February 2006 Archives

The setting sun hovered just far enough above the horizon to paint roofs across the city a thousand differing shades of pink and gold.

A small yellow dog ran in front of me, stopped and panted, in the familiar manner of a contented animal. It looked back at it's mistress, an elderly woman making her slow way down the hill behind it. Around the dog's neck a brightly hued pink ribbon was tied. The ends of the ribbon flapped gently in the breeze. I looked at the dog. The dog looked back at me. I peered more closely at the ribbon. The dog appeared slightly embarrassed about it. It's face seemed to say "I know, it's awful, isn't it? But it makes her happy, you know?" It looked back at the old woman again, it's affection for her clearly visible on it's face.

"I wasn't being critical," I said to the dog, "just curious, is all. I haven't seen many dogs before with pink ribbons around their neck, you see."

"She thought it went well with the fur, " said the dogs face. "Don't tell her, but if you ask me, she's even more colour blind than I am. Still what's a dog to do, I ask you?"

"It does make you stand out from other dogs," I replied truthfully.

The dog was shrewder than I expected and clearly understood what I meant by this. It fixed me with steely doggy stare.

"Well, at least I'm not having an imaginary conversation with a mute creature," it said somewhat indignantly.

"Ah right, good point," I replied, as the old woman caught up with us, and the dog ran off. I nodded at her and exchanged a pleasantry or two and then she continued to chase her quarry at her own glacial pace.

Tron rocks. What more need I add?

Reality sucks! I'm sure everyone reading my blog lately is too diplomatic to point out to me just how depressing things have been around here, but I wouldn't have resented you for telling me so. It's something I've needed to hear. It's time for a change around here, time to clean out my emotional cobwebs and start things afresh. And no, I'm not talking about anything as trivial as the look of the my blog, but the stuff I put into it. It's time to start exploring the world on the outside of my head a little more.

Here's my promise: No more whining about work. No more complaints about the flat or tardy deliveries or shoddy workmen. Enough of the doom. Enough of the gloom. Enough. That way lies the dark side. Quick and seductive it is, but life is too short to spend so much time emphasising the misery.

I've spent a good chunk of this weekend reconnecting with people whom I've been in danger of falling out of touch with. To say it felt good would be an understatement. I've been relying on this blog as means of communicating with my friends but it's a poor substitute for more direct contact, and I'm going to stop treating it as such. I've got more friends to talk to, and things to arrange. People to see, things to do.

Life is good.

Apologies if I've seemed a little distant this week. Work's been on my mind a little more than usual, with threatening looking deadlines approaching at a considerable rate of knots. I've been fortunate in the past regarding deadlines as I've been given a considerable amount of, how to put this... flexibility in when I've had to deliver the goods, but as the company has been taking on more and more clients our approach to deadlines has become stricter and stricter, and rightly so.

Unusually I've found myself working later and later as a result. It's quite a departure for me. People I've spoken to about working from home have generally recommended getting into some sort of routine when starting and finishing work, in order to make certain that you get into and out of the work mindset. It's not something I've ever felt I've required. I'm the sort of person who has a little lightbulb in their head that flips on at 9am and off again at 5:30pm. That's when I start and when I stop. I can work outside those hours, but only with the intense awareness that I'm working when I shouldn't.

Anyway, that's all neither here nor there, and I only mention it because I was informed that today is Work Your Proper Hours day. All I can say is that my face is absent the normal smirk it would once have had as I typed that.

Perhaps, having watched the first series of The Apprentice last year, I've become somewhat immune to the format. Last time around I remember watching the first episode and instantly coming to the conclusion that the producers had deliberately set out to find 14 of the most ghastly people in the country to present before us. This years contestants don't seem quite so immediately objectionable (aside from Syed, who is clearly being edited as the villain of the piece), although I can't say I'd look forward to spending much time in their company, particularly Jo, the over-excitable woman with the curly blonde hair, who seemed to spend most of the programme bouncing from one emotional extreme to another.

Still, one of the great successes of the last series was that by the end of it, you actually found yourself rooting for the remaining characters. Saira for example, who will be forever remember as "the gobby one" and her determination in the face of adversity, or James, who was just so gosh-darned nice, one of those immensely likeable chaps who was probably picked first for all the sports at school, but never made you feel bad about it. Of course, there was also the detestable Paul (who my family generally agreed was a thoroughly misogynistic cad).

