Not to mention the fell ratio

While I'm on a linguistic roll, I caught the tail end of summat on Radio 4 yesterday (Word of Mouth, to be precise) on the subject of arcane English spellings and what a barrier they are to learning the language. I found it interesting as spelling has always been a strength of mine (to the extent that some of my colleagues refer to me as "the human spellchecker"), something I feel is important, and as such what I thought was the "modern" trend against teaching spelling in schools, or at least not correcting it when wrong, sat very uncomfortably with me when my children started school.

Well it seems the tide is turning, and received wisdom is coming full circle. After years of schools not concentrating on spelling, universities are rebelling against a tide of students whose use of language is so poor they can barely make themselves understood, and industry is suffering from a generation of semi-literate youngsters incapable of generating a professional-looking document or presentation. Despite 30-40 years of laissez-faire in the classroom on the subject of spelling, good English is still seen as a marker of educational attainment.

This is causing something of a backlash from those teachers concerned for their students in the lower ability ranges, for whom the unruly spelling of many English words is a hurdle they find hard to leap. It was this aspect (among others) that Word of Mouth spent some time discussing, and which I found so interesting - mainly because the difficulties that it poses had never affected me, so it was something I'd never really thought about.

To spice up what is essentially a dry subject, the programme had invited someone who campaigns for spelling reform - a woman deeply passionate about the scars of humiliation inflicted on the hapless learner - to explain the problem. Some of the facts and statistics she presented were quite illuminating, leaving aside the hyperbole with which she described the "injustice" of forcing children to learn English spelling - comparing it to the Victorians sending them down mines and up chimneys and implying that it is something which in these more enlightened times should be dispensed with.

The problem is, English uses far more discrete spellings of language sounds - graphemes - than other languages. Graphemes are the written representation of phonemes - standard vowel and consonant sounds plus combinations like ea; ou; sh; ch; etc.

Most European languages have around 50 graphemes. English has 114.

It's quite common for phonemes to have more than one grapheme - i.e. there's more than one way to represent the same sound - but what makes English so much more complicated is that the reverse also happens frequently. In 49 cases the same grapheme is used to represent more than one sound - for example 'ea' in treat, threat and great.

These are referred to by language teachers as "tricky" words - words which can't be learnt by following simple rules. Bright children start learning these tricky words right from the beginning but for those on the slower side, they're too hard and pose real problems. The speaker reckoned there are 3,695 common English words that cannot be spelled by rule. Things like

very - merry
arrive - arise
ballad - salad

1,000 of the tricky words involve doubling or not doubling a consonant, and their correct spelling has no connection with the "rule" about a double consonant keeping a vowel short (as in dinner/diner). The presenter argued that this is a relatively simple problem to overcome, whereupon the teacher suggested that while it may not be so bad for words pairs such as latter/later, what happens when you encounter lateral?

It was clear the presenter, Clive Rosen, wasn't convinced. Italian is well recognised as a "regular" language, he argued, but the same literacy problems exist in Italy, where a sizeable percentage of the population still struggle with reading.

Sadly while the programme expressed the problem eloquently enough, little time was devoted to any potential solution. The lady's campaign to reform English spelling would, for instance, see all the different ways of spelling the 'ee' sound in the language (leave; sleeve; receive; evil; magazine; siege; aesthete; ...) replaced with just one. But this is just one change. Does anyone really beleeve that this is a change that could actually bee introduced among the 600+ million English speekers in the world with any degree of success? We're talking peeple of all age ranges, not to mention ree-writing all the spell checkers, signposts, reeprinting all the books, and editing the overwhelming majority of the billions of Internet pages.

And that's even before considering the opposing view - that existing spellings reflect the origins of the language and make English what it is. It can't be *that* hard, surely, if it still enjoys such widespread usage?

A more realistic solution to my mind would involve the development of more effective teaching techniques targeted at lower ability levels. Avoid the kind of embarrassment the guest speaker was alluding to; devote more time, and earlier, to tricky words (as the more able students do naturally already); introduce more fun elements to the traditionally tedious subject. At least such changes would be restricted to the 4-11 age range, rather than forcing the entire population to relearn something we each already have such a heavy personal investment in.

(and of course, we're all familiar with these, aren't we? ;o))

I'd rather be a cunning linguist

Taro 9 (made by BBC Wales to be broadcast tonight on S4C) asks the question: Is bilingualism the way forward?

"For decades the status of the Welsh language has sharply divided opinion in Wales but in Belgium it looks like a row over language is set to tear a nation in two," says the press release, going on to describe the controversy caused by Milford Haven politician Eric Harries who dared to suggest that limited resources are being wasted by the legal requirement to publish all council documents in Welsh as well as English (you can read the rest of it here).

In Belgium, differences between the Dutch speakers in Flanders to the north of the country, and the French speakers, primarily from Wallonia in the south, are threatening to literally split the country in two, wiping Belgium clean off the map.

I'm reminded of the conversations I've had in the past with Canadian friends regarding the resentment they feel as a result of their own legal requirement, historically imposed on the entire country by the relatively small province of Quebec, to have both English and French descriptions on all packaged goods and many public signs, and to be forced to learn French in "immersion" classes. And also of recent debates in the UK about the relative merits of publishing, for instance, medical leaflets in a variety of ethnic languages (Urdu, Hindi, Arabic, etc) as opposed to insisting that settlers in this country learn to speak and read English.

We often joke about America and England being divided by a common language, but there is more uniting us (especially in our use of English) than separates us, and certainly within a single country, it seems that one of the attributes that defines a country as a country is its common tongue.

If a country like Belgium, which to once again quote from the BBC press release is referred to as being "...regarded the world over as a symbol of co-operation and European unity", can be divided by language then surely the message is clear. One country: one language.

Office euphemisms

I don't know how many of you work in an office, but those that do must be familiar with that ubiquitous character common the world over: the Holder of Loud Telephone Conversations.

They come in two varieties. Those that sit at their desk and hold forth safe in the knowledge that they're not disturbing anyone, because their conversations are so interesting that the whole of the rest of the office will want to stop what they're doing and listen in. This is a good job, because those other workers don't get a lot of choice in the matter. They're gonna hear what the guy (or gal) is saying whether they want to or not.

The other variety has a neurological condition that physically prevents them from sitting still when a phone approaches their ear. They are impelled to pace up and down the office, and in really bad cases even through the entire building, while conducting their telephone business. In the same way as a pigeon can't walk without bobbing its head, the Ambulatory Holder of Loud Telephone Conversations can't talk without walking.

Inasmuch as any of this has an advantage, it is this: it allows students of human nature access to a wide variety of office euphemisms, which I thought might make an interesting subject for an occasional series, starting today. I have no idea how long this will run (or even if it will), or how many different phrases I can extract, but for today, here's #1.

"I'll leave you in peace."

This is an attempt to stop the conversation that actually means "I've got what I wanted from you and I'm not interested in hearing about your problems, so shut the fuck up and let me get off the phone."

Its effect is limited, as witnessed by the fact that our resident HoLTeC had to say it three times before his callee got the message.

Chimney Pot Park

Four years ago, for reasons I won't bore you with, we were lucky enough to be taken on a tour of various sites in Manchester used as "locations" for Coronation Street filming. Today we thought we'd drive around a couple of these, partly to see how they'd changed in four years but mainly because they provide some interesting photo opportunities for those, like our esteemed visitor, who appreciate such things. Especially chimney pots.

Our first stop, therefore, was the appropriately named Chimney Pot Park. It's the place used to represent the mysterious "Red Rec" - often referred to but only ever filmed on those rare occasions when something significant is happening there, such as Emily's tree-top protest of a few years ago. Back in 2005, it looked like this. Rather sad really, to see all those traditional back-to-back terraced houses, which had provided homes for countless hundreds of Salford residents over the years, all borded up with aluminium sheeting and ready for demolition.

But the story has a happy ending, because the whole area, rather than being slated for demolition, was actually awaiting the start of an urban redevelopment project which took its name from the traditional local name of the area: Chimney Pot Park. It's the brainchild of Urban Splash, who are responsible for a number of innovative housing projects in the city. They're occasionally the subject of some bad press, but hey, if they can provide affordable, modern housing in previously run-down areas AND make money at the same time, what's wrong with that?

