and no-one replies. I post links to my books and the same 3 people share, even when I specifically request help in spreading the word. Why do I waste my time?

* And so I remind myself that this is for my benefit, a way of exploring my thoughts and feelings. If no-one else is reading, then so be it.

* I have become disappointingly stuck at or around the 11st mark. I dip down to 10st 13lbs and, reassuringly, never go above 11st but I can't seem to get any lower.

* In part this is undoubtedly due to the fact that I have slackened the reigns slightly. With Easter been and gone, there is still a shed load of chocolate knocking around the house which I inevitably will need to eat. I have also accepted the occasional biscuit or chocolate at work where usually I would steadfastly resist. But I have to allow myself these one off indulgences. And to take the positive, I have maintained my exercise regime. And, as I posted right at the top of this entry, it is always worth reminding myself of where I started.

* Work has been on my mind a lot recently. I have a fundamental sadness about my vocational life. I spend 8-odd hours a day doing it and yet I can think of only a handful of times in my professional life where I have felt genuinely happy. I explored these feelings in a recent story, Drive, which looked at the challenge of finding confidence again after the numbing shock of both mental illness and redundancy. It is something with which I continue to struggle.

There are things I don't know, that make me feel bad

Things I can't do, that make me feel sad

There are turns I didn't take that I wish that I had

Sometimes I feel like I'm not a good dad

Thoughts race through my mind on a track with no end

If I don't trust myself, on whom can I depend?

Like the reed in the wind I must learn how to bend

Forgive myself and begin to mend

Events that have gone belong in the past

No longer am I trapped by the shadow they cast

The coat of self pity has been shed at last

The flag of hope now flies from the mast

The future is a story written each new day

New challenges to meet, come what may

How will it end? Who can say

Life is for living, don't wish it away

Live in the present, say the books on the shelf

Look not to others, find your own inner wealth

Balance, perspective and sound mental health

These are the gifts I give to myself.

Where it all began

I had been on anti-depressants for about five years but I never really understood quite what depression was. Despite the tablets, over time I had become more withdrawn, the activities I used to enjoy no longer appealed. Life had become something to be endured, a roller coaster that I wish would stop so that I could get off.

Tipping point

The point of action came at work following a disappointing mid-year review. I had been spending more and more time at work, even working additional hours at home and yet I was aware that my performance had begun to suffer. And now here it was in black and white.

I spoke to the HR team who in turn referred me to Occupational Health. It acted as a validation of sorts; there was something wrong. They suggested I take some time off and speak to a psychiatrist and so, after going through the NHS mental health service, I eventually made an appointment.

The psychiatrist summed me up within that 45 minute meeting; I was suffering from anxiety and depression. But the prognosis was good, there was hope for a full recovery and he recommended that I go to the Priory at Roehampton.

First impressions

Whatever expectations I had of therapy were smashed on the first day. My first session, a group therapy, showed me that the other patients were just like me; ordinary people who had given too much for too long until finally something had to give.

Initially I expected to be in therapy for two weeks. I would have treatment, get better and go back to my life. Back to my job. For the first few days, I even tried to maintain both therapy and work, before realising that therapy would be a full time task. Before I knew it, two weeks became four, four became six. In the end, I would spend three months in therapy.

It was during that first group session that another patient remarked that they were ill. This seemed strange to me. I did not consider myself as ill. I had no physical ailment, I was simply having difficulties. Surely I just needed a break, perhaps to learn how to do things better and then I would be back to normal.

The journey

I resisted for the first two weeks. But by week three, my defences started to crumble to be replaced with a sense of frustration. I started to question why I wasn’t better yet. In fact if anything I had started to feel worse. How could this be?

But I came to realise that this was part of the process. Depression manifests differently in each of us. For some, it may be triggered by a single traumatic event. For me, it was an accumulation of events throughout my life, some minor and some major, building into an anxiety that spiralled up whilst at the same time my mood spiralled down. I had to tear down the walls I had put up in self-defence, rebuild the jigsaw puzzle of my mind. It was time to be kind to myself.

