Monday, June 29, 2009
To Leatherhead and other places
The other day to Chertley Court, a stately home recently opened near Leatherhead (http://www.cherkleycourt.com/index.htm), formerly the home of Lord Beaverbrook. Well not quite a stately home as they don't do visits. The stately home bit is dedicated to corporate events and weddings, but you can visit the gardens. It seems that the place was rebuilt after a big fire not much more than 100 years ago, then more recently, went to rack and ruin, and then most recently, restored at considerable expense. The house has been painted a uniform tasteful yellow which makes it look grand enough, entirely suitable for a very parvenu and very rich newspaper baron, but rather dull. Pity they ran out of dosh when it came to pointing up some of the detail with a bit of colour. The garden was a garden designer job. Clever use made of the sloping site, clever colour scheme involving a lot of blue and yellow. Lots of interesting plants, including a lot of interesting grasses. Some nice ponds, including an excellent lilly pond in the Italian garden. A silly new grotto lined with shells and mermaids made out of shells; but entirely like old grottos we have seen elsewhere. And some cactii. But the overall effect was, to me, a bit dull and sterile. Rather like the public areas of a Holiday Inn. Perhaps it will get better as it gets older. There was also a kitchen garden of which they were very proud, a kitchen garden which meant that their weddings and their cafeteria could include beans and what have you from our own gardens. And there was, indeed, a small broad bean patch to be seen.
Oddly, the main event on the parent site (http://www.beaverbrookfoundation.org/) was a hard core dispute between one arm of the organisation and another about the ownership of some paintings. Off to the High Court and all that sort of thing. Presumably the unseemly relic of some complicated tax avoidance wheeze.
Then yesterday to Brighton. Just the right sort of boiling hot day for the seaside. Brighton Pavilion appeared to have been painted in the same colour paint as Chertley Court, again with no attempt to pick out detail in colour. Presumably the town ran out of money. But it did not look as flash as we remembered. Happened across a disabled parking slot in a side street convenient to Palace Pier. Then back and forth along the huge promenade. They must have spent a fortune on the ironmongery when it was built. Massive iron colannades and massive iron railings. These last being finished by cylindrical wooden hand rails, maybe four inches in diameter. Most unusual. The whole rather in need of a good wash and brush up. Presumably the money for that comes out of the same pot as the paint for the Pavilion. Picnic in an ancient bus shelter like construction with more ironmongery (plus a lead roof) on the middle level of the three levels of promenade. Then along to the West Breakwater, this being, for a change, a massive concrete construction. It was sheltering a regular forest of some sort of seaweed, a forest which contained lots of fish, some big. I do not recall when I last saw big fish in the sea. Then lots of fishermen on the seaward side, sporting what looked like very expensive rods. Long and tapered with the very thin ends having lots of spring.
Back along the beach, alongside Volks Railway (carrying BH and FIL) and behind a huge bank of shingle which hid the naturist beach from the promenade, although from what we had seen of it from the breakwater it was full of people with clothes on, a lot fuller than the rest of the beach. Perhaps they were rather fancy clothes.
Quite a lot of people actually swimming. We must do the same on the next visit. Made a rather small drip castle, maybe six inches tall, unremarkable and unremarked. Not the right sort of sand really. Certainly a bit naff compared with the things we made on the great expanses of shining, flat wet sand at Sables D'Olonne. Must go back there. Let alone the giant made at Salcombe one year.
Plenty of places to buy proper seaside fare: fish and chips, bacon butties and so forth. But glad, given the heat, that we had had our sensible picnic.
Picked up the car and motored gently west along the main drag. Came across the rather imposing Adelaide Crescent and Palmeira Square. Must have been quite a place in its day and looks as if the developers are trying to get it back into shape. Enclosing attractive gardens, although long term residents no doubt sad that they were not what they were in their hey-day. Then on to Portslade, the natal town of a resident of TB and the subject of the previous post.
Portslade in the sun
Today, in the margins of a visit to Brighton West Breakwater, we visited Portslade on Sea. Well, at least the part nearest the sea, rather than the town proper. Nice modern water treatment plant with a big chimney, cafe by the car park which sells coffee made with powder and a beach not infested by holiday makers and other transients. Plus the car park was free to blue badge holders. A result. Next time we will take cozzies and do the whole thing. But will I leave the newly enabled telephone behind?
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Litter bore
Yesterday to Epsom Common, late afternoon when it was nothing like the 30 degrees threatened by the man in the box. Passed the small pond where there was a good deal of fishing going on, plenty of buzzer and other boys. For once, someone actually caught quite a large fish as we were passing, a bream maybe a foot or more long. Didn't struggle much but I do not suppose being a fish in the bright sun is all that much fun; rather put me off the whole business. OK to do it to eat but not for fun. Suitably solemnised, then observed the large amount of litter around the fishing area, which might or might not be moved when the boys move. (There was the odd girl but only in accompaniment mode. No fishing girls). So, observing a large, reasonably clean bread bag, decided to become a litter bore for the afternoon. Bag about half full by the time we left the common, having seen one heron and one deer on the large pond. Thought about arranging the litter when we got home, a la enim, and photographing it for the blog but decided not to. Thought about writing an essay about the various detritus that one finds in this way, declaiming ponderously therein on the waste of the world, but decided not to do that either. Between the common and home found more litter than we had found on the common, but this including an empty compost bag from a garden centre, so I did not run out of space. The worst stretch, as one might expect, was around Stamford Green School. But this did include at least one house which had given up clearing it's front verge every morning, which is I think what we would do if we lived nearer the school. Got to set a standard. Got to do it visibly so that the little darlings gradually get the idea that littering the streets is not cool. Full compost bad ended up in our green dustbin. Thorough hand washing, the thoughts of Weil's disease having sprung to life. (Took me a little while to extract the name out of Mr. G., having thought that it was spelt Vial's disease. But I did learn that the posh name was leptospirosis).
The green dustbin has been recently supplemented by a black dustbin and a small green dustbin. The former, is I think, for various containers, not tins or glass which are catered for by a blue box, supplied earlier. The small green dustbin is for food waste and which we do not use as we have a compost bin. The small green dustbin accompanied by a very small grey dustbin intended as a kitchen residing food waste transfer facility. As we use a bucket under the sink for this purpose, following the natal tradition of Cambridge, the very small grey dustbin is now used as a medicine chest upstairs. We also have a reasonably complicated book of instructions which I suspect many of our otherwise respectable neighbours have not bothered to read, at least to judge by their lack of success in getting the right bin on the right pavement on the right day. All good stuff. Perhaps FIL will sign up for bin watch, this being the about to be announced big brother to neighbourhood watch. Perhaps I should write to the chief nanny about this one in case she overlooks the possibilities.
Interested to see that the DT is showing signs of moving off MP's expenses onto grossly overpaid public servants, starting with the well oiled fat cats from the BBC. I guess that in these recessionary times, people are going to be a lot more sensitive to the fact that the gap between the rich and the poor has become very large. Far larger than is healthy to my mind. Bound to lead to resentment and trouble of one kind or another. Maybe we will even have a proper debate about why someone with the bad luck to be born stupid on a bog standard housing association facility should get paid one hundredth of that which someone with the good luck to be born with acquisitive skills in a leafy suburb gets paid. One might make an argument about how the acquisitive people need to be motivated and that money is the easiest way to do this. One might talk about huge salaries being market driven and that market forces have to be left to do their thing, whatever that might be. But I am not convinced. I think the United Kingdom would be a happier and better place if we dragged these huge differentials down a bit. Started to break up the cosy circle of acquisitive people agreeing amongst themselves to pay themselves these huge salaries. Not to mention the pensions and the expenses.
Then I wonder what Mr Al-Fayed's expense account looks like. Presumably there is one somewhere. Maybe one of his assistants just draws down large amounts of cash every day and does it like that. No detailed paperwork to embarass him with tales of golden antelopes doing service as bath taps. A differance in his case being that he is a successful business man. What he chooses to do with his money is his business. But a CEO with shareholders to answer to is not quite the same. What about a CEO who also happens to own 51% of the shares? Are there rules about the extent that he can ride roughshod over the interests of the 49%. A quest for another day.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Toller art
The real reason for all the flapping with the phone. It can be seen that the road to our farm was properly festooned with signs pointing out that one is on the way. Pity about the missing apostrophe. See 25 May 2009 above.
Parsnip art from FIL
Have finally worked out how to move pictures from my reasonably elderly Nokia to my similarly elderly Evesham. Lots of messages about failure to connect and missing drivers on the way. Maplins denied all knowledge of any connecting cable but struck gold with a helpful expanded newsagent, probably Andi News of Fife Road, Kingston (upon Thames). Kick off with an arrangement of Exe valley parsnips.Thursday, June 25, 2009
An hour with a luvvy
On Sunday to the Ernest Jones (see 13th January 2009 above) lecture for 2009. A couple of hundred turned out bright and early on a Sunday morning to see Mr. S R Beale (a well known actor, although not to me), receive the honourary fellowship of the British Psychoanalytical Society and to hear him lecture on 'Without memory or desire' (a famous phrase it seems, from a famous psychoanalyst, one Wifrid Bion). Very good lecturer, who held our attention for an hour or more, despite starting off by more or less reading his script. On the other hand, rather as when I used to go and hear expensive management gurus perform (an activity charged to training; actually no dearer than, for example, going to be taught how to use Word. I suppose the differance was the size of audience. Expensive management gurus not cheap), after the entertainment, one wondered what one had learned.
Introducing him, the president said something about an actor coming to know a part was perhaps like an analyst coming to know a patient; something else that one should try to come to with an open mind, without memory or desire. I was hoping for something on what to me is the rather odd business of spending your working life pretending to be someone other than yourself, a matter I thought might interest a psychoanalytic audience. Does one or should one really live the part or is one in a split condition, with one's real self (whatever that might be) keeping an eye on the one being faked. I have heard it alleged that doing it for real would not do at all, it would not project. But I would have been glad to hear more.
Anyway, he started off, sticking to his title, by explaining that he tried to come to a new part without memory or desire; in so far as is possible, to come at the thing afresh. (On which point, someone remarked afterwards that this proceeding might be wasteful. One should have regard to what had been done before; what had been done which worked, and what had bee done which did not). He then launched into a series of examples of readings from Shakespeare he had come across in his time, with a good bit of time spent on Leontes from the Winter's Tale, in which he had appeared at the Old Vic the night before. Various points of interest here, certainly to a bardovice like myself, although not very psychoanalytical, at least on the face of it.
