A Half-Remembered Life

People that moan about social media

2011-06-14T20:57:00.000+01:00

...being used for communication and advertising presumably feel the same way about speech:

Oh, remember when talking was about food, and going to the toilet, and stuff?
Now it's all about marketing...

Perhaps we just need to accept the fact that people will use social media for marketing, as well as for useful stuff.

When I bought a chainsaw from Amazon

2011-05-25T10:59:00.003+01:00

...They offered to gift wrap it.

Smoked salmon - allergy advice

2011-05-17T20:23:00.000+01:00

Apparently, smoked salmon contains fish. Who knew?

Nice one, Sainsbury's.

Buying local (and locally)

2011-03-23T10:00:00.003Z

I agree with pretty much all of this article.

http://www.getrichslowly.org/blog/2010/08/26/why-i-buy-local/

When Buying Music

2011-03-03T16:29:00.003Z

...always buy the Explicit version (if available). I mean, otherwise you're just paying for silence.

And the words they remove are usually $5 words...

Solutions That Aren't

2011-03-02T10:08:00.004Z

The little one-woman cafe in the local garden centre has a menu behind the counter, entitled "Breakfast Solutions".

Solutions?

Solutions. As if they're solving a complex problem. It's bacon, sausage and egg, not world hunger.

Why not "Breakfast Options"? "Breakfast Choices"?

Or even just "Breakfasts"?

The problem is the bleed of marketing non-speak into everyday life. Horrid.

Something Sporty

2011-02-28T07:00:00.001Z

We've been invited to wear something sporty to work, for charity.

I fear the majority choice will be things worn to watch sport rather than do sport. So that'll be an entire package holiday worth of national football and rugby shirts.

I'm trying to decide whether to wear a swim cap, my skydiving jumpsuit, or - as one witty colleague suggested, a waistcoat (not that I really belive snooker to be a sport).

The Daily Mail

2011-02-27T12:00:00.007Z

Whenever I see someone buy the Daily Mail, a little piece of me dies. With the Mail on Sunday, it's a slightly larger piece.

I can't read the newspaper without elevating my blood pressure and heart rate at the wild leaps of "reasoning" the frothy-mouthed articles make in order to foment the readership into righteous indignation.

That anyone would choose to read such poisonous tripe is profoundly disappointing, distressing, disturbing.
That anyone might accept it enough to act on it unthinkable.

A recent piece stated that cyclists had more heart attacks than other people. By the end of the article, the statement was revaled to be based on a creative interpretation of a piece of scientific research - an interpretation not endorsed by the authors of the research.

Now I don't have a problem with creative writing, but when it's dressed up as factual journalism, something is rotten in the state of Denmark.

Cultural Differences

2011-02-15T16:40:00.002Z

The Italian prime minister has been indicted to stand trial on charges of paying for sex with an underage girl (according to BBC News).

I really can't imagine that happening in the UK.

Flossing

2011-01-30T22:00:00.001Z

The dental profession's preferred way of making your gums bleed.

Coffee for Survival, Coffee for Pleasure

2011-01-29T05:30:00.001Z

At this time in the morning, the first coffee of the day is about survival, not pleasure. Something to get me through the dark, early hours of Too Early, Too Early.

Later, when my mind is more active, when the sleep is rubbed from my eyes. When the joints are less creaky, the muscles warmer, the blood runs a little hotter - then coffee is about pleasure. A dark, rich brew, glorious.

An Email from Fiona Robyn

2011-01-27T11:42:00.010Z

Today, an email newsletter from Fiona Robyn, always a joy. I love the way Fiona writes: with warmth, confidence and a kind of reassuring authority.

To see more of Fiona's writing, read her Writing Our Way Home blog.

Clothes with draw-string hoods

2011-01-27T07:37:00.000Z

I would like to propose that all clothes with pull-cords and draw-strings - things like hooded tops, for instance - come with a warning label. This label would contain a prominent, cleverly-worded message reminding first-time parents of the dangers of wearing such a garment around a grabby infant.

I realise that such a message might deter first-time parents from buying the clothes, which ain't really brilliant for the clothing manufacturer. But it would be a boon for parents everywhere.

Celebrity Come Dine With Me

2011-01-25T08:04:00.000Z

A British TV show where dysfunctional minor-celebrity no-hopers with dreary new-build estate homes and over-inflated opinions of their culinary and social skills compete to win a feeble sum of money for charity by hosting dinner parties for the other contestants.

In case you missed the italics, the aspect that makes this a celebrity show - in keeping with most other celebrity versions of television programs - is not the celebrity (or otherwise) of the contestants, but the fact that the prize money is for charity.

Come Dine With Me

2011-01-25T08:03:00.003Z

A British TV show where dysfunctional no-hopers with over-inflated opinions of their culinary and social skills compete to win a feeble sum of money by hosting dinner parties for the other contestants.

Usually, the least offensive (meaning least interesting) person from the group wins.

The fact that these people are on television should be warning enough that they're not the kind of people that would be fun to have dinner with.

What impresses and depresses me the most about this program is the sheer number of people convinced of their own abilities despite all evidence to the contrary. Every episode, one contestant will proclaim their lack of experience ("I've never done a dinner party before" or "I don't cook desserts").

Wafer Thin Ham - Why Bother?

2011-01-24T09:58:00.002Z

What's the attraction of wafer-thin ham? It seems miserly. I want thick slabs that I can taste.

I like ham; not that slimy wet stuff that comes from reformed scrapings, recovered from carcasses, mashed and pulped and shaped to look like ham.

The thing is, some people's only experience of ham is those sliced slabs, round-cornered oblongs that fit the packaging (and sandwiches) perfectly. Pigs aren't regular sizes, certainly not oblongs. They have bones and other bits that help them live (and make their ham tastier when cooked). It's all part of the sanitising of meat, moving away from the distasteful fact of having to kill something.

There's something not quite right about that.

A Monkey Peeler

2011-01-19T15:59:00.002Z

...That's a peeler-for-vegetables shaped like a monkey. Not a peeler-for-monkeys.

I'm pretty sure.

La Bamba: The Mother of all Earworms

2010-11-08T07:00:00.023Z

It's about 4:30 in the morning.

