This is a story of a seemingly simple equation...

1 + 1 ≠ 1. I have been trying to make a single 'perfect' life by finding 'the one' but this has not led me or anybody to nirvana.

I was once so desperate for 'love' that I tried to make a relationship work with a girl I didn't fancy and a male boss, who was gay. You can't say I haven't tried everything!

I've had some lovely girlfriends, but it's been rather hard for them. I think I started 'clingy' and then progressed to 'intense' and then didn't really develop much from there. Not sure why it's taking me so long to realise that these things can't be rushed.

So, I got married, and we had our first test of in sickness and in health almost immediately, but we got married in Hawaii, so I'm not even sure if that was part of the vows. I certainly feel like it's a pretty crucial part of a loving committed relationship, but I don't know what the correct formula is.

When I had to go into hospital, soon after getting married, my wife said I would have to choose between her and treatment. I was pretty sure I was going to die if I didn't get treatment, and it was the reccomendation of my doctor, so I was kind of caught between a rock and a hard place.

I had pretty much offered my wife my head on a platter, as some kind of crazy symbolic gesture of how much I loved her, but that I felt I needed to demonstrate my love in this way was most confusing and distressing to me. I can see that this was my problem, not hers.

I left London to live the dream of having a place near the beach and kitesurfing every day. While I was down at the beach one day, my then girlfriend went through my stuff and when I returned to my car to warm up, I saw that I had a message demanding that I return home immediately... I was being summoned to court. Not a real court, but I had been summarily judged to be various things. I had to scamper back as quickly as I could to face my charges.

I don't blame my ex. She had added up 2 + 2 and made 5. She only cared about me, and about our relationship. She was worried I was a drug addict, because she had been through my internet search history, and found that I had Google'd "Nutmeg" after our friend had said that it had psychoactive effects comparable with strong narcotics. Frankly and truthfully, I merely wanted to find evidence to repudiate these unlikely claims.

My ex had good reason to feel insecure though... our friend had kinda gotten my attention. Not to do with the drugs, but she was and still is a larger than life character who defies being ignored by any and all male attention. That does not mean I wanted to cheat on my ex. It means I can still look at a cheeseburger when I am eating a steak.

The company that my ex was working for at the time sent her away from my beach dream life quite often, and I was lonely in the flat that she had insisted that I rent to be close to the office that she never spent any time at, in Poole. I had offered to move to Oxford, where she was working most of the time, but she had promised me that her contract would not be extended. Having worked for the same client and received several extensions myself, I could see that this was unlikely.

So, my friends looked after me, when I was all lonely in our huge apartment that was nowhere near any of my friends. We went out and sang Karaoke. We got drunk together. My certain female friend in question even offered to try and help me with my lifelong dislike of blowjobs... I declined, because I was in love with my ex. It was a thoughtful gesture though.

My ex could see that there was a certain chemistry though, and I guess she grew insecure. She tried to break up with me, without an explaination, and I was confused as hell. I stuck with it and she could see that I cared about her very much and so she gave it another go, but I never really understood what that was all about, until I just wrote these words right now.

The thing that she never seemed to realise is that I only had eyes for her. She lit up a room when she was happy. I remember walking with friends down at Ringstead Bay, near Weymouth, and the girls were walking along together in a line, when I turned back and shot my ex a smouldering look, completely by accident. I was so in love with her, it was so visible to everyone else that the girls either side all went "aaahhhhh" simultanously.

I hope my ex is happy now. I hope she has moved on. I hope that I made enough space and gave her enough closure that she has been able to pick up the pieces of her life and carry on. I'm really sorry that things didn't work out, but I hope the breakup can somehow be for the best in the long run.

So, one of my best friends reminded me last night of the rule of thumb for getting over someone. Seeing as me and my ex were off-and-on from 2005 to 2013, I guess that means there will be a situation vacant in 2017, but until then women should steer clear of this particular emotional juggernaught.

Show me the way to Mordor (October 2013)

Tags: #love #divorce #LGBT #friends

This is a story of the son of a historian and a philosopher...

Here's where I grew up. I literally had the West Wing. This 26 bedroom 'house' cost £120,000. Only my father - the most inspirational person in my life - had the vision and the courage to take the plunge on such a venture. You can't even see the whole house... there are still 2 blocks,  an indoor basketball court, a grass tennis court and a 5-a-side football pitch, that you can't see.

