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Well, we’re more or less installed in our new home! I would have posted sooner, but I couldn’t get the Telewest cable modem working with the Mac for a while. The moving guys were fantastic (and got a big tip!) so the physical part of moving was fairly untraumatic. I’m not sure that we would go for it if we were paying for it ourselves, but getting everything packed by experts is a huge luxury. The day before we moved, we just cleared off and spent a very pleasant day pottering around the gardens of Cliveden, and visiting a gallery of Stanley Spencer’s paintings in Cookham. We came back to find absolutely no free space in the flat, but everything was neatly packed in boxes. Our flat is so small that packing must have been like one of those sliding tile puzzles; you would have to move something to make the space to move something else closer to where you wanted it to go. Our move was slightly complicated by the fact that some of the furniture and contents are ours, and some belong to our landlady, so we had lots of labels on everything to tell the movers what was going and what was staying. Also, Mr. Bsag is staying in Oxford for a couple more weeks to sort out some loose ends and finish off at work, so he had to leave a few things in the flat for him. Some items ended up in the wrong location, but generally it worked out pretty well. I have to go back to pick Mr. Bsag up anyway, so we’ll sort it all out then.

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It’s getting very close to moving day for us, so I’m going to be disconnected (in so many senses) for a few days. There’s already broadband set up in our new home, but the owner can’t quite remember what the settings are, so I’ve got some detective work to do before I’m online again.

So it’s goodbye Oxford…

[Fanfare]

…hello Birmingham!

Airports can be interesting places for short periods of time. You cross paths with all sorts of fascinating people. While I was waiting in the check-in queue, I overheard a father explaining—in great detail—the entire plot of Part 2 of Wagner’s Ring Cycle, Das Rheingold to his early-teenaged son. The boy seemed to be listening fairly attentively to tales of Rhinedaughters and the symbolism of the Ring, which probably made him a bit unusual amongst the ranks of teenagers.

They passed through the check-in desk and disappeared, and I went on my way too. About half an hour later, I saw them again in the Departure Lounge. Dad was still only at the beginning of Scene 2, and Son gave me a slightly glazed and desperate expression. I hope they weren’t on a long flight.

We’re incredibly lucky that the University is paying our moving expenses for us, so we’re getting a removals firm to shift all our junk (for the first time in our lives), and they are even packing stuff for us. Which is just as well, because my packing strategy is rubbish, and half of my plates would probably end up broken. But this raises a tricky issue; how much do you tip removals people? No-one we know has moved recently using a removals company, so we don’t have the first idea what the going rate is. We don’t want to be stingy—after all, these people will have all our worldly possessions in their hands—but we are also not made of money¹. There will be two people packing on one day, then three shifting boxes the next. This question is obviously for UK residents only, unless there an International Agreement on Removals Staff Tipping Levels.

¹ This is a big understatement—we are heavily in debt to our parents at the moment.

One of the perks of my new job is that I get a new computer. My trusty old 15” TiBook belongs to my current research group, so I had to get a new one; happily for me this is paid for by the new University. It has just arrived, and I’ve been frantically installing stuff and migrating my files across so that I can return the old one before I leave.

The new machine is a 12” PowerBook, and I’m really impressed with it so far. I thought that I would really miss the huge screen on the TiBook, but the screen is so crisp and bright that I barely notice the reduction in size. I agonised for ages about whether to get the 15” or the 12”, but in the end it mainly came down to size (or rather, lack of it). I genuinely have to lug my laptop for some distance on bike or foot, and I was beginning to find the 15” a bit of burden. There isn’t a lot in it (about 500g I think), but the difference is quite noticeable. It looks absolutely adorable next to the TiBook—it’s as if my old laptop has had a baby. I love the design. It feels really compact and efficient, though I’ll have to get used to having all the ports on the left-hand side. I used to like hiding all the messy wiring behind where I couldn’t see it, even though cables were slightly more fiddly to plug in.

I’m waiting for some more RAM to be ordered, but even with half of the RAM I had in the TiBook, it feels really nippy. It does have twice the clock speed, so it flippin’ well should do, I suppose, or we’ve all been swindled. Burning discs on my laptop is a bit of a novelty too, as I got the TiBook just before they introduced a CD-RW unit. My only slight gripe is that the keyboard feels mushy and flimsy compared to the old one. I think they’ve skimped a bit of money on it, though it isn’t as bad as some laptop keyboards I’ve used. I’ll probably get an external keyboard for work anyway, so it isn’t too much of an issue.

