Yet I didn't see the queue drop below about ten people all day yesterday, from ~10:00 until almost 18:00.

The problem is that the ex-colleague is now a journalist, a fact I couldn't forget for a moment; I was constantly aware of protecting my employer, and hence myself.
I'm a guarded person anyway, and struggle to reveal personal information even to friends, but it was awkward to be consciously self-censoring and pre-planning the strict factual accuracy of deliberately innocuous statements, whilst 'casually' conversing with a previously close acquaintance.

However, they were selling hot-cross buns, a mere four months before easter. How restrained.

I'm not ready to go into detail, and doubt I will be, but just for clarity: I'm currently single, uncharacteristically struggling with being alone, and terrified by the prospect of dating, an activity I've never really engaged in (H & I met in less 'calculated' circumstances in 1990-91).

One day at a time, and all that. It really, really makes me appreciate my friends.

But when she added a lightning-strike break across the middle....

One of mine is impressive: to improve the effectiveness of a website from '44' to '11' – on a scale of '1' to '10'.

That was followed by a meeting in a room overlooking Alexandra Square with a student who'd overslept past midday in his room in Alexandra Park and who couldn't name the University's founding Chancellor. Yes, she's a Princess... begins with 'A'.... No, not 'Anne'.

Just what I needed.

According to the BBC, it was felt in 'north Lancaster', presumably as opposed to here in the south of the city, which may be why I didn't notice anything. The other side of the building (5-6 m away) shook, though, and the head of Estates is reported to have run downstairs to remonstrate with construction workers.

The BBC also quotes a witness in Grange-over-Sands:

Two-and-a-half hours late, I've reached into my bag and pulled out... a box of ibuprofen tablets.

I can't remotely explain how that happened – they weren't even in the same cupboard. Insomnia?

Okay, it was the Lancaster Guardian, I wasn't credited, and it was merely a result of my being able to read a URL, but at least my colleagues were impressed.

The issue was that 'a popular mapping website' mislaid my employer's premises: the 'Search' utility provided a location in the middle of the North Sea, so instructions from the accompanying 'Find Directions' utility involved jumping off the Zeebrugge-Rosyth ferry. My insightful observation (yeah, right), was that the URL included the wrong longitude: approximately 2.78, placing Lancaster east of Greenwich, rather than the correct -2.78(ish), west of the international dateline. Just a typo with an amusing result – hardly front page news. But that's where it was published.

However, I can't decide whether that's a matter of titillation or amusement at the sheer absurdity of the things.

Sitting at my desk before first light, knowing I won't leave before the sun has passed right across the sky and it's fully dark again, makes the day so much more daunting.

Faulty brakes? Explosive fuel tank?

The shared bins have lids with access holes; narrow slots for the paper bins and a ~10 cm wide slot for the other one. It's unpleasant to have to pick up yesterday's teabags and drop them in by hand, so I routinely remove the whole lid and tip in the contents of my bin.

I've just been called a 'genius' for the third time, for exhibiting basic lateral thinking. Others evidently don't even see an alternative to the designers' intended technique.

No, it's not to confirm whether their materials really are stationary.

I was reminded of the airshow incident (or incidents – as my mother tells it, my father repeated the experiment a few times) when the fire alarm went off today. I've subsequently discovered that a department elsewhere in the building had been celebrating a colleague's birthday, without realising that thirty cake candles would trigger the heat/smoke sensors (which we hadn't known had even been installed). It may have been a lucky escape, as another colleague is approaching his sixtieth, and the system includes sprinklers....

The first I knew was a breathtaking assault by the loudest, shrillest sound I recall ever encountering: a painfully, even nauseatingly loud noise that demanded instant action – I couldn't get out of the building quickly enough, and was still aware of discomfort two hours later. This wasn't the hearing impairment of a rock concert, but literal, immediate and lasting pain.

My first thought was that like most aspects of the new offices, the alarm had been configured wrongly and needs to be toned-down, but perhaps not: the important point is that it worked, safely evacuating the affected area in moments – annoyed people move quickly but calmly, rather than in a panicked rush. Maybe minor ear injury – and I'm serious; I do think damage was done – is considered an acceptable side-effect.

And for staff, 'long-loan' means long: subject to recall, I have the books I borrowed today until 11 June, 2009.

That's fair enough, but it does slightly concern me that I didn't even know it had finished until I returned to work this morning after a bank holiday weekend of no TV, negligible time online and (as always) no radio or newspapers.

Er. In the sense that the Somme in 2008 is an agricultural region in France, and presumably a little muddy. I wasn't referring to its condition in, say, 1916, as that over-used analogy has always seemed a little crass.

I really must install fully-AdBlocked Firefox for him before he sends his entire savings to Nigeria in the hope of receiving certain anatomical enhancements....

I suppose I write very few cheques myself nowadays – only to my mother, I think – but it's not that long since I was routinely writing 2-3 each month. I'd vaguely presumed that there must be people under a certain age for whom a paper cheque is unfamiliar, but I certainly hadn't realised that the 'certain age' was so high.

However, think for a moment: when the recipient is a web developer whose work e-mails, by definition, are almost all about website maintenance, 'RE: Web' isn't terribly helpful....

No, 'kitteh' is not a typo.

The word doesn't exist, of course, but I wonder whether the sender intended to praise my vision (insight) or call me a troublemaker (incite)....

I suppose it could be a clever pun.

Oh, and Lyme disease: on Tuesday I had seven sheep ticks removed from various parts of my body (primarily the backs of my knees), ~48 hours after visiting an area with a history of infections.

The prophylactic course comprises two (2) capsules, to be taken at the same time, but as is standard for antibiotics one must "take regularly and complete the course". I hope I'll be able to accommodate that rigorous treatment regime.

It can't be sunburn – I haven't experienced that since I was a child – but after x miles* and three days of cycling mainly only in shorts and boots, I suppose I have to acknowledge at least the possibility. The decider is whether I end up sleeping in the shower tonight. How can my shoulders store so much heat?

At least my T-shirt negative tan (blue-white torso, brown arms) has vanished, and the sun seems to have cauterised today's numerous hawthorn gouges & nettle weals. But that's something for a different posting.

*: Probably not very many miles, in fact; can't be much more than a hundred. That's nothing compared to the person I met at Lancaster station this morning, who'd cycled from Bournemouth and was heading on from Barrow to "the top" of Scotland. Freak. I mean: who goes to Barrow?

Not, as in the case of a goth girl I vaguely know, a massive pair of New Rocks: she's just sat an exam wearing ~4" platform boots. I'm surprised she fitted under the desk.

Oh, the stress....

Can I just point out I did a 10-hour working day yesterday, an unexceptional (though not everyday, thankfully) occurrence?

I love the coconut-y scent of gorse flowers, and the appearence of some native wild flowers, but I don't think I like any cultivated flowers, and can barely bear such oppressive floral scents.

*: as opposed to a bouquet of fish?

It was mildly embarrassing this evening to have mentally moved on, when no-one else had, from a conversation about wet T-shirts to one about photography: asking A. whether hers "had come out" was slightly misconstrued....

I wonder if it's the time of year. That linked entry was written exactly a year ago.

J. apparently arrived at work at the normal time by overcrowded bus, wearing jeans, a long-sleeved shirt and a fleece. He's claiming lethargy. He's also twelve years younger than me.

Sometimes my lifestyle doesn't seem too bad.

"No, thanks." *

"Okay, that'll be £2, please."

I paid for my lunch, then, as I was leaving, was called back:

"You've forgotten your water!"

Is it really so difficult to comprehend that 'free' doesn't always mean 'worthwhile'?

*: It's not easy to insert hotlinks into speech, but I am a professional.

I've never visited the town, but is there something I ought to know?

I was quite nostalgic to discover that the combination of the keypad lock 'guarding' that corridor still hasn't been changed since, ooh, 1994.

*: Well, not the long way; much as I'd like to visit H. in Warszawa, I was a bit pushed for time.

I'll advertise both venues simultaneously. It is quantum, after all.

Yes, I've had a filling. It was supposed to be a minor repair to an existing filling, but by the time the old one had been removed and underlying decay excised & sterilised, my dentist was using tools I'd never seen before – I'm sure one was to prevent the drill destroying the entire external tooth. Before returning to the office, I've had to thoroughly wash bone, amalgam and saliva out of my beard, but I didn't feel a thing.

Then again, I can't feel my nose, either.

Before realising the glass was slightly mirrored, and that I'd put on a 'Marbles' t-shirt this morning.

Did you know that recognising its own reflection is considered characteristic of a sentient animal?

*: The door wasn't wearing the shirt.

That hurt.

Six pounds fifty. For a ham sandwich. Admittedly, that'd normally be served with chips & salad, but we'd declined them and expected a more... realistic price.

I'm in the wrong business.

It must have been just breaking up as I passed, since by the time I'd completed my shopping, I'd counted fourteen suddenly-off-duty costumed hypocrites in Sainsbury's.

Yeah! Give your money to a multinational corporation! That'll teach 'em!

Rather more alarming was the statement that our "undergraduates are inflated", affecting "the proportion of our students showing".

1: Of me struggling alone.
2: Of me nodding and smiling whilst the work was done for me – mildly embarrassing but THANK YOU, J!

I have a electronic pass card for my usual office building (a literal carte blanche, as it's plain, unmarked white), but such technology hasn't quite reached my temporary accommodation, so I normally need to borrow a key from Security.

However, the officer on duty today told me of a deceptively simple way to enter the building at any time, without a key. That's really handy, and I'm grateful for the advice, but I could have been anyone. I didn't recognise the security officer, he didn't know me (I suppose there's a tiny chance that other officers had described me, but why would they?), and we hadn't reached a point in the conversation at which I'd offer some ID.

I only have free access to three floors of corridors, communal spaces and my own office, of course, but it'd still be possible for me to return at a quiet moment and, if I was so inclined, take a microwave or shared printer from an unlocked post room or break into individual offices at my leisure. It's not just a matter of computers and other valuables, either – 'in season', offices could contain exam papers.

I'm not sure what to do; it'd be irresponsible and possibly a disciplinary issue for me to just ignore such a gaping security risk, but I can't think of a way to report it without incriminating someone who was only trying to help. I'm certainly not going to do that.

I selected a computer from our designated supplier's website and customised the specifications, but we needed to obtain the precise HE-sector price from customer services. That's been a laborious process, featuring unreturned calls, misdirected e-mails and over a week of delays. It's as if the company doesn't want our money. If I'd been buying for myself, I'd have gone elsewhere days ago – it's simply not good enough.

Finally! A quote has arrived this afternoon. It's 'For the Attention of: Dept of Biological Sciences' (er, no, we're in Central Admin) and is addressed to 'Dear Goods In'. It's the personal touch that makes all the difference.
Should we choose to confirm the order, the PC will be delivered to the Dept. of Management Science (they'll be pleased) in the Engineering Building (though Man-Sci isn't in Engineering).