I'm sitting in the rocking chair in the semi-dark of the nursery, the only light an orangey glow from the night light beside the bed. The rain is pattering on the roof, there's a cool breeze blowing somewhere around my ankles. As I move gently to and fro, cradling my slumbering son in my arms, all I can think is:

Para bailar la bamba
Para bailar la bamba

And then, shaking my head to clear it,

Por ti sere
Por ti sere

This is the result of finally looking up the actual lyrics to La Bamba, after a lifetime of singing

Bab-a-lab la bamba

It turns out the words are pretty straightforward. It's the tune that's the thing.

And I can't get it out of my head.

Fat Balls

2010-09-24T18:45:00.001+01:00

The bird food is talking to me.

How rude.

Interesting Book on Neuro-Linguistic Programming

2010-09-24T18:44:00.000+01:00

I just love how this book completely misses the point of NLP.

Not for me, thank you!

Difficult business, writing (bloody satisfying though)

2010-09-10T06:00:00.009+01:00

At the end of August, I publicly committed to write and publish three times a week, on the varied subjects of user experience, pragmatic environmentalism, and cycling.

It's been eye-opening. It's been hard work. It's been delightful.

Hard work

It's been exhausting. The Muse has been erratic in her visits. Whilst I have no shortage of ideas, sometimes I can't quite get traction on the topic; I'll start to write without really seeing where it's going, without knowing the point.

There are articles that want to be written when I'm cycling to work, but which vanish when I sit down at my keyboard. There are articles that start off heading in one direction and end in quite another. There are clear-cut articles that flounder at their first point. There are obvious, simple articles that require further research.

There are articles, in other words, and there are articles.

And then there's the time.

Making the space - the head space, the time - to sit down and write three times a week has been challenge. I've got a full time job and a young baby, and I want to spend time with my wife and friends. Writing has had to fit in around that. And, pretty much, it's managed to do so rather well.

Writing to the standard that I want has been a challenge; I know that the perfect is the enemy of the good, but sometimes I'm not convinced that what I've written is even approaching good, never mind perfect. I'm writing these things with my name at the end, my real name; it's public now, there's no hiding here. And I like that, too. I'm proud to stand up and put my name to my work.

Sidenote: The thing is, I've written articles for scientific conferences, research papers, that have been received, reviewed, read and even presented to large communities. Why is this writing any different? I'm not sure. But it is.

Delightful

Writing is a wonderful thing. Being able to write; committing to do it, making the time to do it, doing it - I delight in it.

The simple fact of meeting my schedules has been glorious. And realising that meeting my commitments is more important than slouching in front of the television, watching some programme I don't care about. Not as important as my son's needs, nor as my wife's feelings. But on the scale. Important.

On a good day, an elusive point will emerge as I work; this result really is satisfying but does take some time. If it happens at all. This wednesday's article on UX, for example, was a long time coming; I couldn't get started on the two or three topics I had in mind, so I ended up writing something else anyway (better to be writing than not). But nothing was gelling. It just wasn't happening.

Then something magical happened. After a nice sea bream supper, and a couple of glasses of wine, an idea emerged. I went immediately to write it down, and it just flowed; within ten minutes I'd got the core bits together. After another ten it was done but for a few URLs. Not on any of the subjects I'd planned to write, but on something else that just emerged whilst I was looking elsewhere.

Clever thing the brain.

T'Witter

2010-09-06T15:20:00.003+01:00

(Yorkshire dialect)

"Website where folk rattle on about thasen"

Will the Real Jaffle McSnaffle Please Stand Up?

2010-09-04T09:00:00.000+01:00

There's a lot of talk recently about being a doer rather than a talker or about being scared to do something but doing it anyway. Perhaps it's the change of the seasons and weather, as September takes us into the cooler months. Or perhaps I've just noticed it because I'm sensitive to it at the moment.

Writing has been a big part of my semi-private life for a long time now, and I've been putting off the important and scary (and necessary) step of making it public. On August 25th I made and acted on a decision; I publicly announced (well, tweeted) the location of my "serious" / professional blog, and made a public commitment to write at least three times a week.

And I've been doing just that.

It's been hard work, unsurprisingly, finding the time to write - I'm not short of inspiration, and the temptation has been to charge off in a hundred different directions. I have a lot of notes. But making time and space to sit down and organise my thoughts into the semblance of something I'm happy with, something I'm prepared to release into the wild - it's been a challenge.

It's also been enormously exciting and uplifting and I'm very pleased to have done it thus far.

The added spice is that I'm doing it all under my real name - no hiding behind a thin pseudonym any more. So what I'm putting Out There had better be super good; it's got my name on it.

At the moment I'm writing on three topics that probably all deserve their own separate blog. And I've not settled on a title for the endeavour yet - but as Chris Guillebeau says: "dreams first, details later".

The title can always come later. Besides, Blogger is already starting to annoy me, thinking it knows better than me what I meant by particular HTML markup, and binning what it doesn't like. So I might need to think about registering domains and getting back into WordPress.

The happy fact is that I am writing, and telling people about it. There's no hiding here.

I've also been delving into the statistics and details of this blog, and the most popular post rather surprised me - generally found via google, it seems. So I've tweaked a couple of the archive pages to bring out some of the other content, which I'm particularly proud of, and I will be continuing to write here, almost weekly.

Signs of Ageing

2010-08-29T14:00:00.000+01:00

There's a process to ageing, a certain kind of rhythm. The obvious signs are all very well: the grey hairs, the lines around the eyes, the creaking knees. These are kind of expected; predictable, easier (by some measure) to tolerate.

But it's the unexpected signs of ageing that stand out the most. Like hearing oneself say:

"I think I'll get these. They're the best fitting gardening gloves I've ever found."

Ah, me.

When "Finest" Sandwiches Aren't

2010-08-27T13:13:00.000+01:00

The label rather proudly proclaims that

"All Finest sandwiches are made by hand"

...which means that others are made how, exactly?

Horrible, just horrible.

My definition of a good sandwich, let alone one to which I could apply the superlative, is one that I don't have to smother with English mustard in order for it to taste of something, anything.

If "Finest" sandwiches are this poor, what does that mean for the rest?

