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I’m currently reading “The Science of Discworld” by Terry Pratchett, Ian Stewart and Jack Cohen. It’s a really fun and surprisingly thought-provoking book, using Discworld as a model to discuss important issues in science in our world (“Roundworld”). I might write a longer post on it later when I finish it, but one quote in particular (about Unseen University on Discworld) struck a chord:

“A university is very much like a coral reef. It provides calm waters and food particles for delicate yet marvellously constructed organisms that could not possibly survive in the pounding surf of reality, where people ask questions like, ‘Is what you do of any use?’ and other nonsense.” p. 142-143

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Oh my. It looks like I might have to stop describing myself as a Mac lover. I don’t take it quite that far, though. True, I have been known to stroke my TiBook lovingly, but there’s nothing going on between us. We’re just good friends, aren’t we darling?

Take a look at the picture of “iMac Boy” that accompanies the piece, and answer me this question: why does his mouse look so angry?

A few days ago, I stepped on a wood staple in my Nike Air trainers. The inevitable happened, and my air reservoir got a puncture. I was a bit sceptical that the air thingy did anything at all, but now that I’m listing to starboard with a deflation induced limp, I can appreciate that they did actually have some purpose.

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I’ve been tinkering again. I decided to switch the publishing of this site over to Moveabletype, and in the process, I redesigned the appearance a little bit again. It should have substantially the same feel, but hopefully it won’t suffer from the same bugs in IE6. That’s my hope, anyway.

The move to Moveabletype (MT) shouldn’t be seen as any kind of negative commentary on Tinderbox. I’m still writing and organizing the site on Tinderbox, then dragging and dropping the notes into MT. Both have their strengths and weaknesses, but by this method I get the best of both worlds. I can write and organize the site on my own machine, but can also publish from an internet cafe when on the move. MT also gives me an easy way for people to post comments (see the comment links under each post), and other ways to archive posts. None of which I couldn’t do with TB with a little effort, but I’m lazy.

The old archive file is still available, so if you’ve linked to any of my posts, that link won’t break. I’ve also imported the old posts so that they’re available here too. You can still use the old URL, which will be redirected here.

Let me know what you think of the new look, and tell me whether I’ve broken anything.

Ah, there’s nothing like a bit of Jimi as the nights are drawing in. Remasterings don’t always work well, but this one has kept the spontaneity of the original, and everything (particularly the live material) sounds fresh and funky. If there’s any music that could tempt me to get my air guitar out of the cupboard, Crosstown Traffic or Foxey Lady is it. I still find it hard to believe that there’s only one person playing lead guitar…

I was really surprised by this one. My brother recommended it to me, but never having liked Beck much before, I wasn’t at all sure that I would like it. I couldn’t have been more wrong. It’s a trippy, mellow album, with bitter-sweet lyrics and is surprisingly tuneful. There are also some very nice string arrangements which add some depth and complexity.

I missed capturing a moment as a digital image today, because I didn’t have my camera with me. So, here it is translated by my brain from the image formed in my eyes.

Our bus approached a deep flood in the road, water arcing up on each side. Kids in grey hoodies ran alongside, exhilarated, trying to get soaked, dolphins surfing the bow wave. Sun shattered the water drops into sparks, igniting their smiles.

I realized afterwards, with sadness, that I’ve reached an age where I would have been angry, not excited if I were in their position. But, I did see the moment of beauty and appreciate it, so perhaps I’m not irredeemably lost.

What you really need on a Friday night is some Spicy Brains. Don’t be put off by the twee beginnings — trust me, it gets very weird. Hehehehe.

I’m evidently in dire need of brains of some sort. I managed to burn my hand badly on the oven door this evening. Arse. Oven. Hot. Burns.

Today we said goodbye to Martin - a friend from work who is going back to the US after two years of penance in the UK. Martin came here, with his wife and 6 month old son, from Hawaii. He emailed me before they arrived with a few questions about housing, transport, nice areas to live and so on. My first question to him was, “Are you completely insane? You live in Hawaii (sun, tropical beaches, mountains, relaxed life-style) and you want to move to Oxford (rain, historic buildings, more rain, cold).”

Needless to say he didn’t heed my warning (they never do), and he and Lisa had to buy a lot more thick jumpers than they expected. Martin is one of the most laid-back, funny and cheerful people I know, and we’re all going to miss him a lot (not least because he often brought cookies to work for everyone). One of the toughest things about academia is the impermanency of it: you get to make new friends, then before you know it, they’ve moved on to another contract, often in another country.

Anyway, next week, Martin and his family (now incremented by one - a new British-born son) will leave the rain and Fire Strikes and go back to sunny Fresno, CA. We wish them the best of luck, and reserve in advance a space on the floor to put our sleeping bags when we come and visit. And have the chocolate-chip cookies on standby, Martin.

This site exhibits a plethora of strange found objects (photographs, notes and so on), which give tantalizing or bizzare glimpses into other people’s lives. The photographs are particularly poignant. Strangely addictive.

