I know you're all anxious for a bathroom update. Yesterday, it was an empty room with bare plaster walls, Gary Lineker's toolbox and a toilet. Today, there's been a significant development: he's taken the door off its hinges and propped it against the window.
I couldn't come home for lunch today as I was running a meeting and I wanted to make absolutely sure that the laptop I'd borrowed was actually working. I sat in the meeting room at lunchtime, fiddling with cables and ethernet connections and domain credentials. I dislike technology sometimes. All I wanted was a laptop that was connected to both the network and a projector.
All that meant that I missed out on seeing Gary Lineker midway through unscrewing the hinges of the bathroom door. It also meant I couldn't ask him where my shower is. In any case, I know the answer: it's dumped in the bathtub that's sitting outside our front window alongside bags of rubble and old piping. I am so glad my Mum's not here to see this.
I went round to my sister's after work for a shower. I had a cup of tea too, and we watched a bit of Extreme Fishing with Robson Green. I'm a bit sceptical about Robson Green. I think he loves fishing a bit too much. When he pulled up a red snapper from the Indian Ocean, he suddenly slipped into the dizzy heights of elation usually reserved for lottery winners, five-year-old-girls-who-just-got-given-a-pony or ludicrous over-actors making the most of an amateur pantomime. No-one gets that excited about fish, do they? He was dancing around the boat like a lunatic. I reckon he hates fish really; I think he sits at home in Northumberland firing an air rifle at next door's fish tank.
"What happened to Jerome Flynn?" asked my sister. I doubt he's a big fan of Extreme Fishing somehow. However, Wikipedia (I have got to stop looking stuff up on Wikipedia) tells me he's in Game of Thrones, so it can't be all that bad for him. Plus, he's just notched up my useless trivia score by a count of one. Good man. I bet he doesn't prance around with a fishing rod either.
Speaking of a 'game of thrones', I wonder what Gary Lineker will get up to tomorrow in the bathroom. I'd sort of expected to see some tiling by now, rather than arbitrary door-manoeuvering. I'm actually a little worried that it won't be done in time. I might need to leave the house on Friday, just in case.
Tuesday, 30 September 2014
Monday, 29 September 2014
TOO MUCH LEMSIP
I got home to find the bathroom wrecked. The shower was hanging forlornly from the plaster half-way up the wall and the bath, the shower curtain, the basin, the floor, the tiles, the shelf, everything else was gone. The toilet's still there, covered in grimy brick dust, but thankfully still usable.
I'm actually quite thankful my Mum isn't here. She would hate this.
I phoned up my sister. She says I can go round for a shower tomorrow after work, which is of course, better than nothing. She found the whole thing more amusing than I thought strictly necessary. I relayed the gravity of my situation in no uncertain terms, telling her how my survival instinct was kicking in. She had one of those sudden coughing fits and had to hang up.
I'm feeling lots better tonight. Good food and good company helped. Oh and Lemsip. Apparently, you're only supposed to take four sachets in a twenty-four hour period! I read the packet tonight, checking that I'm not on antidepressants, pregnant or breast-feeding. There was nothing though, about what to do if you accidentally take six sachets in a day - just information about what's in it. Apart from good old paracetamol, it contains a chemical called phenylephrine, which is a decongestant, though, according to Wikipedia it also causes hypertension, dilated pupils and vomiting. I have got to stop looking stuff up on Wikipedia. I'll be alright, I hope. Though I'll have to have words with Gary Lineker tomorrow.
I'm actually quite thankful my Mum isn't here. She would hate this.
I phoned up my sister. She says I can go round for a shower tomorrow after work, which is of course, better than nothing. She found the whole thing more amusing than I thought strictly necessary. I relayed the gravity of my situation in no uncertain terms, telling her how my survival instinct was kicking in. She had one of those sudden coughing fits and had to hang up.
I'm feeling lots better tonight. Good food and good company helped. Oh and Lemsip. Apparently, you're only supposed to take four sachets in a twenty-four hour period! I read the packet tonight, checking that I'm not on antidepressants, pregnant or breast-feeding. There was nothing though, about what to do if you accidentally take six sachets in a day - just information about what's in it. Apart from good old paracetamol, it contains a chemical called phenylephrine, which is a decongestant, though, according to Wikipedia it also causes hypertension, dilated pupils and vomiting. I have got to stop looking stuff up on Wikipedia. I'll be alright, I hope. Though I'll have to have words with Gary Lineker tomorrow.
HALLS AND BATHROOMS
Today feels like an endurance test. I have a box of Lemsip on my desk and I'm currently rattling a Halls Soother around my mouth.
I don't want to go on about it.
-
The Intrepids are away on their Ireland trip. In a clever attempt to avoid any workman-related-stress (and trust me, there is always workman-related-stress), they've decided to have the bathroom refitted while they're away. It's very sensible - if all goes to plan they'll come back to a showroom-shiny bathroom, exactly the way they wanted it. No troublesome decisions, no hassle, no trying to clean your teeth in the kitchen sink, no bootprints on the carpet and no grumbling about the lack of hot water.
Good for them.
-
I just did a bit of research into Halls Soothers. I don't think there's anything in them that helps with a sore throat - no menthol, no pectin, no nothing: just water, sugar and a load of acids! They're just sweets aren't they? Yet there they are in the shop, next to the Beechams and the cough linctus and the indigestion remedies and the unmentionables. If I survive this flu, I might just write to Halls about how their product is actually worse for me than the thing I'm using it to counteract.
I don't want to go on about it.
-
I went home for lunch. There was a man sitting on a toolbox with his back against the cupboard. He was eating crisps.
"Alright?" I said.
"Alright," he nodded, munching away like Gary Lineker. I peered around him into the bathroom; the door was half open. The bathroom floor was covered with fragments of broken tiles. There was a jagged, ugly hole showing old plaster where the sink used to be and an electrical cable was dragged over the toilet seat.
"How's it going?"
"Yeah alright, mate. Had a bit of a problem wiv gettin' the towels off." I must have looked puzzled momentarily. "Someone's laid 'em on, free layers, mad! But when they're off your room'll be 'alf an inch bigger!"
It took me a while before I realised that he was talking about tiles and not towels. I hadn't even realised that that was a thing, tiling on top of tiles! He assured me that he would 'keep going' anyway. I asked him what I'd be left with tonight. He said the shower and 'maybe' the toilet. I said that that was quite an important 'maybe'. He nodded.
I hope the Intrepids are having a good time anyway... in Ireland...on a jolly... while I'm breathing my last in a freezing bathroom...
I don't want to go on about it.
I don't want to go on about it.
-
The Intrepids are away on their Ireland trip. In a clever attempt to avoid any workman-related-stress (and trust me, there is always workman-related-stress), they've decided to have the bathroom refitted while they're away. It's very sensible - if all goes to plan they'll come back to a showroom-shiny bathroom, exactly the way they wanted it. No troublesome decisions, no hassle, no trying to clean your teeth in the kitchen sink, no bootprints on the carpet and no grumbling about the lack of hot water.
Good for them.
-
I just did a bit of research into Halls Soothers. I don't think there's anything in them that helps with a sore throat - no menthol, no pectin, no nothing: just water, sugar and a load of acids! They're just sweets aren't they? Yet there they are in the shop, next to the Beechams and the cough linctus and the indigestion remedies and the unmentionables. If I survive this flu, I might just write to Halls about how their product is actually worse for me than the thing I'm using it to counteract.
I don't want to go on about it.
-
I went home for lunch. There was a man sitting on a toolbox with his back against the cupboard. He was eating crisps.
"Alright?" I said.
"Alright," he nodded, munching away like Gary Lineker. I peered around him into the bathroom; the door was half open. The bathroom floor was covered with fragments of broken tiles. There was a jagged, ugly hole showing old plaster where the sink used to be and an electrical cable was dragged over the toilet seat.
"How's it going?"
"Yeah alright, mate. Had a bit of a problem wiv gettin' the towels off." I must have looked puzzled momentarily. "Someone's laid 'em on, free layers, mad! But when they're off your room'll be 'alf an inch bigger!"
It took me a while before I realised that he was talking about tiles and not towels. I hadn't even realised that that was a thing, tiling on top of tiles! He assured me that he would 'keep going' anyway. I asked him what I'd be left with tonight. He said the shower and 'maybe' the toilet. I said that that was quite an important 'maybe'. He nodded.
I hope the Intrepids are having a good time anyway... in Ireland...on a jolly... while I'm breathing my last in a freezing bathroom...
I don't want to go on about it.
Sunday, 28 September 2014
NOT THE MERLOT
Urgh. I don't want to go on about it, but I'm ill. My body feels weak and my throat is on fire; when I stand up the blood rushes upstream and makes my head spin. Weirdly, I feel totally normal while eating, but other than that, I'm very much not myself.
It started yesterday in Farnham. I have a niece who lives in Aldershot and so we thought it would be a good idea for all of us to spend the day with her in Farnham, checking out the charity shops and finishing with a meal at Pizza Express. For the record, Pizza Express was not my idea; I'm still a bit furious with them for not understanding the definition of an available table.
So, we met up with Suzie. She took us to the Vintage Cake Shop, which is essentially a retro tea-house. There were frilly cabinets, fairy lights, china tea pots and gold-edged mirrors. An old fashioned sewing machine sat delicately in the window, lace tumbling artistically from its needle-plate. We all sat in the white-painted wooden chairs and ordered tea. I had a pot of darjeeling.
"What's with the pinkie?" asked Suzie.
"I beg your pardon?" I said. She pinched her forefinger and thumb together and waggled her little finger. I hadn't even realised I was doing that.
"Just habit, I guess," I said, smiling. In truth the cup I'd been given was so small it was almost impossible to lift it by the handle without balancing the weight with my little finger. I began to wonder whether that's how this whole delicate tea-drinking method began in the first place. Just as I let my mind wander around the room, surveying the guests of the Vintage Cake Shop and wondering what kind of person wears yellow trousers, and how weird noses are, it was time to go.
A little while later, we were looking at objets d'art in the fanciest curio shop I have ever seen. It was packed with art deco lamps and wing-backed chairs, with grandfather clocks and fancy ornaments.
"I could see you with a clock like that," said my Mum, admiring a pendulum clock, swinging elegantly behind a curved glass case. I looked at the price tag, dangling from the chimes. It was £3,999. I told her it was unlikely that she would. We backed out carefully.
Farnham is a really interesting little place. The steep high street is full of little shops with old-fashioned windows. Estate agents show brightly lit boards of Georgian mansions and exquisite country houses; snooty-looking establishments display headless mannequins wearing tweed jackets and mustard-coloured shirts over smart brogues and expensive cravats. It's all rather... well-to-do. Even the charity shops seemed a little more up-market than the ones back home.
We crowded into Pizza Express. It seemed to be crammed with noisy children throwing balloons about, so thankfully the host sent us up to a room with just one long wooden table, surrounded by ten comfortable looking chairs. I threw my coat over the back of one and sat down to peruse the menu.
It was nice to do something fun with my family - especially at the moment. All the tension of the last few months seemed miles away, left trapped in Reading where it couldn't reach us up there on the first floor of Pizza Express. I was just thankful that nobody asked The Christmas Question.
My sister poured the last drops of Merlot into my glass and I sipped it carefully. It was about then, full of food and thinking of sleep, that I realised my throat was feeling a bit funny. By the time we'd divvied up the bill, said our chilly goodbyes and got back to the car, I was shuddering with more than September chills.
"I feel a bit woozy," I said to my Mum as she pulled out of the car park.
"Probably the Merlot," she said.
It started yesterday in Farnham. I have a niece who lives in Aldershot and so we thought it would be a good idea for all of us to spend the day with her in Farnham, checking out the charity shops and finishing with a meal at Pizza Express. For the record, Pizza Express was not my idea; I'm still a bit furious with them for not understanding the definition of an available table.
