I say again, What Do They Know is a great resource, and some of the things people ask are genius. This is our information, people, they shouldn’t be withholding it, be we vexatious or not.

Some authorities acknowledge requests with an hour or two, some don’t even do that. But we await the regulated number of days and see what will happen. I see some requests get answered almost instantly. (I have quite a few people listed in my feed reader, and that one there got updated minutes after it first arrived. Now that is service. Even in the negative.)

Cassandra thinks that people could get themselves in trouble over things like this. But but but They Work For You Us!. And besides, that data is ours. And just think of the data-mining to be done, the cools apps the Cool Kids could come up with. If only those damned iPhones weren’t so expensive. Not that it needs to be a mobile app, mind.

In other news, I shall be returning to That London. Yes, I know.

Caitlin had a minor respiratory issue, but all is well, she is better now. (Cheers to Will, too. See, Becky, it was in my Facebook status, you should use a feedreader of some kind, that way you get to see the various statuses during the day.)

No, seriously, in other news I shall be returning to That London.

There is a way, follow me

A few requests of note: my request for mobile phone mast coordinates, for use in a mapping app I intend to finish writing at some point. I was going to do it for my impending iPhone, but not at that price. Note: The coords will also be useful in that if I like you you won’t get hit by any stray EMP experiments eminating from Caitlin’s behind.

The others that pique my interest, would be territorial disputes and how average speed cameras calculate the average. Interesting. It is worth digging through the requests, ignoring the ones that are the same to different authorities. Maybe I will grab their code and write something that collapses all those into the one area. Maybe.

How anyone can justify our government is beyond me, the nonsense they spout, the lies, the odious bills, the misanthropy and outright fiddling they get away with. Would anyone else be any different? I doubt it, but any group that advocates lowering taxes at least has my ear. As if they collect less tax revenue, they have less to spend on their social engineering. Find out what they know. Read what they try to get away with. Deflate their egos. Think, people think. Awake. Arise. Stay angry.

Kept for the mistress

Then we get the people who think programming is mechanical, obvious and in no way creative. Those people don’t understand. There is as much craft in code as in prose. In fact, it is just another form of prose. So much so you can look at a snippet and tell who wrote it. (Of course, those people invariably don’t understand it, and are being the usual sort of literary snobs. In fact, it isn’t as if they are even creators, those people, they have read Anna Karenina and think they hold forth on every subject.)

Music is seen in the same vein, in that those who can write literature are above the base and souless world of machinery. Well, it is widely known I failed in my attempts to produce a novel (quote: Yes, it makes sense to people who know how you talk, how you explain yourself, but to others it is a stream-of-consciousness mess. You and James Joyce would have made good drinking partners), and this weblog is really just my meandering fingers that aren’t in anyway connected to my head. I gave up long ago on that, and wend my own way here. I hope my voice comes through, but not enough that I couldn’t entertain in Real Life. Oh, I can still give good conversation in that instance. Try me!

I always wonder, these days, when I pick up my guitar why I never did in the years of my youth, why I was content to only listen, and, in my contrary way, only listen to the most achingly hip skinny white lads with guitars beat combos. (An over-simplification, natch, not even played for comedic effect.) While standing in the kitchen on a satdeh morn, a tune came into my head. (Lyrics always come into my head, sometimes with a tune, sometimes without. This time it was just a tune.) An hour later, some ebow-ing later, some scribbled notes to remind me what I had played later, I had the semblance of a song. Thereafter I couldn’t fit anything from my lyric book to it, so I decided to stick the guitar through some effects, add a disco beat, slap a bit of poetry on top, and there you have it. Thirty Spokes holds the results. (Called ‘Hark To Delphi’, first up, and I know, an obvious poem. So sue me. I must mail the guy who spake it, and point him to how people misuse his work.)

The thing about Hark to Delphi is that while a core of the original tune remains, it isn’t the Jack White/Tangerine Dream mashup I wanted it to be. (More Aphex Twin, to my horror, me neither being an Old Skool nor nu-rave raver. Although during our workout on Friday I was humming along to quite a few old rave tunes.) And start to current state was two hours, which given I am a hacking amateur, I don’t consider that bad. I must pay tribute to #music, who are an endless source of wonderous advice. Knowledgable chaps, those lot.

Wait, I seem to have lost the thread of what I was going to say. (See why I didn’t get along with the conventional novel style? Then again, neither does Pynchon.) I like creating. Code, words, music. There is a commonality in there, and not even the mathematical one, the underlying physical truth of it all. There is a bigger picture there, sometimes I can see the edge of it.