All of which has prompted me to investigate whether we really do have to buy from a 'designated supplier'.

And we don't.

This morning was entirely usual: I woke at the normal time, ate my normal breakfast and cycled to work as normal. Bright sunlight on my office window made the room unseasonably hot by mid-morning, to the point of being slightly nauseating and ruining any appetite for lunch, which I forced down anyway.

By 14:00 I felt extraordinarily tired, with an annoying headache. I went for a walk to wake up, but as soon as I left the building, I felt astonishingly cold – my fingers even went numb, as if I'd been out for hours. I got as far as the College office before slumping into an armchair, shivering and still very drowsy. After recovering, I went back to work via a more indoor route.
The same pattern repeated itself at 15:00; I needed to talk to the Press Office staff, so wandered across to clear my head (still aching) rather than just pick up the phone. Again, once there I collapsed into a chair, bitterly cold and unable to concentrate.

I gave in to the inevitable at 16:00 and cycled home (perhaps itself an indication of impaired judgement) wrapped in my spare fleece, jacket, dayglo overjacket, scarf and gloves, deliberately riding slowly as I doubted my reaction times and spatial awareness. By 16:30 I was home and in bed with a couple of paracetamol tablets, unable to do more than blink slowly as I watched the last of the daylight oddly pulsing on the bedroom ceiling.

The next I knew was when the alarm clock (which I don't remember setting) woke me at 18:00. H. thinks I must have passed out, and that I should see a doctor immediately, but the odd thing is that I feel absolutely fine now, as if nothing whatsoever had happened.

[Update 01/02/08: False alarm, or rather, false all-clear. By 02:00 I was incapacitated with burning fever and diarrhoea for 24 hours (and counting, though the severity has receded drastically). Apparently there's been an epidemic of norovirus (viral gastroenteritis) this winter; I must have been unlucky.]

Unless it's the air ambulance, of course.

But there's a twist. In order to obtain two free meals, my mother wants us to go in separately and sit apart.

I'm in my mid-thirties. I earn a decent salary. I don't need to play these sort of games any more, and won't.

That may be my mother's underlying motivation: on some level, such penny-pinching is a game.

Remember the NOISY building work last September? The ground floor and half of the first floor were remodelled in that phase of the project; now it's our turn. This weekend we're moving to the far north-east of campus* for a year or so, whilst those departments which escaped the building work last time get to hear the rest of the first floor and all of the second being similarly remodelled.

It seems open-plan is back in fashion with those wishing to practice dynamic and visible management; that's the format to which we'll return. To be fair, multiple stages of consultation have resulted in an acceptable layout with a minimum of tantrums, and I've been promised a dark corner with my own window blind. We'll see – few plans survive contact with the pneumatic drill, and all that.
The fundamental premise of open-plan wasn't open to negotiation, unfortunately, though of those colleagues I'll be seeing far more of on a daily basis, and of those who got to extend their collaborative working opportunities (what fun!) in the earlier phase, I've yet to encounter one person in favour of abandoning individual offices (or open-plan within individual departments' offices, rather than multiple tangentially-related departments sharing a collective space).

It's all so dehumanising. A clear-desk policy was implemented downstairs when those departments moved into their new space, whereby the only items of paper permitted on desktops are those on which the drones staff members are actively working. There's also a (probably apocryphal) rumour that the cleaners are required to remove any posters from work spaces each morning – no more family photos, then.

I wonder if it's coincidental that the 'Personnel' department recently rebranded itself as 'Human Resources'. There's a dangerous semantic difference between 'persons employed' and 'expedients'.

*: To seriously old offices, which will in turn be remodelled once we've moved back out. The plaster around my 'new' door is visibly crumbling – never mind a hefty kick, a meaningful glance would probably break my door down.

All weekend I've been worrying about my next project at work, which magnified the usual Monday morning less-than-eagerness-to-go-to-work. It was a horrible sensation which I thankfully experience rarely nowadays, but it was (literally) a wake-up call: the only way to eliminate the feeling is to face the task.

The problem is that it's slightly beyond my current technical knowledge (I think – I don't even entirely understand what's involved) yet rather important. A good analogy would be to have to learn a whole new language, with a speech to a multinational audience (of potential customers) being one's very first rehearsal.

The rest of the day actually went quite well: I engineered three impromptu meetings about the issue, with a fourth tomorrow, and secured a fallback position: implement someone else's attempt at the same task, though at a larger level, if the more ambitious plan stalls.

Here's the point of the title: my technical knowledge increased infinitessimally today, and I'm still concerned, but now several other people have to be concerned too.

Sorry, folks. ;)

Bugger. Don't make the same mistake. The Amazon page for the latter contains virtually no textual information about the film and there's no cover image, so the automatically-generated 'Customers Who Viewed This Item Also Viewed' and 'Listmania' sections are pretty much the only content, and feature several Wong Kar Wai items. That doesn't justify my carelessness, but it does at least partly explain it.

There still are in Scotland, of course, but the English pound note was phased out in 1983/4; the current intake of undergrads straight from school were born in about 1989.

Well, I clearly remember pound notes. I was 13 in 1984 (and a pound went so much further in those days!), so I suppose that was the note I saw most frequently.

However, it seems that course isn't running. Successful project, eh?

****. The alternative is a Masters' degree, and I really don't fancy that sort of time-investment.

On Monday, I was a tourist in London, at my employer's expense.
On Tuesday, I attended a conference costing ~£100 per hour.
Yesterday was devoted to normal web development work.
This morning I was hanging 64 shower curtains. Eh?

I suppose a mere quarter of a year (three months from today, the whole ordeal will be over for another year) isn't especially early for booking a restaurant.

[Update 26/9/07: I left London seventeen hours ago, and my nose still itches.]

At the moment my train pulled into Euston station and I disembarked into the world capital of the surveillance culture (London has the greatest density of security cameras on the planet), my mp3 player launched into Geoff Muldaurs' theme from 'Brazil'.

For those who don't know, that film is Terry Gilliam's '1984'-like view of a near-future police state and, incidentally, the source of this website's name.

Then again, adding an extra 11% overnight does seem a little steep. Now it's a lot more expensive than at supermarkets, just as they're accused of artificially inflating prices.

However, there are two logistical problems; not so much obstacles as minor annoyances.

• Frying liberates vapourised fat into the air, which settles out again onto every available surface. It's essential that I open the back door and close all internal doors, isolating the kitchen as much as possible before beginning.
• The ingredients aren't sold in quantities suitable for one person: I can't eat eight rashers of bacon, six sausages and a whole tin of beans at a single sitting. Hence, I eat half on each of two consecutive evenings, even if the first meal satisfied the desire and I'd much rather cook something else on the second night.

So, tonight's first task was to rewash them immediately before... starting... to....
Ah. You see where this is going, don't you?

At least I'm consistent.

I still frequently choose cheese & tomato, but in the form of a wrap² containing Monterey Jack cheese³, chili⁴, tomato chutney and guacamole⁵.

'Times change', and all that.

1: crumbly, tasteless Cheshire cheese, if left to my mother.
2: unheard of in 1977.
3: actually, that was new to me mere months ago.
4: definitely not part of my childhood diet, and I suspect my mother has still yet to encounter a chili pepper other than in a restaurant or pre-prepared sauce.
5: not merely 'foreign' in the late Seventies but downright alien.

Okay, I saw some of the oldest rooms in the University's founding College, so some parts have been in continuous use for over forty years; they really could do with a gap of a few months for them to properly air.
Okay, I saw some of the smallest rooms on campus, in the largest communal configurations (up to 26 students sharing a kitchen little larger than in a domestic home).
Okay, rooms elsewhere in the complex are drastically better (large, well-lit, built in 1990 and arranged into flats shared between 3-4 students).
Okay, even in the best cases, the compromises of communal living are something to be endured; one can't expect too much.

Still, I couldn't conceive of being a 18/19-year-old student again myself.

Needless to say, those photos are absolutely useless. It's not that the residences are bad, and any specific problems (like that damp) are dealt with, but even the best rooms are unsuitable as a means of promoting the College. If I can't sell them to myself, how could I use them to sell the College?

Best not supplemented by coleslaw, even if it is approaching its 'use-by' date and needs finishing.

****, that's foul.

In no particular order, I'm attending a conference in York, ensuring the University's degree ceremony webcasts go out properly, inflating a couple of hundred balloons for Bowland College's pre/post ceremony reception, moving my mortgage, and catching up the routine tasks which certainly don't go away when I do.

Yes, I've been shopping (thanks, A & A!). All's well with the world again.

However, when you pull-up on a quiet residential street at ~07:15 every morning, particularly at times of the year when people sleep with bedroom windows open, please don't sound your car horn to indicate you've arrived. At least not immediately; wait to see whether your colleague needs that additional prompting – it's quite likely he/she is aware that you arrive at the same time every day (his/her neighbours are) and is waiting by a window.

And if you do need to wait for a minute or so, please turn off your engine, at least until you have an opportunity to get that rattling exhaust fixed.

• A lecture theatre in the refurbished Bowland North (Lonsdale, as was), Lancaster University, has been named in honour of the late Marcus Merriman, legendary senior lecturer in History.
• It's been fourteen years since my Finals, but I've always been vaguely aware of the examinations season in each subsequent year, until this time – the 'Silence-Exams!' sign outside the Great Hall was a surprise. I don't really know why that feels like a life landmark.

Automatic doors ponderously swinging open as if a cathedral portal; a cashtill responding as if the pixies inside are back on paper-based accounting; rush-hour motorists decelerating to look at the ikkle lambies; my web host's MySQL server "running a bit slow" (with no further explanation), meaning I have negligible editing access to the blog – dunno when you'll actually see this; ... not a great morning.

Seriously; there are occasions when I feel as if I'm operating at a different rate to my surroundings, when everyone seems to be aimlessly ambling into the line of my purposeful stride, and when I can see conversational responses in a speaker's face before he/she has, well, spoken more than a couple of words. That one's particularly annoying, as I have a slight tendency to formulate a response in my own head, anticipate the other person's next response, verbally answer that one, and come across as random.

It happens most after I've been cycling rapidly in traffic. I doubt that's coincidental.

I haven't even had any caffeine today, though I'm working on that.

If this kettle ever boils....

During renovation work, delivery vehicles have been accessing the library and central admin buildings by reversing along a long gravel track by the underpass. The path is about as wide as a truck, with a steep slope on one side and a building on the other, providing poor visibility to drivers and few opportunities for an unnoticed pedestrian to dodge out of the way. It seems the obvious finally happened, and the student's arm was crushed.

An immediate response was to close off the track to vehicles, using two traffic cones and a large crash barrier. Yet already this morning one truck driver has gone to the trouble of parking, removing the obstruction, then continuing as normal.

It was impressive to see how quickly the security officers arrived to kick him out, without making the delivery.