First, he reminded me that the audience was fully part of the performance. Some of the time is spent talking to audience, rather than in the actors and actresses talking to each other. Afterwards, thinking about this, I started to wonder to what extent one's daily life is a performance. Maybe not very much of what we do is straight from the heart, so maybe actors are not so odd after all.
Second, he explained that readings sometimes went wrong, that is to say that they turned out to be dead ends, and sometimes shifted as time went along. Something might emerge in performance, be used for a few outings then be put away again. A production was a live thing to this extent.
Third, he explained that at the end of a rehearsal or of a performance, one is apt to be very tired. And sometimes readings emerge out of sheer tiredness which had not emerged before. A rather tiring way of being without memory or desire. This was a point which seemed to strike a chord with a number of those there.
Fourth, he talked about pointing things up, in this case Ariel's resentment of his servitude under Prospero. The tricky bit being knowing how much of this to do; many productions irritate, for example, by the director thinking it helps to colour code his cast. In this case, he tried spitting for a few outings but then found that the point made itself well enough without and desisted. Plus the audience did not much like it. And as it happens, today I read that Racine could make a point in Phaedre by have the sense of a line strain the metre. I suspect that this would be too subtle for my ear, even supposing my aural French was up to the line in the first place. Colour coding it would have to be.
Fifth, he talked about the nature and possible extent of forgiveness. Forgiving someone for spilling his beer on you while drunk was one thing; for murdering one's wife another. How saintly could or should one be? The need for forgiveness to be an agreement between the parties in some sense. That the person being forgiven had to accept the forgiveness, and accept, along the way, that he had done wrong. Something that sapper Vodicka, on the subject of the brawl in the street in Kiralyhida in Svejk (p392, Heinemann edition of 1973) might not have understood: I suspect he would have been dreadfully insulted to have been forgiven. Reminded that I have an unfinished learned tome on the subject that I ought to get on with. Luckily it might be learned but it is also quite short. Further report in due course.
Mr. Beale closed by coming back to the beginning in a slightly forced way and then taking questions, which I felt he was too tired to do justice to. But hardly surprising given that he had presumably been at it until quite late the evening before. Or even earlier that morning, depending on what he did to wind down... That apart, he gave very little away, apart from saying that he was rather preoccupied with death. Maybe he was not keen to give too much away to a public audience of psychoanalysts, a very knowing and observant bunch.
Having got that lot of my chest, clearly time for TB. Wash away the froth with some real froth.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Life according to the DT
Yesterday we learn that after some amount of legalising, a school in Dorset (or perhaps Devon) has decided that parents may, after all, take pictures of their kiddy-winks when performing the sack race at the annual sports day. It seems that such taking of pictures had been banned as a breach of the data protection act. Something to do with the possibility of the pictures falling into the wrong hands. It seems that the first lord of data protection has ruled that the act does not apply in this case; a pleasing example of a large nanny showing a bit of common sense. But contrariwise, the BH tells me that in her day, eager happy-snapping parents were a well known menace at school sports days, which was sometimes banned. Fair enough, but let's do the banning for a sensible reason not a silly one.
But the legalisers scored a hit over the speeding doctor. It seems that he was driving along a narrow 30mph road when some sort of diabetic attack came on, potentially disabling and for which the remedy was a glucose injection. So the doctor took the conscious and deliberate decision to speed up to 37mph if you please, in order to attain a wider bit of road where he could stop and inject. Doctor prosecuted, presumably by a speed camera. He took the matter to the High Court, lost and was denied permission to appeal to the House of Lords. Now while this is rather a lot of legal expense to incur on a rather small matter, I do think that whoever processed his first appeal against a speeding notice might have allowed it. Maybe according to the letter of the law he has done wrong, but it would have been easy enough at that first stage just to lose the thing. Perhaps the first processor had the hump that day because of partner trouble over toast over breakfast. Burnt perhaps. Out of such little things news items are made. But contrariwise, perhaps someone along the line thought that doctors prone to potentially disabling diabetic attacks should not be driving at all. They should be setting a better example.
And there was the case of the DNA analysis running amuck. It seems that someone thinks that it would be a good idea to dig up unmarked or mass graves from a first world war military cemetary to do with some part of the battle of the Somme. Once dug up, the chaps with white coats move in and start taking samples. Then they start matching samples from graves with other materials, the idea being to work out who exactly had been buried. To my mind, it would be better to let the dead lie. It is all happened a very long time ago and I am sorry that there are people around, presumably including relatives with long missing loved ones, think that a grisly procedure of this sort is going to help. I don't know of any long missed loved ones in my family, but I do not think I would be moved to back this sort of activity. I might be of retiring age but I was born thirty years after the events in question and any knowledge of or regard for the missing would have to be very second hand. Do I really want to get into the trauma by missing person game on that basis?
And lastly, there was the case of the cows running amuck. Now I am not all that keen on sharing my walks with cows on Epsom Common or anywhere else. And I recall not so long ago, on the Isle of Wight, having to have the BH see off a herd of nosey cows. But yesterday it seems that a lady vetenarian, whom one might think ought to know better, went for a walk with her dog in a field full of cows with calves. It seems that these cows were sufficiently bothered or nosey that she was squashed up against a wall and trampled to death underfoot. My case, as regards Epsom Common, rests.
Lamb's liver for tea yesterday. No tea but accompanied by fried onions (lite, that is to say fried in omega rich rape seed oil (third pressing)), boiled carrots, cabbage and potato. Not bad, but rather more livery than the calf's liver we usually have. Liver should not be livery and fish should not be fishy. Livery and fishy describe charectaristic flavours of bad examples of the genre, not good examples.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Postscript
By way of a postscript on St Paul's, it so happens that a few days previously I had visited the Brompton Oratory, another basilcan church with a lot of decoration. Rather to my surprise, Brompton seemed rather dowdy on that occasion, while St Paul's looked very flash and grand a few days later. Perhaps the brown marble at Brompton is done no favours by the midday sun, whereas the white and gold at St Paul's did well. Also noticed that the interior of the central dome was a painting of the interior of a dome, an effect we saw earlier versions of at Florence last year. But I think the Florentines got it off rather better, with a better join between the ornamental masonry and the paintings of ornamental masonry. To the point that one was not always sure where one ended and the other started, at least not at first glance. I don't recall seeing a trick of this sort in a modern building; seems a bit dated somehow. Something which people proud of their newly found ability to paint in perspective might do, an ability which our world of jack the drippers and twombles is less interested in.
We were entertained at tea today by wondering about the premium grade ham we had procured from Mr S. The packet informed us that the ham had been formed from leg meat of pig, cooked and cured. Or perhaps cured then cooked. So the question was, what is the maximum number of pigs involved in any one packet of ham? Is this number a KPI for their meat packers? Is ham from Mr S. a blended product like tea or flour, where the ham you are eating might come from an indetirminate number of pigs from an indetirminate number of countries? There are food products which confess to being the product of more than one country but I cannot bring an example to mind.
But what does come to mind is that the continentals are, or at least were, more honest about this sort of thing. If you buy ham in Spain, you see the stuff being taken off what is definately the leg of a pig. There might even be a trotter, just to be really sure about it. More complicated products, like ham formed from leg meat, are sold as sausage. There is also the point that their ham might be cured but not cooked.
And then there was the engaging recipe taken from one of the free newspapers that litter our trains and streets, described as hearty Swedish meatballs. Take 60g of breadcrumbs and 120ml of double cream. 60g of butter and one onion, chopped. 200g of beef and 200g of lamb, both minced. Bits, bobs, e-numbers and the like. Then another 200ml of double cream just to be on the safe side. The result we are advised is enough to feed four. Perhaps it all sounds much heavier when it is done in grams as I do remember actually eating something which must have been built on the same lines in a workmen's cafe I came across once in California, with the addition of cheese somewhere along the line and served in something the shape, if not the texture and taste, of a baguette. Seemed OK at the time, and made up for the disappointment of having worked out that the South Park I had just walked around - a thin green park surrounded on three sides by houses - was not the South Park then famous on television for adolescents.
Today's factoid is laddered. That is to say I have just discovered that scaffolders now go in for a special sort of ladder. Very tall and rather wide, with thin treads and thin sides, these last being pink or yellow. Have tried to find the proper word for the sides of a ladder; one would think there would be one, but all Mr G. can come up with is a US patent which talks about steps and struts. Not impressed by struts. But presumably the point of the ladders is that they are very light; much lighter than the wooden things which used to be the norm in the days when I used to climb up such things. Would probably chicken out with vertigo if I tried it now.
But then Mr G. is not all powerful. Today I received an advertisement from the BFI for an Iranian love story. A very arty film, based on a story much older than Romeo and Juliet. Mr G. in his wisdom saw fit to decorate the sides of the e-mail with advertisements for things Iranian, some of them in what I took to be Iranian script. In amongst these advertisements was an advertisement for cat food. Not clear what that was doing there at all. Would I be pleased if I was the Mr Cat-Food who had paid to be advertised to discerning potential customers with an interest in cats? And to be fair to Mr G., the decoration on the side of my email was text in form. No pictures, little colour and no loud fonts. Maybe this will gradually change over the years as the company matures and becomes more interested in revenue stream than was perhaps the case when the founding fathers set out.
Monday, June 22, 2009
St John
FIL being something fairly important in the St John's Ambulance, we got to go to their AGM at Mansion House and their annual dedication service at St Pauls. All most impressive with lashings of pomp and ceremony, although the AGM was as dull as such things usually are. Sadly, FIL was not so important that we got to partake of the lunch provided. But in the course of the day we did pick up various snippets of information which I herewith share.
That the Lord Mayor actually lives at Mansion House for his year of office, with our AGM being in his ballroom. Maybe his children impress their friends by having raves there.
That part of the Lord Mayor' escort is a chap wearing a large brown fur hat, the sort of thing that Russians wear, and carrying a very large sword (in its scabbard). Mr G. suggests that fur is a high status material and that the more of it you have the bigger cheese you are, but I couldn't find out why this particular chap was sporting such this particular hat.