I'm sure they individual characteristics of this year's lot will become more obvious once the numbers have been whittled down a bit. The camaraderie amongst the boys team evaporated as soon they'd realised they'd lost the task, and their griping over the tactics used by the girls team was thoroughly disingenuous - it was clear enough that their unspoken regret was that they hadn't thought of it themselves. They wasted little time turning on each other once summoned into the board room and the signs are that there will be a bloodbath before too long. I'm rather looking forward to it.

Choreograph it to music. I've not heard of Chris Bliss before, but I'm moderately impressed...

The light outside my front door requires a new bulb. It's one of those vaguely irritating non-issues that don't bother me enough to do anything about. Admittedly I means that I step outside into near total darkness, and requires me to find the keyhole through touch alone, but it's not proven much of an obstacle so far. A minor nuisance.

At least that's what I thought. Until I stepped outside and trod on the cat that had taken refuge on my doormat. I was worried for a moment that I might have done the poor creature some serious harm, but although it shot off at some speed, it stopped not too far away, and gave me what I supposed to be a fairly menacing stare. It appeared uninjured thankfully, though I thought I'd best give it a wide berth after that.

After I'd walked off a little way, I looked back and spotted the cat returning to my door mat. I'll be ready for it next time...

I didn't buy a garlic press today. I've not been buying a garlic presses a lot lately, which is rather irksome because I want a garlic press. At least I think I want a garlic press. I'm a little conflicted on the matter, since I find the process of chopping small pieces of matter (say, a cloves of garlic) into unfeasibly smaller pieces of matter oddly soothing (or perhaps it's just playing with sharp knives). On the downside, it's time consuming, and I dislike the odour of garlic on my fingers afterwards, not to mention the taste when I forget myself and inadvertently lick my fingers (although garlic does seem to go rather well with milk curiously enough).

But for some reason I seem unable to hold an image of a garlic press in my mind for any length of time. It doesn't seem to take long before my thoughts slip off the subject onto other shinier items instead. Today for example, my shopping list consisted of a battery for a remote control and a garlic press. I returned with a battery for the remote control, a new universal remote control - thus negating the need for the battery in the first place - and an audio cable which I'm sure is going to come in handy one day. And no garlic press. Similar expeditions in the past have ended in a similar fashion, although to my credit I have brought home a considerable number of useful items that aren't garlic presses. And a few other items that I'm sure will come in handy one day. And a strange thing with suckers on it that probably isn't going to come in handy, but which looked rather intriguing. At one point I did come very close to buying a garlic press, before being evacuated out of the shop when the fire alarm rang.

Is it a conspiracy perhaps? Could there be some reason the universe conspires against my owning a garlic press? Perhaps it's a signal that I should have better things to do with my time than worry about such frippery. Or maybe - just maybe - it doesn't mean anything at all...

A video of laughing quadruplets. Fair warms the cockles of my heart it does.

It's Bafta season, apparently. That fact seemed to sneak up on me - I hadn't realised the awards were tonight until I flipped the television over and saw the programme beginning. It's not something I usually pay attention to, but it gave me something to concentrate on whilst my hands were otherwise engaged with my balls (for contact juggling, obviously. Sigh.). Not too many upsets along the way, but the biggest surprise was the sublime "Curse of the Were-rabbit" taking home best British picture. It's a rare honour when animated films win out against what are generally considered, as Nick Park himself wryly noted, "proper" films. Perhaps the most moving part of the awards came when Peter Sallis took to the stage alongside Nick Park and other members of the Wallace and Grommit production team. He shuffled up to the microphone, a cane bearing his weight, and began to give his thank you's. Though his voice was unmistakably that of Wallace, his halting delivery seemed a million miles removed from the sprightly energy in the voice of his animated counterpart. A far, far frailer figure than I'd expected to see, he looked all of his eighty-five years. I watched the remainder of the awards under a bit of a pall afterwards.

Google video of some parkour with added Mario music and sound effects. Kind of cute.

Personally, I think think these are equally appropriate for mothers too

Ah, what is it about the noble art of juggling that lends itself so well to tawdry innuendo? The opportunity to make endless puns involving the word "balls" perhaps?