However, I made the mistake of checking I have a clean copy of the appropriate files at home (my USB pen drive is intermittently faulty), and got drawn in. There'd be little point wandering lonely as a cloud if my head was churning with navigation structures and CSS hacks, so I'm writing this from my desk, at work. Bugger.

It's also quite humid this morning, so visibility is very poor. That's some compensation, but I'd have preferred to say that was the reason I changed my plan, rather than something noticed after I'd made the decision.

Still; if I do well this morning, and the mist (literal and figurative) is burned-off, there's always the afternoon. We'll see.

Where else could one become slightly lost in a maze of tiny streets and rationally think "let's follow that group of lads into that dark alley; they look as if they know where they're going"?

Pick your time carefully, though. My mother visited a fortnight earlier in March 2006, and reported it was pleasantly quiet but bitterly cold, whereas this last weekend was mild but seemed to be on the cusp of being oppressively busy.
Some of those narrow mediaeval alleys were already at full pedestrian capacity, and a couple of rush-hour vaporetti (water buses) were so full as to reject further passengers at the most popular stops. I suspect it'd be insufferable in June or July.

And no, despite my hydrological training and J's request, I won't be bringing back water samples as souvenirs for people.

Just for casual interest: what's the best way of retrieving coins from beneath floorboards?

Must be a typo; check the details.
No, it's correct, but a little circuitous:

Lancaster dep 10:20 (Bus)
Preston arr 11:00

Preston dep 11:37
Leeds arr 13:21

Leeds dep 15:00
Skipton arr 15:36

Skipton dep 15:41 (Bus)
Bentham arr 16:59

The use of buses suggests that there's engineering work on the Lancaster-Leeds (via Bentham) line, but why is this alternative even suggested as sensible?

[Update 01/08/07: I've discovered that Dilbert.com only archives past strips for a month, so here's a transcript of the joke:]

[Update 07/05/08: The revamped Dilbert.com has a bigger archive, so I've amended the link; you can see the strip itself again.]

I'm damned if I was going to join the queue, though. I do want to see 'Pan's Labyrinth', but not in the company of a coughing, whispering, sweet-paper-rustling horde.

Maybe tomorrow.

What a brilliant idea: a token I could give to someone, which he or she could subsequently redeem for money.

Totally dissimilar to, say, a cheque.

Incidentally, what does one call an unannounced palate-cleansing course between the starter and main course?

[Six suits? Who needs six new suits? I bet she'll take 'em back.]

Yesterday I discovered that whilst the system plays nicely together, and it's possible to watch one channel, record another to video and a third to DVD, the channels must all be analogue. One can watch digital TV, and record whatever's on the screen, but there's no way to record straight from the digibox – turn off the TV and recording ceases.
I found this a little odd, and tried to trace the fault, but that's not the really odd thing.

There is no fault. The system is deliberately configured this way, because my mother's partner can conceive of no circumstance in which anyone would wish to record digital TV – there's simply no point in connecting the receiver to the recorder(s), apparently. Digital is "all repeats".

Needless to say, he doesn't own a set-top box himself.

That could have been dangerous, never mind awkward.

And no, I don't think there was any agenda behind the topic being raised.

I think we just have to accept we're working in a building site, and let the contractors get on with it. A bit of dust isn't going to kill anyone (the asbestos was removed a few weeks ago). Cleaning up after them every day is merely a waste of time, and cleaning up after the cleanup could be even tougher.

Throughout a meeting today, something was bothering me about a colleague's shirt. Then it hit me (metaphorically): the logo had a grey & white chequered background, which is Photoshop visual shorthand for areas of transparency in an image; I was subconsciously interpreting it as unfinished.

What am I becoming?

Fair enough, though I rather resent having to sacrifice at least half a day of annual leave for their convenience (there was no possibility of a specific appointment, of course; they could only offer a 5-hour 'morning' slot).

However, the letter went on to say that if I failed to keep the designated 'appointment' (okay; or reschedule and keep an alternative appointment), the company would obtain a magistrate's order without further notice, in order to gain entry to my premises.
Again, fair enough if I'd persistently refused previous visits, but this was stated in the first contact I received. I'd argue it's pretty poor customer service to threaten customers by default rather than as a last resort.

The engineer arrived about quarter of an hour ago, within the final few minutes of the agreed 08:00-13:00 slot, and stayed considerably less than sixty seconds. He read the meter, and that's it. No tools were involved, no valves were checked. I now feel so secure.

*: Carefully note the presence of a comma in the title. It's kind of important. ;)

I wonder what the raker had uncovered. It seemed too extreme a reaction for it to have been merely a blackbird or squirrel – perhaps the prodigal family cat had turned up....

*: I've worked on open moorland, and sheep habitually died in the peat. It's safe to say I'd recognise the smell.

Right. Good to know. It's almost a pity I'm straight, really.

*: Of tea, that is.

If I wasn't predisposed, would I have noticed that the precise (though random) alignment of labels displayed 'MAR...illion', from right across the room?

Pity a camera wasn't available....

*: I know that's misspelled, but so was the label.

That's not an especially pleasant odour, but it's not cigarette smoke – I can't detect even a hint of that smell.

I was wearing my boots in the shower this morning (this entry isn't improving, is it? I was cleaning river mud off them, okay, and that's easiest whilst they're on my feet), and they seem to be drying unevenly – I think the drying tongue is gradually shrinking against the still-damp bootleg, or perhaps two freshly-cleaned surfaces, normally lubricated by dust/fluff, are rubbing together.

Well, we're over a month into official Autumn, the clocks go back tonight, Samhain ('summer's end', aka the onset of winter) is only four days away, and, most importantly, I'm uncomfortably cold, so that's near enough. The boiler is now, er, boiling.

If things get really bad, I suppose I might have to put some clothes on. That'd be drastic.

There are some odd options, too, which could be fun:

Bowland Beer & Brown Onion Soup with a Giant Mrs Kirkhams Lancashire Cheese Crouton
If one fails to finish the portion, will an extremely large woman come out of the kitchen to enquire why?

Black Sheep Braised Beef with Silverskin Onions, Turnips and Carrots with Dumplings & Pickled Red Cabbage
I think you'll find beef comes from cattle, not sheep. Unless the braising chef is ovine...?

Winter Vegetable Stew with Chestnut, Parsley and Black Wax Bomb Cobs
Black whats?

Locally Produced Cheeseboard
Does that come with any cheese?

Surprisingly, they're not especially smelly (though one knows if they've travelled far), but bits drop out of the louvred sides of the lorries as they overtake, which isn't pleasant.

*: Literally – I'm not referring to the X2 bus to Morecambe.

The problem is that the boiler was shut down during an unexpectedly cold spell in the Spring, so most radiator valves were left fully open. It was fired up again on Friday evening (the official first day of term) and rooms have been blasted with heat for the entire weekend. Even with the heating off now, the furniture itself is re-radiating stored heat, so it's almost as oppressively hot indoors as last July.

Quite apart from the inflexible timing of the institutional heating, the magnitude of the temperature (if that's the correct physical concept) is annoying.
People are naturally acclimatised to the ambient conditions of early October, so it'd be sensible to match and maintain that level as external temperatures drop in subsequent weeks. It makes less sense to raise office temperatures to a 'luxurious' summer level, forcing occupants to reacclimatise. That'll make external autumn conditions feel colder, and drive people to heat their homes sooner and more than they'd otherwise need.

I know the staff pension scheme has investments in petroleum companies, but that's no reason to inflate fuel expenditure....

This weekend just gone was the equinox (nominally), so the solstice must be 91 days away (21 Sept to 21 Dec). That means there's an entire quarter of a year between today and the festival of commerce. I'd have thought the christmas produce would go off sooner than that.

They work remarkably well – since they arrived, there hasn't been any drilling whatsoever.

THERE HAS TO be a case for doing that paRT OF THE WORK OUT OF OFFICE HOURS.

AND THESE LITTLE ORANGE SUPPOSitories we were given last week are useless.

Luckily, I found the clip(?) and I think it's back in the right place.

I may have established why the cleaner overheated and shut down last month: a cork had penetrated a surprising distance into the air path. Considering I don't drink, that's only slightly more likely than the bottle being in there with it.

That's 26,400 freshly-printed glossy leaflets, all releasing smelly, if not aromatic, voltiles into the air I happen to be breathing. Ugh. I don't think I'll be eating lunch in here today.

I could also complain to the unofficial acting head of Publications, but that'd be me....

Summarising wildly, the University's entire web presence during Clearing passes through this PC. I'm certainly not in charge of Clearing, but I do maintain the list of remaining vacancies, essential contact details, etc. and I'm the de facto Head of Publications. For a fortnight or so, my PC and I are fairly important.

Hence, it's something of a problem to find my network connection is suddenly unreliable. Each morning this week, I've had to reboot twice before I've had access to network drives and the web server. Normally annoying, this cannot happen right now!
What really concerns me is that if this has a site-wide cause, it might have a site-wide effect, and it wouldn't be as simple as working from a different PC.

Waaa!

[Update 15:55: I'm now working with two error messages in the foreground – if I click 'Okay', the computer freezes.
Discordian tech has visited, and invoked the word 'rebuild'. Bugger.]

What? It's a good vacuum cleaner!

A little orange envelope arrives in the post. Open it by tearing off the tab displaying one's address, and there's a plastic clamshell case inside, itself containing, say, 'Cinema Paradiso'. Open the case, drop the DVD into a player, and enjoy a touching (if l-o-n-g) film. Then pop the case back into what is now a prepaid envelope back to Amazon. Drop it in the post.

Then, a couple of days later, whilst inserting, say, 'A Zed And Two Noughts', discover and remove 'Cinema Paradiso' from the player.

Aw; bugger.

Incidentally, don't make the potentially expensive mistake of sending one of your own DVDs in the envelope – Amazon's stated policy is that you won't get it back.

However, I can't resist forwarding the Guardian's report that:

£80 for that and a minor filling. When I went private, my mother suggested that "at least you'll get good mouthwash for that price", but I didn't get any. I've been robbed!

I did get plenty of anaesthetic, though. I don't think I've ever experienced a totally painless filling before (not that I've had many fillings, and not counting the rather intense pain of three injections). This one was only a slight pressure and the odour of burning tooth. Perhaps the dentist used extra anaesthetic for the main task, which was similarly painless, though accompanied by rather distressing sounds of cracking and tearing.

The filling was a necessary chore, but I'm really pleased the wisdom tooth has finally gone, and I've been looking forward to the appointment. The tooth has been causing problems intermittently but regularly for almost two years, and it'll be great to get that side of my mouth back.

[Via Emily Grae, commenting at Tranniefesto.]

*: not that the latter is unusual for an insomniac, but that's hardly the point.

Today, though, I had the place almost entirely to myself. I could sit on the edge of the old bandstand with only a couple of dog-walkers in the distance. I wonder why....
[In a few months that'll be too cryptic, so I'll answer my rhetorical question: today was the semi-final (or something) of the football World Cup, in which England played... some other national (not that 'England' is a true 'nation') team.]