The project was still in progress when we were there, with work going on at front and back:

The fronts have been developed to retain their original terraced look, with the indented parking spaces retained on the roads, but the backs - with their familiar (to Coronation Street viewers at least) back yards and ginnels - have been replaced with a first-floor deck that provides a communal living space for all the houses in a row, along with "underground" gated parking, which is actually at street level but underneath the deck. The houses have effectively been turned upside down, so the living spaces - living room, dining and kitchen - are on the first floor, with the bedrooms on the ground floor.

The completed houses further down the block look like this:

...which, if I was buying my first house and looking to establish a community, would be a very attractive proposition. Good luck to the developers, and all the people in their new homes.

Then it was off to Portland Basin - scene of the famous "driving into the canal" business with crazy Richard Hillman (and later when David Platt repeated the stunt). This hasn't changed as much over the years, except that the small (but perfectly formed) museum there is undergoing some refurbishment to its Industrial Gallery, so a substantial part of it was roped off for our visit.

The sun graced us with its presence while we walked around the canal basin, over the bridge and around the boatyard. On our way back across the bridge a long boat chugged through the basin making its leisurely way to the next lock. It looked idyllic and it's easy to be fooled into thinking a barge holiday would be the perfect way to spend a week, but I remember the second time I took a boating holiday, when it pissed with rain for the entire fortnight and none of us could get dry, ever. Yes, it's lovely when the sun's out. When it's not, being on a boat is the most miserable experience imaginable.

Argy-bargy

Yesterday we went to Liverpool for the day.

Quite frankly it wouldn't bother me overmuch if I never saw that drab, uninteresting place ever again. I'm not one for "city breaks" at the best of times, and Liverpool has the added disadvantage of being populated by Liverpudlians who in my experience are all weighed down by enormous chips on their shoulders, but Paul wanted to see it, and I didn't have anything better to do, so off we went.

At least the day started well. I didn't have to drive. We took the train, which gave us the opportunity to breakfast on bagels from The Bagel Factory. It was around then that things took a turn for the worse though, as I hit the wrong button on the ticket machine (by millimetres) and bought us three SINGLE tickets to Lime Street. Which, as it turned out, was only ten PENCE cheaper per ticket than three returns, thereby costing us an extra thirty quid. An expensive mistake which didn't do much for my mood, especially bearing in mind the destination.

Arriving at Lime Street around 11am, we trudged off to visit Paddy's wig-wam, and from there went down to the Albert Dock to mooch disconsolately around the rusting hulks and newly refurbished visitors centre selling the same tired old tat you always get at these places, along with the usual assortment of coffees and fast food.

From there we hiked the five hundred and eighty miles to the St John Centre, a stunningly original shopping centre with no roof and an array of shops never before seen like Gap, M&S, William Hill's, Dolcis and Waterstones. You begin to get a flavour of why I think visiting cities is largely pointless. Even a late lunch in Wetherspoons did little to alleviate my feelings of impending doom. Mainly because we revisited The Richard John Blackler, which has just about the worst online reviews of any Wetherspoons I've ever visited, and lived up to its poor reputation for dirty tables, late food and disinterested staff.

Somewhere along the line we also wandered past the Cavern Club, and took the concrete steps down into its dingy interior. The air was redolent of years of sweaty bodies packed into what is effectively an underground toilet, the acid rock stage reminiscent of my student days when we would hump such a construction from one end of the student union to another to accommodate some random event or other, and every available surface is covered with graffiti from those strange people who think it's important to record the fact that they've visited a place like this. In that respect, maybe this blog is like a slightly more sophisticated form of graffiti. The differences being that I'm not really bothered whether anyone knows I've been there or not - it was just another stop - and, of course, that this graffiti is here, rather than there. Anyway, it's a dump. Famous only because one of the world's most recognised bands played there a few times, still living on that reflected glory fifty years later, and now hosting bands that just want to be able to tick the box that says "we played the Cavern Club." Sad.

The highlight of the day proved to be a visit to the Apple store, which unusually for us turned into much more than a quick wander round and a drool. For once we did talk to one of the demo guys and learned quite a lot about what you can do with an iMac, what's in the box, etc. They're still expensive for what you get, but they're bloody fast, almost virus-free and beautiful to look at. I know that description will sound a lot like Linux to at least one of you (apart from the expensive bit), but it was an interesting hour for all that.

Today Nikki & Paul headed off for a walk around the Salford Quays/Castlefield canals, so I took the opportunity to stay at home and do not very much. Our day was rounded off with another evening meal at Wetherspoons followed by some TV. Perfect.

I must go down to the sea again...

Everyone has their own favourite places to hang out on the net. I think I'm more conservative (with a small c) than most, and certainly not as widely travelled (surfed?) as my brother-in-law, who's well known for finding the weirdest (and funniest) shit in existence. But wherever you go, sooner or later, you're going to come across an interesting snippet or two.

For instance today, while I was reading an article about the reporting bias (or otherwise) of the BBC, I came across this comment from another reader:
"When it comes to bien pensant issues such as Climate Change, I would definitely NOT trust the BBC. The International Commission on Sea Level Change (INQUA) has just dismissed as scare mongering the IPCCs claim that sea levels are rising. No study in the real world confirms their rigged and speculative computer models. For 35 years the INQUA has been using every known scientific method to study sea levels all over the globe and their results show that it has not risen at all in recent decades. As for tiny island nations such as the Maldives and Tuvalu which such scientific luminaries as Prince Charles and the Archbishop of Canterbury tell us due to vanish, repeated surveys by the INQUA confirm that sea levels have not risen in half a century. Do not expect to see news of this report on the BBC!!"

And it's true. You can check it out for yourself on the INQUA website. I've seen a lot of footage recently of melting glaciers - with torrents of fresh water gushing their way to the sea - and heard a lot of debate about exactly how much sea level is going to rise, and by when. Seems it's not actually happening after all. At least, not yet.

That's not to say there isn't a problem. Just that it's a different problem than the one being reported. For instance, that much fresh, ice-cold water being dumped into the oceans at the poles could well disturb, or even stop, the Great Atlantic Conveyor (or "thermohaline circulation") with dire consequences for all marine, and eventually terrestrial, life. Still... look on the bright side, eh? At least Tuvalu - along with all its clever .tv Internet domains - is safe for the time being.

African Night

Amazingly it's been more than a year since our last "safari" night on the street - Bollywood night - but there are good reasons for that. Anyway, despite agreeing to organise the next one, and originally saying it would be Greek night, we decided in the end that there would be more room for culinary manoeuvre if we chose the entire African continent as a theme, and so African Night was born.

Even though there are umpteen African countries to choose from, costumes displayed a marked lack of imagination, with pith helmets and khakis being the norm for the chaps while a variety of animal attire (zebras and large cats mainly) seemed de rigeur for the chapesses. One or two enterprising souls had gone for some kind of colourful tent, but there was nothing approaching the splendour of the Indian garb from last time.

We began our safari across the road with some delicious piri-piri chicken, falafel, some kind of cured meat, and a huge pile of tuna samosas, along with "Safari" cider. Back to our side but further down for a selection of mezzes and a delicious orangey drink concoction whose name escapes me, before moving on to ours for bobotie and African Violets. As soon as we decided the theme for tonight, I knew I'd be cooking bobotie. I haven't had it for 25+ years but back then it was an old favourite. I had thought it originated in Kenya, but that's just where the person who introduced ME to it came from. A quick Google for the recipe revealed it to be a traditional South African dish (and before that, Dutch), which gave me a brief pause as one of our neighbours hails from SA and I knew I'd be feeding it to an expert.

In the end, I found three recipes, so I based the dish on this one, but added in little somethings from the other two as well as putting my own slant on it. I also made it with Quorn mince rather than beef, as we have at least two vegetarians on the street. The end result looked exactly as I remember it, and was greeted with much praise, especially from Keith, who declared it to be "just right." For me though, the highlight of our stop was the African Violet.

It's becoming something of a tradition on safari nights to have cocktails at our place, so I was delighted to find this recipe for a stunning-looking shot, comprising layered white crème de cacao liqueur, blue curaçao, and whisky. A little tricky to make - I cocked the first one up royally and just had to dispose of it in the only way possible - but once I'd had a bit of practice and steadied my hand, the layering turned out just right. I'd slipped home half-an-hour before the guests were due to give me chance to add the eggy topping to the bobotie and prepare a dozen African Violets, which went down really well. I ended up making another dozen!