My shiny new acrylic balls arrived in the post from Fire Toys this morning. Whilst I recalled a note on the web site I ordered them from recommending checking the contents before signing for a delivery, I skipped this step and sent the delivery man on his merry way before I got around to opening my package. I rather wish I'd followed the advice on the site a little more carefully, since when I opened the jiffy bag, I discovered two acrylic balls, one in fetching shade of translucent blue, and the other a delicate and slightly more opaque orange, bearing a pleasing resemblance to a balloon filled with water. Both are pleasingly heavy to the touch and great improvement on the stage balls I'd been toying with before, but dishearteningly, neither was what I'd ordered. I double checked my email receipt, which confirmed that I had indeed ordered two crystal clear balls, though this did seem to be at odds with the invoice that came with the package which clearly listed the two different colours. These weren't the balls I was looking for. I began wondering how to go about exchanging...

"Oi!"

Who said that?

"I did. It's me, your subconscious."

Um, I don't mean to be rude, but aren't you a touch... vocal for a subconscious?

"Yeah, yeah, I know, I know. I'm not meant to be this direct, but you're overlooking something."

I am? What?

"Well, if I could tell you that I'd hardly be your subconscious would I?"

Well if you ask me you're hardly behaving like a subconscious now.

"Touché."

So what, I'm just meant to guess am I? How about a hint, surely you can do that much?

"Ok, ok, notice anything weird about the package?"

No, I can't say that I... no, wait. Now that you mention it, I paid a little extra for courier delivery, and it was delivered by the Royal Mail.

"Now we're getting somewhere. Anything else?"

Yes, the delivery address was printed all in lower case. It's not much I know, but I thought that was a bit odd. It's a bit embarrassing but I actually take some pride in typing my address in. It's my very first address (that's all mine), you see and I always capitalise the address.

"And this means...?"

I'm not... I mean, I don't... oh. Wait. I need to take another look at that invoice don't I?

"By Jove, I think he's got it! My work here is done. Bye now."

And I've just had a closer look at that invoice, particularly the invoice address, which cleared up that little mystery. All I can say is thank you for the encouragement, and unexpected vote of confidence, which I hope I can return one day.

Containing some inventive ideas about communication

I can only hope the BBC pick up a badly dubbed version of the new series. It'll be just like the old days...

A couple of my friends had a baby this morning. It doesn't really matter what else I put here, since nothing's going to compare to that. I'm immensely happy for all concerned and I wish the proud parents nothing but the very best. Welcome to the world Catriona Elizabeth - pay close attention to those two big people hovering about you and you'll be just fine.

My juggling skills really aren't what they once were. In truth I was never that good a juggler, though I could cope well enough with most of the basics. Even when it came to contact juggling I never really got off the bottom rung. This was illustrated this afternoon when I idled away a moment or two at a cash register by picking up a ball of rubber bands that lay on the counter and tried to give it a whirl. Much to my surprise the guy behind the counter proved himself a far more able contact juggler than myself. I felt a little chastened, but he seemed pleased to find someone else interested in that particular discipline, and informed me that there was a regular meeting every Thursday evening, during which a group of random people assemble to practice assorted juggling and circus skills. He kindly jotted down their address for (which turned out to be only a 20 minute walk from my flat). Given my whinge earlier in the week about my need to get out more and socialise, this seemed a fortuitous occurrence.

So tonight, with some trepidation, I headed along to the address on the paper in my pocket. I didn't realise it at the time, but apparently they're associated with these people, and it's a serious endeavour funded by the Scottish Arts Council. It all takes place in a fantastically ramshackle building which I think used to be a lumber yard. I found myself gazing at the trapeze dangling from the ceiling with some wonder (post Cirque de Soleil I found myself wonder how easy it would be to learn the trapeze).

