What seems like an age ago, I reported on here that we'd won a big piece of work. Slightly earlier than that, I'd been pondering whether or not I wanted to win it, given that the delivery was bound to be long, hard and fraught with problems. Well, the last 10 months have been...umm...long, hard and fraught with problems (and, if you count the time spent on the procurement, and the months before that spent on the prototype, I've been working on this for nearly two years in total), but finally - and on time - the UK immigration "Points Based System" went live today.
At one point I felt as though I would have preferred to be in Bracknell or Slough for a change, rather than sitting alone in my home study. The reflected buzz of excitement from darn sarf was palpable. The surreal start to the day - waking up to the clock radio set to Radio 4, where a Today programme reporter was discussing...Points Based System! - was matched many times over with bulletins, TV reports, and messages of congratulations from various senior managers which dropped into my mail box at various times during the day.
This is only the first release. There are at least three more releases to plan, design, implement and test and the remaining work will occupy at least the rest of the year and possibly stretch into next, but for now and for a few precious hours, we can at least afford to pat ourselves on the back and raise our glasses to a job well done.
Friday, February 29, 2008
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Sit down before you read this
I've just come out of the shower. I know, I know, it's a work day, but I couldn't resist. After two months of showerlessness (combined with bathfulness obviously) I simply had to take a 20 minute break from the working day and stand under that wonderful, powerful, HOT stream of water for a bit. Ahhhhhhh that's better!
I could hardly wait until the plumber was out the door. He's a bit of a waffler, our plumber. Nice guy, you know, excellent tradesman, quality work and knows what he's talking about. But that's just it. He DOES like to talk about it. But I was very restrained and polite (in case you were wondering) even though I was thinking "shut up! Leave! NOW! I want a shower!!" the whole time.
I could hardly wait until the plumber was out the door. He's a bit of a waffler, our plumber. Nice guy, you know, excellent tradesman, quality work and knows what he's talking about. But that's just it. He DOES like to talk about it. But I was very restrained and polite (in case you were wondering) even though I was thinking "shut up! Leave! NOW! I want a shower!!" the whole time.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Book Review: Our Kid
If I'd written this review a day earlier it would have been very brief and not very complimentary. At that stage I'd read about a third of it and was utterly underwhelmed. Yesterday's train journey gave me the chance to finish the book in two further sittings and, as I've noticed before, doing this can help bring an otherwise tedious story to life. The things that had irritated me before were still there, but whether on account of me becoming more used to them, or flying past them more quickly, as I passed the halfway stage I began to enjoy it more.Part of this must be down to the fact that a lot of the first half is written in Lancashire dialect, and I found this extraordinarily trite. Couple that with the author's reliance on clichéd phrases which litter the pages and the whole thing adds up to language that really stood in the way of my enjoyment of the story. He was, in his defence, writing the book from the point of view of a boy of 11 or 12 at a time (the late 1930s) when people really did speak that way.
Or did they? Did they speak like this:
"Billy, you look awful," said Pauline. "Let me make you a cup of tea."
"I've just heard of the death of my best friend," he said.
That's taken from near the end of the book and reads more like someone's poor interpretation of what dialogue sounds like that what someone whose best friend had just died would really say. "I've just heard of the death..." ??? Wouldn't he, more realistically, say something like: "Robin's dead. Lost his footing on Kinder Scout. He fell forty feet. I can't believe it." ? It's mostly all like that.
The book is lauded as a "wonderful...book that pulls readers back to that different world...A glimpse of a lost reality" on its back cover, but it took me back to the late 50s/early 60s when my own parents and aunties used to talk like that. Back to a place I don't really want to be reminded of. Simple souls leading humdrum lives and talking in clichés over the back garden fence.
That said, parts of the book were reasonably interesting and it had rare flashes of humour that had me laughing out loud, but once again it's the kind of book I wouldn't have chosen to read and although I joined the book club for exactly that reason - to have my reading habits expanded - this is another example of a book I've reached the end of and wish I hadn't bothered.
Finally, I found it deeply ironic that over the last two years I've read more fictional novels written in the first person than I ever knew existed before. In the past my reading has, completely coincidentally I'm now convinced, consisted almost entirely of books written in the third person. And yet here is a story that is essentially autobiographical (i.e. one you'd expect to be first person) and he's chosen to write about himself in the third person. Weird.
Earthquake!
1am this morning. Nikki wakes me up shouting "John! What's that!?"
Post-hoc, I've read all these stories about people being scared, not knowing what it was, walking out into the street in their nightclothes and staring at the sky (the SKY????) etc etc. Me? I stare blearily at the headboard of the bed, moving rapidly backwards and forwards, listen to the VERY LOUD rumbling all through the house, turn around and watch the wardrobes - all three of them - rocking heartily from side to side and creaking fit to bust, and I mumble: "huh? It's an earthquake," turn over, and go instantly back to sleep.
I'm not easily impressed. At least, not when I'm asleep. In retrospect I wish I'd been awake for the whole thing, given that it only happens (at least, that big) once every 25 years or so.
Post-hoc, I've read all these stories about people being scared, not knowing what it was, walking out into the street in their nightclothes and staring at the sky (the SKY????) etc etc. Me? I stare blearily at the headboard of the bed, moving rapidly backwards and forwards, listen to the VERY LOUD rumbling all through the house, turn around and watch the wardrobes - all three of them - rocking heartily from side to side and creaking fit to bust, and I mumble: "huh? It's an earthquake," turn over, and go instantly back to sleep.
I'm not easily impressed. At least, not when I'm asleep. In retrospect I wish I'd been awake for the whole thing, given that it only happens (at least, that big) once every 25 years or so.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Three short ones
Travel to London always seems to get the blogging juices flowing, and today was no exception.
The Tutter.
This morning, catching the Tube from Victoria Station heading for Westminster, I stood next to a tutter. I don't know what she expected. It was 8.30 on a Tuesday morning. The middle of the rush hour. And yet whenever anyone jostled her, she'd make with an annoyed little tut. Like it was a personal affront, or something. I was behind her on the platform and we stepped aboard together. Having already had to let one train go due to overcrowding, those behind us were determined not to be caught out again, and heaved forward into the train, forcing us right up against those already standing inside. Sardines have it better. But it's nothing unusual for that time of day, on that particular part of the Underground.
After the train departed, the jostling continued for some minutes, as people made themselves more comfortable and adjusted their body shapes to fit whatever space remained. An elbow here. A laptop bag there. Tut. Tut. Tut.
The Wrong Date.
I've been blogging about travelling down to London on and off for almost two years, and actually making the journey for a lot longer. One thing has always puzzled/annoyed me. That car park in Fairfield Street never has the right date on its ticket machine. How hard can it be, I thought each time the ticket was served up, to set it to the right date? In my experience it is the only machine to suffer from this ignominy, but for at least three years it has been set exactly one day ahead.
On occasion it's even occurred to me to phone the number on the machine and complain. Why don't you get the flippin' date right on your machine? Funnily enough, after all these years when it's been the only machine with this problem, I found another one last week when I went to Wakefield to give a presentation. Right opposite our offices. Same problem.