So what riches paid for all this? What family money? What inheritance, trust fund, or silver spoon were we all born with?... is there a chance that your preconceived notions might be wrong?

My Mum was the main breadwinner in our family, on an entry-level academic salary. My Dad used to be a gardener. We used to live in Gardiner's Arms Cottage. The cottage backed onto some woodland, and I could hear Wood Pigeons coo-ing from my bedroom (my parents had the only other bedroom). In order to make this tiny cottage liveable for our growing family, my Dad built an extension, built me a tree house, and used to poach the Pheasants and Wood Pigeoens in the woods, in order to save money on meat.

I cried when we left the cottage, as my life seemed pretty complete. I got to play in my tree house, sniff the flowers and water the grass... what more is there to life? However my Dad had bigger and better plans for the family. The problem with workaholics, is that they don't know when they have won, and when to stop. I'm very grateful that my parents are who they are, and it's taken me 36 years to really see their master plan, and get on board with the winning team.

As well as a gardener, my Dad has been a philosophy undergraduate, car mechanic, metals trader, chef, pub landlord, junk shop owner, holiday cottage operator, builder and antique dealer. His knowledge and love of architectural antiques, plus his skill as an entrepreneur helped him to build Oxford Architectural Antiques into a business that counted Formula One drivers amongst his clientele, as well as him providing architectural centre pieces that were focal in the work of famous interior designers and restauranteurs.

My Dad taught me the importance of not only building a profitable business, but being part of the economic community. He created jobs, and firmly believed in the Guild of Master Craftsmen. He made the former coal yard that he rented into a beautiful jewel in the heart of Jericho, that won an Oxford in Bloom prize. He was interviewed by the BBC. He put on fireworks shows for my school friends and me. He sponsored struggling local artists and musicians, to put on cultural events. He is my hero.

Unfortunately, career politicians saw his yard, only in terms of prime property development value, and eventually it had to be sold off so that flats could be built on the land of his thriving business, as well as nearby Lucy's Iron Works. Because of this Jericho no longer had these sources of wealth generation and employment.

This is the definition of a Lean Startup. I learned from the best in the business (circa 1986)

Tags: #startup #entrepreneur #lean #childhood #oxford #parents

This is a story of identity, respectfully, on the anniversary of the September 11 attacks on the World Trade Center, New York, USA...

When people ask where I'm from, I'm not sure how to answer the question. My surname is Grant, which is Scottish, but I was born in Aberystwyth, which makes me Welsh. But my Dad was from Yorkshire, so maybe I'm a Yorshireman. However, my Mum was from Lancashire, so maybe I'm Northern. But then again, I grew up in Oxford and Dorset, which are in the Midlands and South. I have lived & worked in London, England most of my career, and this multicultural smelting pot is where I feel most at home.

The short answer is, in my opinion, that we are all global children in the age of jet travel, international journalism and the Internet. I identify most strongly with the American people, who made me feel comfortable with my modern idenity, and the Irish people, who made me feel welcome despite my shortcomings.

As a European, I grew up during a period of IRA bomb scares and bombings. I remember not wanting to drink my milk at primary school because of fallout from Chernobyl. My school was once evacuated due to a bomb threat. My neighbour was working late next door to the Baltic Exchange when it was blown up. During the height of "The Troubles" our family felt scared to visit Northern Ireland, when we were on holiday in the Republic of Ireland. Several friends were nearby when the Brixton and Soho nail bombs went off. I remember being scared of planes carrying nuclear atomic bombs from the USAF bases in Oxfordshire. I remember the Lockerbie bombing and I remember being scared of planes being blown up or crashing while I was in one.

When I started my first Banking job in Canary Wharf in 2000 (age 20) there was no HSBC or Citigroup tower (let alone Barclays, JPMorgan, KPMG, Fitch etc. etc.) - they were just digging the foundations around Canada Square - the glass windows in the offices, that were blown out by an IRA bomb, had only relatively recently been replaced. My first job in The City (Square Mile) of London was in an office, which overlooked the bombed derelict ruin of The Baltic Exchange.

In May 2001 (age 21) I started my first Investment Banking job, quite near the Natwest Tower (now called Tower 42). On May Day the previous 2 years, The City had been engulfed by protestors against the rise and rise of Global Capitalism. During the riots, my office reception had been amongst several that had been compromised by protestors, leaving pinstripe-wearing, briefcase carrying, FT-reading fat cats (if that's how you care to think of these friends and colleagues of mine) barricaded in their offices.

