Movie Review: Avatar

I've tried to stay away from the hype surrounding this movie. In years gone by I would have been so excited by the concept I'd have barely been able to sit still through the adverts and trailer reels. With age, and with many experiences of excitement and expectation being dashed on the rocks of reality, I stilled myself. Hoping for the best and fearing for the worst. Having treated ourselves to the PS3 Avatar game and watched Nat playing it for a few minutes, the worst I expected was nearly three hours of video-game footage a la Transformers.

I needn't have worried.

Before the detail, here are the headlines. Avatar is outstanding. A team of creative giants at the peak of their craft, led by a man with a monumental vision, have created a world of beauty and wonder. What else is film-making about? If you haven't seen it, I would urge you to. If you're thinking of waiting for the BD/DVD release, I would politely suggest you go to a theatre to see it in its breathtaking 3D glory. Avatar will not only take you to another world for 162 minutes, it'll make you wish you could stay there.

"Pandora is a moon of the gas giant Polyphemus, which orbits Alpha Centauri A" says the Avatar wiki page, and you've grabbed me right there, from the off. Since the very first time I saw an "artist's impression" of the surface of a world with more than one moon in the sky I've been hooked on those images. Having a gas giant on the horizon just makes it that much more impressive. But this is just one of the jaw-dropping visuals with which you're assaulted in the opening minutes, and there's even better to come later on. Here is a world similar to those previously locked in the imaginations of the likes of Roger Dean and Rodney Matthews. Only it's real.

Undoubtedly using every cycle of processing power on the world's fastest graphics-rendering computers, and every nuance of programming subtlety developed over years to faithfully reproduce real-world physics and biology, Pandora looks real.

I've been impressed with CGI before - from Lord of the Rings to various Terminators - but there's always been something, some little thing, that jarred me out of my suspension of disbelief. That mental hiccup where you think oh yeah, it's just a drawing. Not here. In Avatar, CGI finally comes of age.

And at that point, the only limit is your imagination. From the gently floating seeds of Eywa through the bioluminescent forest pathways to the mighty Leonopteryx (Toruk), Pandora is the world you've only been able to read about up 'til now. Whether it's Hothouse or Hyperion, Halvmork or Helliconia, they've been more real in your head. Now they can be real in front of your eyes.

As good as any visuals are, they can always be lifted with the addition of a good sound track and here again Avatar does not disappoint. From the simplest forest sounds through the Na'vi native music to the soaring and uplifting strains that accompany the Ikran flights, Avatar is as much a joy to listen to as it is to watch. This must surely be the best work of James Horner's career.

Although Avatar pushes the envelope in so many technical ways, and achieves such heights of success with all of them, still it would be a hollow shell without a story to fill it and here, you may read, some critics have fallen short of rapture in their reviews, calling the plot predictable at best. Actually it had the opposite effect on me. The presence of the stereotypical characters - the grizzled military leader out for blood; the impatient businessman with his eyes so fixed on the money he doesn't see the real prize; the suspicious warrior leader; the beautiful native girl who steals the hero's heart; and on; and on - for me merely added a comfort factor. Knowing where the story was headed almost allowed me to relax and enjoy it MORE. There were still enough surprises to keep it interesting, even if the visual delights as each new part of the planet was revealed hadn't.

Scriptwise, some of the early exposition wanders close to the border with the Realms of Woodenness, but all things considered the backstory of how Pandora was found, why humans need masks to survive, why the Na'vi are revolting and what the military forces are really after, is all sorted out in pretty short order, arming the viewer with the necessary information and leaving him or her free to lap up the alien landscape as it unfolds.

Avatar as a whole, and the world of Pandora and the Na'vi in particular, have stayed with me in a way I cannot remember a film ever having done since I first saw 2001: A Space Odyssey at the age of 12. I saw it yesterday and I'd be delighted to go back and watch it again today. I don't think that has ever happened. Simply outstanding in every way. I read one critic's claim that it is the best film of the last thirty years. I couldn't disagree.

Progress

iTunes have an offer running from today. "The 12 Days of Christmas" offers a free download every day for... well... you get the idea. So I thought yeah, why not? It's free - what's to complain about? Even if the first track on offer IS by Snow Patrol.

Having subscribed to the email reminders, I get a handy-dandy link to click on. That takes me to a page saying "hang on, we're just loading up iTunes so you can access the iStore."

Now I don't know about you, but whenever there's mention of iTunes I get that watery feeling in my bowels. Earlier versions of this pile of steaming doos used to hang my machine on a regular basis. It's *always* slow, always cumbersome, and the other thing it does nearly every time I use it is tell me there's a new version available, would I like to download it? And then proceeds to fail to download it.

So anyway I ran it. And it told me there's a new version available (9.0.2 or something). With its track record of total fail I replied Nah I'll Leave It Thanks and proceeded to attempt to download my free track.

Network timeout.

I tried again. "This item requires iTunes 9 to download."

You've got to laugh. Even though, every SINGLE time I use iTunes, I'd much rather cry. But, you know, faced with the inevitable, the Zen thing to do is bend with the wind, like the bamboo. Or something. I bent. I downloaded it. HOW big? Ninety-something MEG? Good grief. But hey, the download time was nothing like the install time, and here (finally, I hear you say) we get to the point of this post.

Status: Computing space requirements (a progress bar)
Status: Validating install (another progress bar)

It's a progress bar Jim, but not as we know it. What progress is it measuring? Who knows. How many more stages will there be? Who knows. How long 'til the entire task will be finished? Who, the f***, knows? That progress bar certainly doesn't tell me anything useful, except how far it is away from the next progress bar starting.

Call me old fashioned, but I remember a time when progress bars gave you an indication of... you know... progress. I know! Mad, wasn't it?! If it was half-way across, the job was halfway done. In some rare and wonderful cases, it was even true - ALMOST true - that if it had taken ten minutes to get half way, then there were ten minutes left. No. Hang on. That's false memory talking. Things were never THAT good. Were they? But they were better than this. How many of these damned things am I going to have to sit through?

Year end meme

Snagged, as most of these things are (on my blog at least!) from Diane, this is probably the last chance I could have to answer some of the more Christmassy questions in this meme, and what better way to spend the last few moments of Christmas Morning before popping down to open our presents? :D

1. Was 2009 a good year for you?
It brought a lot of disappointment, and on the work front much stress, worry and confrontation which isn't over yet, but there were high points too. Not a "good" year, as such, and I'll be glad to see the back of it, but let's just say it could have been worse. We're still employed, healthy, and together which are the most important things (not necessarily in that order lol).

2. What did you do in 2009 that you'd never done before?
Went on strike (and stood on the picket line). Wrote a radio play.

3. What was your favourite moment of the year?
The moment I learned a New York agent had requested my full manuscript.

4. What was your least favourite moment of the year?
The moment I learned the New York agent didn't want to pursue my full manuscript.

5. Did you keep your new years' resolutions, and will you make more for next year?
I never make them.

6. What are your plans for 2010?
Trip to the Lakes in May, decorate our bedroom, write more!

7. Did anyone close to you give birth?
A cousin's son had a baby boy at the beginning of November. Several of the book club girls gave birth, although I'm not sure they qualify as "close" ;o)

8. Did anyone close to you die?
My uncle (and the last surviving of my Dad's brothers) died last month.

9. How many weddings did you go to?
None.

10. What countries did you visit?
Umm... Wales?

11. What date in 2009 will remain etched in your memory?
The day I learned Shiny Media had filed for bankruptcy.

12. What was your biggest achievement of the year?
Making the long list for the Alfred Bradley Bursary Award.

13. What was your biggest failure?
You've only failed when you give up trying. I haven't given up trying.

14. Did you suffer any illness or injury?
A few coughs and wheezes. Nothing serious.

15. What was the best thing you bought?
The biUbe aquarium for Nikki's main Christmas present.

16. Whose behaviour merited celebration?
Friends and family have all had successes to celebrate during the year in some way.

17. Whose behaviour made you appalled and depressed?
Our CEO. All our politicians, with their dodgy expenses. All world leaders, with their pathetic show at Copenhagen. Any Americans who voted against universal health care plans. Various groups of terrorists.

18. Where did most of your money go?
I wish I knew!

19. What did you get really, really, really excited about?
That request for a full. I literally jumped up and down.

20. What songs will always remind you of 2009?
Spin Doctor. The second song to be recorded for our second album - Weird & Wonderful - which will be released next year. It's about corrupt politicians and it sums up the year for me (even though it was written some time ago).

21. Compared to this time last year are you:
a) Fatter or thinner? Almost exactly the same
b) Happier or sadder? Probably the same there too.
c) Richer or poorer? I feel poorer, but I don't really know why!