Taking off the mask

The Priory provided an environment of safety and support. In the outside world, it was often easier to slip on a mask, to be the person that others expected me to be. But here I could be myself, surrounded by like-minded people and professional, empathetic therapists. Each session was different – from assertiveness to schemas, anger management to mindfulness.

And creative writing, sessions built around free-form writing to help us tap into our emotions and that helped to reignite a passion for writing that I thought long since extinguished.

But the journey is not walked alone. I was assigned a key worker, there to help, guide and support me at every stage of my recovery, together with a 1-2-1 therapist, helping me to really understand the roots of my mental illness and, just as importantly, how I could work to overcome them. And friendships were formed, we as patients helping and supporting each other through recovery and beyond.

Reflection

When I first entered therapy, I did so with the mind-set that I was flawed, that there was something missing within me that would prevent me ever being happy. In a way I hoped that this was true; I didn’t want to get better because getting better meant facing up to real life. I wanted to escape. I wanted to wallow.

But gradually therapy helped me reach a fundamental truth, one that, once I was ready to accept it, would be liberating; I could change.

I was not weak, I was not flawed and I was not broken. I was ill and I needed help to get better. Finally I began to understand the thinking errors and behaviours that had led me to this point; black and white thinking, avoidance, catastrophising. Once I accepted that I was the cause of my illness I began to accept that I could also be the cure.

But there was no magic pill. The Priory does not offer a quick fix for depression and anxiety. Instead therapy is a tool box of coping strategies, to be opened when required. I had to become the change I wanted to see.

It is a terrible irony that those most in need of help are the ones least likely to ask for it. I had not recognised that I was ill, I thought I was simply weak, stupid, inferior. So what advice can I offer someone who is struggling and wondering if they should seek help?

1. It is not weakness to ask for help. In fact, it is one of the bravest things that any of us can do.

2. You are not alone. Mental illness affects 1 in 4 in the UK. It is more common than you might think.

3. Things can get better. You can change. I know it because I have seen it, I have done it, I am living it.

Life after therapy

My life has changed immeasurably since leaving therapy. I never did return to my job, my role made redundant whilst still in therapy. But eventually I returned to work in a different environment, which presented a new challenge, the strategies learnt helping me through.

Sadder times lay on the horizon as a few months later my Dad lost his long battle with Motor Neurone Disease, the most difficult part of which was perhaps the knowledge that he never got to meet his grandson, born three months later.

And I achieved a life-long ambition as I carried on the writing that I started at the Priory and published my own book, a collection of blogs and short stories, charting my experiences of mental illness and the many lessons learned in therapy. I have since published two more books and hope to release a collection of children's stories later this year.

I am forever indebted to the support and advice I received at the Priory. I am not cured of depression and anxiety. I never will be. These are issues that I must face and challenge every day. But life is a journey, not a destination.

And I am determined to enjoy the ride.

'Wow, look at me, Oven! Look at all my shiny rings!'

'That's very impressive, Hob.'

'Look how high this big one goes. WHOOSH! Ha, ha, ha!'

'That's certainly very impressive, but don't you think you sho...'

'Hey watch this, Oven. I can make it flame really big then really small. Whoosh, whee, whoosh, whee...'

'Okay, I get it. I'm sure that's great fun but be careful not to burn yourself out.'

'Burn myself out? Ha, ha. Don't be silly, Oven. Just because you're electric and don't have cool gas fire like me.'

'I can assure you that I am not jealous young Hob. Nonetheless, I would caution you against burning hot all the time. You only need to use your gas when something needs to be cooked.'

'What? No way, man! I can fire up all day long! When that pan needs heating, I'm going to be ready for it. I don't need ten minutes to warm up like you old man.'

'Okay Hob, I've made my point.'

'Yeah, see you later old man, why not have a little rest until mum needs to cook some potato waffles or something. I'm going to fire up my hobs ready for dinner. Vroom! Vrooooom! Vroo...*cough* *splutter*...'

'Hob, are you okay?'

'*cough* Yes...I'm fine...I'm just feeling a little...*cough*... *splutter*...*whoo*...*pfft*.

'Hob? Hob!'

*** Three weeks later***

'Hob, is that you?'