Am I glad I never called up to moan about it. Don't know what it was about this morning that made me more awake than usual, but I finally had a Doh! moment and realised what was going on. It's a full day journey to Westminster and back. I feed the machine to the max. £4.50. It gives me a 24-hour ticket. It shows the expiry time. Tomorrow.
For an intelligent guy I can be *really* dumb sometimes.
Final presentation.
The last of my roadshow presentations this afternoon, and a much reduced audience after last week's high of 19. Both morning and afternoon sessions only had 5 attendees but the second one was marred by one of my audience texting throughout the whole performance. I'd have considered this rude whatever the size of audience but with just the six of us in a tiny meeting room it was not only rude but astonishingly blatant. A couple of the messages were deemed amusing enough to show to her immediate neighbour, along with exchanged smiles.
I just kept on talking. The consummate professional. The old guy at the front never noticed the smiley exchanges. He was asleep for almost the whole thing.
The Tutter.
This morning, catching the Tube from Victoria Station heading for Westminster, I stood next to a tutter. I don't know what she expected. It was 8.30 on a Tuesday morning. The middle of the rush hour. And yet whenever anyone jostled her, she'd make with an annoyed little tut. Like it was a personal affront, or something. I was behind her on the platform and we stepped aboard together. Having already had to let one train go due to overcrowding, those behind us were determined not to be caught out again, and heaved forward into the train, forcing us right up against those already standing inside. Sardines have it better. But it's nothing unusual for that time of day, on that particular part of the Underground.
After the train departed, the jostling continued for some minutes, as people made themselves more comfortable and adjusted their body shapes to fit whatever space remained. An elbow here. A laptop bag there. Tut. Tut. Tut.
The Wrong Date.
I've been blogging about travelling down to London on and off for almost two years, and actually making the journey for a lot longer. One thing has always puzzled/annoyed me. That car park in Fairfield Street never has the right date on its ticket machine. How hard can it be, I thought each time the ticket was served up, to set it to the right date? In my experience it is the only machine to suffer from this ignominy, but for at least three years it has been set exactly one day ahead.
On occasion it's even occurred to me to phone the number on the machine and complain. Why don't you get the flippin' date right on your machine? Funnily enough, after all these years when it's been the only machine with this problem, I found another one last week when I went to Wakefield to give a presentation. Right opposite our offices. Same problem.
Am I glad I never called up to moan about it. Don't know what it was about this morning that made me more awake than usual, but I finally had a Doh! moment and realised what was going on. It's a full day journey to Westminster and back. I feed the machine to the max. £4.50. It gives me a 24-hour ticket. It shows the expiry time. Tomorrow.
For an intelligent guy I can be *really* dumb sometimes.
Final presentation.
The last of my roadshow presentations this afternoon, and a much reduced audience after last week's high of 19. Both morning and afternoon sessions only had 5 attendees but the second one was marred by one of my audience texting throughout the whole performance. I'd have considered this rude whatever the size of audience but with just the six of us in a tiny meeting room it was not only rude but astonishingly blatant. A couple of the messages were deemed amusing enough to show to her immediate neighbour, along with exchanged smiles.
I just kept on talking. The consummate professional. The old guy at the front never noticed the smiley exchanges. He was asleep for almost the whole thing.
Monday, February 25, 2008
A slip of the tongue
Heard on the radio today:
"I get my flour direct from the mill the day after it's been milled, and you can't get fresher than that."
Err...yes you can. You could pick it up the same day it was milled. Duh.
"I get my flour direct from the mill the day after it's been milled, and you can't get fresher than that."
Err...yes you can. You could pick it up the same day it was milled. Duh.
Saturday, February 23, 2008
Prepare for the worst...
There's a well-known aphorism when facing a crisis, or preparing for some new encounter: Prepare for the worst, but expect the best.
Somehow I always manage to forget that last part.
We went excitedly to collect our newly framed pictures this morning. They looked very nice indeed, as far as we could tell with them swathed in bubble-wrap, and I left the shop thinking that I'd be happy to recommend their services. That was until we arrived home and unwrapped them. Because at least three of them are destined for the bathroom - a very well-lit room where the picture-hanging walls are perpendicular to the windows - we'd ordered them with non-reflective glass. It wasn't.
Quite apart from the fact that you pay quite a premium for NRG, we simply couldn't see anything of the picture when we held them up in position. Just a reflection of the windows. I took them back, and on the way there I was busy "preparing for the worst." In this respect I'm an absolute 100% true Brit. I *hate* complaining. I was imagining all sorts of confrontation - denial that we'd ordered them with NRG; claims that what was in the frames WAS NRG (I even took an example with me just in case, although I left it in the car as a backup, not wanting the guy to think I assumed he didn't know the difference); refusal to do anything about it since I'd already paid in full - all these things rattled round my head as I parked up and carried the seven framed pictures back into the shop.
I rang the bell for attention and the framer approached.
"I've got a problem."
"Oh?"
"Yes. We ordered these with non-reflective glass. It isn't."
"That'll be entirely my fault then. Leave it with me and I'll redo them and give you a call when they're ready."
As simple as that. No hassle, no argument, just total professionalism. The "best," in fact, that I should have expected.
Somehow I always manage to forget that last part.
We went excitedly to collect our newly framed pictures this morning. They looked very nice indeed, as far as we could tell with them swathed in bubble-wrap, and I left the shop thinking that I'd be happy to recommend their services. That was until we arrived home and unwrapped them. Because at least three of them are destined for the bathroom - a very well-lit room where the picture-hanging walls are perpendicular to the windows - we'd ordered them with non-reflective glass. It wasn't.
Quite apart from the fact that you pay quite a premium for NRG, we simply couldn't see anything of the picture when we held them up in position. Just a reflection of the windows. I took them back, and on the way there I was busy "preparing for the worst." In this respect I'm an absolute 100% true Brit. I *hate* complaining. I was imagining all sorts of confrontation - denial that we'd ordered them with NRG; claims that what was in the frames WAS NRG (I even took an example with me just in case, although I left it in the car as a backup, not wanting the guy to think I assumed he didn't know the difference); refusal to do anything about it since I'd already paid in full - all these things rattled round my head as I parked up and carried the seven framed pictures back into the shop.
I rang the bell for attention and the framer approached.
"I've got a problem."
"Oh?"
"Yes. We ordered these with non-reflective glass. It isn't."
"That'll be entirely my fault then. Leave it with me and I'll redo them and give you a call when they're ready."
As simple as that. No hassle, no argument, just total professionalism. The "best," in fact, that I should have expected.
Friday, February 22, 2008
Letter meme
This came to me from Chris, via Diane. I have to tell you about 10 things I love that start with the letter L. If you want to play along for yourself, leave a comment here and I'll assign you a letter so you can list your own 10 lovely things in your journal and start giving out letters of your own.
So here we go, in the order they occurred to me:
1. Lakes
Whether it's "The Lakes" - where we'll be spending a week with mates around the last bank holiday in May - or Lake Ontario - or any other large inland body of water, I love 'em. Even a reservoir has some of the attraction, if it's been landscaped.
2. Licorice
Not too keen on licorice allsorts, which tend to be too sweet, but I love the plain black stuff and the red stringy stuff is even better!