Changing the world

2010-08-18T08:00:00.002+01:00

This article on clearing up after other people from the excellent Happiness Project totally connects with my own manifesto.

DIY: Changing a Washbasin (and a Personal Best)

2010-08-09T20:00:00.066+01:00

I am not the King of DIY, as we have established previously.

So why did I agree to change the washbasin in our shower room? Why did I let myself be persuaded that it would be a relatively simple job? For starters, it's a plumbing job; the most challenging kind for those of a non-DIY persuasion, given the chance of broken pipes, localised flooding, and water damage. Plumbing is scary.

So before I agreed to the job, before we even ordered the new washbasin, I rang a Capable Friend, and asked if it was a job that I - me, the absolute not-king of DIY - could do.

He assured me that it was, estimating that a couple of hours would be required. He even talked me through the basic steps; it seemed very straightforward. I thanked him for his counsel.

So we bought the new basin, and matching pedestal. We bought new taps to go with it. I researched the task, made the initial Purchase of Necessary Tools long before the planned start date. I practised visualisation and relaxation techniques. When the appointed day came, I was calm. Prepared.

Removal of the old basin was trivial and quickly achieved; a few screws, some isolator valves, and it was done. My elation was without bounds. After a few minutes, the job was already half complete!

I congratulated myself quietly. After all, destruction is always faster than construction. But I was buoyed by my success as I turned to the second stage of the work.

And - of course! - when it came to fitting the new basin, I discovered that the pipework could not simply be connected to the new basin as my Capable Friend had suggested. Some cutting of copper water pipes (Flood alert! Beware!) was required. And the waste outlet - the waste was not a matter of fitting a new one, oh no. The three or four different types and fittings I tried simply did not fit, would not fit; could not be made to fit. One was the wrong size (a novice mistake); another the wrong shape for the pedestal fitting. A third would not fit the existing configuration of pipework (which I did not want to alter for fear of enlarging the job and, consequently, the risk of Major Damage).

In the event, it took me several hours, on three or four separate occasions, over a period of more than a week, to complete the job. In all, I made five visits to various DIY stores to complete this job (including the initial Purchase of Necessaries before I began the task). Five visits; a personal best for a DIY (or should that be DIM*?) task.

I'll need to make another trip to return the bits I bought and didn't need.

Oh, plus the two consultations with the Capable Friend (one on the telephone, one a personal visit). And the loan of his tools, without which the job would have floundered.

It does look rather nice in the room, though. And there were no leaks, floods or spillages during the process, nor any since. Which is something of a result. But I'm not expecting to be wearing a crown any time soon.

*DIM = Doing It Myself

Another DIY task

2010-07-27T16:51:00.002+01:00

...another incident waiting to be blogged.

*sigh*

Suffice to say I was attempting the apparently-simple task of hanging a small mirror on a nail.

The picture shows the first nail after I had applied my excellent hammer skills.

Note to Self: When Buying Flowers

2010-07-16T18:00:00.000+01:00

I must think of something witty and/or withering to say to those colleagues who spot me carrying bought-for-my-wife flowers into the office, and who waggishly comment

"Oh jAf, you shouldn't have!"

"For me? How kind!"

Because my standard response of "Mmmmm" just ain't cutting it any more.

Goodbye to Flora

2010-07-15T09:50:00.002+01:00

Time to say goodbye to my first fixie.

There are, simply, too many bikes in the garage, and too little time to ride all of them.

Flora was only ever intended to be a tester, trying out fixedwheel singlespeed cycling to see if I enjoyed it.

I do.

I'm getting another fixie, this time on the company's Cycle2Work scheme (yay!) so it's time to let someone else enjoy Flora.

Don't just smell the roses

2010-07-09T08:00:00.002+01:00

...photograph them too.

If you see something you like, photograph it today. Now. This minute.

'Cos tomorrow you'll be too busy and the next day you'll forget, and when you do remember, a week later, the flowers will be gone and the plant will have been eaten by caterpillars and black fly.

Yep, a couple of months ago, the Sparkly One and I bought a few rose bushes for the garden. One of them, Evelyn, has beautiful huge flower heads.

Well, it did have them. That was a few weeks ago, before the caterpillars moved in.

And I didn't take the photograph.

Word of the day: Buttress

2010-07-01T16:26:00.004+01:00

buttress [buht-tres]
-noun

A long lock or curl of hair on the bottom.
Any sort of arse hair.

Two McSnaffle Facts

2010-06-29T07:46:00.002+01:00

There are two aspects of my character that have remained constant over the period of study (which is to say that they seem quite true today, and I half-remember them having being true at an undetermined point in the previousness).

These facts are as listed here:

1. I always eat too much at barbecues.

2. My hayfever is always worse after rain.

I suspect that the first is due to a combination of greed, and choice. I half-remember reading about a study that found that people tend to eat more when there is a wider choice of food available. Even a meal consisting of different coloured pasta resulted in the study participants eating more than they did when the same meal was presented with uniformly mono-chromatic pasta.

Barbecues, in my experience, tend to have a wide variety of tasty foodstuffs on offer.

Whatever the underlying cause, the current significance of these truths is that I attended a barbecue yesterday evening, and there was some light precipitation in the same time frame.

So this morning I have a rather sore tummy and a very drippy nose.

Larva in my dining chairs

2010-06-27T20:00:00.001+01:00

The fixing holes in my wooden dining chairs are exactly the right size for an unidentified insect to hide its larva, swaddled in green leaves.

In all, six holes across three chairs have tell-tale little green leaves peeking out of them, and when I introduce the end of a sharp stick, each hole reveals a chrysalis or larva, orange-brown, gooey in death.

The chairs are in the conservatory, which is regularly exposed to the outside, for reasons of thermal ventilation.

More mysterious is why one chair was spared from the infestation/colonisation.

Bake with Compassion Week 7 - 13 June 2010

2010-06-04T21:03:00.000+01:00

http://ciwf.org.uk/help_us/fundraising/bake_with_compassion/default.aspx

After all, why not?

Frijolemole

2010-05-11T13:57:00.001+01:00

"A creamy chickpea & cannellini bean dip with coriander, chilli & cumin"

It's a spicy bean dip. With apologies to everyone in my office, but it's delicious.

Flapjack with coffee. And grit.