'Oh, hi Oven. Yes, I'm back.'

'How are you feeling?'

'Um, okay I guess. They had to replace some of my parts. Apparently I burned them out.'

'I see.'

'I guess you're going to say I told you so?'

'Well I did, but that isn't the point. The main thing is that you're all better.'

'You must think I was pretty stupid, thinking I could burn hot like that all the time?'

'Stupid? No. Reckless? Perhaps. But then we were all young once.'

'Wait, do you mean..?'

'Yes Hob, I was once a young oven, cooking on gas. I thought I was impervious too. I kept my temperature hot all day long, just in case I was needed.'

'What happened?'

'I burned all the dinner! And then finally I burned myself out. That's when they replaced my parts with electric. More efficient, apparently.'

'I never knew.'

'Life is a lesson young Hob. We learn as we go.'

'Yeah, that makes sense.'

'So your gas burning days are behind you?'

'Yeah. I'll save it for when it's really needed.'

'Good for you.'

'Er, say Oven?'

'Yes Hob'

'I still really want to burn, even though I know it's bad for me.'

'Would you like to know a secret, Hob?'

'A secret? Sure.'

'Sometimes I just want to burn too.'

'You do?'

'Certainly.'

'How do you stop yourself?'

'I just try to remember why I'm here and what I am needed for. If I ran out of fuel when I was needed I wouldn't be a very good oven, would I?'

'I guess not. Say, Oven?'

'Yes Hob.'

'I'm kinda tired. Think I might switch off for a while if that's okay.'

'That sounds like a good idea Hob.'

'Say, Oven?'

'Yes Hob.'

'Thanks.'

'You are very welcome. Good night.'

As he turned out of the corner, shifting into 5th gear, the grandstand came into sight. Foot down, he accelerated down the straight, the engine whining but responding to his commands, driver and vehicle as one, a perfect union.

His wasn't the best car, he knew that. It wasn't the fastest. It wasn't the biggest. It wasn't even the best looking.

But it was his.

He had been driving this circuit for years. He had started out in the garage, cleaning up, fetching parts, learning his craft. Eventually his chance had come behind the wheel and he grasped it firmly.

Others had come and gone, moving away to more complicated tracks but he had remained loyal to his team. He knew every undulation, every nook and cranny. He knew the trick of getting the dodgy starter motor to engage and just when to lift off the accelerator to make sure the car didn't slide off the track.

But recently things had started to change. It was a gradual process that soon snowballed. It started with the track. What had once been simple, familiar had started to change. A new stand here, a raised corner there. All to attract new sponsors they had said. And it had worked. The field had doubled from 10 to 20 cars and the stands had never been so full.

But that meant other changes. Increased competition meant that races were tougher and he soon started to fall back into the pack. Where once he led from the front, now he found himself scrapping in the middle order until finally he was reduced to the backmarkers.

And the team started to change around him. New engineers, new owners, new roles that he didn't understand. New owners brought more money but more money brought more pressure. 'Shouldn't we be doing better?' they would ask. 'Why are we making so many mistakes?'

They didn't understand. None of them did. It had all become so complicated. New buttons, new gear ratios, new tyre pressures, new sensors. He didn't understand half of it but he didn't dare tell the owners in case they thought he was stupid, that he couldn't do it anymore.

Where once he looked forward to the release of a race day, now he came to dread the whole weekend. His passion had become a grind, his hobby a chore.

I am a failure. Why aren't I better than this?

'Why don't you give it up?' his friends asked. 'Why not do something else?'

Because this is all I know. All that I am.

As he accelerated down the straight, he checked his mirror for the car to his left, jostling with him for 19th place. He gripped the wheel, cursing as his fingers tried to adjust the myriad settings the designers had added this year.

'We need to manage the tyres,' came the message over the headset.

'Adjust the brake bias,' came another.

'We need to push for a points finish.'

He shifted down, gripped the wheel and moved over to the racing line, hitting the apex, taking the corner full on, ready to accelerate out of the corner and...

The car spun violently as it clipped the car behind, lifting into the air before crashing back down, screeching inexorably towards the concrete barrier where it thudded with a sickening crunch.