22. What do you wish you'd done more of?
Writing!

23. What do you wish you'd done less of?
Playing Spider Solitaire

24. How will you be spending Christmas?
Eating, drinking and being merry at home with Nikki, and friends, and (close) family.

25. Which LJ users did you meet for the first time?
Ah. An LJ-specific question. Let's assume it means "which online friends..." and the answer is, this year, none.

26. Did you fall in love in 2009?
I fall in love with Nikki all over again every day :o)

27. What was your favourite month of 2009?
May, definitely. The month we bought the bird feeder for the garden, did a lot of work to tidy the garden up, Natalie came to stay for several weeks' study leave, we endured - I mean enjoyed - Annie's birthday camping weekend near Buxton, went on the Gannet & Puffin cruise and to see the new Star Trek movie.

28. How did you see in the New Year?
Stayed in Chesterfield with mates and had a fantastic night playing daft games, exchanging secret Santa presents and watching indoor fireworks. Oh, and drinking.

29. What was your favourite TV show?
Really enjoyed Spooks this year (shown in North America as "MI5" I believe, owing to the negative racial connotation of the word 'spooks' over there).

30. Do you hate anyone now that you didn't hate this time last year?
I don't hate anyone.

31. What was/were the best books you read?
The Runes of the Earth by Stephen Donaldson. First in the final Chronicles of Thomas Covenant the Unbeliever (to be a quadrilogy, apparently), always one of my most favourite series it was a delightful revelation to discover he'd picked up the story again.

32. What was your greatest musical discovery?
Not a new discovery, but I REdiscovered my love for Pink Floyd. I'd quite literally forgotten how good they were/are. Listened to their stuff a lot lately. King Crimson too, as it happens. Maybe it's been a year for musical nostalgia.

33. What did you want and get?
Can't think of anything that I wanted really badly apart from a writing contract, and that comes under...

34. What did you want and not get?
A writing contract.

35. What was your favourite film this year?
Watchmen. Visually stunning.

36. What did you do on your birthday and how old were you?
Well, not actually ON my birthday, but shortly before, Nikki treated me to a spa day at a nearby hotel complex. It were fab. I don't think I've ever been so relaxed. This year wasn't a milestone of any kind. Unless 53 has some special meaning somewhere in the world. Comments from numerologists welcome!

37. What one thing would have made your year more satisfying?
Persuading that New York agent that my novel really is the one they've been looking for.

38. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2009?
Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha.

39. What kept you sane?
The people close to me. Jointly and severally, they're wonderful.

40. Which celebrity did you fancy the most?
Er... Cheryl Cole. Sorry.

41. Which political issue stirred you the most?
The expenses scandal. I could spit vitriol about that for hours. Not only the fact of it, but their entire ATTITUDE to it.

42. Who did you miss?
Anyone who's not here. Duh.

43. Did you treat somebody badly in 2009
Probably didn't see as much of my Mum as I should.

44. Did somebody treat you badly in 2009?
Well there was that guy who cut me up on the M60...

45. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned this year?
Don't do today what you can put off until tomorrow. Play Spider Solitaire instead (q.v.).

46. What would you like to have in 2010 that you didn't have in 2009?
Sorry to, you know, repeat myself, but a writing contract would be nice.

47. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year...
Too many. And it's present opening time, so I must dash!

Seasonal bombardment

This year will go down in my memory as the year online retailers finally caught on to the use of email to whip up business. I'd already done my Christmas shopping (almost all of it online) by the end of November, but back then things had hardly even got warmed up in terms of emails. Guess I can't call them spam, because I signed up to them when I joined, or used, the sites, but damn there's a lot of them!

During December I've been getting at least one per day from
amazon.com
play.com
ebay
hmv.com
the PlayStation Store
Xbox Europe
thorntons
iwantoneofthose.com

not to mention all the usual stuff inviting me to "review my shopping experience" and the odd seasonal message from other retailers - like the local garden centre - we've used during the year. It's going to feel really quiet in my inbox once all this dies down. Unless they're just as keen to drag me back for the January sales! ;o)

One downside to shopping early is that I've missed out on some deals, but that's always a balancing act even with traditional B&M shopping. On the high street some places have been offering 50% discounts, or better, in the week before Christmas. Personally I'd rather be sure I've got everything covered, and it's all been delivered, in time for a leisurely wrapping experience in the few days before the main event. This year especially, with the weather causing major disruption to deliveries, I've been grateful for putting my innate procrastination to one side where gift buying was concerned.

So now it's looking quite festive under the small tree in the lounge. Everything's done - apart from cooking the bird - and it only remains for me to crack open the wine, light the fire, and wish all my readers a very happy Christmas and a peaceful, prosperous and successful New Year. May 2010 be the year everyone stops referring to the date as "two-thousand-and-something."

Cheers!

Sludge

I've been semi-permanently exasperated by the increasingly poor performance of my PC for months now and have been trying, in a low-key way, to track down the culprit. My first suspicion was that I'd picked up a trojan, but after several scans with industry-standard utilities revealed nothing, I realised I'd have to look elsewhere.

That was back in March (did I mention this is a low-key activity?) and since then I've run a registry cleaner, which sped things up a bit after removing almost 500 bits of crap from my registry (quicker than a wholesale reinstall), and checked the memory for errors with the Windows Memory Diagnostic (no problems there). Sad to say, but the main culprit continues to be Firefox.

Read up on Firefox and you'll discover that they invested a lot of time and effort, when version 3 was young, in fixing a pile of memory leaks. What they didn't fix was Firefox's DESIGNED IN behaviour of hanging on to all the memory it has ever allocated, even when it's not using it. The unused memory is returned to Firefox's own heap, but not released back to the OS. The visible effect of this, if you run Firefox like I do (never less than 8 tabs open and occasionally twice that many, and the browser always open - sometimes for days on end), is that I regularly sit down at my PC first thing in the morning to find FF's memory occupancy has ballooned overnight to more than 600MB, which on a system with only a gig of RAM is all it takes to bring the whole thing shuddering to a halt.

And I mean shuddering. As in, it can take several minutes to redraw a window, move from one tab to another, read an email, or launch another app. Until today I thought the only fix was to restart the browser, and even this takes an age. Several minutes for the main browser window to disappear and the process will still hang around in the task list for 10-15 minutes before it releases all that memory. Finding myself at a loose end this afternoon I did a bit more research and discovered RAMBack: an add-on that forces the release of memory.

What a difference! With Task Manager running I can see FF's occupancy plummet when I minimise it from around 200MB (its apparent resting state with my standard eight tabs newly opened) to only 17MB. True, this figure then climbs rapidly back up to ~100MB as the active content of those 8 tabs (Facebook, Google Reader and various other widgets) gradually grabs the resources back, but at least I can now force it to dump its heap and allow the rest of my system to behave normally. It remains to be seen what state it'll be in tomorrow morning, but for now the sludge has been replaced with the slick.

I think I may have left it too late...

...to do the last lawn cut of the year.
It's been snowing pretty much all day here. Last night's temperature fell to -7°C so this lot settled on top of the previous lot, which itself was atop another load. All that makes it the longest and coldest cold snap I can think of since the last time I lived on this road - way back in the winter of 1980/1.

I love it, but only because I'm off this week and - apart from ferrying Nikki to and from work - I don't have to go out in it. These days, snow is best appreciated from behind glass, with the heating turned up.

Raging against the machine

Bloody brilliant.

Whether you like Killing In The Name or not, whether you hate Simon Cowell or not, whether you watch X Factor or not, whether you'd rather poke your own eardrums into your brain than listen to a charmless, tuneless, passionless, charismaless cover of the blandest of bland Miley Cyrus numbers or not, there's no denying the reality of people power.

This was never about who makes the money, who owns the songs, or whether the charts are a fading anachronism of yesteryear. It was all about flicking the finger at the man who never listens to music in his own home, yet thinks he has the right to dictate what we listen to in ours, every Christmas. Well, he doesn't.

Like I said, bloody brilliant.

And if you can't find two better singers out of 200,000 entrants than the wired jiggler Olly-the-Essex-boy Murs and the Bland Balladeer McDingleberry maybe it's time to call time on the X Factor, which became a parody of itself several series ago.

Fishy situation

I just *know* you've been dying to hear how our fish are faring.

Well, they seem happy enough, despite having to cope with the chemical toilet that masquerades as an early-life aquarium undergoing its first cycle. I just completed my third week of tests, and - as far as this novice can tell at any rate - things are progressing as expected.

A healthy aquarium contains several kinds of bacteria that convert the ammonia produced by the fish and the decomposition of left over food into nitrites and those nitrites into safer nitrates. In a stable tank, ammonia and nitrite levels should be almost undetectable, and nitrates gradually accumulating in the water through the bacterial activity are removed by doing partial water changes each week.