2010-04-23T16:05:00.002+01:00

Grit can be a good thing.

Grittiness in particular can be a very good thing, particularly if the roads are icy. It's also good if it's related to a movie.

On the flip side, grittiness can be bad if it's found in food, like a flapjack or salad.

And in this case, on this particular occasion, it's in my flapjack.

Other than that, the flapjack would be very nice; nicely sticky and oaty.

Hot chocolate

2010-04-21T17:16:00.000+01:00

...made with chocolate and double cream, and nothing else. Except maybe a spoonful of sugar, because this chocolate is brutally bitter.

The way nature intended.

Proper Hot Chocolate

2010-04-21T16:06:00.002+01:00

The best kind of hot chocolate, made with chocolate and double cream, and nothing else.

Except maybe a spoonful of sugar, because this chocolate is brutally bitter.

In other words, the way nature intended.

Cake of the Day (2)

2010-03-18T15:00:00.002Z

Today's - ahem - secondary cake is a chocolate and cherry tiffin with lovely biscuit bits. Delicious!

This does mean, however, that there will be no Cake of the Day tomorrow.

Cake of the Day

2010-03-18T11:00:00.000Z

Today's primary cake is a massive blueberry meringue, four by five inches oblong, and an inch high throughout: 20 cubic inches of eggy sugary fruity froth. Bliss!

Doughnuts are not nice

2010-03-11T16:16:00.001Z

We cover them in sugar, and fill them with jam to hide this fact. But the dough is stale, heavy, when cold.

File under "best served hot".

Spring, and a Young Man's Thoughts

2010-03-06T16:59:00.000Z

...turn to spring cleaning, obviously.

Today, I cleaned my car (I know, I know; who am I and what have I done with me?). Panic not, I've not changed so much; I won't be taking up golf any time soon.

In my defence, it was just the inside, filthy from the latest trip to the household recycling centre (that place that used to be called a tip). Certainly not the outside, filthy from a winter full of salty gritty roads (and another 3 or 4 winters before that; the last time I personally cleaned my car was when my father died).

Yes, my car has been cleaned since then. I distinctly remember the time I put the car through the wash at the garage, and wrenched my aerial off in the process (so that the carwash wouldn't damage it, you see).

So what prompted me to this rare act? Spring madness? No, it seems I've discovered a sense of pride. Or at least, a sense or bored frustration with the state of the car. Or because I'm planning on selling it. You decide.

In the process of cleaning, I found stones, more fingernails than I have fingers, and 2 bits of ladybird.

Two bits of ladybird. Well, it is spring.

Gu chocs

2010-03-01T11:04:00.000Z

They say:

"A luscious liquid caramel enhanced with a hint of sea salt encased
in 70% cocoa chocolate"
I say:
To describe them as "grown up rolos" would be largely accurate, but unfair. These are luscious chocolate - not milky - and the caramel is indeed liquid, fluid, runny. They burst in the mouth, spilling their honeyed centre (that could, for my money, include a little more than a hint of sea salt).
A real indulgence; expensive, but worth while. Delicious.

Blogsplash! Fiona Robyn's new novel: Thaw

2010-03-01T08:00:00.002Z

Ruth's diary is the new novel by Fiona Robyn, called Thaw. Fiona has decided to blog the novel in its entirety over the next few months, so you can read it for free.

Ruth's first entry is below, and you can continue reading tomorrow.

These hands are ninety-three years old. They belong to Charlotte Marie Bradley Miller. She was so frail that her grand-daughter had to carry her onto the set to take this photo. It’s a close-up. Her emaciated arms emerge from the top corners of the photo and the background is black, maybe velvet, as if we’re being protected from seeing the strings. One wrist rests on the other, and her fingers hang loose, close together, a pair of folded wings. And you can see her insides.

The bones of her knuckles bulge out of the skin, which sags like plastic that has melted in the sun and is dripping off her, wrinkling and folding. Her veins look as though they’re stuck to the outside of her hands. They’re a colour that’s difficult to describe: blue, but also silver, green; her blood runs through them, close to the surface. The book says she died shortly after they took this picture. Did she even get to see it? Maybe it was the last beautiful thing she left in the world.

I'm trying to decide whether or not I want to carry on living. I'm giving myself three months of this journal to decide. You might think that sounds melodramatic, but I don't think I'm alone in wondering whether it’s all worth it. I’ve seen the look in people’s eyes. Stiff suits travelling to work, morning after morning, on the cramped and humid tube. Tarted-up girls and gangs of boys reeking of aftershave, reeling on the pavements on a Friday night, trying to mop up the dreariness of their week with one desperate, fake-happy night. I’ve heard the weary grief in my dad’s voice.

So where do I start with all this? What do you want to know about me? I’m Ruth White, thirty-two years old, going on a hundred. I live alone with no boyfriend and no cat in a tiny flat in central London. In fact, I had a non-relationship with a man at work, Dan, for seven years. I’m sitting in my bedroom-cum-living room right now, looking up every so often at the thin rain slanting across a flat grey sky. I work in a city hospital lab as a microbiologist. My dad is an accountant and lives with his sensible second wife Julie, in a sensible second home. Mother finished dying when I was fourteen, three years after her first diagnosis. What else? What else is there?

Charlotte Marie Bradley Miller. I looked at her hands for twelve minutes. It was odd describing what I was seeing in words. Usually the picture just sits inside my head and I swish it around like tasting wine. I have huge books all over my flat — books you have to take in both hands to lift. I've had the photo habit for years. Mother bought me my first book, black and white landscapes by Ansel Adams. When she got really ill, I used to take it to bed with me and look at it for hours, concentrating on the huge trees, the still water, the never-ending skies. I suppose it helped me think about something other than what was happening. I learned to focus on one photo at a time rather than flicking from scene to scene in search of something to hold me. If I concentrate, then everything stands still. Although I use them to escape the world, I also think they bring me closer to it. I’ve still got that book. When I take it out, I handle the pages as though they might flake into dust.

Mother used to write a journal. When I was small, I sat by her bed in the early mornings on a hard chair and looked at her face as her pen spat out sentences in short bursts. I imagined what she might have been writing about — princesses dressed in star-patterned silk, talking horses, adventures with pirates. More likely she was writing about what she was going to cook for dinner and how irritating Dad’s snoring was.