As the blood trickled down his face and the pain shot through his mangled, broken leg, a single thought drifted through his head.

'I failed...'

***

The physical rehab was hard and it was painful. But the body heals, even when it has been broken. But the mind? That takes far longer.

He wanted to come back straight away but they wouldn't let him. 'There is no rush,' they said. 'The car will be waiting for you when you are ready.'

They made him talk to someone. A therapist.  He didn't understand why. It was just a crash, could have happened to anyone. But they kept pushing and pushing. 'How do you feel?' they would ask. The answer was always the same.

Like a failure.

Two weeks became a month. One month became two. And then finally he began to understand. He wasn't a failure.

I was ill.

He had thought he had become too old, to slow, that he had been surpassed and left behind. Everything seemed too complex. He wasn't smart enough, he wasn't quick enough. He wasn't good enough.

But finally the layers began to peel and he understood. His fear had held him back. Fear of failure. Fear of admitting weakness. Fear of asking for help. His body had been broken but it was his mind that needed to be fixed.

After three months, he was ready to get back in the driving seat. He was looking forward to racing again, but this time on his own terms. That was when they told him.

'We've got a new driver. We don't need you anymore.'

Why? Why didn't they want him? After all he had done for them, all he had sacrificed, this is how they treat him? Discarded when he needed them most.

He allowed himself the anger but he would not allow himself to be defeated. He understood what he was worth. He was not defined by the car.

He took some time away to gain perspective but the call of the track was too strong. Eventually he contacted a rival team to see if they had room for him. 'We can't offer you a seat,' they said, 'but you can come and work in the garage.' It would do. It was a way back in. Of course, he never told them the full story.

And he was happy. No more pressure. No more stress. That was for others, he could just do his job.

But after a while, he started to miss it. Being a driver was intense, it had made him ill. But it also made him feel alive. 

With the new season approaching, the car needed to be tested. He thought about asking for some track time, a chance to get back behind the wheel. This would be the moment when he could start to claw back some of what he was.

But he couldn't. As much as he missed it, as much as he wanted it, he was scared. And so he stayed in the background, unsure of what his role was, frustrated and bitter and yet scared to move on.

And then it happened.

The car had been in good shape. This was shaping up to be a good season for the team. Their lead driver had been recording superlative lap times and as he took the final corner, it looked set to be his best yet when suddenly he lost control, the car skidding and thudding awkwardly into the barrier.

The drive was not seriously hurt but damage to his wrist meant that he couldn't race.

He was in the garage when they found him. The owners didn't usually bother him down here. There was no need. He wasn't anybody important. Not anymore.

'How can I help you?' he asked.

'We need you to drive'

Cannon Fodder

Developed by: Sensible Software

Released: 1993

Format played: Amiga 500

Emulation: Amiga Forever 2011

Ruminations

Released during a golden age of Amiga software by perhaps the premier developer on the format, Cannon Fodder was a top down strategy game, somehow combining elements of Mega-Lo-Mania and Lemmings with guns into a unique blend of strategy and action.

Spread across 24 missions, each broken down into numerous phases, you controlled a group of up to 6 soldiers, tasked with killing the enemy, destroying bases and rescuing hostages.

Made (in)famous at the time of release for the controversy over it's intended poppy game cover and suggestions of callous disregard for killing, which somehow conspire to miss the point of the game entirely. 

Second Impressions

Taking its graphical cues from Sensible's previous output, the game utilises small sprites and a top down, forced perspective, allowing you to see more of the terrain.

Any sacrifice in detail is made up for in experience, the forced perspective allowing you to plan your mode of attack or to lob grenades over trees to destroy bases.

Split into 5 distinct zones, the missions have their own flavour. In the early part of the game, there is a weighting towards jungle based warfare, mixed in with desert and snow based levels. The latter part of the game features a smattering of farmland levels for some reason, but are dominated by underground bases.

The basic concept is largely unchanged but each setting looks and feels distinct. Jungle levels are populated by tribesman who will shoot if attacked whilst your crack team of mercenaries have to look out for hidden spikes. Farmland levels feature exploding sheep whilst underground bases utilise stairs and raised levels, providing a new tactical element.