Then it was on to #19, where the lads had made a variety of deliciously spicy stuffings for some traditional deep-fried dumplings, #16 where we were treated to dessert - a choice of tropical fruits, or bananas with toffee crunch sauce, or marvel cake (or something) which was spongy, treacly goodness in a small package. Fab! By this time, of course, we were all creaking at the seams, so we were glad our organisation had decided to have food at only 5 houses. The last stop was for drinks only, but we did end up staying until 4am!

Down day

We had nothing planned for today barring the inevitable patching up of those areas of paint that hadn't *quite* managed to remain solid with a single coat. No matter how hard I try I can never completely cover an area on the first attempt, except for that one abortive attempt to use 'Once' - or whatever that paint is called that is supposedly able to cover in one coat - paint so thick that you can hardly drag it out of the tin and with which the brush strokes dry in place to taunt you forever. Never again.

So I picked Nat up early from her place, set to with the roller and brush, and had everything finished early, leaving us time for a tasty visit to The Bar for a late lunch and pint, after which we headed Yorkshirewards to collect Blythe. Nat and Paul came with me, which made for a more interesting trip, with the time passing more quickly than usual owing to the excellent company.

Dinner was Thai noodles cooked by Blythe in her food tech class, and most excellent they were too. Even though at first sight I was convinced there wasn't enough for five people, the portion sizes proved to be spot on - those noodles with peanut sauce were very filling!

All in all, for a day in which nothing much really happened, I ended up feeling very relaxed, positive and happy, which after all is what holidays are all about innit?

A coat of single colour

After our first couple of experiences of decorating in this house, we'd normally be waiting until a room had been skimmed before painting, but this is a special case. Not only has the bricked-up-doorway-and-replacement-window area already been plastered, but it's likely to be a while before the rest of the room gets the same treatment and before then we have a fireplace to rearchitect, so painting was called for. Not to mention the fact that we chose and bought the paint about two years ago, and wanted to use it before it dried up in the tin.

It was a close call. As it was the colour had settled into a 2-inch thick gloopy layer on the bottom of the tins (we bought two), requiring a good 20 minutes stirring to restore the emulsion to its rightful appley greenness.

After that, we were off. Cutting in and rollering for all we were worth. And trying, against the odds, to get enough coverage from a single coat to avoid having to do any more painting tomorrow. It almost worked.

Knowing that tomorrow would bring only a relatively small amount of repainting, we repaired to the Marble beer house for a well-earned pint or two. Ever noticed how beer tastes funny when you've the smell of emulsion up your nostrils?

Midsummer Night's Dream

Another full day's painting - second coat of white undercoat - left us with just enough time to grab a bite to eat before heading off to the local church hall to take the photos for Chorlton Players' latest production A Midsummer Night's Dream.

I'm not a huge fan of Shakespeare and much of the first scene left me cold, but once we moved onto the fairy scenes I began to appreciate the narrative a little more but also to revel in the wonderful costumes and makeup that the group had devised. This was a dream for a photographer and I think Paul had a lot of fun too, judging by how many shots he took.

A relatively early finish (around 10pm) was followed by the usual long session of winnowing out the best pix, correcting any errors and assembling posters to be stuck up around the entrance to the show tomorrow night. All this after a long day's painting means I am really ready to collapse into bed.

A different kind of painter

Having spent a couple of days at the coast, we were used to seeing painters. The nautical kind. Today I turned back into a painter myself as we began day one of kitchen painting - the first coat of white on the new plaster, and across all of the old flame-effect rag rolling that is (was) a consistent theme around the whole house when we moved in.

We decided, with African Night coming up, it would be nice to have the kitchen restructuring looking as if it belonged to the rest of the room and not sticking out like a sore thumb. Moving furniture, cutting in, and rollering the whole room (sub-picture rail) took the entire day.

Wales - day 3

The Tudor Lodge operate a do-it-yourself continental breakfast scheme in their well-appointed basement dining room, which we took full advantage of before departing to head back to Manchester. In view of the incoming weather, we had planned only a couple of stops, the first of which was Betws-y-coed - another place I haven't visited for many years.

It now glories in having its own visitor centre and a wealth of touristy shops, but in the heavy rain nowhere looks at its best, and our desultory trudging was soon curtailed by a wish to retreat to the relative dryness of the car. We headed for Conw(a)y, where thankfully the rain left us alone for an hour or so as we parked, enjoyed a pint, walked along the seafront for a short distance and then happened across a brace of fish & chip restaurants.

With little to choose - apparently - between them, we took the advice of a local shopkeeper who happened to be loitering on his doorstep, and plumped for the one on the corner. His recommendation proved to be sound and we soon found ourselves on the outside of three plates of battered cod, chips and mushy peas. While we were eating the rain started up again, but once again fortune smiled on us and gave us another respite as we walked back to the car.

The last time I had a slow leak, I'd run the tyre for several months before getting it fixed. Determined not to make the same mistake again, we called in at National Tyre on the way home. A familiar concerned expression crossed the face of the tyre repair man and I thought "oh no, here we go again. Surely I can't have left it too late this time - it's only been going down for a couple of days."

But no, it wasn't too late. He was able to plug the rear tyre. No problem. That was the good news. The bad news? BOTH front tyres were severely worn on the inside - one exposing cords - and required immediate replacement, and the tracking adjusted.

Cost of the repair to the rear tyre: £8.81.
Total cost of the visit, including two new tyres, valves, balancing, tracking and disposal: £159.69.

What is it with me and tyres?

Wales - day 2

After a traditional full breakfast it was time to set off back up the coast, albeit at a more leisurely pace than yesterday. Our first stop was Barmouth. I have to admit it's a place that has been the butt of a family joke for close to 40 years. Holidaying with my parents in the late 60s, we had made Dolgellau our base of operations for a week touring the hotspots of North West Wales. Trouble was, in those days, everything closed down at 6pm. Every night for a week, following the evening meal, we'd sit morosely in the guest house lounge and ask the question: "where shall we go this evening, then?" And every night for a week, the answer was: Barmouth. There simply wasn't anywhere else with anything happening.

It's a fairly interesting front as seaside towns go, made even more interesting by this clever dolphin fountain. It comes equipped with a wind sensor, so when the air speed rises above a preset point the fountain shuts off to avoid splashing the passersby. Ain't technology wonderful?

As we wandered around the town staring into the closed shop windows (40 years on and still, to a large extent, Wales is closed on a Sunday) we came across another example of shop sign shenanigans.

Fortunately (this time) the "Arousal" cafe was also closed, so as that underlined the slimness of the chances of any further arousal in Barmouth we returned to the car and headed for Portmeirion.

Internet resources describing the Italianate folly village are rife, so I won't waste your time with a potted précis here. Look it up for yourselves. This was my third or fourth visit and in the intervening 20 or so years the only real change I could detect was a distinct lack of any Prisoner memorabilia. Maybe we simply didn't take the right turning, but it certainly wasn't as prolific as on my last visit, when you couldn't turn round without tripping over a penny-farthing.

Maybe the sad but simple explanation is that the Prisoner has a greatly reduced profile compared with twenty years ago, and perhaps the village felt it was faintly ridiculous to keep trading on the fading cachet of a 40-year-old TV series, no matter how iconic.

After Portmeirion we drove to Porthmadog where we were staying. Once again after the childhood weeks spent on Black Rock Sands, I hadn't been back for many years. The most obvious change was to the name of the famous narrow-gauge railway. No longer the Blaenau Ffestiniog railway but now the Rheilffordd Ffestiniog Railway and - an even more obvious mark of the passage of time - it has its own website. Last time I visited the train only ran as far as Dduallt, and the enthusiasts' dream of reopening the line all the way to Blaenau Ffestiniog was just that: a dream. According to Wikipedia that dream was finally realised in 1982 - ironically not that long after my last visit - but unfortunately as the line is only open for a couple of days a week at this time of year, we were unable to experience it.

After a brief walk around Porthmadog, another stop to pump up the left rear tyre, which had developed a slow leak before leaving home, and a swift pint, we checked in to our residence for the night - the Tudor Lodge - and asked the proprietor for details of preferred local eateries. Sadly the most highly recommended was still closed, but we were delighted to hear of a very good Indian only a few minutes walk away, so we set off for A Passage to India where we enjoyed an excellent curry before retiring to our (much more comfortable) beds.

Wales - day 1

This is Paul's third trip to the UK to see us (he's also slipped one in between, but that's another story) and in one respect the most ill-prepared. Although we have a vague list of options, we don't have anything resembling an itinerary or a plan. Except we knew we wanted to spend a few days in Wales this time around, and having kept an eye on the weather, this weekend looked the best bet.