As if I had the slightest interest: have the English been kicked out of the World Cup yet?

*: 'Century Rain', by Alistair Reynolds. On the strength of books (by other authors) I've ordered from Amazon, the matching algorithms keep recommending Reynolds', so I'm trying one.
Two hours only covered the first 167 pages, so it's a little early to make conclusions, but it seems okay, if not as 'good' as the novels which triggered the recommendation. We'll see.

[Update 18:55: Not penalties again! As I said, football doesn't interest me, but I wouldn't have wished that déjà vu ending on anyone.]

And these people expect votes, never mind an audience.

I've been having intermittent problems with my right upper wisdom tooth for a couple of years – emergence into insufficient jaw space caused infections, cracking, and ultimately the tooth broke a couple of weeks ago.
The chances of obtaining NHS dental care anywhere within the Lancaster district are worse than negligible and show no sign of improving, so I signed up for private treatment. I pay into an employer-subsidised health insurance scheme, so I presumed it wouldn't be too expensive to me, though on further examination the insurance pays out a maximum of £85 per year for dental work, which doesn't cover much.
Admittedly, today's introductory check-up was nominally more thorough than subsequent ones will be (though it felt pretty cursory) and I won't need x-rays normally, but £55 seems startling for a check-up, even before any treatment.

As expected, the wisdom tooth will have to come out (£40), two fillings need to be repaired/replaced (£35 each), and a thorough clean & polish (£25) might combat the amount of tea I drink, but both the dentist and I were surprised that my teeth are in generally good condition considering I haven't seen a dentist since something like 1998 (I told him it was 2002...).

My previous (NHS) dentist gave me bad advice (she wanted to extract all four healthy wisdom teeth; in hindsight removing one would have been sensible, but the rest are still fine), so I never went back, and couldn't find another local (within 30 km) NHS dentist accepting new patients. Careful personal dental hygiene and hope shouldn't have been an adequate substitute for professional monitoring, but I seem to have got away with it.

I've just found them (rather too late for Madrid), in the breast pocket (I'd checked the waist pockets) of my warmest fleece, possibly the garment I'm least likely to wear with sunglasses.

That should have been a clue, of course. The trick to finding anything is to identify the last place one would look, then look there first....

A few minutes ago, I bought my third PC, the same way, and it was still unsettlingly easy to spend ~£900 (~$1,700). The big difference is that I've moved on (rightfully so!) and that's no longer a daunting amount of money.

It was also an easy purchase. I didn't bother doing intensive research this time, neither of specifications nor retailers. I've known for at least six months that I ought to upgrade, and the recent hot weather focused my mind (my existing PC overheats and literally screams at me when the room temperature exceeds 20°C), but as recently as this weekend I didn't think a purchase was imminent. Even two hours ago I didn't think I'd be buying a computer today!

Let's hope delivery is as straightforward, and there are no problems.

He has a problem of some sort, which is affecting his hearing. I don't like repeating myself (it's a known introvert thing), so I've been hassling him to see a doctor, and he's been given a prescription for a multipurpose antifungal/viral/bacterial spray.
Yet he won't take the prescription to a chemist and actually obtain the spray. Apparently, doctors can't diagnose common ailments, they issue speculative prescriptions just to get rid of people, and anyway, they're on commission from the pharmaceuticals manufacturers. R-i-g-h-t.

That attitude is less than endearing and his welfare is of limited personal interest to me, but it irritates me that anyone would risk his/her health for such stupid reasons. He's 23 now. How would he feel at 46, his hearing having been permanently damaged by a trivial – if treated – infection?

It's rather unlikely that Helen would have travelled the 300 km from Warszawa on a whim, not least because she'd probably have had to travel last night in order to be there by now, and I definitely rang her at home at 21:00 local time!

That means it was P. or J., both of whom are in Kraków, respectively for work and holiday. It's kind of sweet that they'd think of me for tech support help, but I know virtually nothing about laptops and there's not much I could have done from here ("Have you tried rebooting?").

For those who don't get the joke: at least in the UK, Audi's advertising motto is 'Vorsprung durch Technik' ('Progress through technology').

They were less than a metre apart, on opposite sides of a window; I could easily (and unwillingly) hear both sides of the conversation. Person B had already ordered, so didn't need to remain in the queue – why not simply stand by the doorway and talk unaided?

We've rented a large house in Coniston, 'at the heart of the English Lake District', for the coming weekend, and I'm due to leave shortly (by car; my bike has already gone on ahead by van). See you on Monday!

However, that's in a different league to a colleague telling me she chose to wear a black blouse and floor-length black skirt because she had a meeting scheduled with me. I don't know whether to feel flattered or manipulated.

From which, I deduce Granny is a retired chemical engineer. Ew.

I don't mean I anticipate it bringing me bad luck, I mean the shirt itself seems to be unlucky (metaphorically; I don't really believe in 'luck').
Within an hour of my putting it on, I'd spilled tea down the front, and I've subsequently splashed it with coconut milk (could have been worse: I was using fish sauce a moment later) and later it was caught in the blast radius of a massive sneeze.

Straight to the laundry basket, I think, before something else happens.

*: The grey Firefox one, a design rather better in theory than execution, as the Fx icon doesn't contain sufficient contrast when simply converted to greyscale and enlarged to a diameter of 12 cm (5"), so is annoyingly indistinct.

[Update 15/02/08: Rereading this today, coincidentally whilst wearing that shirt, I'm glad to say my tongue-in-cheek superstition has been proved wrong: this is one of my favourite shirts, worn frequently, and is as clean as... bugger; what's that?]

Look; there was this bird, right? It was a swallow. It was the first I've seen this year. It was at Halton, near Lancaster. One swallow doesn't make a summer, but it's a sign that the summer migrant birds are arriving, and spring is approaching.

Clear?

Having searched the house I've discovered that apart from 'snack' foods and more appropriate 'main meal' food that happens to be frozen (i.e. would be thawed by tomorrow evening), I have:

• rice
• cockles
• lemon marmalade

One slightly disturbing aspect was the amount of... stuff inside (much like the mammalian variety, I suppose): fluff, hair and general grime from at least five years of use.

That mouse had been the interface between my intellect/creativity and the world for a significant proportion of my online life – how could I destroy it?

Ohhh, SO easily....

That's a general trend whenever I'm busy, but I can't deny there's a personal aspect too – I'm not even vaguely interested in J. outside a work context, so petty social interaction with him is more tiresome than if say, L., H. or A. had asked the same question (though it's a circular argument: part of the reason I like those people is that they wouldn't demand my attention to ask pointless 'social ritual' questions).

Right; where was I...?

One of the things I do like about snow is that it highlights those corners and ledges that, even in busy locations, get no traffic and hence no footprints – tiny points of stillness. I wish I had my camera with me.

[Less?

My mother gleefully tells me that it's "seven days to get a cold, seven with it, then seven to get over it". Wonderful. It's barely begun, then.

This further increases my annoyance at a certain work colleague. A fortnight ago, he came into work full of cold and plainly infectious. Several people urged him to go home, but he "had to get on", knowing (he actually said it outright) he'd probably pass it to me, only a few metres across the office.

That's disrespectful to me as an individual, but to claim it as an issue of professionalism is simply wrong.

No aspect of his job is so critically urgent that it'd be in the University's interests to risk infecting others. He's involved in lowest-level clerical tasks, primarily data entry*. There is a reason why his salary is only 50-60% of mine. Put bluntly, and without boasting, my role is more important to the University than his.
If he's off sick, undergrad course descriptions for Entry 2007 won't be updated this week. And?
If I'm incapacitated, a high-profile, publicly-advertised webcast won't happen.

I strongly feel he had a responsibility to take sick leave, not for his benefit (which is of limited personal and zero professional interest to me) but for those around him, and for his employer.

*: I hasten to add that this is a function of his (understandable) lack of experience and directly relevant skills – certain previous post-holders made more of the role!

Always cheerful, I find him intensely annoying, and have no idea why.

Last night, within about 15 minutes, I'd:

This morning, the duty manager explained that there isn't sufficient demand for Sainsbury's to include suet in the day-to-day restocking cycle, so it's difficult to predict when they'll have any, and anyway, it sells out almost as soon as it reaches the shelves.

So there's not much demand, yet it sells very well. Er....

He responded that it sounded as if my day had been as productive as his, waiting (in vain) for the rain to stop so he could work on the garage roof.

The implication seemed to be that reading a book or watching a film are means to pass time when one doesn't have the drive or opportunity to do something better. Opinions differ, of course (and I don't know whether that's remotely what Andy meant!), but that's certainly not my view. Books and films matter to me; they are the better thing to do.

1: Until ~10:45. That's extremely rare for me; I normally wake at about 08:00 each morning, including weekends. I must have needed the extra top-up.

2: 'Good Omens' (Terry Pratchett & Neil Gaiman, 1990). This was the third time I've read it since 1990, and I was surprised how much it's dated, particularly (and, okay, unsurprisingly) the references to technology: audio tapes, phones and computers.
And yes, I did read all 384 pages in one sitting, not counting two tea breaks.

3: These.

4: Chicken red curry. Pretty good, though I simply added chicken and coconut milk to a curry paste, so I can't exactly claim any credit.

5: 'Aguirre: The Wrath Of God' (1972). Not recommended.

6: Though I don't normally comment on personal 'current events', it was gorgeous. Thanks, Al!

In teeny-tiny print at the bottom of the poster was the statement (admission?) that the event was being run by the Evangelical christian Union (an organisation that's been less than tolerant of other religious groups on campus, especially PaganSoc), and, in text so small as to defy legibility, that the event will include discussion of St. John's gospel. Evidently the glorious football match has a Moral.

I don't like to ascribe motivation without evidence, but the very size (or lack of it) of the small print does strongly suggest a deliberate intent to mislead, to tempt football fans into a room under blatantly false pretences.

Also recently, I mentioned that I taught my mother how to sell via eBay.

You're getting ahead of me, aren't you?

Yes, she's selling my property for me. How 'helpful'. She's even promised me a cut of the profits, but was careful to state that it'd be nominal. After all, she has all the hassle of advertising and despatching my property. Did I mention it's mine? Not hers? In fact, none of her ****ing business? I am grateful that she's given me storage space for several years, but....

Worse, I'd chosen items I think I could resell for reasonable profits, and which I'd be happy to take time and effort over selling, to get the right price. My mother's selling them at the lowest prices possible, to get them "out of the way" quickly. For example, I'd considered targeting a 30+ years-old Cub Scout book at collectors of Scouting memorabilia, at a corresponding price. It's now available in the generic 'children's books' category at 99p.

Argh!

Unfortunately, the person who asked our opinions (not the designer!) reacted with despair: "there's no point asking people, as they'll only disagree. I'll have to use my own gut feeling."