I’ve always wanted to write my own journal, and this is my chance. Maybe my last chance. The idea is that every night for three months, I’ll take one of these heavy sheets of pure white paper, rough under my fingertips, and fill it up on both sides. If my suicide note is nearly a hundred pages long, then no-one can accuse me of not thinking it through. No-one can say, ‘It makes no sense; she was a polite, cheerful girl, had everything to live for,’ before adding that I did keep myself to myself. It’ll all be here. I’m using a silver fountain pen with purple ink. A bit flamboyant for me, I know. I need these idiosyncratic rituals; they hold things in place. Like the way I make tea, squeezing the tea-bag three times, the exact amount of milk, seven stirs. My writing is small and neat; I’m striping the paper. I’m near the bottom of the page now. Only ninety-one more days to go before I’m allowed to make my decision. That’s it for today. It’s begun.

Continue reading here

Definition: Ook

2010-02-11T16:00:00.001Z

ook [ook]

-verb

To be excessively delayed due to fannying around.
To send an email around the company proclaiming your love of monkeys or
something monkey related; to do this to someone else ("I left my
computer unlocked and he ooked me!").
To slack off a meeting.

BING is not Google

2010-02-10T18:25:00.003Z

Did you ever wonder what BING stands for?

It seems obvious to me (remembering that computer people are noted for their peculiar sense of humour) that BING is not Google.

Death by chocolate (2)

2009-12-16T12:00:00.002Z

Okay, I just finished the rest of the Cadbury selection box (barring the Buttons Treatsize (75 calories), which I won't eat on ethical religious grounds - cruelty to buttons).

So add to the tally:

Cadbury's Dairy Milk: 110 calories
Cadbury Flake: 135 calories

Thank you, Secret Santa.

And good night all.

I'm so embarrassed

2009-12-16T12:00:00.001Z

A colleague just asked for a bottle opener and I was ashamed to discover that I don't have one with me.

I do have 3 sets of nail clippers, though.

Death by chocolate

2009-12-16T10:16:00.001Z

Cadbury's (Finger of) Fudge: 110 calories

Dairy Milk Caramel: 225 calories

Crunchie: 185 calories

Cycling into work: pointless

Mixed Naan: When Fusion Food Doesn't Work

2009-11-27T08:00:00.001Z

At the restaurant last night, the "mixed naan" was advertised as having "green chillies, minced lamb, cheese".

If the thought of cheese and lamb makes you a little queasy - and it should - then you may have assured yourself with the thought that this was an Indian restaurant, and would surely use paneer, that slightly sour cheese that works so well in Indian cooking.

You would probably not expect cheddar cheese melted on top of the bready-meaty-spicy platter.

Putting aside practical considerations - how did they manage to cook that on the inside of a tandoor oven?, for instance - this was, simply - obviously, a Bad Idea.

So bad, indeed, that my Naan Partner took one bite, and discarded her share. I managed to eat around that cheese that I couldn't scrape off.

Define: Naan Partner

2009-11-27T07:30:00.001Z

It goes like this: at a social setting involving food, conversation naturally ebbs and flows between those in one's immediate vicinity at table. As menu choices are made, as the waiter (or waitress) takes food orders, common ground is established; alliances are negotiated. Natural groupings form as people spontaneously find someone else that wants to order the same type of naan (or rice) as them, and short-term food sharing arrangements are instigated.

These apparently simple pacts hide subtle complexities like: who should make the first tear? Does one take an approximate half in one go? Or repeatedly return to the plate, tearing at the bready deliciousness with increasingly stained fingers?

Smart Thursday

2009-11-26T18:17:00.000Z

Since I instigated Smart Thursday, several months ago, colleagues have begun to navigate the week by my wardrobe. It has inculcated a visceral, habitual reaction. They're setting their watch by me, effectively.

On Tuesday this week, one colleague remarked that it wasn't Thursday, and they were startled to see me Smart, and were then disappointed that the next day wasn't Friday.

On Wednesday, another colleague (apparently thinking it was Thursday), was mock-outraged, demanding to know why I wasn't Smart, what had happened to the world, what was going on?

Today, a third colleague wandered past and remarked, "Oh it must be Thursday."

It's nice.

Awesome 3-course dinner

2009-11-20T20:00:00.004Z

As cooked by the Sparkly One this very evening.

To start:

Parmesan-and-roasted-parsnip soup, made from local organic veggies.

The main course:

Fillet of beef wrapped in porcini and prosciutto; pommes dauphinoise;
carrots & greens.

For dessert:

Pear and apple pie; custard

And to drink (the Sparkly One can take no credit for this one, alas):

Beyerskloof Reserve Pinotage 2007

I can take no credit for the wine, either, as it was brought by our dinner guests.

Faustino I Gran Reserva 1996

2009-11-06T21:00:00.000Z

...the wine I've enjoyed most this month.

The Internet used to be fun

2009-10-22T21:12:00.001+01:00

What happened?

Microblogging has become a business activity, people are concerned with their public appearance, with "building a personal brand" online rather than simply being themselves.

Convergence of personal and professional life - in terms of the immediate, ready accessibility of people - has meant that people have started to be a bit more guarded on the 'Net, or a bit more cunning.

This removal of anonymity is two edged, in my opinion, in that because people are more guarded, more cautious, they're more boring. Highly publicised outings of people on facebook, the scandals that erupt when employees gather together to bitch about their workplace - surprise surprise! - has highlighted the need to be a little more cautious in our online persona.

Where has the fun gone?

Jaffle's Second Law of Solicitors

2009-09-25T08:39:00.002+01:00

Solicitors will always call during the only two minutes you're away from your desk.

Between the head and the stomach (steak tartare)

2009-09-25T08:22:00.002+01:00

The difference between intellectual and visceral reactions is this:

My head knew that it was minced steak, seasoned and spiced.
My stomach reacted as if it was mashed cat sick.

"Nihilism's for boys"

2009-09-24T09:05:00.003+01:00

...I said, quoting Emmy the Great's song, The Hypnotist's Son.

"Yeah, but women are the carrier," he replied.

I blinked. And smiled.

