If anyone out there feels bereft at the lack of updates to this blog over the past nine days, shame on you. But hey, an apology is also due. I realised I needed to do some stuff in the real world instead of prattling on here, and then my scheduled blogging time on Friday evening (not to mention a substantial part of Saturday morning) was spent trying to remove a ton of malware from the PC.
Now it may be coincidence but this nasty stuff appeared on the computer just after Sarah joined Facebook and started playing the various games and quizzes contained therein. I should mention I also signed up but have spent hardly any time on there at all. Even leaving aside the possibility that it was the source of our infection, I haven't honestly been that impressed with Facebook. There are some neat features but I don't really want a virtual flower bed, virtual drinks or to have my cyber werewolf served a bowl of pain by a Sinister Vampire attack. (Yes, that's something you really can do, if you for some reason want to.)
Perhaps more than that, the definition of friendship is being stretched. Here's a quote from another Facebook user: "How come I have 233 friends but only two birthday cards?" That's Mark, a "friend" of mine who I've seen probably twice in four years. Another friend (who I haven't seen for even longer but do at least e-mail regularly and phone once in a while, and whose identity I shall protect) remarked: "X added me as a friend but I strongly hesitate to contact him as he never ever replies." Facebook invites a policy of claiming as friends people who in the real world should be considered acquaintances at best. It seems to be a badge of honour to have as many Facebook friends as possible - that's the only reason I can think of for my being contacted by people who I used to bump into a dozen years ago and with the best will in the world am never likely to see again. Since when has friendship been a competition?
I'm wondering how you decide whether someone is a friend or not. Perhaps someone you would send a birthday card (see above). Well on Facebook you can see all your friends' birthdays and send a message, with no effort expended at all. Good or bad thing?
Disclaimer: I have fewer friends than Sarah both on Facebook and in real life - so you may judge I'm just bitter.
Andrew's money-saving tips #5: Don't buy birthday cards and presents for your friends, just sign up to Facebook.
Tuesday, 26 February 2008
Monday, 18 February 2008
Dem bones, dem bones, dem plaster bones
We went to the Natural History Museum on Friday, en famille except for Daniel who doesn't do queuing. The date was carefully chosen to hit Adam's inset day (Baker day) prior to the one week break (half-term), so the place wouldn't be crowded. Unfortunately we failed to observe that not all education authorities operate the same calendar and the place was crowded with children on their week's holiday.
I've been to the Science Museum several times and love it because it has things with engines, but my fleeting visits to the adjoining building have totalled in the region of an hour of boredom. This may be due to me not having appreciated fine architecture at the age of nine. The museum building combines ecclesiastical touches with more than a hint of railway shed - and the occasional hospital corridor thrown in. Coincidentally one of my colleagues did a walking tour of the Crystal Palace park at the weekend and was told that the three great Kensington museums were funded by the unfathomable income from the Great Exhibition. I don't know if it's true: Wikipedia is silent on the subject.
Anyway, our reason for being there was the dinosaurs... Adam is obsessed. He's not the only one: the 15-minute queue stretched right around Dippy the diplodocus back in the main hall. Dare I say it though, the whole thing seemed a little dumbed-down. The most impressive exhibit, a genuine half-entombed carcass with a section of skin still in place, was right by the door and quickly passed by en route to the raised walkway leading towards the animatronic T Rex. (Which has a split in its neck, by the way.) Perusal of the exhibition in its entirety reveals that nearly all the skeletons on display are casts rather than real bones, that few enough bones have been found to render the reconstruction of dinosaurs little more than educated guesswork in many cases, and that indeed much dino-related palaentology is based on surmise and theory rather than evidence. That does not stop kids - and a fair few adults, judging from the success of Jurassic Park - being enchanted. Adam thinks dinosaurs are the best thing since long before sliced bread and knows far more about them than I ever wish even to have any interest in.
Fortunately we had time to see the stuffed animals, the sabre-tooth skeleton, the creepy-crawly room and the humungous (though disproportionate) model of the Blue Whale which is one of the museum's most famous pieces. Unfortunately we didn't have time to see Archie the giant squid or the geological collection, among other things. A return visit is in order.
I am impressed that such a vast collection of artifacts and knowledge should be entirely free to view. My only concern is that it is wasted on the majority of the British public. Then again, if they went as well, we would still be queuing.