In a young aquarium, the bacteria haven't established colonies of sufficient size to deal with the chemicals, so levels gradually rise in the first couple of weeks. I've seen exactly this with my testing. Levels of ammonia peaked last week, but have now dropped off to the lowest number so far recorded (about 0.4ppm), whereas nitrite levels, which were relatively low last week, are now extremely high. This indicates we're almost exactly at the mid-point of the cycle, but because nitrite is especially dangerous to fish (it binds to haemoglobin and can leave them gasping for oxygen) I've done a 20% water change this week instead of the usual 10%.

By this time next week nitrite levels should be dropping and hopefully in a couple of weeks the aquarium will have fully cycled and we'll be able to add three more friends for Bee, Bop and Lulu to bring the cherry barb shoal up to full strength.

Thoughts from the picket line

As I mentioned yesterday, I arrived on the picket at 7.15. Things were already in full swing. They'd started picketing at 6.30. 'Full swing' is, perhaps, the wrong term to use for such a low-key event. What I mean is, there were people there. Half-a-dozen or so. I'd walked past three of them on my way to the main group. They'd been sent to cover the exit road from the campus, as a few people had been seen using this as a route to avoid the picket. We exchanged quips as we passed each other. One of them had been in my team in the old VME support days but as with so many others, we'd lost touch. Meeting up with him again in such circumstances was slightly surreal.

The first thing to strike me (pun acknowledged) as I arrived at the main entrance was the lack of a brazier. Since my experience of pickets up to this point was limited to what I'd seen on news bulletins over the years - and with the early morning temperature at the aforementioned -2° - I'd expected to arrive to find the group huddled with hands outstretched around a glowing brazier. I'd reckoned without the mighty reach of the Health & Safety regulations. Our picket captain assured me braziers were no longer allowed. It was OK for us to freeze, apparently, but we couldn't be trusted not to cause ourselves or our surroundings some lasting damage with an errant lump of burning charcoal. The air temperature never climbed above zero the whole day, and within 30 minutes of my arrival I couldn't feel my fingers. An hour later, my toes had gone as well.

My next revelation: how very British the picket was. Already aware that the law mandates "peaceful" picketing, I was still disconcerted by how laid back was the approach. Virtually horizontal. A stern look appeared to be the only intervention allowed. I'd expected at least an upraised hand to slow down any approaching car, a wound-down window and a few words of gentle persuasion. Instead we all gazed on disapprovingly as a steady stream of cars - slow at first but gradually increasing as we approached "regular" office hours - drove through our small throng. Even the cold stares were lost on most of the drivers as they studiously avoided eye contact with any of the pickets.

Pedestrian arrivals didn't get off quite so lightly - being treated to a polite "can I persuade you not to go in?" or "would you like a leaflet?" - but in the Age of the Motor Vehicle these were few and far between. Mostly they ignored us too. Only one of them was moved to mutter an edgy "no you can't" in response to the first question. We were there a total of four hours and didn't succeed in stopping a single person entering the building. I bet we made a few of them feel uncomfortable though. As I said, very British.

On a more positive note, we enjoyed a lot of support from passing motorists in the form of horn tooting. I've done this myself, from the other side, but had no idea how uplifting it can be for those on the picket. One driver memorably sounded his hooter from the moment he noticed the picket to the point he disappeared around the last bend at the other end of the site - several hundred metres - to loud cheers from everyone. The hoots weren't restricted to delivery drivers, or other overt tradespeople. Ordinary drivers in their hundreds pipped and waved their messages of solidarity during the morning, each one greeted by a return wave of hand or placard and a cheer.

Around eight o'clock someone from inside the building took pity on us and carried out a cardboard box loaded with cups of hot coffee and soup. I made a grab for a soup. Too hot to sip when I picked it up, the December air sucked the heat from it faster than I could drink it. The dregs were cold by the time I reached the bottom.

It's been a long while since I had chance to stand and watch dawn break, and even though the scene was perhaps not as idyllic as the last time I did this, still it had the same profound effect on me. Thoughts of it "always being darkest just before the dawn" and "the dawning of a new era" and suchlike skipped randomly through my mind but mostly I just stood and absorbed the quiet miracle of another new day, silhouetting the construction across the road and lighting a fire under the tail feathers of a flock of starlings who took off squawking to find their breakfast.

Breakfast! I'd heard rumours that the local college had a restaurant open to the public. This was confirmed later, around the time I'd started to wonder if I could last the final hour without "facilities," as another member of the group returned with a glowing report of their breakfast. Shortly before ten I took myself off to sample the delights of a full English. The ten-minute respite from the cold was enough to restore feeling in everything except my toes and the breakfast proved more than enough to sustain me through the final half-hour of picket duty. We packed up all the flags, placards and banners around half past ten, and bid each other farewell and Merry Christmas.

Whether it will be a Happy New Year remains to be seen!

Strike!

I was on strike today.

Go on, call me a dinosaur.
"People don't still go on strike do they?"
"Didn't even know they had unions in the computer industry."
Well believe me if you'd told me a few years ago I'd be standing on a picket line holding a placard in the dark at quarter-past-seven on a freezing (OK, you Canadians, it was "ONLY" -2°C) December morning I'd have laughed in your face. I'll have been in this industry, and working for this firm, 32 years this coming January and I too used to laugh at the idea of unions, and strikes, and the traditional "us and them" attitude.

That was before the company cancelled our bonus on a pretext, before going on to declare record profits for that year. It was before they decided, with a pay deal negotiated, agreed and signed up to by all parties, not to pay it. It was before they threatened to close our pension scheme, thereby reneging on a 32-year-old promise to look after me in my retirement (and imposing an equivalent 25% pay cut). It was before they decided they needed to declare a thousand of my colleagues redundant, not to save the company, but to protect their profit targets. Targets that were set by managers who in some cases no longer work for the company, at a time before the global economic meltdown.

Yes, that's right. My company think it's a good idea to keep aiming for boom-level profits during a bust-riddled economic period, and to shed jobs in order to achieve them.

As one of my fellow pickets said to me this morning: "If the company was in trouble and our backs were to the wall, we'd sweat blood and break our backs to dig it out of the hole [he knows how to mix a metaphor, this guy], but it's not like that. They're still on track for record profits, and taking the piss out of us at the same time."

No wonder the slogan we've adopted for this campaign is "Enough Is Enough."

That sums up exactly how I feel. They've burned through all the good will, all the long, unpaid overtime hours, the thousands of road and rail miles clocked up, the holidays missed, the stress endured, the snatched meals and missed breaks and the lonely nights in cheap hotels. Their litany used to be "our people are our greatest assets." Well, we all know what happens to assets in this modern world, don't we? They're sweated. They're leveraged for every ounce of effort and profit you can squeeze out of them. We always went the extra mile for the company, but when boot's on t'other foot, do they reciprocate? Don't make me laugh.

Yes, 32 years I've been in this company, and for 30 of those I was not a union man. It's taken me a long time to shed the blinkers but they're off now. I've seen the light. It's not pretty. But as the union are fond of saying, if they won't listen to the strength of our argument, then the only recourse is to use the argument of our strength.

The last curry of 2009

...and my fourth celebratory Christmas dinner... a curry with the Wilmslow crew. A much-reduced crew too, as one of them was busy working the lights at a local panto, and another had poked his eye out (not literally I hope!) when putting the Christmas tree up his fairy. I guess that would be enough to put you off a curry.

So for only the second time, we paid a visit to Ayo Gurkhali. My second time, I should say. The crew went without me once, after our first visit, and two of them had, how shall I put it, a bad intestinal experience. They haven't wanted to return since.

Going back was my idea - I'd really enjoyed the food on that first visit, and I reckoned their gastric upset was either a coincidence or a case of a one-off bad bunch of prawns or something. If we all go down with Montezuma's Revenge I'll be persona non grata for a while!

As always, and even though there were only four of us, it was great to catch up over a couple of pints and a nice meal. The curry easily equalled the quality of last time, and the amazing variety of originally-shaped white porcelain serving dishes still provided a feast for the eyes even as their contents were supplying a feast for the mouth. Adding the final professional touch to the whole experience, the waiters are the very model of polite and friendly service, without being pushy or obsequious.

They do a take-away menu there too. Sadly, I think Wilmslow would be a bit too far removed from home base for them to deliver.

Canteen Christmas

My third traditional Christmas lunch took place, after the extraordinary success of last year's visit, in the staff restaurant, where the catering ladies and gents had laid the tables with Christmassy cloths, crackers, holly-bedecked napkins, and set some traditional Christmas music playing over the restaurant PA.

