Meritorious Practitioner of Murphy's Law

Somewhere in the string of blogs that I read (and sometimes comment upon) is a discussion that a group of us should get together and write our own wikipedia entry.

As everyone knows, it is terribly bad form to write your own entry on wikipedia, but if I did, then 'Meritorious Practitioner of Murphy's Law' is probably how I would describe myself.

Yesterday, was the day of my presentation at the Oundle Festival of Literature on the art of the blog.

Throughout my life, I have been plagued by what is called the 'live demonstration' - which is why I spent so long making sure that I would be able to access all the sites I needed, because part of the two hour slot was supposed to be a session to allow the participants to start up their own blogs. The mystical Murphy stalks me, so I know that I need to make sure I cover off all eventualities.

One of the classmates couldn't access their email, but I had prepared for that. I made sure we could get to gmail and they could set up an email account.

I had made sure we could get to all of the sites we needed to get to (well, except for one, the food pornographer site which was banned as porn - which it ain't).

This time, I thought I had Murphy licked. All the computers had been tested, all the access checked, my presentation loaded, the projector work - I had every base covered and Murphy would be frozen out of the equation and forced to go to the Literary Treasure Hunt.

WRONG!

Sadly, there was just one thing I couldn't have predicted or prepared for. Someone at Multiply decided that 8:00 am EST was a great time for site maintenance! So when we sat down at 1:00 pm GMT we were greeted with a message, albeit a polite message, that the Multiply was unavailable!

The little pixies at Multiply weren't going to hurry their maintenance either (see Note 1). So in the end we were forced to abandon the setting up of new blogs and the poor people (who had actually paid for the privilege) were forced to listen to me spout.

Thankfully, I had a lot of material and there were a lot of really good questions from the floor (some of which I could answer!) which allowed the session to last the full two hours.

I think it went well. I hope it went well. I guess the real test is to see who does their homework and what new blogs for the festival get connected to my festival Multiply blog.

Note 1 : This is because computer maintenance on overtime has to follow a set for. Management notice when you start work and hence qualify for overtime payments, when the computers go unavailable. The know when you finish the overtime, because the computers come back on.

Computer technicians aren't daft. They come in, switch the computers off, then go and fetch themselves a coffee and a doughnut while raking in payment at time and a half.

I've Got the Electrical Rodent Blues

For those of you who don't know and have the slightest interest, I work with computers. This means that I come into contact with lots of other people who work with computers. I eat lunch with lots of people who work in computers.

If you ever wonder what people who work in computers talk about when we are eating lunch, I can let you into the secret. We tend to talk about computers.

There you go then my puissant yeomen, part of the stereotype has been confirmed for you. I can also confirm that I work with men who have pony tails, wear sandals with socks and believe their knees should be displayed at all times. Don't take this to confirm the stereotype 100%. It might come as a shock, but they are also married and have made a contribution to the gene pool.

One topic of conversation of which we never tire is that of how we will interact with the computers of the future. These range from 2 minute chats at the coffee machine (another stereotype confirmed) to full five day conferences in exotic locations (see Note 1).

I'm old enough to have worked on computers where the only way you interacted with them was to feed in reels of paper tape, stacks of cards or hammer away with two fingers at a teletype. I can remember the first screen and keyboard arriving, shaking my head and tutting that it will never catch on and yes, I did the same when the PC and the computer mouse was wheeled through the door.

Now computers are everywhere (see Note 2). What is more we can use them anywhere and stay in touch with the interweb and our favourite applications almost everywhere we go.

Us computer people marvel at the technology that comes with our iPhones and our Wii's, talk about them a lot, then go and sit in front of our PC, fondle our mouse and then start hammering away at our keyboards as if they are teletypes.

Now that's the thing. What will replace the keyboard and the mouse? Touch screens? Brain implants? Armies of giant ants? We really don't know, but that doesn't stop us talking about it.

Then today, one of my colleagues sent my this link to a short film by Bruce Branit. I know nothing about Bruce and cannot provide any other information except the link to the film.

You really must find ten minutes of your life to watch this.

And, to confirm another stereotype, us computer bods spent our time discussing the holographic alarm clock.

Note 1 : Where another stereotype is sadly confirmed. When faced with the lure of talking about computers in a stuffy conference hall or sampling the temptations of an exotic location, the computer guys go for the stuffy conference hall every time.