Whilst I'm no judge of anyone's age, I'd nevertheless guess that I had about 10 years or so on most of the assemblege, and a great deal to learn to catch up with the skills on display. Most everyone there had obviously spent a great deal of time in practice (with a lot of poi work, and stick twirling on display - Nicky would be interested in that, I must remember to mention it to him) and my contact juggling skills seemed particularly meagre by comparison. I could claim to be some 10 years out of practice, but the truth is that I was simply never that good to begin with. However, I'm certainly capable of improvement and it was good to see others perform in the flesh. I spoke for a while to Steve, the guy who'd invited me along (and who was almost depressingly modest about his abilities, despite their far exceeding my own). During the conversation Steve explained how much help the web had been with his learning, and I had to confess that when I'd started learning the web (and indeed the internet) was a very different creature than it is now. For a moment I felt old, but only for a moment.

I returned home, and immediately ordered a set of two 75mm acrylic contact balls. I have a 60mm ball tucked away somewhere, but the larger balls are easier to work with. Ideally I'd like 4, but I can't quite justify spending that much money in one go, so I'll order another pair next month, when my back is turned.

What an unexpectedly pleasant day.

My internal calendar isn't terribly complex. For me the year divides neatly into two distinct seasons: the period from November 15th to February 15th and the rest of the year. Lest that seem like a meaningless division, the winter months I've singled out are the Dark Days during which over the last decade or so I've gotten used to getting up in darkness and leaving work in darkness. Obviously with my current working pattern, that's no longer quite as true as it once was, but I left my flat this afternoon (I had to stop myself from writing "left work" there, which is also true, and probably another topic for discussion), I realised that the inky night I'd expected to step out into strangely absent, and it took me a few moments to connect that with the date. The evening was closer to a sort of pre-twilight rather than broad daylight, but it was nevertheless bright enough to navigate without the aid of streetlamps. The realisation that the Dark Days are over for another nine months put a smile on my face and lent my step an extra springiness.

Summer's practically here already!

As it turns out you probably wouldn't. I'll stick with my nice sealed carton of milk, thankyouverymuch.

With nothing better to do this Valentine's evening (sniff), I found myself curled up on the sofa catching up with some work (one of the consequences of my visit last week was that I found out exactly how much work had been accumulated for me). Fortunately I found a distraction tucked away in the dark recesses of BBC4, host of a Jackanory celebration. Yay! As well a painting a detailed history of the programme over it's thirty year history (so many familiar faces!) it also featured repeats of some of the series classic moments. Those chosen were Judi Dench's rendition of "A Dog So Small", Alan Bennet's fondly remembered reading of "A House On Pooh Corner", the marvellous Kenneth Williams (with a book unfamiliar to me), and bestest of all, Rik Mayall's anarchic performance of Roalh Dahl's "George's Marvellous Medicine" (which unsurprisingly was revealed to have resulted in a flood of complaints to the BBC). The latter is generally remembered as one of the highlights of the series over it's long history, and I can't disagree - it was great to watch Rik Mayall tearing through the flimsy sets, upending everything he could get his hands on into his enormous cauldron of a saucepan and generally creating an almighty mess. Apparently one grandmother discovered her children repeating this experiment after they'd watched the programme. The scamps had filled the bath with everything the could find, including a bottle of paint stripper which utterly ruined the bath. Quite frankly, having watched the programme again, I'm surprised there weren't more reports of such incidents. Rik Mayall made it look like terribly good fun that quite frankly it's just as well I don't have a bath else I'd probably be emptying noxious things into it right now. Yes, I really am that impressionable.

At the end we were reminded again that Jackanory will be making a return this Autumn after a near decade long absence from our screens. I've mused before as to whether I'd really care if it returned or not, but having seen what I've just seen, I do believe I'll make an effort to catch it when it's back. It was a great pleasure to watch again, hearkening back to such a different age of television.

Perhaps nostalgia is what it used to be after all

This place doesn't feel the same any more. My blog I mean. It seems emptier than before somehow, as though it's just my thoughts rattling around in empty space. I know there's at least a few of you out there still reading this, but it feels different that it once did. I'm not sure why. I've been having doubts about continuing blogging recently. It may well be a good way to keep my friends (i.e. you) up to date on my comings-and-goings, but it's a poor substitute for more direct contact. Telephones and what-nots, even email. Not to mention actually meeting in person.