On the 9th September, 2001, I moved to Surrey and was commuting into London for the first time. On the 11th, I remember the unfolding of events precisely and vividly. People crowded around my computer screen, which had been one of the few that had managed to refresh the BBC News Homepage during the surge of Internet traffic following the first tower of the World Trade Center being struck.

We made our way up to the trading floor, where they had TV, and we gasped as the second plane struck, and truth was immediately obvious - that this was a deliberate attack on the World Trade Center - fear spread throughout our office and The City. We believed planes were headed for Tower 42 and 1 Canada Square. We made our way home quietly, afraid, whereupon I had to buy a TV. I remember standing in the shop, just watching the footage over and over, transfixed with horror. We were frightened and saddened for the American people, and for ourselves too. Human suffering defies borders, defies race prejudice, defies class divides.

In early summer 2005, I started working for a U.S. Investment Bank and relocated to the South Coast of the UK. On the 7th of July, London was hit by 4 bombs on public transport. Before I relocated, I could walk to work from Angel to The City, but when my office had been relocated to Canary Wharf in 2003, I used to take the tube every day. On that particular day, one of the bombs detonated when the tube was right underneath where I used to work, in between Liverpool Street and Aldgate East.

I can barely imagine the horror of living, working or having friends and relatives on Manhattan Island on 9/11,  but in the UK the emotional connection spread as fast as the images were transmitted around the globe. On 7/7 there was chaos and confusion. I remember the phone network not being able to cope with the volume of calls and SMS messages, as we all reached out to one another to check we were OK. Nobody knew what was going on.

The images of the towers falling, and the dust cloud engulfing a city, will always be etched in our memories. Despite not being an American or having any direct connection with New York, I hope it does not seem churlish to say that I am symapthetic with the plight of those who were more directly involved in the events of either 9/11 or 7/7, and also have basic human fear and life-preservation instincts, that make me a little more fearful than I would care to admit to a terrorist, on the prospect of working in my 42-floor office with 12,000 souls, even 14 years later.

Somebody took a giant dump outside my office recently, as a non-violent protest about banking ruining the global econonmy, presumably. If somebody is angry enough to drop their trousers and curl one out, right in front of the security guards and CCTV, then I think there is still a large body of people who are pretty unhappy with those 'fat cats', still.

This is not at all about me. This is meant to be a message of sympathy, empathy, respect and common understanding, that we have all shared experiences of terrorism, and they are real and affect us all, in some way.

Condolences to all the families who lost loved ones on this day.

Tags: #london #career #banking #terrorism #capitalism #civildisobedience

This is a story of unintended consequences: opportunities and serendipity...

The National Health Service is a wonderful thing. Universal healthcare, including free dentistry and glasses for children and vulnerable members of society. I benefitted from this, but not in the way that might seem most immediately obvious, from the picture of a bespectacled little version of myself, above.

My parents were kind enough to not only care deeply about my eyesight - which was tested at a very young age - but also to impress upon me the importance of having 'adult' mannerisms: remembering my P's and Q's ("please" and "thank you" for anybody not brought up in the Victorian-era), thanking my host for letting me stay, complimenting the chef on meals, and other forgotten social protocols from previous generations.

The combination of a 'bookish' appearance, precicely enunciated diction and good manners, plus a whole repertoire of "party tricks" could be guaranteed to have adults coo-ing and clucking over a "lovely polite little boy". This was borne out of nothing more than any son or daughter's natural desire to please their parents.

I went to the local state school, in Jericho, Oxford, an area which was rapidly being gentrified by middle-class educated families who had discovered that the rental and house prices were excellent value, compared to the rest of central Oxford. This was on account of a stigma of living in "working-class terraced houses" near the canal and derelict, decaying industrial infrastructure of the City.

In 1930's Oxford, Jericho would have busled with coal carts, bringing up sackloads from the canal to heat the large, draughty houses of North Oxford, and the pall of coal smoke from Lucy's Iron Works would have hung close to the water, and through the comparatively narrow terraces, versus the grand wide boulevards of St. Giles and Broad Street.