In a strange echo of a recent news story about a man almost following his sat-nav directions off the edge of a cliff, we programmed the device for Aberdovey and were only halfway there when it announced "you have reached your destination." So much for technology. We ended up taking the coast road we had intended to enjoy tomorrow, and fetched up in Aberdovey mid-afternoon after a short detour to take in the delights of Oswestry.

Before long we were tucked away in the bar of the small but perfectly formed Dovey Hotel, enjoying the first of many pints of Brains. In some strange way a perfect alternative to our usual pints of Boddies.

After the light refreshment and having checked in and checked out the rooms which were also small but perfectly formed, we decided to take advantage of the remaining light and amble around the town for a while to see the sights.

I don't know what it is about travelling with Paul, but we always seem to come across unusual signs. Last year it was the Gunt. This time we found Pusi. What can I say? This wasn't the only "enhanced" sign we saw during this three-day jaunt to Wales. It seems to have become something of a sport in the area, to perform amusing alterations.

After watching some outward bounders chucking themselves off the pier, and climbing up and around the backstreets of Aberdovey for an hour or so, we returned in time to take pole position in the sports bar to watch the Six Nations match between Wales and Ireland. I wouldn't normally be interested in the rugby, but you can't beat the atmosphere watching a national team in a national pub, and it was actually a cracking game, during which we consumed an evening meal and several pints.

The day was finished off with a swift game of pool before we retired to spend the night in what must be the most uncomfortable beds any of us had ever slept in.

Kitchen refurb - phase 1 - day 3

An early start for our favourite builder saw the plastering start around 9am and all was finished and tidied up by 1pm.

It never fails to amaze me what a difference it makes when a room (or part of a room in this case) is professionally plastered. There's something very soothing about the smooth cool surface, and naturally it looks miles better than bare brick and thermalite block.

Couple of days' drying time and it'll be ready for a coat of paint, which we may even be able to find time for this holiday. We still have two tins of the apple green we were intending to slap on a year or so ago to relieve the eye strain of the acres of flame orange we inherited when we moved in.

Phase 2 of the project will probably involve taking the chimney breast up to accommodate a five-burner hob and separate oven. After consulting with our builder we've been persuaded that taking the chimney breast out altogether is a bad idea and we'd be better off building around it.

From the outside the new window looks the business, and Nikki's very pleased that she now has a "proper" windowsill to hold some well-chosen knick-knacks, not to mention it being several degrees warmer in the kitchen now.

A short project, but a very significant and satisfying one (mainly because, so far, it hasn't involved me doing any work!)

Holiday!

What a fabulous start to the first holiday of the year. A beautiful sunny day, nothing much on the schedule, a very lazy start - coffee over the puters, leisurely breakfast, a bit of planning for our trip to Wales, then Nikki took Paul for a walk to Chorlton while I busied myself with a web site project that's been waiting for spare time for a few months.

Got a phone call from Nikki around 3pm to enquire whether I'd had any lunch and since the answer was no, we repaired to the Metropolitan for a very decadent late lunch and a couple of pints. I had the Tuscan bean and vegetable pie with home-made chips and peas. Delicious.

Home again for another session on the puters before setting off at 7.30pm to visit the Buzz Club. Chorlton's famous comedy club, which closed in 2004, had recently reopened and once we learned it was on while Paul was here, a visit was a must. Good job we went tonight as it turned out, because the club is closing again and once more tonight was "the last night at the Buzz club." It's been said before but I think the organiser has been disappointed with the turnout this time round, so I think it might really be the final curtain.

We were treated to eight comedy turns. They were a bit of a mixed bag to be honest but overall it was a good night. By a mile the best act of the night was Lovdev Barpaga from Birmingham. His deadpan delivery nailed every single line of his original and funny material, even when he forgot some of it and had to read from his notes! Great stuff. I hope he goes far.

Second Novel Syndrome

Today's Writers' Guild blog has an interesting piece about writing your second novel. It quotes Luke Leitch, writing in The Times:

First novels, goes the orthodoxy, are the fruits of years of thought shaped into words at the writer's leisure.

Stephen Fry explained this when presenting the Encore Award - a £10,000 biannual literary prize for second novels.

He said: "The problem with a second novel is that it takes almost no time to write compared with a first novel. If I write my first novel in a month at the age of 23, and my second novel takes me two years, which have I written more quickly? The second of course. The first took 23 years, and contains all the experience, pain, stored-up artistry, anger, love, hope, comic invention and despair of that lifetime. The second is an act of professional writing. That is why it is so much more difficult."

Tell me about it. :-\

Kitchen refurb - phase 1 - day 2

After a little bit more banging and crashing, and a LOT more dust, the interior block work is complete and the new window installed, glazed, and sealed. It was all over by lunchtime. Here's the result:

After clarification with the contractor it turns out we won't be plastered up until Friday. He claims he explained this when he told me work would start yesterday, but I have no recollection. Makes sense when you think about it though - everything has to dry out and become stable before it can be plastered.

We'll need a new row of tiles at the back of the sink too. The plaster there was in such bad shape the whole thing fell off while they were putting the window in. We'll grab a box of gash white tiles from B&Q to waterproof the area until the final refit is done.

Kitchen refurb - phase 1 - day 1

When real builders get going, things start happening very quickly. With a great deal of crashing and banging, the step was removed and pretty soon the brickies were asking for the key so they could open the door.

Ah. Problem. We'd thought of this yesterday and realised we hadn't seen the key since we "put it somewhere safe" after last year's burglary attempt. A couple of hours' searching failed to uncover it, the upshot of which was they had to abandon plans to skin up the outside first and then take the door out. It had to be ripped out right away.

By the time they stopped for lunch, a third of the doorway was bricked and blocked, and when they finished for the day, we were (almost) secure.

The only slightly insecure aspect of the job at this stage was the broken light at the top of the window, and the presence of the scaffolding platform on a level with the window. Being a pair of worrywarts that was enough to give us a restless night even though I realised, intellectually, that the scaffold probably wasn't visible from the road. Secure or not, it was flippin' cold with the wind howling through the kitchen.

From the outside, at least from the road, the job appeared already complete. It's not immediately obvious there's a gap down the left-hand side of the window, and the new brickwork looks bazzin. Even if it is, as expected, a different colour.

Kitchen refurb - phase 1

Our house has undergone some transformations in its 100-year history, and in common with many houses of the period one of the most popular was the amalgamation of the original (tiny!) scullery kitchen with the morning room to make a single large kitchen space.

The previous occupiers had also added patio doors at the far end, leaving the original scullery door on the side of the house intact. As you can see, this greatly reduces the usability of the space especially if, like us, you never use the side entrance. Phase 1 of our kitchen refurb (and selected not just because it is the simplest and easiest first step, but also because it's the cheapest) is therefore to brick up this unused door and take the opportunity also to replace the original window with a warmer and less draughty double-glazed unit.

Outside, the step will be removed and the bricks matched as closely to the original as possible. Our builder already told us he'd been unable to find enough reclaimed brick for the job, so they won't be a very good colour match to start with, but at least they're the same type, so over time they will gradually acquire the same hue, and apart from that they're the correct style and size, so we're OK from a building regs/aesthetic point of view.

The plan is to brick up the outer skin first before the door is removed, so the house will remain secure at all times, and work starts tomorrow! Yay!

We've already prepped the inside as far as possible - removing everything from the vicinity of the door, knick-knacks from the sill, and other kitcheny type things. It's amazing how bare the kitchen looks with just these few things moved away (and how much bigger!). Gives us an early idea how much more usable space there will be when the cooker is eventually moved and the whole corner is installed with cupboards and worktop. Luxury!

Watchmen

So much has been written about this - both the book and the film already, even though it's only been out a week - that I almost hesitate to go into print with my own view. Is there anything new I can say? Does that even matter?

I read the book over Christmas, at Blythe's suggestion, and wasn't overly impressed. Even though I devoured comic books as a teen, the graphic novel has never interested me. The story was good, and the art work uniformly excellent but nothing more than I'd come to expect from that kind of work. I didn't see much to rave over.

I'd read so many reviews of the film, with such widely varying reactions, that the only conclusion worth coming to was that I should approach the film with no expectations at all. Good or bad. And it was in that frame of mind that I took my seat along with both daughters in the middle of the first row of "premier seating" for today's first showing of Watchmen at the Manchester IMAX.