Note 2 : My mobile phone has more processing power, memory and storage than the first computer I worked on and that computer filled a whole room while the air conditioning for it filled another. My mobile phone doesn't.

Monday Night is Romance Night

Sid, the erstwhile patron of the ‘Rat & Ferret’ is always looking for ways to boost the income from his hostelry. As he says, these are hard times and being a tied house to the Ethaniel Nightswerve Brewery and Liniment Emporium Plc means the margin on drinks is small. As he tells us regulars at every opportunity, the money he makes on his extensive range of ales is barely enough to keep Mattress Madge in her specially engineered corset ry.

Thankfully, Sid is never short of a few entrepreneurial ideas. He brought in a team of chefs from Eastern Europe and has been hosting incredibly popular ‘Gourmet Cabbage’ nights, drawing diners from far and wide. He’s converted part of the public bar into a Post Office (See Note1). In the summer, when the prevailing wind is blowing towards the abattoir, Sid hosts International Chess tournaments complete with a pig roast in the garden. In the winter, he hosts the World Egg Pickling Championships (See Note 2).

While the money is obviously nice, this also has a very positive impact on the pub. It is the centre of the local community. It is a place with character and (a very definite and distinctive) atmosphere where people can enjoy go and feel a sense of real belonging. It is a place where you can always be sure that there is something interesting going on. (See Note 3)

It would embarrass Sid immensely, but there is also the charity work. Sid tirelessly organises fund raisers for the less fortunate. Barely a month goes by without Sid and Mattress Madge being sponsored for something or another in aid of sick manicurists in Senegal or turning over the Dining Room for a gala for fallen women. Such are his efforts, that last month, the lady mayoress rewarded him with an engraved pewter tankard in recognition of his efforts for Patagonian donkeys. (See Note 4)

After the unfortunate closure of the local adult education centre (See Note 5), Sid has stepped into the breach again by allowing the skittle alley to be used for some of the evening classes.

One of the most popular is Padstow’s current class on ‘Seduction Techniques for the Aesthetically Challenged’ (See Note 6). Such is the popularity; the male regulars make sure that there is a sturdy chair wedging shut the connecting door to the skittle alley to avoid being dragged in for the practicals.

With so many of his restraining orders lapsing recently, Padstow was a touch depressed. However, with the success of this class, his spirit has been lifted enough to find the energy to take up a few light stalking duties of faux celebrities on Twitter.

Seeing this positive change in Padstow’s mood and the spring in the step of a number of the town’s architecturally built women, I haven’t the heart to tell anyone that the obvious success of the techniques owes little to the course content and a lot to do with the after effects of Sid’s ‘Gourmet Cabbage’ nights (See Note 7)

Note 1 : Sadly, this has not been the financial boost that Sid hoped. As soon as the local pensioners drew their pension, they retired to the snug where they tended to blow the lot on an illicit high stakes domino game instead of investing it wisely in a few quarts of Ethaniel Nightswerve’s finest.

Note 2 : Which has the added bonus of Sid being able to corner the market in pickled eggs in the run up to the festive season, plus a few pickled eggs with your gourmet cabbage adds to the atmosphere.

Note 3 : Only last week they discovered two of last years Chess competitors living in the chicken coop. Apparently, after being knocked out early in the competition they decided to knock back half a bottle of dried frog pills washed down with copious amounts of Velvet Cudgel and since August had been convinced they were a pair of Rhode Island Red Roosters.

Note 4 : Which of course, Sid raffled in aid of charities for disadvantaged parrots. In the US meanwhile, our beloved Prime Minister, Gordon Brown was doing the glad handing. At the Embassy Residence, Rabbi Schneier gave our PM a silver honey pot in the shape of an apple in thanks for work tackling poverty. Who said that Merkins don’t do irony? If anyone can tell me where I can buy a raffle ticket for the honey pot, please let me know.

Note 5 : Thankfully, Mr Stovelightly is making a very good recovery and has vowed to always wear his reading glasses in chemistry class in future. Exposing Ethaniel Nightswerve’s Premium Buttock Liniment to a naked flame is never a good idea. Still, thankfully the class was empty and the time and the builders believe that it won’t take too long to make the building safe.

Note 6 : Although it must be said that a number of the ladies in the class arrive by taxi in heavy disguise after telling friends and significant others that they are actually attending ‘Lard Sculpture for Beginners’ in the Drill Hall.

