I have written much about Time - the evil force that rules our lives, regulating its speed of passage to suit its own ends and defeat yours. It's been at it again but this time it's playing one of its cruellest tricks. The cumulative passing of those interminable seconds and super-fast hours have delivered me to yet another birthday; this one ending in a zero, but with a disconcertingly higher number in front of it!
When I wake up tomorow I will be 60!
There, I've said it so I suppose it must be true. But how did it happen? Only five minutes ago I was thirty. Where did forty and fifty go?
Meanwhile there is a conflict going on between my brain and my body on the subject of age. In my head I'm thirty eight. Why my cerebral processes have stalled on that particular age I'm not sure. No matter; my brain refuses to acknowledge the advance of time beyond 1989.
On the other hand, not to mention legs, back, ankles and hips, my body is fully aware of how old I actually am and even adds a few more years from time to time for good measure.
So the brain says "Hey, how about entering the London marathon next year?" At which my body, useless with wear and tear and helpless with laughter at the mere suggestion resorts to humour.
"Run a marathon! You pull a muscle running a bath." ( I didn't say it was good or even new humour).
And then, just to prove a point, it puts my back out while I'm pulling on my socks.
And then there's the evidence of my outer appearance. As I was approaching fifty, people used to say when my birthday came round that they would have put me at least five years younger than my actual age. Now no-one bats an eyelid when I say I'm nearly sixty! I fully expect from now on the most likely comment will be "Is that all? I thought you were a lot older!"
Oh well, Time has triumphed again.
I'm going to risk life and limb now and run a bath and see if I can beat my previous record.
Monday 16 May 2011
Monday 25 April 2011
My Kingdom for a Tadpole!
It is inherent in human existence that we can never know the answers to all of life's mysteries. The very fact of our presence here on Earth is the greatest conundrum of them all.
And so the question that has been taxing my brain these past few months and which has remained unsolved, must now be aired in public. It is this;
What has happened to all the frog spawn?
Admittedly, the breeding cycle of amphibians is not normally uppermost in my mind (except, obviously, on Thursdays) and to be fair I don't suppose that frogs are overly concerned with human procreational habits either (not even on Thursdays).
However, having installed a small pond in my garden a year or so ago, which is now established with a second season of healthy-looking plants, I wanted to introduce some wildlife to supplement the one beetle, one pond skater and ten dead and bloated worms that had found their own way into what is obviously a less than attractive natural habitat.
The Expedition started in early March in a casual manner; whenever I happened to be near a body of still water larger than a puddle, I had a quick look for the telltale mass of speckled jelly.
Later I started to make special trips to local and not so local ponds, clutching a suitable container for the transport of the precious cargo, while at the same time trying not to look like a nine year old schoolboy. (Actually that bit is quite easy!) But every location was characterised by a distinct absence of amphibious activity. Nothing but beetles and dead worms, and I had an adequate supply of both of those.
If you believe the wild life programmes on television, the forests and moorlands flourish with all manner of animals and insects, while the ponds and lochs are home to tsunami-inducing quantities of life actively reproducing at prodigious rates.
To which I reply with the only phrase in the English language in which two positives make a negative.
"Yeah, right!"
I must now await a Biblical plague of frogs to descend on my garden.
And so the question that has been taxing my brain these past few months and which has remained unsolved, must now be aired in public. It is this;
What has happened to all the frog spawn?
Admittedly, the breeding cycle of amphibians is not normally uppermost in my mind (except, obviously, on Thursdays) and to be fair I don't suppose that frogs are overly concerned with human procreational habits either (not even on Thursdays).
However, having installed a small pond in my garden a year or so ago, which is now established with a second season of healthy-looking plants, I wanted to introduce some wildlife to supplement the one beetle, one pond skater and ten dead and bloated worms that had found their own way into what is obviously a less than attractive natural habitat.
The Expedition started in early March in a casual manner; whenever I happened to be near a body of still water larger than a puddle, I had a quick look for the telltale mass of speckled jelly.
Later I started to make special trips to local and not so local ponds, clutching a suitable container for the transport of the precious cargo, while at the same time trying not to look like a nine year old schoolboy. (Actually that bit is quite easy!) But every location was characterised by a distinct absence of amphibious activity. Nothing but beetles and dead worms, and I had an adequate supply of both of those.