It's a dilemma. It's a corporate document, so ideally the people most likely to use it (I mean publications and recruitment people, not prospective students!) would have some input into the design process, but I suppose that's not strictly necessary, and design by committee rarely succeeds.

It kind of works, but the exhilaration of having achieved total concentration (sometimes continuous partial attention just isn't good enough) doesn't really outweigh the minor self-loathing of having prevaricated all day (I did that too often during my PhD, so there's considerable emotional baggage) and slight burnout afterwards.

Need. Caffeine. Now.

No, toilet first.

Hmm. Legs asleep.

With ****ing good brakes, luckily.

[Provide your own dialogue.]

Apparently it's something she read when I was very young: thirty-three, and game over, so I'm pleased to have reached my 34th birthday.

I presume it was a Daily Mail astrologer's interpretation of Nostradamus (nice of the old guy to give me his personal attention, I suppose), but to a child, that seemed meaningful and truly scary. With repetition, I started to believe it at some level, and it probably helps explain my views on mortality and my need to be constantly productive.

It also says something about a woman who'd inflict that little 'fact' on a young child. "Yes, everyone dies. Oh, and by the way, your 'use-by' date is a litle closer than most people's. Make the most of it.".

Nineteen miles (31 km) from home. I couldn't realistically walk; at 3½-4 mph it'd take about five hours. The alternative was to ride on, the flat tyre hopefully cushioning the wheel rim itself. That way, I could sustain a steady 10-12 mph – 3-4 times walking pace – whilst acknowledging that I'd probably do terminal damage to the tyre and maybe the wheel.

I'm not entirely proud to say that's what I did. It wasn't a pleasant ride, especially in traffic after dark, and I was continuously, if mildly, concerned that the tyre might rip and slide off at any moment. The base of the tyre valve seemed to project beyond the rim, so every rotation of the wheel jarred; I'm still in a bit of pain ~18 hours later.

Here's the miraculous bit: both the tyre and wheel survived perfectly, without even any marks. I wouldn't exactly recommend it, but if this posting has a point, it's to say that it is possible to ride a long distance on a flat tyre.

The moment I discovered the problem was doubly unlucky: my camera's primary memory card failed, so I only had one image to show.
I'm hoping that just one image on the main card is corrupted, and that if I find a different reader which doesn't insist on trying to access that image (as the camera does), I might be able to retrieve the rest. We'll see. Or not.

[Update 17/11/05: Managed it. I managed to copy the entire contents of the card, directory structure and all, to my hard disk, and have the images. The card itself seems dead, though: still unreadable, and even if I find out how to reformat it, I'm not sure I'd trust it again.]

*: I was going to say that was my third puncture in a week, but it was actually the same puncture, and the repair failed twice. I've now thrown that inner tube away. Plainly latex cement goes off, and becomes inadequate for sealing patches to tubes at 65 psi.

Mid-November's a bit cold for shorts (yes, Dr. Freer, it is), and waterproofs would look odd unless it's raining.
Shorts and waterproofs? Sorted.

For those who know about it: no, falling off my bike yesterday wasn't related – my bootlace simply got caught in the pedal, bringing me to a standstill then preventing me from putting the necessary foot on the ground. It's okay; I have a spare knee, and I like blue-black anyway.

I suppose taking the time to write this isn't helping. Bugger.

A Thai red curry, I think. That's easy to prepare.

It's actually the second time this has happened to me. A few years ago, whilst house-sitting, I received no gas bills for a full year. The supplier didn't spot their error until the owners had been back for several months. We hadn't bothered to change the accounts, so I'd been paying bills in the owners' names. Since the owners were able to prove they'd been out of the country, and (unprompted) claimed they were no longer in contact with their house-sitter, the supplier had to write it off, and I had a year's free gas. Pity I cant do that again....

I don't eat eggs , and black pudding is too fiddly (I pick out all the fatty lumps), so my version comprises four rashers of smoked back bacon, three pork sausages (of known provenance and min. 85% lean meat), a tomato, ~125g of button mushrooms and ½ tin of baked beans. All but the beans are cooked together in the same frying pan.

Yes, that's a slight cholesterol and fat kick, but my cholesterol level, tested a few months ago, is pretty good for my age, and I add the minimum amount of olive oil to the pan; most fat for frying comes from the meat, and more liquid remains in the pan than I'd added at the outset. This meal is also atypical of my normal diet, so I don't believe I'm doing myself any harm.

As I write, I'm literally salivating, as I know those ingredients are downstairs, to be cooked and eaten after I publish this entry!

The point of this posting is that as soon as I've finished eating, I expect that the craving will be satisfied, and won't recur until February/March. I'm really looking forward to the meal, but it's not 'comfort food', or a deliberately withheld treat. If I read this back tomorrow, it's unlikely that I'll find even the individual ingredients especially tempting.
It's as if my body takes over and demands something lacking in my usual diet, which I won't require again, and hence desire, until later in the winter.

• Can't breathe – cold wind and 20-30mph of windchill searing throat.
• Can't see – eyes streaming due to the same wind & chill.

A follow-up to yesterday's posting: I climbed into my roof space last night, and studied it. There was one obvious missing slate (or its absence), and a corresponding wet beam, but most of the water had been caught by the insulation, protecting the ceiling below. I was rather glad to find an obvious point of entry, as something more subtle could have been difficult to trace. Unfortunately, I found one, maybe two additional leaks, and another wet beam.

Andy & Al were able to recommend a repairman (thanks!), who I rang this morning. He wasn't taking on new work at present, but my invoking the name of a friend who happens to be a locally-well-known plumber made the vital difference, and the engineer offered to look at the roof pretty much immediately.

It seems the roof wasn't in a wonderful state, and a number of slates need resecuring as the aging steel nails have degraded. As I write, he's working on them, but it seems he might need to return at a later date, when the weather is more stable, to repair lead & mortar flashing at the edges and hence close the other leaks I spotted. Great.

Still, I'm extremely pleased to have resolved the most severe problem so promptly.

Bugger. This sort of thing is the main reason I didn't (and still don't) want to own a house, though financially it's the only rational thing to do. If I'd been renting, I could have simply phoned the landlord and it would have been dealt with, and any damage to the roof and ceiling wouldn't have been my problem. Now it is.

I'm still tempted – regularly – to sell-up and go back to renting, but even if I did, a buyer would want an intact roof, so I suppose I'd better just get on with it.

A few minutes ago, I bought lunch from the Spar 'supermarket' (it's tiny) on campus: a baked potato with cheese.
At the hot food counter, the baked potatoes are piled in a tray next to a dish of bacon. The latter seems to be oven cooked, which leaves the dish at least a third full of watery fat – it looks ****ing disgusting.

Today, the person at the counter picked up a potato on the point of a knife, to transfer it to a styrofoam takeaway container, but midway, dropped it into the bacon fat, in which it was over half immersed. Yet she simply retrieved it and, ignoring my look of horror, continued as if nothing had happened.

I requested a potato which hadn't just had a sudden bath, and she complied, but seemed surprised that there was a problem.

I'm not, but what if I'd been a vegetarian, and hadn't happened to notice the slip until discovering a very shiny potato sitting in a smelly slick of pig juice?

I wouldn't dream of splitting the bill other than equally, thirteen ways, but £25 was kind of expensive just for a little garlic bread and excessively-oily chicken and pasta.

I'm not complaining; it was entirely my own choice, but still....

I can quite understand the validity of a newsletter for Green supporters, but it's mere arrogance to presume the rest of us give a damn about what Green councillors in other wards have been doing i.e. no more or less than their jobs.

****! No wonder it has a childproof cap!

What am I going to do with a whole bottle of the stuff? It's not even as if I need to strip any paint or degrease the oven.

The nights really are drawing in. I visited Alizon yesterday, but had to decline an invitation to join her and Andy for a meal, as I didn't have my bike lights with me and it was already appreciably gloomy by about 19:45. I've been working away from Lancaster (in Nottingham, Liverpool and Manchester, since you didn't ask) this week, which has required me to leave home at about 07:30 each morning, and I noticed the sun was still very low by then. There were dead leaves on the Hala-Bailrigg cyclepath this morning, and a dew so heavy as to resemble frost. Blackberries began ripening in the hedgerows a couple of weeks ago.

Autumn is my favourite season (with Spring a close second), but I don't want to say 'goodbye' to Summer just yet!

Ah well. I might as well have a cup of tea; I've suddenly noticed the onset of a dehydration headache.

It's not. It's currently sunny in Lancaster, but windy, and today's Met Office forecast is "Sunny spells, scattered showers, rain spreading into the west tonight".

Avoid trashy tabloids!

I've also been noticing more raptors than usual, primarily kestrels and buzzards, which hints at one possible cause: if this has been a good year for the survival of young animals, and populations have increased, that'd mean more to die on roads and to support larger populations of predators.

If someone rings me but can't be bothered to leave a message or even a number, I'm happy to ignore it, but when it happens repeatedly, I do get a little concerned. I know that calls from my father (in Norway) and H (in Poland) aren't properly recognised by my answerphone, so the thought obviously crossed my mind that someone might have been calling me from there, erroneously thinking that he/she had left a message or number. I checked: no.

On Saturday, I received a slightly irritable letter from the bank asking me to contact my local branch at my earliest convenience (there was no indication of a reason), as repeated attempts to ring me had failed (phrased more like "you failed to take our calls").

I went there immediately. They merely wanted to check my account was performing to my satisfaction, and to try to sell me their mortgage, insurance and 'premium' (i.e. not free) account options; i.e. they'd dragged me in as a matter of urgency, to listen to a sales pitch. I, er, wasn't pleased.

The Assistant Manager explained that the cryptic phone calls were 'policy': bank employees are told not to leave a message on an answering machine, in case someone other than the intended recipient hears it, or in case people become worried by the very fact that the bank had called. Policy is to ring once in a morning, once around lunch, and once late in an afternoon, then send a letter. Another policy is to only ring a customer's home number.
So that's: only ring a customer's home number, during working hours, and never leave a message. Right.

The Assistant Manager promised to forward my... concerns to the appropriate people, but guess what: yesterday my answering machine logged an unidentified call at ~09:45, and I've come home from work this evening to a blinking red light and the information that a mystery caller failed to reach me at midday.

*: That may be the problem. I wear jeans only extremely occasionally (much less than annually) because:
a) I dislike them, and their social ubiquity, and
b) when I exercise, my thighs expand to a greater diameter than the material allows, which isn't healthy.
Hence, I always wear looser trousers such as combats, except when moving furniture (as I did yesterday morning) or working with mortar (as I was yesterday afternoon).

The 'open' side of the gap had been strung with fishing line – invisible until a couple of metres away. I'm not entirely sure what would have happened if I'd hit it, but stretched from the bollard to a tree and back at least six times, I doubt it would have just snapped.

Needless to say, the barricade is now scattered over a wide area, and the fishing line went in a bin a couple of miles away.

Grrr.