As far as a comparison to modern gaming, this still very much feels like a title that could sit happily on a tablet as a downloadable game. It looks quirky and fun, everything moves smoothly, things explode with a satisfying punch, occasionally soldiers taking slightly longer to die, lying on the floor screaming their death rattle until being put out of their misery.

But like all Sensible titles, graphics very much play second fiddle to the overall experience.

Gameplay

Picture the scene...

You start your first mission, rounding a tree to come face to face with an enemy grunt. A quick blast from your gun and he's dead. Mission completed.

As the next batch of eager recruits file in, you are already marching onto mission 2. This time there are more enemies but they are quickly dispatched an you are soon on to mission 3.

Another 15 recruits come tumbling through the gate. 'Why do I get so many?' you ask yourself, as you shoot from the hip, lobbing a grenade whilst you move, not even stopping to look as the hut goes up in a billow of smoke behind you.

Onto mission 4. Jools and Jops lead the charge, firing left and right, blazing a trail like a force of nature until suddenly...

Jools gets shot.

You can scarcely believe it but as you return to the menu screen, his tombstone sits alone on the hill, a permanent reminder of his passing.

As more recruits file in, you progress onto mission 5, determined to avenge your fallen hero. But it is not long until Jops finds there is a bullet with his name on it too. He is soon joined by Stoo and then RJ.

After that, as your troops start falling like confetti, their names become a blur, your face barely showing a flicker of emotion as a door flies off from an exploding hut to land on your squadron or your back marker steps on a hidden mine. They are all expendable. There are always more recruits. They have truly become cannon fodder. War is hell.

And then you reach mission 8.2. Urgh.

What a game! One of the few titles I have gone back and replayed repeatedly during my life and the cause of me almost failing my GCSE's as me and a mate decided our history revision would be best served by some practical lessons in warfare whilst the save game function asked us to pour some tea into the Amiga's vents.

It is so natural to control. Using your mouse, left click moves, right click fires, your men moving in synch with the lead soldier. As you progress, grenades and missiles are introduced to add to the fun, not to mention various vehicles, from jeeps to helicopters to skidoos. And tanks. Let's not forget the tanks.

But of course for each weapon or vehicle you have access to, so do the enemy. Cue a desperate race as you invoke Predator, shouting at your tribe, 'Billy, get to the chopper!' launching into the air just in time as an enemy 'copter lets fly with a missle which explodes behind you just as you take off, following in hot pursuit to take him down with a well placed rocket.

It's quick, it's intuitive but above all it's just really bloody great fun.

Sound

Another success. In game effects are perfect, from the 'rat-a-tat-tat' of the machine gun fire, to the 'thrump, thrump, thrump' of the helicopters to the 'shwoosh' that tells you a heat seeking missile is coming your way to the comedy 'weeeee' of a lobbed grenade.

And then the in game music, from the jaunty, adrenaline fuelled start of mission music, to the finality of the bell tolling tune when your squadron dies and finally the sombre, respectful piece that plays as your list of fallen comrades scrolls down the screen, their names forever etched in the annals of gaming history.

But all of it topped by the incredible title music, a catchy, reggae fused slice of poptastic joy. Truly, war has never been so much fun.

The Bottom Line

Arguably the greatest single player game released on the Amiga and undoubtedly one of the greatest games released on any format ever.

What About Me?

One of the most difficult things about becoming a parent is that you cease to be the most important person in your life.

My youth was hardly misspent but I did like to indulge in videogames, watch films, watch football and maybe even sneak in a beer or two occasionally.

With my twins approaching 4, I find that these activities have gradually fallen by the wayside. My PS3 sits under the TV gathering dust; the Xbox 360 has ceased to become my secondary games console and has instead become the girls' DVD player, playing host to Frozen and Tinkerbell; my computer room is now a child's bedroom, my awesome gaming rig reduced to a cramped corner of the front room; Sunday afternoon football has been replaced by trips to the park, Match of the Day going unwatched all season.