That St John's are very keen on military trappings, in particular flags, wands, ranks, cloaks and uniforms, with the strange names of the higher ranks being derived from their crusading antecedants. Red shoulder straps for doctors, green shoulder straps for para-medics, grey shoulder straps for nurses and plain shoulder straps for common or garden first aiders and ambulance drivers, far and away the most common. Lots of silver braid, pips and medals all round. Got the impression that high ranking forces people get a good proportion of the top jobs. Although to be fair, these top jobs might be largely honourific. The overall effect was rather masonic.
That St John's may not employ a diversity officer. There was a proper sprinking of women in the higher reaches but very few people of colour at all and none in the higher reaches on show.
That St Johns also does a small number of brass bands. We were entertained by the Surrey band while waiting to get into St Pauls.
That two ambulance services in the land have full dress uniforms for use on state occasions. One, I think, was London and the other was up North. My up-north informant had his on, a smart bright green affair. He thought that if his wife was going to be all dolled up in her St John's unform, he might as well be dolled up in his.
That like some other charities, St John's was moving into selling its services, maybe even tendering for contracts, and appeared to be well into projects, strategies and all the other parephrenalia of a bang up-to-date outfit. (Talking of which, I mention as an aside, that the check out man in our very small Travis Perkins (on the Longmead) knows all about KPIs. Clearly another bang up-to-date outfit. In his case, his KPIs seemed to be all about the various kinds of mistake he could make in the course of checking one out). I also learned that while first aid might be their core business, there are others. Not least, various medical services in Palestine.
St Pauls was given over to St John's for the afternoon, to the extent of opening the big doors at the west end. We also had the services of the cathedral choir and of some army trumpeters. Service not unlike that of nine lessons and carols at Christmas, that is to say a medley of hymns, prayers, readings and choir peices. With a rather odd sermon from the Bishop of Wakefield, which claimed, amongst other things, that the raising of Lazarus was all about healing and was thus very relevant to the day, whereas the relevant text seemed to be saying that it was all about giving a sign, that the sceptical might know that the Son of God was indeed qualified to preach in the Temple. For the first time in quite a long time, I actually participated in the singing of two hymns of the four. Helps to know the tunes. I found I could just about sing to an unknown tune by following the people behind but it was hard work and quite often one took the wrong turning. So I desisted. Fortunately, the organisers knew of the currently poor standard of hymn singing and had the organ playing very loud. That notwithstanding, I was reminded how affective mass singing can be. Stirs the old heart strings.
The proper title of the service was the annual service of commemoration and re-dedication of the Priory of England and the Islands of the most Venerable Order of the Hospital of St John of Jerusalem. Other priories cover Scotland, Wales and the old commonwealth (including the US). Lots of presence on the Internet.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Distance learning with Aviva
Now on the fourth call to the friendly Aviva call centre where I get to talk to both computers and people. In an effort to bring matters to a close, I had a go at their on-line service. So yet another registration. User name, password, known facts business. At least the user name, in common with most such operations, is my email address.
Now the government, in its wisdom, has set up something called the government gateway. This, as I recall, is a wheeze whereby with a single set of logon credentials you can log on to all the government services which have plugged themselves into the gateway, actually not all that many of them last time I looked. But idea good and would play well on the private sector side of the fence, at least from a consumer point of view. With a single set of credentials I could logon to the dozens of private sector online service providers with whom I have an account, and of which I presently have to keep my own record, there being no chance of my remembering all this stuff. All rather insecure, partly because of the need for the record which has to be close enough to the surface to be updated and partly because of the tendency to economise on the use and renewal of passwords and credentials. I have seen advertisements on the tube advertising things vaguely in this area, but more, I think, to do with making payments. Maybe I shall start to pay more attention. Is there a commercial opportunity here for someone young and bouncy?
Back at Aviva, I get myself registered and logged on and start to make enquiries about my insurance policy. As far as I got, it only seemed to be able to display the booklets associated with my policy. Didn't seem to have access to my actual policy documents. The thing with the amounts, the excesses and exclusions. So not much good. And when I tried to change an address in a part of the record which I could see, it promptly came up with an application error. Gave up and went back to the rigmarole with the call centre.
I wonder if I went to one of the dwindling band of insurance agents I would get proper service? Maybe, for example, such an agent would still take a cheque, something which Aviva no longer do. Presumably the catch would be the cost. Aviva knows perfectly well that most of us loathe call centres - but it also knows that they are cheap and they can keep the price of their products down with them. And as a retired person, the fact that they have transferred some of the cost of their product to me, in the form of my time and telephone bill, does not show all that much.
Better time with my latest policier, 'L'homme aux cercles bleus' by one Fred Vargas. Had to read it twice to get the hang of the modern French but worth the bother. Good story with four murders but involving little sex, violence or gadgets, at least not of the in your face variety. So quite unlike the sort of thriller that one buys at English airports. One quaint feature was the frequency of references to smoking. Must have been one or more on more or less every page and everyone in the story seemed to smoke copiously. One suggestion was that this was just a wheeze to give the thing a bit of period charm; the French didn't really puff as much as this. Another would be that as a giving up person myself, very sensitive to the whole subject. The inclusion of much stuff on feelings and the exclusion of sex, violence and gadgets may have been due to the fact that this apparently very successfull author is in fact a lady, in her day job something archeological for CNRS.
Mr G. rapidly takes me to the web site for CNRS (http://www.cnrs.fr/) which turns out to be a large national research institute, mainly of a scientific flavour but with some softer stuff. Don't think we do things in quite the same way here. We might have national research funding outfits, but not national research outfits. With a little more knowledge of such matters one could no doubt wax lyrical about the pros and cons. The web site comes with an English language version which is helpful of them - although once you have drilled down a bit some of the translation not too hot. Collapses into a rather tortured commission-speak. But, to their credit, one of the top level menu options is 'Mission pour la place des Femmes au CRNS'. Clearly ahead of the game on that front. Note capital 'F'.
A bit of chloresterol indulgence yesterday. Arriving home too late for regular feeding, settled for eggs on bread. That is to say three eggs stirred up and fried gently in a little butter. Somewhere between scrambled eggs and an omelette, dumped onto several slices of fresh white bread. Eaten mainly with knife and fingers. Excellent grub, although perhaps not something to make a habit of.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Chromo
Some feedback from my rather limited experience with Google Chrome.
The user interface continues to appeal and it is fast. However, that is not the end of the story.
Have yet to get the hang of the address box. Not quite sure how clever it is at interpreting or resolving what you type in the address box on the second line of the screen. While quite often it has a good stab at finding what it is you are after, quite often it comes up with a screen saying 'oops' (they do seem to love this sort of computer chattiness in the US) and you have to do a bit more work to get what you want.
Print and save options do not offer quite all or work in quite the same way that IE did. In particular, not as clever at guessing what folder you want to save something in as IE, although that might get better as it gets to know me better. Plus there are some odd interactions with same, which fires up when you are not expecting it. Maybe this is a consequence of leaving MS to manage the printers.
The back button seems to be less helpful than that of IE. OK, so it is difficult for a dumb computer to work out exactly what you mean by give me the last screen, but Chrome seems to be quite good at getting stuck on blogs (run by Google). But maybe the bloggers can tweak their pages so that back does not work. Doesn't do anything for me though. Blogs which do not support back in a sensible way do not get bookmarked. Although, to be fair, I have not worked out how to do that yet. Easy enough in IE after 10 years of the thing.
On sign in, if, you have in some past life inadvertantly clicked the 'remember me' box, Chrome is even more helpful that IE. It puts username and password straight up, without bothering for you to click or suggest the first letter of the user name from a drop down list. A bit of an irritation for me, having chickened out of the registry edit which it seems is needed to turn remembering off. So some burglar would not have too much difficulty getting into my email. Not sure how much damage could be done, but I do worry about such things.
But there is some good news. If you should have occasion to ring the helpful people at Syon Park, their telephone, while it is keeping you waiting, just does a double bleep from time to time to tell you that it is still there. It does not play music at you, tasteful or otherwise. I cannot think of any other site whose telephone has such good manners.
Unlike the Aviva telephone. I had occasion to phone them the other day, masquerading as someone else, in an entirely benign way. So I spent some minutes - or possibly just seconds -carefully responding to menus of the 'if you want to talk to a person, key 32' variety and listening to various dreadful music (my telephone not being clever enough to let me put the receiver down and bleep when the telephone at the other end has something useful to say). Having gone through a lot of this, and entered my policy number and various other details into the telephone keypad, I did finally get through to a person who immediately moved into the policy number and various other details script. But I have just told all that to your computer. Well that may be, but the computer often seems to lose them when it transfers your call to me. And what about the address change which I told Norwich Union about before you swallowed them up. Well their computer seems to be quite good at losing things too. The case continues.
I close with a development arising from the title of my last post. I have been using the word 'cornucopeia' for many years, more or less in the correct sense. Yesterday, my spelling being a bit hit and miss, I went so far as to check the spelling with Mr G. before posting and all seemed to be well. But today, idly turning the pages of the OCD (bought second-hand somewhere behind Wimbledon station), I learn that the word is all to do with a Greek nymph called Amalthea who doubled as a she-goat and whose horns were full of good things. Left ambrosia, right fruit and vegetables. Hence 'cornu' for horn and 'copia' for full. Both Latin words which I knew at some point. So the proper spelling is 'cornucopia' which Mr G. seems to like much better than the other one, even to the point of offering a Wikipedia entry which confirms, in its essentials, the OCD entry. The failure to spell does not bother me greatly, but not noticing that the word translates as horn full does. What is the point of all those years on the Latin if not even that sort of stuff survives?
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
A cornucopeia
My first was a good quality senior moment. Pottering around the garage on window construction duties and put my tape down. Some minutes later needed the tape. Couldn't find it. Check the garage, check the shed, check the kitchen. Even check upstairs after which I am reduced to asking the BH. Who promptly suggested that perhaps I should look in my pocket, and there it was.
My second was a bad quality senior moment, in that it might have had untoward results. Decided that I needed to wear a floppy hat against the bright sun; bright sun doing eyes in seeming to be the latest fad at the opticians, quite apart from not being very comfortable. The snag is that I am not very good with or used to hats and did not realise how much it cuts one's visibility down. So crossing Grosvenor Crescent at Hyde Park Corner, look around to the right, see nothing and start to march across. At which point a white van comes to a sudden halt at my side; a white van which I had not seen, being behind the brim of the floppy hat, at all.