Compared with last Friday's effort, this was top value for money. Six quid buys you a starter (I opted for the prawn marie rose), a main course (turkey - four slices of succulent breast meat - sprouts, carrots, roast parsnips, roast and mashed potatoes, gravy, stuffing and cranberry sauce) and a dessert (in my case traditional Christmas pud with brandy sauce), followed by a mince pie, coffee and a mint. Fantastic. Great company too, even though we missed Steve, who had eaten with us last year.

The jokes out of the crackers left a lot to be desired, as usual. In fact someone told me the set of jokes has suffered a complete overhaul this year. If anything they're worse than before. And I'm not entirely sure what the small blue plastic house in my cracker was supposed to be for.

Crackers apart though, it was a cracking meal, and left me with cracks developing in my belly, it was so stretched. Only trouble is, being in the office, I couldn't sneak an afternoon nap.

Copenhagen

I've had a draft post with this title sitting in my bloglist since the Copenhagen climate summit opened. I intended to write about forlorn hopes, high ambition, good intentions and inevitable failure but to be honest, in the end, the whole thing was just too depressing and predictable.

More than a week on, and what I assumed at the start would be the inevitable end looks as though it is indeed coming to pass.

Twenty years of talking, of governments agreeing, or not agreeing, to emission limitations and then missing their targets by miles, while all the time the palm-oil industry destroys the rainforests at ever-increasing rates and every single government ignores their activities. It's hard to avoid the clichés when writing about this stuff. Vested interests driven by fat cats more interested in protecting their billion-dollar stashes and their "right" to drive across the street in a four-ton, gas-guzzling "sports" vehicle than in any notion of protecting the planet. Desperate presidents and leaders of island nations only a few inches above sea-level and hence in urgent need of, well, greater elevation at least, sharing their desperation with the world in the hope of some compassion and receiving? Not a lot.

And what would a "successful" outcome to Copenhagen look like? It's all talk anyway, so at best they'll all walk out, patting each other on their expensively-suited backs and congratulating themselves on agreeing to some vague target years in the future which no-one actually believes they'll hit and even if they did wouldn't make a blind bit of difference to anything.

Those who never wanted to restrict their emissions in the first place have dived on the emergence of what looks like evidence that some of the numbers have been... manipulated... with such shameless alacrity that you wonder they're not entering the 2012 Olympics as a new form of gymnast.

I don't claim to know whether the planet is actually in danger from CO2 or not. Quite honestly I don't trust any of them. These are all human beings with their own axes to grind and it's every bit as likely that the scientists' main interest is in protecting their research budgets so they can carry on producing their nice little graphs, or promoting expensive new technologies to "fix" the problem. On the other side of the scales sit the oil billionaires along with the other main players in the old carbon economies and we all know where their interests lie. There's an exact parallel between them and the cigarette companies, who for years denied any link between smoking and lung cancer, while all the time piling high and selling cheap death wrapped in small tubes with a filter on the end.

The world is even more addicted to oil than it is to tobacco and anyone who thinks that is likely to change any time soon is as deluded as the poor guy from the island nation who thinks any of his presidential peers is really interested in giving him a leg-up away from the encroaching ocean.

So no, I never believed Copenhagen had a hope in hell of fixing the planet. While individually human beings can exhibit intelligence and compassion in sufficient measure to solve the problem, collectively we are like lemmings heading for the cliff. See you on the other side.

Another Christmas tradition

I may have commented before on the importance, for any group of friends, colleagues or acquaintances, of having an anchor. That person who takes responsibility for keeping the group together. You can have more than one, but one is the magic number, below which the group will cease to be a group.

It's been a good few years since I worked at the office known as "the airport" (mainly because it was fairly close... to... the airport), but the times we had there were relatively good. Frontier times. Breaking new ground. Or so we thought. Good or not, they were sufficiently memorable for us to want to meet up once a year for a Christmas lunch, and the group has the aforementioned anchor - a lady who at the time was PA to the main man in that office - who is happy, each year, to pull the event together. In the main these annual reunions have been memorable. Until now.

Whether it was the fact that we returned to a restaurant we'd visited a few years ago and the food wasn't as good as that first time, or the seating arrangements were less than ideal, or some of the group couldn't make it so we didn't achieve some sort of critical mass, or because I knew from the off that I had to leave early and stayed on soft drinks the whole time I don't know. Something didn't work for me.

I won't name the restaurant because I honestly believe they don't deserve a bad press for it. Last time we went - about three years ago if I remember right - the food was excellent. This time, it looked and tasted like a million other mass-produced Christmas lunches. Too much dark meat for my liking, light on the cranberry sauce (anyone would think it was the most expensive component of the meal the way they dole it out by the teaspoonful!), the vegetables barely cooked and the piggy in its blanket having a distinct taste of old grease.

For the first time in several years my seat at table was some distance from the members of the group I know best. Worse, I sat directly opposite a woman with whom I had a long-standing disagreement (she drove into me in the office car park and refused to take responsibility) that was never properly resolved, and to the left of a woman I've never seen before - not one of the original group - who was clearly a good friend of my 'nemesis'. Surrounded!

I couldn't even take refuge from these harridans in drink. I had important driving to do which meant leaving at 3.30. It's an enlightening experience to sit, perfectly sober, and watch how quickly a group of people can dissolve into a socially relaxed state when they put their minds to it.

Finally, adding insult to injury, the mediocre meal turned out to be the most expensive of all the Christmas meals I'm planning to attend this year, I was suckered into contributing a tenner to the "drinks kitty" for which I received a single pint of fresh orange and soda, and the city centre car park robbed me of another £8.60.

Just sometimes, maybe, keeping a group together is not such a good thing!

That kid

He would have been the nerdy kid at school. The one with the National Health specs held together with Elastoplast and the clothes that didn't quite fit him, spending playtime with his head buried in one of the Ladybird books from the top class, even though he was still a first-year. Walking around with his hands stuffed deep into his pockets and his mind stuffed just as deep into his thoughts, which were of problems so esoteric for an eight-year-old that none of his contemporaries would have made it past the first sentence, even if he could have put them into words.

In years to come he would gravitate to a group of like-minded individuals, occupying the corner table in the library and sharing no more than a few words of conversation. Preferring to point at passages from hefty pictureless tomes with a knowing grin that passed around his contemporaries faster than a headcold in the PE classes he was always trying to duck. But at age eight, in a small suburban junior school, there were no like-minded peers. The jousting they dreamed of wasn't mental. It might be contemporary - five a side in the playground when he'd be the last one chosen - or historical - an ad-hoc re-enactment of King Arthur's clash with the Green Knight, when he'd be cast as the wizard and condemned to stand alone in the bike sheds pretending to assemble potions from left-over school milk, playground moss and berries from the tree that hung over from Mrs Washowska's garden - but it was totally physical and hence by definition excluded him.

And today, when you see him walking along the balcony and heading down the stairs to lunch, the deep-rooted echoes of the nerdy kid remain. The intervening years have covered him with the shell of an adult - taller, greyer, wearier. But his hands are still stuffed into his pockets. He still gazes unseeing at the floor as his mind grapples with a thorny, high-concept design problem, the latest in a lifetime of arcane solutions that still leave his contemporaries floundering. His gait is the shuffling near-skip of the man who, having always played the wizard or the goalie, never quite gained total control over his physical self. His clothes still don't fit properly. If you knew him back then, you would recognise him now. And knowing him now, you can still see him as he was then.

Mullington Crescent

Our fourth mulled wine evening was a smaller affair than in previous years. We never ask for an RSVP, but this time round a majority of the houses on the street weren't represented. Just one of those things I guess. It's a busy time of year and folk have many calls on their time.

Still, it was nice that word got back to us via various roundabout routes that those who did attend enjoyed themselves. We certainly did. It's not really a lot of effort to mull a few pints of wine and put a small selection of nibbles into well-distributed dishes. And at least "small and intimate" meant we got to bed at a reasonable hour, rather than the 3am finishes which have been the norm in the past.

The old farts' club

A while ago I hooked up with an ex-colleague who organises a regular lunchtime get-together of people we used to work with. Most of them are now retired but a few continue to work, albeit no longer at "the old firm."

Since these gatherings are held during the working day and a good half-hour's drive south of here (Thursdays, as it happens) I don't normally attend, but THIS month's was their annual Christmas lunch and the combination of the first turkey dinner of the season, a few hours off work, and the chance to catch up with so many familiar faces (some of whom I haven't seen for 20 years) proved irresistible.

It was an enjoyable event. Intellectual conversation, bags of laughs, a meal that - almost unheard of for seasonal lunches - managed to combine good value, excellent quality, perfect quantity and superlative service, and best of all the chance to catch up with one of the best, if not THE best, managers I've ever had and one of the aforementioned twenty-year absentees.