Still, I found myself browsing through my archives recently and was glad that I've recorded what I have. It brought back a flood of memories, some happy, some not so, but nothing I'd change (though I might be tempted to fix some grammar/punctuation/spelling errors). It's a strong incentive to continue The trouble for the moment is that I seem to find myself more and more at a loss for things to write about, which I'm sure is a consequence of my current situation. That I need to get out more and socialise is fairly obvious. And a new job probably wouldn't go amiss either, although the number of programming jobs in Edinburgh are depressingly few. Ironically my particular set of skills are much in demand in London right now, and I even have a few contacts I could put to good use. I'm not about to rush back there anytime soon, but I've never really considered that a return might be a necessity in terms of my career. Although I suppose I could consider a different career. Not sure what though. What do other people do for a living?

Anyway, that's enough introspection for the moment, although if you've any comments, I really wouldn't mind hearing them.

To cap off a busy weekend, my family decided to go ice-skating today. I can't really begin to stress what an unusual event this is, since, as a rule of thumb, my family rarely decides to do anything together. As individuals we tend to pull in too many distinct directions to ever form a cohesive gestalt. Aside from the ritual of Sunday dinners, which are really a testament to my Mum's steely will more than anything else, I think the last time we banded together to do anything was when I persuaded the clan to join me at the movies for the release of Spider-man 2 on my birthday (testament to my steely will), about 18 months ago. Due to certain physical limitations we didn't manage to get everyone to the rink, but that still left an impressive number of us on the ice (10 or so).

I've only been ice skating a handful of times in my life, and, at a rough guess, the last time was around 17 years ago. I remember not faring too poorly on my skates (memory playing tricks perhaps?), and approached the event with little in the way of trepidation. I should have known better. Let me kill the suspense. I suck on ice. Big time. As I skittered across the frozen surface (being lapped by irritatingly graceful three year olds) I tried and failed to work out what I was doing wrong. I thought there might have been a problem with my skates, but after trying on my third pair I realised that that was little more than wishful thinking on my part. No, I realised as I frantically windmilled my arms around in a desperate effort to remain upright, I was the problem. I just couldn't quite get the hang of it, although I do believed I showed some very slight improvement after ninety minutes or so and our time in the rink had nearly expired. In the end I pulled off my accursed skates and revelled in the sensation of having sensation in my ankles again. On the plus side, I believe I coped better than my youngest brother. Although I wasn't around to witness his performance, that he stepped out of the rink having earned the nickname "Bambi" told me everything I needed to know.

Later on, we discussed what we should do next as a group. The two options that were presented were to either go skiing (at Edinburgh's dry ski slope), or to go to South Africa (the long talked about family holiday). Funnily enough, after at least one vociferous veto on the subject of skiing, the trip to South Africa looks like the more likely option.

Fascinating video about UI experiments involving touch screens capable of recognising multiple inputs. The timing's particularly interesting since the method of zooming in and out demonstrated in a segment of the video featured in a recent Apple patent application, leading to much speculation about tablet based Mac.

From our old friends and United Nuclear. I'm sorely tempted by this at only $30 for a small sample

Oh yes, I've been away. Sorry, should have mentioned something about that before I left - apologies if I left you dangling. Another trip to London, ostensibly for work purposes, but which - as usual - was a pretext for socialising with friends down there. That my visit was timed to coincide with a trip to see Cirque De Soleil (Alegria - the first Cirque production I saw, and still my favourite), as well as a friend's birthday was somewhat less than coincidental. I also had to make a mad dash back north in order to catch the Christmas present I gave Nicky and Kerry. More about that tomorrow I think. Today's been the sort of day when I've been in danger of being late for far too many important events which riles me something rotten. I'm now taking some to breath deeply and relax for a bit.

Before I go, though, here are two things that happened to me today: I discovered an article on procrastination and decided to put off reading it until tomorrow without appreciating the irony. Nextly I walked past a shop called Fads with a sign in the window saying "Closing soon". I laughed.

Shame there's no attribution - I'm curious as to who the photographer is

I believe the actual quote begins "a foolish consistency..." but it seems petty to let facts get in the way of a narrative.

Ah consistency. Good old reliable consistency, how I do cherish thee. That redoubtable certainty that what is, is, and shall continue to be, today, tomorrow and all the tomorrow's after that. What a wonderful thing it is. Well, until I get bored of it anyway. Which to be honest doesn't take very long. I'm fickle.