3. Love
It makes the world go round, you can't live without it, and the more you give it out the more you get back. I love the feeling of being in love, I love the company of loved ones. Lovely.
4. Legs
Some men are said to be "tit men" while others claim to be "bum men." I'm a leg man. A shapely leg, a glimpse of thigh as a skirt sways or parts, that tantalising shadow as legs are crossed and uncrossed. All will always set my pulse racing. Bare, for preference, and definitely none o' them nasty tights thengyoberrymuds.
5. Lightning
I could sit and watch it for hours, as well as the accompanying torrential rain and cracking thunderclaps. Nature's raw power. God's firework display. Dangerous, exciting, unpredictable.
6. Leaves
Swishing through the fallen ones in autumn, breathing in the heady scent of sweet decay, or listening to the wind through them, or watching the different shades of green flash and twist as they blow about. The smell of fresh rain on them. The multitude of shapes, sizes and colours. And, if you want to get technical, their bountiful offering of oxygen. There's a lot to like about leaves.
7. Laughter
I love to lie on my back and make myself laugh, but even more I like to laugh uncontrollably, helplessly, tear-rollingly, side-splittingly, until I gasp for breath. And even more than either of those, I love to make other people laugh. It can lighten your load, help your day move faster through its boring bits, and oil the wheels of friendship.
8. Lazy Sunday Afternoons
Sundays can be boring, but when you hit that sweet spot on a Sunday afternoon, when nothing needs doing and you can please yourself, and no-one will mind if you read a book, listen to some sounds, watch a movie or just have a nap, and there's the traditional English summer sounds of lawnmowers in the distant background and fat bees humming over the hollyhocks; that's when Sundays can be perfect.
9. Legends
I've always felt a particular affinity for the Arthurian legend, but legends in general intrigue and fascinate me.
10. Lindos
A bit of a cheat this one, because my favourite holiday spot is Pefkos, which is about 5km further south on Rhodes, but Lindos is a pretty little town and we've had some great times there, so it's not a total cheat.
So here we go, in the order they occurred to me:
1. Lakes
Whether it's "The Lakes" - where we'll be spending a week with mates around the last bank holiday in May - or Lake Ontario - or any other large inland body of water, I love 'em. Even a reservoir has some of the attraction, if it's been landscaped.
2. Licorice
Not too keen on licorice allsorts, which tend to be too sweet, but I love the plain black stuff and the red stringy stuff is even better!
3. Love
It makes the world go round, you can't live without it, and the more you give it out the more you get back. I love the feeling of being in love, I love the company of loved ones. Lovely.
4. Legs
Some men are said to be "tit men" while others claim to be "bum men." I'm a leg man. A shapely leg, a glimpse of thigh as a skirt sways or parts, that tantalising shadow as legs are crossed and uncrossed. All will always set my pulse racing. Bare, for preference, and definitely none o' them nasty tights thengyoberrymuds.
5. Lightning
I could sit and watch it for hours, as well as the accompanying torrential rain and cracking thunderclaps. Nature's raw power. God's firework display. Dangerous, exciting, unpredictable.
6. Leaves
Swishing through the fallen ones in autumn, breathing in the heady scent of sweet decay, or listening to the wind through them, or watching the different shades of green flash and twist as they blow about. The smell of fresh rain on them. The multitude of shapes, sizes and colours. And, if you want to get technical, their bountiful offering of oxygen. There's a lot to like about leaves.
7. Laughter
I love to lie on my back and make myself laugh, but even more I like to laugh uncontrollably, helplessly, tear-rollingly, side-splittingly, until I gasp for breath. And even more than either of those, I love to make other people laugh. It can lighten your load, help your day move faster through its boring bits, and oil the wheels of friendship.
8. Lazy Sunday Afternoons
Sundays can be boring, but when you hit that sweet spot on a Sunday afternoon, when nothing needs doing and you can please yourself, and no-one will mind if you read a book, listen to some sounds, watch a movie or just have a nap, and there's the traditional English summer sounds of lawnmowers in the distant background and fat bees humming over the hollyhocks; that's when Sundays can be perfect.
9. Legends
I've always felt a particular affinity for the Arthurian legend, but legends in general intrigue and fascinate me.
10. Lindos
A bit of a cheat this one, because my favourite holiday spot is Pefkos, which is about 5km further south on Rhodes, but Lindos is a pretty little town and we've had some great times there, so it's not a total cheat.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Flood Warning?
This morning's post comprised the usual mix of things for previous occupiers (yes, 16 months here and we're still getting them) together with a rather strange official missive from the Environment Agency.
We have determined, it said, that your home is at risk of flooding, so you have to fill in this prepaid reply form and let us know which ways you want to be contacted to warn you of an impending flood.
Blimmin' 'eck!!
Funny thing is though, when we were looking for a new property, we made a point of looking on their website at the flood prediction map, and it seemed pretty clear that our part of Manchester was not at risk. So either that global warming thingy is much more rampant than we realised, or someone in government is just playing it safe.
It'll be just our luck if this puts up the insurance premiums. Bah!
We have determined, it said, that your home is at risk of flooding, so you have to fill in this prepaid reply form and let us know which ways you want to be contacted to warn you of an impending flood.
Blimmin' 'eck!!
Funny thing is though, when we were looking for a new property, we made a point of looking on their website at the flood prediction map, and it seemed pretty clear that our part of Manchester was not at risk. So either that global warming thingy is much more rampant than we realised, or someone in government is just playing it safe.
It'll be just our luck if this puts up the insurance premiums. Bah!
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Frosty the Gardener
We had good intentions this weekend, honest we did, but staring out of the study window at the frosty garden, both yesterday AND today put paid to any ideas we had about
- Digging up the massive ferns that dominate the garden, and which we hate
- Filling the pond
- Cutting the grass
- Cutting back the dead bamboo/hydrangea/etc
- Generally tidying up
Saturday, February 16, 2008
Snaps
After my pathetic attempts to close my watch after replacing its battery, we went out today to get some professional help. We were intending to head into town to have some pictures framed, but having decided at the last minute to "keep it local" and use the Chorlton framer, we realised there was no need for a bus ride after all, so we drove instead to the Trafford Centre and paid a visit to the Watch Hospital.
The problem had him flummoxed for a few minutes too, which made me feel better. Eventually he had to resort to using a press - a bit like a cider press only designed for watchmakers (lol) to snap the back into place while holding it totally flat. The *crack* it gave when it finally popped into place made it obvious that I would never have been able to get it back with thumbs, or pliers, or any other tool that I possess.
After stopping off at Starbucks for a refresher, we headed into Chorlton centre for our visit to the framers. Nikki's had this great idea of setting up a "picture wall" in the study full of family pictures. We have an original copy of my Mum & Dad's wedding photo, as well as some of her as a young girl, and her Mum & Dad, and there's quite a supply of old B&W pics at my Mum's, so we should be able to make quite a feature of it. So we made a start with a couple of those, and we had some beach scenes for the bathroom that we bought ages ago, along with a seascape that we've had for so long we can't remember where it came from!
Picking them up next Saturday! Woohoo!