Individually crafted

Reading is a good thing. It really is. And some of my favourite novels would be the Modesty Blaise ones. I love both the comic strip and the novels. A series of great, tight, taut, well-written escapist romps. And, me being of that age, I used to knock about a few Usenet groups, and one low-volume but great mailing list. While I don’t quite do the whole Usenet stuff anymore (oh, now and again, but not as often as I used to) I do mailing lists. Even at that, not as many as I used to. Getting choosy in my old age. But, on said Modesty list, every so often someone mentions, in the same breath, the James Bond books. Now, I don’t think I have ever seen a whole of those flicks in one go, but I am aware of them on a meta cultural level. But the high regard the books are held always somewhat confused me. So I ignored them. Until two weeks ago.

Theres a city in my mind
Come along and take that ride
And its all right, baby, its all right

Why I bought them, I don’t know. Ground down? Giving them a chance? Two for one in Borders? Whatever, I did. I bought ‘Casino Royale’, being the first, and ‘Dr No’, as I thought that might be the second (It isn’t.) And now, a few weeks later, I have finished those, got two more for my birthday, and have an eye on buying more. Or all of them. They are, without a doubt, superb. I love such suprises, as I really wasn’t expecting to like them, being a contrary bugger and all. They are so much more than the films. Some much more cruel, so much more nasty, so much more interesting. So now I need to watch the films again for reevaluation. Yes, I know, I am late to this party. Well worth it. A different sort of escapist novel. I can sort-of see why they appeal to the Modesty demographic, but they aren’t the same sort of book at all. (Trivia note: It seems that 007 doesn’t mean licence to kill. The double-zero does, the seven was the Commander’s number. So there. Maybe everyone knew that except me. Ah well.)

And its very far away
But its growing day by day
And its all right, baby, its all right

Speaking of being contrary, there is a big hoo-hah round our way, where everybody and their sticker-wielding mother wants you to Stop Hanley Grange. Now, I don’t want it there, but when the groundswell of opinion is so dead set against Hanely Grange, I tend to veer away from the herd. And worse, when the emotional nonsense starts to appear (TESCO WANT TO KILL YOUR BABIES! RAW SEWAGE WILL RUN THROUGH OUR VILLAGE! THE DEAD WILL WALK AGAIN! Note: one of those has been used) my teeth start to get more on edge. The chances of Hanley (nee Hinxton) Grange being built are slim. So it is fine for me to be on the side of the developers here. And if it annoys the screeching brigade, then I am all for it. I have a natural instinct to not believe what the great unwashed does. (No irony has been lost during the typing of this post.) Why is that? My mother always said the same, Cassandra (probably) knows it (by now), I will argue with you, whether I believe the stated position or not. Youse all know that, though, don’t you? It is all for my education. Me! It is all about me! I need to learn. I need to know why you have such a reprehensibly wrong opinion. Why do you then? Well?

They can tell you what to do
But they’ll make a fool of you
And its all right, baby, its all right

…and she was

Your age is always a whole number. And mine has ticked over again. Is there any significance to this one? Not overly, except it now means I have lived away from my mother for the same time I lived with her. I guess the next major milestone is the one where I will be working for as long as I was in fulltime education. Coming up soon, mind.

And the days come to you like sailors;
You watch them as they drift away.
They meet the sunrise out at the horizon
And it’s neither sink nor swim;
Least the water’s beneath your chin.
There’s blood spilled on the floor.
Everyone’s staring at you— what for?
Till you realize the blood is probably yours…

Then there is your progress through life. Mine has mostly been accidental, not really much thought other than when the opportunity arises. I don’t really seek the opportunities, they just happen across my lap. But, if you look back it does come across as slightly mercenary. But you know, that is no bad thing. No one else looks out for me (well, they do, but not in this way), and it is up to me to take the chances that are good for me.

You feel you lost something. You want it back.
You’re lying motionless on your back,
And your legs aren’t taking anymore requests.
Those disobedient wrecks!
How you cared for them as they carried you
From class to class and coast to coast;
When you owed rent and you were broke,
Through recessions and addictions.

I remember being told, oh, years and years ago, by a psychology grad, that it is your first, erm, encounters, that dictate what you find attractive in later life. Not the oft-mentioned men-looking-for-mother-replacement types. And again, looking back at what seems like accidental happenstances, it surely isn’t.