It's no exaggeration to say that, from the very first frame, I was blown away. I have never seen a film with such incredible... texture. I don't know how else to describe it. The cinematography was an order of magnitude better than anything I have ever seen. The images leapt out of the screen, fabulous close-ups with a wealth of detail, wonderful composition and imagery (the raindrops on the polished coffin lid is an image that keeps coming back to me, but there were dozens of others - gnarled faces with each hoary whisker almost deliberately positioned; rain-drenched streets; faultless costumes) and stunning iconography.

If you've seen 300 or Sin City or any of the other graphic novels that have been brought to the screen before this, you'll be familiar with the usual kind of "comic" images that a director plays with. What made Watchmen so incredible, so compelling, was that these images were uniformly made of real people. No silhouettes, no extreme contrast, no apparent visual trickery of any kind. It was the comic, made flesh. Made real. Incredible. And the sound stage? Awesome. A great sound track, crisp foley work, none of the muddy dialogue that plagues so many modern movies. Sharp from beginning to end, and - unlike some reviewers - for me none of the music grated.

So much for the technical aspects. What of the story? As I've said, I'm not a dyed-in-the-wool fanboy of the novel, and I think this helped. Much of what irritated me about the book had been pared away. This was the central story of Watchmen. That is complex and detailed enough, without any of the frippery. Nor did I come to the theatre expecting a run-of-the-mill, all-action "superhero" flick. Many commenters have said Watchmen is "boring" or "slow." Come on - they have 30 years of backstory to get through, as well as a whole bag of complex interpersonal emotions to pack in to what never felt like two-and-a-half hours. All I can say is, it held my interest from start to finish. I never felt any itchiness at the pace (like I *definitely* did halfway through The Dark Knight, where I actually fell asleep at one point it was soooo sloooow). There was always something to hold my interest, be it action, dialogue, imagery, music, whatever.

The set pieces - fight scenes; Mars; Ozymandias' palace; the bombs - were note-perfect, and several of the scenes gave an understated but poignant reminder that this was an alternate reality, and set in 1985. So the irony of having a huge hole blown in the middle of New York, while in the background you can still see the Twin Towers, was very powerful. Being a graphic novel, some of the violence is *very* graphic. I know both my daughters had to turn away at some point, but that comes back to what I said about it being a comic made real. Snyder didn't flinch from representing faithfully what was on the page, even though when it's being enacted by real people the impact is increased a thousandfold. It makes for a totally visceral cinema experience and puts Watchmen very firmly in my top ten movies of all time.

Just don't ask me what has to drop out to make room for it.

Welcome to St Petersburg

When Nikki and I got together with 10 strangers to start the Chorlton Chapters book club on March 16, 2006, the group always said we wanted it to be about more than just books. That we wanted, maybe, to do book-related social activities like visiting Brontë country, or some writer's birthplace, but also to do regular non-bookish socialising like meals out.

Since then, various members of the group have held house parties, and the club has gone from strength to strength, recently welcoming its 80th member, but we've never had that formal, traditional night out. Until last night.

Meeting in the Lass O' Gowrie from 6.30pm, nineteen of us made our way eventually to the St. Petersburg restaurant on Sackville Street - literally across the road from my old seat of learning, UMIST. We'd booked for the Boyar's Banquet, and although the cold appetisers were not, actually, on the table when we arrived they did follow shortly afterwards.

As did the floor show. A girl with a very short skirt and very sturdy legs, who proceeded to throw herself about on a pair of poles and later, replace them with a pair of small platforms and bend herself double, backwards, to pluck a rose from the stage with her teeth. Damned flexible those Russians.

It's hard to pick out anything from that menu for special praise because it was all delicious. If pressed I'd have to say I particularly enjoyed the potato salad; the "Cold Water Prawns Served In A Fresh Orange & Topped With Special Cognac Cream Dressing" which really did come in a scooped-out orange, was deliciously cold and extremely tasty; and finally the Gribnaya which although it doesn't sound especially appetising when you read about it ("sliced mushrooms sautéed with fresh cream and onion & crowned with cheese"), and neither does it look much, just sitting there all small and alone in the cold white porcelain desert of its own large plate, is actually delicious.

The evening was a riot of excellent conversation, superb food, interesting entertainment and fine wine. At Richard (the organiser)'s suggestion, we topped the meal off with one of St Petersburg's massive collection of flavoured vodkas. This provoked a deal of head scratching and angst, as the menu is considerably larger and more varied than the stock (the barmaid pointed out a tiny disclaimer to this effect at the top of the menu) resulting in several people having to make more than one choice before they found one that was, in fact, available.

Nevertheless the resulting tray of shots did look impressively varied and colourful, and we just had time to down ours before the disco kicked in and we beat a hasty retreat from the establishment, not wishing to embarrass ourselves with a display of "Dad" (and maybe even "Mum") dancing in the presence of the young 'uns.

After such a stimulating evening we were wired, and ended up staying up until 1am after we got home. Maybe we should have stayed for the dancing after all.

Drinking and driving

Popped over to Nottingham yesterday to deliver Mum's birthday presents, and used it as a good excuse for an evening at the dear old Test Match with mates.

I *had* planned to pace myself, interspersing pints of the amber nectar with equal quantities of lime and soda, but my "good friend" Phil did me the "favour" of offering us a lift down to the pub.

I should have took more notice of the sign I was given from the Universe - I only picked his offer up when I turned on my phone, and by that time we were already in the pub, having driven down. But no, on his arrival he was insistent that he could still come with me while I took my car home, and run me back, and then take us both home later. For some mad reason this seemed like a good idea at the time. It's been a while since I had a good session.

And there's a very good reason for that, which I didn't remember until this morning.

Even at 3.5% there's a limit to the amount of beer one may drink with impunity. And yes, I exceeded the limit. Doesn't help when you're surrounded by people who complain that they "can't drink like they used to" and then proceed to drink like they used to.

Still, no harm done eh? We had a marvellous time and after a couple of coffees and a few rounds of toast I was as right as rain. Although we did also succumb to an unaccountable longing for a Big Mac on the way home. Another strange side-effect of too much beer.

A sigh of relief is heard

Probably as far away as Parksville.

The acknowledgement slip for my ABBA entry arrived in the post just now. From here on any failure to succeed is my own, rather than the Royal Mail's.

Smart shopping

Enclosed with my weekly copy of the Radio Times this week, the usual useless shopping flyers. You know the ones - they always fall out all over the floor when you pick the magazine up from a shop rack, or you can't find the magazine you want because the rack is stuffed with thousands of the blighters that other people have extracted and left behind.

But being a gadget guy my attention was caught this week by a picture of a turntable with a built-in CD burner. Under the heading "Smart shopping" the leaflet exhorted owners of vinyl to transfer their records to CD without a PC using this clever device. Or you can use the USB cable supplied to record your vinyl direct to PC (possibly using the scratch-and-pop cleaning software supplied).

The price of this glorious technology? £349.95.

Smart shopping indeed, when you can pick up digitally remastered copies of vinyl classics at any branch of HMV or Virgin Records for between £5 and £10. So you'll need to have more than 50 albums in your collection - that you want to keep! - before this makes financial sense, and even then your recording won't be as good as the professionally remastered version.

Wonder if they'll sell many...?

And I have to thank...

... Microsoft, Netgear and Symantec, any or all of whom have conspired to force me to waste *the entire day* today searching for a trojan infection I don't actually have.

I've been suffering blue screens (Wikipedia if you don't know what this is) for weeks now, either in the Netgear Wireless driver, or the Symantec Intrusion Detection System driver. That, coupled with appalling performance, led me to suspect some sort of infection lurking on my PC somewhere, even though it sits behind a firewalled router, also runs Norton Smart Firewall, has always had anti-virus protection, and never goes anywhere near any dodgy websites.

My suspicions were heightened by Internet research suggesting that the market leaders McAfee (which I used until January) and Norton (which I'm using now) only provide protection against 23% of the threats "out there." WHAT?? Forty quid a year to be protected against ONE IN FOUR viruses, trojans, etc?? As if that wasn't bad enough, Googling the driver name and "blue screen" came up with links to several forums suggesting the worst had happened.

Sooo... I cleaned out all the unnecessary processes that run, removed a load of unwanted software, ran a deep scan of Malwarebytes Anti-Malware (that took 3 hours and found nothing more serious than a few tracking cookies) followed by Kaspersky's online scanner (that took 30 minutes to download all its updates and a further 5 hours to scan the whole machine and found nothing more serious than the odd phishing email in an old archived copy of my PST file).