I've been to the Science Museum several times and love it because it has things with engines, but my fleeting visits to the adjoining building have totalled in the region of an hour of boredom. This may be due to me not having appreciated fine architecture at the age of nine. The museum building combines ecclesiastical touches with more than a hint of railway shed - and the occasional hospital corridor thrown in. Coincidentally one of my colleagues did a walking tour of the Crystal Palace park at the weekend and was told that the three great Kensington museums were funded by the unfathomable income from the Great Exhibition. I don't know if it's true: Wikipedia is silent on the subject.
Anyway, our reason for being there was the dinosaurs... Adam is obsessed. He's not the only one: the 15-minute queue stretched right around Dippy the diplodocus back in the main hall. Dare I say it though, the whole thing seemed a little dumbed-down. The most impressive exhibit, a genuine half-entombed carcass with a section of skin still in place, was right by the door and quickly passed by en route to the raised walkway leading towards the animatronic T Rex. (Which has a split in its neck, by the way.) Perusal of the exhibition in its entirety reveals that nearly all the skeletons on display are casts rather than real bones, that few enough bones have been found to render the reconstruction of dinosaurs little more than educated guesswork in many cases, and that indeed much dino-related palaentology is based on surmise and theory rather than evidence. That does not stop kids - and a fair few adults, judging from the success of Jurassic Park - being enchanted. Adam thinks dinosaurs are the best thing since long before sliced bread and knows far more about them than I ever wish even to have any interest in.
Fortunately we had time to see the stuffed animals, the sabre-tooth skeleton, the creepy-crawly room and the humungous (though disproportionate) model of the Blue Whale which is one of the museum's most famous pieces. Unfortunately we didn't have time to see Archie the giant squid or the geological collection, among other things. A return visit is in order.
I am impressed that such a vast collection of artifacts and knowledge should be entirely free to view. My only concern is that it is wasted on the majority of the British public. Then again, if they went as well, we would still be queuing.
Wednesday, 13 February 2008
Save lives: superheat the planet
After our trip to sunny Margate, I found an article on that bastion of truth, the BBC website, stating that global warming could make us live longer (see http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/health/7240463.stm). Bearing in mind how many people in the world have a life expectancy of less than 40, I think it's our duty to warm the globe as much as possible. With that in mind, and in the interests of stimulating the depressed British economy, I will tomorrow be spending money I don't have on a super-polluting 4x4, for the good of the world. Possibly.
I have in fact been rather reassured to find the past two mornings were freezing cold and foggy into the bargain, just like a proper winter. Not that we've had any proper snow (that persists for more than a couple of days) for about a decade. I'm sure it didn't used to be like that when I was a kid.
But there was a lovely jumpers-for-goalposts moment on my way home from work. I was passed by three lads on bikes, one of whom was towing a mate in a trailer made from the top half of a shopping trolley with pram wheels attached. I thought teenagers these days were far too busy putting on eye-liner, smashing up bus shelters and hanging around phone boxes with bottles of cheap cider, to be so creative. It fills me with hope that somewhere out there may be the next Brunel. Although I'd be willing to bet that Mr B didn't start by sticking wheels to something stolen from a supermarket.
I have in fact been rather reassured to find the past two mornings were freezing cold and foggy into the bargain, just like a proper winter. Not that we've had any proper snow (that persists for more than a couple of days) for about a decade. I'm sure it didn't used to be like that when I was a kid.
But there was a lovely jumpers-for-goalposts moment on my way home from work. I was passed by three lads on bikes, one of whom was towing a mate in a trailer made from the top half of a shopping trolley with pram wheels attached. I thought teenagers these days were far too busy putting on eye-liner, smashing up bus shelters and hanging around phone boxes with bottles of cheap cider, to be so creative. It fills me with hope that somewhere out there may be the next Brunel. Although I'd be willing to bet that Mr B didn't start by sticking wheels to something stolen from a supermarket.
Tuesday, 12 February 2008
I do love to be beside the seaside, in February
Down to Margate
You can keep the Costa Brava and all that palaver...