Your fright gives way to memory;
Having coffee with your love,
Or the story your father told you long ago:
He was hunting with his own father
For deer. He pointed and spotted her,
Then tripped over some roots or some dead trees.
The gun went off; it was a mistake
And my father was only eight.
And as he watched the dying deer, he was changed
‘Cause he felt sorry for what he’d done,
And then he put down his gun.
Will you feel sorry for what you’ve done?
Will you put down your gun?

One of the questions I detest most in interviews, and I make this displeasure known (note to all: I don’t do standard interviews, and one day I may admit to some shift in my thinking that I espoused during my interview for the old DeathStar) is where do you see yourself in five years time? Dear goodness, I have no idea. Five years ago I wouldn’t have seen myself here, so in another five? Who knows?

It’s just your accidental death;
Your accidental death.
It’s just your accidental death;
You’re the indian in the cougar’s nest

Even so, no point in stopping. It is a magical world out there, let’s go exploring!

Tie me down, spin me round

But the blokes aren’t really interesting at a goth gig, are they? It is the corseted heaving (talc white) bosoms of the dyed-bright-redheads that fascinate. (Mostly as you think they will be reverse flying yoda types.) OK, so there are the smattering of purple-haired vixens, too, but let us use broad brush strokes, eh? I do have a soft-spot for the old short plaid skirt, fine (bare) legs and kinky boots. I also have a soft-spot for the black skirt with strips hanging down, fishnets and stiletto boots. As long as the legs are fine. Some, please, no. Just no. More short skirts this time than any previous goth gig I have been to, less long flowing purple dresses. A few of a comparable age to me, most a lot younger.

I can see the appeal, honestly, I can, but the TPT tall-and-posh is more for me. Or a mixture of them both, probably. But please, leave out the explain to me why you are doing a PhD on patriarchal oppression in Austen nonsense. Because the world needs more fembo English graduates quoting poetry to smash the glass ceiling. Keep the legs, though. And the corset.

Leaving aside my unreconstructed sexism, what of the music?

I missed the first band, Fire and Forget, but hear they were better than the last time I saw them, which was a crucible moment. I did see Corrosion, and they were good. Better for not having played together, practised or gigged for the past eight years. Erp. Plus, at one point there was an ebow, of which I am a fan.

The headliners, though, were the Screaming Banshee Aircrew. Now, back when I was a Company Man, Charlie thought it amusing to lend me some CDs. One of them was the SBA. Best described as a student band who spent too much time listening to Floodland, it had a certain mid-80s charm. So how could you pass up the chance to see them? I mean, they have a chick singer who just goes Ooooooh, oohhhh-ooooo in the best backing vocal tradition of synth-goth. Not that they are synth-goth, given the spangly flying V being sported by the lead guitarist. The rhythm guitarist, of tousled shoulder length black hair, positioned himself beside a fan, so his hair drifted sideways while playing. All that was missing was the smoke machine. The lead singer, with requisite mad-staring eyes, and monitor-climbing tendencies, did his best mad-staring and monitor climbing, while clutching a mic stand with blue fairy lights twisted around it.

And you know you are in for a genius time when the Ooooooh, oohhhh-ooooo chick lifts her violin for the second song. Oh, the drummer didn’t look like she had a set of arms on her, but she could fairly belt the hell out of the skins. By this point, though, I got nudged and went downstairs, where there UK Guitar Hero championship was on. Or not, given it was quiet (aside from the bouncing of bosoms coming from above). But back up, and it was all in full swing. I lost Charlie at this point, more as he had taken his camera close to the front, and not to take pervy pictures of the goff-chicks, both on and off stage. Oh no. Of course not.

Again, this is a goff band, so we get the obligatory girl-in-torn-fishnets on bass, in unsuitably large platforms. Apparently she plays in another band I have seen, but she seemed to have a pokier nose and squarer chin this time, but that might just sound shallow. Not that the whole thrust of the start of this post was shallow and objectifying excellent pins and quality breastage.

I know where the door is. Once I finish the cider and black. Can’t get a decent snakebite in this town…

Let me celebrate the myriad ways I love you

1. (because it was what sparked this post) Sex in the City
2. Gladiator
3. An entire episode of Friends from start to end
4.The Sound of Music
5. Titanic
6. Auf Wiedersehen, Pet
7. Any series of Big Brother
8. Saving Private Ryan
9. The Royle Family
10. Any house makeover programmer

What you tell me is The Best Thing Ever™ probably isn’t. I don’t care, really, I don’t. And don’t get me going on those Top 1000 Items I Think You Should See Before You Die Because I Am So Much Cleverer Than You books. Don’t, seriously. I have much anger these days. In the Grand Scheme of Things, it doesn’t matter that I haven’t seen those, and countless others. They do not define me, merely what I have sat in front of not thinking for myself. We aren’t all equal, remember?