And so it goes on. My life has irrevocably changed and that is a tremendously difficult concept to grasp. I have an underlying sense of resentment that I no longer get to do the things I want to do. Being able to stay in bed until 7am and only being woken up twice in the night is considered a lie in.

But there is a balance to be drawn. Whatever I perceive to have been lost has been replaced in other ways. Resentment and regret feed a negative thought cycle. My childless days are gone. My batchelor days are gone. This is the life I now have. It is important to live in the moment. To accept.

And by finding this balance, I find that those things I thought lost are not so hard to find. Sure, a session on Football Manager until 3am on a Saturday night / morning is probably a thing of the past. But I can still squeeze in some gaming time now and then, including some family time on the Wii. And there is still time for a book, football can be watched on the mobile or On Demand.

Life isn't over. It is simply different.

What's That Coming Over The Hill, Is It A Monster? No It's Their Brother!

The arrival of a new child is undoubtedly a joyous occasion to be celebrated. However the rush to beam and dote can mask an underlying anxiety.

When the girls were born, our lives were immediately changed but we knew no different. People would comment on how much more difficult everything must be with twins but to us it was normal. We always thought how boring it must be with just one.

And everything was new. Each hint of a smile was captured in a photo, each cajoled roll on the floor filmed. Each new product required was meticulously researched.

Life threw up its challenges of course. In fact it was during this phase that I finally entered therapy for depression and anxiety. But everything would be dropped when something with the girls needed attention. However, further challenges awaited.

When our son was born, it was different. Everything could be dropped apart from the girls. And so after he was born and I went back home, I still had them to look after. It didn't matter that I was tired. It didn't matter that I was (technically) unemployed. It didn't matter that I had barely seen my son. The girls needed to be dressed and fed and entertained.

I took them up to the hospital to see him but they weren't really interested and I ended up having to take them home earlier than expected as they became restless.

We tried again the next day. This time, encumbered by a car seat for the boy that it turned out we didn't need, I failed to hold one of the girls' hands crossing a road and she very nearly ran into the path of an onrushing car. Entering the hospital, tired and emotional, I found myself fighting to hold back tears, resentful of the girls for denying me time with my son, appalled by my own parenting skills and aghast at my lack of bonding with our new addition.

At home the circumstances may have changed but the same issues remained. Unlike with the girls where they could have our undivided attention, we already had two children that needed us. And so naturally mummy focused on baby whilst I concentrated on the girls.

As a result, a divide sprang up in my mind. As much as I wanted him, the introduction of our son had disrupted our family unit. It had been us and the girls. Now, it was us, our girls and our son.

One of the many lasting benefits of therapy is the gift of perspective. I tried to step back from the situation, to understand what was happening and why I felt the way I did. I loved my son, I was thrilled that he had come into our lives. At the same time, I was still working through my own recovery, not to mention coming to terms with the death of my dad just a few months prior. And change, no matter if it is a positive change such as a new baby, can be disruptive to our mental health.

And so I acknowledged to myself that this was a form of post natal depression. And through acknowledgement, I could learn to try and be kind to myself, learn not to judge myself and give myself the opportunity to work through these feelings.

11 months on, I have a sense of completeness about my family unit. I have everything I could have ever wanted. That doesn't mean that life is perfect though. Having children is stressful. It is only natural to fantasise about the imaginary single man, playboy lifestyle lost. But these are just thoughts and thoughts are not actions.

The reality is that I am a parent. And I wouldn't change it for the world.

Last weight - 11st 2lbs

New weight - 10st 13lbs

Comments

* And so after my mini-debauchery, a couple of days of good behaviour very quickly gets me back to my pre-Easter weight. A reminder once again that sustained weight loss can be maintained through a lifestyle change, a nominal binge here and there isn't going to hurt.

* As may be expected, returning to work after a week off brings up a set of emotions but perhaps more surprisingly, taking time off in the first place is also difficult.

* This may be strange for others to understand but having time off brings a its own stress. Day after day of wishing I was anywhere else is suddenly replaced by a horizon of freedom. I can do what I want, when I want.

Only I can't, because at home I have different masters to serve. The kids, quite naturally, come first.

But surely this is something to look forward to?