So, we met up with Suzie. She took us to the Vintage Cake Shop, which is essentially a retro tea-house. There were frilly cabinets, fairy lights, china tea pots and gold-edged mirrors. An old fashioned sewing machine sat delicately in the window, lace tumbling artistically from its needle-plate. We all sat in the white-painted wooden chairs and ordered tea. I had a pot of darjeeling.
"What's with the pinkie?" asked Suzie.
"I beg your pardon?" I said. She pinched her forefinger and thumb together and waggled her little finger. I hadn't even realised I was doing that.
"Just habit, I guess," I said, smiling. In truth the cup I'd been given was so small it was almost impossible to lift it by the handle without balancing the weight with my little finger. I began to wonder whether that's how this whole delicate tea-drinking method began in the first place. Just as I let my mind wander around the room, surveying the guests of the Vintage Cake Shop and wondering what kind of person wears yellow trousers, and how weird noses are, it was time to go.
A little while later, we were looking at objets d'art in the fanciest curio shop I have ever seen. It was packed with art deco lamps and wing-backed chairs, with grandfather clocks and fancy ornaments.
"I could see you with a clock like that," said my Mum, admiring a pendulum clock, swinging elegantly behind a curved glass case. I looked at the price tag, dangling from the chimes. It was £3,999. I told her it was unlikely that she would. We backed out carefully.
Farnham is a really interesting little place. The steep high street is full of little shops with old-fashioned windows. Estate agents show brightly lit boards of Georgian mansions and exquisite country houses; snooty-looking establishments display headless mannequins wearing tweed jackets and mustard-coloured shirts over smart brogues and expensive cravats. It's all rather... well-to-do. Even the charity shops seemed a little more up-market than the ones back home.
We crowded into Pizza Express. It seemed to be crammed with noisy children throwing balloons about, so thankfully the host sent us up to a room with just one long wooden table, surrounded by ten comfortable looking chairs. I threw my coat over the back of one and sat down to peruse the menu.
It was nice to do something fun with my family - especially at the moment. All the tension of the last few months seemed miles away, left trapped in Reading where it couldn't reach us up there on the first floor of Pizza Express. I was just thankful that nobody asked The Christmas Question.
My sister poured the last drops of Merlot into my glass and I sipped it carefully. It was about then, full of food and thinking of sleep, that I realised my throat was feeling a bit funny. By the time we'd divvied up the bill, said our chilly goodbyes and got back to the car, I was shuddering with more than September chills.
"I feel a bit woozy," I said to my Mum as she pulled out of the car park.
"Probably the Merlot," she said.
Thursday, 25 September 2014
THE TECH AUTHORS' TEA BREAK
"Right Matt, let's have a quick game of table football," said Steve, heading for the other end of the kitchen. I followed, holding my tea.
My table football skills are now the 'stuff of legend' where I work. The other week, someone looked across at me hopefully and said, "Wanna game of doubles?"
"I'm really not very good," I said, fully aware that in Britain that often means the exact opposite of itself. However, in this particular case, there was no other way of letting my expectant colleague know just how terrible I am at this game. After a while he realised (or perhaps remembered from last time) that there was very little he could say to make me feel better about how slow my reflexes were.
I've written about this before, haven't I? Well, I'm still no better at it. Today I watched the ball zip around, ricocheting and bouncing off my haphazard players. Steve won, firing the ball calmly into my goal while my defenders slammed and my goalkeeper span upside down.
It's the same hopelessness I've always felt around sporty people. I just don't get why it matters so much.
Now the finance guys, they can play table football. They pass the ball around, bounce it off the sides, spin it into the air and punch it through the table like a quantum bullet. Watching them play is like watching Olympic table-tennis - the strategy, the passion, the sheer speed and ferocity of their quick-fire moves and counter-moves is breathtaking. And those guys are wearing ties.
Not so the technical authors. There were no crowds of overawed spectators today, just Tim, who walked by and made a hilarious comment about the reason we pay our tech authors - the implication being of course, that it is almost certainly not for playing table-football.
It's probably just as well.
My table football skills are now the 'stuff of legend' where I work. The other week, someone looked across at me hopefully and said, "Wanna game of doubles?"
"I'm really not very good," I said, fully aware that in Britain that often means the exact opposite of itself. However, in this particular case, there was no other way of letting my expectant colleague know just how terrible I am at this game. After a while he realised (or perhaps remembered from last time) that there was very little he could say to make me feel better about how slow my reflexes were.
I've written about this before, haven't I? Well, I'm still no better at it. Today I watched the ball zip around, ricocheting and bouncing off my haphazard players. Steve won, firing the ball calmly into my goal while my defenders slammed and my goalkeeper span upside down.
It's the same hopelessness I've always felt around sporty people. I just don't get why it matters so much.
Now the finance guys, they can play table football. They pass the ball around, bounce it off the sides, spin it into the air and punch it through the table like a quantum bullet. Watching them play is like watching Olympic table-tennis - the strategy, the passion, the sheer speed and ferocity of their quick-fire moves and counter-moves is breathtaking. And those guys are wearing ties.
Not so the technical authors. There were no crowds of overawed spectators today, just Tim, who walked by and made a hilarious comment about the reason we pay our tech authors - the implication being of course, that it is almost certainly not for playing table-football.
It's probably just as well.
Wednesday, 24 September 2014
A SUBLIMINAL PUZZLE
In a moment of boredom, I leaned back in my chair and looked up at the sky, sneaking in through the venetian blinds. Blue with lazy white clouds. The trees swayed in the silent breeze; traffic rushing up the slip road behind them, glinting in the tiny moments where the sunlight caught the windscreens.
I pushed myself up, clutched my empty glass from the desk and headed off to the kitchen.
The Book People had been in. Every now and again, the Book People come in and leave a selection of new releases on one of the tables. There are always titles like: Everything You Need to Know About Knitting or The Usborne Book of Star Wars Characters.
I had a little flick through Ultimate Dad Stuff, seemingly a handy guide to entertaining your children. Funny. There were two things that caught my eye and one of them has got me really thinking. I'll tell you what it is in a meemo, but first the other one (which made me chuckle) might give you a flavour for the rest of Ultimate Dad Stuff.
It goes like this:
1. Place a glass of water on the table and cover it with a hat
2. Tell your small person that you can drink the water without touching the hat
3. Crawl under the table and make slurping noises
4. Claim to have drunk the water
5. When small person doesn't believe you, ask them to check
6. Swipe the glass and drink the water while they lift the hat
Good work, Ultimate Dad.
Now then, here's the other thing to try. Answer the following:
1. What is 7+3?
2. What is 8+2?
3. What is 6+4?
4. Name a vegetable
Did you say 'carrot'? I did. So did the book.
Why? Things like this fascinate me. Is it statistical that most people, when suddenly asked to name a vegetable will always say 'carrot'? Or is the shape of the 7 and the shape of the 3 influencing you to think about the shape of a carrot?
If it is that, then we are frighteningly gullible and complex. Now I don't want to trick anyone, or be accused of foul play but I wondered whether I could do the same.
So I've dreamed up a test. Here's a sentence. What I'd like you to do is to read it two or three times.
"Less than 8% of people believe it's unwise to close your eyes."
Now think of a bird.
If you thought of an owl, it probably means I should jack in this technical writing malarkey and take up marketing. If not, then maybe my theory about the carrot is completely wrong and something else is going on.
I quite like the fact that I can't figure it out.
I pushed myself up, clutched my empty glass from the desk and headed off to the kitchen.
The Book People had been in. Every now and again, the Book People come in and leave a selection of new releases on one of the tables. There are always titles like: Everything You Need to Know About Knitting or The Usborne Book of Star Wars Characters.
I had a little flick through Ultimate Dad Stuff, seemingly a handy guide to entertaining your children. Funny. There were two things that caught my eye and one of them has got me really thinking. I'll tell you what it is in a meemo, but first the other one (which made me chuckle) might give you a flavour for the rest of Ultimate Dad Stuff.
It goes like this:
1. Place a glass of water on the table and cover it with a hat
2. Tell your small person that you can drink the water without touching the hat
3. Crawl under the table and make slurping noises
4. Claim to have drunk the water
5. When small person doesn't believe you, ask them to check
6. Swipe the glass and drink the water while they lift the hat
Good work, Ultimate Dad.
Now then, here's the other thing to try. Answer the following:
1. What is 7+3?
2. What is 8+2?
3. What is 6+4?
4. Name a vegetable
Did you say 'carrot'? I did. So did the book.
Why? Things like this fascinate me. Is it statistical that most people, when suddenly asked to name a vegetable will always say 'carrot'? Or is the shape of the 7 and the shape of the 3 influencing you to think about the shape of a carrot?
If it is that, then we are frighteningly gullible and complex. Now I don't want to trick anyone, or be accused of foul play but I wondered whether I could do the same.
So I've dreamed up a test. Here's a sentence. What I'd like you to do is to read it two or three times.
"Less than 8% of people believe it's unwise to close your eyes."
Now think of a bird.
If you thought of an owl, it probably means I should jack in this technical writing malarkey and take up marketing. If not, then maybe my theory about the carrot is completely wrong and something else is going on.
I quite like the fact that I can't figure it out.
Tuesday, 23 September 2014
PAPER MOON RABBIT
Poor old Florentijn Hofman. You might remember I wrote about him back in January, getting in a huff and sailing his giant rubber duck out into the sunset.
Not only did Hofman fail to protect his gigantic floating sculpture from copycats, but the oversized inflatable duck subsequently popped in Taiwan Harbour. That must have been a sight.
Now, undaunted by failure and clearly possessed with a curious passion for producing enormous cutesy animals, he's built a giant moon rabbit.
Hofman's 'Moon Rabbit', made of paper, wood and Styrofoam, sat for a while on the curved grassy roof of an old military bunker at an army base in Taiwan, looking dreamily up towards the sky.
In Chinese folklore, Chang'e, the goddess of the Moon had drifted there after stealing a pill which made her float into orbit. To keep her company, she had a jade rabbit (Yutu) who mixed her potions for her. I read somewhere that the markings on the surface of the Moon look a bit like a rabbit perched over a cauldron.
There was no mistaking Hofman's moon rabbit. It is enormous; at least, it was. While trying to move it piece-by-piece, a spark from a worker's chainsaw ignited the paper and sent the sculpture into a ball of flame. Yutu is no more.
He doesn't have much luck, Florentijn.
"The Moon Rabbit," he said, a few weeks ago, before the fire, "is laying against the bunker, dreaming about life and dreaming the impossible possible and creating its own true stories."
Aww. It's rather a sad metaphor, don't you think? Don't we all have paper dreams?
Poor thing. I don't think he'll be undeterred though. He'll soon be back, building an enormous tortoise or an owl made out of bottle tops or something. I don't think he should stop dreaming.
Neither should you.
Not only did Hofman fail to protect his gigantic floating sculpture from copycats, but the oversized inflatable duck subsequently popped in Taiwan Harbour. That must have been a sight.
Now, undaunted by failure and clearly possessed with a curious passion for producing enormous cutesy animals, he's built a giant moon rabbit.
Hofman's 'Moon Rabbit', made of paper, wood and Styrofoam, sat for a while on the curved grassy roof of an old military bunker at an army base in Taiwan, looking dreamily up towards the sky.
In Chinese folklore, Chang'e, the goddess of the Moon had drifted there after stealing a pill which made her float into orbit. To keep her company, she had a jade rabbit (Yutu) who mixed her potions for her. I read somewhere that the markings on the surface of the Moon look a bit like a rabbit perched over a cauldron.
There was no mistaking Hofman's moon rabbit. It is enormous; at least, it was. While trying to move it piece-by-piece, a spark from a worker's chainsaw ignited the paper and sent the sculpture into a ball of flame. Yutu is no more.
He doesn't have much luck, Florentijn.