I spent most of the drive home in reflective mood. It's not unusual for reunions to affect me like that. This one served to highlight the stark contrast between those I used to work with and those I work with now. And perhaps more poignantly, those I used to work for and those I work for now. Because it seems to me that the managers from those bygone days were actually capable of demonstrating some leadership skills. They recognised that their job consisted primarily of rock-moving, to allow us techies to get on with the job unhindered by any of those rocks in our paths. They nurtured, they mentored, they protected us from the shit.

Their modern-day counterparts are good at saying "go here, do this, don't do that," but that's as far as their "skills" go.

As a result, a workplace where once we could always count on having some fun alongside the serious work, and which naturally therefore made that serious work pass more quickly, enjoyably and successfully, has been replaced with one where the overriding feelings are of stress, fatigue and sullen resignation. Where every technical skill is treated as the same technical skill, and consequently every technical body is just another technical body to be shunted from one repetitive task to another, irrespective of experience, personal preference, or ability.

Back then there was pride in expertise, and time allowed to grow it. Now we're all fed through the mincer, forced to be jacks-of-all-trades and masters of none. As Squatter may once have asked: "Is this any way to run a fucking ballroom?"

It's good to be reminded every now and then how bad things have got. *cough* It's either that, or give up going to Christmas lunches.

All's well... so far!

The good news is that, while the aquarium suppliers were at a loss to explain the death of our first three fish, they agreed to replace them right away. Figuring I'd best collect them when the traffic was light I went over there at lunchtime the next day, made sure they were triple-bagged against the cold and not fetched out of their home tank until I was ready to leave, and drove home gently but swiftly.

Hard to describe my relief when I floated the plastic bag in our biUbe and I could see the little fellas were still wrigglin'. I followed the Instructions For Introduction of New Fish to the letter and pretty soon they were investigating the nooks and crannies of their new home.

A worrying 48 hours passed with us checking the tank at every available opportunity and, more often than not, searching the water surface for floating bodies before glancing around the rest of the cylinder. We needn't have worried. These three have settled in really well, seem happy enough and, on the flimsy gender evidence available to us at this early stage, have been christened Bee, Bop and Lou-Lou.

Something happened on the way home from the fish shop...

They died! :o(

Which was a pretty traumatic start to our fish-keeping activities I can tell you.

Having done our research, we knew a new tank is a pretty hostile place for fish. The chemistry hasn't settled down and all sorts of nasties wait in store - like ammonia spikes and whatnot - so your first fish have to be fairly robust to ride through that while the tank is "cycling." Once it has stabilised and the bacteria have started working, further additions are less traumatic, although they still have to be carefully managed. We added the bacterial culture yesterday once the water was conditioned and had a further 24-hour wait until today before excitedly setting off to purchase our first fish.

We'd opted for Cherry Barbs. Hardy little specimens, allegedly, and more than capable of coping with the harsh few weeks of a new aquarium's life. Three is both the minimum size shoal for these fish, and the maximum number we can introduce in one go, so we bought... three.

But we didn't even have chance to introduce them to the water, or take the blame for being total noobs and doing something wrong ourselves that killed them off. They were already dead when we lifted their clear plastic bag from its brown paper wrapping.

We figured they'd died of cold. The shop had, rather stupidly, bagged them up while we were still umming and ahhing about test kits, so they'd sat on the counter for ten minutes. With a single paper bag to protect them, they weren't very well insulated from the cold and, being rush hour, it took us 45 minutes to get home from the aquatic suppliers, which proved just too long.

Tanked

After our visit to the spa, we stopped off at the new house of two of our mates to partake of their excellent hospitality & general housewarming. The party went really well, but that's not the point of this post. Nikki spied their new aquarium - a "BiUbe Pure" from Reef One - and was sufficiently intrigued to investigate further.

To cut a long story short, I ordered her one for Christmas earlier this week and it was delivered yesterday. With extreme self-control, we waited until today to start setting it up. The kit contains everything you need for coldwater fish, but we'd decided on tropicals (I've had a coldwater aquarium before and it wasn't a happy experience) so the order included a heater and a thermometer, as well as a few plants and a "volcano" structure to hide the central tube.

The first job - washing ceramic media in which the biological filter (i.e. bacteria) will eventually grow - gave me a painful reminder of my previous aquarium existence as the brown water swirled around the sharp little rocks. This time round, that should be a one-off task as the BiUbe pretty much looks after itself. We positioned the volcano, thermometer, and heater and carried the whole thing through to the living room before filling it with water.

As fishy enthusiasts will know, tap water is deadly for fish - all that chlorine and chloramines - so it has to be treated. The BiUbe kit is complete in this respect too, with a sachet of "Stress Coat" water conditioner to remove all the harmful chemicals. Once we'd positioned the plants and turned on the air pump, I squirted the contents of the sachet into the water and sat back for the 24-hour wait before we can add the bacterial culture that will grow on the bottom of the tank and process all that fishy waste.

To be honest, it looks the business even without fish. Maybe we could just leave it bubbling away in the corner and convince any visitors that the fish are hiding?

Spa-tastic birthday treat

Carden Park. A DeVere hotel famous for golfing and its award-winning restaurant, and the venue for a fantastic relaxing overnight stay (with spa treatments incorporated) which Nikki treated me to for my birthday this year.

I guess those for whom visits to spas or masseurs are an everyday part of life will find it odd, but I'd somehow managed to reach the age of almost-fifty-three without ever having had a professional massage. I know! Shit just happens, doesn't it? So the bit I was looking forward to most of all was the back massage. But the package included another treatment, so I'd chosen (from the admittedly limited list of options) to have a facial as well. I don't mean to imply the options are limited at Carden Park - they're not - but this particular package only offered those two, or a manicure or a pedicure. I wouldn't impose my feet on anyone, and I'm not a nail polish kind of guy, so facial was the only thing left really. And in case you're wondering, yes. I did investigate whether it was permissible to have TWO back massages :o)

We arrived too late to enjoy our complimentary welcome drink, but a "spa light bite" lunch was included and after wading through the enormous bowl of chunky chips that accompanied my beef sandwich I was grateful the light bite was no heavier. We had time to kill before our treatments, which we spent checking in to our room (an extremely well-appointed suite as you can see below), wandering around the grounds taking advantage of the temporary cessation of rain, and relaxing in the bar with a swift G&T.
The appointed hour for our treatments (4pm) rolled around soon enough and we retired to the spa section of the hotel to change into robes and meet in the "Relaxation Room." A dimly-lit room with twiddly sylvan pipe music playing,

a large aquarium embedded in one wall, and a raft of couches, many of which were occupied by ladies in robes. Nikki later observed that the most populous Relaxation Room she'd ever relaxed in had contained one other person. This was positively packed. I didn't relax.

I'll spare you the details of the treatments. The back massage was fabulous and the facial was... interesting. And left me with an extremely gooey beard.

Our delightful evening meal, at three substantial courses, left no room for the cheeseboard which we'd hoped to carry back to our room to enjoy with another glass of wine. It was not to be - we were already overstuffed. So we returned to our suite for what was to prove the worst part of our stay - the bed. Or to be more precise, the mattress. A superking affair that turned into an all-night endurance test as it tried its damnedest to turf us out onto the floor. I have no idea how a bed can get into this state, but it was like sleeping on the side of a mountain, with the peak in the middle of the bed, and each edge in a separate valley. Lose your anchor point for a moment and you risked rolling out completely. Having come without crampons, we clung to each other for safety!

The ecstacy

I love the Internet. It didn't take much more than a few minutes online research this morning to give me a clue why the PS3 wasn't talking to the telly. Armed with this information we took our second cups of coffee downstairs and I got busy with the various remotes (of which we now have FIVE - strewth!).

Along with its built-in digital (and now totally redundant analogue) tuner(s), the Pioneer's media box has four AV inputs. Four SEPARATELY CONFIGURABLE inputs. This is the key piece of information I'd forgotten. My excuse is that you only ever need to do this stuff once in a while (about once a year seems to be the average) so it's easy to let something slip the shackles of your mind. It may look like the box is configured correctly but if you hadn't first selected the correct input then you're actually looking at the wrong set of settings.

The HDMI interface (this box is so old that there is only one) is hard-wired to INPUT 3. So select INPUT 3 first, scroll down the options and what do you find? HDMI: DISABLED.

No real surprise then that the screen is blank! Flip that setting to HDMI: ENABLED (having first disconnected the other cabling options, and removed the XBox from INPUT 3 to avoid confusing the issue) and everything burst into life. Into glorious, technicolour, full HD life.

Well, not quite full HD. 1080i, in fact. Back when we bought this TV, 1080p was only available on really high-end gear costing more than twice as much. But easily good enough to blow yer socks off. We finished the rest of our coffee watching last week's Casualty on the iPlayer, streamed effortlessly and wirelessly to the PS3 and with a quality indistinguishable from a regular broadcast.

