Weakend away

I’ve had a few weekends away recently that have caused me to feel more tired by the end of them than the beginning. This trend started back in early December when my brother Pete, my cousin Stewart and I went out to visit another cousin, Rob.*

We were off for an exciting adventure in the countryside. Pete and I only missed a couple of trains in the bar at Waterloo getting up the Dutch courage that is required when us city types venture outside of Zone 6.**

Eventually we set off with a couple of beers for the train. We hadn’t seen each other for a bit so we were the kind of annoying people on trains who are loud just when you’re trying to go home / sleep / slip into a coma. Luckily several others decided to join in with our conversation. We offered them beers but none of them decided to accept. This may have been to do with my continued insistence that they weren’t poisoned.

Anyway, eventually we arrived and were picked up at the station by Stew. And soon we were resting in front of Rob’s fire and eating pizza as they did in days of yore.***

The next day we needed to get a bit more serious about the whole weekend business and so we walked to the pub. Before we went we decided to get some wood for the fire. Rob showed us where we could get some nice sustainable wood sources and off we went.

After an afternoon in the pub playing pool it was time to go back home for a couple of bottles of wine and some roast dinner.

We decided to quickly divide into teams. Rob and I would be in the kitchen. Pete and Stew would go and get some wood.

I declared myself Rob’s Native American chef**** and off the others went. Rob was explaining how much he enjoyed being out in the countryside – the connection with nature, the way that the wood in the fire was found rather than farmed. And he said, “You have to tread lightly on the Earth”.

Just as these words were hanging in the air, Stew came storming back into the kitchen.

“I’ve hurt my leg”, he said.
“How did you do that?” Rob and I chorused.
“I fell out of a tree.”
“What were you doing in a tree?”, asked Rob.
“I was sawing off some wood”.

He slapped his leg better and headed back outside. “Don’t be too much longer,” I shouted.

I decided to lay the table. I even managed to fashion some napkins from some toilet paper that was available (don’t worry, it hadn’t ever been near the toilet). And soon everyone was sitting down to Rob’s lovely roast beef. As we sat down we were joined by the house cat Gizmo. Giz was not, it must be said, the kind of cat that waits for you to do something for him. He’s an off-on-his -own-and-doing kind of cat. So as we all sat down for dinner Giz knew what to do. Other cats I have met would have tried to jump up on the table or tried to move in and wait for a scrap to be thrown to them like a dog. Gizmo had other ideas. A few minutes later we heard a crunching cracking noise. We looked down and we could see the hind legs and tail of a mouse hanging out of Gizmo’s mouth. As we all looked at him he looked back with an expression which seemed to say, “What are you looking at? Oh, you’re so much better than I am, are you?”. It was a look that was hard to disagree with.

After dinner, we decided to return to the pub where a band was performing some live music. Folk music out here isn’t a concept; it is what music is. The pub was rammed with people all enjoying a great set by a band whose name escapes me. The characters were all out in force. Everyone knew everyone, except us London types who stood out like a sore thumb. There were conversations like this going on:

“Sorry I puked on your sofa.”
“That’s okay fella, but next time try and clean it up okay?”
“What happened to that sofa, by the way?”
“I had to throw it away, it was ruined”
“I could have sold it for you, you should have called me.”

The walk home seemed a lot shorter than the walk there which was handy as it was several degrees below freezing. And when we got back we stayed up in front of the fire and talked the night away.

It was a great weekend.

* Stew and Rob are cousins too, not brothers. Everyone in this story is a cousin, except me and my brother, who are brothers, and the cat, who is no relation.

** I know Zone C is technically the zone furthest out, but that isn’t really London anymore.

*** Italian yore but yore nevertheless.

**** Soux chef. Do try and keep up!

After Rothko

Last weekend Katherine and I went to see the Mark Rothko exhibition at Tate Modern.

This is me before Rothko*:

This is me after Rothko:

*I only look quite so strange because I was trying to stand very still, as one false move would have caused my scarf to fall down, ruining the effect.

How many holes does your shirt have?

Katherine called out to give me an update on matters of laundry, “you have a hole in your shirt”.

“Oh dear, that’s a shame,” I answered, “I’ll have to buy a new one.”

This, I knew was the nice safe answer. The answer that would steer me out of danger. It wasn’t the answer I was thinking of though. I really wanted to say, “that’s good, otherwise I’d never be able to put it on”. But I guessed, rightly I’m sure, that this wouldn’t be what she wanted to hear.

Of course this got me thinking, just how many holes do I have in my shirt?