After which, repaired to a pub in Gloucester Road to recover, where I had an attack of the bubbles. If I was a Spaniard, very hot on my family honour and all that sort of thing, was it OK to kill someone who had stained that honour furtively, by stealth, craft or cheating? Or was it only OK to call him (presumably not her) out and fight it out decently with seconds? From I can remember of Mafia films, Mafiosi are hot on honour but not so scrupulous about how they get rid of stains thereon. This all brought on by being reminded that in Hamlet, Laertes tries to get his revenge on Hamlet by using a poisoned foil in the climactic fencing match. To my mind, bluffing, feinting and other wheezes during the match are all fair game and above board. But a bit of jiggery-pokery beforehand is not. On the other hand, pretending to the Germans in 1944 that we were going to attack in one place in France and then attacking in another is OK. Stakes to high to be scrupulous. But did the French think we were unsporting to shoot their nobles at Agincourt with commoners? At which point we thought it better to break off and move on to the next establishment.
On the way to which we discover that Karnac Books has vanished and the site looks as if it is about to be a bistro or something. But that there was an Oxfam bookshop nearby which made up a bit. I managed to acquire a sort of French Folio-style collected novels by one Francois Mauriac. Still in their plastic wrappers and boxes, presumably more or less untouched since purchase back in 1965. 135 francs at that time for copy number 1920 of 15,000. Boards covered with some shiny patterned pink fabric. Complete with rather odd illustrations. It turns out that M. Mauriac is a Catholic Nobel Laureate so he ought to be worth a read. Approximately 2,000 pages to go.
Challenge for this evening is to work out what 135 francs then would be worth now, in the sense of how many bottles of wine would it buy then? Did I get a bargain? Mr G. offers http://currency-history.blogspot.com/ for starters, good try but not quite what I need. Wikipedia says that in 1965 a French franc was worth 1.2 2007 Euros, where I assume that 'is worth' means that a franc could buy in 1965 about what a euro could buy in 2007. Which I interpret to mean that I got a brand new book for about a tenth of its considerable price. Good cheese if one turns out to like the book.
When we got to the next establishment we found that it had been renamed the 'Duke of Gloucester' and tricked out with fancy glass with coats of arms and what have you. A nice bit of retro furnishing. Beer fine if a little dear.
Three interesting sights on the way home. First, a thirty five year old lady reading an improving book on her way home on the train. The title of the book was 'With God's help you can master your mind' and the chapter being read appeared to be about mind over mouth. That is to say managing not to say the first nasty thing that comes into one's mind when in a strop. Managing to tone it down into something civilised. Presumably this was a bit of an issue with the lady concerned.
Second, a ramp at the end of what I thought was a concrete platform at Mitcham Junction was covered in the sort of roofing felt one might put on a shed roof. Why would one do that? Is it worth stopping next time through Mitcham Junction to investigate further?
Third, a motorbike with what appeared to be a plastic chain. More like the sort of thing you get in a car that you ought to have on a motorbike. Have the bizease decreed that no motorbike may have a chain in case the chains get used in gang fights among Hell's Angels? After all, it is not so many weeks since a group of Hell's Angels were convicted for what seemed like a more or less gratuitous and pointless murder of a member of a rival gang.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Fruity
Windows continued
New window has now got to the assembled stage, the expected blood sweat and tears not having materialised on this occasion. Ordinarily, for some reason, however much preparation there is, the actual glueing up stage, when one is past the point of no return, is usually rather fraught. On this occasion, for some reason not so, although it was harder, oddly, to pull the joints up (with the not very often used sash cramps) with glue in than without. Maybe the glue, despite its white gooey appearance is more contact than you might expect and it bonds at every pause in the pulling up process. In which case, it might not bond very well at the end of the pulling up process. We shall see. Despite worries about squareness, the two diagonals were just under a quarter of an inch out at 52.5 and 52.75 inches respectively. Hopefully this will not prove a challenge when the glass man cuts the glass, nor when I poke the thing in the hole. Did allow a bit of margin for this sort of thing. And the theory that if you cut the tenons square the thing will pull up square has stood up reasonably well.
Along the way, took some time out to replace the inner vice pad on my rather low bench. A bench which used to double as a coffee table in our nuptial bed-sit and which was made out of shuttering timber rescued from the last rebuild but one of Croydon Art College. At the time I built the thing I never bothered to put proper pads on it, but have put up with the improper pads on an improper bench ever since, apart from the short interval in Wood Green when I had a proper bench. This last made out of an odd roof timber, tapering from 12 inches to 6 over its twelve feet, rescued from some demolition site and then chopped in half, joined together and given legs. But, on this occasion, tiring of more serious work, decided to take a time out and fit a proper inner pad, made out of a 12 inch square of 1 inch oak, varnished on one side from somewhere or other. I might remember where at some point. Fitted with the unvarnished side outwards in the interests of grip. Now I am worrying whether a pad made out of oak will not be too hard and bruise the various bits and peices it is intended to enclose - unlike the old pad which was made out of something relatively soft, but neither pine nor beech. Looked, in grain, a bit like something I used to call obechi, although it had become brown rather than white. We shall see how long it takes to get onto the outer pad.
Yesterday finished 'Brooklyn' by one Colm Toibin (can't do the funny accents which authentic paddies seem to require in a name of this sort). An interesting read for various reasons. First, it is the third book this year which has been read by both the BH and myself at roughly the same time. Second, the rather flat prose reminded me a bit of the Joyce of the 'Dubliners', while also seeming too long. Too much of the time one felt one knew what tone picture was going to be painted and, in the event, little value was added by the actual painting. At the same time, CT managed to maintain the suspense. One was wondering all the way to the end how it was going to turn out. Third, it was a ladies book. I felt rather like an intruder reading all this stuff. Rather as if I was reading a ladies' magazine. A feeling that it is proper to maintain separation of the sexes, at least for lay people. Knowing all is for professionals and good luck to them. The subcontinentals did not have it all wrong when they invented castes.
I end tweeting. For some reason, I have been very conscious of starlings this year. A bird which was very common when I was small and has not seemed very common in Epsom. But this year, while they are not much into our garden, there have been plenty about. Have been moved to blog them, as I recall, on two occasions, and have seen them on plenty of others. Maybe it is all to do with global warming.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Beef sandwiches
The beef sandwiches mentioned in the last post were consumed in the staff smoking den of the Hog in the Pound of South Molton Street, which may be a mispelling for the South Moulton of North Devon, although no suggestion of that in Mr G. In any event, a name I tend to remember, firstly because the place is vaguely on the way to Westward Ho! from Exeter, a holiday route we took for a few years and secondly because I used to work with someone called Boulton who used to live in said Moulton. The reason we were there was RMT, who saw fit to organise a strike on a day on which we had planned to go to the Wigmore Hall. Having discovered that the Jubilee Line was running, we abandoned plans to walk from Waterloo, which might have taken an hour, and jumped on a very crowded train, at which point we discover that while the trains might be running, they were not stopping at Bond Street and never did stop at Oxford Circus. In the nick of time we leap out at Green Park and head north, coming across this clutch of chairs outside the back door to said Hog in the Pound, clearly intended for the use of puff-loving staff.
Which reminds me, having read about another skunk fuelled murder, to remind those who get cross about this sort of thing that if marijuana was legalised it would be much easier to control the sort of marijuana that was consumed. And since we do not seem to be able to control the quantity, even supposing one thought that to be a good thing, control of quality would be better than no control at all.
Back at the Wigmore Hall we had a programme which was rather unusual for us in that all of it was unknown. A flute quartet from Mozart, a string sextet from Glinka, some violin duos from Bartok and a string sextet from Dvorak. Enjoyed the flute, which I had never heard live in such quantity before. Glinka OK, Bartok a very pleasant surprise. But I don't suppose I will ever manage to get hold of them on plastic. Dvorak very good. What would have been a full house but for the strike very enthusiastic. So our speculation payed off on this occasion. Went past the Toucan on the way home, but was a bit crowded and with the strike thought it better to head for Tottenham Court Road down an Oxford Street with some very crowded bus stops. Chickened out and got a taxi to Waterloo.
Now well embarked on the new window project. This project has been on BH's wish list for some years now. The official line was that while the window in the side of the garage might be rotten, it was not going to fall out and there was no great hurry to do anything about it. However, now succumbed. Much thought about whether to get someone else to do it. Or, if I was going to do it, would we buy a ready made window or would I make one? Decided we were short of money, so getting someone else to do it crossed off the list. Explore buying a window, but put off by the fact that windows seemed to be intended to be double glazed and were expensive. Maybe £175 without glass for a two and a half light standard casement window. Standard meaning that it would not fit the hole in question, 4 feet wide by 3 feet high, this being the standard at the time that it was put it, probably some 30 years ago. The catch was that making a window anything like a shop one, and with casements that opened, was going to be a tricky business with hand tools. So settled for a window with no moving parts, much more within my carpentry compass, and installation of an outdoor socket for the lawn mower, needed if one was not going to be able to feed its power supply through the open garage window.
Outdoor socket turns out to cost the surprising sum of £60. A thing called a sentry socket. But it is made by a respectable company (MK) and it does include a built in trip which is rather better than the plug in one we have now. And with various help from TB, I think I know how to install the thing. Probably making my heirs liable for some frightful fine when they assure prospective buyers in a HIP that all electrical works have been carried out and documented by fully qualified electrical installation engineers (second class).
Ripped out old window, this taking about 10 minutes. Made temporary plastic cover against the possibility that permanent cover might be some weeks coming. Bought timber for the window from Travis Perkins, which cost a good deal less than the sentry socket. Made the sill, including routing out a channel on the underside for the mortar packing to key into. Quite a laborious business given that my router was nowhere capable of a channel of these dimensions and I had to use a chisel. But with a cutting guage to mark the thing out, a neat enough job at the finish. Measured up the window frame proper, a business which always takes a lot longer than I expect. Now got as far as cutting and fitting the six mortice and tenon joints involved. Decided to try the more fraught business of having all six mortice and tenon joints engaged at the same time when I am fresh on Sabbath morn.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Chromium plated
Now on day 2 of the google chrome browser, attracted by the word mimimal applied to design. Installation was problem free and fast. The browser was indeed much less complicated than MS Internet Explorer, good looking and with some nice features (among the miminal set) for starters. Good on recent history, good on getting you to the right site on the basis of an incomplete address. So, all in all, so far so good. But I wonder if I will come to miss all the fancy menus and options which come with the MS product.