All in all, as I said above, I've done almost nothing today apart from this crap, and it found nothing. Nothing! I supposed I should be glad there wasn't any keystroke grabbing goblin lurking under my keyboard learning all my online banking passwords and wotnot, but really. What a pisser.

To cap it all I then found another solution to one of the BSODs in another forum. Verify your drivers, it said, and all will be well. So I have. And now I wait with bated breath to see if I get another blue screen. Bloody computers. I think I'll go back to more traditional pastimes. Right now knitting sounds attractive.

Closing date

It's the closing date for ABBA entries today, the post has been and gone, and I still haven't received the postcard I sent with my entry to acknowledge receipt. So now I'll be worrying that it went astray and won't even be looked at.

It's possible, of course, that they're holding all the entries until after the closing date before opening any of them. But this kind of defeats the whole point of allowing an acknowledgement slip to be included with the submission. If it never has a chance to get back to the submitter before the closing date, how are we supposed to know whether or not we should resubmit?

Oh well. It's too late to do anything about it now. I'll just have to trust in the postal gods and await my fate.

Book Review: Never Let Me Go

February's book was Never Let Me Go, by Kazuo Ishiguro. When we held the club meeting, the first question anyone asked was "did we think this was a science-fiction novel?"

Umm... no. SF is defined by its exacting depiction of the science, along with the fiction. Ishiguro comprehensively (and irritatingly) fails to address any of the science surrounding his central premise. We never find out exactly what is being "donated" and when, or anything about the cloning process. Indeed he's on record as stating that the novel isn't about clones, it's about human relationships, and how people treat other people. His use of flashback, combined with the personal narrative style, allows Ishiguro to jump from half-revealed truth to half-completed story and back again constantly, which I found distracting in the extreme, and also quite false. This is a novel, after all, not a transcription of one person's random thoughts.

Throughout the novel issues and revelations are hinted at but never really explored. Neither society's apparent treatment of the "students," nor the students' own unrealistic behaviour in the face of the knowledge of what the future holds for them really rings true. What's left is the feeling that the author was interested only in writing a "literary novel" for its own sake, rather than exploring his, admittedly interesting and original, story concept in any way that would provide any satisfaction or resolution. In common with his other work (apparently), his words paint a cold, bleak landscape entirely populated by cold, emotionally repressed characters.

Enjoy the book for its expressive and descriptive language, but don't expect to care for any of the characters - they can't even bring themselves to care about each other - or to gain any insights into any of the many questions it asks.

Finally I must also give more iPublicity to this "satirical" review on the Guardian site which was pointed out to me by another club member. It's not only hilariously accurate if you've read the book but also gives an uncanny flavour of the whole thing if you haven't.

I've made $10!!

It's pretty quiet in my corner of the world. I have a few regular readers (that I'm very grateful for - thanks guys!) and a few others happen by from various parts of the world, but I'm not one of those blogs that is read avidly by millions. In fact I'm so not into that whole thing that I couldn't even quote you the name of one of "those" blogs. So it was very much with tongue in cheek that I installed Google AdSense almost two years ago, more out of curiosity than anything.

Imagine my surprise then when I received an automated email from them today saying that now my account had reached the dizzying heights of $10, I needed to verify a few details in case they ever need to actually pay me. I thought it was a phishing scam at first, especially when I logged into my AdSense account and saw the balance was, as always, $0. That was until I realised it was showing the earnings for the day. As soon as I clicked on "all time earnings" the balance shot wayyyyyyy up. To $10.27.

So yes, I've verified my phone number, and nominated a bank account, and I'm in the process of verifying my address. Nice to know, with all this verifying going on, that my ten bucks will be secure from fraudsters.

Unfortunately, since Google don't pay out until the balance reaches $100, I won't actually be seeing anything for a while. I signed up in April 2007. Call it two years ago. So on current form it'll be around 2027 when I collect my earnings. I can put it towards my retirement party! Still, I'm not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, so thanks to all my visitors for all your clicking!

What a drip

Our friendly neighbourhood plumber came round first thing this morning. Good timing, as it turned out. The drip, which had started off really slowly, had worsened to the point where it was filling the bowl twice a day - right to the brim.

It took his more experienced eye less than a minute to discover the leak was not, in fact, at the joint in the pipe. This was merely the lowest point of dribble. The source was higher up. Much higher up. At the neck of the tap. If we'd looked more closely we would have seen it for ourselves quite easily. The water was clearly visible, running over the chrome.

Doh.

Silver lining? Ten seconds tightening with a professional-looking wrench and no charge. If only all drips were so easily sorted.

A fern decision

We inherited five large ferns when we moved here. One in the border between us and next door, one in the bed at the end of the deck, and three beside the ugly, useless, cement-asbestos garage that lives at the bottom of the garden.

Very healthy ferns they are too. They clearly love their respective locations and burst forth each spring with lush greenness. Unfortunately they also die back every winter with dirty brownness, and in the intervening months they constantly seek to trip up the unwary gardener, hinder the mowing of grass, and deposit spiky ferny balls onto the clothes of anyone who walks by.

And ultimately, they're just... well... green. They don't do anything. Flower, or bud, or turn a nice colour. So we decided we wanted rid. It was a daunting prospect. When I said "large" I really meant "f*cking enormous" - some of them are almost big enough to fill the green garden recycling wheelie bin on their own. So it's been a slow process digging them up. I started a couple of weeks ago on the one nearest the house, and that was a pig to get out. The one under the tree wasn't so bad. Drier under there, see? Thereby hitting it with a fernish double-whammy of not being able to grow as large, and not having clumpy wet soil to hang onto. The friable, powdery soil released its burden much more readily.

Since those early successes we've been waiting for a combination of dry and frost-free weather, which finally arrived this weekend. My task - to remove the final three by the garage and thereby finish the job - took both days. At a relaxed pace, admittedly, but that's the only pace I've got these days. With the experience of the other two ferns under my belt, I had a radically improved technique. Nibbling bits off the edge with the garden fork until the buggers capitulated. The first one went into the bin; the other two were piled beside the woodshed awaiting the next garden recycling day.

So this is how the garden looks now. A bloody mess, I think you'll agree, but at least the grass will be free to grow up to the garage now (until we knock it down) and cover the brown/black scars left by the ferns. Think of it like removing a wart. And this season my grass-cutting will be trip- and spiky-ball-free. Yippee.

More bathroom woes

We've had a damp patch in the kitchen for quite a few weeks, directly above the boiler. Nikki noticed it first, where the plaster was bubbling above the kitchen window, but after a few days a larger damp patch appeared in the corner and slowly grew.

We entertained a few theories regarding its origin. On the outside wall in the same position is the hopper that takes waste feeds from the shower, basin and bath, so our first guess was that this had become blocked and was overflowing onto the wall. At the first opportunity (i.e. when the rain had stopped) I deployed my trusty ladder and went up to take a look.

It was as clean as a whistle, but while I was up there I noticed the pointing was in pretty bad shape. As we'd had some heavy rain, maybe it was a case of penetrating damp? That was my theory, although Nikki continued to believe the hopper was at fault. If it wasn't blocked, maybe it just couldn't cope with the volume of water? Tests were inconclusive, but we decided to call a builder in. We needed a quote for bricking up the kitchen door anyway.

Said builder duly attended and, while he agreed the pointing needed attention, he spotted a more likely candidate. An old vent hole that had not been sealed properly. What's more it matched the location and shape of the worst area of damp. Problem sorted, we thought.

That was until my traditional 2am loo break last night. With the house in silence an eerie tick... tick... tick... could be heard from the general direction of the bath. Now this isn't unusual in our bathroom, as the sash windows drip loudly onto the sills when it's raining. But this particular night, it wasn't raining. First thing this morning saw me with my belly pressed against the cold tiles, peering under the bath. One glance was enough. The puddle stretched for a couple of square feet and a slow but regular drip emanated from the cold tap supply pipe. I fetched a bowl.

The bath stands on feet on a tiled floor. It moves. I assume the occasional movement (when we nudge into it, or dry feet on it after a shower) has sprung a joint in the pipework. As if we haven't had enough trouble with this £$%&* bathroom!