"The Moon Rabbit," he said, a few weeks ago, before the fire, "is laying against the bunker, dreaming about life and dreaming the impossible possible and creating its own true stories."
Aww. It's rather a sad metaphor, don't you think? Don't we all have paper dreams?
Poor thing. I don't think he'll be undeterred though. He'll soon be back, building an enormous tortoise or an owl made out of bottle tops or something. I don't think he should stop dreaming.
Neither should you.
Monday, 22 September 2014
THE UX HAT
According to a recent survey, "one third of people in the UK will not give truthful answers about themselves when asked questions by pollsters."*
While you're trying to work out whether to believe that or not, I'm going to put on my UX hat for a moment. It's an uncomfortable fit, the UX hat - I've not really been thinking about User eXperience (I know, I know) for a long period of time so the hat, for all its trendy style, is still quite new to me.
I started because I realised that technical writing, providing online help for users, had become an enormous pain. My colleague Steve and I often felt like we were having to guide our readers through minefields, without mentioning the mines, the danger, or the unassailable fact that we (the company and us) had accidentally left those unspeakable mines there in the first place.
Stray from our detailed instruction, dear user, tumble off the path, and you'll soon find yourself in the quagmire that our marketing guys really don't want us to tell you about.
Brilliant. So Steve and I started wearing the UX hats, thinking that maybe we could consider the user a bit earlier, not lay so many blessed mines, and therefore we would not have to write complicated maps to guide them through the mess. As I said, currently, it's a bit of an uncomfortable fit and it makes me stand out in the office like a target on the firing range. Oh and Steve's leaving.
The trouble with the UX hat is that it's tough to take it off. It makes you realise things about the way people think, tick, click and browse. And it casts a keen eye over things like feedback surveys. Now I think that feedback surveys are great if they're done really well. They can pinpoint exactly the information you require to do things much better next time - which is actually at the heart of Agile software isn't it? - iterative loops which contribute to a better product.
But... sometimes they're just not done very well. You end up scrolling through pages and pages of surveymonkey-generated questions with open text boxes for your voluminous comments; there are multiple choice questions where you can select all of the answers and none of the above - which doesn't make any sense. Then there are questions which are worded so badly, they're not just loaded, they're toppling over with bias. These things really wind me up. You've got to make them work for you, those questions! They're for data, for conclusions, for science and improvement! Use a bit of sense!
I've also been in a meeting where the person who wrote the survey questions scrolled through the statistics and responses on a big screen, projected onto the wall for us all to see, getting more and more furious with the responders and the lack of useful information they provided. It very quickly turned into a bit of a witch-hunt. Thankfully, user #42 remained anonymous (and frankly, hilarious) that day.
That's the other temptation I find. I get a bit bored with it all and end up trying to be funny - an endeavour which frequently fails in real life but is most entertaining when you know you'll just end up anonymous. I'm by no means user #42 I should add, just in case you thought I was hinting that it was me. I can only dream of being that funny.
I wonder why some people aren't totally honest in surveys. Do you think that most of us just can't admit the truth, even to ourselves? If asked how much we give to charity, would we inflate the number beyond the measly truth? If asked our age, do we put a big old tick in a check box we know we don't belong to? I wonder what's going on inside, buried in our subconscious - the desire to be better, to do better, to feel better?
Then, I would wonder that wouldn't I? I'm still wearing the UX hat.
*If you're really interested in figuring out this curious paradox, you can find the survey here.
While you're trying to work out whether to believe that or not, I'm going to put on my UX hat for a moment. It's an uncomfortable fit, the UX hat - I've not really been thinking about User eXperience (I know, I know) for a long period of time so the hat, for all its trendy style, is still quite new to me.
I started because I realised that technical writing, providing online help for users, had become an enormous pain. My colleague Steve and I often felt like we were having to guide our readers through minefields, without mentioning the mines, the danger, or the unassailable fact that we (the company and us) had accidentally left those unspeakable mines there in the first place.
Stray from our detailed instruction, dear user, tumble off the path, and you'll soon find yourself in the quagmire that our marketing guys really don't want us to tell you about.
Brilliant. So Steve and I started wearing the UX hats, thinking that maybe we could consider the user a bit earlier, not lay so many blessed mines, and therefore we would not have to write complicated maps to guide them through the mess. As I said, currently, it's a bit of an uncomfortable fit and it makes me stand out in the office like a target on the firing range. Oh and Steve's leaving.
The trouble with the UX hat is that it's tough to take it off. It makes you realise things about the way people think, tick, click and browse. And it casts a keen eye over things like feedback surveys. Now I think that feedback surveys are great if they're done really well. They can pinpoint exactly the information you require to do things much better next time - which is actually at the heart of Agile software isn't it? - iterative loops which contribute to a better product.
But... sometimes they're just not done very well. You end up scrolling through pages and pages of surveymonkey-generated questions with open text boxes for your voluminous comments; there are multiple choice questions where you can select all of the answers and none of the above - which doesn't make any sense. Then there are questions which are worded so badly, they're not just loaded, they're toppling over with bias. These things really wind me up. You've got to make them work for you, those questions! They're for data, for conclusions, for science and improvement! Use a bit of sense!
I've also been in a meeting where the person who wrote the survey questions scrolled through the statistics and responses on a big screen, projected onto the wall for us all to see, getting more and more furious with the responders and the lack of useful information they provided. It very quickly turned into a bit of a witch-hunt. Thankfully, user #42 remained anonymous (and frankly, hilarious) that day.
That's the other temptation I find. I get a bit bored with it all and end up trying to be funny - an endeavour which frequently fails in real life but is most entertaining when you know you'll just end up anonymous. I'm by no means user #42 I should add, just in case you thought I was hinting that it was me. I can only dream of being that funny.
I wonder why some people aren't totally honest in surveys. Do you think that most of us just can't admit the truth, even to ourselves? If asked how much we give to charity, would we inflate the number beyond the measly truth? If asked our age, do we put a big old tick in a check box we know we don't belong to? I wonder what's going on inside, buried in our subconscious - the desire to be better, to do better, to feel better?
Then, I would wonder that wouldn't I? I'm still wearing the UX hat.
*If you're really interested in figuring out this curious paradox, you can find the survey here.
Saturday, 20 September 2014
TERMS OF ENDEARMENT
"Do you want these things in a bag, love?" asked the checkout lady. I looked over the card machine. She was doubtlessly younger than me, confidently swiping my items across the barcode scanner while I flicked my Nectar card between my fingers. I was a little surprised by the term of endearment.
"Er, yes please," I replied. She flapped open a carrier bag and swept everything inside it.
"There you go, darling," she said, pitching her tone neatly somewhere between patronising and affectionate. "Have a nice day."
I thought the rules were that you only said things like that to people who are demonstrably younger than you? Somewhere up north, you'd almost expect a few ducks and lovies from the older generation. These are the words of your aunties who gently pat your arm and send you on your way with a crinkled kiss on the cheek. We had an aunty like that who lived in Bristol; when we were leaving, standing in the hall, buttoning our duffle coats, she'd press a pound coin into the palm of our hands as though it were an uncut diamond. We used to go home comparing our reverse-printed images of the Queen.
Down here in the south, we use these terms of endearment a bit differently, I think. Certainly the blokey equivalent is a bit more difficult to navigate.
"Thanks a lot, mate!" for example, is sarcastically loaded with almost the exact opposite meaning. Sometimes someone calling you 'mate' is a bit like them showing you round their garage while slipping on their boxing gloves. Similarly, the classic, "Listen, son..." almost always comes across a bit like a boss about to tell you who's in charge. These are the words of our stern-faced uncles, wise with experience, smarting with old memories, and usually right.
It's funny how we kind of need both these aunties and uncles in our lives isn't it?
So anyway, according to the bright-eyed checkout lady, I qualified today as a 'darling' and a 'love'. I'm not complaining; I went away smiling, not just because I secretly like being a 'darling' and a 'love' (whatever that means) but also because I like it when people break an unspoken convention with a refreshing confidence in being themselves.
Also, it made me wonder whether she thought I was younger than her.
Friday, 19 September 2014
LAND OF HOPE AND GLORY
I came to work humming Land of Hope and Glory this morning. The Scots have voted to preserve the 307-year-old union of Great Britain, this blest isle, this 'mother of the free' and the land made mighty and mightier yet by God himself; this United Kingdom of four great nations, beating together at the heart of the Queen's Commonwealth.
Patriotism's a funny thing, isn't it? It sort of incorporates a whole set of powerful forces - nostalgia, identity, culture and politics... and there's nothing wrong with those things. Yet patriotism itself is really only based on one peculiar statistic, a choice that none of us have made and that can't be reversed: where we were born.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not knocking it; today I feel like waving that Union Flag around and singing 'God Save the Queen' with all the passion that my British heart can muster. I just think it's interesting how the deep-rooted idea of nationality grows with us as we grow up.
I think it's all about belonging. Deep within all of us there's a great desire to belong to something - a family, a relationship, a unit, a circle of friends, an organisation perhaps... we learn from an early age that there are things which link us to those around us and it's these common links which bind us together. They shape us and they form our culture. We will defend them with our lives and we'll do so proudly, madly, defiantly! That's how I feel about my family, my friends and yes, this incredible nation of nations of which I'm a part - especially today.
Patriotism's a funny thing, isn't it? It sort of incorporates a whole set of powerful forces - nostalgia, identity, culture and politics... and there's nothing wrong with those things. Yet patriotism itself is really only based on one peculiar statistic, a choice that none of us have made and that can't be reversed: where we were born.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not knocking it; today I feel like waving that Union Flag around and singing 'God Save the Queen' with all the passion that my British heart can muster. I just think it's interesting how the deep-rooted idea of nationality grows with us as we grow up.
I think it's all about belonging. Deep within all of us there's a great desire to belong to something - a family, a relationship, a unit, a circle of friends, an organisation perhaps... we learn from an early age that there are things which link us to those around us and it's these common links which bind us together. They shape us and they form our culture. We will defend them with our lives and we'll do so proudly, madly, defiantly! That's how I feel about my family, my friends and yes, this incredible nation of nations of which I'm a part - especially today.
Thursday, 18 September 2014
THAT IS DISGUSTING
Quick question. Is it ever acceptable to take your coffee cup into the bathroom? I'm talking about a cup with coffee in it. Actually, maybe tea, I don't know, it doesn't matter. Let me tell you what happened...
I got ink over my hands while playing with a biro so I elbowed my way out through the door and into the gents. As I was nudging the taps on, I saw, in my peripheral vision, a mug sitting by one of the other sinks. It had no owner - the toilets were empty apart from me (scrubbing my hands under a torrent of steam and water) and this half-drunk, abandoned mug of coffee.
"That is disgusting," I said out loud, without thinking. I mean it's often struck me as really odd that we clean our teeth in the same room that we... well, you know. All I'm saying is the toilet roll and the toothbrush are weird roomies if you ask me, let alone the drinking receptacle. It seems particularly distasteful to carry your coffee into the men's toilets, a room which spends half its life smelling like the gateway to Hades.
Before I'd finished declaring my disgust into empty space, a toilet flushed and one of my colleagues emerged from the cubicle. He smiled at me in the mirror, took a swig of coffee and then proceeded to wash his hands.
Unbelievable.
I got ink over my hands while playing with a biro so I elbowed my way out through the door and into the gents. As I was nudging the taps on, I saw, in my peripheral vision, a mug sitting by one of the other sinks. It had no owner - the toilets were empty apart from me (scrubbing my hands under a torrent of steam and water) and this half-drunk, abandoned mug of coffee.
"That is disgusting," I said out loud, without thinking. I mean it's often struck me as really odd that we clean our teeth in the same room that we... well, you know. All I'm saying is the toilet roll and the toothbrush are weird roomies if you ask me, let alone the drinking receptacle. It seems particularly distasteful to carry your coffee into the men's toilets, a room which spends half its life smelling like the gateway to Hades.