And the other problem with popular culture references is that the recipient of the line/insult/quote has to get it. For instance, many times over the years I have said, in retort, You are WRONG and a grotesquely ugly freak, and sometimes people haven’t got it. Which leads, in itself, to hilarity of sit-com proportions. Rather happily, when trading the usual set of insults with MonkeyBoy, I said I hate you with a passion you can only dream of, to which he snickered, and replied You touch-a my stuff, I kill ya, which was awesome. Not that I would tell him that. Oh no. But he got the reference, which was good. I don’t exist in a little world of my own. Sometimes.

Your experiences diverge from mine, I am not your target demographic.

Baker-man is baking bread

C’mon pack your bags
Clear the floor.
Let’s step out through the open door.
Leave a note that says goodbye.
Build a new house
Down by the sea.
Get to the place we were meant to be.
You’ll know it when you smile.

Cassandra has got a new job, and starts next month. Step up, and all that. She is very happy, and I am very happy for her. She seems a lot happier, which is good. Her current hit rate for jobs is 100%. Every job she has applied for ever, she has got. Go her.

In a related-if-you-know-why addendum that has nothing to do with the preceeding paragraph, Dahlia has a new sister. Faster, sleeker, shinier, whiter, but not a replacement. Oh no. And her name is Pythia.

Up at the window.
Search in the sky.
Looking for the rainbow,
And don’t ask my.
I wanna see the rainbow come.

You meet all sorts while being in all sorts of places. Mental-puppy-dog walking does mean I come across quite a few types. Most just nod, say hello, wander on with their canine friends. Some walk with me, chatting and getting on. Some are strange. Some I probably shouldn’t encourage, else I get myself in trouble. Have a snippet of a conversation:

Her I know it is good for the dog, but The Gogs are a bit boring.
Me Boring? Are you serious? Do you not know what you walk on?
Her What? What? What?
Me There is power in these hills, there is an energy that is older than you, older than I, older than almost time itself.
Her, very interested Ooooooh, really?
Me Oh yes, for these hills here, this ancient land, we walk our dogs over a ley line, where the giants sleep and Albion wakes.
Her squee Tell me more…

People are easy.

Mr. Postman look and see
If there’s a message in your bag for me.
Could be a bomb or it could be a letter.
It don’t matter it can only get better.
Mr. Postman look and see
If there’s a message in your bag for me.
You know it’s been such a long long time
Since I could laugh at this world of mine.

It might not be known widely, but second male child and I now do two Tae Kwon Do classes a week, a traditional one and a workout one. Now, those who know me might chuckle heartily at the second one there, as it involves an hours workout (jogging while partner does 35 exercises, comes back, I do it, repeat but with 40 of the same, change exercise) but I can do it. It kills me, but I can do it. Then twenty minutes of stretching (I would much prefer the exercise, stretching is a nightmare), then twenty minutes of sparring techniques, then twenty minutes of sparring itself. On a Friday night. And it is a well-attended class, covering all age ranges. (And including at least two England team members, and sometimes the world champion.) It is great fun. We love it. But have another conversation that took place after one of the one-and-half minute bouts, before changing partner.

Me (bowing) Thank you
Her (bowing) Yes, thank you too. I see you like a bit of hot feet on breast action then (*laughs*)
Me …

By way of an explanation, we have been trying a block-kick-reverse-turning-side-kick combo, and I was attempting to use it during the bout. I also did some bouncing forward (off the front leg) snap kicks, so it was a leg-up-at-her-chest for a goodly amount of time bout. And yes, I connected with her chest a few times. Thus scoring points. It may also not be widely know, but I can kick that high now. In a few months I want to be kicking around peoples heads. Which might not lead to as much feet-on-breast action, but more feet-on-head action.

Slippin’ & slidin’ around in your head.
It’s be-bop-a-lula then baby you’re dead.
So c’mon make a bright new day.
I need a prayer here.
Need a blessing.
Case an eye back as you run.
Turn around boy!
See the rainbow come.

Change is bad, m’kay? But I can’t really believe that, as I change job every couple of years, dragged the family over here, engage with all sorts of new activities all the time. (Not to say I am flighty, far from it. Change bad, remember?) Alas, in most things my ambition far outstrips my talent. Consider music, I have so many ideas, I jot down lyrics all the time, fragments of tunes, but don’t have the ability to carry them out. Practice, which means time, which is what I am short of. Allotment, ferrying children, TKD, mental puppy dog walking, music, work. The days are just packed.