I think he was still talking about colour blindness.

Jaffle's First Law of Solicitors (Complexity is Geometric)

2009-09-18T08:30:00.001+01:00

The complexity of proceedings - and hence, the cost and likelihood of over-run - increases geometrically (rather than arithmetically) with the number of solicitors involved.

Being precise, making assumptions, and averting disappointment

2009-09-18T08:22:00.001+01:00

T'other day, the Sparkly One and I happened to be staying in a hotel following a wedding. The next morning we trotted down to breakfast and, instead of the traditional Full English, I determined to ask for something a little lighter.

So I asked for a bacon sandwich.

In my mind, I could already taste the sandwich; salty tangy bacon on buttered brown bread - or even on buttered white bread, the butter melted from the warmth of the bacon.

When it arrived, it was on white bread, unbuttered.

I was disappointed. How could they not know how to make a bacon sandwich? I hadn't told them, of course; there was no way they could have known. So they had made the bacon sandwich they probably always make, unaware that I wanted something else. Or perhaps they deliberately made the lowest common denominator sandwich; experience in the catering trade leading them down the path of least offence.

It wasn't their fault, of course; it was mine, for not being precise about what I wanted. It's happened before. It may well happen again. But next time, I'll ask for it exactly as I want it. Then it's only myself I have to blame, and them to thank.

Disappointment averted.

Thaw Blogsplash - a book for free

2009-09-17T08:30:00.000+01:00

I'm helping make a splash. And so can you.

Fiona Robyn's new book, Thaw, will be serialised on her blog starting March 2010, and she's having a Blogsplash to celebrate.

All of which linky-packed goodness means that on 1st March 2010, you'll be able to read the first page of Thaw right here (and several other places too). And then you can continue reading at Fiona's blog.

Literature for free. Why wouldn't you?

Wispa Gold: Not as nice as I hoped

2009-09-11T19:14:00.003+01:00

There was considerable fanfare around the arrival of the Wispa Gold in the office; and what clever marketing accompanies it too. There's the "retro" aspect, harking back to the Gold Old Days when the WG was first on sale (1995, now more distant than my memory and hair colour would prefer). And the lovely shiny-shiny pick-me! packaging.

From the first bite, though, I found it disappointing, remembering (too late!) that I dislike the texture of Wispa bars. There's something about the size of the bubbles that makes the chocolate displeasingly smooth, or furry, it seems. If it must contain bubbles, I'm more of an Aero fan; being larger, the bubbles make the chocolate firmer, crisper, which is more to my taste.

After the chocolate disappointment, the caramel was an after-thought, lumped on top in a not-quite-thick-enough-to-notice layer that scarcely teased, or tempted, let alone satisfied.

The indefinite article

2009-09-11T14:30:00.000+01:00

You didn't have "the burger" for lunch, you had "a burger."

Okay?

Serendipity

2009-09-09T17:36:00.002+01:00

Unannounced, a butterfly visits the sunflower I am photographing.

A Very Disappointing Lunch

2009-09-05T20:58:00.002+01:00

Despite the cheerful woman at the counter, lunch is truly miserable.

My pizza baguette has been over-cooked from frozen; dry and homogenous. I can't distinguish between the peppers and the ham.

And Wifey's salad garnish surely contrevenes the Trade Descriptions Act; a handful of limp lettuce.

We won't be hurrying back.

"I want a dinosaur balloon"

2009-08-31T16:16:00.002+01:00

...The Sparkly One announced.

"A blue one."

Well, obviously. The pink ones were just too...girly.

A Clueless Photographer at Whipsnade Zoo

2009-08-29T14:33:00.001+01:00

Flash! Flash!

The man on my right is photographing the elephants, some 10 metres distant. He has a camera with an impressive-looking dual-grip body, and a huge zoom lens.

The flash fires with every shot, utterly useless at that range.

It's not just about shirts

2009-08-28T17:18:00.002+01:00

I wore a T-shirt to work today, and the world didn't end.

The Perfect All-Day Breakfast

2009-08-27T13:00:00.002+01:00

Joy of joys! I had the fabulous "Bubble and Squeak Cake" for lunch at The Old Spotted Cow.

I watched the chef collecting eggs from the hens moments before my perfectly poached egg (and crispy bacon) arrived. Wonderful. And so simple.

Every all-day breakfast should be this good.

The Clouds Are So Low

2009-08-26T18:12:00.002+01:00

...that I can't see the Chilterns.

The First Corn on the Cob of the Year

2009-08-24T19:00:00.001+01:00

What joy! My third favourite seasonal food has arrived!

(Asparagus and Pumpkin, seeing as you asked so nicely)

The Joys of New Music

2009-08-24T07:45:00.006+01:00

"At the End of Paths Taken" by The Cowboy Junkies & The Arcade Fire's "Neon Bible" lighten my drive this morning.

The former is the latest in a line of CDs by a very-favourite band.

The latter is the second offering from a new favourite.

The speed limit is 60mph

2009-08-24T07:44:00.002+01:00

So why the *~@! do you insist on braking to 42mph at every speed camera?

England have won the Ashes

2009-08-23T19:00:00.001+01:00

And I wasn't aware they were playing for them.

I mean, I knew there was a cricket test between England and Australia; heard the results of the first innings, chatted to colleagues, to a call centre operative about it.

I just hadn't realised this was the final match of the series.

Wine Tasting Notes: Guigal Condrieu 2005

2009-08-22T22:00:00.001+01:00

Simply put: outstanding.

Espresso by the riverside

2009-08-22T16:00:00.002+01:00

After a gentle swim in the Thames, a picnic with friends, which is nicely rounded off with a cup of fresh espresso courtesy of my wife-bought birthday present, a Handpresso Wild.

Banana custard for dinner

2009-07-19T19:00:00.000+01:00

Yum!

Chinese restaurant runs out of rice

2009-07-05T20:27:00.003+01:00

Sunday afternoon, Oxfordshire.

TSO and I are entertaining in-laws of various denominations at a local Chinese restaurant. We've proceeded from the starters, through the duck course, to the mains.

As the waitress starts to bring the main courses out, she announces that she is sorry, but there is no more steamed rice.

A beat.