Before I'd finished declaring my disgust into empty space, a toilet flushed and one of my colleagues emerged from the cubicle. He smiled at me in the mirror, took a swig of coffee and then proceeded to wash his hands.
Unbelievable.
Wednesday, 17 September 2014
HOODWINKED
I had a weird dream last night. I was late for a barbecue, then found out I wasn't invited to it anyway. I woke up feeling... sad.
I dislike the way dreams affect emotions. By the time I stepped out of the shower I realised I'd been hoodwinked and I told the mirror I was going to do something about it. That's the bathroom mirror of course, and not the national newspaper; I don't think they'd be tremendously interested in me dreaming about gate-crashing a barbecue.
Hoodwinked. It's rather appropriate that word - blindfolded and duped in the dark, tricked into believing something that isn't true. I'm a classic at letting myself get hoodwinked by myself; my subconscious mind is like a highwayman, waiting to ambush me at any appropriate moment. It robs me of my confidence, whispers horrible thoughts through the dark and crushes my achievements in its terrible shadow, blackmailing me never to speak of them.
I've had enough of being hoodwinked, I fancy. My reflection stared back at me through the steam. I drew a little smiley face on top of my own, with my index finger and then laughed out loud as I realised how silly it all is.
It seems to have done the trick.
I dislike the way dreams affect emotions. By the time I stepped out of the shower I realised I'd been hoodwinked and I told the mirror I was going to do something about it. That's the bathroom mirror of course, and not the national newspaper; I don't think they'd be tremendously interested in me dreaming about gate-crashing a barbecue.
Hoodwinked. It's rather appropriate that word - blindfolded and duped in the dark, tricked into believing something that isn't true. I'm a classic at letting myself get hoodwinked by myself; my subconscious mind is like a highwayman, waiting to ambush me at any appropriate moment. It robs me of my confidence, whispers horrible thoughts through the dark and crushes my achievements in its terrible shadow, blackmailing me never to speak of them.
I've had enough of being hoodwinked, I fancy. My reflection stared back at me through the steam. I drew a little smiley face on top of my own, with my index finger and then laughed out loud as I realised how silly it all is.
It seems to have done the trick.
Tuesday, 16 September 2014
SEPTEMBER
Well I'm not in London. Thanks to a connectivity problem, Peter wasn't able to let anyone know in time that he wouldn't be able to make it, and as a result, I was not able to replace him.
I walked to work in the fresh air, feeling very thankful that I wasn't on the 6:50am train to Paddington. The trees rippled in the autumnal breeze and a rolling fog hung over the fields by the A4. I'm really quite fortunate, I think.
I wrote this poem today. It's about September and change and stuff.
So I've called it: September.
September
Where the green light tumbles
Through the dappled summer shade
Where the cool wind shivers through the trees
Where the leaves sing merry
Unaware that they must fade
When the autumn whispers softly on the breeze
Where the blue sky glistens
With the pallid summer sun
And the clouds hang pinned upon the sky
Where the old man listens
To the falling leaves begun
While the younger men are left to wonder why
Where the starlight scatters
Through the purple pink and blue
Where the cold moon rises on the sea
Where the sunlight shatters
On the golden drops of dew
Where September falls and autumn comes to be
I walked to work in the fresh air, feeling very thankful that I wasn't on the 6:50am train to Paddington. The trees rippled in the autumnal breeze and a rolling fog hung over the fields by the A4. I'm really quite fortunate, I think.
I wrote this poem today. It's about September and change and stuff.
So I've called it: September.
September
Where the green light tumbles
Through the dappled summer shade
Where the cool wind shivers through the trees
Where the leaves sing merry
Unaware that they must fade
When the autumn whispers softly on the breeze
Where the blue sky glistens
With the pallid summer sun
And the clouds hang pinned upon the sky
Where the old man listens
To the falling leaves begun
While the younger men are left to wonder why
Where the starlight scatters
Through the purple pink and blue
Where the cold moon rises on the sea
Where the sunlight shatters
On the golden drops of dew
Where September falls and autumn comes to be
Monday, 15 September 2014
GET WELL SOON, PETER
There's a small chance I have to go to London on a two-day training course tomorrow.
I don't particularly want to go.
It's not London's fault; I don't mind the grand old city on the whole, though I could never live there. I could even cope with the journey, despite being shoved into a fast-moving metal tube with a claustrophobic crowd of grey-looking commuters.
It's more about the uncertainty. At the moment whether I go at all seems to depend on whether the person who's supposed to be going is actually well enough to go. He's off sick today apparently. Then there's the uncertainty about the course, accommodation, travel details, expenses, etc. I like things a little more planned out than...
"You'll go won't you, Matt, if Peter's not able to?"
... being the only communication I've had. I said yes, without really thinking about it. The course is sort of relevant to me and I might learn something applicable I suppose. I quickly reasoned that the most useful thing about showing an immediate interest was that it might just persuade my manager that I'm keen to learn new stuff.
I'll find out whether I'm going by the end of the day.
Get well soon, Peter.
Really soon.
I don't particularly want to go.
It's not London's fault; I don't mind the grand old city on the whole, though I could never live there. I could even cope with the journey, despite being shoved into a fast-moving metal tube with a claustrophobic crowd of grey-looking commuters.
It's more about the uncertainty. At the moment whether I go at all seems to depend on whether the person who's supposed to be going is actually well enough to go. He's off sick today apparently. Then there's the uncertainty about the course, accommodation, travel details, expenses, etc. I like things a little more planned out than...
"You'll go won't you, Matt, if Peter's not able to?"
... being the only communication I've had. I said yes, without really thinking about it. The course is sort of relevant to me and I might learn something applicable I suppose. I quickly reasoned that the most useful thing about showing an immediate interest was that it might just persuade my manager that I'm keen to learn new stuff.
I'll find out whether I'm going by the end of the day.
Get well soon, Peter.
Really soon.
Sunday, 14 September 2014
THE INVISIBLE MAN
"I read somewhere," said Rachel, popping in a Nigerian puff puff, "that men become 'invisible' after the age of 36." Everybody laughed. It was her husband's 36th birthday. Over the laughter I heard her add, "... which doesn't matter; he only needs to be visible to me."
The restaurant swirled and the music pounded into my brain. It felt like one of those moments, one of those milestone moments when you realise something that can't be undone or reversed. I am 36. I am invisible - and it doesn't matter, because I don't need to be visible to anyone.
It's been something of a weekend for invisibility. I went to a wedding yesterday - every bit as quirky and as elegant as the couple tying the knot. There was dancing and tea; there were cakes, scones and sandwiches; there was jazz and candyfloss and friends and fun, and on the whole it was quite lovely to be part of. At one point, I was standing by the wall watching some people try the Charleston.
"I wonder when it will be your turn," said someone sidling up to me. I closed my eyes slowly, thinking about this whole notion that it's arranged in 'turns' and that if you wait long enough you somehow get called off the bench and onto the pitch. There were millions of things I could have said. I didn't choose any of them - just like last time. At the last wedding I went to, another person put their arm around my shoulders and without really thinking said, "Aw, don't worry Matt; she'll come along one day." I had wanted to ask for more details, but the person wasn't really all that interested in a response. They just wandered off and left me to feel better about it. I'm starting to think that it doesn't really matter any more - if she does 'come along' I shall probably be invisible to her.
I put my hands in my pockets and smiled, quietly hoping that my friend wouldn't go on to analyse the room with a view to finding me a dance partner.
A little later, while the band skiffled through some jazz numbers, I asked an engaged couple what it's like to contemplate a marriage. They both looked a little surprised and embarrassed.
"Um, we won't know until the wedding night," said the prospective groom, shuffling about. I left feeling a bit puzzled before realising with absolute horror that they must have thought I'd said consummate and not 'contemplate'!
Maybe it's best if I just stay invisible after all, eh?
The restaurant swirled and the music pounded into my brain. It felt like one of those moments, one of those milestone moments when you realise something that can't be undone or reversed. I am 36. I am invisible - and it doesn't matter, because I don't need to be visible to anyone.
It's been something of a weekend for invisibility. I went to a wedding yesterday - every bit as quirky and as elegant as the couple tying the knot. There was dancing and tea; there were cakes, scones and sandwiches; there was jazz and candyfloss and friends and fun, and on the whole it was quite lovely to be part of. At one point, I was standing by the wall watching some people try the Charleston.
"I wonder when it will be your turn," said someone sidling up to me. I closed my eyes slowly, thinking about this whole notion that it's arranged in 'turns' and that if you wait long enough you somehow get called off the bench and onto the pitch. There were millions of things I could have said. I didn't choose any of them - just like last time. At the last wedding I went to, another person put their arm around my shoulders and without really thinking said, "Aw, don't worry Matt; she'll come along one day." I had wanted to ask for more details, but the person wasn't really all that interested in a response. They just wandered off and left me to feel better about it. I'm starting to think that it doesn't really matter any more - if she does 'come along' I shall probably be invisible to her.
I put my hands in my pockets and smiled, quietly hoping that my friend wouldn't go on to analyse the room with a view to finding me a dance partner.
A little later, while the band skiffled through some jazz numbers, I asked an engaged couple what it's like to contemplate a marriage. They both looked a little surprised and embarrassed.
"Um, we won't know until the wedding night," said the prospective groom, shuffling about. I left feeling a bit puzzled before realising with absolute horror that they must have thought I'd said consummate and not 'contemplate'!
Maybe it's best if I just stay invisible after all, eh?
Friday, 12 September 2014
COOKING BY MAGIC
There was an instruction manual for the microwave oven lying around in the kitchen. I write instruction manuals and I like thinking about how to present information; I was always going to pick it up and flick through, once I saw it there.
The booklet went into great detail about the discovery of microwave radiation following World War II and the invention of radar. It described the magnetron, busily generating microwaves at the back of the turntable, and about how the rest of the Panasonic NN-E271-WM works.
I haven't thought about this in a while. I sat in the kitchen, remembering my electromagnetics lecturer teaching us about waveguides, back at university. It was quite elegant actually - he had started with deriving Maxwell's Equations and then he used them to show us how electromagnetic waves propagate. He took us from first principles, right through to TV aerials, fibre optic cables and eventually to the microwave oven. Then with a little Scottish chuckle he reminded us that mobile phones were slowly cooking our wee brains.
I learned some new stuff from the user guide. I did not know for example, that microwaves have a faster effect on sugar and fat molecules - presumably because of their long chains. Similarly, I didn't know that the radiation typically has a depth range of just under two inches.
There was even a diagram of a pot of gravy with horizontal arrows passing through it, just so that we got the picture of what is actually happening to our food as it spins around on the illuminated turntable.
Electromagnetic radiation fills the box, bombarding each molecule from the outside in, exciting the food particles until they resonate, bounce around, create friction and generate heat.
Why don't we think about this kind of thing more often? My colleague said he didn't think most people cared as long as their pasties came out piping hot.
"But if you don't have science," I said, "Surely all you've got left to explain it... is the magic box." I don't understand why people wouldn't be enthralled by the magic box and want to find out what makes it tick.
Perhaps we enjoy the mystery. I can understand that - I don't want to know how an escapologist escapes his certain death to appear at the back of the theatre in the audience. There's a certain art to that kind of magic which it would be rude to deconstruct.
But given that we generally operate the microwave ourselves and then eat whatever comes out of it, I think it might be important to know at the very least that it wasn't cooked by some form of mystical wizardry.
Although, having said that I have looked quite puzzled a few times, by something that I've pulled out of the microwave, wondering what on earth that was supposed to be.
Maybe I should spend more time in the instruction manual.
The booklet went into great detail about the discovery of microwave radiation following World War II and the invention of radar. It described the magnetron, busily generating microwaves at the back of the turntable, and about how the rest of the Panasonic NN-E271-WM works.