When I was househunting in early 2003, I restricted my search to one side of Lancaster, specifically for ease of commuting. An added advantage of this location is that not only am I on the right side of the one-way system for the University, but I can now avoid the main road entirely: no fumes from queues of stationary vehicles, no traffic lights, fewer inconsiderate drivers. When I occasionally have to go into town to collect a parcel from the sorting office on my way to work, I'm almost surprised by the hectic riding conditions, even though I lived on that side of Lancaster for six years, and plunged into the traffic each day without a thought.

I'd hate to live drastically further from work. A. works in Southport, which is an hour away by motorway. Forty hours a month, just to and from work. A. enjoys driving, and says he doesn't mind the trip, but I could only regard that time as wasted, and I value time far more than money. S. works in Leeds. I don't know how long that takes. The distances aren't so great, but H's travel time around Warszawa can be considerable. The worst of all is my father's commute, of ~90 minutes each way by high-speed passenger ferry or 4-5 hours each way by car. That's the cost of living in seriously rural Norway!

My PhD fieldwork sometimes required me to cycle 9 miles in the middle of the night, in driving rain (because it was raining – if it had been dry, I wouldn't have needed to go), sometimes in rubber thighboots (don't get excited – they were heavily-patched, paint-and-cement-splattered waders), but that wasn't quite the mindless mundanity of a daily commute.
The worst I've done regularly was a nine-minute walk to the railway station, a twenty-minute train ride, then three more miles by bike; I occasionally cycled the full 14 miles just for some variety. On unlit rural lanes after dark in midwinter, that was... thrilling. All for a derisory wage; I lasted eleven months.

We took delivery of several hundred freshly-printed campus maps on Tuesday, and they're stacked in boxes only a couple of metres from my desk. Think of the smell of a brand-new glossy leaflet. Multiply by a couple of orders of magnitude.
Somehow I hadn't been noticing it when I arrived each morning, nor at lunch time, but I presume the chemical has been released as the afternoon sun and PCs heated the room past a certain threshold.

I'm going home. Now. I think I'll leave the office window open over the weekend, too.

I'm back at work on Thursday and Friday, so now it'll feel even more like waking in the middle of the night. I also need to accommodate an eastwards time zone shift after the weekend, so my body's going to be even more confused.

I've said it before, but:

Bugger.

Last night I saw 'Alexander' at The Dukes (more about the film itself in a separate posting). As often happens, the first few seconds were slightly out-of-focus. No problem; the projectionist usually corrects that immediately. This time, he/she didn't – the entire film remained out-of-focus. It was okay for close-ups, where objects and faces were so large that the blurred proportion was minimal, but for wider shots, especially crowd scenes, faces were unrecognisable. In overviews of thousands of tiny figures in battle scenes, it was difficult to even follow the action.

This issue was compounded by another. A couple of minutes in, the surround sound failed, leaving only the central (front) channel playing. Again, this was just about adequate to convey events occuring directly in front of the audience, but ambient noise was lost, and anything off to one side, normally covered by lateral channels with a little fill-in from the centre, was very quiet – we only heard that fill-in. After a while, became accustomed to hearing the film rather quieter than is normal, and in mono, but towards the middle of the film it fluctuated, tantalising the audience with 5-10 seconds of full sound every few minutes.

It was substandard, and I ought to have left. However, there was always the thought that 'the staff must be just about to notice and fix it, any moment now', and the terribly British audience sat through the full 175 minutes without a single person leaving. As I cycled home afterwards, I was writing-off the experience as 'it happens', but in retrospect, I think the cinema could have done better.
To be fair, if the audio equipment failed, I doubt it could have been repaired immediately, even if the management took the drastic step of stopping the film. However, the film simply shouldn't have been out-of-focus. It would have taken seconds to correct, but it seems the projectionist wasn't paying attention. That's cause for criticism in itself, but there were cinema staff in the auditorium, watching the film with the paying audience – they ought to have alerted the projectionist.

As usual, I felt fine immediately afterwards; a cup of tea & a little cake were sufficient to recharge me. I drank a couple more cups of tea and a second can of Coke during the afternoon, then prepared sausages and mashed potato for my evening meal at 20:30. I forgot to cook vegetables until too late, so didn't bother. I think I had a handful of cashew nuts at about 22:00, and a pint of milk before bed.

This morning I did manage to eat breakfast (I don't always), but the 3½ miles to work probably used up most of that, and I know that breakfast has usually worn off by midday, so I need a mid-morning boost before swimming. I prefer a flapjack, but Spar had sold out, so I bought a chocolate bar. I don't really like 'sweets', but it was better than nothing at all. Likewise, the shop hadn't received the daily milk delivery, so I bought a 500ml bottle of Coke instead.

The problem with all this is that almost everything was short-term energy, providing no opportunity to build up a reserve. Thirty lengths of the pool were a struggle today – I usually swim 50 easily.

Must eat better! I could live like this as a (relatively) sedentary student, but I expend a lot more energy nowadays.

I didn't notice a thing when I cycled in along the lesser, local roads, apart from a slightly greater number of pedestrians, but I soon realised that was because the buses weren't running. It seems that those who were going to walk to work arrived about half an hour ago, and at the time of writing, colleagues living south of Lancaster (but locally) are just arriving, two hours late.

The University was built right by the motorway, and since my first visit in 1989, I've been aware of the unobtrusive background noise of passing traffic. It's suddenly stopped.
"The silence is deafening" – well, clichés can be true.

[Update 11:20: colleagues travelling south from Kendal (20 miles away) have rung in from their cars, stranded between motorway junctions three hours after leaving home.]

Anyway, this was certainly a five-layer morning:

• T-shirt. Marillion 'Marbles', today.
• Quilted lumberjack overshirt. Allegedly chainsaw-proof. I'm not going to test that.
• Sleeveless 'puffa' jacket. Looks like a flak jacket, as worn by TV war reporters.
• Waterproof walking jacket.
• Dayglo cycling jacket. "There's no warmth in that!" "Okay, Mother."

In the morning, I put on my socks and boots without any thought. I suppose I'm usually checking my e-mail at the same time, so am looking at the monitor. At the other end of the day, I leave my boots on until I'm just about to go to bed (at this time of year, anyway; I prefer to walk around the house barefoot in summer), by which time I'm tired, so my mind is elsewhere, if anywhere.

Which explains why I was... somewhat startled to notice this morning that someone had painted my toenails black at least three days ago.

Oh, VERY funny....

The weather at 22:00 was warm (10°C) and dry, with broken high cloud, so we decided to go. My mother's health is unreliable, so a lower temperature or the threat of rain would have meant a repetition of last New Year, when we managed to see much the same view from a layby near Holywell - not quite PKiN, Warszawa, Poland, nor even Albert Square, Manchester, UK, but more enjoyable than it might sound!

Traffic through Mold, over the Rainbow and through Loggerheads was surprisingly quiet (I'm not inventing the names: Mold (Welsh: Yr Wyddgrug) is the county town four miles from my childhood home (where I'm writing this), the Rainbow is the local name for the steep, sweeping road over the 300m-high ridge out of the Alyn valley, and Loggerheads is the tiny ex-lead mining hamlet on the far side of the Rainbow), but the car parks at Moel Famau were rather full.

When we first started going, there were a hard core of people who'd visited every year for decades, informally led by Mr. Bentley, a local pharmacist who'd print and distribute hymn sheets, and we were amongst the few 'newcomers'. Nowadays, the word has spread, and well over 100 attend, taking some young children, several dogs, and fireworks (not so good for the dogs, nor humans if the wind is strong). At each turn in the path on the 45 min walk from the car park (at ~350m asl) to the summit, the next stage was visible as a chain of torchlight - quite pretty from a distance, though not really necessary in the moonlight, and beams inconsiderately directed into one's eyes were an annoyance, destroying night vision.
The walk itself passed much quicker than I remembered, inspiring the thought that on previous occasions I was an undernourished, relatively unfit student. Regular swimming and cycling plainly make a difference.

The summit plateau of Moel Famau is 20-30m across, with Jubilee Tower at the centre. Built 1810-12 to commemorate the Golden Jubilee of George III, the central obelisk was destroyed in a storm in 1862 and the corner turrets have been lost since then. Partly renovated in the 1970s following the investiture of the current Prince of Wales in 1969, the remaining structure could be described as a huge square cairn. The sides are held near-vertical by dressed stone, but more natural slopes at the corners allow access to the top and create a sheltered hollow in the middle of each side. Most most people were huddled into these, though there were still a lot of people wandering about, sitting just below the lip of the summit plateau or standing in the open on the leeward northern side of the Tower. We went to the very top for the 360° view, but there are few lit settlements visible in any direction but north-east, so we descended for the 'main attraction'.

From about five minutes before midnight until at least 00:20, the entire view of Deeside, the Wirral and Liverpool sparkled with hundreds, even thousands, of fireworks, mostly white twinkles from this distance but with some longer-lasting red distress flares. It's an incredible sight, and well-worth the walk. I'd taken my camera, but had accidentally left the mini-tripod in Lancaster last week, so the accompanying photos are those few which weren't too blurred by camera shake, and it obviously wasn't possible to take really long exposures which might have captured the fireworks. Maybe next time.

[Update 26/12/05: I've been back, in daylight.]

That's the point: even at 13:15, under a blue sky (there is diffuse high-level mist, but no distinct clouds), there isn't all that much light. Distant buildings are dark shapes, as are even nearby trees. It's not dim enough for headlights, but nor is there full daylight. It feels a lot like an summer evening, about an hour before dusk.

It's a good thing the winter solstice is less than a week away, after which the days will lengthen; otherwise today would be a little depressing.

Modern goggles are a little more comfortable than those I remember, but the very fact that I recall discomfort meant I deliberately avoided buying bottom-of-the-range cheap goggles this time, so should expect something better. Oversized gel pads provide a superior and softer seal to my eye sockets, without sharp, rigid plastic gouging the sides of my nose. Even so, my skin remained marked for well over an hour after a 30-min swim. I hope there's no cumulative long-term damage.

Without goggles, I obviously can't see much underwater, only blurred shapes in muted colours. As I said above, I rather like that, as the sensory deprivation forces one to focus inwards, concentrating on no more than one's stroke and generally 'zoning out' of the wider world. Unable to see the boundaries of the pool, they lose relevance; the pool could be infinitely wide and bottomless, for all I can see or care.

Goggles slam one back into that wider world - the sides and (rather grubby) floor of the pool are fully visible and surprisingly close, as are other swimmers. I suppose it's a combination of an optical effect and assertion of visual evidence into an imagined space. By that I mean that when I couldn't clearly see the bottom at the deep end, my subconscious naturally exaggerated the depth; my perception was of something much deeper than the actual 2 m. This was very distracting for the first 20-25 lengths, but I was beginning to be able to ignore it towards the end (50 lengths, or 1.25 km (0.78 mile)).