Me I'd rather have me a day down Margate with all me family
- Chas & Dave, Down to Margate
Early February and it was decidedly temperate, not to mention sunny. That's global warming that is. We went to the beach. The sea level was rising in front of our very eyes. That's global warming that is. Just as well we contributed 75 miles' worth of petrol fumes to the atmosphere, to keep British winters warmer.
Margate, it must be said, has seen better days. Chas & Dave's tongue-in-cheek eulogy dates from 1990, by which point I suspect its heyday was already past. Since Sarah and I went there with friends on a couple of pre-marital social jaunts, the seafront cinema has closed, one of the arcades has been razed by fire and the once-proud amusement park (680,000 visitors as recently as 2003) is little more than a car park, despite the meritorious efforts of the Save Dreamland campaign (www.savedreamland.co.uk).
We parked at the base of a derelict car park straight out of the computer game Driver. Perhaps on Saturday night the Saxo drivers of Thanet filled it with screeching donuts, J-turns and tyre smoke. By the following afternoon they were contenting themselves with leaps from the prom into deep sand. Walking from the car park towards the seafront, we passed a parade of shops, all except one concealed by out-of-season shutters or out-of-hope hoardings. It all looked so forlorn and a contrast to the still bustling summer of 99.
But the thing is, the boys were happy. Adam befriended a girl called Tiffany, whose family was closely related to Vicky Pollard, whilst we tried not to be snobby. Daniel carried water back from the sea and poured it into the sand. Adam dug holes. I carved a boat in the sand for the boys to sit in. We ate snacks on the rug. The boys were, if not entirely oblivious, at least silent on the questionable cleanliness of the beach. Adam was distressed by the lack of profit (read, return) from a bag of 2p coins invested in a slot machine; hopefully a lesson well learned for him. We went to the chip shop - and Daniel dropped an entire portion on the floor for the gulls. Adam deposited half a cubic metre of sand from his wellies onto the car park when it was time to go home.
In short it was fabulous. But inexplicably empty. I can only think no one gives a second thought these days to a down-at-heel British resort when skiing or a pool-endowed package hotel is one short flight away. And therein lies the rub. It may be that only when the populace takes climate change seriously and resolves to fly less to the Costas, will the great British holiday - and places like Margate - find a new lease of life. And if they leave it just too late, the British climate will have turned Mediterranean as well.
You can keep the Costa Brava and all that palaver...
Me I'd rather have me a day down Margate with all me family
- Chas & Dave, Down to Margate
Early February and it was decidedly temperate, not to mention sunny. That's global warming that is. We went to the beach. The sea level was rising in front of our very eyes. That's global warming that is. Just as well we contributed 75 miles' worth of petrol fumes to the atmosphere, to keep British winters warmer.
Margate, it must be said, has seen better days. Chas & Dave's tongue-in-cheek eulogy dates from 1990, by which point I suspect its heyday was already past. Since Sarah and I went there with friends on a couple of pre-marital social jaunts, the seafront cinema has closed, one of the arcades has been razed by fire and the once-proud amusement park (680,000 visitors as recently as 2003) is little more than a car park, despite the meritorious efforts of the Save Dreamland campaign (www.savedreamland.co.uk).
We parked at the base of a derelict car park straight out of the computer game Driver. Perhaps on Saturday night the Saxo drivers of Thanet filled it with screeching donuts, J-turns and tyre smoke. By the following afternoon they were contenting themselves with leaps from the prom into deep sand. Walking from the car park towards the seafront, we passed a parade of shops, all except one concealed by out-of-season shutters or out-of-hope hoardings. It all looked so forlorn and a contrast to the still bustling summer of 99.
But the thing is, the boys were happy. Adam befriended a girl called Tiffany, whose family was closely related to Vicky Pollard, whilst we tried not to be snobby. Daniel carried water back from the sea and poured it into the sand. Adam dug holes. I carved a boat in the sand for the boys to sit in. We ate snacks on the rug. The boys were, if not entirely oblivious, at least silent on the questionable cleanliness of the beach. Adam was distressed by the lack of profit (read, return) from a bag of 2p coins invested in a slot machine; hopefully a lesson well learned for him. We went to the chip shop - and Daniel dropped an entire portion on the floor for the gulls. Adam deposited half a cubic metre of sand from his wellies onto the car park when it was time to go home.