Some of the photographs reminded me of those we found at my great aunt’s after she died. She was a spinster (what a truly awful word) in her nineties when she died, and to us children was a slightly fierce old lady. But the photographs revealed another side to her entirely - young, happy and having a laugh with her friends. One wonderful sepia print (probably from about the 1920s or 30s) showed my great aunt in a group of male and female friends, drinking cider in a cornfield, laughing and smiling. It was like a scene from “Cider with Rosie”, and almost impossible to reconcile with the old lady we knew.

I caught The Polyphonic Spree on “Later with Jools Holland” yesterday. If you’re based in the UK, you’ll probably be thinking, “What weird kind of time-warp is she in? Isn’t Later on Friday night?”. Well, I’m such a sad old git that it’s after my bedtime, even on a Friday, so I tape it and watch it at a more civilized hour (when I can enjoy it in my slippers with a Horlicks.) This also has the side benefit of being able to spin through the boring acts.

Anyway, they were totally excellent. I’ve enjoyed their debut album, “The Beginning Stages Of…” for some time, but they really come into their own live. They just look like they’re having an absolute blast, which is just as it should be.

I used to sing in a choir at school, and loved the buzz of opening your mouth to sing, expecting to hear your own rather weedy voice come out, and hearing instead a gloriously rich and powerful explosion of sound. Well, that’s the theory. I went to an all girls school, so we were always a bit light on basses. Some of the butcher girls could make it down to tenor, but bass was a pitch too far. We had to recruit Dads, brothers and boyfriends to fill out the choir for pieces like Handel’s Messiah. The brothers and boyfriends added a certain frisson to the proceedings, I can tell you. Our music teacher, Mrs. Davin-Looby (no, that really was her name) did a great job of making us laugh and enjoy ourselves, but she was a total stickler for enunciation. I still can’t listen to the Messiah without hearing, “Fo runt oo wus a child is born. Unto wus, a son is given…” - Mrs. D-L’s rendering of our poor interpretation.

I only sing in the shower now, which is a bit sad. I should really join a choir and recapture that “hairs on the back of the neck rising” experience. I wonder if the Polyphonic Spree would have me?

I’ve just got back from watching “Rabbit Proof Fence”. I’m notoriously lachrymose in films (Mr. Butshesagirl thought I was having some kind of nervous breakdown in “Billy Elliot”), but it isn’t often that I’m in tears within the first ten minutes.

Rabbit Proof Fence is the utterly harrowing true story of three aboriginal girls who were taken from their family and forced to stay in a camp, miles from their home. This was a deliberate policy to “breed the black” out of “half-caste” aboriginal children, enforced by the ironically-titled Chief Protector of Aborigines (otherwise known by the children in the camps as Mr. Devil, with ample justification). The girls escape and start to walk the 1200 miles back home, pursued by Moodoo, an aboriginal tracker trying to keep his job at the camp so that he can at least look longingly at his daughter, if not actually speak to her. Mr. Devil evidently thought that he was doing the right thing, though how anyone could ever think that taking children from their families could possibly be right is beyond me. Incredibly, this practice continued until 1970. Just another reason to be extremely suspicious of anyone who claims, “It’s for their own good - they’ll thank me later for it”.

I won’t spoil it for anyone else going to see the film, but be warned that the text after the film which catches us up with what happened to Molly, Daisy and Gracie after the events depicted in the film (there must be a technical term for that), is even more of an emotional rollercoaster than the rest of the film. You’ll be smiling one minute and crying again the next.

The terrible thing is that there’s no way to give back these people - who had everything stolen from them, family, culture, homelands - back even a part of what was taken. At least this film might make their story more widely known.

Anne Robinson. Have I Got News for You. No, I’m sorry, that just doesn’t work. Perhaps they were hoping for some lively back and forth, but Paul Merton and Ian Hislop just looked bewildered and embarrassed.

Anne has absolutely no sense of comic timing. She just looked like she was reading off the autocue the whole time, without any understanding of what she was saying, so that all the jokes fell flatter than a very flat thing indeed. The only high point of the whole show was Paul spasmodically shouting, “Bank!”, looking confused.

I can only hope that the BBC come to their senses and choose someone vaguely capable next time. Paul Merton was good, but I think that Rod Liddle would be a great choice. And he needs a steady job, the poor bloke.

In the little coffee room on my floor at work, a fridge-freezer has just appeared. It’s a standard domestic model, only distinguished by the sign on the door.

“Experiment in progress. Do not open.”

I am aflame with curiosity. What’s the experiment? Why is it taking place in a fridge? What dreadful calamity would befall me if I took a peek? Is it all a Cunning Plan to stop people stealing this guy’s milk? I guess this is why scientists can get into so much trouble. One minute you’re thinking, “I wonder what would happen if I dropped a lit match on this large heap of grey powder?”, and the next moment all that’s left is a pair of smoking boots.

So I’m not the only one who speculates about the appeal of blue leds (via Boing Boing).

I had no idea that it partially originated with what would be maximally visible to the ageing eyes of middle-aged men, though! Not being rich enough to afford hi-fi classy enough to sport the blue ‘uns, I’ve got a Rega Planet with a rather nice, retro 70’s calculator red display.