After that, it was off to the PlayStation online shop to download some game demos. The wireless connection held up brilliantly, despite the router being one floor up and on the other side of the house, and within minutes I was rattling a pinball around a high-def table in the demo version of Zen Pinball. Awesome.

The agony

Had a small windfall the other day, so we decided to treat ourselves to a PS3 Slim. We've been umming and ahhing for a while over BluRay players, and we know from mates' experience that the PS3 is one of, if not the best player on the market.

What really swung it for us though was a couple of recent examples where our Toppy failed to record some favourite programme or other. Not only does the PS3 come fully wireless enabled, but it also plays BBC iPlayer directly on the telly. The fact that it also "does games" is nothing but an added bonus. We've had this massive plasma screen over four years and never once had a High Definition signal through it, so the prospect of The Dark Knight in HD was positively mouth-watering.

The box itself was delivered yesterday and the rest of the gubbins (HDMI cable, various controllers and a game) arrived today. Even so, I'd intended to wait until tomorrow to set it all up, but certain of the younger members of the family were already visibly drooling so I cast caution to the wind and set about cabling it up after dinner. I should have listened to my inner paraskevidekatriaphobe. Friday the 13th is no day to be getting complicated electronical paraphernalia hooked up.

It all sounded so simple in the book. Connect up the HDMI cable - OR the component video cable - and Robert is your mother's brother. Only with the HDMI cable connected the telly showed nothing but a whole lot of black, and with the component video cable the result was a different set of black that looked almost indistinguishable from the first lot.

Our screen being an older version of the Pioneer PDP505-XDE, all of the connections go through a media box, which has two sets of connectors for component in. I tried the other set. Bingo! Er... well... not "bingo" exactly. More "go bin". The picture from the PS3 was in black and white! And very grainy. Still, it was enough to run through the set-up procedures, download the odd firmware upgrade and that sort of thing. We even tried The Dark Knight for a few painful seconds.

Four years' waiting for this?! It's enough to make a grown man cry.

The oracle says

My Google horoscope for yesterday was uncannily accurate, I meant to mention. I usually read these things with casual indifference, but this one induced a small double-take:
If you have been blinded by your own dreams, your high hopes may be dashed in an instant today when you realize the truth of what's actually happening. But this flash of awareness also contains the seeds of a more realistic plan that can pave the path to your future. Don't be overly dramatic about your own version of paradise lost. Just pick up the pieces, adjust your plan and try again. A touch of disappointment can fuel your greatest success.

Hmm...

Bad news from New York

I emailed that New York agent this afternoon. The one I've been waiting on for 12 weeks. Thirteen, actually, as I realised this morning that I'd counted up wrong. They were a week overdue, so I sent them a memory jogger email. Hello, it's me. I'm still here. Still waiting. How are you getting on?

I received a reply within five minutes. Basically it said "thanks, but no thanks." But she didn't pass up the chance to pepper the 'no thanks' with a little disdain. Just for added piquancy you understand: "I had the chance to read it and while I enjoy the premise, I didn't feel the execution made the book stand out from others in its category."

Ouch.

Gotta tell you lady, it's still better than a lot of the crap I've waded through in the last three years of being a book club member. But reactions like that are frowned upon in writing circles. You have to suck it up, grit your teeth, and get on with it. Which is exactly what I did. Since receiving that dismissive reply I've sent out another ten queries. And I'll keep sending them out until I get that 'yes.' That one yes. The only yes I need.

The thing that pissed me off more than the rejection, was that the tone of the rest of the email implied she'd finished reading the manuscript (or read as far as she needed to make up her mind) weeks ago, but hadn't bothered to let me know the result. So I've wasted weeks of potential querying time waiting for someone who had already decided to say no.

You can bet I won't be making that mistake again.

First frost

One of my annual checkpoints occurred this morning. The first day on which I'm forced to scrape the ice off the car before I can drive off. We've had an unseasonably mild November so far, but that's all over now. Now all we have to look forward to is three months or so of scraping, and waiting for the blower to clear the windscreen. Or driving off too soon, and bending almost double behind the steering wheel to peer blearily through the thin sliver of glass that's not opaqued by the dust and engine gases that belch out from the demister vents and mingle with passenger breath to create an immovable oily film.

I could clean the windows I suppose, which would make the demister marginally more efficient, but I've never got on well with car cleaning. Something for which the word "nugatory" was invented, if you ask me.

Family dinners

We headed over to Penistone yesterday afternoon for an evening in the company of my cousin and her husband. We don't see them very often (a couple of times a year on average) but when we do there's always lots of news to catch up on, and no matter how long we're there the conversation never dries up.

As it happened we couldn't have picked a better day, news-wise. My nephew had just that morning become a father for the first time. I say "nephew." In truth that's only a family tradition. Never having had any brothers or sisters(*), I'm bereft of "official" nieces and nephews and I've always felt that lack (of both siblings and their offspring) keenly. Tim is officially my second cousin, but that always sounds so distant to me. Hardly like a real relation at all. And I've never successfully got my head around that "once removed, twice removed" thing. No, far simpler for him and his two sisters to know me as "Uncle John", which they have always done, and, as a consequence, he conveniently becomes my nephew. QED.

So it's congratulations to Tim, and also to Sarah who (as we learned yesterday) is expecting as well, although she's trying to keep it quiet. Must be something in the water over Barnsley way. Don't worry Sarah, I don't suppose anyone you know comes anywhere near this Internet backwater. Other than your Mum & Dad, occasionally.

With those two major news bombshells out of the way the remainder of the evening, with its to-ing and fro-ing of almost a year's-worth of catching up, passed relatively quietly, punctuated by congratulatory phone calls, a most excellent meal, and the sound of neighbourhood bonfire night celebrations.

We returned home to the tail-end of another safari night on our road, which we'd had to reluctantly decline on account of our prior engagement. That didn't stop an intoxicated neighbour attempting to persuade us over the road to sample the delights of her cheeseboard at half past midnight. I managed to convince her I'd had enough cheese for one evening.

(*)More recently of course, I've been blessed with a cracking brother-in-law who, having been a prolific breeder in the past, comes with a ready-assembled supply of progeny who are therefore my nieces-in-law. Suddenly I've got more family than you can shake a stick at!

Sofa, so good

One thing guaranteed to dispel the doom and gloom of impending redundancy is a good old spending spree. I have an almost schizophrenic approach to spending money. I can go for months, or occasionally years, doing a passable impersonation of Ebenezer Scrooge. Living quietly within my means, not eating out much, not reinventing my wardrobe (I'm about as far removed from a fashion victim as it's possible to get), not splurging on any of the fabulous gadgetry that I admire from afar.

And then comes a tipping point.

This time round two tipping points have coincided, with almost tectonic results. Relief at still having a job, and exasperation at our ultimately tired, flabby and therefore distressingly uncomfortable sofas combined to force us out into Manchester's marvellous marketplace and not to return until we'd signed up for this:
Two of them actually: a three-seater and a two-seater. And two foot stools.

We tried to go for an armchair too, but after several hours juggling our existing furniture around in the living room alongside assorted chairs pretending to be something they weren't, we regretfully concluded that the current arrangement of sofas was the only one that made sense and we'd have to stick with a like-for-like replacement.

And I must just add: what a difference seven years has made to DFS! When we were looking to furnish our previous house in 2002 we wandered desultorily around their store and couldn't see a single thing we liked. Today? Well I could almost have bought anything in the store. There were dozens of super sofas of many different designs and fabrics. I think we sat on virtually everything in the store. But this one - the Harewood - was definitely the most comfortable, and also had a good story in terms of its likely resilience. The last thing we want is a repeat of the disaster we ended up buying back then. Something that after barely five years started to resemble a sack of potatoes and which a couple of years further down the track is almost as uncomfortable! The one we sat on has been in the store 18 months and still looks brand new (apart from the film of dust at the back of the arms).

Its wood bits are hand-carved, the leather hand-stitched, it's the first to offer pocket-sprung cushions, and since it's easily disassembled for awkward deliveries, there's no worry about whether it will fit through the door. All we have to do now is wait 12 weeks for delivery.

The axe missed

One thing that prevented me from really enjoying our holiday in the Lakes this year was the knowledge that I was coming back to the week in which the company would decide which of us was for the chop.

Two months ago, a large chunk of the workforce - 6,000 - were put on 90 days' notice of potential redundancy, with the expectation that 20% - 1,200 - would go. Since then we've all been living under the cloud. Not knowing whether we'd be one of the 1 in 5. Not really knowing whether we could do anything to make ourselves a less attractive proposition for attrition. Wondering what life would hold in the Big Outside if the axe fell our way.