One small oddity so far. The font in which I am presently typing, in the Blogger window, has changed. So Chrome must interact with the display options of applications in a slightly differant way from Internet Explorer. Will this prove to be the tip of an iceberg?
The next technology challenge of the week was the creaking transmission on my bicycle - a Trek touring series 520. Which came complete with mudguards and a carry frame for panniers, both essential as far as I am concerned. And lots of Bontrager parts, a company of which I had never heard of before. Good service for getting on for three years now, maybe 6,000 miles. But have made the mistake of only changing the chain once. And have the habit of cycling in a high (lots of wheel revolutions to the pedal revolution) gear. And am quite heavy. All these things combined seem to have added up to the whole transmission system being shot. Bottom bracket bearing clunking, real wheel bearing feeling distinctly odd (and making me slightly nervous), chain stretched and gears worn. Man in local shop does not do Bontrager and suggests replacing the lot with equivalent Shimano which he does do. Big bill. So go into deep think; even go as far as poking around the Trek web site and asking in another shop which does do both Trek and Bontrager. It seems that Trek no longer make quite the sort of cycle that I want, a divide having opened up with what they call road bikes and what they call urban bikes. I seem to be somewhere in between. And anyway, while the bill seems a bit strong, it is a good deal less than a comparable new cycle. So big bill it is.
The third technology challenge is the people who sold FIL his flashy new motorised chair. He is clearly a man marked for a motorised chair with wheels and is now one of a number of runners up in a competition for a free one. Being a runner up entitling one to a fabulous discount. We are now due to be host to a demonstration of one of these things. It will be interesting to see if the demonstrator is as good at keeping his foot in the door as the one who demonstrated the motorised chair without wheels. Not, to be clear, that we have any complaint with the chair. It does very well and we are very happy with it. But it did come with a fairly cunning sales performance.
The fourth challenge is horticultural, although not really a challenge, more of a puzzle. Our replacement water lilly came with two adult leaves, a baby leaf and a bud. Some weeks later, the two original leaves have rotted. This we understand to be normal; the life span of a water lilly leaf not being that great. The baby leaf and the bud duly made it to the surface and are now rotting in turn. A fifth leaf is now heading for the surface. But it is not looking too good. The total leaf count seems to be headed in a firmly downwards direction. Advice from Cambridge is that, in the event of a second fatality, try a larger Marks and Spencer. They sell water lillies as sturdy as their socks.
Talking of babies, much interest down at Stamford Green Pond. Two clutches of baby geese, a clutch of baby moorhens and now a clutch of baby rats. These last seem to be very tame and are voted cuddly rather than vermin by most passers by. And today, the pond was visited by a caramac (for those with a long memory for confectionary) coloured cat which looked a bit pedigree to me. Not your average moggy. It was sitting by the side of the pond, perhaps hoping for some rat action, when one of the clutches of goslings came along, accompanied by two adults. Cat looked very excited for an instance, I thought because the feline mind had jumped to gosling fritters. But no, one hiss from an adult goose and the cat legged it fast, not to be seen again for the duration of our lunch. The goslings settled down to a quiet graze, which they seemed to find most comfortable from a sitting position. They looked most odd. And they did not seem to care for daisies.
Yesterday, cow chop for lunch with white rice, crinkly cabbage and carrots, these last boiled but not peeled. Not peeling seems to make a lot of differance. Best cow chop for a while. One sitting and sandwiches later did for the lot.
Tuesday, June 09, 2009
Derby pickings
To the Derby on Saturday, including not more than four drinks in any of the six hostelries visited, not counting tents on the hill. For once in a while, an outing for my stockman's coat, acquired from one of those ex-army flavoured stores near Victoria Station. Not much good for walking in the rain but very good for standing in the rain, which is what the Derby looked like it might have been at 0900 on the day. Egg sandwiches, following tradition, but with lettuce added at the point of consumption instead of cress added at the point of construction, not following tradition. No winnings but much rail entertainment in various shapes and sizes. Not so many people on the hill as on the last few years; maybe the squeeze by the course owners (not that they own the downs) is starting to take its toll.
The day following up rather late but managed to get back on the downs by 1530 to take a dekko. The litter pickers had not finished so we also managed a bit of a scavenge. Declined a brand new, very substantial looking trolley from Waitrose. Must have been worth a bit to Waitrose. Declined three quarter filled bottles of naturally sparkling spa water and of Heinz tomato ketchup. Declined a range of folding chairs. Accepted a range of tent poles which will now reside in our shed against the possibility that we find a use for them in the garden. Accepted a sturdy green plastic awning against the same possibility. Found no money, either in coin or note. Presumably the pickers have a quick look over the ground first thing for notes, so that not a surprise, but we thought we might turn up the odd coin. But no.
Seagulls and crows herding in odd places, not altogether clear why. Plenty of abandoned food where we were but no birds.
Then up to the mound at Tattenham Corner to get the panorama. Couldn't see any airplanes heading for Heathrow but the cloud scape was generally rather spiffing. Lots of small heaped cumulus floating around, for all the world like something out of Gulliver's Travels. You could see where Swift got the idea from. Fascinating array of cumulus in sunlight, banked up against some cloud bank covering the northern horizon.
Yesterday to Kingston to scavenge in a newly refurbished pub, down by the river behind what used to be the British Aerospace factory, just downstream from the railway bridge. Found a nice 1919 edition (19th impression of the first edition) of 'The Young Visitors' by one Daisy Ashford, who, it seems, was the grand age of 9 when she wrote the thing. Offered the pub £5 for the thing, an offer they accepted. It turned out to be an amusing read, well puffed by a preface by Barrie of Peter Pan fame. Market value slightly less than I paid for it. But amusing to offer and see what happened. Would the pub staff think that I had lighted upon some gem which I was going to flog for lots of dosh?
Followed by a visit to a Turkish restaurant called Cappadocia (http://www.cappadociarestaurant.co.uk/) . Sadly without belly dancer but good grub including excellent bread, baked on the premises. Somewhere between the pitta bread I am used to in such places and a nan. Bright brown finish, presumably a bit of milk brushed on at some point. Excellent pudding, made of shredded wheat, honey, white cheese and ice cream, probably amongst other ingredients. Shredded wheat looked like a relative of the stuff from Nabisco but certainly not the same and made up into the shape of a large doughnut - the sort with a hole that you get at the seaside. Followed by Turkish coffee - medium sweet - the first time we have had the stuff for ages - followed by a very exotic Turkish brandy. Powerful taste of almonds and vanilla. Excellent in modest doses.
The day following up rather late but managed to get back on the downs by 1530 to take a dekko. The litter pickers had not finished so we also managed a bit of a scavenge. Declined a brand new, very substantial looking trolley from Waitrose. Must have been worth a bit to Waitrose. Declined three quarter filled bottles of naturally sparkling spa water and of Heinz tomato ketchup. Declined a range of folding chairs. Accepted a range of tent poles which will now reside in our shed against the possibility that we find a use for them in the garden. Accepted a sturdy green plastic awning against the same possibility. Found no money, either in coin or note. Presumably the pickers have a quick look over the ground first thing for notes, so that not a surprise, but we thought we might turn up the odd coin. But no.
Seagulls and crows herding in odd places, not altogether clear why. Plenty of abandoned food where we were but no birds.
Then up to the mound at Tattenham Corner to get the panorama. Couldn't see any airplanes heading for Heathrow but the cloud scape was generally rather spiffing. Lots of small heaped cumulus floating around, for all the world like something out of Gulliver's Travels. You could see where Swift got the idea from. Fascinating array of cumulus in sunlight, banked up against some cloud bank covering the northern horizon.
Yesterday to Kingston to scavenge in a newly refurbished pub, down by the river behind what used to be the British Aerospace factory, just downstream from the railway bridge. Found a nice 1919 edition (19th impression of the first edition) of 'The Young Visitors' by one Daisy Ashford, who, it seems, was the grand age of 9 when she wrote the thing. Offered the pub £5 for the thing, an offer they accepted. It turned out to be an amusing read, well puffed by a preface by Barrie of Peter Pan fame. Market value slightly less than I paid for it. But amusing to offer and see what happened. Would the pub staff think that I had lighted upon some gem which I was going to flog for lots of dosh?
Followed by a visit to a Turkish restaurant called Cappadocia (http://www.cappadociarestaurant.co.uk/) . Sadly without belly dancer but good grub including excellent bread, baked on the premises. Somewhere between the pitta bread I am used to in such places and a nan. Bright brown finish, presumably a bit of milk brushed on at some point. Excellent pudding, made of shredded wheat, honey, white cheese and ice cream, probably amongst other ingredients. Shredded wheat looked like a relative of the stuff from Nabisco but certainly not the same and made up into the shape of a large doughnut - the sort with a hole that you get at the seaside. Followed by Turkish coffee - medium sweet - the first time we have had the stuff for ages - followed by a very exotic Turkish brandy. Powerful taste of almonds and vanilla. Excellent in modest doses.
Sunday, June 07, 2009
Powerpoint dreams
Two powerpoint flavoured dreams last night. Part of the trigger may have been remembering about a Presentations horse racing flavoured presentation that I once did, including some then state-of-the-art clip art horses, before going to sleep last night. Small prize for anyone who can still remember what Presentations is or was. Last heard of owned by a company with a reflective yellow glass building on the Western Avenue of the capital of one of our former colonies.
The first dream concerned a visit to the house of a friend. Great sprawling place, full of animals, bedding, small children, all kinds of stuff. It seems that I had elected myself coordinator of a four part presentation of which I was actually in the lead for one part. So I was going to knock up the whole thing and the others could fit their material into my framework. Clear echoes here of my waking self which likes to be in charge. The catch was there was no time and I knew next to nothing about any of the four parts. The other catch was finding time and space to actually put in the quality time needed to make progress, and failing completely. Animals and children climbing all over the laptop. No table to work on. Strange people popping in and out of bedding.