The problem had him flummoxed for a few minutes too, which made me feel better. Eventually he had to resort to using a press - a bit like a cider press only designed for watchmakers (lol) to snap the back into place while holding it totally flat. The *crack* it gave when it finally popped into place made it obvious that I would never have been able to get it back with thumbs, or pliers, or any other tool that I possess.
After stopping off at Starbucks for a refresher, we headed into Chorlton centre for our visit to the framers. Nikki's had this great idea of setting up a "picture wall" in the study full of family pictures. We have an original copy of my Mum & Dad's wedding photo, as well as some of her as a young girl, and her Mum & Dad, and there's quite a supply of old B&W pics at my Mum's, so we should be able to make quite a feature of it. So we made a start with a couple of those, and we had some beach scenes for the bathroom that we bought ages ago, along with a seascape that we've had for so long we can't remember where it came from!
Picking them up next Saturday! Woohoo!
Friday, February 15, 2008
No showers in the forecast
It's been a week since the plumber put his back out. Still no word. Still no shower. Jinxed, I tell you. Jinked.
This week's Friday Five:
1. Favorite shoes?
Good grief. I'm a bloke. I don't think about shoes until they fall apart. My "favourite" ones are the ones that are closest to the door when I'm on my way out.
2. What time does the sun set near you?
It tends to be around the same time as when it gets dark.
3. Do you like spending time in the sun?
Love it.
4. Do you burn or tan?
What a ridiculous question. *No-one* needs to burn if they take it slowly enough. Most people don't, but that doesn't mean it's inevitable, no matter what your "skin type." And it hacks me off when you get back from holiday and people say you've got a "nice sunburn" when they mean tan.
5. Monopoly: yay! or no way!
Used to be a yay! (ahh, those Monopoly weekends. Where did they go?) Last few times I've played it, it's been boring as all hell. Don't suppose I'll play again. Unless I have grand-kids one day...
This week's Friday Five:
1. Favorite shoes?
Good grief. I'm a bloke. I don't think about shoes until they fall apart. My "favourite" ones are the ones that are closest to the door when I'm on my way out.
2. What time does the sun set near you?
It tends to be around the same time as when it gets dark.
3. Do you like spending time in the sun?
Love it.
4. Do you burn or tan?
What a ridiculous question. *No-one* needs to burn if they take it slowly enough. Most people don't, but that doesn't mean it's inevitable, no matter what your "skin type." And it hacks me off when you get back from holiday and people say you've got a "nice sunburn" when they mean tan.
5. Monopoly: yay! or no way!
Used to be a yay! (ahh, those Monopoly weekends. Where did they go?) Last few times I've played it, it's been boring as all hell. Don't suppose I'll play again. Unless I have grand-kids one day...
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Assault with Battery
My watch stopped a week or so ago. Quite a rare occurence these days isn't it? I reckon I get somewhere between two and three years out of a watch battery. Even that's old tech now. I mentioned it to my career manager and he flashed his watch proudly. It has a small solar cell that keeps it going forever, basically. Doesn't even need sunlight. There's enough oomph in normal office or home lighting to keep it topped up.
Me, I'm still in the dark ages, and I haven't been wearing the watch since it stopped. Faced with a choice of glancing at a bare wrist several times a day, or at a watch set permanently at twenty-to-midnight, I chose the former. Why has this been going on so long? Well since the jeweller's closed down in Chorlton several years ago, it means a trip into town or the Trafford Centre to get the battery changed.
Or does it?
No. Nikki found a place on eBay selling watch batteries. 99p! Or you could buy a pack of six for not much more than a couple of quid, but as I pointed out - seeing as they last for three years, by the time you came to pull another one out of the packet they'd probably all be dead. So anyway, we ordered one. The P&P was twice as much as the battery, but we figured we were still quids in since jewellers charge about five quid and then another couple of quid to fit it.
Great service too - we ordered it yesterday and it arrived today. Fitting it was fairly straightforward. Being a well-made watch the battery is held in by a little arm that was a bit fiddly to get back into place, but I managed it in the end. Then I tried to refit the back. It's a tight fit. A very tight fit. Several times it snapped into place and I thought it was on, but there'd be just a little gap between the backplate and the case, and within a few seconds it would pop off again.
I set the watch carefully on my desk and stood over it, pressing down on both sides of the back with my thumbs. Snap! There. That had done it. Pop! Oh no it hadn't.
This went on for half an hour or so, until I decided I needed more leverage. Using paper tissues to protect the watch from the jaws, I used pliers to try and snap the back into place. But as soon as one side snapped shut, the other side would pop out again. The back has a clearly correct orientation, with a little tab on the side opposite the winder which you use to pop it open, and a gap cut in the bezel on the winder side for the winder shaft to pass underneath, so I knew I was holding it the right way. It just wouldn't shut. I fetched another pair of pliers. With two opposing pliers, and leaning on the handles from a standing position, I still couldn't apply enough leverage to snap the back on. I began to fear that I'd either scratch the case or crack the crystal, so I gave up. Looks like I will need a visit to a jeweller's after all!
Me, I'm still in the dark ages, and I haven't been wearing the watch since it stopped. Faced with a choice of glancing at a bare wrist several times a day, or at a watch set permanently at twenty-to-midnight, I chose the former. Why has this been going on so long? Well since the jeweller's closed down in Chorlton several years ago, it means a trip into town or the Trafford Centre to get the battery changed.
Or does it?
No. Nikki found a place on eBay selling watch batteries. 99p! Or you could buy a pack of six for not much more than a couple of quid, but as I pointed out - seeing as they last for three years, by the time you came to pull another one out of the packet they'd probably all be dead. So anyway, we ordered one. The P&P was twice as much as the battery, but we figured we were still quids in since jewellers charge about five quid and then another couple of quid to fit it.
Great service too - we ordered it yesterday and it arrived today. Fitting it was fairly straightforward. Being a well-made watch the battery is held in by a little arm that was a bit fiddly to get back into place, but I managed it in the end. Then I tried to refit the back. It's a tight fit. A very tight fit. Several times it snapped into place and I thought it was on, but there'd be just a little gap between the backplate and the case, and within a few seconds it would pop off again.
I set the watch carefully on my desk and stood over it, pressing down on both sides of the back with my thumbs. Snap! There. That had done it. Pop! Oh no it hadn't.
This went on for half an hour or so, until I decided I needed more leverage. Using paper tissues to protect the watch from the jaws, I used pliers to try and snap the back into place. But as soon as one side snapped shut, the other side would pop out again. The back has a clearly correct orientation, with a little tab on the side opposite the winder which you use to pop it open, and a gap cut in the bezel on the winder side for the winder shaft to pass underneath, so I knew I was holding it the right way. It just wouldn't shut. I fetched another pair of pliers. With two opposing pliers, and leaning on the handles from a standing position, I still couldn't apply enough leverage to snap the back on. I began to fear that I'd either scratch the case or crack the crystal, so I gave up. Looks like I will need a visit to a jeweller's after all!
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Digital TV: A solitary experience?