I'll admit to having approached this with an uneasy admixture of resignation, pragmatism and hope. Not in equal parts, nor in unequal parts that retained their share of the mixture. No, the balance between the three shifted on an hourly basis. My thoughts circling endlessly around those three pillars: I can't do anything to influence the decision; we can probably survive on one wage and my pension; at least it'll give me the time to write full-time.

Today was D-Day. The day when those selected were to receive both email and couriered postal mail telling them their fate. In a move that smacks of no little incompetence, not to mention an almost total lack of understanding of what their staff have been going through, those NOT selected were to receive no confirmation that they had not been selected, and so were instead left to watch their inboxes and front doors anxiously, all day long, wondering whether they had indeed got away with it this time, or was it just that the message had been delayed?

Well, I've left my mailbox open two hours past what could be considered a "normal" end to the working day, and nothing's arrived. So I guess a tentative sigh of relief is in order.

Where was I?

Got back from a week in the Lakes this evening. A glorious, happy, mild, almost-rain-free, fun, exhausting, exhilarating 7 days spent in the company of fabulous friends, food, frolics and frippery.

We went last year, of course, but that was in May (and I never did write it up. Tut!). Don't s'pose I'll write this one up either, being the lazy sod I am, but we have the memories. And the photos. They're up on Picasa, if you're interested. We've decided we're going to pick one and have it printed on canvas to hang somewhere in the house as a permanent reminder of the funtimes. Well, you have to, don't you? I do. I absolutely do.

Meme

Shamelessly hijacked from tvor, but isn't that what you're supposed to do with these things? I really miss those Friday Fives!

Could you see yourself with the same person for a year?
You mean like this person I've been with for nine years? Umm... yes!

Do you know anyone who's having a baby?
Quite a few people. All of them in the book club, strangely. Who knew reading could be so dangerous?

Have you ever been called heartless?
Never.

Do you think you've made a difference in anyone's life?
I know I have.

Name something you're doing tomorrow?
Going on holiday!!! Yayyyyy!!!

When was the last time you had Starbucks?
A couple of visits to the Trafford Centre ago. Probably sometime in the summer.

Are you ticklish?
Yes. Finding the spot is a puzzle though ;o)

Do you crack your knuckles?
Yes, since the age of about 10.

Who was the last person to give you a hug?
Nikki.

Are you in a good mood?
Yep.

Are you excited for something?
Yep!! (see above)

Is there someone you can trust 100%?
Several people.

Last person you said "I hate you" to?
I may have said this to someone as a child, but I don't recall saying it since I reached big school.

Will you talk to the person you like tonight?
Yes.

Do you miss anyone?
Yes.

Will this weekend be a good one?
Yes! (Whether the weather is good or not!)

What were you doing at 7am this morning?
It's not 7am yet (it's 5:54 at the moment), but if I were to guess I'd say playing Spider Solitaire (when I *should* be writing).

Has someone ever made you a promise and broken it?
Yes.

Is there someone you don't ever want out of your life?
Several people.

Have you ever found someone you really really really liked?
Yes, but I really really really need more reallies in the question :o)

Honestly, are things going the way you planned?
Depends which plan you're talking about. If you mean the way I planned when I was, say, 18, or 21, or 25, then no. But "honestly," I can't say I mind. Things have turned out for the best.

Do you find it hard to trust others?
No. Too easy, if anything.

Are you a jealous person?
Used to be. Now, no.

Are any of your texts in your inbox locked and why?
I guess this means mobile phone texts? I don't receive many and I don't keep any.

Last night, did you go to sleep smiling?
I fall asleep so quickly I don't have time to smile.

Any Summer plans for 2010?
Not so far.

Look in your inbox in your phone, who are all the people you have texts from?
I haven't kept any, but the most recent ones were from Nikki, Natalie, and work peeps.

Do you like voicemails?
No. 99% of them are work-related and usually involve adding something to my pile.

Do you wish you had an older, protective brother?
I've often wished I had siblings of some flavour, but I wouldn't say that wish included an older brother. Necessarily. In fact I always pictured myself as the older one.

Are you keeping a secret right now?
No.

Have you ever had a surprise birthday party?
No.

How much longer until your birthday?
Almost exactly a month.

Is there one person in your life that can always make you smile?
Several people.

Will Friday be a good one?
Oh yes!

Have you ever had a best friend of the opposite sex?
Yes.

Is there anyone you couldn't live without?
There are people I wouldn't want to live without. I'd probably manage it, but it would be less like life and more like existence.

Could you go out in public looking like you do now?
I usually do, but I wouldn't recommend it. Style icon? Moi?

Do you think things will change in the next few months?
Yes. One way or another.

What colour shirt are you wearing?
Black.

Have you told anyone you loved them today?
Gimme a chance - I haven't even finished my second coffee yet!

What do you and your best friend like to do together?
Chill. Optionally involving beer, food, or both.

Do you have a cellphone?
We usually call them 'mobiles' here, but yeah.

How long have you had it?
This particular one, about a year probably. I don't really pay much attention. I've had a mobile since 1994, although that wasn't what you'd call 'mobile.' It was about the size of a house brick.

What's bothering you right now?
That I'm still waiting to hear back from New York.

What is the last thing you drank today?
Still drinking it - the morning coffee.

What are you going to do after this?
Check the rest of my emails, and then play some cards do some writing.

Is there a certain person you can't get OFF your mind?
There's a few I think of regularly, but not in the way I assume you mean.

Whose bed did you sleep in last?
See what I mean? Mine. Ours.

Has someone ever told you they will love you forever?
Yes.

Do you like to cuddle?
Who doesn't?

Will you be in a relationship in the next couple months?
I should blimmin' well hope so!

How do you feel about your hair right now?
What hair?

Do you have any siblings?
No.

What song did you hear last?
Something by Daughtry.

Who was the last person you talked to on the phone and what did you talk about?
Nikki. Our usual midday catch-up.

What woke you up this morning?
Having had enough sleep.

Do you ever write in pencil anymore?
Very occasionally.

Who did you last see in person?
Nikki. She's sitting round the corner.

Is there something you wish you could tell someone but can't?
No.

Could you go the rest of your life without doing any drugs?
I've managed so far!

Bad-Axe bastard

I don't know what made me suddenly think of this, but my mind has just popped the answer to a 40-year-old riddle. Now as you'll see, if it had actually been subconsciously working on the problem all of that time, this wouldn't be too impressive, but as far as I can tell what's happened is that my train of thought, as I sat here playing cards and inventing dialogue for The Literary Novel, has happened across a childhood memory that my adult brain solved instantly.

So it's not really been a riddle for forty years, it's just that I've not thought about it since I was about twelve.

We used to have a bunch of cheap blue plastic biros in the bureau at home, which were remarkable only in that they had been heavily embossed with gilt letters spelling out the legend "I'M A BAD-AXE BASTARD." When these pens first turned up at home I asked my Dad where he'd got them. Apparently a friend of his who ran the local trophy (and engraving) centre had given them to him as they were 'surplus to requirements.' He claimed to have no idea what the phrase meant, when I asked him, and knowing my Dad it is at least vaguely feasible that he wasn't just protecting my youthful sensibilities.

With the wisdom of ages now mine (well, those 40 years anyway), I just wish I'd been able to see the look on the face of the customer when he came to collect his pens and realised that it might have been advisable to write down his desired wordage rather than rely on the dodgy hearing of the old guy who ran the shop.

Perspectives

Into each life a little rain must fall. An old, trite phrase that, like all old, trite phrases contains a kernel of truth. Everyone has their own shit to deal with; their own bucket to carry; etc. Parents always tell you that they'll never stop worrying about you, and that you won't understand how they feel until you have children of your own. And then, when you have children of your own... yes. You understand. With a depth of understanding that sits somewhere below bone-deep. In a subterranean cavern of the soul that you didn't really know existed.

And you watch your children dealing with their shit - that small proportion of it that they're prepared to share with you, or you learn about indirectly - and wish that you could help them with it. And know that you can't. Worse than that, sometimes, someheartbreakingtimes that stay with you in a way you know you'll never shake off, you're the cause of the rain that fell into their lives. Rain? It was more like a fireman's hose, with your hand on the valve.

Which is why these days we like to try and make our home a haven of shitlessness. Dump your shit at the door, no shit here thank you. That's not to say we don't have "serious conversations" - just that we like to try and resolve more problems than we cause, and generally accentuate the positive. But sometimes, being a parent, I worry (see above) that it all gets a bit boring here. Cos, you know, we don't really do much most of the time (apart from the odd trip here and there). The weekend days generally have a beat to them - lazy breakfast; do our own thing for a few hours; pot of tea with optional snacks; movie; dinner; evening telly usually followed by another movie - but is it ENOUGH?