I may need to modify my style a little, too. Obviously, I dived in without goggles, and swam the first length without them, but the full force of kicking-off from the side to begin each subsequent length was sufficient to break the seal around my right eye a couple of times.

I'm sure I'll get used to goggles soon, but there were several moments today when I wanted to rip them off for greater freedom.

That's the problem. Presuming the candidate is a typical first- or second-year student who came straight to University from school, he's 18 or 19, maybe just 20 years old, and would have been 6 or 7, maybe 8 when the programme ended. He probably only has vague memories of it. The text on the poster says something like "Bungo says to vote for George", which caught my eye because:

• The name was Bungle, not Bungo.
• The hippo was called George - Bungle was an entirely different character, a bear.

Rainbow was a major part of my limited TV viewing as a child; I have near-perfect recall of the lineup: Geoffrey, Bungle, George & Zippy, with musical interludes from Rod, Jane & Roger. It's a little shocking to realise a maturing generation don't share that collective memory.

'Er... shouldn't that be Rod, Jane & Freddy?'

Unfortunately not - I feel even older now, as the Rainbow fan site linked above tells me that the lineup I remember clearest was revised in 1980 - the better-known Rod, Jane & Freddy partnership (who apparently had a spin-off series I don't remember) was after my time.

Until it stopped this evening*, we've received quite a lot of rain over the last couple of days; not heavy, but steady. I thought at the time that artificial drainage would be pointless in such circumstances, as the flooding is a result of the subsurface water table rising higher than the ground surface, not rainwater being unable to flow away sufficiently quickly. However, I admit I was mistaken: the drainage work seems to have had an effect. Instead of two puddles, there's only one - at least 20m (65½') long and 20cm (8") at its deepest (i.e. the water is 10cm higher overall), well above ankle level.

The only alternative pedestrian route adds about a mile (1.6km) to the trip.

*: Yes, the rain stopped. I've just cycled home in the first snow of the year.

• The flood attack occurred some time on 30 Oct; I didn't note the time.
• My visitor logs show an atypical increase in traffic on 2 Nov., so it seems obvious Google had indexed the site and large numbers of people were er, 'researching' a wide variety of sexual fetishes.
• I returned on 3 Nov. and removed all the spam comments by about 14:00.
• From periodic checks of my referrer logs, I'm fairly sure the last erroneous visitor left disappointed by about midday on 5 Nov.

Incidentally, after the clean-up, I received two aggrieved e-mails from people complaining that there were too few (i.e. none) stories about, well, practices distinctly illegal in the UK. It ought to be instantly obvious that the blog does not - and will not - provide such material, so accusations of false advertising (as if I'd posted the comment spam myself!) are treated with the contempt they deserve.
Actually, I have the e-mail and IP addresses of potentially dodgy people now. I wonder what I can do with them....

No, I don't have a problem with sexual fantasies (so long as the extreme ones are never acted upon) or fetishes; everyone has them to some extent, and careful readers might even catch a few vague allusions in this blog, but that's all you're getting. Anyone looking for 'exotic' material (and some search terms were truly bizarre) needn't bother.

After only two blocks, we'd obviously found it. Seventh Avenue had been closed and crowd control barriers set up about 2 m from each curb; the pavement (US: sidewalk) behind them was already filled with people right across the pavement, almost to the wall. Yet, having overheard a police officer, we realised this was two hours before the parade itself. It took a while to even cross the road, and I don't remember how long it took us to grab a meal, but we found a good place to stand on the kerb by 20:00.
At about 20:45, we were still waiting for something to happen; I thought I could see lights in the distance, but nothing reached us until ~21:00.

I've provided a few comments with the photographs, but to summarise, the parade was certainly remarkable in its scale, with over a million spectators and many thousands of participants, but it didn't quite match my expectations in terms of splendour. I'd expected hundreds of professional-quality giant puppets and floats, numerous bands and original costumes, but it seemed that anyone who turned up at the start line in any form of home-made or store-bought costume had been permitted to join in. The result was that the dozens of impressive sights were diluted by thousands of people wandering along in almost everyday clothes. One of the park rangers we'd met at the Statue of Liberty that morning had advised visitors to avoid the implied debauchery of the parade, but there was little to even titillate. I will say that there does seem to have been at least one positive effect of the apparently dire Halle Berry film 'Catwoman', as that costume was well-represented....
By about 22:30, we were cold and with no sign of the parade ending or even changing in quality or tone, we left. Perhaps we'd only seen the rather ordinary preamble and missed a more spectacular later stage of the parade; it just seems odd that such a well-known and well-attended event was an apparent anticlimax. That sounds (characteristically) negative, so I'd better stress that though distributed thinly amongst an unimpressive majority, the better costumes and puppets were indeed very good.

A problem of leaving before the end was that we needed to cross the parade route to return to Union Square and hence a direct subway line to our 'home' station. The police were stopping the parade every 5-10 mins to allow cross town (vehicle) traffic to cross 7th Avenue, but were discouraging pedestrians from doing the same, so we had to dodge officers and take a circuitous route. Back at Union Square was one of the more memorable sights of the evening: a vicariously familiar (i.e. from films) view of a New York subway platform, populated by French maids, jesters, and superheroes. Another slight oddity was the short walk from Grand Central Terminal to the hotel, suddenly finding that the busy 42nd Street, Lexington Avenue, etc., felt comparatively quiet, even comfortingly familiar.

And so to bed.

This is utterly ludicrous, in several respects.

It's a common phrase. A quick Google search finds 61,900 results for 'herding cats' and 678,000 results for the real phrase i.e. the real phrase is over ten times more generic than 'herding cats'.

I'm not remotely challenging anyone's copyright/trademark. Had I published a book with that title, or opened a shop with that name, there'd be cause for complaint, but all I'm doing is reporting someone else's promotional campaign. If there's any dispute, it's with the global megacorporation. I'm confident the lawyers of a major multinational would have checked this sort of thing in advance, and evidently decided they're able to use the phrase.

In that Google search, I see that the no.2 result is a book by the alleged trademark owner (though let's remember that I have no proof that such a trademark has really been registered, by the person claiming to have done so, nor that the sender of the e-mail really was that person). The no.3 result is that promotional microsite of the multinational. Yet the number one result is an entirely different book, by a different author, published two years before the complainant's. The no.4 result is an unrelated article using that title, in a UK national newspaper which happens to have a renowned legal team....

At no.13 is my blog entry. At no.14, the complainant's website. I must stress that this is just the way things worked out. I have made no attempt whatsoever to optimise my page for that search term; I used the phrase once in the title, it's in the link URL of the multinational, the blogging software (Movable Type) automatically used the entry title as the html page <title>, and one word of the phrase is used in the text, once, in isolation (the single word gives 24.7 million results at Google), but that's it.

The context is entirely different. If I'd used a trademarked phrase, even an everyday phrase which has become associated with a particular company (e.g. 'where do you want to go today?' or 'because you're worth it') to sell a competing product, okay; that's what trademarks are designed to prevent. I had never even heard of the complainant, the book or the website; their subject area is one in which I have no involvement.

Even if I had used a trademarked term (and I do not agree that I did) in a directly related subject area, even writing about the book itself, that's fair use. I wouldn't be claiming exclusive use of the phrase, it would only be for purposes of comment/review, which is permitted. In this entry, for example, I've name checked Google six times, but don't feel it necessary to have contacted the company for permission.

It seems this is merely an entirely spurious and extremely rude attempt to bully oneself to a higher Google page rank, not by optimising the website or link popularity, but by attempting to force everyone else off the Google database. It doesn't work that way.

The manner of the approach is also an issue. A polite e-mail asking me to modify my page (let's face it, the phrase is of no importance to me) might - might - have received a favourable response, but when the first contact is an threat and demand that I take certain action, I won't even dignify it with a response, other than writing about it here.

Turtled-down into my high collar, partly to reduce the trickle down my neck, I couldn't hear well, couldn't adequately turn my head, and breathing was impaired for the more strenuous uphill sections. It also tipped my cycle helmet forwards, preventing my usual habit of looking over my rain-speckled (outside) and steamed-up (inside) glasses. Kind of dangerous, really. I think it's already time to break out the winter kit: a scarf wrapped around my face is far less limiting to hearing, neck-mobility and breathing). At least I'd thought to take waterproofs to work, so only my feet and hands are damp.

I suppose it all starts here: the need to keep two jackets available, one to be worn whilst the other remains at home to dry off. Battery charging will become an additional daily consideration, for bike lights. Bikey is largely maintenance-free in summer, but leaf mulch (and before long, road salt) are more of a mechanical problem, not to mention a road hazard. I nearly fell off yesterday: turning a 90° corner on wet leaves, my slick rear tyre lost traction and tried to overtake me. Scary.

Still, cycle parking on campus ought to improve if the fair-weather commuters switch to the bus.

I've enjoyed the first year, on the whole. Glancing back, je ne regret, er, much; most entries still stand up as okay.
I thought my written style might loosen up, but it's just as convoluted as always! I can certainly tell when I wasn't sleeping well, both in the topics I chose to mention, and the tone in which I did so. Still, I don't think there are many cases when I should have slept on an entry before posting, though there are a few for which I did exactly that!

Once or twice, it's been a little more time-consuming than I've really been comfortable with; the blog is supposed to be a commentary on daily life, not a central focus, but the effort to articulate thoughts and opinions has been interesting, rewarding and probably even healthy.

I'm surprised that I've developed the habit of posting every day so easily, though I have to confess to occasionally hold back a non-time-sensitive entry if I've already posted that day, to cover days when I don't have time to write. Conversely, it takes me a while to process photos, so I have been known to post those entries retrospectively. I have a photo backlog extending as far as cycle rides in May, so there'll be more such belated postings with 'faked' dates.

If anyone has views, let me have 'em! More personal stuff? More photos? Less? Any past posts I should expand on? Are the music reviews any use?

This is the 540th posting, and the 367th day, so that averages three postings every two days. There have been 154 comments, not counting the 500+ deleted for advertising online gambling, pharmaceuticals, Aviv Geffen, etc. A raw average doesn't mean much, but it works out at two comments for every seven entries.

It's difficult to quantify the effect of the blog on overall traffic; the Jethro Tull Tour History and Annotated Passion Play were already fairly successful departments (also the CD-R trading department, to a lesser extent), but in a period of decline for Jethro Tull and particularly Tull-related websites, Ministry traffic increased drastically. September 2004 saw 9,900 visitors (~310 per day) and 27,000 page impressions (~880/day). A year ago, about 6,000 visitors viewed ~20,000 pages. Glancing at a blog entry from 9 October, 2003, I see that the Ministry received its 100,000th visitor on 8 October; at the time of writing, that's almost doubled, to 192,734. Page views went from 352,421 then to 637,060 today.

Self-evidently, a hypodermic syringe is hollow, in order to inject or remove fluid from the body. An acupuncture needle is solid and narrower, so penetrates the skin easier, so is felt less.