Yesterday one of my fellow TV Scoop writers was musing on the possibilities for future digital channels, and the question focused my mind on the incredible diversity of television output that's available every evening (not to mention daytime) now at the flip of a remote. It's so very different from the first viewing experience of a sizeable proportion of the viewing public, myself included, for whom the advent of BBC2 increased their viewing choice by 50% and the arrival of Channel 4 represented a radical change in programming - so much so that it took several years to be properly assimilated into the viewing habits of the majority.So different, yes, but is it better? When choices were limited, television was an activity for the whole family, and although what was on offer may not have been your first preference, there was usually something worth sitting in front of which would provide mutual entertainment and could often generate healthy discourse or occasionally heated debate with parents, brothers, sisters and maybe even grannies. Today TV is still an activity for the whole family, but in an entirely different way.
Until recently my cousin had three children living at home. And five TV sets. While her husband watched the cricket in the morning room and she was tucked up on the sofa in the lounge in front of Sex and the City, each of the kids was in their own room, watching their own TV. Often, by pure coincidence, it would happen that they were watching the same thing, but they never got together. Viewing was a solitary experience for them as it is becoming for more and more of the nation's telly addicts.
Minor-interest or targetted channels like Dave, and the potential equivalent ladies and gay channels of which my aforementioned colleague wrote, can only serve to exacerbate this fragmentation of viewing life.
It's not just output variety that is driving this separation of interests. The increasing diversity of channels through which television can be consumed is pushing in the same direction. Not many homes have five sets like my cousin, but with USB-connected freeview tuners readily available, media streamed over the Internet, and TV companies publishing their content through YouTube, multiple traditional TV sets are increasingly unnecessary. A desktop PC, a laptop PC, or even a mobile phone as shown above can all step into the breach, and all are likely to be found in rooms other than the one with the main TV set in, which again means isolated viewing.
Added to this the increasing popularity of social networking sites like Facebook, where even my old local has a group through which we can all vicariously participate in their ongoing calendar of events without ever setting foot in the pub, and the chilling prospect of Huxley's Brave New World coupled with Forster's The Machine Stops takes a step closer.
I'm not advocating a return to the "good old days" of ITV and BBC being the only channels, but the prospect of a future where we all sit alone in our little cells consuming our personally- targetted programmes doesn't hold much excitement for me either. How about you?
[This article originally appeared on TV Scoop]
Monday, February 11, 2008
Stormy Petrol
What is it with me and people who run out of petrol? You remember a while ago how I was accosted late one evening walking back to the car park by a woman who needed to buy a few of litres of fuel to get her home to Yorkshire?
Well last week it happened again. I was sitting in my car waiting for Nikki to come out of work when a guy approached me and gestured that I should wind my window down. He asked me if I had a petrol can, as he'd almost run out of fuel and neither of the two garages within walking distance had any for sale. I had to disappoint him. I don't carry a fuel can.
"Do you work here?" he asked
"No, I'm waiting for my wife." (so much easier and quicker, and less prone to misinterpretation than "partner")
"Could you possibly spare some cash for the petrol? Neither of these stations will take my fuel card either."
I fumbled in my wallet. I don't know what made me do it, but I figured petrol's expensive these days, he hadn't said how far he had to go, and to be honest he'd caught me by surprise and I wasn't really thinking straight. I gave him twenty quid.
"You're a life saver mate. Look - what's your number?"
He took out his mobile phone and entered my name and number.
"Right, I'll drop the money back here next week and call you to let you know it's here."
"OK. You can leave it with the security guard."
"Thanks again."
And with that, he was gone.
Did I really expect to get the money back? Well yes, actually. I mean, if I'd thought about it more carefully I might have given him a tenner rather than twenty - enough for a couple of gallons and therefore at least a 70 mile journey - but I would still have given him something. And even if I never see the money again, it's on his karma not mine. It won't stop me helping out some other poor sod who's stuck in the future. I won't think "nah, I've been stung once - maybe twice - now, I'm not falling for it again," because that could be the one time the person doing the asking is really in trouble. And you know what they say. There but for the grace of God, and all that. It could be me one day.
Still pisses me off though. That was last Wednesday, and the money hasn't turned up yet.
Well last week it happened again. I was sitting in my car waiting for Nikki to come out of work when a guy approached me and gestured that I should wind my window down. He asked me if I had a petrol can, as he'd almost run out of fuel and neither of the two garages within walking distance had any for sale. I had to disappoint him. I don't carry a fuel can.
"Do you work here?" he asked
"No, I'm waiting for my wife." (so much easier and quicker, and less prone to misinterpretation than "partner")
"Could you possibly spare some cash for the petrol? Neither of these stations will take my fuel card either."
I fumbled in my wallet. I don't know what made me do it, but I figured petrol's expensive these days, he hadn't said how far he had to go, and to be honest he'd caught me by surprise and I wasn't really thinking straight. I gave him twenty quid.
"You're a life saver mate. Look - what's your number?"
He took out his mobile phone and entered my name and number.
"Right, I'll drop the money back here next week and call you to let you know it's here."
"OK. You can leave it with the security guard."
"Thanks again."
And with that, he was gone.
Did I really expect to get the money back? Well yes, actually. I mean, if I'd thought about it more carefully I might have given him a tenner rather than twenty - enough for a couple of gallons and therefore at least a 70 mile journey - but I would still have given him something. And even if I never see the money again, it's on his karma not mine. It won't stop me helping out some other poor sod who's stuck in the future. I won't think "nah, I've been stung once - maybe twice - now, I'm not falling for it again," because that could be the one time the person doing the asking is really in trouble. And you know what they say. There but for the grace of God, and all that. It could be me one day.
Still pisses me off though. That was last Wednesday, and the money hasn't turned up yet.
Sunday, February 10, 2008
Bollywood Night!
Sorry for the lack of updates the last two weeks. It's been about as hectic as normal but on top of that I've been feeling a bit lethargic and energy-free. Let's still pretend I'm posting this the Sunday before LAST Sunday though, cos as regular readers will know I like to keep things chronological.
Bollywood Night. What can I say? Spawned from the idea of Mexican Night that we did on the street last October, this time the theme was...well, the clue is in the title. The food was Indian, and the costumes were as outrageously Bollywood as we could manage. Now last time, we had the piss taken mercilessly because we were the only ones who didn't make an effort and dress the part. This time round we were determined to do things properly, and Nikki found a fabulous online store for Indian costume - Rupali - which also happened to be fabulously cheap AND had a sale on on top of that!
Here are the results:
Nikki's is a Salwar suit, with a shawl and some traditional jewellery, and "John is wearing" a traditional kurta. We also managed to find a couple of pashminas and some more sparkly jewellery for the girls, who selected appropriate tops and bottoms from their own wardrobe to set them off.
The progression around the street was still very logical, but we started on the other side, travelled all the way down to the end, around the corner to our perpendicular neighbours, and then back around the corner and up our side of the street, finishing up back at the same end we started, but opposite. Hope you followed that. Eight houses in all, about 40 minutes per house, and it meant we were second-to-last which made things very easy for us. I hope no-one thought it was a cop-out but we just paid a visit to the Sanam Sweet Centre in Rusholme and bought a very large plate of Indian sweets. Three kilos, to be precise.