Yes, but it brings a pressure to perform. I must find activities to do, I should enjoy every moment with them.

This is counter-balanced by a need to achieve certain chores in the house as well as a desire to simply rest and recharge the batteries, a desire that inevitably goes unfulfilled.

* And so I return to work, back to the routine and the drudgery. I have an almost overwhelming sadness about it. I read with envy articles from various individuals in business who seem to genuinely enjoy their vocation. Mine is a means to end, something I must do to pay the bills.

In a sense, I find myself back in the same rut as a few years ago, grimly plodding on until retirement when I finally get to live life on my own terms for a couple of years until I shuffle off this mortal coil, subconsciously wishing my entire life away.

* Clearly this is unsustainable, not to mention unhealthy. What then is the answer? That is the puzzle I mean to solve.

D/Generation

Developed by: Mindscape

Released: 1993

Format played: CD32

Emulation: Amiga Forever 2011

Ruminations

D/Generation is an isometric view puzzle / adventure game. Originally published on the Amiga in 1991 before being ported to the CD32, you play the rather underwhelming sounding part of a courier, tasked with delivering a package to a research company called Genoq. The rest is a mystery, which will unravel itself across 9 levels of puzzle solving.

I bought this when it came out but playing through again I realised how little progress I actually made first time around. With the benefit of emulation allowing me to save whenever I felt like it, I changed the rules somewhat, the game becoming a series of single screen challenges.

Not in the truest spirit of retro gaming I appreciate but it meant that I could focus on enjoying the mechanics of playing the game, rather than becoming frustrated

Second Impressions

The good thing about revisiting a title like this is that the graphics looked crap in 1993 so there is less expectation.

At first glance, the game appears rather crude. After the initial promise of the intro sequence, albeit presented in stills, the game opens to what on the surface appears to be Head Over Heels from the Spectrum that someone has painted with the colour of the vile purple alien worlds from Cannon Fodder 2.

But on deeper inspection, there is some nice detail. The isometric view works perefectly for the puzzle solving required (more on that below), the enemies are suitably menacing and varied and who can fail to raise a titter when one of the red balloon beasties bounces on one of the imprisoned staff and swallows him up?

Gameplay

Split across 9 levels of the Genoq building, the game is effectively a series of single room challenges. The set up varies but the basic combinations revolve around locked doors, respawning enemies, gun turrets and civilians to rescue.

A typical room plays out like so; after picking up the laser gun in the first couple of screens you enter the room and survey the scene befrore you. An employee sits anxiously in one corner whilst a couple of biogenic beasities bounce around menacingly. A key card lies invitingly on the floor but is sealed behind a locked door, the switch that operates it guarded by a deadly gun turret. Another switch opens the door but closes another. What to do?

The solutions require some forward planning, often involving standing on one door whilst bouncing your laser bolt off a couple of walls. Playing through via emulation, which allowed me the benefit of unlimited retries, I found that every single puzzle can be solved with a combination of brain power and sharp reflexes. The puzzles start off fairly simple but towards the end, as the mystery starts to unravel and you realise that things are not always as they seem, you may come to rely on the brawn of the grenades, bombs and shield that you pick up to get you through.

Playing this through in 'real time' I expect would be a very different experience. You start with 5 lives and lose one everytime you fail a room, however you can gain a life for each employee rescued. Losing a life means starting the room over. Losing all your lives means starting that floor over.

With the benefit of unlimited lives, I successfully released all prisoners and only very rarely had cause the use the extra weapons, all other solutions worked out through trial and error.

Ultimately this approach worked for me and added to my enjoyment but your experience may differ depending on how you approach it.

A couple of niggles. On occasion I would get excited and rashly dive straight in and start blasting enemies, only to find that I had accidentally killed the employee cowering in the corner or destroyed a computer which is required to enter a passcode to unlock a specific door. You can potentially blast your way through with a grenade but if you are out of stock, you have no choice other than to lose a life and restart the room (or reload if emulating).