You’ll be leaving on all sides
When the rainbow comes.
See the world from all sides
When the rainbow comes.

I heard a new term today. Mankini. I shudder at the thought.

Disconnection to the mainwire

First, the serious business: Fanta-jelly in a can totally rules. Unlike the thought of lactic acid in a can. Hattifattener marshmallows also rule, in that you only get the kick of mint at the end. Suprise!

I got a golden handshake that nearly broke my arm
I left the ranks of shuffling graveyard people
I got rust upon my hands from the padlocked factory gates
Silent chimneys provide the silent steeples

Next, the fluff. In NewNewWork, I was, due to everyone wanting to comply with the FSA, on a training course. Because, you know, everything must be regulated. But it depressed me. (And yes, I used that phrase during the meeting.) Whyso? you might ask. Oh, the usual bits and pieces. But let us go through them anyway, as they always need said. And no, I didn’t deliberately go to heckle, although I might have deliberately went to troll.

I am your Antichrist show me allegiance, Are you following me?
I am your Antichrist pledge to me defiance, Are you following me?
Suffer my pretty warriors, Suffer my fallen child, Are you following me?
The time has come to conquer and I’ll provide your end
We march!

What is the whole hang up with equality, fairness, satisfaction? Who defines what is fair? Me? You? Who cares? Make sure we are all being fair. No. Be excellent to each other, to restate the Golden Rule (δευτερα δε ομοια αυτη αγαπησεις τον πλησιον σου ως σεαυτον) from all religions and none, the byword of the sages of the Axial Age. Make sure everything and everyone is equal. No. Total fallacy. We are not all equal. I can’t do what you can do, and while you may be able to do what I can, and do it better, it is me doing it, not you. God forbid we ever live in a world that is fair and equal. At that point we don’t need each other.

I give peace signs when I wage war in the disco
I’m the warrior in the ultra violet haze
Armed with antisocial insecurity
I plan the path of destiny from this maze

Then we have dealing with complaints. Apparently, you should! Dear God, any company that ignores complaints doesn’t deserve to be a company. Complaints show (at least) some level of emotional engagement with the (for wont of a better word) customer. If they didn’t care, they wouldn’t complain, and would go elsewhere. It is feedback. If you act on it, make it better, make it work, you keep the customer, avoid anyone else getting stung by the issue, and can up your game over that of the competition, getting more cash at the end of the day. And that is the aim. Give shareholders large dividends. And don’t give any to charity. That is not the point of business.

Cause I’m a Market Square hero gathering the storms to troop
Cause I’m a Market Square hero speeding the beat of the street pulse
Are you following me, are you following me?
Well suffer my fallen angels and follow me

So, make sure you provide a gap analysis of the living cross-business issue. Uh-huh. So, make sure you understand that this isn’t policy, but a statement. Right. So, make sure you involve yourself in the corporate group embedding. Okay then. So, make sure you have the government and/or regulatory authorities tell you how you should run your business. Sure. In a fair, equal and satisfying way. So, make sure you don’t do anything better than your competitors, make sure you don’t stand out, make sure there is no progress. Make sure you remove all passion and drive from anyone who wants to achieve more, to be better, to reach farther, to grow.

Lowest common denominator policies. Sums socialism up, really.

Dwelling on what you don’t get

Who do you compare yourself to? Your peers? All that status anxiety? That you are not quite as well off as them, that you are not quite as talented as them, that you are not quite in their league. It is easy to look at everyone else and come up short, because, well, you just are not quite tall enough.

Give up learning, and put an end to your troubles.
Is there a difference between yes and no?
Is there a difference between good and evil?
Must I fear what others fear?
What nonsense!

The books that you read, the tales of those who do. That you are not quite adventurous enough to follow the trail, that you are not quite attractive enough to be noticed, that you are not quite coherent enough to stand out. When did it become so obvious, then?

Other people are contented, enjoying the sacrificial feast of the ox.
In spring some go to the park, and climb the terrace, but I alone am drifting not knowing where I am.
Like a new-born babe before it learns to smile, I am alone, without a place to go.

Or is it that you always seek better, and by seeking better, surrounding yourself with better, that invariably, evidently, obviously, you are always going to be not quite as good? But Ο σοφωτατοσ εστιν οστισ τον οιδει οιδει οιδεν a wise man once said (and an eldest child helped with the endings). And to be sure that is me, not quite knowing anything.