But yet I still cling to the idea that I display a degree of consistency, particularly about work matters, where, when it comes to coding at least, I wear the hat of the consistency police, trying to make sure that everyone codes to the same script. I sometimes find myself clinging to the idea of my own consistency, harbouring the illusion that if I were to approach a task twice over, I'd go through a very close approximation of the same steps I'd used before. This doesn't appear to be true however. My current assignment saw me develop a segment of code on Friday, and then on Monday I wrote something else to do almost exactly the same thing. I learned two things from this: firstly that I didn't realised I'd done the same thing twice, and secondly that I don't think I could have gone about it more differently if I'd tried.

There is an explanation - in both cases I'd approached two distinct problems, which were seemingly unrelated but which both threaded in the same direction and ultimately required the same task to be performed. The strange thing is that I didn't make the connection until I was done and was checking over something else at which point a metaphorical lightbulb popped into existence over my head, connecting what I'd previously considered to be two discrete pieces of information. It was a slightly disorienting experience, one I last recall going through at university when I was struggling to understand something I'd been taught in a lecture. Much to my surprise I realised that I already knew what I'd been taught, just not from that particular perspective.

I can't help but wonder what other related facts are floating around in my head, just waiting for some neurons to flare up and join the dots. What else could I be missing out on...?

Some wonderful portraits of farm animals and their owners. From Yann Arthus-Bertrand, the photographer behind the beautiful Earth From Above series.

Walking home yesterday I passed by a basement flat from which appeared to emanate a strangely familiar hum. I paused in front of the flat trying to place the noise before realising that it was exactly the same ominous sound emitted by the mysterious black obelisks in 2001: A Space Odyssey. The noise didn't appear to come from anywhere in particular and thought I was tempted to hang around and investigate further I was loath to hover about in front of the flat, lest I be mistaken for doer of dastardly deeds.

I returned home just now via the same route, and was surprised to discover the same baleful sound still echoing around. Again, I tried and failed to identify it's source. Given that it appears to be coming from a residential block of flats I can only speculate as to what the occupiers make of it. I'm going to keep an eye (ear) on it anyway. If it doesn't let up I may need to see what's involved in constructing a large black obelisk to set outside the place...

Interesting example of how Google punishes those who misbehave

I'm used to colds. Well, as used as you can become to any disease I suppose. Of course I'm not terribly fond of them, but I don't let them keep me from going about my daily activities. Sore throats I can cope with after all, as can I runny noses, irritatingly persistent coughs and endless bouts of sneezing. But I draw the line at perspiration. Sweating just isn't fun, particularly waking up in the morning and discovering my bed linen soaked through with sweat. It completely puts the dampers on having a lie in (pun intended). Really, really not pleasant. Fortunately my symptoms seem to be fading already so I'm hopeful that I'll be able to enjoy my Saturday morning lie in without having to towel dry myself first. Otherwise, well... ick!

Some of the black and white imagery is especially striking

Yes folks, it's Groundhog Day, that annual festival when we all take a break from the daily drudgery of our lives to pay attention to that soothsayer of soothsayers, that prognosticator of prognosticators, the one, the only Punxsutawney Phil! And I do mean one and only - pop along to groundhog.org (the official site of the Punxsutawney Groundhog Club), peruse the faq for a moment and you'll discover that the groundhog making today's prediction has been on the job since the very beginning, over 120 years ago. Now you might be wondering how such a thing is possible since that's some way beyond the natural lifespan of your common or garden average groundhog. Well folks, it's all there in black and white in the faq (so it must be true): "Punxsutawney Phil gets his longevity from drinking 'groundhog punch' a secret recipe. Phil takes one sip every summer at the Groundhog Picnic and it magically gives him seven more years of life." There you go - secrete groundhog punch. Bet you didn't know that!

But never mind all that now. The most important question, and the one I know you've all been waiting for, is whether we're in for six more weeks of winter or not. Well, I'm afraid Phil did indeed catch sight of his shadow this morning, which as I'm sure you all know well and true, means that we're in for a lengthier winter.

Hey now, don't blame me for the bad news - I don't make the rules. Talk to the groundhog, 'kay! Sheesh - don't you all know not to shoot the messenger?

'Make you happy tonight' as performed by Australian comedy group Tripod