Bye bye, baby

It's gone. I posted it yesterday. So now I enter that state of mental suspension I'm sure everyone's familiar with. Where you're in a situation that you have no control over but whose outcome is really (really) important to you, so you pretend to get on with life but really you've battened down the hatches and it's like you're holding your mental breath. You're in limbo until you know. One way or the other. And you hope it's one and not the other, but if it's the other you'll shrug and say "well, it was always a long shot," while inside, you bleed.

The unkindest cut

I don't know. I never got to it. After a week of reading, rereading, cutting and recutting, I've reduced my page count from 57 to 45 and the word count by almost four thousand. The elusive magic number of 44 pages is only a paragraph away, but I'm calling it a day.

The story is tighter, faster paced, there's no unnecessary dialogue and I'm barely a thousand words over the guideline. I don't think it's worth working it over any more. I'll be printing it tomorrow and sending it off the day after. For better or worse.

Which frees me up for my next project. What that's going to be, I have no idea. We intended to spend some time in the garden this weekend, but neither of us is enthused. I thought I might make a start painting the dining room door, but I can't get excited about that either. I think a lazy day is on the cards. After a spiffing pancake breakfast and another cup of tea, I reckon it'll be movie time :o)

Cut, cut and cut some more

After four passes through the play, the page count has reduced from 57 to 49 and the dialogue word count from well over 12,000 to a little over 9,000. The target according to the entry criteria is 7,000 but they *did* say at the workshop not to be too bothered about that.

I was aiming for the magic 44 pages (one page per minute) but it's getting tough now. Really tough. The fat is all gone. Extraneous scenes, flabby dialogue, all that went in the first pass. The second pass took care of anything I'd missed the first time round, and gave a hint at the hard decisions to come. Because the third pass really started cutting into the meat of the story and now it feels like I'm almost down to the bones. But still five pages and/or two thousand words too long. Or thereabouts.

I'll stick with it for another couple of passes through from start to finish, but I've got an increasingly loud little voice that's telling me not to go too far with this process. Going back to what they told us in the workshop, they expect a script to have to undergo quite a bit of "development" even after it wins, so maybe at this stage it's more important to worry about telling a good story - one that attracts the judges - rather than being overly concerned with whether it will fit in the time slot. That, after all, can be worked on later. First and foremost I have to convince the producer it's a tale worth telling.

The tidiest my desk ever gets...

...is when I've just tidied it. All those piles of filing? Filed. All those things waiting to be listed on eBay, or Amazon market place? Back upstairs (still waiting, but out of sight). Shredding? Shredded.

Don't run off with the impression that everything is done. I still have a long "to do" list. But it is a list. Not eleventy-hundred separate piles all covered in a thin layer of dust. The artefacts against which the items on that list will be actioned now have a special shelf all to themselves. Yes, it's a bulging shelf, but it's all in one place.

There's been a switch around in the study too. Shelves moved, desk turned 90° to give me a view of the garden. Wall looks a little bare with no pictures, but we'll remedy that over the next few months. A traditional tennis girl scratching her bum, perhaps? See, I'm a traditionalist at heart.

The Reading

We held "the reading" of my radio play last night round at the home of some friends. Some Act-or friends. And we took another Ac-tor friend with us. And three copies of the script. And me with my laptop open at the relevant page, doing the sound effects and stage directions as and when.

It cantered along pretty nicely. The reading had the desired effect of pointing up areas of dialogue that didn't really work, or were out of character. Much more of the latter than the former, to be honest. That's because when I'm writing I run the conversation in my head while my fingers play the part of scribe. So the content is usually OK in terms of realism, because it is a real conversation going on in my head. The only slight problem is, all the characters end up sounding like me. Because it is me, holding the conversation with myself.

So then I go over the dialogue again, many times, changing the words around until they sound more like the people they're supposed to be. Only when we read it out the bits I'd missed, or where I'd not done this well enough, stuck out like a forest of sore thumbs. 17-year-old street kids don't use words like "palatial" for instance. Some more work to do there, then.

But overall not as much as I'd thought, and the reaction of the audience was uniformly positive - Jamie even enthusing "it's GREAT!" - which gave me a bit of a buzz.

Unfortunately, there is one huge problem. It's way too long. Even allowing for the fact that it was a cold read, so the actors weren't as familiar with the text as they would be if they'd had several rehearsals, the sound effects were "serial" rather than "embedded" behind the dialogue, and there were many over-long pauses, even with all that it still doesn't alter the fact that this is a script aiming for a 44-minute slot, and the first reading went to an hour and twenty minutes. Almost twice as long as it should be. I'm going to have to cut it by around a third, I reckon, to make it anywhere near the right length when it's performed for real.

In some areas what I need to do is obvious. There are entire scenes that can be cut without losing the thread of the narrative (some, indeed, that I added in earlier when I thought it was running short!). There are also several instances of verbose exposition (my internal conversations do tend to be a bit wordy most of the time) when far fewer words would be better. So I'll do all that and see what I'm left with. It's 57 pages at the moment, and after last night's experience I think it should be no more than 40. Which, ironically, brings us almost back to the old rule of thumb that a page of script runs for about a minute.

Interestingly, one observation that came up last night was that since it ran for 80 minutes with almost no pauses, it probably wouldn't take much to turn it from a radio drama to a 90-minute TV drama. Even if I get nowhere through the ABBA route, there might still be life in the old dog. For now though, it's back to the rewriting. Three weeks to go!

Book Review: If This Is A Man

A little late with this, the book club choice for January: Primo Levi's "If This Is A Man." Strictly speaking, two books in one, as it includes "The Truce" in the second half, but I didn't read that. To be honest, I'd had enough after the first couple of chapters and couldn't face another entire book of the same, no matter how short.

From what others said, I may have peaked too soon. The second book is supposed to have a jollier aspect than the first, but as far as I'm concerned it's no great loss. Let's face it, the second could hardly be more dour and depressing than the first, which is a recounting of Levi's time in Auschwitz in painful detail. Literally painful - he enumerates his sores, and beatings, and hunger, and cold.

I think this is probably a book that everyone in the "civilised" world should read, but that doesn't mean I think they'd enjoy reading it. I didn't. I wanted it to be over. And I felt guilty wanting that. Countless reviews bang on about Levi's beautifully crafted prose, and yes, it's true, the book is astonishingly well written. But to me that didn't help. The subject matter is still what it is, and the more illuminating it is, the more depressing.

Among all the horrors that Levi describes, what stood out for me is that no matter how much privilege, rank, and power are stripped away from men, even when they are stood naked in the mud and rain with nothing to their name but a few dirty rags of clothing and a spoon with which to eat their daily ration of foul soup, when even that very name is removed and they are referred to only as a number, even then men will find a way of imposing hierarchy to differentiate themselves from their fellows. To subjugate some, thereby improving one's chances of survival. To defer to others, for the same reason. Even when survival means nothing more than the chance to stand naked and freezing in the snow for another day, men - humans, I should perhaps say rather - will still do whatever it takes. Because the alternative is, for them, too frightening to contemplate.

That's what stood out, from his writing. But there was another aspect to reading this book. The way it makes you think about yourself. How would I react, I wondered? Would I be one of the ones prepared to do anything, say anything, eat anything, to survive? Or would I give up, and play the part of one of those Levi so eloquently describes, who wander around for weeks, sometimes months, with dead eyes, waiting for their body to catch up with what has already happened to their spirit?

No snow!

And there it was: gone! After listening to the 10 o'clock forecast warning that another two or three inches were expected (that'll be a disappointment for someone) and that some areas could have up to a foot (way too much of a good thing - someone else would be choking on it), what did we have?

A huge melt. There's nothing left.

Which, if repeated across the whole of the UK in these credit-crunchy times would be A Good Thing. At least, if yesterday's news is anything to go by. 6 million people failing to get to work, £1.2 billion lost to the crumbling economy, roads closed or impassable, trains, planes and buses cancelled, people full of the great British spirit battling their way to their local train station only to find that's as far as they're going to get. We wouldn't have won the war if we'd had this namby-pamby attitude back then, I tell you! Cough! Splutter!

Sorry. Got a bit carried away there. Still, it is faintly ridiculous isn't it? It's not like snow in February is exactly unexpected. It was even forecast. I heard Ken Livingstone on the news (mind you, he'll say anything to beat the drum won't he? Still smarting from having to hand over to Boris I expect) blaming the worst of the travel problems on councils who didn't want to send the gritters out on Sunday and pay overtime. What a load of bollocks. I was out and about on Sunday night and followed several gritters all over the North-west.