Others have more than they need, but I alone have nothing.
I am a fool.
Oh, yes!
I am confused.
Other men are clear and bright, but I alone am dim and weak.
Other men are sharp and clever, but I alone am dull and stupid.

The journey is long, and striving to infuse the ego with stuff is a misguided pursuit, given that the self is an illusion. But there is so much to know, so many people to argue with, so many experiences I haven’t had (and some I never will), so much, too much, and too little time. For me. Not quite enough time, not quite enough money, not quite enough patience, not quite enough energy, not quite enough to blame it on anything other than the self.

Oh, I drift like the waves of the sea.
Without direction, like the restless wind.
Everyone else is busy, but I alone am aimless and depressed.
I am different.
I am nourished by the great mother.

Not quite vitriolic enough to be anything other than a self-obsessed whinge.

Dragged down to reality

Is this the Region, this the Soil, the Clime,
Said then the lost Arch-Angel, this the seat
That we must change for Heav’n, this mournful gloom
For that celestial light? Be it so, since he
Who now is Sovran can dispose and bid
What shall be right: fardest from him is best
Whom reason hath equald, force hath made supream
Above his equals. Farewel happy Fields
Where Joy for ever dwells: Hail horrours, hail
Infernal world, and thou profoundest Hell
Receive thy new Possessor: One who brings
A mind not to be chang’d by Place or Time.
The mind is its own place, and in it self
Can make a Heav’n of Hell, a Hell of Heav’n.

I do like red jeans, and the eye gets older as I get older. There are a few new stories, one of which shall have to wait until I mention it to Cassandra (it happened last week, while walking mental puppy dog, but we had visitors, so I never got round to it), the other while I was wandering around town, not a bit spaced at having been up since 3am that day.

Sometimes it is the teeshirt I wear, sometimes it is as I interject when people are spreading mistruths, sometimes it is as I speak without thinking. But really, why do all the nutjobs end up engaging with me? Cassandra is a calming influence, and the very picture of middleclass respectability, so it happens less when she is around.

I have also started to, when asked for my name, telling people it is Stray. And give out my email address @fundingterrorism.com. Because you know, as much as I do, that it makes sense.

My flickr stream passed 100k views, which impresses me muchly. Sure, it has taken, oh, four years to do so, but I don’t care. I get about 50 views a day, so wasn’t expecting to pass the 100k mark until mid-May, but a huge spike sorted that out. (The spike is due to the Fowlmere set, which while flattering, was slightly perplexing.)

But who has the time?

What matter where, if I be still the same,
And what I should be, all but less then he
Whom Thunder hath made greater? Here at least
We shall be free; th’ Almighty hath not built
Here for his envy, will not drive us hence:
Here we may reign secure, and in my choyce
To reign is worth ambition though in Hell:
Better to reign in Hell, then serve in Heav’n.
But wherefore let we then our faithful friends,
Th’ associates and copartners of our loss
Lye thus astonisht on th’ oblivious Pool,
And call them not to share with us their part
In this unhappy Mansion, or once more
With rallied Arms to try what may be yet
Regaind in Heav’n, or what more lost in Hell?

Why don’t you go where I want to go?

I´m patient of this plan
as humble as I can
I´ll wait another day
before I turn away
but know this much is true
no matter what I do
offend in every way
I don´t know what to say

Considering it is what I get paid for, I had to do a tap in NewNewWork. I knew it was coming, it was more tying together disparate pieces of a few different systems to behave transparently to a third party. None of this matters. What matters was that I set myself down to do it. I thought about it, scribbled in my pad, cobbled together a few tests, wrote the code. All works on test, enough that I need some input from outside, and all will be well. Lastly, I go to commit the last of the code into our repository. Now, I was developing this elsewhere, (oh, symlink Hell, but let me not tell you (other of) my woes), so I go to my branch, copy over the file and do an svn diff. Hmm. One change. (A SOAP dispatch name was all. Nothing more than a textual change.) Odd, thinks me, I haven’t been on that box, how did that happen? Then it dawns. I knew I was going to have to do this, so I already had coded for it. Evidently I had used a prior revision of that file. The new code was commented out. So that might sound like I had done the work twice. But the main point is that there was only one word of difference in the code. Indenting, variable names, loop constructs, length. Everything was exactly the same. Serial-killer-ly consistent. Hmmm.

