TERRIBLE SINGING

Something that comes up a lot in work is the news that nobody, and it seems nobody anywhere, can sing.

You might think that’s an odd conversation for the workplace, but it usually happens at the start of meetings to alleviate awkward meetings. The boss is having trouble getting herself off mute and dips out of the chat.

“Want to give us a song while we wait?”

“Trust me. You do not want to hear me sing.”

“I was in a band years ago and although I could play, the other musicians literally banned me from having a microphone.”

“I won’t subject you to that. Even the local cats are embarrassed.”

… and so on. Software engineers, product managers, account managers, CTOs, all quite keen, overly keen to tell you that their singing is so bad it’ll shatter your double-glazing.

Where does this diffidence come from? These aren’t exactly bashful people - at least they’re pretty good at interrupting and blustering through difficult conversations. And many have children! Some, I reckon are even used to football stands and Glastonbury, and others church pews: the three places in British society where singing still seems just about acceptable, for some reason.

I’m not saying I mind this by the way. I can sing, but there’s no way I’m going to belt out a Nessun Dorma on a zoom call! The thought of that silent pause at the end is making my toes curl. What would you say if someone did that? It would be excruciatingly embarrassing - even if it was good - and everybody secretly knows this, and will back out of the prospect faster than a Turkey on the run from Bernard Matthews.

And so everyone deflects it by pretending they couldn’t hold a note, even if it were given to them by the angels themselves. That’s the cool thing to do, the humorous, expected way to deal with it: I can’t sing; I’m so bad I’d get a noise pollution warning; I have to leave the room during happy birthday or my family will pack their suitcases and leave the candles burning through the cake.

Well folks. I don’t believe you. Not really.

HOW TO BE LATE

So scientists have decided there’s no such thing as now. Light travels to us, the brain reacts to it - all that takes 20 milliseconds, so what we think is happening ‘now’ is actually the past.

Great. So I’m late for everything after all. I was only thinking yesterday how much I like it when I arrive somewhere early. I was waiting in Costa, with five minutes before Sammy was due to meet me. I had settled into a comfy seat, feeling content and restful.

Turns out I was only 4 minutes, 59 seconds, and 980 milliseconds early! Thanks a lot, boffins.

It’s a contentious issue, this, I know, so I’ll try to tread carefully, but I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel about lateness. There are so many expectations, and whether it’s okay to be late (and how late) seems to depend on the event itself, your required contribution, the difficulty of getting there, the size of the event, the value of it.

I realised, sitting there in Costa, that it needs some maths. So I had a go at putting an equation together to try to work out (if I can) how acceptable it really is to be late for a thing, and by how many minutes. Here’s where I got to.

First there are a few parameters to measure.

Distance/difficulty (D). This is how far away the event is or how awkward it is to get to. For example, if you’re driving to a family wedding 150 miles away, it could be  D=150. You can multiply this by the number of modes of transport it takes, so if you’re going to a weekly book club that’s 2 buses away and on the other side of town (7 miles), it could be D=14 or even higher.

Contribution (C). This how much input you’re giving. If you’re leading or the main speaker, C=10. If you’re just a guest at the wedding, give it a value of 1.

Size of event (S). How many people are expected? Include yourself in this number.

Notice (N). This is the number of days the event has been confirmed and in the diary. For example, coffee might have been arranged 3 days in advance, whereas a wedding could have been in the diary for six months (180).

Importance (I). This is trickiest to define, but it’s about how much impact this event has. If it’s your weekly club, I is probably a low value, say, 3. A once-in-a-lifetime event scores more highly. Probably a maximum of 10.

So, the equation for how late you can be in minutes is:

X = 60D/((CS)+N+I)

This is probably the upper limit of acceptability, given all the data. And of course it isn’t exactly perfect.

Scenario 1. A friend asks you to go round for coffee next week to talk about their relationship woes.

D=2. A short trip up the road.

C=5. You’re likely to contribute.

S=2.

N=4. You have a few days’ notice.

I=6. It’s important to your friendship that you go.

X = 60 x 2 / [ (5x2) + 4 + 6 ] = 6 minutes.