I tried to work out, in my usual geeky way, what proportion of the UK workforce 6 million came to. There's about 65 million of us altogether. If you assume a linear distribution of ages from 0 to 80 (I know that's not right, but for the sake of argument...) that makes 34 million of working age (over 18 and under 60), of which there's about 2 million unemployed (32) and an unknown number who don't work, or try to, at all. But even if you leave the figure at 32 million that's one-fifth of the entire workforce couldn't get to work! Crikey.

Rather madly I'd decided to stick to my usual routine and go in to the office yesterday. I could have worked at home, but as it turned out (and not surprisingly) a much larger than normal number of my colleagues had elected to do that, and overloaded the corporate VPN shortly before 9am, so I wouldn't have been able to get much done anyway. I really needed some light relief while negotiating the roads into the office, and it was duly provided by Radio 4, where they read out an email from a listener pointing out that we were now suffering the 21st-century equivalent of traffic chaos as well as the more traditional sort.

Yes, not only were the roads blocked and the public transport cancelled all over the place, but the traffic and travel WEBSITES were all crashing too, under the load of people trying to find out whether they should set out or not. What irony! What symmetry! The British do farce SO well.

Snow!

Like, I suspect, much of the country we woke this morning to a snowy scene. This is the 6am version. It has become quite unusual for Manchester in recent years and probably won't stick around for long. It'll be chaos on the roads while it lasts though. The slightest hint of snow on roads and pavements means all the nervous and semi-competent drivers will slow right down making things extremely frustrating and delay-prone for the rest of us. Never mind that the gritters were out in force last night and most major roads will be frost-free; it'll be 10mph all the way this morning. Bet on it.

The snow also gave rise to another feeling for us this morning: satisfaction. Because we did, in the end, pull out our collective fingers and spend a little time in the garden, taking advantage of the two crisp, clear, sunny days that we've just had. The fern count reduced by two. No point in rushing things, these are big buggers we're talking about, and any extended period of digging wakes my back up to the fact that it doesn't do spade work and what am I doing forcing it to take part in such activities and if I don't stop soon it'll go TWANG and that'll show me. So I took it steady. One fern on Saturday, and one on Sunday. Plus a bit of a haircut for the remaining three, so that I can see what I'm doing when I take my fork and my spade to the next one.

Only at the moment, I can't see what I'm doing because they're under two inches of snow. Which my back is very pleased about.

Red sky... you know the drill

A slightly better attempt at capturing this morning's sky, which to be honest was even more stunning than the one below. I expect this is a harbinger of the awful weather heading our way later in the weekend from the Continent (have they ever sent us anything GOOD?? - Well, pizza maybe. And spaghetti carbonara. They can keep that bloody Euro to themselves thoughbut) but it's worth it for that fleeting moment of beauty. As long as I don't have to drive anywhere.

So with the riches of an entire weekend stretched out in front of us, what's on the agenda?

Depends on the weather, really. If it stays dry we want to spend some time in the garden. Digging up those damned ferns before they start sprouting again, draining and removing the pond we no longer want before the frogs start spawning again, and generally having a tidy up. The garage needs taking down but that requires some planning effort as it's a cement asbestos construction, so we have to give advanced warning to the council before they'll accept the bits at the tip. Plus I don't really want to cart it there in the car, so we'll need to hire a flat-bed truck once it's down. No, that's definitely a job for warmer weather. Digging though... that's fine for a cold, dry day.

The study could do with a tidy. All that filing I did the other week, that ended up in lots of little piles, somehow stalled with half the piles still lying around on the carpet. So they're pleading to be put away, along with the stacks of books we intended to get rid of on eBay before we discovered how much it would cost to list them, and how many other people had had exactly the same idea with exactly the same list of titles! Maybe we'll hang on to them a bit longer, but not in the middle of the study floor.

At some stage I have to pick up my paintbrush again and continue with the door-painting project. The two that I've finished look spiffy, but that leaves five - possibly six - that are yet to be started, and the whole hall-and-landing set up has a rather unbalanced aspect with two white doors and five (possibly six) stripped ones.

There's a lot more to do that that, naturally. Maybe I need to make a list. Yes, that's the ticket. When in doubt, make a list. I find it always gives me a sense of control, no matter how far-fetched. I'm sure if I looked hard enough (possibly under the piles of filing, or books) I'd find a partially-ticked-off list from the last time I felt organised. At least one, probably.

One of those meme things

So one of the things that tempted me back to the old blogstead was this meme that appeared on Di's blog yesterday. Never could resist a list. They always used to tell me I was a plant, but I think I'm more of a completer/finisher.

Rules: Copy, erase my answers, enter yours.

Use the first letter of your name to answer each of the following questions. They have to be real... nothing made up!

If the person before you had the same first initial, you must use different answers. You cannot use any word twice and you can't use your name for the boy/girl name.

1. What is your name: John

2. A four Letter Word: Junk

3. A boy's Name: Jeff

4. A girl's Name: Jemima

5. An occupation: Joiner

6. A colour: Jet

7. Something you wear: Jodhpurs

8. A food: Jalapeno

9. Something found in the bathroom: Jacuzzi

10. A place: Jodrell Bank

11. A reason for being late: Just couldn't run fast enough to catch the bus

12. Something you shout: Jerk

13. A film title: Jaws

14. Something you drink: Juice

15. A musical act: John Lennon

16. An animal: Jaguar

17. A street name: Jubilee Place

18. A type of car: Jalopy

19. The title of a song: Jean Genie

20. A verb: Jumping

Running

I ran out of excuses for not blogging last Saturday, when I finally worked out how I wanted to end the radio play I've been writing.

I don't usually write to a deadline. Not for pleasure anyway. But the competition closing date is Feb 27, and rather than leave it 'til the last minute (like I do at work), I wanted to give myself plenty of time to get it right. Because... well... this is far more important than work. It's what I'd rather be doing with my life. So, in a way, it is life. And, in the case of this particular competition anyway, it's a chance that only comes around once every two years.

So anyway, it's done. Written, read, re-read, re-written, and re-written again. Now it waits for next week, when a select group of friends from Chorlton Players will do a read-through so I can hear how the dialogue sounds when spoken and correct any lumpy bits. With that out of the way, what's been keeping me from here? Truth is, I found that I just didn't have anything to say. Maybe I'd lost the impetus, or something. Got out of the habit. Like going to the gym. Can you believe I used to go to the gym? Yeah. Twice a week for two years. But then something happened that meant I couldn't shower for a few weeks and I got out of the habit. Never went back. So think yourselves lucky. At least I was only gone for a month, not a decade.

And I still don't have anything to say.

Red sky in the morning

Not that this photo really does it justice, even after frigging around with the settings on my camera AND again later in PSP. And I'm not sure why I chose that as a subject either. Except it's supposed to be a harbinger of bad weather to come, and emotionally this is traditionally a time of "bad weather."

Christmas has been and gone (it was fab, thanks for asking); New Year has been and gone (it was fab, thanks for asking); and reality has once again bitten down hard and nasty. The back to work reality that we all (most of us) faced on Monday. The reality of another year stretching ahead doing something we really don't want to be doing, and trying to find the time and energy in between whiles to do the things we DO want to be doing. So, recognising that that is the same reality for 99.99% of people on the planet, and before this turns into a total whinge, I'll just say that that is the (main) reason for my long absence from here. Trying to find the time and energy to do the important stuff that's NOT work, and not having enough of either to blog.

Why?

Well the main reason is my forthcoming entry to the Alfred Bradley Bursary Award. I have until February 27 to write a 44-minute radio play to enter into this biennial contest, which then stands a fair chance of being produced in the Afternoon Play slot on Radio 4. More about that as and when. The first draft is about half finished at the moment, but after I have the bare bones down on paper, it will need a lot more work to really bring the characters alive. Quite a challenge when there are no visuals, I'm finding.

And on the agenda for the rest of the day, after I've knocked out a bit more of that play? Another pot of coffee, that's the first thing. Completing the upward journey of the Christmas decorations. Their sad little crates only reached the landing last week; they have still to make the final leap into the attic. While I'm up there I'll probably have a bit of a sort out, too. Maybe we will - finally! - list some of the crap that's up there on eBay, as we threaten to do every year. Oh, yes, and my tax return. I've never left it this late before, but it has to be in by the end of this month.

I'm sure there was something else. Let me know if I remember it, will you?