I haven't thought about this in a while. I sat in the kitchen, remembering my electromagnetics lecturer teaching us about waveguides, back at university. It was quite elegant actually - he had started with deriving Maxwell's Equations and then he used them to show us how electromagnetic waves propagate. He took us from first principles, right through to TV aerials, fibre optic cables and eventually to the microwave oven. Then with a little Scottish chuckle he reminded us that mobile phones were slowly cooking our wee brains.
I learned some new stuff from the user guide. I did not know for example, that microwaves have a faster effect on sugar and fat molecules - presumably because of their long chains. Similarly, I didn't know that the radiation typically has a depth range of just under two inches.
There was even a diagram of a pot of gravy with horizontal arrows passing through it, just so that we got the picture of what is actually happening to our food as it spins around on the illuminated turntable.
Electromagnetic radiation fills the box, bombarding each molecule from the outside in, exciting the food particles until they resonate, bounce around, create friction and generate heat.
Why don't we think about this kind of thing more often? My colleague said he didn't think most people cared as long as their pasties came out piping hot.
"But if you don't have science," I said, "Surely all you've got left to explain it... is the magic box." I don't understand why people wouldn't be enthralled by the magic box and want to find out what makes it tick.
Perhaps we enjoy the mystery. I can understand that - I don't want to know how an escapologist escapes his certain death to appear at the back of the theatre in the audience. There's a certain art to that kind of magic which it would be rude to deconstruct.
But given that we generally operate the microwave ourselves and then eat whatever comes out of it, I think it might be important to know at the very least that it wasn't cooked by some form of mystical wizardry.
Although, having said that I have looked quite puzzled a few times, by something that I've pulled out of the microwave, wondering what on earth that was supposed to be.
Maybe I should spend more time in the instruction manual.
Thursday, 11 September 2014
ONLINE TRANSLATOR (オンライン翻訳)
Ah, Thursday; not a lot going on. I wrote a poem about Google Translate, then used Google Translate to translate it into Japanese. Then when I turned it back into English it made me laugh. It's strange though because I can't quite work out why it's so funny. Here it is un-re-translated... or something...
オンライン翻訳
あなたは、オンライン翻訳を使用している場合
あなたのフレーズや単語を変更するには
そして、驚くことはありません
それが供給してどのような時に
時にはそれは単にばかげている
I love language - I love the differences in languages that twist meanings and cross the wires between cultures - even within them sometimes.
Look at the elegance of those Japanese characters. They convey so much of the beauty and the complexity of Japan, even without knowing how they sound or what their names are. There are geishas and mountains, pagodas and fields, sliding roofs, fans and lotus flowers with every flamboyant stroke of the... thing that renders digital pixels. Oh, not that I'm summing up Japan with those pictograms! Heavens above; I've not even been, far be it from me to sail into a stereotype! They're just images thrown into my untravelled brain as I click the Translate button.
There is a beauty about the way every language fits together, whether it's Portuguese, Russian or Swahili or Klingon. I'm fascinated by it. I'm just not sure Google Translate always captures that beauty very well.
オンライン翻訳
あなたは、オンライン翻訳を使用している場合
あなたのフレーズや単語を変更するには
そして、驚くことはありません
それが供給してどのような時に
時にはそれは単にばかげている
I love language - I love the differences in languages that twist meanings and cross the wires between cultures - even within them sometimes.
Look at the elegance of those Japanese characters. They convey so much of the beauty and the complexity of Japan, even without knowing how they sound or what their names are. There are geishas and mountains, pagodas and fields, sliding roofs, fans and lotus flowers with every flamboyant stroke of the... thing that renders digital pixels. Oh, not that I'm summing up Japan with those pictograms! Heavens above; I've not even been, far be it from me to sail into a stereotype! They're just images thrown into my untravelled brain as I click the Translate button.
There is a beauty about the way every language fits together, whether it's Portuguese, Russian or Swahili or Klingon. I'm fascinated by it. I'm just not sure Google Translate always captures that beauty very well.
Wednesday, 10 September 2014
BIRDS AND BEES
I went for a walk around the lake at lunchtime. It's really nice how the sunlight filters through the trees, casting dappled patches of shadow on the path. The air was fresh and alive, filled with the sound of insects humming and the fountain pouring into the water. I accidentally interrupted a couple of dragonflies who were locked in a clinch. They buzzed off in opposite directions. I was a bit embarrassed. Then I was a bit more embarrassed about being embarrassed over conjugating dragonflies.
I walked around a little further and came across a few geese, pecking about on the grass. Geese trouble me a bit if I'm honest. I know I've said before that I have a mild fear of cows (they look at you and chew silently as you pass them, plotting and menacing like the birds behind Tippi Hedren's head) and I don't want to keep adding to a list of weird phobias... but geese do trouble me.
I can't help thinking of Jurassic Park when I see a gaggle of geese. Look at their beady little eyes, their strutting necks, their spindly reptilian legs and sharpened beaks. They're dinosaurs, tiny raptors with feathers... and that frightens me a bit.
Thankfully my train of thought took me to the making of the movie and I suddenly remembered that some of the sound effects from Jurassic Park were actually recordings of copulating tortoises... by the time I'd remembered that and had told myself off for chuckling, I was safely clear of the herd.
A lot of people amble round the lake; it's a popular place for a lunchtime stroll. I wandered through snippets of conversations.
"So he turned around and, you're not gonna believe what he..."
"Ya, ya, it's twenny thou.. ya, I know, ya."
"Oh it was way nicer than last year! Yeah, Ibeefa. Nah he was mullered."
That last one was followed by what could only be described as a cackle.
I wandered round to the honeybee hives. Yep, we have two beehives on the park! The bees didn't seem to be up to much today but the hives are in a quiet, shady corner so I stayed there for a while thinking. I'm not afraid of bees - geese and cows it seems, and maybe cackling 'birds' on mobile phones, but not bees. I think they're great: organised, practical, creative, smart, dancing units of happy creatures who do what they love without a care that their output is so deliciously useful.
I walked back to my desk thinking about that. It's a heck of a job description.
I walked around a little further and came across a few geese, pecking about on the grass. Geese trouble me a bit if I'm honest. I know I've said before that I have a mild fear of cows (they look at you and chew silently as you pass them, plotting and menacing like the birds behind Tippi Hedren's head) and I don't want to keep adding to a list of weird phobias... but geese do trouble me.
I can't help thinking of Jurassic Park when I see a gaggle of geese. Look at their beady little eyes, their strutting necks, their spindly reptilian legs and sharpened beaks. They're dinosaurs, tiny raptors with feathers... and that frightens me a bit.
Thankfully my train of thought took me to the making of the movie and I suddenly remembered that some of the sound effects from Jurassic Park were actually recordings of copulating tortoises... by the time I'd remembered that and had told myself off for chuckling, I was safely clear of the herd.
A lot of people amble round the lake; it's a popular place for a lunchtime stroll. I wandered through snippets of conversations.
"So he turned around and, you're not gonna believe what he..."
"Ya, ya, it's twenny thou.. ya, I know, ya."
"Oh it was way nicer than last year! Yeah, Ibeefa. Nah he was mullered."
That last one was followed by what could only be described as a cackle.
I wandered round to the honeybee hives. Yep, we have two beehives on the park! The bees didn't seem to be up to much today but the hives are in a quiet, shady corner so I stayed there for a while thinking. I'm not afraid of bees - geese and cows it seems, and maybe cackling 'birds' on mobile phones, but not bees. I think they're great: organised, practical, creative, smart, dancing units of happy creatures who do what they love without a care that their output is so deliciously useful.
I walked back to my desk thinking about that. It's a heck of a job description.
Tuesday, 9 September 2014
THE INNER PEDANT AND THE KILOGRAM
I heard a scientist on the radio yesterday, describing how much the Earth weighs... in kilograms.
Oh the Inner Pedant in me loves this kind of outrage. He bubbles like a Disney villain in furious clouds of purple smoke with triangular eyes and a shadowy glint of pride.
"In kilograms??" he cries, lightning exploding around his head as he grows skyward with rage.
I have to keep him locked up these days, the Inner Pedant. You see, he's really rather anti-social. He's the guy that interrupts you to tell you that it should be 'fewer' and not 'less' and that you're an uncivilised buffoon if you put the milk in before the tea.
The problem is that this scientist happens to be the emeritus professor at the International Bureau of Weights and Measures and to be honest, he really ought to know better. You'd let it go if it were anyone else - but someone like that, you really would expect to choose their words a bit more carefully.
Here's my theory. It's OK for language to change and adapt, as long as you get your point across. Alright, "you're" and "your" are gratingly different and OK, "their, there and they're" aren't really all that interchangeable - but these differences exist to make communication much richer and much easier. Part of the beauty of having such a flexible language is that we can communicate more powerfully, more eloquently, more beautifully with it - and that's the point: it's there to help us communicate.
The Inner Pedant can fume away indignantly but the professor on the radio got his point across perfectly well didn't he? You and I weigh things and we take a measurement in stones, kilograms, pounds and ounces. These are the units flashing back at us from our bathroom scales! Surely this is the language we can understand from our own experience? You'd be considered odd if you went along to WeightWatchers, hoping to lose a few Newtons at the weigh-in.
That's why I (minus the IP for a moment) am not too bothered by this textbook error. I doubt many people would have noticed, but you can guarantee some people will have already written in, angrily lamenting about standards and gravity and the universal constant and all the rest of that stuff that sent us to sleep in Physics.
It matters if you're an astronaut, I'll grant you that, but then I'm not sure they can pick up Radio 4. For the rest of us, bound here to this big old rock, I reckon we can keep on determining our mass by measuring the force we exert on the bathroom scales and translating the result proportionally into the internationally recognised units of mass which we casually choose to describe as weight. I reckon that's alright.
Sometimes the Inner Pedant just makes life heavier than it needs to be. I mean, more massive... oh do be quiet.
Oh the Inner Pedant in me loves this kind of outrage. He bubbles like a Disney villain in furious clouds of purple smoke with triangular eyes and a shadowy glint of pride.
"In kilograms??" he cries, lightning exploding around his head as he grows skyward with rage.
I have to keep him locked up these days, the Inner Pedant. You see, he's really rather anti-social. He's the guy that interrupts you to tell you that it should be 'fewer' and not 'less' and that you're an uncivilised buffoon if you put the milk in before the tea.
The problem is that this scientist happens to be the emeritus professor at the International Bureau of Weights and Measures and to be honest, he really ought to know better. You'd let it go if it were anyone else - but someone like that, you really would expect to choose their words a bit more carefully.
Here's my theory. It's OK for language to change and adapt, as long as you get your point across. Alright, "you're" and "your" are gratingly different and OK, "their, there and they're" aren't really all that interchangeable - but these differences exist to make communication much richer and much easier. Part of the beauty of having such a flexible language is that we can communicate more powerfully, more eloquently, more beautifully with it - and that's the point: it's there to help us communicate.
The Inner Pedant can fume away indignantly but the professor on the radio got his point across perfectly well didn't he? You and I weigh things and we take a measurement in stones, kilograms, pounds and ounces. These are the units flashing back at us from our bathroom scales! Surely this is the language we can understand from our own experience? You'd be considered odd if you went along to WeightWatchers, hoping to lose a few Newtons at the weigh-in.
That's why I (minus the IP for a moment) am not too bothered by this textbook error. I doubt many people would have noticed, but you can guarantee some people will have already written in, angrily lamenting about standards and gravity and the universal constant and all the rest of that stuff that sent us to sleep in Physics.
It matters if you're an astronaut, I'll grant you that, but then I'm not sure they can pick up Radio 4. For the rest of us, bound here to this big old rock, I reckon we can keep on determining our mass by measuring the force we exert on the bathroom scales and translating the result proportionally into the internationally recognised units of mass which we casually choose to describe as weight. I reckon that's alright.
Sometimes the Inner Pedant just makes life heavier than it needs to be. I mean, more massive... oh do be quiet.