If you believe the wild life programmes on television, the forests and moorlands flourish with all manner of animals and insects, while the ponds and lochs are home to tsunami-inducing quantities of life actively reproducing at prodigious rates.
To which I reply with the only phrase in the English language in which two positives make a negative.
"Yeah, right!"
I must now await a Biblical plague of frogs to descend on my garden.
Saturday 9 April 2011
Time is Money
I've spent the past week sitting at a desk! My accustomed routine of getting up late, having a leisurely breakfast, going for a walk or spending time in the garden (officially known as pottering), has been swept away at a stroke.
I've got a job, albeit a temporary one, but they have promised to pay me so I suppose there are advantages to getting up early and driving 40 miles every day.
The only thing that hasn't changed about my lifestyle is the speed at which I operate and the passage of Time. I wrote previously about how Time is evil and slows down to extend idle moments. I expected the reverse to be true when I started working - pressure, deadlines and all that.
But, despite being seemingly desperate for me to start this job, nobody appears to have been prepared for my arrival.
I'm sitting at someone else's desk with a small cleared space big enough for a writing pad and a couple of files. I can't use the computer because no-one thought about setting me up on the system.
My colleagues are usually rushing off to meetings or conducting long conversations on the 'phone and the few tasks they have entrusted me with have so far taken no Time at all. When I ask what else they need there is much shuffling of papers and sideways glances.
Ok, I'm getting paid to be bored but Time and its evil hand is weighing heavily on my shoulders. It's made ten times worse when everyone around me is claiming that 'there are not enough hours in the day'.
Hours are a commodity that I have a surplus of. So, I could sell them some of mine to supplement my income amd spend more time at home!
How much is an hour worth?
What am I bid for the next sixty minutes? Each one is brand new; never before used; guaranteed to contain sixty perfect seconds and yours to do whatever you want in. I'll even throw in an bonus five minutes to the highest bidder.
It's the ideal gift for that special person in your life, or a harrassed parent or busy executive.
After all, as the saying nearly goes - "There's no present like the Time" .
I've got a job, albeit a temporary one, but they have promised to pay me so I suppose there are advantages to getting up early and driving 40 miles every day.
The only thing that hasn't changed about my lifestyle is the speed at which I operate and the passage of Time. I wrote previously about how Time is evil and slows down to extend idle moments. I expected the reverse to be true when I started working - pressure, deadlines and all that.
But, despite being seemingly desperate for me to start this job, nobody appears to have been prepared for my arrival.
I'm sitting at someone else's desk with a small cleared space big enough for a writing pad and a couple of files. I can't use the computer because no-one thought about setting me up on the system.
My colleagues are usually rushing off to meetings or conducting long conversations on the 'phone and the few tasks they have entrusted me with have so far taken no Time at all. When I ask what else they need there is much shuffling of papers and sideways glances.
Ok, I'm getting paid to be bored but Time and its evil hand is weighing heavily on my shoulders. It's made ten times worse when everyone around me is claiming that 'there are not enough hours in the day'.
Hours are a commodity that I have a surplus of. So, I could sell them some of mine to supplement my income amd spend more time at home!
How much is an hour worth?
What am I bid for the next sixty minutes? Each one is brand new; never before used; guaranteed to contain sixty perfect seconds and yours to do whatever you want in. I'll even throw in an bonus five minutes to the highest bidder.
It's the ideal gift for that special person in your life, or a harrassed parent or busy executive.
After all, as the saying nearly goes - "There's no present like the Time" .
Sunday 27 March 2011
Scrounger? - If Only
Hardly a week goes by without a story in the newspapers about benefit 'scroungers'; individuals or families who exist in what appears to be relative luxury purely on state handouts. The inference is always that they have 'screwed the system', secured their income by nefarious means and somehow fooled the overworked/gullible benefits staff with bogus hard luck stories. And no doubt some of them have.
I suppose the tales of 25 year old single mothers with three houses and thirteen disabled children might stretch credibility a bit, but I am sure that some spurious claims do succeed simply because, by the devious Law of Averages (see earlier blog) a few are bound to sneak through.
Whatever I might have thought of the benefit culture before, it looks different from the inside and I must admit that my overwhelming emotion when faced with a 'scrounger' story is sheer admiration at the perpetrator's tenacity.