Scenario 2. You’re invited to host a comedy night in North Wales in six month’s time. You can’t go and stay the night before so you have to travel on the day.

D=250. It’s a long way, but you can drive.

C=10. You’re holding the thing together.

S=300. Big crowd expected.

N=180.

I=7. It’ll be good for your reputation.

X = 60 x 250 / [ (10x300) + 180 + 7 ] = 4.7 minutes

Scenario 3. A family party is happening in the next town 20 miles away. For family reasons you have to be there. You’ll have to take a train and a bus to get there.

D=40.

C=3.

S=12. You have a big family.

N=7.

I=8.

X = 60 x 40 / [ (3x12) + 7 + 8 ] = 47 minutes.

All this being worked out, the best way of all is probably to plan to be early for everything. But I get it; not everyone rolls like that.

Plus, if you know me and you’ve arranged to meet me somewhere, I might have accidentally made you think I’m already at the venue calculating how late you are, like a sort of graceless white rabbit. Well. Life’s not that neat. These days I’m very likely to be late myself, so the chances are it’ll be me buffering against the X limit, don’t worry about it.

As if to prove a point of course, Sammy arrived exactly on time at Costa. I didn’t say anything.

POLLEN DIARIES: PART 25

Well the hay fever lingers. This year, two people independently recommended a new medication, fexofenadine hydrochloride. Though to be fair to them they both called it Allevia, which is its most popular brand name, and, you’ll admit, easier to say.

I can’t tell whether it’s any good. I only started taking it this week and I’ve had some days of peace and some days of sneezageddon. The weather too has been mixed, ranging between hot-sun-high-winds and occasional-chilly-downpour. The pollen has, in every sense, been all over the place.

What’s more I think I’m heading out of the traditional season. I’m allergic to grass, and so as June ticks by, the particular strains that beat me up every year start to get more settled. I appreciate though that sufferers of tree, bark and fungus might have a different experience.

All these moving parts make it difficult to know whether Allevia will cut the mustard. Will it Allevia or will it Make-a-things-worse-for-ya? I guess I’ll find out next year.

GRAVITY WELL

I haven't written much poetry recently.

Then, this morning, I happened to walk by the Asda garage and saw today's petrol price. I don't know why that should be a bellwether for where we're at in the world - there are far more things to see than that. But there it was. 1.84 per litre in big numbers under the grey, unrelenting sky...

Gravity Well

How did the air get so heavy

So bursting with thunder and rain?

The pendulous moods

That billow and brood

Their rolling and distant refrain

How did the world get this blanket

This thick and unbearable sky,

That crushes the air

And presses despair

As its miserable clouds linger by?

And how do we hold to the sunlight

To the Hope we remember so well?

When clear was the day

And love found a way

To break through this gravity well

Oh how did the world get so heavy

So hot with this humid despair?

Come blue sky and sun

Come fresh wind as one

To the ones who are longing for air

WATERING CAN

I’ve noticed today how brown the grass is. I mean it’s not scorched, but it’s not the lush green it was either. Summer has moved quickly this year.

When you’re young, your hope pushes you forwards, I think. There’s camaraderie, and laughter, and a sort of carelessness that whispers about how possible everything is. I miss that.

Anyway. I noticed the grass. And then, as if in response to an unspoken prayer, it actually started raining. Summer rain. You know, the big globules that steam out of the humid air, the rain that tickles your skin and wets your jeans but you don’t mind because it’s still warm. There wasn’t much of it: a passing shower, as though we were at the end of God’s watering can. I walked back as it dribbled and spotted out of the grey sky.

I like the idea of God with a watering can. I like him looking at me, poking the dry soil with a well-worn finger and then saying, “Yep, just as I thought. Here you go, little fella. I know what you need,” shortly before pouring the coolest, freshest water onto every inch of the earth and leaves.

I sheltered under the trees for a while. They still spread a green canopy, and the rain fell and dripped steadily.

I don’t think the grass ever truly forgets what colour it’s meant to be.