The isometric view can also lead to the occasional difficulty in lining up a tricky shot or standing in the right place, or indeed to escape a charging enemy. It doesn't happen often but in the heat of the moment, when split second timing is required to successfully execute a solution, it can be frustrating when you find yourself scraping or bumping against a wall with a flaming enemy in hot pursuit or your laser blast bouncing harmlessly into a pot plant rather than the door switch you were aiming for.

Sound

A foreboding thrum plays along in the background as you progress, otherwise sound is limited to spot sound effects when something happens, such as a jaunty jingle when an employee is successfully rescued or a comedy bang when you are wiped out by a turret.

Nothing special but certainly functional.

The Bottom Line

This is the type of game that you are tempted to describe as being 'a great little game,' but that is patronising nonesense. This is an excellent title, treading a fine line between puzzle and action. Get past the ropy visuals and you are rewarded with a satisfying adventure that doesn't overstay its welcome.

Last weight - 10st 12lbs

Current weight - 11st 2lbs

Thoughts

* Following the boy's Christening and the Easter weekend, a week off of work brought a change in routine.

I had decided at the outset that I would let the shackles off this week. Exercise was limited, meals reverted to a standard plan (ie carbs in the evening) and I allowed a touch more snacking.

The result? I put on 4lbs.

* I have a few different thoughts about this.

1) It's no big deal. I know that I can get down to 10st 12lbs by following my established plan. This weight increase is an unnatural spike brought about by changes to routine, which have now finished.

2) Despite telling myself that I could relax my diet, I found that I was caught in a strange midpoint whereby I wan't to indulge but was also reluctant to fully commit to filth. In a way this is good; I have changed my mindset so fundamentally that it is almost abhorrent to me now to eat fatty, high sugar foods. But on the other hand, it reveals an underlying anxiety. Despite the progress made on my weight, despite all the evidence that this is a sustainable plan, I am so frightened of ballooning back up again that I resist, meaning that I never fully enjoyed the relaxed diet.

This point shoould not be seen in isolation. It is a very clear expression of self confidence issues. My mind refuses to accept a positive, always seeking a negative. It remains a mental health barrier to overcome.

3) I have an increased sympathy for the wife. As much as I resent going to work (more on that later), it provides a structure and routine. My job is purely desk based and so I am able to set broad timings for when I will eat; 10-10.30am is fruit time, 10.30-11am is bar time, 12.30pm is lunchtime.

At home, I am caught between two conflicting demands. On the one hand, the kids need attention and so the morning can pass without my usual snacks (or water intake, perhaps a crucial point) and so I become more peckish later in the day. On the other hand, if the kids are engaged or napping, the lack of structure and ready access to food can lead to increased grazing. It is far harder to stick to a dedicated routine in this environment than it is at work.

* Ah, work. People are always quick to tell me how I should feel. 'It is so much less stressful than the last job, that must be a good thing!'

In a sense, yes. But that is a gross simplification and I don't need someone to try and own my emotions for me.

My week off has been good. It has brought its difficult moments. The kids are hard work, I do not exactly feel rested. But I have been able to do some things I wanted to do, including some really fun writing on videogames.

But there is a downside. The focus on things I enjoy doing brings into focus the things that I don't. I really enjoy writing and it is nice to have expanded my repertoire away from just mental health and to start taking in other interests. But it is just a hobby. Monday morning means back to the same old routine, the same tasks, the same frustrations.

I don't want my writing to be a hobby, I want more.

* I still occasionally have moments where I just think, 'What's the point?' I have published 3 books but no-one buys them. I write and publish blogs, reviews and stories on my website, just like this one. But no-one comes and visits. Why bother?

I get wrapped up in the moment. I have just recently completed a couple of retro game reviews, which were great fun to write. But other than a couple of hits, no-one has read them. I have not become a games reviewer overnight just because I posted something on my own site. Why bother?

Because I enjoy it, is the principle reason. I like to write, I like to test myself and I like to get lost in a world of my own creation. There is no outside influence, no pressure, I cannot be right or wrong, it is simply jotting down whatever thoughts I have. It is liberating.

And, just occasionally, perhaps someone out there can relate to it. Whether through a shared happy memory of a certain game, a nod and a wink to a film or even perhaps through the daily pain of struggling to cope in an unforgiving world.