As one, we glance at one another, then at the dish of egg fried rice, quietly steaming on the lazy Susan, then back at the waitress.

"You've run out of rice?" Someone asks.

"Boiled rice, yes," admits the waitress. "And beansprouts."

"So what can we have?"

"Plain noodles," the waitress suggests. "Noodles, onions, beansprouts."

"So there's really no rice?" Another someone persists.

"Erm, excuse me, did you say beansprouts?" Someone else asks.

"Yes, fried rice," the waitress responds. "Special fried rice, yes."

"What?"

"So you have special fried rice?"

"Yes."

"That's fine."

The waitress does a very prompt volte-face and we are left staring at one another, various stages of incredulity on our faces.

"They've run out of rice -"

"- in a Chinese restaurant?"

"Boiled rice. They have special fried rice."

We look at our plates and dishes, wondering just how freshly prepared the food is.

The lazy Susan remains motionless.

Dressing for dinner

2009-06-24T21:00:00.000+01:00

The hotel is very pleased with its restaurant, which "retains the beauty of the gracious Victorian era". So pleased, in fact, that guests are asked to "compliment the setting by dressing appropriately for the evening". Meaning no jeans, track suit bottoms (as if!), trainers, T-shirts or polo shirts.

Which would be much easier to accept if the place wasn't painted like a (modern era) pub, complete with "witty aphorisms" all over the walls. The food, too, is the wrong side of self-satisfied; the dinner menu begins with a message from the chef, stating his position on the use of local seafood and seasonal vegetables.

None of which seems to bother the assembled diners - all dressed appropriately - and all at least 2 full decades older than us.

Semantics for Breakfast

2009-06-24T10:00:00.001+01:00

One piece of brie does not make a "selection of cheeses".

Well, I guess it does, kinda. But it's a limited sort of selection.

Attack of the Tartares

2009-06-18T18:00:00.000+01:00

Due to translation failures, I ordered steak tartare for lunch, mistaking it for another dish.

I was, consequently, surprised and disturbed to be presented with a lump of pale, mushy meat: clearly - stomach turningly - raw.

It was also surprisingly tender and tasty. I polished off the lot.

Implicated by inaction

2009-06-07T18:20:00.004+01:00

"Are these yours?" I asked the colleague in the kitchen, indicating the dirty plates and cups in the sink.

"No," he replied, a little defensively. "I didn't leave them there."

I raised an eyebrow and drew a breath. He withdrew, my feelings on work kitchen hygiene having been often, and strenuously, aired.

But technically, I found myself thinking at his retreating back, you did leave them there. You saw them, and you could have cleared them away. But you didn't. You're as guilty, as responsible, as the people that used them, implicated by what you didn't do rather than by what you did.

Then I sighed a little superior, self-righteous sigh, and put the dishes in the dishwasher, and said my little Thank-You-For-The-Chance-To-Make-A-Positive-Difference.

Digital photography is so indiscriminate

2009-05-25T11:50:00.007+01:00

Digital photography gives us the capacity to take pictures; if not the ability to select decent subjects. The former is a Good Thing; the lack of the latter is not.

In losing the necessity of selectivity that came with the very limited number of exposures on a traditional film, photography has become indiscriminate, ubiquitous, wearisome. Combined with the ever-increasing capacity of free storage, the result is hundreds - thousands! - of pictures with little interest or value, even to the person that took them.

Just because people can take pictures, they too often forget to stop and wonder if they should. And, worse, if they should publish them, all of them, without thought for editing, for selection, for some consideration of quality.

I am not just pointing the finger outwards, by the by; I have multiple, several, lots of pictures of a pumpkin lantern that are fundamentally the same, intrinsically identical. What can I say? I have a thing for pumpkins. In my defence, I would offer that I have not published them to the world.

By contrast, I can think of any number - yes, madam, that's the very number - of places where I have seen shot after interminable shot of the same dross dull dire event, many of which I have attended. Quantity: sky high. Quality: rock bottom.

Do not misunderstand me, digital photography is a Good Thing, a Very Good Thing. It is liberating, emancipating, glorious.

But it has always been true, if I may, that Hell is other people's pictures. And now there are so many of them.

A long way from home

2009-05-02T19:46:00.001+01:00

Just overheard from a neighbouring garden:

"Harrison, if you want a bath with a bath bomb in it, you have to come now."

When I was smaller, we hadn't heard of bath bombs. And the only Harrison I'd ever heard of was a Hollywood actor.

Last night's pizza for lunch

2009-04-16T08:00:00.000+01:00

Well, that was the plan.

But it looked so appealing as I packed my lunch this morning that it didn't make it to lunchtime.

Much of it barely made it to the car, indeed.

So it'll be muesli cereal for lunch today.

Thai food is my generation's Indian

2009-04-14T20:00:00.002+01:00

When I was little, roast dinners were a welcome feature of Sundays.

On Mondays the leftover meat would be made into something like rissoles (lamb), stir fry (beef), or - very occasionally - chicken curry. Now, this wasn't the type of curry we'd recognise these days - in fact, my friends laughed at me when I declined to go for a curry with them when my only experience was my mother's white-sauce-with-curry-powder added.

Tonight, we had the modern day equivalent; Thai curry made with red curry paste and coconut milk, the leftover chicken stripped from the carcass and stirred through at the last.

Whether my children will consider it identifiably, authentically Thai will have to wait, at least until they have been born.

In the aftermath of Easter egg wrapping

2009-04-14T08:00:00.000+01:00

...I'm still craving chocolate.

"Dinosaurs don't have luscious lips."

2009-04-13T22:16:00.002+01:00

...I said.

The Sparkly One was sitting behind me in The Motor our visit to That Place having resulted in a haul of flat pack self assembly home furniture sufficiently long that the car's interior seating required that configuration.

She had applied some gloss (make-up rather than woodwork) and, catching my attention in the rear view mirror (whilst proceeding safely down the highway), remarked:

"I've made my lips luscious for you."

She pouted demonstratively.

I blinked (checking road conditions, speed, etc) and commented as noted above.

"This one does," she replied happily.

A Rude Awakening

2009-04-03T12:58:00.002+01:00

Or: A Polite Awakening at a Rude Hour

Or: Facebook Ruined My Sleep

Last night, I heard the doorbell in the Wrong Hours of the night - the dark, cold, where-am-I-hours.