Naturally this was way too much. By the time we'd all eaten our way through the six preceding houses we were feeling pretty full so the sweets were picked over and we were left with piles to eat with our Sunday afternoon movies (no bad thing as it happens *vbg*). Strangely as it turned out very few people made a "traditional" curry. The first house started off, naturally enough, with poppadums, onion bhajias and samosas, with some rather fine minty yoghurt and all the traditional bits and pieces. The next house (the only REAL Indian family in the street) treated us to some home-made dough balls and a delicious fried spicy cabbage starter that is virtually a staple in that part of India their families originate from. Next we were treated to some spicy kebabs of various kinds - fish, chicken and veggie and finally, at the fourth house, we enjoyed a "proper" curry - a fabulous chick-pea dish with rice which I couldn't resist going back for more of. Twice over. Stir fry tofu at the fifth house (which I avoided), a rather splendid home-made sorbet at house #6, then us (with our streaming, Internet-enabled XBox tuned to a Bhangra station on Shoutcast), and finally a virtual banquet of cheesecake, home-made dough fingers in honey and fruit salad that struggled to be "Indian" but was nonetheless delicious.
The evening ended shortly after 1am, and looking back although it was all really enjoyable, eight houses (two more than last time) felt a little rushed. We never really had chance to settle in any one house and everyone always had their eyes on the clock. With so many extra houses, together with their extra people, simply serving up the food to everyone and eating it took up almost all of the 40 minutes leaving little time for just sitting back and enjoying the occasion.
We've somehow been nominated to organise the next one - a Greek night - and I think we'll try to restrict the number of houses to bring a bit more relaxation to the party. Even so, a cracking night which has cemented the idea of "themed party" foodie nights on the street for some time to come.
Bollywood Night. What can I say? Spawned from the idea of Mexican Night that we did on the street last October, this time the theme was...well, the clue is in the title. The food was Indian, and the costumes were as outrageously Bollywood as we could manage. Now last time, we had the piss taken mercilessly because we were the only ones who didn't make an effort and dress the part. This time round we were determined to do things properly, and Nikki found a fabulous online store for Indian costume - Rupali - which also happened to be fabulously cheap AND had a sale on on top of that!
Here are the results:Nikki's is a Salwar suit, with a shawl and some traditional jewellery, and "John is wearing" a traditional kurta. We also managed to find a couple of pashminas and some more sparkly jewellery for the girls, who selected appropriate tops and bottoms from their own wardrobe to set them off.
The progression around the street was still very logical, but we started on the other side, travelled all the way down to the end, around the corner to our perpendicular neighbours, and then back around the corner and up our side of the street, finishing up back at the same end we started, but opposite. Hope you followed that. Eight houses in all, about 40 minutes per house, and it meant we were second-to-last which made things very easy for us. I hope no-one thought it was a cop-out but we just paid a visit to the Sanam Sweet Centre in Rusholme and bought a very large plate of Indian sweets. Three kilos, to be precise.
Naturally this was way too much. By the time we'd all eaten our way through the six preceding houses we were feeling pretty full so the sweets were picked over and we were left with piles to eat with our Sunday afternoon movies (no bad thing as it happens *vbg*). Strangely as it turned out very few people made a "traditional" curry. The first house started off, naturally enough, with poppadums, onion bhajias and samosas, with some rather fine minty yoghurt and all the traditional bits and pieces. The next house (the only REAL Indian family in the street) treated us to some home-made dough balls and a delicious fried spicy cabbage starter that is virtually a staple in that part of India their families originate from. Next we were treated to some spicy kebabs of various kinds - fish, chicken and veggie and finally, at the fourth house, we enjoyed a "proper" curry - a fabulous chick-pea dish with rice which I couldn't resist going back for more of. Twice over. Stir fry tofu at the fifth house (which I avoided), a rather splendid home-made sorbet at house #6, then us (with our streaming, Internet-enabled XBox tuned to a Bhangra station on Shoutcast), and finally a virtual banquet of cheesecake, home-made dough fingers in honey and fruit salad that struggled to be "Indian" but was nonetheless delicious.The evening ended shortly after 1am, and looking back although it was all really enjoyable, eight houses (two more than last time) felt a little rushed. We never really had chance to settle in any one house and everyone always had their eyes on the clock. With so many extra houses, together with their extra people, simply serving up the food to everyone and eating it took up almost all of the 40 minutes leaving little time for just sitting back and enjoying the occasion.We've somehow been nominated to organise the next one - a Greek night - and I think we'll try to restrict the number of houses to bring a bit more relaxation to the party. Even so, a cracking night which has cemented the idea of "themed party" foodie nights on the street for some time to come.
Friday, February 08, 2008
Friday Five and more shower shenanigans
As you know, we've been having problems with our shower. As if we didn't have enough trouble when it was being fitted. Then they sent the wrong replacement. You might thing the blimmin' thing is jinxed. Well, good as their word the suppliers dropped off the (correct!) replacement unit last week and I'd arranged for our plumber to call today to fit it.
Only he was late.
So I called him. He's put his back out. He won't be able to come until next Friday. So we've another week of baths to look forward to. I use the phrase "look forward to" loosely, as I am very definitely NOT a bath person. Hmph.
1. What are you set on?
Being published. Eventually.
2. What do you have to do right?
Just about everything, lol. But especially writing. I kick myself if I slip up in a public forum and write "there" instead of "their", or "your" instead of "you're." The kind of thing spellcheckers (which I never use anyway) don't find. I like to have time to review something before posting it, but sometimes if I'm dashing something off I don't have that luxury.
3. Have any kids?
Yes. Two daughters. Both beautiful. Both amazing. Intelligent, witty, charming, thoughtful and capable. And no, I'm not biased.
4. Are you patient?
You wouldn't think so if you sat beside me while I was driving behind one of the many slowpokes or red-light-runners that inhabit Manchester's streets. But in general, yes. Once when I was about 12 or 13 my uncle's lawnmower wasn't working properly. I spent about two hours adjusting the blades until it cut a perfect swathe across his lawn. It didn't feel like I was being particularly patient - just doing the job properly (see above, lol) - but he said he was impressed with how patient I'd been.
5. Friday fill-in:
I know if I put my mind to it ______.
I could do anything.
Only he was late.
So I called him. He's put his back out. He won't be able to come until next Friday. So we've another week of baths to look forward to. I use the phrase "look forward to" loosely, as I am very definitely NOT a bath person. Hmph.
1. What are you set on?
Being published. Eventually.
2. What do you have to do right?
Just about everything, lol. But especially writing. I kick myself if I slip up in a public forum and write "there" instead of "their", or "your" instead of "you're." The kind of thing spellcheckers (which I never use anyway) don't find. I like to have time to review something before posting it, but sometimes if I'm dashing something off I don't have that luxury.
3. Have any kids?
Yes. Two daughters. Both beautiful. Both amazing. Intelligent, witty, charming, thoughtful and capable. And no, I'm not biased.
4. Are you patient?
You wouldn't think so if you sat beside me while I was driving behind one of the many slowpokes or red-light-runners that inhabit Manchester's streets. But in general, yes. Once when I was about 12 or 13 my uncle's lawnmower wasn't working properly. I spent about two hours adjusting the blades until it cut a perfect swathe across his lawn. It didn't feel like I was being particularly patient - just doing the job properly (see above, lol) - but he said he was impressed with how patient I'd been.