You tell me to relax
and listen to these facts
that everyone´s my friend
and will be till the end
but know this much is true
no matter what I do
no matter what I say
offend in every way

I never used to be (that) good at Scrabble, and certainly not Boggle. But recently, I can feel the words fall out into place. And fall out with some speed, too. Of course, Scrabulous isn’t really Scrabble, what with me having downloaded SOWPODS, rearranging it to make it a bit more grep-friendly, and typing all sorts of words into the dictionary app (before you say anything, it isn’t just haphazard letters, the stem will already be on the board/on my rack), but it is still a fine game, even if it lacks the immediacy of Boggle/Scramble. I dread to think what my Real Life Scrabble would be like these days, what with not having these tools to hand. I can, internally, sense the acceleration when running my optical regex engine over the board. Hmmm.

I´m walking through the door
but they´re expecting more
of an interesting man
and sometimes I think I can
but how much can I fake
I´ll speak until I break
with every word I say
offend in every way

There was, the other night, a theological/environmental/political discussion, and you know what? I was restrained, coherent and perhaps a little persuasive. Not shouting down, accusing them of being wrong, misguided or indeed maladjusted misanthropes. Mostly as they weren’t, and I like them. Not quite mellow, as I was still quite wound up (on the inside, and not particularly to do with them, more the usual trite Leftist nonsense and lies, misinformation and bleeding heart po-faced rubbish) but something was different. Hmmm.

Real name? To be found by the once and future employer?

We went to the heart of Bavaria. Now, you would think, given it is Germany, that it would be the height of EU-loving authoritarianism. Well now. Aside from the under-16 curfew at 10pm, it most certainly is not. There is not the nannying we get in this country (believe it or not), there is the European scant regard for the regulation that Europe spews out. Not in anyway what I was expecting.

Consider this. You land back in the UK (oh, and Air Berlin are fantastic. Laidback, friendly, a far, far better way to travel. I had forgotten. I have hated SleazyJet for an age now, but even more so I will try my utmost to avoid using them ever again) and what is the first thing you see? I mean, the very first, down off the plane onto the runway? Signs. Don’t do this. Don’t do that. On into the transit tram in Stansted, signs cover the windows, doors, roof, floor. Don’t do this. Don’t do that. Out into passport control (grrrrr), more signs. Don’t do this. Don’t do that. Out into the car park, signs again. Don’t do this. Don’t do that. On to the roads and signs every bloody twenty yards. On the roundabouts, on the fences, on the left, on the right. Take the A120. With one hundred yards I saw a national speed limit sign, followed by am urban clearway sign, followed by some odd sign with numbers and letters indicating something to someone, a where-this-exit sign goes, and all this between the two markers for three hundred and two hundred yards to exit. This within the first mile of the airport. And it was repeated over and over again. All the way up the M11. All the way down the country roads home. All the way into work the next day. Signs. Everywhere. Treated like imbeciles every step of the way. This really is a shithole of a country.

Germany is a fantastic mix of the old and the new. Their supermarkets really, really suck, and the whole place closes on a Sunday (which is no bad thing at all). It is very quiet, and I couldn’t work out why until I realised that very few people were shouting into their mobile phones in the street. (On the trams, yes, but not on the street.) You couldn’t buy electronics (nor the old Chuck Taylors) there, far too expensive, but otherwise the prices are comparable. And all the flavours of Fisherman’s Friends you get. Awesome! Watch out for the geese with teeth on their tongues, though. Feel free to peruse some photographs from the trip.

A special mention for the swimming complexes. I didn’t expect to like them, but I did. Heated outdoor salinated pool, steam rooms and ice cold showers, slides and currents. A family ticket costs the price of one cinema ticket here, and you can stay all day. Pop out to the cafe for a bite to eat, back in to the jacuzzi. Strident late 30s chicks with sturdy thighs in bikinis everywhere. (Note to them: Yes, the steam in the steam room is thick at points, but if you want to get your baps out, go up to the neekid one. As having to flick it back on every time the steam thins is funny.) I can’t help thinking on of those would be great here, and then I think it would be filled with people from here, and I retract my thinking.

Cassandra and I lead supremely chaordic lives. It may look like mayhem, but it is, in actual fact, an intricate ballet of sound and fury. And so it needs to be. See, I amn’t the only one who resorts to counting primes when things fall beyond our comfort zone.

I still don’t like Munich, though. A soulless industrial wasteland. But at least it wasn’t the UK.

Time is fleeting

Look! I can be relevant, I can do current affairs!

Brats cause havok at school. This was on the radio, and second male child did quoth: Huh, let away with things? Doesn’t happen in this house. Tantrums get us less. We get away with nothing. Proper order. This paragraph is just to say, despite the odds, my children are sensible, witty, clever, and don’t get away with throwing tantrums. As I don’t get away with it, so damned if they will.