In short it was fabulous. But inexplicably empty. I can only think no one gives a second thought these days to a down-at-heel British resort when skiing or a pool-endowed package hotel is one short flight away. And therein lies the rub. It may be that only when the populace takes climate change seriously and resolves to fly less to the Costas, will the great British holiday - and places like Margate - find a new lease of life. And if they leave it just too late, the British climate will have turned Mediterranean as well.
Saturday, 9 February 2008
The Wii small hours
It has been almost three weeks since my last post, which is not intended to imply that nothing exciting has been happening in Wigmore. (It hasn't, I just wanted to defer the disappointment for a few extra seconds.) Wii have in fact been very busy, sometimes until way past the time Wii should have gone to bed.
Occasions when Sarah considers my time spent on the computer to have been profitable are, it must be said, few and far between, but a couple of weeks ago Wii benefited from some idle surfing on my part. Starting out to see what I could get for the shedload of Nectar points that our expensive groceries have generated, I followed a few links across cyberspace as you do, and found myself on the site of a well-known catalogue-based shopping emporium who happened to have taken delivery of some consoles, sans unwanted game bundles. And all of a sudden Wii were the prospective owners of a joint birthday present of which Sarah had given up hope - all it needed was a 15-mile round trip to collect it. Seeing as I had also booked our favourite restaurant fully a month ahead to avoid the usual problems with getting a table for around Valentine's Day, my delivery on a promise that I would find the console did not look like a fluke. Even though it was, entirely.
I had hoped by now that Adam would be an enthusiastic ice skater but reflection upon his debut turned into rejection of a reprise. Sarah and I had a near-miss with skating on a rare date night as well: Wednesday is disco evening and she didn't fancy reacquainting herself with dozens of whizzing blades in near darkness. I am though intending to have lessons and the possibility has also arisen of me learning the piano. That is always assuming we can afford it, or the instrument itself.
Which brings me onto the extension. I have now added Mr Vague, Mr Non-committal and Mr Thorough to the retinue of visitors, and ruled out Mr Chatty. A site visit last weekend confirmed that even if he included a bargepole in the quotation I should not request him to work on our house. A bright idea about financing and some clever design cheats have come to light along the way, but there's no denying it's frustrating to have such a long lead time. Wii're still waiting for three quotes, planning permission, building regs approval and a means to design the kitchen, none of which is guaranteed to fall into place. It could be that the work won't quite be finished before the summer holiday.
And on that cheerful note, I shall return to my pursuit of Pro status on some energetic electronic sport.
Occasions when Sarah considers my time spent on the computer to have been profitable are, it must be said, few and far between, but a couple of weeks ago Wii benefited from some idle surfing on my part. Starting out to see what I could get for the shedload of Nectar points that our expensive groceries have generated, I followed a few links across cyberspace as you do, and found myself on the site of a well-known catalogue-based shopping emporium who happened to have taken delivery of some consoles, sans unwanted game bundles. And all of a sudden Wii were the prospective owners of a joint birthday present of which Sarah had given up hope - all it needed was a 15-mile round trip to collect it. Seeing as I had also booked our favourite restaurant fully a month ahead to avoid the usual problems with getting a table for around Valentine's Day, my delivery on a promise that I would find the console did not look like a fluke. Even though it was, entirely.
I had hoped by now that Adam would be an enthusiastic ice skater but reflection upon his debut turned into rejection of a reprise. Sarah and I had a near-miss with skating on a rare date night as well: Wednesday is disco evening and she didn't fancy reacquainting herself with dozens of whizzing blades in near darkness. I am though intending to have lessons and the possibility has also arisen of me learning the piano. That is always assuming we can afford it, or the instrument itself.
Which brings me onto the extension. I have now added Mr Vague, Mr Non-committal and Mr Thorough to the retinue of visitors, and ruled out Mr Chatty. A site visit last weekend confirmed that even if he included a bargepole in the quotation I should not request him to work on our house. A bright idea about financing and some clever design cheats have come to light along the way, but there's no denying it's frustrating to have such a long lead time. Wii're still waiting for three quotes, planning permission, building regs approval and a means to design the kitchen, none of which is guaranteed to fall into place. It could be that the work won't quite be finished before the summer holiday.
And on that cheerful note, I shall return to my pursuit of Pro status on some energetic electronic sport.
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