This morning, in a rare shaft of sunlight that shone into that dark cavern I was talking about, I discovered that maybe it's more than enough. Maybe it's exactly right. I happened across this answer in one of Blythe's online quizzes. (I hope this doesn't count as 'parental surveillance' but hey - if it's on t'Internet it's public domain, right?)

Were you happy when you woke up today?
Yes, because it was the weekend, I could hear my sister coming out of the car and through the front gate, and I was at my dads. Being at my dads is like therapy; I get away, literally as far as I can, from everything thats currently happening. It's like a small two day holiday every two weeks.

As you might imagine, that cheered me right up! So that's why this post is called 'perspectives'. Because things always look different depending on who's doing the looking, and because you don't often know the effect what you do has on others, even those closest to you, and even when you think you're not doing much.

Another day, another door...

With the fourth door painting completed on Wednesday and the locks and hinges refitted on Thursday, it was ready to rehang. Just in time too, to avoid daughterly embarrassment as this is one of their weekends for visiting.

The final small task - fitting the emergency release mechanism to the lock - I completed this morning and here it is in all its glory. I'm happy to report that it is now a pleasure to sit... er... where I was sitting when I took this shot. Whereas before the cracked, splintered and battered old door was an affront to the eyes, now there is only calm serenity and smooth acres of white.

Four down; three to go.

Installing update...

I thought I may have blogged before regarding the frustrations of owning a wireless printer, but a quick search proves me wrong. Well, that's a subject in its own right, but it'll have to wait for another day. It's only tangentially related to today's tale, in that it was the reason I needed to reboot before taking Nikki to work this morning.

Knowing how long it can take my machine to cycle, and wanting to get a letter printed off before we left so I could post it en-route, I started the process with plenty of time to spare. Or what should have been plenty of time.

Sadly my attempt at closing down my PC was greeted with that dreaded message: "Installing update 1 of 21... do not switch off your computer."

1 of TWENTY-ONE? Good grief. How long have they been waiting to be installed? And why the hell doesn't Windows tell you there are so many pending while you're in the middle of a session? Took 45 minutes to close the bloody thing down in the end.

Ideas 'R' Us

I had an idea for another novel last night. It came to me in one of the most vivid dreams I've ever had and for once, I remembered it for almost an hour after waking - long enough to write it down in sufficient detail for me to build the story on it.

Trouble is... I really don't need any more ideas. From a position a few years ago of saying to myself "I know I could write a really good novel, if only I had an original story concept" to now, when I've been writing down every good idea I've had since that first thought, I've got more ideas that I know what to do with. Certainly more than I could ever write in however much life is left to me. People in the know - specifically this guy - told me (well, not ME personally, you know - he wrote it on his blog. His very-well-read blog) this would happen and guess what? He was right.

Damn' good idea though. Really dark and menacing. And as always, FAR more attractive than the story I'm trying to write at the moment. Which makes it just one more distraction I don't need!

Beware the camcorder

We never need much of an excuse for a get-together with mates, but when there's a holiday in the offing then there's also the obligatory "planning" meeting, which duly took place yesterday. The actual planning part didn't take much more than ten minutes - where and when are we going to meet up for lunch on the way there; who's cooking what meals on what nights; a grocery list for the initial shop (mainly breakfast items and snacks); and are we all having the same bedrooms as last time; and we're done.

So when we started in on the wine at shortly after 4 in the afternoon, I should have known the direction the rest of the evening was going to take. Wine, especially Zinfandel (or rosé of any kind, tbh), is just too easy to drink. Before you know it, your glass is empty and, with excellent hosts like Ian & Gill, it's mostly refilled again without you even asking. Or noticing.

Which makes it incredibly easy to lose track. That's my excuse anyway. Not to mention that we popped around the corner for short pub session before the main meal.

From what I remember of the rest of the evening, we all had a fabulous time. We proved beyond doubt that Ian & Gill's table will seat eight, and I proved that if you sit me in front of a cheeseboard for long enough then eventually there'll be nothing left of it except a few crumbs. I'm not going to write in adolescent fashion about how drunk I got. Certainly drunker than I've been this year. If I'm being honest, drunker than I can remember being since... umm... well, you get the picture.

Trouble is, these days, I don't need to *remember* how drunk I was. There's evidence. Firstly, the email from Ian which arrived this afternoon. And I quote:
"Sober viewers must be warned these people had drunk quite a bit (18 cans, 12 bottles of wine + 2 rounds in the pub) which may explain hangovers on Sunday."

And secondly the video footage which that email introduced showing, among other things, Ritchie and I at around 1am drunkenly singing Supper's Ready at the top of our (slightly out of tune) voices. I hope they have understanding neighbours.

We have a week of similar, although hopefully not quite so intense, evenings to look forward to. Let me just check we've put paracetamol on the shopping list...

The pipes, the pipes

It's been a while since I related how we're getting on with album #2 - Weird and Wonderful - although progress continues to be reported over at our other home. I say progress, but it's been a bit sporadic of late, what with one thing and another.

As predicted, we only managed one recording session last month, but we started well this month - on Wednesday - both in terms of it being the first Wednesday in October and in respect of the quality of the singing. By far my best number so far, the performance was helped firstly by the song being right in the middle of my range, and secondly by taking a few minutes out to do some crazy warm-up exercises that Annie passed on from her experiences at drama school. I wish I could let you hear the difference between the first take of the first verse (pre-warm-up) and the second take (post-warm-up). It actually sounds like a different person is singing, and the added depth to the sound really took me completely by surprise, as well as it being a whole lot easier to deliver.

Well hey - athletes warm up their muscles, right? I know at least one reader who'll be slightly exasperated (a) at my surprise and (b) that I wasn't warming up before. What can I say? Sometimes you just have to learn the lessons for yourself!

The Call of the Wood

Been fixing up and painting the bathroom door since Sunday. Don't know about you, but when I'm doing a job as mindless as painting, my hand might be painting but my mind is otherwise engaged. Plotting The Literary Novel (as it's recently become known in my head), or testing out snippets of conversation between the main characters (or even minor ones come to that), or generally wool-gathering.

Something of the manual activity has patently impinged on my consciousness though, manifesting itself in two painting-related gatherings of wool. 1: how stripped doors sound attractive until you actually see them, and 2: how I'm probably bringing these doors full circle (or actually, more like 540°, because clearly being wood, they started life as... well... bare wood).

I like stripped wood as a rule. A few (umm... probably about 12) years ago I took a hot-air stripper and a shave-hook to the wooden window casings in the main bedroom of the family cottage, gradually revealing the mellow silkiness of their ancient yellow pine, but it was a task to remove all evidence of old repairs - every last lump and grain of filler - sand the wood to a fine smooth finish and then apply copious quantities of beeswax-based polish to feed and nurture the wood until it gleamed. The end result soon dulled the memory of the hours of exhausting, boring stripping, sanding and buffing.

The previous owners of this house had an altogether more slapdash approach to their stripped wood. As far as I can tell it involved a quick dunk in a bath of chemical stripper and... er... that's yer lot. For the most part, this left the doors looking rough and ill-treated. Exposed splits and cracks in the old timber, long clumps of old grey filler in the spaces between the carcass and the mouldings, lines of yellowed dots where the filled nail heads lived, and all the long years' scratches and gouges in full view. And then, to add insult to injury, they'd painted on a wash of disgusting blue woodstain that gave them, if anything, an even sadder and more forlorn aspect.

Quite the most depressing example of stripped wood I'd ever seen and one of the earliest mental notes I made during our first visit to the house. Hence Thought #1 above.

Thought #2, bubbling into view as the brush turned the dirty matt effect into smooth fresh white, is the realisation that all I'm doing is returning the doors to the state they'd more than likely been in when the previous owners first arrived. All trace of the expense of the chemical dipping, and the splashing on of dishwaterlike stain, will soon be erased. Makes me wonder if, at some remote future point, a new owner of this house will have an urge for stripped doors and set to to re-undo all my hard work. No wonder B&Q (aka Home Depot) profits remain healthy.

Blue rinse

Well, the Tories are here this week. Party conference. The week has so far been punctuated with various friends posting on various social websites about "Tory scum" and similar pithy observations, and all week I've been building up to some erudite exposition on the subject of enlightened self-interest, public servants and realism.

But you know what? I really can't be arsed.

And on reflection, I still like the idea of fitting every politician with a tiny remote-controlled personal explosive device located somewhere essential, like adjacent to the carotid artery. Said device hooked up to a red button owned by every single person in the country. If more than, say, 60% of people are pressing their button at any one time... kaboom! Or should I say... *phlut* (because it's only a very tiny bomb).