Monday, 8 September 2014
A CHEESE-RELATED QUESTION
Does anyone know if you can legally bury a cheese? We've had a fromage-related incident and I'm in some considerable trouble with the Intrepids.
It's not really my fault; I just don't want to poison the water table.
The alternative of course is for me to eat it - all of it, tonight. Not only would I be sweating cheese for the next few weeks (nice) but I have a feeling I would also be dreaming things that no man should normally dream, save he who mismatches mushrooms. And he only has himself to blame.
I thought it would be fine if I sealed it in an empty biscuit tin and put it in the fridge. In hindsight, not allowing it to breathe was something of a textbook error. Cracking open the lid was like the time the Nazis opened the Lost Ark in that film; the kitchen wasn't just a place where angels fear to tread - even fools would think twice about rushing in as the evil swirled out. It was a pandora's box of trouble, that biscuit tin.
Who discovered cheese and what were they thinking?
I've opened the windows, just to share the olfactory experience with the rest of the village. I think this particular cheese might be with us for some time.
It's not really my fault; I just don't want to poison the water table.
The alternative of course is for me to eat it - all of it, tonight. Not only would I be sweating cheese for the next few weeks (nice) but I have a feeling I would also be dreaming things that no man should normally dream, save he who mismatches mushrooms. And he only has himself to blame.
I thought it would be fine if I sealed it in an empty biscuit tin and put it in the fridge. In hindsight, not allowing it to breathe was something of a textbook error. Cracking open the lid was like the time the Nazis opened the Lost Ark in that film; the kitchen wasn't just a place where angels fear to tread - even fools would think twice about rushing in as the evil swirled out. It was a pandora's box of trouble, that biscuit tin.
Who discovered cheese and what were they thinking?
I've opened the windows, just to share the olfactory experience with the rest of the village. I think this particular cheese might be with us for some time.
Sunday, 7 September 2014
THE DAD COURSE
Dads, is there a special course that you guys have to go on? I mean like a training course where they teach you how to turn lights out while your children are still in the room? Perhaps a session or two on Advanced Thermostat Control, or even How to Tut From Behind a Newspaper.
I rather like the idea of a Dad Course - teaching young men how to be fathers. I hope there is one - I can't wait to learn more ways to announce that I'm taking out the dustbins.
In our house, we have the same conversation every Sunday, when my own Pop announces it, announces that he's doing it and then returns announcing that he's done it. He's masterful at the dustbin conversation - throwing in a few comments about the recycling bag not blowing over or what Ray next door is up to positioning his wheelie bin on the actual pavement. We're always aware which week it is and which bin has to sit at the end of the drive, all thanks to the good old dustbin conversation. I guess his in-depth dustbin reporting has come with years of experience. If any of you novice dads are looking for tips from a wise old practitioner of the art, I can send him round.
What else is on the Dad Course? Weather Chat? My guess is that my Dad adapted his ability to weather chat from the module on Football Blaggery that the rest of you must have done during your training. He doesn't know his stanchions from his stadiums but by golly he can point out a cumulonimbus. The day we saw a circumzenithal rainbow lives long in legend (I thought he was going to pop with excitement) alongside the fabled night he spotted the Northern Lights over Caversham.
I suppose if I could suggest anything for the Dad Course, I'd throw in a few lectures on Slipper Locating. I'm just not sure that angrily throwing all your other shoes out of the wardrobe will do it - especially when they always seem to be under the sofa. Also, I'd probably want to learn how to pass on some of this excellent training to my children, instead of complaining about how biased the BBC is but for some unfathomable reason not actually switching channels.
Oh by the way, if any of you would like to know, I sat here and typed this in the dark.
I rather like the idea of a Dad Course - teaching young men how to be fathers. I hope there is one - I can't wait to learn more ways to announce that I'm taking out the dustbins.
In our house, we have the same conversation every Sunday, when my own Pop announces it, announces that he's doing it and then returns announcing that he's done it. He's masterful at the dustbin conversation - throwing in a few comments about the recycling bag not blowing over or what Ray next door is up to positioning his wheelie bin on the actual pavement. We're always aware which week it is and which bin has to sit at the end of the drive, all thanks to the good old dustbin conversation. I guess his in-depth dustbin reporting has come with years of experience. If any of you novice dads are looking for tips from a wise old practitioner of the art, I can send him round.
What else is on the Dad Course? Weather Chat? My guess is that my Dad adapted his ability to weather chat from the module on Football Blaggery that the rest of you must have done during your training. He doesn't know his stanchions from his stadiums but by golly he can point out a cumulonimbus. The day we saw a circumzenithal rainbow lives long in legend (I thought he was going to pop with excitement) alongside the fabled night he spotted the Northern Lights over Caversham.
I suppose if I could suggest anything for the Dad Course, I'd throw in a few lectures on Slipper Locating. I'm just not sure that angrily throwing all your other shoes out of the wardrobe will do it - especially when they always seem to be under the sofa. Also, I'd probably want to learn how to pass on some of this excellent training to my children, instead of complaining about how biased the BBC is but for some unfathomable reason not actually switching channels.
Oh by the way, if any of you would like to know, I sat here and typed this in the dark.
Saturday, 6 September 2014
SOME BLOKE
"'Scuse me mate, you can't park there," cried a large lady.
I turned back to my car. She was on the phone. "Yeah sorry about that, some bloke just parked outside Mum's," she bellowed at her smartphone. I looked at my car. It wasn't in front of anyone's drive; the only car that wouldn't have been able to get out had grass growing through the wheel arches and was rusting under a piece of tarpaulin; I doubted very much that this lady's mum, or in fact, anyone's mum, would be going anywhere in it. I checked the lamp-posts for indications of parking restrictions. Nothing: no yellow lines, no cones, no dropped curb, no signs that I was talking to a plain-clothes traffic warden... in fact, there was no obvious reason why I couldn't park there, at all!
She was still on the phone. I really wanted to ask her why I couldn't park. I wanted to hear her reasons, I wanted to hash it out logically and elucidate the lack of evidence, reasoning my case like a passionate Perry Mason, pointing out that there was frankly no legal or physical obligation for me to move my car at all... and until there was it would very much be staying there.
Alas, I am just 'some bloke' - an anonymous randomer with no telepathic ability to figure out the difference between a suitable car parking space and the personal concrete of a large lady's mum. I didn't say anything. I got in the car, drove off down the road and parked it somewhere else.
I don't know how I feel about being 'some bloke'. I mean I understand what she meant - I had encroached upon her space and so she had firmly enforced the rules of her world upon me. Presumably she believes that if someone breaks your rules, you have the right to be impolitely offended and to reply just as impolitely. While I think this is a foolish doorway to many arguments, I can see that she would not have considered it inappropriate at all.
What was interesting to me though was that for the first time in a long time, I had become an extra in the story of my own life. I didn't like it very much. I'm way too used to being the main character. In her world, I was just 'some bloke' who had to move his car so that the unfolding plot (with her as the heroine) could continue. Some bloke is insignificant to this story: a nuisance, a worthless annoyance who gets in the way of the fairy tale, whom she will shout at once in the street on a sunny September afternoon, but then never care about or see again.
It occurs to me that a lot of conflicts arise because of our fierce commitment to our own stories. I think we all consider ourselves to be the main character - the star surrounded by the spinning planets and moons which make up the rest of our glowing solar systems. As we grow older we realise that sometimes we get our own way, but a lot of the time we don't - sometimes our reasons for this are right, and sometimes they're not. Sometimes we matter to other people... and guess what, sometimes we really don't. Sometimes our solar system collides with someone else's and things get very messed up. If we fail to empathise with our antagonists, a conflict will probably spill out and escalate.
I could quite easily have ended up with a car with smashed windows or an unpleasant altercation in the street. She could quite easily have felt humiliated and angry, calling the police or worse, other large ladies, to shout me down.
With all that in mind, I resolved to do a little post-event empathy myself and started reasoning out how things might work in her solar system. Empathy always asks 'What if?'... What if, for example, her Mum had had a fall and they were actually waiting for an ambulance? It might explain her terseness. What if they were about to have a big party with lots of frail and elderly guests who needed to park close to the house? What if her Mum just liked to see out of her front window and didn't like looking at cars?
The more I thought about it, the more I realised that there could be loads of reasons why my grumpy attitude at having to move my car a few yards down the road may have been misplaced. In my world, my plot had been interrupted by a lady telling me that I couldn't do something, but failing to tell me why. In hers, the collision of solar systems had led to her correcting a situation forcefully to allow life to continue.
I locked up the car up and walked back past the house. She was still on the phone, presumably arranging more of her world to align with her story. She didn't see me smile at her and she didn't say thank you. It's OK though I think because empathy allows me to understand more of her world than my own world normally permits. Ah but what would I know? I'm just 'some bloke'.
I turned back to my car. She was on the phone. "Yeah sorry about that, some bloke just parked outside Mum's," she bellowed at her smartphone. I looked at my car. It wasn't in front of anyone's drive; the only car that wouldn't have been able to get out had grass growing through the wheel arches and was rusting under a piece of tarpaulin; I doubted very much that this lady's mum, or in fact, anyone's mum, would be going anywhere in it. I checked the lamp-posts for indications of parking restrictions. Nothing: no yellow lines, no cones, no dropped curb, no signs that I was talking to a plain-clothes traffic warden... in fact, there was no obvious reason why I couldn't park there, at all!
She was still on the phone. I really wanted to ask her why I couldn't park. I wanted to hear her reasons, I wanted to hash it out logically and elucidate the lack of evidence, reasoning my case like a passionate Perry Mason, pointing out that there was frankly no legal or physical obligation for me to move my car at all... and until there was it would very much be staying there.
Alas, I am just 'some bloke' - an anonymous randomer with no telepathic ability to figure out the difference between a suitable car parking space and the personal concrete of a large lady's mum. I didn't say anything. I got in the car, drove off down the road and parked it somewhere else.
I don't know how I feel about being 'some bloke'. I mean I understand what she meant - I had encroached upon her space and so she had firmly enforced the rules of her world upon me. Presumably she believes that if someone breaks your rules, you have the right to be impolitely offended and to reply just as impolitely. While I think this is a foolish doorway to many arguments, I can see that she would not have considered it inappropriate at all.
What was interesting to me though was that for the first time in a long time, I had become an extra in the story of my own life. I didn't like it very much. I'm way too used to being the main character. In her world, I was just 'some bloke' who had to move his car so that the unfolding plot (with her as the heroine) could continue. Some bloke is insignificant to this story: a nuisance, a worthless annoyance who gets in the way of the fairy tale, whom she will shout at once in the street on a sunny September afternoon, but then never care about or see again.
It occurs to me that a lot of conflicts arise because of our fierce commitment to our own stories. I think we all consider ourselves to be the main character - the star surrounded by the spinning planets and moons which make up the rest of our glowing solar systems. As we grow older we realise that sometimes we get our own way, but a lot of the time we don't - sometimes our reasons for this are right, and sometimes they're not. Sometimes we matter to other people... and guess what, sometimes we really don't. Sometimes our solar system collides with someone else's and things get very messed up. If we fail to empathise with our antagonists, a conflict will probably spill out and escalate.
I could quite easily have ended up with a car with smashed windows or an unpleasant altercation in the street. She could quite easily have felt humiliated and angry, calling the police or worse, other large ladies, to shout me down.
With all that in mind, I resolved to do a little post-event empathy myself and started reasoning out how things might work in her solar system. Empathy always asks 'What if?'... What if, for example, her Mum had had a fall and they were actually waiting for an ambulance? It might explain her terseness. What if they were about to have a big party with lots of frail and elderly guests who needed to park close to the house? What if her Mum just liked to see out of her front window and didn't like looking at cars?