In the second dream, core problem the same in that I had to prepare or give a presentation. I was staying in a newish tower block hotel in somewhere I did not recognise but knew to be Rome. The hotel was next to another tower block and for some reason, in order to get to the hotel, you had to get to this second tower block, go up many floors in the lift and get out at the ground floor before crossing the piazza to the hotel. Space clearly a bit warped. On entry, I find myself with someone else with powerpoint problems and he thought he needed to try the thing out on the receptionist's laptop. To see if it would get past the sentry software. Quite irrationally, I was thinking that I would not let A. N Other salesman load his powerpoint onto my laptop. It might start sending my email back to his headquarters. Receptionists ought to have blank laptops they use for such purposes. Moving on, my hotel room included a large balcony on which people were having breakfast but which I found rather cold in my dressing gown, despite the interesting view down to the town.
The town itself specialised in shops which opened onto escalators so that you could do your shopping while going up and down. A lot of cigar shops of this sort. This second dream seems rather incoherent now, but maybe the lead idea was height rather than powerpoint.
Last week to Borough Market, once a regular vegetable market serving that part of London, and now a den of foodies, home on this occasion to an event called 'Taste of Spain'. On the way called in at Southwark Cathedral. We learn that as well as being the most notable gothic church in central London - most of the rest having burned down in the fire of London - that the nave had been more or less completely rebuilt towards the end of the 19th century, the place having fallen into disrepair. Now despite the whole place being in very good condition, I had not noticed that the nave was any differant from the chancel. It seems that they went to a lot of bother to get the two to match. What I did notice was rather clumsy looking reinforcing stone behind the slender columns of the triforium. But not introduced by the Victorian rebuilders; the same feature figured at both ends. Lots of intriguing funerary monuments. A very droll effigy of a sucessful pill manufacturer. A very strange monument to some family which wanted to flaunt an agricultural connection. Complete with ladies with rakes and scythes. Bundles of wheat. Lots of gilding. Whole thing looked a bit pagan to me, temple to Ceres sort of thing. Interesting mix of stained glass with some of the modern stuff working well. The stuff in the north transept working particularly well. Properly worked into to the texture of the tracery.
The 'Taste of Spain' seemed to be more cookery demonstration and grocery than the snackery I had been expecting, although there was some of that. Acquired an excellent small sausage of the salami variety. About a foot long, rather flat and covered in flour. Animal product skin and ate well both hot and cold. Hot in an Epsom paella mainly made with rice and smoked haddock. Bit of butter fried onion, pounded black pepper and turmeric power for additional flavour and colour. Also, from the regular foodie part of the operation, acquired an excellent peice of cheddar from a shop which appeared to sell mainly cheddar and another cheese which came round and flat, maybe a foot across and four inches deep and covered in some bright yellow wrap. The cheddar was about the same price per pound as the not very good cheese I acquired recently from Waitrose (see May 21 & 25) despite this being a hard core foodie operation for people with more money than myself. You could certainly have a lot of flannel with your food if you were that way inclined.
Good music acts between the cookery demonstrations.
Globe pub still alive and well, even if its Bombardier was a touch off on this occasion. Still got through a bit of it.
The first dream concerned a visit to the house of a friend. Great sprawling place, full of animals, bedding, small children, all kinds of stuff. It seems that I had elected myself coordinator of a four part presentation of which I was actually in the lead for one part. So I was going to knock up the whole thing and the others could fit their material into my framework. Clear echoes here of my waking self which likes to be in charge. The catch was there was no time and I knew next to nothing about any of the four parts. The other catch was finding time and space to actually put in the quality time needed to make progress, and failing completely. Animals and children climbing all over the laptop. No table to work on. Strange people popping in and out of bedding.
In the second dream, core problem the same in that I had to prepare or give a presentation. I was staying in a newish tower block hotel in somewhere I did not recognise but knew to be Rome. The hotel was next to another tower block and for some reason, in order to get to the hotel, you had to get to this second tower block, go up many floors in the lift and get out at the ground floor before crossing the piazza to the hotel. Space clearly a bit warped. On entry, I find myself with someone else with powerpoint problems and he thought he needed to try the thing out on the receptionist's laptop. To see if it would get past the sentry software. Quite irrationally, I was thinking that I would not let A. N Other salesman load his powerpoint onto my laptop. It might start sending my email back to his headquarters. Receptionists ought to have blank laptops they use for such purposes. Moving on, my hotel room included a large balcony on which people were having breakfast but which I found rather cold in my dressing gown, despite the interesting view down to the town.
The town itself specialised in shops which opened onto escalators so that you could do your shopping while going up and down. A lot of cigar shops of this sort. This second dream seems rather incoherent now, but maybe the lead idea was height rather than powerpoint.
Last week to Borough Market, once a regular vegetable market serving that part of London, and now a den of foodies, home on this occasion to an event called 'Taste of Spain'. On the way called in at Southwark Cathedral. We learn that as well as being the most notable gothic church in central London - most of the rest having burned down in the fire of London - that the nave had been more or less completely rebuilt towards the end of the 19th century, the place having fallen into disrepair. Now despite the whole place being in very good condition, I had not noticed that the nave was any differant from the chancel. It seems that they went to a lot of bother to get the two to match. What I did notice was rather clumsy looking reinforcing stone behind the slender columns of the triforium. But not introduced by the Victorian rebuilders; the same feature figured at both ends. Lots of intriguing funerary monuments. A very droll effigy of a sucessful pill manufacturer. A very strange monument to some family which wanted to flaunt an agricultural connection. Complete with ladies with rakes and scythes. Bundles of wheat. Lots of gilding. Whole thing looked a bit pagan to me, temple to Ceres sort of thing. Interesting mix of stained glass with some of the modern stuff working well. The stuff in the north transept working particularly well. Properly worked into to the texture of the tracery.
The 'Taste of Spain' seemed to be more cookery demonstration and grocery than the snackery I had been expecting, although there was some of that. Acquired an excellent small sausage of the salami variety. About a foot long, rather flat and covered in flour. Animal product skin and ate well both hot and cold. Hot in an Epsom paella mainly made with rice and smoked haddock. Bit of butter fried onion, pounded black pepper and turmeric power for additional flavour and colour. Also, from the regular foodie part of the operation, acquired an excellent peice of cheddar from a shop which appeared to sell mainly cheddar and another cheese which came round and flat, maybe a foot across and four inches deep and covered in some bright yellow wrap. The cheddar was about the same price per pound as the not very good cheese I acquired recently from Waitrose (see May 21 & 25) despite this being a hard core foodie operation for people with more money than myself. You could certainly have a lot of flannel with your food if you were that way inclined.
Good music acts between the cookery demonstrations.
Globe pub still alive and well, even if its Bombardier was a touch off on this occasion. Still got through a bit of it.
Friday, June 05, 2009
Toys for the boyz
Treated to a demonstration of an iphone earlier in the week. A truly wonderful toy that also served as a mobile telephone and a camera. Resolution of the screen amazing. Clever new ways to interact with the touch sensitive screen. Awash with gadgets. One of which was very puzzling, to wit, a spirit level. A by-product of this was that the thing knew which way up it was and rotated pictures to keep them the right way up as you rotated the iphone. Now the concensus was that the iphone would not waste space, which must be very much at a premium, on a real spirit level. So how did it do it? Maybe in theory it could get satellite fixes on the four corners and work out orientation from that. But that, apart from straining credibility on resolution, would presumably require four radio receivers, which would presumably take up as much space as two (or possibly three) spirit levels (one for each axis). Remain puzzled. Overall impression though is that the thing is an expensive toy. The main point is to show it off in pubs and to provide an alternative to Soduko over breakfast. Real men use raspberries.
Another attack on Mr G. this morning. I had heard it alleged that it was not always possible to refuse a gift. I was not to sure about this, but I was fairly sure that it was always possible to refuse that special sort of gift, a legacy. Something that dishonourable children sometimes did, rather than attempt to honour their father's debts. So I get around to trying to check. And it seems that gift law is indeed complicated, being all bound up with tax law, most large gifts being taxable. And so, it follows, a happy hunting ground for lawyers and accountants. Now while without flashing the plastic, I was not able to get a simple statement that 'yes, refusing a gift is always an option', it did seem to be that this was the case. The catch being that one had to be pretty smart about refusing a gift before the presumption that you had accepted it kicked in. I am reminded of the case when the public service purchaser finds an expensive present from a wannabe contractor in his drive one morning, where the public service rules are quite clear. Deliver the thing up to the HR people instantly or face instant dismissal. The defence that you tasted the whisky (or whatever) before you found the card from the contractor would carry very little weight. Or even that there was no card. Persons in the important position of public service purchaser have a duty of care which means that they cannot taste whisky turning up in their drive without prior exploration of its provenance.
Yesterday off to the rose at Kingston upon Thames to see the Midsummer's Night Dream for an update, the last time I had seen the play being the multilingual version at the Round House a couple of years ago (see March 10, 2007). Put on by the British Shakespeare Company, an outfit from up north who appear to specialise in outdoor and foreign performance. They also plot to build another theatre in the form of a large bus shelter, like that near the Tate Modern, aka The Globe, up north. Good Puck, good bumpkins and a good leading quartet (Hermia, Lysander etc), but the rest of the casting not too hot. Titania and her fairies rather too muscular while Oberon was not muscular enough. Interesting in that, the production omitted nearly all the heritage music (on heritage instruments by on-stage musicians) which seems to be mandatory at The Globe. In the first half at least one was able to focus on the words, which was just as well as some of the enunciation was not too hot. But it made a change to listen to words, rather than watch a pantomime. This rather changed for the play within the play in the second half, a major production which had the audience laughing big. But a bit too slapstick for me; one lost the sense that this was the court of a nobleman rather than a pothouse. See comment on Roundhouse effort in this connection.
Honourable mention for the ass's (asse's?) head. Simple construction, not involving fur, real or otherwise, but clever and very funny in action.
Another attack on Mr G. this morning. I had heard it alleged that it was not always possible to refuse a gift. I was not to sure about this, but I was fairly sure that it was always possible to refuse that special sort of gift, a legacy. Something that dishonourable children sometimes did, rather than attempt to honour their father's debts. So I get around to trying to check. And it seems that gift law is indeed complicated, being all bound up with tax law, most large gifts being taxable. And so, it follows, a happy hunting ground for lawyers and accountants. Now while without flashing the plastic, I was not able to get a simple statement that 'yes, refusing a gift is always an option', it did seem to be that this was the case. The catch being that one had to be pretty smart about refusing a gift before the presumption that you had accepted it kicked in. I am reminded of the case when the public service purchaser finds an expensive present from a wannabe contractor in his drive one morning, where the public service rules are quite clear. Deliver the thing up to the HR people instantly or face instant dismissal. The defence that you tasted the whisky (or whatever) before you found the card from the contractor would carry very little weight. Or even that there was no card. Persons in the important position of public service purchaser have a duty of care which means that they cannot taste whisky turning up in their drive without prior exploration of its provenance.