I had been having some stability issues with the old machine (just accumulated cruft, I think), so I wanted to reinstall applications from scratch to avoid replicating the problem. It’s only when you go to do this that you realise just how many applications you have installed, and how long it takes to locate all the disks or disk images, configure them and so on. I think this might be a good opportunity to live without some of my less frequently used stuff and see if I actually miss it. It’s also funny how a Mac doesn’t really feel as if it’s your own until you’ve got all your favourite apps, utilities, and desktop backgrounds set up.

I’m back from the conference, and immediately immersed in packing up the office, sorting out things in the house, and trying to recover from sleep deprivation and a very sub-optimal diet. I realised that I didn’t say which country I was going to. I went to a very pretty rural part of Germany. On the way to the hotel, I eyed the flat gradients and wide, well-kept cycle paths with an enormous amount of jealousy. There were always lots of people gliding about elegantly and effortlessly on comfortable Dutch bikes—no helmets or Lycra in sight.

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Thomas Voeckler is my new cycling hero. He looks about 16 years old, has a funny honking¹ style, and manages to get dropped on just about every climb of the mountain stages. But he still—somehow—manages to drag himself back through the peleton with very little support from his team, and is still just hanging on to the yellow jersey after 9 days. Every kilometre looks like torture for him, but when he gets on the podium he has such a sweet smile. I don’t think for a moment that it’s possible, but if he won the Tour this year it would make me very happy.

On a completely different topic, I noticed yet another PowerBook with a ‘modesty patch’ on it in the coverage of the Tour today. I don’t know why (especially on commercial TV), but the Apple logos on PowerBooks always seem to get covered up, while equivalent Dell or IBM logos don’t. Is this the Microsoft mafia at work? Today’s example was partially covered by an ITV2 sticker, though the stalk of the Apple peeked cheekily over the top. On other programmes I’ve seen the cover-ups performed by Post-It notes, pixelation and even digital editing to make it look like a blank titanium shell (Six Feet Under). To those Producers/Directors, I say, “You’re not fooling anyone, pal. We can see it’s an Apple a mile off.”

¹ Honking: cycling term for standing up out of the pedals. Also the noise I make when performing this action up a steep hill, just before I give up and walk.

I’m off tomorrow to La Continent for a conference—great timing, just as we’re about to move, but it has been planned for a while. So unless I find an internet connection somewhere, things will be quiet around here until next Thursday or Friday. Have fun while I’m away, but no parties in the house, OK?

There’s a feature in the latest issue of the CAMRA newsletter about a pub called the Square and Compass in Dorset. It’s that rare breed—a real cider pub. Apparently they have up to 10 real ciders at a time. Ten! In most pubs (even ones which have real ale), you’re lucky to get one proper cider—note that I don’t consider bland abominations like Woodpecker or Dry Blackthorn as proper cider. It sounds like my idea of heaven, particularly as there’s also no jukebox, games machines or piped music, and there’s a great view from the pub garden, where free-range chickens cluck about. Just to top off the perfection levels, there’s also a natural history museum attached to the pub, and it’s in a village called Worth Matravers. I love any place with a name that sounds like a louche character in a bodice-ripping novel.

Worth Matravers burst through the door of Kitty Silveroak’s boudoir, eyes smoldering and nostrils flaring. “Sir, you forget yourself!”, exclaimed Kitty, covering her heaving bosom with the bedclothes. “I must have you, Kitty” breathed Worth, huskily. “Do not try to pretend you have not been admiring the cut of my breeches.”