Trying to find out about what benefits exist - never mind which ones you might be entitled to - is like hacking your way through dense jungle with a bicycle pump and no compass.
Having stumbled across one that looks a likely candidate you then have to fill in a form which requires an amount of research to rival the writing of a definitive history of the Jewish diaspora, because claiming the benefit appears to be the only way to find out if you can get it. (or not)
And then you find out that the information you gave on the form disqualifies you for the benefit you are already getting! (Do I sound bitter?)
I received a letter which stated
"Your allowance has been stopped. If you want to know why telephone the following number"
If I want to know why?!!
I spent the rest of the day, and an amount of money that I was no longer entitled to, either on the phone or waiting for someone to call me back. Each time I called I spoke to someone different and had to explain all over again. The most intriguing call, once I had negotiated the various options and menus, was when someone at the Department of Work and Pensions answered by urgently whispering "Ice Ice Baby" twice before hanging up. I know they record these calls for training purposes, so maybe they were looking for a record deal - or perhaps it was their last day.
Anyway it turned out that, in my claim form, I had declared savings that exceeded the limit for the benefit I was already getting.
"Why," I was asked by someone obviously trained to deal with claimants whose first language is used by only thirty six people in a remote Himalayan cave-kingdom, "why didn't you tell us about this before?"
The correct answer to this seemed obvious and had the advantage of actually being true, but it didn't satisfy Ice Baby. " Because no-one asked me".
I now have to present myself at the local office with sheafs of proof regarding my wordly goods and explain why I had the temerity to expect money just because I was out of work.
It's possible I may be put against the wall and shot.
I suppose the tales of 25 year old single mothers with three houses and thirteen disabled children might stretch credibility a bit, but I am sure that some spurious claims do succeed simply because, by the devious Law of Averages (see earlier blog) a few are bound to sneak through.
Whatever I might have thought of the benefit culture before, it looks different from the inside and I must admit that my overwhelming emotion when faced with a 'scrounger' story is sheer admiration at the perpetrator's tenacity.
Trying to find out about what benefits exist - never mind which ones you might be entitled to - is like hacking your way through dense jungle with a bicycle pump and no compass.
Having stumbled across one that looks a likely candidate you then have to fill in a form which requires an amount of research to rival the writing of a definitive history of the Jewish diaspora, because claiming the benefit appears to be the only way to find out if you can get it. (or not)
And then you find out that the information you gave on the form disqualifies you for the benefit you are already getting! (Do I sound bitter?)
I received a letter which stated
"Your allowance has been stopped. If you want to know why telephone the following number"
If I want to know why?!!
I spent the rest of the day, and an amount of money that I was no longer entitled to, either on the phone or waiting for someone to call me back. Each time I called I spoke to someone different and had to explain all over again. The most intriguing call, once I had negotiated the various options and menus, was when someone at the Department of Work and Pensions answered by urgently whispering "Ice Ice Baby" twice before hanging up. I know they record these calls for training purposes, so maybe they were looking for a record deal - or perhaps it was their last day.
Anyway it turned out that, in my claim form, I had declared savings that exceeded the limit for the benefit I was already getting.
"Why," I was asked by someone obviously trained to deal with claimants whose first language is used by only thirty six people in a remote Himalayan cave-kingdom, "why didn't you tell us about this before?"
The correct answer to this seemed obvious and had the advantage of actually being true, but it didn't satisfy Ice Baby. " Because no-one asked me".
I now have to present myself at the local office with sheafs of proof regarding my wordly goods and explain why I had the temerity to expect money just because I was out of work.
It's possible I may be put against the wall and shot.
Friday 11 March 2011
social.history
Social historians are very fond of labels to differentiate between the various eras of civilisation. We as a species have progressed through the Stone Age, Iron Age, Bronze Age and so on and more recently we have had the Jet Age and the Space Age.
I got to wondering what the historians of the future (if that's not a contradiction in terms) will label the early years of the 21st century. I have a suggestion for them.
I believe we are living in the Dot Age. (as opposed to the dotage which is still to come)
Punctuation has become particularly significant in the era of the personal computer. Whereas in poetry or prose you can get away with poor punctuation and still be understood, try sending an e mail or logging on to a website without a Dot or a forward slash in exactly the right place and see how far you get!