THE CALL CENTRE AGE

Jazz music plays. It's from the 90s - all saxophones and soft synths. Every now and then a voice interrupts the mellifluous riffs.

"We apologise for the delay, and thank you for your patience. Please continue to hold."

We're eighteen minutes in. I'm sure I'll eventually get to talk to a real person, but it's nice to have this musical interlude. The musicians must be getting really tired by now - they've been playing the same 32 bars in a loop for quite a while.

What did we do before call centres? If you needed to telephone your bank or your insurance people, were you just put through to a person at a smoky desk by a window? How did that work, given the 'volume of calls'? And did they send someone round with a hat and a suitcase?

I feel as though I would have quite liked those days - seeing the 'Man from the Pru' and giving him a cheery wave on the street, popping into the branch and finding out how Doris got on with her cake sale, and then chatting about my account. Although actually, maybe I'd be out back practising with the lads, getting ready for the call centre age.

TAPS AND TOWELS

Another hot afternoon in the shire, Mr Frodo.

To be honest, probably not the best day to try to fix the leaking bath tap. Nevertheless, armed with two screwdrivers and an adjustable spanner, I decided it was high time to change the washer.

Quick note for Americans: you call them faucets; we call them taps. As usual with these differences, you’re actually sort of right: they were called faucets first, on oak barrels that needed a regulated stopper. At some point after 1776, we started calling them taps - a convention I’m not going to stop here. But we should both be thankful - we could have ended up calling them spigots, and that is a horrible sounding word.

My dad showed me how to change the washer on a tap. I couldn’t have been more than 11. He made it look easy, I remember. I also remember wondering why he was showing me… but now, crouched over a toolbox, sweat pouring from my temples and my hands red with perspiration, I understand it, I think. If I had an 11-year old boy, I’d probably do the same.

It’s fair to say though, that things like this, home maintenance, are not exactly my forte. I wish they were; but I find them daunting and demoralising. And I don’t really know how to get much better at them.

That being said, replacing a washer ought to be a doddle. Turn off the water, flip off the top, unscrew the head, undo the valve, take out the perished seal, replace it with a new one, screw the valve back in, screw the head back on, pop the top on, turn on the water, boom.

Anyway, to cut a long story short, I’ve hurt my hand and we need new taps. And that’s how good I am at DIY.

The trouble is every time I flunk a job like this it chips away at my confidence for next time. Will I be able to drill a hole in the wall in the right place? Maybe, but my heart will be thumping and my head won’t be right.

Will I find the right door for a broken cupboard? Will I get grout in the tea cups? Will I build something upside down? Will I have to call someone, yet again, to help out? And what does it look like when I say I’ll return the favour someday?

Forgotten how to spell ‘privilege’? Can’t remember what the difference is between ‘that’ and ‘which’? Need to know how to play a G# minor diminished? I sometimes wonder whether I should have done something more practical.

One of the videos I watched said I should put the plug in the bath (to prevent screws falling into the plug hole) and then a towel, just in case I dropped something and chipped the porcelain.

“You don’t want to accidentally cause yourself a much bigger job,” he said. Well, quite right. I do wonder though, how to prevent me getting chipped in the process.

THE IMPLICATION OF A THING

“Covid’s over, Big Man,” said someone to me the other day, passing by. I was wearing a face mask in a room where a lot of people weren’t.

I froze for a while. It would have been nice to have had a witty comeback, or something deep to say in reply, but to be honest, I was just a bit stunned at the implication. Funny. Sometimes the implication of a thing can hit you before you’ve worked out exactly why it hurts. You feel the emotional blow. And then later you realise that they think you’re being fussy, or stupid, or old-fashioned, or fearful. And that’s not very nice. And they’ve wandered off.

Now. I let that go. I know why I still wear a face mask, I know why I don’t believe Covid is by any means ‘over’, and I know whose business that is, and whose it isn’t.

But what’s been churning through my mind is the idea that I could still be intimidated by the status quo. It used to be called peer pressure, and it used to be a bit more obvious - you could say no to smoking behind the gym with the cool kids because you knew that it was wrong and you’d already decided firmly. That was easy.