Well when it’s buttoned there is the one for my neck and the one for my torso. There are the two for my arms and there are the two for the cufflinks I’m not wearing (this shirt has buttons and cufflink holes). There are also the two holes that are there so that when you roll up your sleeves you have enough material to do so. These are the kind of slits (or darts if you prefer) that run down the last quarter of your sleeves on the inside. Also my top button is undone giving one extra hole (the buttonhole). And finally the shirt pocket hole. So done up my shirt has 10 holes.

What about undone?

Well, if I roll up my shirtsleeves I don’t actually change the number of holes as I gain two for the buttonholes and lose two for the slits as they are now subsumed into the sleeve holes.

On the front of my shirt I get two extra holes for the collar buttons and I lose two for opening the shirt. The head and torso hole disapear. But I do gain one hole per button. There are eight buttons on the front of my shirt but the top one was already open. So I add seven.

So when open my shirt has 17 holes! So what’s an extra hole here or there? I was obviously just trying to make it an even 18. I thought about mentioning this to Katherine but I decided this might cause more of my shirts to develop extra holes.

So, readers, how many holes do you have in your shirts?

Winslet’s weepy win

Why wouldn’t Winslet weep when winning?
Wouldn’t we weep, when winning when weary?
Whatever we want, won? Wonderful.
Weak wells wash winkholes.

Three Tic Tacs

Imagine the situation. A person kindly offers you a tic tac. Normally when this happens you get two tic tacs and then you can chew one on each side of your mouth like a normal person. If they, for some strange reason, offer only one you can generally ask for a second without too much bother.

But what if you get given three? Now you can’t really ask for a fourth they are likely to accuse you of sheer unmitigated greed. And you can’t give one back that seems ungrateful.

But you clearly can’t eat an odd number of tic tacs. So what to do? I’m considering carrying a spare packet of tic tacs just in case such an incident occurs. So I can provide the extra one. The only problem is getting the spare out of your pocket and in to your mouth without the giver seeing. You wouldn’t want them to notice. Because then people would know how crazy you are. And you really want to save that for your blog.

So what would you do if you were given three tic tacs?

Is this a covert way of saying you want more of my tic tacs? You could just ask me, you know. I already know you’re crazy. – Ed

Finding focus

I have been trying to become slightly more organised. I don’t know exactly what I’d like to be slightly more organised than. Perhaps an elephant? Yes, I think in a fight to the bitter foolscap hanging file, I would like to be more organised than an elephant but I’m happy to be pipped to the lever arch by an ocelot. Caveat emptor, dear reader. Do not try and out-organise an ocelot*.

I have employed an application called Omnifocus to get things going for me. It is available for the Mac and iPhone only. So IN YOUR FACE BILL GATES, how are you ever going to get organised enough to conquer the world now? Oh… wait… Perhaps he is using an undocumented feature of Outlook?

So I have been using this software on my iPhone. It only costs £10 and it works really well. There is a £70 version for the desktop and so far I haven’t seen the need for it, so there you have my review. It is really really really worth £10 if you have an iPhone and you want to be more organised than an elephant but less organised than an ocelot.

What it does is basically provide you with a task list that you can categorise in two ways. So you can say this thing I have to do is to do with Christmas and to do with Shopping, because it’s buying a Christmas present. But this other thing is to do with Christmas and being at home because it’s writing my christmas cards. The projects are things like Christmas, Contexts are things like Shopping and being at home. It’s very handy because when you are out shopping you can look and find all the things you were supposed to do when you were out shopping.

However there does seem to be one really annoying problem. There are two kinds of tasks in the world***: those which are like publishing an article on gamboling and those which are like making the potato mountain in Close Encounters of the Third Kind. Lots of people think there is a distinction between tasks that have steps and tasks that don’t but I think that’s a lie. Every task has multiple steps, sometimes it’s not worth breaking them down because you’re only going to do the thing once. Do you think Richard Dreyfus ever planned to make that potato mountain again? No, of course not. That was it. The thing was done. But once he had done it, it was done and he knew it, we knew it, even those aliens knew it. He had it checked off. But even something as simple and crazy as a mashed potato mountain has inner steps:

Step 1 – Wash Potatoes
Step 2 – Peel Potatoes
Step 3 – Boil Potatoes
Step 4 – Drain Potatoes
Step 5 – Mash Potatoes
Step 6 – Sculpt Potatoes

There is, believe it or not, a process for Gamboling articles too. It has far less to do with potatoes and can be described like this:

Step 1 – Ignore Potatoes
Step 2 – Come up with idea for article
Step 3 – Write article
Step 4 – Edit article
Step 5 – Get Katherine to edit article
Step 6 – Publish article

As you can see the concepts have exactly the same number of steps. The difference is that I do the same thing time and again. Over and over. Round and round. For years. And the difficult part is keeping track of which article is at which stage. What I need is to basically be able to add an idea and then have it create all of those steps for me automatically. I guess this would be called something like a template. And then I would be able to tell what is actually going on.