There are many symbols on the keyboard that are essential to the proper use of cyberspace but the Dot is the symbol of the age.
So let's hear it for the Dot!
Also known as a period or full stop the Dot first achieved fame on the communications stage as one half of the double act that brought the world the Morse Code. Since then the Dot has gone from strength to strength and has outgrown its erstwhile code partner in a glorious solo career.
There are for instances many dotcom millionaires, but few, if any, hyphen or slash millionaires - if you don't include the guitarist from Guns'n'Roses.
The Dot epitomises modernity especially when coupled with whole sentences in lower case letters. Many companies have realised that in order to appear to be in tune with the computer age all they have to do is convert their logo to have no capital letters, no spaces and a few seemingly random Dots. No matter that said logo makes no sense or has nothing to do with the product it's trying to sell. The capital letter is dead; long.livethe.dot.
Welcome to the Dot Age.
thank.youandgood.bye;=)
I got to wondering what the historians of the future (if that's not a contradiction in terms) will label the early years of the 21st century. I have a suggestion for them.
I believe we are living in the Dot Age. (as opposed to the dotage which is still to come)
Punctuation has become particularly significant in the era of the personal computer. Whereas in poetry or prose you can get away with poor punctuation and still be understood, try sending an e mail or logging on to a website without a Dot or a forward slash in exactly the right place and see how far you get!
There are many symbols on the keyboard that are essential to the proper use of cyberspace but the Dot is the symbol of the age.
So let's hear it for the Dot!
Also known as a period or full stop the Dot first achieved fame on the communications stage as one half of the double act that brought the world the Morse Code. Since then the Dot has gone from strength to strength and has outgrown its erstwhile code partner in a glorious solo career.
There are for instances many dotcom millionaires, but few, if any, hyphen or slash millionaires - if you don't include the guitarist from Guns'n'Roses.
The Dot epitomises modernity especially when coupled with whole sentences in lower case letters. Many companies have realised that in order to appear to be in tune with the computer age all they have to do is convert their logo to have no capital letters, no spaces and a few seemingly random Dots. No matter that said logo makes no sense or has nothing to do with the product it's trying to sell. The capital letter is dead; long.livethe.dot.
Welcome to the Dot Age.
thank.youandgood.bye;=)
Tuesday 8 March 2011
A Lot of Rubbish
I've been doing a lot more walking lately - not through choice but by necessity. No job - no car. And it's a lot more inconvenient than I thought it was going to be. Not that I mind walking. It can be quite pleasant provided you're not in a hurry and the weather is not throwing cold water down the back of your neck or whipping up a tornado. You can't do things on impulse though - you have to plan ahead.
So I have had a different view - a close up of our surroundings at a leisurely pace. There is time to see things that you wouldn't notice from a speeding car or bus.
One of the things that I have noticed (and wish I hadn't) is the amount of litter lying everywhere. There are incredible amounts of it spoiling almost every green space, along the sides of every road, hanging from hedges, bushes and fences.
There's no escape from it even in the countryside. The Scottish landscape is famous for its beauty and spectacular views. That's the big picture; the stuff they use in the scenic calendars and post cards. Up close the reality is ditches and roadside verges full of drinks cans, bottles and food wrappers. I'm not just talking about fly-tipping; the odd washing machine or mattress left in a layby. Even then, it must use as much effort to take the offending item to the remote location to dump it as it would to go to the nearest recycling centre. It's free so why not do the right thing?
The problem seems to be that no-one is brought up to dispose of litter properly. When out for a drive and you have finished your snack why wait until you find a bin; why take your litter home and dispose of it in a receptacle that will be collected for you by the council? It's so much easier and makes sense doesn't it to open the car window and throw the lot out? Someone else will pick it up.
Those of us who were brought up never to drop litter (there is probably a cut off age for this) would not think about letting an empty packet or can fall to the ground. We are the litterati and we appear to be in the minority.
I once had an idea for a book wherein a green party won their country's election and instituted a Litter Police Force. Serial droppers were rounded up and exiled to a remote island where they could throw litter to their hearts' content and would only be spoiling their own surroundings. I never wrote the book but I might vote for the party!
So I have had a different view - a close up of our surroundings at a leisurely pace. There is time to see things that you wouldn't notice from a speeding car or bus.