The more I thought about it, the more I realised that there could be loads of reasons why my grumpy attitude at having to move my car a few yards down the road may have been misplaced. In my world, my plot had been interrupted by a lady telling me that I couldn't do something, but failing to tell me why. In hers, the collision of solar systems had led to her correcting a situation forcefully to allow life to continue.
I locked up the car up and walked back past the house. She was still on the phone, presumably arranging more of her world to align with her story. She didn't see me smile at her and she didn't say thank you. It's OK though I think because empathy allows me to understand more of her world than my own world normally permits. Ah but what would I know? I'm just 'some bloke'.
Friday, 5 September 2014
DRIFTING OFF
I jolted awake in the middle of the keynote. Nobody noticed. Thankfully I didn't make any noises; sometimes when that happens, I hear myself snorting like a St Bernard. I'm not sure the keynote speaker would have appreciated that.
I couldn't have been the only one drifting off, after last night's beach party. A quick scroll through twitter showed a few people had definitely been living the high life in the early hours, long after the tide had rolled in and the rest of us had gone back to the campus. There were a few bleary eyes around this morning.
It's been an OK conference I suppose - lots to think about. I'm still amazed that some people are just brilliant speakers and presenters... and some people selected for these things just don't have a clue. In one session today, a presenter waffled through a series of anecdotes which all seemed to finish with the words, "... it was fantastic!" which was both inaccurate and grating. That was a shame really - especially when others had been so good.
Still, I've learned a lot, despite not being a developer or a product manager. How much change I can make when I go back to work, I don't know. I'm a cog in the machine and some changes can only be made by people trusted with the buttons and levers. Perhaps we can only hope that they'll get it if we go on about it enough, or perhaps they'll give us a button or two to push to shut us up. My fellow engineers are a little more cynical than me though.
We rocketed up the A30, flying past the wind turbines and rolling hills of Cornwall. It's a beautiful county, by all accounts, though I don't know what I'd know about it: I was asleep by the time we got to the border, drooling over my Kindle like a seat-belted St Bernard.
I couldn't have been the only one drifting off, after last night's beach party. A quick scroll through twitter showed a few people had definitely been living the high life in the early hours, long after the tide had rolled in and the rest of us had gone back to the campus. There were a few bleary eyes around this morning.
It's been an OK conference I suppose - lots to think about. I'm still amazed that some people are just brilliant speakers and presenters... and some people selected for these things just don't have a clue. In one session today, a presenter waffled through a series of anecdotes which all seemed to finish with the words, "... it was fantastic!" which was both inaccurate and grating. That was a shame really - especially when others had been so good.
Still, I've learned a lot, despite not being a developer or a product manager. How much change I can make when I go back to work, I don't know. I'm a cog in the machine and some changes can only be made by people trusted with the buttons and levers. Perhaps we can only hope that they'll get it if we go on about it enough, or perhaps they'll give us a button or two to push to shut us up. My fellow engineers are a little more cynical than me though.
We rocketed up the A30, flying past the wind turbines and rolling hills of Cornwall. It's a beautiful county, by all accounts, though I don't know what I'd know about it: I was asleep by the time we got to the border, drooling over my Kindle like a seat-belted St Bernard.
Thursday, 4 September 2014
MINGLING ON THE BEACH
"Where have you been Matt?" asked my colleague. We were standing on the beach, clutching pint glasses and I'd just rejoined the circle of fellow employees on the sand. This was how the first day of the conference ended. Lights twinkled across the bay. The waves gently folded in on the shore behind us.
"I've been trying to mingle," I said, carefully. It has always astonished me that a group of people who know each other really well almost always refuse to integrate with other people if they have each other to lean on. Nothing could have been truer of my colleagues huddled together, away from the crowd of other conference delegates who were chatting and swarming across the sand. I think it might be an engineering thing. We subconsciously calculate the most efficient way to meet our social needs, exercising the lowest risk with the highest potential, and we stick together. I doubt a sales conference would be so insular.
I actually can't stand mingling. It's the single most awkward and difficult thing to do and whenever I'm in a situation where it's required, I feel terrible. The choice is stark: hang around on the edges of other people's conversations, listening like you're an unseen outsider, running the terrible risk of being rejected, ostracised or dismissed... or wander around like a lonely cloud, hoping that someone will be kind enough to talk to you. I hate both of these options.
I felt that rejection way back in the Freshers' Week of 1996, when I arrived at university. I tried to join a conversation but didn't have the insight to realise that the guy I interrupted was actually trying to hit on the girl he was talking to. He decided he was going to take me down before I became his competition. He eviscerated me with scowls and conceited humour. It was all rather animalistic I suppose, but in the end I simply walked off, taking it all very personally. It was only later that I realised and hoped she'd see through it and wander off too.
So tonight, faced with the choice of overcoming my fear of mingling, or hanging around the whole time with people I see every week, I chose to give mingling a good old go. I had a chat with a guy from Redruth whose office is in London but works from home. He seemed very chilled. Then I had a conversation with a lady I'd seen in one of the sessions. She seemed to be very much in control of every situation she faced, including the conversation. Eventually she got a bit bored and went off in search of white wine.
If I had been braver I would have gone up to one of the guys who'd been wearing outback hats indoors and I'd have said: "Hey, I like your hat," but I guessed people like that thrive in their own zany eccentricity. I didn't want to fuel that fire. I simply added them to my list of stereotyped software guys.
Also added to that list of course, was the comic book guy who took one of the sessions today. You know the type: tall, bulky, pony tail, Hawaiian shirt, loud, incredibly victorian sideburns that almost met at the chin, desperate for us to think he's a bit sweary but suspiciously posh-voiced with a hint of sarcasm. His session was brilliant.
Then there was the pernickity guy with lego-man hair and glasses, who seemed to love telling people off. I felt a bit sorry for him actually because I suspect I wasn't the only person to find it a bit grating. I imagined his name was Colin and that he loved spending his weekends building perfect model trains his children would never be allowed to touch. People like that tend to be exceptional engineers, though hard to handle at times. I didn't chat to 'Colin' in my mingle-challenge, but I did wonder whether I'd have a strategy for a good conversation if given the chance. I suspect I'd mostly listen and try hard not to test his patience.
"Mingling eh?" said my colleauge, half-impressed, half-terrified. He might not have been able to see in the twilight, that that was exactly how I felt about it too.
"I've been trying to mingle," I said, carefully. It has always astonished me that a group of people who know each other really well almost always refuse to integrate with other people if they have each other to lean on. Nothing could have been truer of my colleagues huddled together, away from the crowd of other conference delegates who were chatting and swarming across the sand. I think it might be an engineering thing. We subconsciously calculate the most efficient way to meet our social needs, exercising the lowest risk with the highest potential, and we stick together. I doubt a sales conference would be so insular.
I actually can't stand mingling. It's the single most awkward and difficult thing to do and whenever I'm in a situation where it's required, I feel terrible. The choice is stark: hang around on the edges of other people's conversations, listening like you're an unseen outsider, running the terrible risk of being rejected, ostracised or dismissed... or wander around like a lonely cloud, hoping that someone will be kind enough to talk to you. I hate both of these options.
I felt that rejection way back in the Freshers' Week of 1996, when I arrived at university. I tried to join a conversation but didn't have the insight to realise that the guy I interrupted was actually trying to hit on the girl he was talking to. He decided he was going to take me down before I became his competition. He eviscerated me with scowls and conceited humour. It was all rather animalistic I suppose, but in the end I simply walked off, taking it all very personally. It was only later that I realised and hoped she'd see through it and wander off too.
So tonight, faced with the choice of overcoming my fear of mingling, or hanging around the whole time with people I see every week, I chose to give mingling a good old go. I had a chat with a guy from Redruth whose office is in London but works from home. He seemed very chilled. Then I had a conversation with a lady I'd seen in one of the sessions. She seemed to be very much in control of every situation she faced, including the conversation. Eventually she got a bit bored and went off in search of white wine.
If I had been braver I would have gone up to one of the guys who'd been wearing outback hats indoors and I'd have said: "Hey, I like your hat," but I guessed people like that thrive in their own zany eccentricity. I didn't want to fuel that fire. I simply added them to my list of stereotyped software guys.
Also added to that list of course, was the comic book guy who took one of the sessions today. You know the type: tall, bulky, pony tail, Hawaiian shirt, loud, incredibly victorian sideburns that almost met at the chin, desperate for us to think he's a bit sweary but suspiciously posh-voiced with a hint of sarcasm. His session was brilliant.
Then there was the pernickity guy with lego-man hair and glasses, who seemed to love telling people off. I felt a bit sorry for him actually because I suspect I wasn't the only person to find it a bit grating. I imagined his name was Colin and that he loved spending his weekends building perfect model trains his children would never be allowed to touch. People like that tend to be exceptional engineers, though hard to handle at times. I didn't chat to 'Colin' in my mingle-challenge, but I did wonder whether I'd have a strategy for a good conversation if given the chance. I suspect I'd mostly listen and try hard not to test his patience.
"Mingling eh?" said my colleauge, half-impressed, half-terrified. He might not have been able to see in the twilight, that that was exactly how I felt about it too.
Wednesday, 3 September 2014
CORNISH PASTIES
I'm in Cornwall, as promised.
There's something about this county - I always get a little sense of excitement about being here. I think it's because my ancestors came from the West Country. In fact, there's considerable evidence to suggest that my grandmother's grandfather was actually a pirate.
The last time I said that, someone looked at me carefully and smiled, saying, "Yep, that makes sense." I didn't have the opportunity to probe what that means.
Excitement aside, I'm here for a conference - one which is apparently heavily attended by software developers (understandable - I think it's mostly aimed at them). I had a little look round the bar tonight while munching on a cornish pasty. There was a guy wearing a white suit jacket... and shorts. Developer. There were lots of other variations - the t-shirts were out in force of course, quoting The Big Bang Theory and displaying slogans like "Don't argue with me; I'm an engineer," and pictograms of gaming dice. Knee-length shorts, sandals and odd haircuts were very much on display too. It's a weird world this, sometimes. I pondered how difficult it seems to be for us as a species, to avoid the wearing of uniforms.
"How was your pasty?" asked someone.
"Yeah, good," I said boringly. I realised afterwards that it was much the same as any other cornish pasty, despite having been made authentically. The pastry had the same oven-baked crispness and the meat and vegetable slop was quite ordinary. I don't want to be a heretic but I think it must be hard to be the original and best when the West Cornwall Pasty Company and Ginsters are doing it just as well up and down the land.
The bell rang ten and the bar closed so we headed back to the accommodation, heads spinning with cider. This conference is all about learning how to work in 'agile' teams and how to make great products along the way. Tomorrow will be fascinating. Maybe I should pass on the notes to the people who made the pasties.
There's something about this county - I always get a little sense of excitement about being here. I think it's because my ancestors came from the West Country. In fact, there's considerable evidence to suggest that my grandmother's grandfather was actually a pirate.
The last time I said that, someone looked at me carefully and smiled, saying, "Yep, that makes sense." I didn't have the opportunity to probe what that means.
Excitement aside, I'm here for a conference - one which is apparently heavily attended by software developers (understandable - I think it's mostly aimed at them). I had a little look round the bar tonight while munching on a cornish pasty. There was a guy wearing a white suit jacket... and shorts. Developer. There were lots of other variations - the t-shirts were out in force of course, quoting The Big Bang Theory and displaying slogans like "Don't argue with me; I'm an engineer," and pictograms of gaming dice. Knee-length shorts, sandals and odd haircuts were very much on display too. It's a weird world this, sometimes. I pondered how difficult it seems to be for us as a species, to avoid the wearing of uniforms.
"How was your pasty?" asked someone.
"Yeah, good," I said boringly. I realised afterwards that it was much the same as any other cornish pasty, despite having been made authentically. The pastry had the same oven-baked crispness and the meat and vegetable slop was quite ordinary. I don't want to be a heretic but I think it must be hard to be the original and best when the West Cornwall Pasty Company and Ginsters are doing it just as well up and down the land.