But these days, the peer pressure is a bit more subtle. For adults it creeps and skulks on the other side of the playground fence, it uses instagram and pokes you at parties. It talks politics and reason and it coils around nice people with good intentions.

And there it was - wanting me to fit in, to not be the odd-one out. It was asking me to compromise on my reasoning by agreeing with the prevailing wind, to stop being so silly and to take off that mask: to be more 2022 and less 2020. Get with it, Big Man.

Why ‘Big Man’? I wonder. Is that what big men do? And what is a big man? Someone who puts his elderly relatives at risk just to look like he fits in with the crowd? Someone who compromises his beliefs for the trinket reward of popularity, or conformity? I don’t think so, dude.

I think that kind of thing gets you behind the gym in puffs of guilty smoke. And I’ve never been up for that.

SUPER-WEMBLEYWORTHS AND OTHER BIG NUMBERS

There’s a new book out about big numbers. I’d like to read it - it’s a sort of exploration of the weird realm between the finite and the infinite, where numbers are incomputably large.

I’ve always found it interesting how I can see a collection of items and just know how many there are without counting. What’s your upper limit, do you think? Mine’s probably seven. I think I start to get a lot less certain beyond that.

Then I think about how large a crowd I can imagine. That’s based on experience - 80,000 is the largest crowd I’ve been in. I can picture a Wembley-worth, but I’d have a hard time getting my head around 160,000 or 500,000. I know it sounds incredible, but I would not be able to tell the difference.

Then, in the UK, where I live, there are almost 70 million people. That is 875 Wembleyworths. It’s almost impossible to imagine that many stadia, packed with thousands of seats. And the noise! Imagine ‘Sweet Caroline’ being belted out by a Super-Wembleyworth! Cringeworthy. I have thoughts about that song that aren’t popular at the best of times.

And how many Super-Wembleyworths are there in the USA? There are just over four. Four Super-Wembleyworths. Noisy bunch.

And yet each one of us in our millions of seats, squished into our stadium, has a beating heart and a vibrant soul. Amazing.

And then. Seven billion people live here on our planet. It’s mind-bendingly huge. It’s over a hundred Super Wembleyworths, which means 87,500 roaring stadia. To fit them into the UK, they’d have to be built about 2km apart. Imagine. You’d never be further than 2000m from another stadium.

Well, you’d be in one, I suppose, in your allocated seat.

Anyway. Big numbers are unimaginable and scary. In fact, so much so that they sort of become meaningless. That’s how Elon Musk and Jeff Bezos and the others get away with it. Nevertheless a billion is a thousand times bigger than a million. Worth remembering.

So this book looks intriguing. I like that boundary that exists between mathematics and philosophy - it’s everywhere, but we rarely think about it, I suppose.

Much like the stars. Gosh, there are lots of those too, scattered and stretched across the deep fabric of the universe, perhaps at the centres of trillions of solar systems where on planets like ours, civilisations gather in sports stadia to sing out Sweet Caroline - the universal anthem of harmony and good times. Though to be honest, I hope not.

LAUNDRY BASKET ZERO

I must admit, I didn’t think we’d make it. I wasn’t sure I’d ever live to see the day I reached Laundry Basket Zero.

And yet today, there we were. Empty laundry basket - no rogue socks, no ancient belts or twenty pence pieces. No tissues, no forgotten towels or slipper soles or Lego bricks or coat hangers, and quite specifically, no dirty laundry. All of it, from t-shirt to Christmas jumper, was washed or away, or, in the bin.

It did feel like a celebration was required. I wondered whether I should wear the basket like a ceremonial hat, or whoop around the garden with a clean flannel or something. I have never seen that laundry bin empty; never seen the bottom of it, never knew it wasn’t a myth. It’s been bulging for years, the stitches strained with tension, the laundry overflowing, filling up faster than I could hope to get through it.

This is living, I thought to myself, staring at the empty basket. Sammy was equally impressed (it’s largely her doing to be honest) though I think she’d be less inclined to wear it, or indeed, dance around the washing line as though it were some sort of cosmic maypole.