5. Friday fill-in:
I know if I put my mind to it ______.
I could do anything.
Thursday, February 07, 2008
Pissing in the wind
The radio this morning had an article about teenage drinking that contained some alarming statistics. For the first time (I guess since they started doing surveys of this kind) more 11-13 year olds have drunk alcohol than haven't. In other words more than half have. So what? you might think, having in mind an idyllic scene of a family dinner at a large table on a tree-lined patio, the summer sun beating down as everyone takes genteel sips from their wine glasses. But such contintental scenes are, sadly, restricted to...err...the continent. We do it differently here. These teens and pre-teens are more likely to be seen falling around drunkenly in the park, the playing field, or whatever passes for a disco these days.
They interviewed a 13-year-old girl and asked her what she usually drank. WKD and Lambrini was the answer. They had to explain what that was for the Radio 4 audience (which made me feel quite street) and then asked her why that was her tipple of choice. "Because it tastes like pop," came the entirely unsurprising answer.
Then we were treated to a government spokesman wringing his hands and wailing about the problem of underage drinking, and drinking in general, and proudly announcing new powers for the police to be able to confiscate drink from anyone underage found boozing in the street.
Excuse me?
Is that really the best they can do? Hello? Horse. Bolted. This from a government that's been in power for more than 10 years, introduced the law that allows 24-hour drinking, and has presided over an ever-increasing thrusting of alcohol at all members of society through as many outlets as possible. Yes, you have to apply for a licence, but alcohol is now available everywhere. Last year I bemoaned the neanderthals who can't visit a concert without walking in carrying a beer bottle in each hand and proceed to interrupt the performance every five minutes to either replenish their supplies or make room for more. But it's not just concerts. An increasing number of people seem incapable of enjoying themselves without alcohol no matter what they're doing. And pint-for-pint in real terms, with two-for-one offers on already slashed prices, booze in all forms has never been cheaper.
So on the one hand, they cry and wail about how much everyone is drinking, and on the other hand they cry and wail about how pubs are going out of business and we're losing our traditional social fabric. The short-sightedness of this beggars belief. What do they expect? Even the booze-sodden masses can work out that it's cheaper and more convenient to buy a six-pack in Tesco's and consume it in the comfort of their own home rather than drive to a pub, pay over the odds, and then not be able to drive home for fear of losing their licence.
They (government and social commentators) bang on about how lovely it would be if we could adopt the European attitude to drink and just take it socially (and slowly!) rather than pouring it down our necks until we're no longer conscious, but in doing so they fail to mention that this is the Southern European way. Look at the history of northern Europe - Norsemen, Vikings, Saxons, whatever - and you'll find a much more accurate model for today's drinkers.
The solution to this is a lot more complex than our pathetic government (of any flavour) would have the stomach for. The problem has grown up over many years and needs as many to solve it, and turn the tide of public opinion away from reliance on ubiquitous inebriation. But there's one thing they could do that I believe would be more effective than anything else in protecting under-age drinkers and young people. Ban alcopops. The girl in the interview is an archetype. She only drinks it because it tastes like pop. Remove that option and you remove the attraction at a stroke for thousands of young people. It remains to be seen whether this morally bankrupt government would have the strength to make such a move in the face of the inevitable outcry from the industry, for whom alcopops are the 21st century equivalent of the golden goose.
They interviewed a 13-year-old girl and asked her what she usually drank. WKD and Lambrini was the answer. They had to explain what that was for the Radio 4 audience (which made me feel quite street) and then asked her why that was her tipple of choice. "Because it tastes like pop," came the entirely unsurprising answer.
Then we were treated to a government spokesman wringing his hands and wailing about the problem of underage drinking, and drinking in general, and proudly announcing new powers for the police to be able to confiscate drink from anyone underage found boozing in the street.
Excuse me?
Is that really the best they can do? Hello? Horse. Bolted. This from a government that's been in power for more than 10 years, introduced the law that allows 24-hour drinking, and has presided over an ever-increasing thrusting of alcohol at all members of society through as many outlets as possible. Yes, you have to apply for a licence, but alcohol is now available everywhere. Last year I bemoaned the neanderthals who can't visit a concert without walking in carrying a beer bottle in each hand and proceed to interrupt the performance every five minutes to either replenish their supplies or make room for more. But it's not just concerts. An increasing number of people seem incapable of enjoying themselves without alcohol no matter what they're doing. And pint-for-pint in real terms, with two-for-one offers on already slashed prices, booze in all forms has never been cheaper.
So on the one hand, they cry and wail about how much everyone is drinking, and on the other hand they cry and wail about how pubs are going out of business and we're losing our traditional social fabric. The short-sightedness of this beggars belief. What do they expect? Even the booze-sodden masses can work out that it's cheaper and more convenient to buy a six-pack in Tesco's and consume it in the comfort of their own home rather than drive to a pub, pay over the odds, and then not be able to drive home for fear of losing their licence.
They (government and social commentators) bang on about how lovely it would be if we could adopt the European attitude to drink and just take it socially (and slowly!) rather than pouring it down our necks until we're no longer conscious, but in doing so they fail to mention that this is the Southern European way. Look at the history of northern Europe - Norsemen, Vikings, Saxons, whatever - and you'll find a much more accurate model for today's drinkers.
The solution to this is a lot more complex than our pathetic government (of any flavour) would have the stomach for. The problem has grown up over many years and needs as many to solve it, and turn the tide of public opinion away from reliance on ubiquitous inebriation. But there's one thing they could do that I believe would be more effective than anything else in protecting under-age drinkers and young people. Ban alcopops. The girl in the interview is an archetype. She only drinks it because it tastes like pop. Remove that option and you remove the attraction at a stroke for thousands of young people. It remains to be seen whether this morally bankrupt government would have the strength to make such a move in the face of the inevitable outcry from the industry, for whom alcopops are the 21st century equivalent of the golden goose.
Tuesday, February 05, 2008
What did you was like?
Seems to be a bit of a week for ranting, but I overheard a couple of kids talking the other day and it reminded me that we're shortly going to see the disappearance of the verb "to say." Simply because young people don't "say" anything these days. They "was like" it. Listen to them for a few seconds and you'll see what I mean.
"I saw Kevin, right, and he was like 'where you bin?' and I was like 'dahn Mickey's' and he was like 'yeah? What's happ'nin'?' and I was like..."
You get the picture. >sigh<
"I saw Kevin, right, and he was like 'where you bin?' and I was like 'dahn Mickey's' and he was like 'yeah? What's happ'nin'?' and I was like..."
You get the picture. >sigh<
Monday, February 04, 2008
Are we living in "two-oh-eight"?
A bit of a "Monday Moan" this, but I heard it on the radio again this morning and was reminded how much it bugs me when people say "back in two oh five" or "he won the title in two oh three" when then mean 2005 and 2003. That's two THOUSAND and five. Or twenty oh five. Or even, if you really insist, two-oh-oh-five. But definitely not two-oh-five.