The bell rang ten and the bar closed so we headed back to the accommodation, heads spinning with cider. This conference is all about learning how to work in 'agile' teams and how to make great products along the way. Tomorrow will be fascinating. Maybe I should pass on the notes to the people who made the pasties.
Tuesday, 2 September 2014
PERPLEXITY COMPLEXITY
I wasn't going to write anything today, given that I blogged three times yesterday. Then the head of the department told me I had a miserable face.
Alright, he didn't say that exactly. What he did say was:
"Are you alright?"
"Yes, I'm fine," I said, reaching for a mug from the cupboard.
"It's just that you always seem like you're a little... down."
"Oh no, I'm..."
"That's just his normal face!" said someone else, breaking into fits of laughter as though no-one in the world had ever made that exact joke. This is the power of kitchen-chit-chat - it turns all those cliché things you've all heard a thousand times, into witty rapport that's mysteriously and suddenly hilarious.
"I'm fine," I said, smiling. Inside of course, I was deeply paranoid about going round the office with a worried look on my face as though I've got no idea what's going on. The little calculator in my brain clicked through the options and told me that that's not the kind of thing you say to the head of your department.
Actually, I'm really alright. To be honest, I'm happier than I've been for a long time and I am a person with a bit of a history of recurring lows. Whether my face shows it or not, the balloon is inflated.
Ironically, his concern about my perplexed expression felt a bit like being prodded with a drawing pin - which of course was the opposite of his intention. I'm not going to let it get to me.
Perhaps in an effort to cheer me up, they're sending me (and a few other people) on a two-day conference in Cornwall tomorrow.
I think the sea air might do me some good.
Alright, he didn't say that exactly. What he did say was:
"Are you alright?"
"Yes, I'm fine," I said, reaching for a mug from the cupboard.
"It's just that you always seem like you're a little... down."
"Oh no, I'm..."
"That's just his normal face!" said someone else, breaking into fits of laughter as though no-one in the world had ever made that exact joke. This is the power of kitchen-chit-chat - it turns all those cliché things you've all heard a thousand times, into witty rapport that's mysteriously and suddenly hilarious.
"I'm fine," I said, smiling. Inside of course, I was deeply paranoid about going round the office with a worried look on my face as though I've got no idea what's going on. The little calculator in my brain clicked through the options and told me that that's not the kind of thing you say to the head of your department.
Actually, I'm really alright. To be honest, I'm happier than I've been for a long time and I am a person with a bit of a history of recurring lows. Whether my face shows it or not, the balloon is inflated.
Ironically, his concern about my perplexed expression felt a bit like being prodded with a drawing pin - which of course was the opposite of his intention. I'm not going to let it get to me.
Perhaps in an effort to cheer me up, they're sending me (and a few other people) on a two-day conference in Cornwall tomorrow.
I think the sea air might do me some good.
Monday, 1 September 2014
NOT IDEAL
"It's not a dodgy pub is it?" I asked. Simon said he didn't think so. We pushed open the door. Battleship grey walls, sticky tables, a big TV blaring Sky Sports in the corner, a barmaid with hair pulled tightly back into a bun and three burly men perched on the edge of their bar stools. They turned and looked at us briefly and then went back to examining their rust-coloured pints. The barmaid raised her eyes inquisitively as if to ask the unspoken question. Simon looked at me, I sighed inwardly and with a note of inevitability said, "I'll have a coke please."
It wasn't the ideal place for a choir team meeting.
It wasn't the ideal place for a choir team meeting.
HALAGE D'UN BATEAU, HONFLEUR
You might argue that not facing the prospect of getting wet at all is much better of course. Agreed.
Speaking of getting wet, today's Monet Du Jour turned out to be Halage D'un Bateau, Honfleur, painted in 1864. It features three characters in the sea, pulling in their boat at sunset. It's another of my favourites - I've been trying to figure out why.
I think it's the mood that's created by the colours. Monet's secret weapon is colour, I think. Here, on the shores of La Manche, in the wet sand of Honfleur, he's managed to capture that end-of-the-day feeling really well - just with contrast and colour. I really like the way the light catches the waves - you can almost hear them gently lapping round the boat, seeping back into the ocean as the men struggle with the wet, heavy rope.
I should point out that I'm not really an art expert. I just know what I like and I love trying to figure out why. I'm sure a more qualified arty person would point out a thousand more things - the importance of the lighthouse to the painting's structure, the technique used for the clouds which eventually helped shape Impressionism, Monet's lifestyle perhaps as a 24-year old in Northern France. Why was he there? What was he doing? What could those three men see as they hauled in the little boat? A young man with an easel and a palette, barefoot in soggy sand?
And that brings me on to another thought - the intimate connection between the artist and you. The painting becomes a kind of conduit between what he saw and what you see. You can't help getting your feet wet.
I guess that idea is true of all art though, so I'll leave the philosophical meta-narrative for another day and carry on pondering it. Maybe I'll think about it on my way home... in the rain.
IS IT REALLY A ROLLER COASTER?
I'm in a weird cyclical mood at the moment. You know how it is - up and down, then up and down: you figure out how to do your work project... then forget your friend's 40th birthday party... Hmmm. The Big Book of Clichés says I ought to describe all this as a 'roller coaster' or for added effect and X-Factor bonus points, an 'emotional' roller coaster. But life (as emotional as it gets) is nothing like a roller coaster is it?
The roller coaster experience involves a long wait with your friends, snaking around a shuffling queue, chatting for hours about anything you can think of in order to avoid awkward conversation. I say 'involves' but to be honest, that is mostly it. Last time I went to Alton Towers we spent two hours in the queue for a ride that lasted 90 seconds and made me feel like I was about to die. If anything, that's an odd walk that ends with an exciting suicide attempt.
I guess people who read The Big Book of Clichés say this because it sometimes feels like life is throwing them every which way but loose and they've got no idea what's happening next. Again, this isn't really true of a roller coaster is it? After all, you've got every opportunity to look at the track before you get in the cart. You can even get an idea of which parts are scary from the terrified screams of people as they fly over you in the queue. That's another interesting point about roller coasters - who listens to the terrified screams of those ahead in the queue and rubs their hands together thinking, 'I can't wait for it to be my turn?'
Perhaps the person to turn to for answers is that learned poet and lyricist of our times, Ronan Keating. Didn't he write a song explaining in detail how life is like a roller coaster? Well, that was a bit rhetorical that question; I already know that yes, yes he did give it a go. But I don't think it's a lot of help - it comes across a bit like a tragic attempt at a date. Here it is:
Hey baby you really
Got my tail in a spin
Hey baby I don't even
Know where to begin
But baby I got one thing
I want you to know
Wherever you go tell me
'Cause I'm gonna go
It doesn't make a lot of sense so far. I think he's saying he's dizzy so he's going to follow a girl around like a confused stalker. Good luck with that, sunshine. Let's carry on...
We found love,
So don't hide it
Life is a rollercoaster,
Just gotta ride it
I need you,
So stop hiding
Our love is a mystery
Girl, let's get beside it
It seems he just wants to kind of 'go with the flow' and let the roller coaster take him wherever it goes. He's still a bit confused though because she's hiding from him - well, if he's stalking her, that makes sense... and it's still a mystery to him why they found love in the first place. My guess? It's all in his own head. Plus I've got no idea how you get 'beside' love anyway. I'm not really an expert but I think he could have plumped for 'inside' there, which fits both the pattern and the analogy of the line, though doesn't diminish the creepiness. Ho hum. What do I know?
Hey baby, you really
Got me flying tonight
Hey sugar, you almost
Got us punched in a fight
(That's all right)
And baby you know one
Thing I gotta know
Wherever you go, tell me
'Cause I'm gonna show
I'm a little scared by this verse if I'm honest. I think he might be doped up - so much so that he narrowly avoided a drug-fuelled brawl - which (take note) he's blaming on her. Perhaps she has become so fed up with him following her everywhere with eyes wider than dinner plates, that she's asked someone else in the queue to whack him. Weirdly though he still seems intent on showing up.
Eventually, he fades out with...
Can't you feel my heart?
Can't you feel my heart?
Can't you take my heart?
... which I imagine him saying while the paramedics wheel him off.
Perhaps Ronan isn't the person to turn to to understand the 'roller coaster' of life.
I really am in a weird cyclical mood. Is it a creative thing? I mean are creatives more likely to swing wildly from elation to despair as though they're blown about by the wind? I hope not. I'd like a little consistency, rather than turning up to things with a face like thunder. Then again, I'd kind of like life to be a bit more exciting and dynamic sometimes.
Ah well, roll on tomorrow.
Ha.
The roller coaster experience involves a long wait with your friends, snaking around a shuffling queue, chatting for hours about anything you can think of in order to avoid awkward conversation. I say 'involves' but to be honest, that is mostly it. Last time I went to Alton Towers we spent two hours in the queue for a ride that lasted 90 seconds and made me feel like I was about to die. If anything, that's an odd walk that ends with an exciting suicide attempt.
I guess people who read The Big Book of Clichés say this because it sometimes feels like life is throwing them every which way but loose and they've got no idea what's happening next. Again, this isn't really true of a roller coaster is it? After all, you've got every opportunity to look at the track before you get in the cart. You can even get an idea of which parts are scary from the terrified screams of people as they fly over you in the queue. That's another interesting point about roller coasters - who listens to the terrified screams of those ahead in the queue and rubs their hands together thinking, 'I can't wait for it to be my turn?'
Perhaps the person to turn to for answers is that learned poet and lyricist of our times, Ronan Keating. Didn't he write a song explaining in detail how life is like a roller coaster? Well, that was a bit rhetorical that question; I already know that yes, yes he did give it a go. But I don't think it's a lot of help - it comes across a bit like a tragic attempt at a date. Here it is:
Hey baby you really
Got my tail in a spin
Hey baby I don't even
Know where to begin
But baby I got one thing
I want you to know
Wherever you go tell me
'Cause I'm gonna go
It doesn't make a lot of sense so far. I think he's saying he's dizzy so he's going to follow a girl around like a confused stalker. Good luck with that, sunshine. Let's carry on...
We found love,
So don't hide it
Life is a rollercoaster,
Just gotta ride it
I need you,
So stop hiding
Our love is a mystery
Girl, let's get beside it
It seems he just wants to kind of 'go with the flow' and let the roller coaster take him wherever it goes. He's still a bit confused though because she's hiding from him - well, if he's stalking her, that makes sense... and it's still a mystery to him why they found love in the first place. My guess? It's all in his own head. Plus I've got no idea how you get 'beside' love anyway. I'm not really an expert but I think he could have plumped for 'inside' there, which fits both the pattern and the analogy of the line, though doesn't diminish the creepiness. Ho hum. What do I know?
Hey baby, you really
Got me flying tonight
Hey sugar, you almost
Got us punched in a fight
(That's all right)
And baby you know one
Thing I gotta know
Wherever you go, tell me
'Cause I'm gonna show
I'm a little scared by this verse if I'm honest. I think he might be doped up - so much so that he narrowly avoided a drug-fuelled brawl - which (take note) he's blaming on her. Perhaps she has become so fed up with him following her everywhere with eyes wider than dinner plates, that she's asked someone else in the queue to whack him. Weirdly though he still seems intent on showing up.
Eventually, he fades out with...
Can't you feel my heart?
Can't you feel my heart?
Can't you take my heart?
... which I imagine him saying while the paramedics wheel him off.
Perhaps Ronan isn't the person to turn to to understand the 'roller coaster' of life.
I really am in a weird cyclical mood. Is it a creative thing? I mean are creatives more likely to swing wildly from elation to despair as though they're blown about by the wind? I hope not. I'd like a little consistency, rather than turning up to things with a face like thunder. Then again, I'd kind of like life to be a bit more exciting and dynamic sometimes.
Ah well, roll on tomorrow.
Ha.
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