Ahem. Sorry, I got a little carried away there. That’s what cider does for you, you see—it loosens the tongue and stimulates the imagination. I think it’s a great shame that cider isn’t more widely appreciated. Many people get put off it in late adolescence when they overindulge on Blackthorn (or ‘snakebites’) and have a learned aversion to cider as a result of the hideous hangover they wake up with the next day. In fact, cider shouldn’t really be drunk—like ale—in pints. Some real ciders are almost as strong as wine (and just as complex and subtle in flavour), and are best drunk in small glasses. Cider-making has a very long history in this country, and there are wonderful old apple varieties with fantastic names like Greasey Pippin, Sheep’s Nose, Foxwhelp, Slack-me-girdle and Merrylegs. How can anyone dislike a drink made with apples called Slack-me-girdle? It’s such a shame that real cider production seems to be in a slow decline, and ancient orchards are being grubbed up because they are ‘uneconomic’. I think I’ll be making a visit to the Square and Compass at some point to do my bit to support real cider makers and sellers. They also serve real ale, so Mr. Bsag will be happy too.

One of the good things (well, the only good thing) about moving house is that it forces you to sort through all the cruft that naturally accumulates over the years. I was amazed when I managed to fill three small bin bags full of clothes (two for Oxfam and one for fabric recycling). It’s not as if I’m any kind of fashion victim (as must be painfully obvious to anyone who sees me), though perhaps the fact that I tend to hold on to clothes for years doesn’t help. I even have a sweatshirt—that I still wear—bought to support a student expedition to Venezuela in 1990. A top Bsag fashion tip: if you’re going to wear 14-year-old clothes, make sure that they don’t have the year of purchase emblazoned on them.

Today I tackled the magazine boxes full of old catalogues and leaflets, which raised a huge cloud of dust¹ and contributed 3 carrier bags full of paper for recycling. If I go on like this, our flat might even have enough space to become habitable, just as we are moving out. But it is very cathartic to get rid of all the junk, and you tend to find things you mislaid years ago. I found a bag of picture hooks lurking in a drawer that I’ve been looking for for ages.

¹ We certainly won’t be suffering from hygiene-related autoimmune diseases—our immune systems get a vigorous workout every day.

I’ve been watching quite a few documentaries recently, and it has made me think a bit about what makes them effective. In the style of the old ‘compare and contrast’ essays we all had to write at school, I was thinking about the differences between two programmes I’ve seen in the past few days: Time Machine and Searching for the Wrong-Eyed Jesus. Time Machine featured computer reconstructions of physical processes which happen over a very long time scale, like glaciation, plate tectonics and the formation of the Grand Canyon. The visuals were stunning¹, but the narration was terrible. It was awash with terrible puns (when they showed a kangaroo, you just knew they were going to say, “we need to JUMP BACK in time…”) and Every. Word. Was. Emphasised. It was so unnecessary; the graphics were mesmerising on their own, and the narration should have provided additional information rather than bludgeoning us with how amazing it all was. It was one of those occasions when I wished that I could selectively remove the narration from the audio, leaving the music and images.

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Since our plans had to be radically restructured, we decided that we would make an en route visit to Ikea. We weren’t intending to buy anything¹; it was more of a reconnaissance mission to check out the lie of the land and sit on some sofas. Our current flat is fully furnished, and while we have a few pieces of furniture that we have somehow managed to shoe-horn in amongst the truly horrible pieces that came with the flat, we’ll need some more after we move if we’re going to avoid sitting and sleeping on the floor.

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So, we’re back after our short trip away to sort a lot of things out. The work thing fell through at the very last minute. And when I say ‘fell through’ what I really mean is ‘crashed to the ground and smashed into millions of tiny pieces’. I don’t want to go into too much detail (for one thing, I’m still fuming about it), but it will probably take quite a bit longer than I had hoped to get my research up and running. It will all come out in the wash (as my mum always says).

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There’s a school playing field out the back of our flat, and earlier today, we were watching a pair of carrion crows pecking and pulling at something flat. It looked a bit like a deflated football. This was—perhaps—wishful thinking on our part, as a gang of mini-thugs regularly trespass on the field outside school hours, and continually whack their football against our fence, breaking the fence and annoying the hell out of us. It seemed a bit odd for crows to be bothering with a football though, so we got our binoculars out and took a closer look. We then wished we hadn’t; the object was a long-dead and very flat squirrel. Even the crows seemed to be a bit dubious about whether it contained any nutritive value.

I won’t be posting for a few days as I’ve got to run around much of the Southern half of England trying to sort out work things, housing things and other things, all without the solace and emotional outlet of an internet connection.