Yesterday off to the rose at Kingston upon Thames to see the Midsummer's Night Dream for an update, the last time I had seen the play being the multilingual version at the Round House a couple of years ago (see March 10, 2007). Put on by the British Shakespeare Company, an outfit from up north who appear to specialise in outdoor and foreign performance. They also plot to build another theatre in the form of a large bus shelter, like that near the Tate Modern, aka The Globe, up north. Good Puck, good bumpkins and a good leading quartet (Hermia, Lysander etc), but the rest of the casting not too hot. Titania and her fairies rather too muscular while Oberon was not muscular enough. Interesting in that, the production omitted nearly all the heritage music (on heritage instruments by on-stage musicians) which seems to be mandatory at The Globe. In the first half at least one was able to focus on the words, which was just as well as some of the enunciation was not too hot. But it made a change to listen to words, rather than watch a pantomime. This rather changed for the play within the play in the second half, a major production which had the audience laughing big. But a bit too slapstick for me; one lost the sense that this was the court of a nobleman rather than a pothouse. See comment on Roundhouse effort in this connection.
Honourable mention for the ass's (asse's?) head. Simple construction, not involving fur, real or otherwise, but clever and very funny in action.
Puzzles
Three construction puzzle today. First, there is a house just past the evangelical charismatic Church of England church of St Paul's (http://www.saintpauls.co.uk/), of white rendered brick construction, just like our own. For the last couple of days, the builders have been stripping the rendering off, taking it down to the probably not very good quality brickwork underneath. Now why would you do such a thing? Is the house moving around so much that the rendering has gone off key? Maybe I will trot down and ask them if they are still at it when I next visit the baker.
Second, there is the house a few doors up which has had the builders in for months and which has a large container - the eight foot six by eight foot six by forty two foot sort of thing - parked where you might otherwise park the car. Now what is in the container? Has the owner of the house put all his furniture in the thing, for the duration, while he and the wife are off on a world cruise? I would have thought that over the months stuff would get a bit damp in such a thing.
Third, there is a parade of shops next to TB, half of which was knocked down maybe two years ago in order to build a new block - two storey thing plus dormers. Very ugly. How did it ever get past the preserve the built heritage folk? The top parts were built out of some kind of timber units - 1 foot by 6 feet by 9 feet sort of dimensions, lots of angles and faced with some kind of low grade block board. For some reason I think that they came from Estonia, the home of up market, innovative forest products. All made to measure and fitting together quite neatly. But it seems that the builder forgot to grease the palm of the building inspector and the building was condemned. It sat 90% finished for maybe a year. Some talk that maybe there was going to be a small Tesco, which would kill off the next door Spar - who has done good service over the years. But no, some gang from Hampshire has now moved into the thing, took down the original hoardings and scaffold, put its own up and is now busily dismantling the roof. So what are they going to do? What did the building inspector find fault with? Why did he wait until the thing was nearly finished until he pounced? One presumes the original speculator has taken a terrible hit on the thing. Terrible timing and terrible building combined to make terrible squared.
Two more dribbles from the TLS. First, I learn that the Edwin Mellen press has published a learned tome entitled 'The development of the PhD degree in Britain: an evolutionary and statistical history in higher education'. Getting on for 800 pages at getting on for 10p a page. Now we always thought that academe was a bit precious, incestuous and prone to disappear up its own orifices. Now we know! How could someone (a femmy name) spend years doing research about research. Not necessarily rubbish, but a bit drear compared with studying something real, like the things I talked of yesterday that go bang. Perhaps not a coincidence that this particular press is often moved to publish stuffy little auto-puffs (that is to say they are puffing themselves rather than one of their authors) from minnows from the swarming aquarium that is academe. Claims not to be a vanity publisher but it looks rather like one.
Second, of more serious interest, a peice about the Koran, to stick with the received spelling in this country. It seems that not all that much is known about its origins, beyond its being revealed to Muhammed between around 610AD and around 630AD and transmitted orally, the prophet being believed to have been illiterate. One pointer to this last is, it seems, that very early texts are written in an early sort of Arabic which misses out spaces between words, vowels and accents. All of which would have made it very hard to read to anybody who did not know the text pretty well beforehand. There have not been, or at least we in the west do not have access to, the sort of hard core literary archeology which biblical scholars in Germany were keen on in the 19th century. Be interesting to know more. Maybe I will give Amazon a prod using some of the clues supplied.
Second, there is the house a few doors up which has had the builders in for months and which has a large container - the eight foot six by eight foot six by forty two foot sort of thing - parked where you might otherwise park the car. Now what is in the container? Has the owner of the house put all his furniture in the thing, for the duration, while he and the wife are off on a world cruise? I would have thought that over the months stuff would get a bit damp in such a thing.
Third, there is a parade of shops next to TB, half of which was knocked down maybe two years ago in order to build a new block - two storey thing plus dormers. Very ugly. How did it ever get past the preserve the built heritage folk? The top parts were built out of some kind of timber units - 1 foot by 6 feet by 9 feet sort of dimensions, lots of angles and faced with some kind of low grade block board. For some reason I think that they came from Estonia, the home of up market, innovative forest products. All made to measure and fitting together quite neatly. But it seems that the builder forgot to grease the palm of the building inspector and the building was condemned. It sat 90% finished for maybe a year. Some talk that maybe there was going to be a small Tesco, which would kill off the next door Spar - who has done good service over the years. But no, some gang from Hampshire has now moved into the thing, took down the original hoardings and scaffold, put its own up and is now busily dismantling the roof. So what are they going to do? What did the building inspector find fault with? Why did he wait until the thing was nearly finished until he pounced? One presumes the original speculator has taken a terrible hit on the thing. Terrible timing and terrible building combined to make terrible squared.
Two more dribbles from the TLS. First, I learn that the Edwin Mellen press has published a learned tome entitled 'The development of the PhD degree in Britain: an evolutionary and statistical history in higher education'. Getting on for 800 pages at getting on for 10p a page. Now we always thought that academe was a bit precious, incestuous and prone to disappear up its own orifices. Now we know! How could someone (a femmy name) spend years doing research about research. Not necessarily rubbish, but a bit drear compared with studying something real, like the things I talked of yesterday that go bang. Perhaps not a coincidence that this particular press is often moved to publish stuffy little auto-puffs (that is to say they are puffing themselves rather than one of their authors) from minnows from the swarming aquarium that is academe. Claims not to be a vanity publisher but it looks rather like one.
Second, of more serious interest, a peice about the Koran, to stick with the received spelling in this country. It seems that not all that much is known about its origins, beyond its being revealed to Muhammed between around 610AD and around 630AD and transmitted orally, the prophet being believed to have been illiterate. One pointer to this last is, it seems, that very early texts are written in an early sort of Arabic which misses out spaces between words, vowels and accents. All of which would have made it very hard to read to anybody who did not know the text pretty well beforehand. There have not been, or at least we in the west do not have access to, the sort of hard core literary archeology which biblical scholars in Germany were keen on in the 19th century. Be interesting to know more. Maybe I will give Amazon a prod using some of the clues supplied.
Thursday, June 04, 2009
Civic duty
I thought I ought to do my civic duty, at least to the extent of recording the reason for my not voting today. Which is that, as an old Labour person, I can't vote for new Labour and I can't vote for either of the other lots. And low turnout is as good a message to the powers that be as spoiled votes. So I am saving myself the bother of doing anything outdoors.
For the record, my opinion is that Brown ought to call an election and let the other lot have a go. His lot have been in too long and they have become stale, tired and corrupt. By good luck, he has been on watch during what was, until recently, a period of growth. But then, there is the sin of omission, in that by failing to properly regulate the financial sector, he contributed to the crash. His share in which he seems to be in denial about, despite having been in charge of the relevant department in the relevant period. A sin of commission, in that he joined the Iraq imbroglio under false pretences. A sin of commission, in that he threw more money at the health service than it could usefully absorb. A sin of omission, in that he failed to reform the arrangement whereby neither the House of Commons nor local authorities have the power that they ought to have. (The exception that proves the rule, being the TFL's foisting of the congestion tax on long suffering Londoners). A sin of commission in heavy handed meddling where little was needed. For example, the smoking and fox hunting bans. Lots of sins. One could go on and on. And I dare say the other lot will do no better. But, as the old adage goes, a change is as good as a rest. I wonder if he will prove to be any good at golf?
Good news from the tip however. It seems that one of the environmental preservation officers (second class) there had the misfortune to lose his hamster this morning and was feeling rather cut up about it. Needed to bash something. So management decided that it was his turn to drive the digger which smashes up all the waste timber chucked into the waste timber container. A large grab on the end of the hydraulic arm which grabs a large chunk of timber in open claw mode then crushes it by closing the claws with satisfying crunching noises. Most effective at both crunching and satisfying the urge to bash something. Mission accomplished.
Been entertained the last few days by reading a short book called 'Explosives' published by Pelican in 1942, at the height of the second world war. Perhaps it was thought that, in the circumstances, the population at large should know about these things. And a message inside the front cover invites you to leave the book, when read, at a post office, from whence it can be sent on for the entertainment of those in the services. The book contains a whistle stop tour of the world of explosives. Including outline instructions on how to make the things - with the caveat that most of the processes involved would be rather dangerous if attempted over the kitchen sink. Proper facilities needed. I was reminded of why chemistry was fun by the account of how the proper introduction of heat and nitrogen into relatively simple compounds, mainly made up of carbon, hydrogen and oxygen, could result in a reasonably stable compound which would, when poked in a suitable way, auto-oxidise in very short order, generating a lot of heat and light in the process, or, in other words, explode. Or an incestuous version of the more familiar bonfires where the carbon and oxygen come to the party separately. In a word, an explosive.