Why is this important? Without templates the software just doesn’t do what I need at all. When I look at my entry which says “Build Mashed Potato Mountain”, I can see that because it’s unchecked it’s not done. And when I start the project, it’s hard not to fall through the sub-steps without ending up with a mashed potato mountain. I mean if you miss out certain steps then you could burn your house down. That sort of thing will tend to focus your attention. But with the gamboling articles there might be weeks between the beginning and the end of each one and more than likely multiple articles being worked on at different times and at different stages. Keeping track is quite a lot more complicated. And at the moment I can’t cross off each bit when it’s done, so I can’t tell at what stage each of the articles is at by looking at it on the list.

So yes, I guess until they get this sorted, Bill Gates can rest easy, which is a shame.

* I did attempt this in the long lazy summer of 2003, by breaking in to his filing cabinet and rearranging everything, much to the ocelot’s chagrin.**

** In fact the only disorganised ocelot I’ve ever met was the one which kept Salvador Dali as a pet.

*** There may be more, let me know.

Leap second

At the end of 2008, a leap second was added to the last minute of the year. This makes sense because if it weren’t added then after a while the sun wouldn’t be at it’s height at noon. And as that’s basically what noon means, it would lead to all kinds of problems.

My issue is this. When it’s a leap year you add a day to the year. This event was advertised as a leap second and yet we added a second. Surely we should call it a leap minute if we’re adding a second. No?

From our school correspondent

Our school correspondent, has written in with the following comment on the Andronov Temperature scale. If you want to see the previous articles on the subject they are here: Let me take your temperature on this and Temperature rising.

A little learning is a dangerous thing or so it is said. So as a pedant I would first like to point out that temperatures are measured in degree fahrenheit, degree celsius and kelvin noting that the names are started with a lower case letter to avoid confusion with the surnames of the scientists. Also a redefinition of the triple point of water means that the boiling point of water is no longer 373.15 K!And so to a useful “scale” or rather a more practical conversion between celsius (the unit I use in my capacity as a teacher) and fahrenheit (my preferred unit in relation to the weather). I claim no originality for this rather state what I heard and then make a further observation. Instead of playing around with ±32 and 5/9 or 9/5 a reasonably accurate, and hence perfectly acceptable, formula is “take thirty from the fahrenheit temperature and divide the answer by two” as shown in the table below:

t / °C

t / °F

t / °

error

-20

-4.0

-17.0

-3.0

-18

-0.4

-15.2

-2.8

-16

3.2

-13.4

-2.6

-14

6.8

-11.6

-2.4

-12

10.4

-9.8

-2.2

-10

14.0

-8.0

-2.0

-8

17.6

-6.2

-1.8

-6

21.2

-4.4

-1.6

-4

24.8

-2.6

-1.4

-2

28.4

-0.8

-1.2

0

32.0

1.0

-1.0

2

35.6

2.8

-0.8

4

39.2

4.6

-0.6

6

42.8

6.4

-0.4

8

46.4

8.2

-0.2

10

50.0

10.0

0.0

12

53.6

11.8

0.2

14

57.2

13.6

0.4

16

60.8

15.4

0.6

18

64.4

17.2

0.8

20

68.0

19.0

1.0

22

71.6

20.8

1.2

24

75.2

22.6

1.4

26

78.8

24.4

1.6

28

82.4

26.2

1.8

30

86.0

28.0

2.0

32

89.6

29.8

2.2

34

93.2

31.6

2.4

36

96.8

33.4

2.6

38

100.4

35.2

2.8

Perfectly adequate (±1° most of the time) for those of us who live in England. Our friends in hotter or cooler climates might consider whether a tweak to the constant “thirty” is worth it.

Clothed in sorrow’s dark array

The other day, while walking down the street, I heard somebody say to their companion, “Sometimes I don’t want to spend an evening out with my colleagues. Sometimes, I’d rather be in my pyjamas.”

I was close enough to have said to him, “Why can’t you do both?”.

But I didn’t.

Potatoes

A conversation overheard in Italy between an Italian woman and an American woman:

American: “What are these?”, looking at the menu, “- crispy potatoes?”.
Italian: “Um, well they are a vegetable that grows in the ground. They are white. Quite like a parsnip, but larger.”
American: “Oh, I know what a potato is but what is a crispy potato?”
Italian: “Well, it is a potato that is crispy.”
American: “I see”.