Being 'right-on' liberals and socialists from humble backgrounds meant these families did not have the means to pay for expensive housing and private school fees. So it was, I ended up going to school with the sons & daughters of heart surgeons, Members of Parliament, bankers, lawyers, accountants and of course, academics, who achieved their place in the world by hard work, not by nepotism.

Amongst my primary school friends, Danny's Grandad, had been instrumental in bringing universal healthcare to the people of Britain, and in so doing, had 'cursed' me with the glasses, which I didn't appreciate the value of at the time.

When playing at the house of another friend, Joe, we were allowed to play on his Dad's Apple Macintosh Plus. Joe's Dad, Paul, is a famous Zoologist who used the Mac to author papers with the likes of Richard Dawkins. Joe's mum, Anna, was a Systems Analyst, and my career aspiration - to drive a coal lorry - was inadvertantly redirected into the world of computing from this point, circa 1986 (age 6).

I can remember those first experiences with a WIMP (Windows Icons Mouse & Pointer) as so intuitive, so natural. It was joyful. Bell Labs invented the transistor, which gave us the modern computer, rather than the collossal rooms of valves that went before. Probably equally important is the work of Xerox in inventing the mouse, and finally Apple, for making a packaged instrument that can be operated by a 6-year-old. "It just works" really is as true today as it was back then.

Sometimes - in fact most of the time - seeing is believing. But this sometimes isn't enough. We also need the pretty packaging. Our computers need to have a rainbow-coloured piece of half-eaten fruit on them. Our nerds need to have a pair of spectacles and talk like they've swallowed a dictionary.

No, I am not comparing myself to Steve Jobs. My career is only just getting interesting. Plus I don't wear enough black.

Tags: #parents #oxford #childhood #apple #computing

This is a story of personal development, mistakes and unanswerable questions...

I wrote something on the platform of King's Cross, doing the minimum necessary research, all from my smartphone. It wasn't me being smart, or my phone, but the programmers, engineers, physicists, philosophers and authors of all the content, who selflessly published into the public domain, via the Internet, which enabled me to do this.

Of course, there had to be a seed too. That seed was Oxford, and the academic sons & daughters who attended state comprehensive during my childhood, including Ben Werdmüller (CEO of Known, where you are reading this post) who taught me how to program a computer and not just use it for consuming video games. Technology then became both my means of consumption for literature (e.g. Cornell University's ArXiv library) but also low-fi tech, such as the Microfiche film I used to view the first photographs of the Middle East, at St Anthony's College, Oxford Univesity.

Ben's father, Oscar, was at St. Anthony's, with my mother, Gillian. This connection has serendipitously given me a career, a love of photography and an appreciation for the physical books, photographs and human relationships, which can be obfuscated by computer screens and Microfiche viewers. Oscar & Ben also inspired in me a love of sport and teamwork, which is only coming to the fore in the 36th year of my life. Debbie, Ben & Hannah inspired in me a love of writing, drawing and creativity that would normally have been stifiled by my move into a technical industry.

The Werdmüller/Monas family's book of drawings by the children - Ben & Hannah - was one of the most precious objects I have ever had the priviledge of handling. Now my own mum looks after priceless manuscripts and first editions of every book ever printed, for the Bodleian Library, Oxford University. These connections are easy to overlook, if you hadn't lived 36 years in my shoes, which is understandable. We all have our own outlook. We are all independent and unique observers in the Universe.

Thanks to a great piece of writing by Ben, it dawned on me that what I do with my 'head start' in computing is often indistinguishable from magic for the vast majority of people, who are playing catch up. Ego and humility always duke it out in my brain, depending on whether I consider my own unique experiences and opportunities, or whether I compare myself to an 'average' set of experiences and opportunities.

So are ordinary people able to stay abreast of developments in theories pertaining to the fundamental nature of reality? Can a kid from a state comprehensive school read and understand the literature that is published in books and academic papers? The jury's out, but I can highly recommend J S Bell's Speakable and Unspeakable in Quantum Mechanics for anybody who would like to read about the probability of a Physics PhD's socks being of different colours.

In the interests of my own reputation... I don't think I've 'solved' or 'discovered' anything. Just a curious mind.

Nick Grant repeating the classic "Quantum Eraser" interferometry experiment with a laser and polarising filter, at the Cavendish Laboratory, Cambridge, UK (July 2011)

Tags: #physics #parents #oxford #childhood