Hiding cigarettes is just dumb. Sure, like pr0n, they will end up getting it from the intertubes, and no tax going to the thieving, lying, scumbag NuLab administration. But this isn’t a civil liberties paragraph, oh no, this paragraph is to highlight the quote some policy wonk made this morning on the radiogram. Look she said We don’t want to be a government who just ban things all the time. Bit late, youse all set your stall out on that score long ago.

Young farmer will be in trouble for misusing the Sunday roast. Ah, the showgrounds. Manys a time I was there for The Show (back in the day when the school closed on Show Day, as there would be no one left in class, due to all the farmers, hey) and the odd time for football. But I have never, in all the matches I have been to all over the country, seen anyone use an uncooked joint as a projectile. But this paragraph isn’t about that, it is about the first line. What has it got to do with an animal welfare charity? I doubt there was a slaughtering down Warren Street, and the leg thrown at the Distillery lot.

Oh dear, I guess I am wrong too. Don’t go check out their myspace page. It is all wrong. Wrong enough to stop me typing.

Family types fly out at silly o’clock to Germanicland tomorrow/today/yesterday/a while ago, leaving me on my own for a couple of days. Offers?

Caught in the half-life, of threats and bribes

What have you ever promised yourself? What defining moments can you see in your head, every time, whether you close your eyes or not? How many people know this story? None, I think, not even Cassandra. A fleeting moment, and it was just that, but it did, afterwards, of course, make me resolve to never act in the same way again.

At several points recently, I have sat in meetings. One throwaway comment was made, a glib statement about one of us having to integrate ourselves in a certain way with one of them, and the final line being, aimed at me, Well, you can’t do it, what with your people skills. tsk Now, you see, I amn’t really fierce, I amn’t really stubborn, I amn’t really intolerant, I amn’t really aloof. I just play those at parties. I can do both diplomacy and bureaucracy exceedingly well, if I have to. I can play that game. However, most times I don’t see the need. I am sociable, hell, I talk to everyone and anyone. I have a reasonable level of wit with which I can use to interact during a conversation, I have a reasonable store of anecdotes (although not all are ever told, some choice ones only certain people know, and I forget they know) and, aside from my accent, rarely have to repeat myself more than twice. TWICE. Did you hear me? It is all about me, baby. Not a people person. I do like some people, you know. South Cambs is great for OCD types.

It happened a long, long time ago. It happened several lifetimes, and more cities, ago. It happened in an evening, walking through the city centre, at the start of the night, as I can still see the direction I was going, meaning I was heading in to town. It happened as I was walking on by, and there is the crux and the shame. It happened, and I didn’t stop it.

Being somewhat of a disliker of crowded places (there is a reason I choose not to live in any city, rather outside in a village), and not minding wandering on my own muttering to myself, I like walking Tycho. Of course, that means I amn’t on my own. And it isn’t as if I walk him on my own. Sometimes, post-dinner, Cassandra will join me. And at the weekends, the squawks charge alongside (no so much anymore) mental puppy dog. After one concert, however, it was heading towards midnight, so I did go on my own. The silver haze of late night mist, as seen through the sparsely-placed street lighting. The wheel of constellations above me. The few houses with lights still on, and all of human life is there, and I cannot unsee what I have sen with my eyes. Just me, and my dog, doing our two mile wander. In the misty, hazy, Lynch-ian gloom. South Cambs is great for not having many street lights.

It was the look in her eyes. Frightened, cowering, shivering in the doorway of some shop, under the glare of the fake-orange lighting. It was him, towering over, madness in his eyes, a hand raised. Not my business, domestic, besides, he is bigger than me, head down, walk on by. But it wasn’t that easy. For a second, less, a millisecond, not even that, her head lifted, our eyes connected. A plea, a tear, a crushed spirit. And I walked on.

I have, in my possession but not my ownership, a four-stringed instrument of quality. I have a DI box, which is connected to the mixer. I don’t have enough leads, but shall remedy that next week. Yes, yes, I could unplug the gee-tar of six strings and plug in the one of four. But you know, I prefer to not do that. Leave the cabling where it is. So a trip into evil shops next week. I also need one of those magic sensor cleaning pens for Amahlia. Looks like I will be spending money, although nothing there will come to more than fifteen quid, so I can stomach it. South Cambs is great for oddball shops.

I won’t ever again.

I see no purple light crashing out of you