Then a knock, then the doorbell again.

I briefly considered ignoring it, relying on the many locks and doors, before realising I wasn't going to get back to sleep after that interruption.

It was the Police, looking for a Certain Person, who had apparently used Facebook as a means for threatening suicide. The recipient was so disturbed by the message that they mobilised the police service to locate persons of That Name and check on their safety and well-being.

One such person had apparently resided in my house some months ago. The tall gentlemen in the STAB jackets were very apologetic about awakening me - but given the Mercy Mission nature of their visit, one could hardly complain, feeling sympathy for those folk across the country being similarly awoken.

This morning, a scan of the news sites contains no mention of this, so I can only hope for a happy ending.

The Sartorial Impact of Jackets

2009-04-03T09:00:00.001+01:00

I am this morning wearing a jacket - a simple, cheap, unremarkable jacket - for reasons of warmth rather than style (although the latter was, I confess, a consideration).

I had hardly been in the office a minute before it had attracted comment.

"Dapper" was the phrase used.

No coffee making equipment

2009-04-01T18:26:00.002+01:00

...means no coffee today...

The first wasp of the year

2009-03-30T21:00:00.001+01:00

In the bathroom, where I was naked and vulnerable.

I shooed it out of the window using a decorative shell.

Pink Mashed Potato

2009-03-30T20:00:00.001+01:00

The Sparkly One has eschewed vegetarianism in favour of a more omnivorous diet, and from time to time her tastes are positively towards the carnivorous.

Tonight, dinner was fillet steak cooked so beautifully deliciously meltingly rare that the mashed potato turned pink.

Injury Yourself, or DIY Injuries

2009-03-28T18:32:00.001Z

It takes a special person to cut themselves with an electric shaver (it was a long time ago, alright?!) or even with a pair of pliers.

On this occasion, I had been invited to remove a particularly troublesome nail well-fixed into a wall. I was supplied with a pair of pliers, and the nail was at a slightly inconvenient height.

When the pliers slipped off the nail the second time, they landed on my left hand, which I had been using to support the right hand in its removal action.

The jaws of the pliers closed, bringing the wire-cutter-bit into the fleshy bit of my palm, and sticking there in an impressive blood blister.

Quite how I managed to split the end of my forefinger as well, I have no idea.

I am not the King of DIY.

Standing in the check-in queue

2009-03-08T12:42:00.001Z

Everyone has much bigger bags than us. And are wearing shapeless baggy sports casual leisurewear tracksuits.

Either that, or they're twice our age.

What kind of holiday is this going to be?

Disturbed to discover

2009-03-08T12:41:00.001Z

...That the airport's long stay parking is right next door to a "Car Hypermarket"...will my car have been bought and sold before I return?

We have a duck pond

2009-03-07T14:09:00.001Z

Which is to say that this morning there are two ducks on what we thought was our fish pond...

Walkers Crisps - New Flavours

2009-02-22T18:00:00.003Z

What are Walkers thinking?

They've produced 6 new flavours of crisps, and are asking for votes for the one they take into production.

The Sparkly One and I tasted 3 of the flavours today, and I'll be writing to Walkers to tell them not to bother with any of them.

We had Cajun Squirrel first, which was quite ordinary, but turned out to be the least offensive of the flavours (perhaps because it's the most bland?). Disappointingly, it contains no squirrels, and very little cajun. Its ingredients list is not dissimilar to that of the Duck crisps, see below.

The second bag we tried was Crispy Duck and Hoisin, which tasted like stale parma violets. I had two crisps, just to make sure there wasn't something wrong with the first one, then put the pack beyond use. Horrible.

Finally, then, Chilli and Chocolate, which I was rather excited to try; Chocolate Chip and Chilli Cookies being one of my favourite own-brand recipes. So there's no fear about the sweet and the savoury here. But there is nothing good to report about this crisp: foul, sweet, horrid from the first to the last. In fact, the first and the last crisp were one and the same because these were so unpleasant that I didn't eat more than one.

Movie review: Mamma Mia!

2009-02-21T22:00:00.004Z

Oh dear, where to begin?

The Sparkly One and I watched Mamma Mia! tonight, and I will say right now that there was a certain amount of "under sufferance" on my part, but there was absolutely no ill will. After all, it's a spectacularly successful film (the most successful Hollywood film musical ever, the most successful British-made film and the highest grossing film of all time in the UK), and I was intrigued to see why. I'll try anything once, with the usual nod to Sir Thomas Beecham.

Besides, I couldn't find Hellboy 2 in Blockbuster.

Well, what a revelation. Within five minutes and 22 seconds, the shrieking buddy-greeting of the girls had become wearisome, and it didn't get any better. That the three women greeted each other in the same screechy fashion didn't provide amusing synchronicity, it just rankled. No one acts like that. Not even in movies. Not even in musical movies.

Now, I've no problem with the suspension of disbelief, with lightweight films, and I've certainly no problem with jukebox musicals, but there was just nothing to this one. It was trite and saccharin, the characters were blander than bland and thinner than thin. All of which is absolutely fine in a musical film, because the music and the dancing are the thing, and the music of ABBA is a fine thing indeed.

But the casting was way, way off! Casting fantastic, talented actors that can't sing or dance in a movie that requires them to sing and dance reduces the whole £28 million production to ear-blistering drunken karaoke. Pierce Brosnan's attempts at singing has been commented upon at length, but I do not rate any of the leading men's voices. Christine Baranski is a wonderful actress, but clearly not at home dancing on screen. And that awful, hammy over-acting that's required of stage performances where the audience is miles away from the performers, but not in movies where cameras, shooting and editing make subtlety the thing!

Oh yes, and the dance numbers were lacklustre, unexciting, small-scale, unimaginative. Or perhaps my heart had given up by that point. I found the routines in Ice Age 2 more engaging.

Two high points included the dancing-in-fins sequence, the best of the ensemble pieces, and one laugh-out-loud moment involving Stellan Skarsgård's bottom. And that's it, in a movie that was trumpeted in the press as an anecdote to credit crunch misery, the feel-good hit of the year.

Can I have my £28 million back, please?