The Fancy Samsung of course should also get a credit. With its cheery Schubert and happy little bleeps, it’s done a solid job of helping us towards this milestone. Well done, Fancy Samsung!

And the hot weather. Without that, Laundry Basket Zero would have been nearly impossible.

Of course, I took off my work shirt and threw it in at 5pm when I was hot and sweaty. So, it didn’t really last that long. And also, my sock drawer is now so full that it’s got its own gravitational pull. It turns out that my single-man tactic of *ahem* buying more socks when I was running out of clean ones was not precisely a solution. Tonight, my wife suggested I went through them all.

So. One small step for a man, one giant leap for, well, still a man, but now with wife, working washing machine, and washing line in the garden. Laundry Basket Zero. I shake my head, beaming with incredulity and pride at what we can achieve when we put our minds to it. Who’d have thought it?

SCHUBERT’S DIE FORELLE

Back in the old days, the washing machine just used to stop at the end of its cycle. There’d be a click to tell you the door could be opened, and that was it.

Then they added a bleep to washing machines. And then (being so preoccupied about whether they could, and not stopping to think about whether they should), they added a symphony. Now at the end of every cycle, the Fancy Samsung (our new washing machine) plays a whole 16-bar tune - a ringtone to let you know that your washing is indeed ready to be taken out and strung up to dry.

For the last month or so I’ve been trying to work out what that tune is. It’s a pretty little melody, very simple, classical - probably (I thought) from the Romantic period. It’s got a Mozartian motif but I didn’t think it was Mozart. It’s been a puzzle.

Then yesterday, I found it! The Fancy Samsung is playing Schubert’s Die Forelle - a song, set to the words of an old German poem called The Trout. Our washing machine is literally singing about a trout every time it finishes a load of washing.

By the way, if you want to hear Schubert’s Die Forelle, click here to see the music dart by in all its fishy glory.

Now, I bet the Samsung Boffins were just looking for something cheery to program into their washers, but digging a little further, it turns out they might have been cleverer than that. The words of The Trout (Die Forelle) are, well, a bit deeper. It’s about somebody fishing…

In a limpid brook

the capricious trout

in joyous haste

darted by like an arrow.

I stood on the bank

in blissful peace, watching

the lively fish swim 

in the clear brook.

An angler with his rod 

stood on the bank

cold-bloodedly watching 

the fish’s contortions.

As long as the water 

is clear, I thought,

he won’t catch the trout 

with his rod.

Fair enough. The happy little trout can see the fishing line in the clear water.

But at length the thief

grew impatient. Cunningly

he made the brook cloudy, 

and in an instant

his rod quivered,

and the fish struggled on it.

And I, my blood boiling,

looked on at the cheated creature.

Oh. And…

You who tarry by the golden spring
Of secure youth,
Think still of the trout:
If you see danger, hurry by!
Most of you err only from lack
Of cleverness. Girls, see
Seducers with their tackle!
Or else, too late, you'll bleed.

Okay.

A kind of brutal way of spelling out the metaphor, don’t you think?

So, basically then, the Fancy Samsung is singing about how much better it is to swim around in clean, clear water, lest you get seduced by people who try to sow confusion to trap you with dirty water. How very apt for a washing machine.

Nice work Samsung Boffins: a morality tale with every clean cycle! And I thought it was just a cheery tune.

THE TILES OF NUMBER 40

Another nice day out there. We’re over the covid of course, but the ol’ hay fever is back. So I still can’t go outside.

Instead I’ve got the test match in the background and a nice view of the sunny street.

I mean I could go outside. I just have a feeling I know what happens, and I’m bunged up enough in here with all the windows shut.

There’s a flock of birds looping in a figure of eight. Why do they do that? Their shadows are long and darting as they swoop over the roof tiles between the chimneys. Then they land, perched on the apex of Number 40. The sun’s overhead.

I imagine the leader just alternates between darting left and right. Maybe it’s a training group, getting ready for the winter migration. Perhaps they’re just stretching their wings. Or perhaps there’s something more convoluted happening to do with magnetic fields or territory, or just a dance of evolution. Or perhaps they just like the tiles of Number 40.