One of the things that I have noticed (and wish I hadn't) is the amount of litter lying everywhere. There are incredible amounts of it spoiling almost every green space, along the sides of every road, hanging from hedges, bushes and fences.
There's no escape from it even in the countryside. The Scottish landscape is famous for its beauty and spectacular views. That's the big picture; the stuff they use in the scenic calendars and post cards. Up close the reality is ditches and roadside verges full of drinks cans, bottles and food wrappers. I'm not just talking about fly-tipping; the odd washing machine or mattress left in a layby. Even then, it must use as much effort to take the offending item to the remote location to dump it as it would to go to the nearest recycling centre. It's free so why not do the right thing?
The problem seems to be that no-one is brought up to dispose of litter properly. When out for a drive and you have finished your snack why wait until you find a bin; why take your litter home and dispose of it in a receptacle that will be collected for you by the council? It's so much easier and makes sense doesn't it to open the car window and throw the lot out? Someone else will pick it up.
Those of us who were brought up never to drop litter (there is probably a cut off age for this) would not think about letting an empty packet or can fall to the ground. We are the litterati and we appear to be in the minority.
I once had an idea for a book wherein a green party won their country's election and instituted a Litter Police Force. Serial droppers were rounded up and exiled to a remote island where they could throw litter to their hearts' content and would only be spoiling their own surroundings. I never wrote the book but I might vote for the party!
Wednesday 2 March 2011
Careering
I have no idea why or how I decided to become a civil engineer. I was a year into the university course before I knew what civil engineering was about. Did I want, in the words of the professional charter 'to direct the great sources of power in nature for the use and convenience of man'? I suspect I thought I might get to drive a big yellow digger!
What I really wanted to drive when I was a kid was a bus. It was different in those far off days. Bus drivers were isolated in cabs away from the general public and buses had conductors who took the money, handed out tickets and pressed the bell - once for stop, twice for go.
To be honest I still have an urge to try my hand at driving a bus - though maybe not as a career change.
Bus drivers today seem to have graduated from the Formula One School of Motoring. Once the passengers are on board and the door closes, they see the lights change to green and they are off, burning rubber.
Unfortunately, the Little Old Lady (or LOL as we computer-dudes say) who has just got on is propelled towards the back of the bus at great speed, a Usain Bolt to the driver's Jensen Button, her feet a blur until she stops, spreadeagled across the back seat, her expensively coiffured hair streamlined into a white spikey halo like a dandelion clock and the contents of her shopping bag shared amongst her fellow passengers.
Of course the reverse is true when it's time to get off. The driver reads 'Bus Stop' as 'Pit Stop' and swerves in and brakes at the last moment. Our LOL is then catapulted forwards to the front of the bus. However, an experienced LOL has perfected a one legged left handed skid turn which ensures that she exits, at speed, by the door and not through the windscreen; at the same time depositing her used ticket in the appropriate box and directing a well-aimed handbag to the side of the driver's head.
Actually bus driving seems to be fun. Where do I sign?
What I really wanted to drive when I was a kid was a bus. It was different in those far off days. Bus drivers were isolated in cabs away from the general public and buses had conductors who took the money, handed out tickets and pressed the bell - once for stop, twice for go.
To be honest I still have an urge to try my hand at driving a bus - though maybe not as a career change.
Bus drivers today seem to have graduated from the Formula One School of Motoring. Once the passengers are on board and the door closes, they see the lights change to green and they are off, burning rubber.
Unfortunately, the Little Old Lady (or LOL as we computer-dudes say) who has just got on is propelled towards the back of the bus at great speed, a Usain Bolt to the driver's Jensen Button, her feet a blur until she stops, spreadeagled across the back seat, her expensively coiffured hair streamlined into a white spikey halo like a dandelion clock and the contents of her shopping bag shared amongst her fellow passengers.
Of course the reverse is true when it's time to get off. The driver reads 'Bus Stop' as 'Pit Stop' and swerves in and brakes at the last moment. Our LOL is then catapulted forwards to the front of the bus. However, an experienced LOL has perfected a one legged left handed skid turn which ensures that she exits, at speed, by the door and not through the windscreen; at the same time depositing her used ticket in the appropriate box and directing a well-aimed handbag to the side of the driver's head.
Actually bus driving seems to be fun. Where do I sign?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)