I then learn that nitro-glycerine is both misnamed and a by-product of the soap industry. That it is a rather unstable liquid best used by using some base material to soak it up. Hence dynamite. With the unfortunate tendency to ooze said unstable liquid when stored in the wrong conditions. Then that from coal one can get benzene from which one can get various brands of nitrated benzene. Some of these are very important as aniline dyes. Another is tri-nitro-toluene, aka TNT. It seems that between the first and second wars the Germans came up with the very good wheeze, spotted by ourselves in the nick of time, of selling the world cheap dyes, which would have had the effect of killing off other people's dyeing industries, and along with them an important branch of their explosives' industries. And if you want more, there is another family of explosives originally derived from cotton waste, misnamed as nitro-cellulose. So if you have 10.7-11.7% nitrogen in you nitro-cellulose you have plastics and unnatural fibres. If you push up into the 11.5-12.7% range, you have something called smokeless powders (gunpowder generating a lot of black smoke). Also known as cordite. The book says nothing about the small overlap here. Perhaps tricky territory. And if you get as far as 13.0-13.5%, you have high explosive.
The thought that I am left with in all this, being that explosives are really quite minor variations of much more commonplace materials. And that, seemingly minor variations in bonds and what have you, in a quite modest compound, can have quite startling effects on its appearance, properties and uses.
For the record, my opinion is that Brown ought to call an election and let the other lot have a go. His lot have been in too long and they have become stale, tired and corrupt. By good luck, he has been on watch during what was, until recently, a period of growth. But then, there is the sin of omission, in that by failing to properly regulate the financial sector, he contributed to the crash. His share in which he seems to be in denial about, despite having been in charge of the relevant department in the relevant period. A sin of commission, in that he joined the Iraq imbroglio under false pretences. A sin of commission, in that he threw more money at the health service than it could usefully absorb. A sin of omission, in that he failed to reform the arrangement whereby neither the House of Commons nor local authorities have the power that they ought to have. (The exception that proves the rule, being the TFL's foisting of the congestion tax on long suffering Londoners). A sin of commission in heavy handed meddling where little was needed. For example, the smoking and fox hunting bans. Lots of sins. One could go on and on. And I dare say the other lot will do no better. But, as the old adage goes, a change is as good as a rest. I wonder if he will prove to be any good at golf?
Good news from the tip however. It seems that one of the environmental preservation officers (second class) there had the misfortune to lose his hamster this morning and was feeling rather cut up about it. Needed to bash something. So management decided that it was his turn to drive the digger which smashes up all the waste timber chucked into the waste timber container. A large grab on the end of the hydraulic arm which grabs a large chunk of timber in open claw mode then crushes it by closing the claws with satisfying crunching noises. Most effective at both crunching and satisfying the urge to bash something. Mission accomplished.
Been entertained the last few days by reading a short book called 'Explosives' published by Pelican in 1942, at the height of the second world war. Perhaps it was thought that, in the circumstances, the population at large should know about these things. And a message inside the front cover invites you to leave the book, when read, at a post office, from whence it can be sent on for the entertainment of those in the services. The book contains a whistle stop tour of the world of explosives. Including outline instructions on how to make the things - with the caveat that most of the processes involved would be rather dangerous if attempted over the kitchen sink. Proper facilities needed. I was reminded of why chemistry was fun by the account of how the proper introduction of heat and nitrogen into relatively simple compounds, mainly made up of carbon, hydrogen and oxygen, could result in a reasonably stable compound which would, when poked in a suitable way, auto-oxidise in very short order, generating a lot of heat and light in the process, or, in other words, explode. Or an incestuous version of the more familiar bonfires where the carbon and oxygen come to the party separately. In a word, an explosive.
I then learn that nitro-glycerine is both misnamed and a by-product of the soap industry. That it is a rather unstable liquid best used by using some base material to soak it up. Hence dynamite. With the unfortunate tendency to ooze said unstable liquid when stored in the wrong conditions. Then that from coal one can get benzene from which one can get various brands of nitrated benzene. Some of these are very important as aniline dyes. Another is tri-nitro-toluene, aka TNT. It seems that between the first and second wars the Germans came up with the very good wheeze, spotted by ourselves in the nick of time, of selling the world cheap dyes, which would have had the effect of killing off other people's dyeing industries, and along with them an important branch of their explosives' industries. And if you want more, there is another family of explosives originally derived from cotton waste, misnamed as nitro-cellulose. So if you have 10.7-11.7% nitrogen in you nitro-cellulose you have plastics and unnatural fibres. If you push up into the 11.5-12.7% range, you have something called smokeless powders (gunpowder generating a lot of black smoke). Also known as cordite. The book says nothing about the small overlap here. Perhaps tricky territory. And if you get as far as 13.0-13.5%, you have high explosive.
The thought that I am left with in all this, being that explosives are really quite minor variations of much more commonplace materials. And that, seemingly minor variations in bonds and what have you, in a quite modest compound, can have quite startling effects on its appearance, properties and uses.
Tuesday, June 02, 2009
Grumps
Managed to forget to pay the congestion charge for a day last week and despite knowing the rules, this has made me rather cross. I don't like being heavily penalised for being forgetful in this way. Just as bad as banks making penal charges when you go overdrawn in the wrong way. Not a proper way to raise revenue. Then I go into the penalty charge part of the congestion charge website and find it all very heavy handed. I can't just pay online and have done with it. They have to go through the whole rigmarole of sending me a penalty notice which is festooned with dire warnings about what will happen if I fail to cough up. One more reason to unhappy with the present style of government.
Chanced to buy a copy of NYRB with another long article about torture, as practised by the US. Item 1, it is clear that a lot of this has been going on. Item 2, it seems that thousands of people were arrested in an attempt to find the Mr Bigs. Nearly all of these people were either not guilty of anything other than being in the wrong place at the wrong time or not very guilty. They were not Mr Bigs and did not know anything of use about Mr Bigs. But it seems that release was not an option, that lots of them were held for a long time in rather unpleasant conditions and that some of them were bashed around. Item 3, the whole business has done the US a great deal of damage in large chunks of the world, particularly the Muslim chunks of the world. Damage which some believe to be wholly disproportionate to any good that may have come of it. Item 4, the pro-torture camp claim that it is a necessary evil. Yes there is collateral damage but yes too, we have averted another catastrophe as a result of information so gained. The NYRB proposal is that there should be some high powered commission with access to the relevant information (which the rest of us certainly do not have) to investigate and to make a public report about these private matters. Seems fair enough, but I don't suppose it will happen.
On a more cheerful note, pleased to find in the TLS a mention of a pub in north Dublin which I had visited, known as the Gravediggers. The writer of the book noticed celebrates the unceremonious beauty of the place (?), in the context of a book long moan about the demise of the traditional Irish boozer. Now while it was an interesting place, it was rather an odd place, not a traditional Irish boozer at all. Some of the customers had black berets and some appeared to be off duty prison officers from the Mountjoy. I did not seem to be terribly welcome and only managed to find a footing by chancing across someone from Boston or somewhere, there to check up on his roots. As a result of which I found that the place was unusual in that it had been passed from father to son. The manager of the time was, amongst other things, a long distance runner and had interesting yarns about running from Dublin to Belfast overnight during the troubles. He also had rules about no singing in the pub so when he was visited by some travelling opera troupe they had to resort to chanting rather than singing, this keeping everyone happy. I also seem to remember that the taxi driver who took me there was not too sure that the visit was a good idea. I had to be firm to get there. Found another interesting place on the way back to civilisation with much craic and a lock-in. Sadly, bit too far gone to take advantage of same. There was also the question of the very important meeting the following morning.
And last night, acquired a LibDem flyer for the upcoming elections, promoting amongst other things the LibDem MEPs. Ironic, given the LibDem name for effective grass roots activism, that they should be promoting the Euro gravy train on day 24 of the DT expenses saga. The Euro gravy train being streets ahead of anything that the Westminster gang get up to. Still, all is not lost as there was also a peice about the missing lollipop person of Fransican Road. Proper grass roots stuff.
Chanced to buy a copy of NYRB with another long article about torture, as practised by the US. Item 1, it is clear that a lot of this has been going on. Item 2, it seems that thousands of people were arrested in an attempt to find the Mr Bigs. Nearly all of these people were either not guilty of anything other than being in the wrong place at the wrong time or not very guilty. They were not Mr Bigs and did not know anything of use about Mr Bigs. But it seems that release was not an option, that lots of them were held for a long time in rather unpleasant conditions and that some of them were bashed around. Item 3, the whole business has done the US a great deal of damage in large chunks of the world, particularly the Muslim chunks of the world. Damage which some believe to be wholly disproportionate to any good that may have come of it. Item 4, the pro-torture camp claim that it is a necessary evil. Yes there is collateral damage but yes too, we have averted another catastrophe as a result of information so gained. The NYRB proposal is that there should be some high powered commission with access to the relevant information (which the rest of us certainly do not have) to investigate and to make a public report about these private matters. Seems fair enough, but I don't suppose it will happen.
On a more cheerful note, pleased to find in the TLS a mention of a pub in north Dublin which I had visited, known as the Gravediggers. The writer of the book noticed celebrates the unceremonious beauty of the place (?), in the context of a book long moan about the demise of the traditional Irish boozer. Now while it was an interesting place, it was rather an odd place, not a traditional Irish boozer at all. Some of the customers had black berets and some appeared to be off duty prison officers from the Mountjoy. I did not seem to be terribly welcome and only managed to find a footing by chancing across someone from Boston or somewhere, there to check up on his roots. As a result of which I found that the place was unusual in that it had been passed from father to son. The manager of the time was, amongst other things, a long distance runner and had interesting yarns about running from Dublin to Belfast overnight during the troubles. He also had rules about no singing in the pub so when he was visited by some travelling opera troupe they had to resort to chanting rather than singing, this keeping everyone happy. I also seem to remember that the taxi driver who took me there was not too sure that the visit was a good idea. I had to be firm to get there. Found another interesting place on the way back to civilisation with much craic and a lock-in. Sadly, bit too far gone to take advantage of same. There was also the question of the very important meeting the following morning.
And last night, acquired a LibDem flyer for the upcoming elections, promoting amongst other things the LibDem MEPs. Ironic, given the LibDem name for effective grass roots activism, that they should be promoting the Euro gravy train on day 24 of the DT expenses saga. The Euro gravy train being streets ahead of anything that the Westminster gang get up to. Still, all is not lost as there was also a peice about the missing lollipop person of Fransican Road. Proper grass roots stuff.