How come animals don’t get hay fever?

I handed my notice in a year ago. I had a feeling it was this time of year, so when I checked, I wasn’t too surprised it was exactly one year ago. It was a similar day too, I think: bright sun overhead, short dark shadows, birds looping. I had nervously explained to my old manager that I needed a change.

Good move? Any regrets? Well I miss some things but not all things, and on the whole, my old job had become a task I didn’t feel I could carry on doing. So, yes. I wouldn’t change that decision. That job had been forced out of shape by so many things - Erica leaving, the company being bought by an American behemoth, one of my colleagues becoming much harder to work with, and lastly the covid pandemic, which reduced it all to a flimsy husk of interactions, tough remote working with strangers in the USA, and a hard slog. I did the right thing.

The Tiles of Number 40. I think it’s just the right aspect to catch that sun. The birds are gathered, perched along the ridge and fluttering on the glinting TV aerial. I guess it’s just wherever those birds have landed. Nice to see them making the most of it.

POLLEN DIARIES: PART 24

Months go by quickly don’t they? One week you’re getting used to it being June, the next week it’s the middle of June, and the week after… it’s nearly July.

That means that (hopefully) this wretched hay fever season is nearly over (for me). The grass will have finished its pollination cycle and the ryes and the timothys will be happily blooming at last, instead of floating around and terrorising us all.

I say all. Not everyone gets it. I didn’t get it, I mean at least until I finished university. Now it seems, we’re adding Clarityn to the weekly shop.

My eyes are itchy tonight. My wife told me to use the gel that’s ‘on top of the cupboard’ at the top of the stairs, and I accidentally used sun cream. It must have looked like war paint - or perhaps the Australian cricket team, circa 1993. Apparently, you’re supposed to dab it on, rather than smear it under your eye sockets. Then I tried washing the sun cream out of my eyes (it had gone in) but I used hot water by mistake. That was painful. In the end she just told me to go to bed and wait for her before trying again.

My friend James says that hay fever is ‘from the devil’. I take his point, though it seems unlikely that Lucifer was in charge of floral pollination mechanics. My theology isn’t strong enough to argue about it, but it is pretty horrendous whether allergic rhinitis is man-made somehow, just one of those things, or was cooked up in Hell’s Kitchen by angry demons.

Anyway, roll on the middle of June. Just don’t roll on the sun cream when your wife gave you specific instructions to… well anyway. It’ll soon be July.

FEAR OF BEING ABSENT

It’s fainter, but still positive today, so unfortunately it means I won’t be going to London.

I feel as though it would have done me some good to have met actual colleagues. It’s true to say I’m disappointed; the weather is fair and fine, the city happy and hopeful after the jubilee weekend - it would have been a pleasant journey, and an even nicer walk back from King’s Cross to Paddington later this evening. But it’s not for me to be there this time. I’ve emailed to let them know.

There’s definitely a difference between fear-of-missing-out, and fear-of-being-absent, I think. What I’m actually missing out on is several long talks in a stuffy room. Then there’s a lunch, and a drinks reception - none of which I would particularly come alive at. I am still an introvert, after all, clinging to the wall and itching to go home early. I’m not missing any of that.

But I do think there’s a fear of not being there, a sort of need to be present, regardless of whether I’d personally benefit from the event. You could call it a need to be ‘seen’ - though I wouldn’t want you to imagine I’m desperate for the limelight everywhere I go like some sort of Hollywood starlet. That’s not what I mean.

Sometimes just being a face in a room is needed, the ancient art of showing up. I’m still here, I still work for you, I made an effort to get here, when you think back you’ll remember I was there. I mattered. And that mattered to me.

I’ve also got hay fever back today. Usual drill - stuffed up nose and occasional sneezing.

Ah well. I shall be at home, uninterrupted and ploughing through all the difficult work I need to concentrate on, gazing out on another beautiful summer day. Some days you just have to make the most of whatever you’ve got.

A WIN FOR BIG TECH OVER BRACKNELL

Blue sky, warm summer breeze, lazy clouds, and the putput of a fixed wing aeroplane. Team Apple were right. It is Gin and Tonic weather.