Note 7 : My indurated yeomen, yet again I feel that I have been restrained in where the synaptic tangents could have taken me. When I decided that my ‘story of the post’ was going to be that one, my mind immediately went to that tried and trusted bedtime game, much loved of honeymooners, the nocturnal contest of Dutch Ovens. For those of you who are saving yourself for marriage, you should read no further. OK, so you didn’t stop reading? Hmmmm, well I think I may have misjudged my audience. Dutch Oven’s is described to the sweet innocent partner as a game where if someone shouts ‘Dutch Ovens!’ and the winner is the first person to get their head fully beneath the bed clothes. The non-innocent then passes wind and shouts ‘Dutch Ovens!’

In the past I thought this just a prank, but having read the article, I am beginning to suspect that there may be some genetic conditioning that causes the male the urge to smell their own expelled gaseous matter as a guarantee of future performance.

Note to self : At some stage I could explain the phrase ‘ close to the mud’.

Confessions of a Really Terrible Writer

I should point out that the Really Terrible Writer of the title refers to myself, not to Alexander McCall Smith, the speaker of the first event I attended at this year's Oundle Festival of Literature.

It comes from the opening words of Alexander's talk when he described his ability to 'partly play' the Bassoon in the Really Terrible Orchestra (helping the musically disadvantaged since 1995), where, unable to play any of the high notes, he is forced to wait for the music to descend to a level where he can pick up the score.

St. Peters Church was packed for the event. This was obviously a hot ticket and by all accounts, could have been sold out many times over. As I took my seat, I must admit that I was not at all sure what to expect. He is, after all,   Emeritus Professor of Medical Law at the University of Edinburgh and famous author, so anything could happen.

I wasn't disappointed. He spoke with great wit, warmth and a deprecating humour about a wide range of topics including his huge portfolio of work. Among the anecdotes he treated his audience with was an explanation of his affliction of being a serial novelist (although laying the blame partly at the door of his publisher who insisted that characters should marry at the end of books, not simply become engaged). We were told that nothing much happens in his books and he just didn't do car chases and the nearest he has come is a thrilling chase involving supermarket trolleys.

I admit to a fair amount of jealousy when he told us that he writes about 1000 words an hour (he treats writing the same way as walking a tightrope 'I just look straight ahead and never look down and just keep going') and complete a book in two months.

There were numerous other topics touched on and of course anecdotes from Botswana, The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency and his heroine, Precious Ramotswe.

At the end, there was a touching moment when the daughter of a man behind the SOS Children's Villages in Botswana asked a question. Alexander played a handsome tribute to her father as well as admitting that he drew on his visits there for some characters and the famous fruit cake in the stories.

All in all, a good evening. When I left, the book stall was in full swing and the signing queue was still snaking around the back of the church. As I turned up my collar and stepped out into the wind and the rain, I couldn't help agreeing with Alexander McCall Smith in bemoaning the lack of authors writing for the Dry Cleaning genre and wondering if I could ever put that right - although it would never be at 1000 words per hour.

As Saturday is fast approaching (tickets still available at reasonable prices and there will even be refreshments serves!), in the course of researching this entry, I came across the blog for the Really Terrible Orchestra.

 

A Natural Lift for the Spirit

March has rather snuck up on me.Still, it's good that it has arrived and today has given me a glimpse of spring.

I'm an early starter, so for the last four months, I have been leaving for work in the dark. Yet today there was the slightest hint of blue in the sky and our blackbird was going at it as if his poor lungs were about to burst.

OK, so I had to scrape frost of the windows of the car, but it meant that the sun lifted itself into a clear blue sky and managed to summon up enough energy to make it feel really pleasant if you kept out of the shade.

All of which means that we will probably have more snow before the week is out.

I'm not going to knock it though. Today the little blackbird and his big song (see Note 1) really lifted my spirits and made the world seem a much better place.

It is a long shot, but you never know, the lighter mornings, the countryside starting to take on a tinge of green, the warmth of the sun on our backs and mother nature's morning concerts might start to lift the gloom that fills our newspapers and start to get the sap of confidence pumping again.

Note 1 : Yes, I was talking about the blackbird singing. What on earth did you think our little blackbird would be up to on a spring-like morning?