Why do people find it so hard to (a) call the numbers right or (b) follow the conventions established for centuries? When were you born? It'll be 19-and-something. Nineteen sixty one, or nineteen eighty one, etc. Isn't it a no-brainer to carry on calling the year the same way, only with twenty?
We all refer to the years of the first decade of the 20th century as, e.g. nineteen oh eight. So what's wrong with twenty oh eight?
I know, I know, I shouldn't bother about this stuff, and I'm sure the problem will go away from 2010 onwards (either because everyone will revert to "twenty ten" etc, or the plonkers will carry on saying "two-oh-ten" but by then that will actually be correct), but it bugs the hell out of me. Sorry.
Why do people find it so hard to (a) call the numbers right or (b) follow the conventions established for centuries? When were you born? It'll be 19-and-something. Nineteen sixty one, or nineteen eighty one, etc. Isn't it a no-brainer to carry on calling the year the same way, only with twenty?
We all refer to the years of the first decade of the 20th century as, e.g. nineteen oh eight. So what's wrong with twenty oh eight?
I know, I know, I shouldn't bother about this stuff, and I'm sure the problem will go away from 2010 onwards (either because everyone will revert to "twenty ten" etc, or the plonkers will carry on saying "two-oh-ten" but by then that will actually be correct), but it bugs the hell out of me. Sorry.
Friday, February 01, 2008
Friday Five and a Fond Farewell
We went to a leaving do last night. It was a small but select crowd, gathered to say farewell to a colleague with whom I've worked closely for 7-8 years. For most of that time "worked closely" meant that I sat either next to, or near to him while we worked on separate projects, but more recently I worked with him on the (eventually successful) bid that I'm now trying to deliver.
He was also my career manager for much of that time.
And he was the guy with whom I chewed the fat over morning coffee most every day I was in the office.
Looking back I realise that, in all the 30 years (ahem) I've worked for this company (no, honestly. It really is 30 years. The anniversary was January 9th) of all the hundreds of people I've seen leave, I can't honestly say I've been particularly close to any of them. Until now. Steve is a guy it's easy to like. Not everyone's cup of darjeeling it's true, but his heart's in the right place, and he likes people. He brings them together. He has (had) a very strong network in the company, and if you needed a particular skill Steve would know where to find it. But more than that, more than knowing them superficially, or only for what he could get out of them (like so many you meet in large companies), Steve was interested in them as people. In their families. In what was going on in their lives. A true humanist. And a keen intellect. How many people do you know with five - or was it six? - degrees?
What made his leaving all the more poignant was that it wasn't really his choice. He felt manoeuvred into going because of the actions of a very few misguided individuals who happened to be in positions of influence. Most notably his manager. Despite winning multi-million pound bids and gold awards, he was sidelined and unfairly treated, and felt his only recourse was to leave. Even though he's quite looking forward to his new career you could tell he didn't really want to go. Didn't want to cut loose from the network of close connections he's made over the last 13 years.
Anyway it was a good leaving do. We managed quite a sizeable pot (he was well liked, as I said) and therefore some memorable leaving presents. Good luck with the new enterprise Steve, and make sure you keep in touch!
This week's Friday Five is really hard to answer "properly."
1. What are you missing?
So this question requires me to look at things in a "glass half empty" kind of way, whereas mostly I'm a "glass half full" kinda guy. If I'm forced to think that way, there are three big things I'm missing. I really miss living with my daughters. I think about them every day. OK, I know one of them is now at the point where she isn't living at home anyway, but I'm acutely aware of the time I've missed out on. I miss having a job I enjoy. For more than twenty out of the thirty years I've been there, I loved it. For the last 8-9 years it's sucked. Big time. And finally I miss having a holiday in the sun. We did it every year for five years and I loved it every time. Now it's back to big mortgage and reduced income and there's no knowing when we'll be able to do it again.
But like I said, don't get me wrong. I don't dwell on it. Life is good.
2. How do you feel?
I put my hands out and wiggle my fingers. Is there another way? How do you do it? No, but seriously - see above. Life is good. I feel good. Content. Ready.
3. What have you let go?
The past.
4. Who have you hurt?
Well, I'm Sagittarius innit? I speak without thinking. People are bound to get hurt when you're that way. It's not intentional. Actually the older I've got the more I've bitten my tongue. You should see it. It's like a piece of pink lace. On a sadder note, there are people I've hurt deeply, but hopefully, with the perspective of several years, they can see it was the right thing to do. There really is no gain without pain.
5. What do you deserve?
To be believed.
He was also my career manager for much of that time.
And he was the guy with whom I chewed the fat over morning coffee most every day I was in the office.
Looking back I realise that, in all the 30 years (ahem) I've worked for this company (no, honestly. It really is 30 years. The anniversary was January 9th) of all the hundreds of people I've seen leave, I can't honestly say I've been particularly close to any of them. Until now. Steve is a guy it's easy to like. Not everyone's cup of darjeeling it's true, but his heart's in the right place, and he likes people. He brings them together. He has (had) a very strong network in the company, and if you needed a particular skill Steve would know where to find it. But more than that, more than knowing them superficially, or only for what he could get out of them (like so many you meet in large companies), Steve was interested in them as people. In their families. In what was going on in their lives. A true humanist. And a keen intellect. How many people do you know with five - or was it six? - degrees?
What made his leaving all the more poignant was that it wasn't really his choice. He felt manoeuvred into going because of the actions of a very few misguided individuals who happened to be in positions of influence. Most notably his manager. Despite winning multi-million pound bids and gold awards, he was sidelined and unfairly treated, and felt his only recourse was to leave. Even though he's quite looking forward to his new career you could tell he didn't really want to go. Didn't want to cut loose from the network of close connections he's made over the last 13 years.
Anyway it was a good leaving do. We managed quite a sizeable pot (he was well liked, as I said) and therefore some memorable leaving presents. Good luck with the new enterprise Steve, and make sure you keep in touch!
This week's Friday Five is really hard to answer "properly."
1. What are you missing?
So this question requires me to look at things in a "glass half empty" kind of way, whereas mostly I'm a "glass half full" kinda guy. If I'm forced to think that way, there are three big things I'm missing. I really miss living with my daughters. I think about them every day. OK, I know one of them is now at the point where she isn't living at home anyway, but I'm acutely aware of the time I've missed out on. I miss having a job I enjoy. For more than twenty out of the thirty years I've been there, I loved it. For the last 8-9 years it's sucked. Big time. And finally I miss having a holiday in the sun. We did it every year for five years and I loved it every time. Now it's back to big mortgage and reduced income and there's no knowing when we'll be able to do it again.
But like I said, don't get me wrong. I don't dwell on it. Life is good.
2. How do you feel?
I put my hands out and wiggle my fingers. Is there another way? How do you do it? No, but seriously - see above. Life is good. I feel good. Content. Ready.
3. What have you let go?
The past.
4. Who have you hurt?
Well, I'm Sagittarius innit? I speak without thinking. People are bound to get hurt when you're that way. It's not intentional. Actually the older I've got the more I've bitten my tongue. You should see it. It's like a piece of pink lace. On a sadder note, there are people I've hurt deeply, but hopefully, with the perspective of several years, they can see it was the right thing to do. There really is no gain without pain.
5. What do you deserve?
To be believed.
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