There are storms over Surrey (according to Lightningmap) and one or two yellow strikes over the North Sea, but that’s about it for inclemency in the UK right now. The rest is lemonade on the lawn and the thwock and rattle with gentle applause of a tennis match.

So what does this mean? That the Apple weather app is to be trusted over the Met Office? Is it a win for big tech over Bracknell?

As my old physics teacher used to say, and I’ve said many times since, ‘It takes three points to draw a straight line’ so there are a few more data battles to come between these two bruisers. I still like to think that Met Office data is built on real meteorologists doing proper work, rather than techies in San Diego with access to shiny satellites.

Either way, it’s nice out there. And thanks to work and a positive test, I’m kind of stuck in here. That’s okay. Could be worse. It could be thundering.

PREDICTING THE WEATHER

It’s the battle everyone’s been waiting for. The contest of the ages, the clash of the titans, the contest of champions, when finally, the world gets to settle the age old argument about which is better:

Apple Weather or the Met Office app?

Over in this corner, Team Apple are predicting an afternoon of sunshine and showers with a beautiful 20°C (68) at 3pm. They’re chilled, they’re relaxed about it, like Steve Jobs with a glass of Pimms and a bowl of strawberries.

In the Bracknell Corner though, they are gloomier than a child being dragged around a shopping mall. The Met Office boys are predicting thunder. An angry grey cloud hovers over 3pm with a bright splash of orange lightning jagging out of it. Underneath is the ominous looking “50%”.

So, who’s right? Team Met with their stormy prediction? Or Team Apple and their picnic positivity?

Only time will tell.

Funny how tricky it is to predict the weather here. Satellites can see what weather fronts are moving around the globe, supercomputers can model patterns to see what might be about to happen. But once you get beyond a few days, accuracy can be as low as 50%

But these two should be better in sync, with just a few hours to go. So, who’s right? Who’s going to win? Which app is better?

DISSONANT SYMPHONY

I was well enough to go back to work today. And by ‘back to work’ I of course mean the short hop to the spare room, where my laptop flipped up, ready to transport me to that weird space in my brain I keep for visual studio, markdown, and GitHub repositories.

Honestly, work is weird isn’t it? It’s like a G minor chord in a C# major symphony - beautiful, but carrying the feeling that it belongs somewhere else and should definitely be played by someone else’s instrument.

I’m supposed to be going to London on Thursday. It’s a work thing - actually a chance to get to meet some colleagues for the first time; it would be a shame to miss it. Nevertheless, I had to email HR to let them know my isolation ends the day before and I might still be infectious.

“If I’ve still got symptoms,” I typed, “I’ll stay home.”

To be honest though, I don’t even know if I’ll have the energy in my bones. I feel drained tonight, like a gravity well of dryness. I couldn’t get up to draw the curtains, and about half an hour later when I’d made a point of actually looking for pen and paper, I actually did pull the curtains together before sitting down and sketching them - sort of sabotaging my own joke.

I can be funny, I promise.

Everyone at work was sympathetic. There was a lot of ‘Oh! Sorry to hear that’ and ‘Pants!’ (a now universal substitute for something stronger) and ‘Fingers crossed for Thursday!’

I actually think I was a little more focused than usual today. I’m not sure why; just got a lot done, and had a lot less bluffing to do. It’s a nice feeling being productive. Perhaps I should aim for it more often.

Anyway, the test still showed positive today so I guess I am still infectious. Pesky old covid, coming over here making me better at my job. Tsk.

You know I bet there is a symphony out there which starts off in C# and then slots a cheeky G minor in there. There’ll be one; a couple of signature changes, a bank of clustered naturals in one bar, then the phrase modulates into flats and pow! G minor and nobody blinks an eyelid. If not those particular keys some weird foray from a tonic to a minor augmented fourth or something. These composers are clever enough to make it look seamless.

Me, I’m plodding on with my G minor work in one movement and my C# major life in the main theme and I’m hoping all the difficult bits of the piece, like being grumpy with a virus, don’t last that long.