The sensation of a needle penetrating the skin is felt at or very near the surface, so a properly, i.e. quickly, inserted needle will barely be noticed.

If a needle intercepts a blood vessel, a sharp pain is experienced. Since injections aim for veins, by definition they're likely to hurt. If a needle is inserted into healthy, relaxed muscle, there is no sharp pain; none - I can testify that that's true. The physiotherapist accidentally caught a blood vessel once, and it felt like a standard injection, but the other ~10 insertions were entirely painless.

Insertion of a needle into damaged, tense muscle meets greater resistance, so there may be pain, but analogous to a bruise, not an injection. Since muscular problems were the reason for my visit, I did experience that pain, and as I was warned, it's still there now, four hours later, but to restate, it's a diffuse ache, and I literally couldn't feel the insertion of the individual needles after the first couple.

If anyone else had been deterred by the idea of multiple 'injections', which had indeed been my preconception, don't be.

Yet it didn't. There was lightning, with thunder audible after a count of five or six (i.e. close but not immediately overhead), but somehow each flash was accompanied immediately by a redoubling of rainfall intensity. It went on and on for a further ten minutes or so, not even easing, until suddenly there was no more water falling onto the street from the sky, just the roofs. At the back of the house, it was still falling, which confused me for a moment; the edge of the rain must have taken a few seconds to pass.

I went out immediately, but the gutters were already recovering. However, at the bottom of the hill, where surface drainage from the Moorlands and Primrose estates merges and is supplemented by that from Scotch Quarry, the road was impassable to pedestrians and my bike. I took a couple of photos, and with hindsight should have quickly dodged around an alternative way to catch the flash flood elsewhere, but it was fascinating to just watch from where I was.
By the time I did move, almost all the flow was back underground, but I took a few more photos of the aftermath anyway.

This was nothing like the Boscastle flood last week, of course, but even such a brief episode of severe weather (by UK standards!) did have a worryingly appreciable effect.

Since moving in, I have:

• Bought a bed and mattress, a washing machine, a vacuum cleaner, a TV, a DVD/VCR, two lamp shades, two rugs, cleaning materials, a desk chair, crockery, pans, and a shower head which fits over the bath taps. All other furniture, utensils, etc. were inherited from my grandmother, collected for my first home over several years by my mother, and salvaged from items my mother was discarding when refurnishing her home (so there's a reassuring continuity between my childhood home and this house), as were the sofa & armchair, donated by J & Fiona. Thanks to all!
• Thoroughly cleaned the whole house. I could do with making a concerted effort to repeat the exercise.
• Sanded the bathroom door to fit better and added a lock.
• Replaced all lightbulbs with the energy-efficient type.
• Removed the smelly carpet in the front room, though that was only done a fortnight ago, at A's instigation.

• Decorate. The walls are the same ugly colours as when I moved in; the purple and gold ceiling roses remain. I've stopped noticing them.
• Buy new furniture. None of the existing items match. In particular, storage in the bedroom is under a weird curtained canopy rather than proper wardrobes, and needs to be replaced.
• Buy/build a bike shed. I barely started to price building work. Too much hassle.
• Remove 'porch'. The previous owner had fitted a flimsy dividing wall and archway by the front door. It's ugly, takes up space in an already small room, and obstructs access to the light switch - it has to go. I was going to wait until I'd fitted a bike shed and hence stopped storing Bikey in the front room, but I have no idea when that'd happen, so I might as well get on with it - some time....
• Fit a shower. Haven't got round to it; I still shower kneeling in the bath with a £5 hose and shower head jammed over the taps.
• Remove stairwell wall. A low-priority task which I still think would improve the lighting and appearence of the narrow stairs. I'd like it to be done, but not so much as to inspire me to get on with doing it!
• Host a 'house-warming' party. I just didn't see anything to celebrate.

NP: a screaming PC.

Given the good weather, we went to the Water Witch yesterday evening, to sit outside by the canal. The quickest route from home to the pub passes a historical part of 'industrial Lancaster', so I took a few (fairly inconsequential) photos on the way.

Personally, I wouldn't choose a laptop, both for reasons of usability and value for money - a desktop PC of the same cost would have a rather better specification. Hence, I was researching the purchase pretty much from scratch; I have a reasonable knowledge of PCs, but laptops are new to me.

So far as I could tell, the best choice for K's needs is from Dell; a 2.6GHz Inspiron 1150. A slight complication is that K. has just moved house, so her credit card address won't match her home address yet; Dell won't deliver to her. Instead, our mother will be buying it, it will be sent to that address, and K. will collect it from there. Inconvenient but uncontroversial.

However, the order process includes this section:

You WHAT!? I'd resent providing such details to the UK government, never mind a foreign regime which has no relevance in this situation. The computer will be built in Ireland and shipped to the UK; that the parent company of Dell UK happens to be a US corporation simply doesn't matter.

If I'd been buying for myself, that'd be it; I'd go elsewhere. As it is, I continued the order, but ensured my own details don't appear on it.

No offence to individual US citizens, but your government has a serious attitude problem. This isn't 'Planet USA'; the USA is only one country of over 260, and I owe no more allegiance to it than to Canada, Vanuatu or Morocco, to pick three at random. Why the US government feels able to impose its whims on foreign nationals who aren't even interested in the USA mystifies, and offends, me.

Sometimes, particularly after a burst of activity, I become shaky and desperate to eat. Must. Eat. Now. Anything (though the craving tends to be for potato-based snacks I wouldn't ordinarily choose).
For example, this evening (~18:30) I cycled back from Sainsburys (about a mile, almost all uphill) a little too quickly for a hot, humid day, having not eaten since ~14:00. As soon as I closed the front door, the panic hunger hit.
I grabbed a bowl of cornflakes, followed by a jaffa cake before I swallowed the last mouthful, followed by a handful of peanuts; not exactly an elegant combination, but luckily it calmed the urge, as a cat in the yard was looking tasty.....

Alizon has (no doubt correctly) diagnosed it as a blood sugar crash, which makes perfect sense. I've occasionally experienced much the same effect a short while after drinking a ~440ml bottle of Lucozade (basically a strong sugar solution with caffeine), which must be somewhat analogous to the body's reaction to hyperglycaemia. I tend not to drink Lucozade, as that physical 'crisis' tends to be accompanied by an emotional crash.

Actually, as I write this I've just remembered that I had a can of Coke between returning from work and heading back out to Sainsburys. I must have used up that sugar 'hit', and suddenly had nothing left. Foolish.

As always, we're broadcasting all ceremonies as live webcasts. We offer two formats, each in two resolutions (and hence bandwidths), and all four feeds are both embedded in standard pages for viewing in a web browser and are provided for use in standalone media players. Footage recorded by the University TV unit is being processed via brand new hardware and a remarkable codec provides a video stream so clear it's a little unflattering to some. Needless to say, last-minute refinements this morning were an inordinate hassle, but the results are a credit to the institution.

Which makes it all the more depressing that a mere pilot project by another University was a leading item on the BBC Wales News home page today. All credit to them for joining the bandwagon, but they're not exactly steering it.

Internal recriminations and e-mails to the BBC will ensue.

Of course, MT runs as a cgi script i.e. perl, so shouldn't have been affected by changes to PHP. Having consulted the excellent MT Support Forums, largely to have the error message translated, I was advised that there must have been an unannounced change to the server. A quick inventory of the available, required perl modules proved that this was correct: the DBD::mysql module (and DBI) was suddenly missing. This was a critical omission, which rendered the blog totally unusable.

I sent an e-mail to my host's tech support immediately. Within 24 hours, they sent me the exact text of the announcement already on their website. I repeated that I'd already seen that, and explained precisely what I needed (for the DBD::mysql module, which I'd already been using for seven months, to be restored). They responded that they couldn't make further changes, and that I should consider separate hosting i.e. my own server.

At that point I started shopping around for an alternative host (thanks for the advice, Neil!), but decided to have one more go at tech support - the earlier refusal seemed extraordinarily peremptory, and felt as if it had come from a customer support rep rather than a tech who understood what I was asking. The result of my verification enquiry:

That was Tuesday, mid-afternoon. It wasn't until this morning, Thursday, that my interrogation of the server found that the module was back, and I was able to get back into the blog admin. So far as I can tell, everything is functional, with the exception of MT-Blacklist; I'll play with that when I have more time.

Since you're reading this, I'm apparently able to post messages again. As the dates of this item and the foregoing one indicate, it's been an enforced absence of five days, all due to an undocumented change to my web hosting arrangement, implemented with no prior warning. That's bad enough, but if I'd been less technically-proficient (not that I'm a techie, but perhaps a little more so than the average user, and I know more experienced people!) and less persistent, this could have totally killed the blog.

Extremely poor service. At a more convenient time, I might still change host, but I'm extremely pleased that I don't have to do so as an emergency measure.
I probably shouldn't have tempted fate by saying that....

[Update immediately after posting: I don't seem able to ping the usual blog directories.]

There were 5-6 keys on the ring, with two novelty fobs (a metal 'Scooby Doo' and a plastic smiley face), yet the desk officer at the police station logged them as two yale keys on a 'Scooby Doo' keyring, making no mention of the other 3-4 keys nor the second fob.
What use is that? If I was a person trying to claim lost property, I'd explain what I'd dropped, yet the police would have nothing on file matching that description. Apparently the police deliberately record the number of yale keys rather than the total number (why?), and only one distinguishing feature, presumably for brevity.

Do you know how many yale keys you carry, as opposed to the total number on the ring? I don't. Imagine you've been locked out of your house, office, and car. Could someone have stolen your keys? Have you mislaid them? You're stressed and upset. You go to the police. Do you really want to play unnecessary games, merely for bureaucratic convenience?

On Friday night I consumed more alcohol than my body could handle; I poisoned myself. Simple as that.

On Saturday, I couldn't hold down even water until 15:00, nor could I face food until 20:00, 25 hours after my previous meal. Consequently I had a fierce dehydration headache, felt nauseous and lethargic through lack of food, and was depressed due to the after-effects of the alcohol and because I'd wasted an entire day. My face looked as if undercoated in grey then splattered with tiny flecks of red: vomiting had burst capillaries around my eyes. I felt shaky and cold, despite it being a sunny day.
What the **** is funny about that?

If I told someone I'd been ill for an entire day due to poisoning, I'd expect a sympathetic response. If I said I'd been hung over, the response would be amusement - which I'd be expected to share. Why?

To think less of someone who knowingly exceeds his/her alcohol tolerance is understandable and justifiable. To find that person's discomfort amusing is malicious. Yet it's a socially-accepted schadenfreude which (and this is the bit that confuses me) the sufferer is expected to share. It's as if a hangover is a badge of pride - "I spent my Saturday bent over the toilet or slumped on the sofa - hey, I'm a real man."

This presumes one did participate in some sort of hedonistic party, of course. If one has a hangover, it follows that one must have had a tremendous time, right? Wrong. It's quite possible to have a mind-numbingly bland evening, and still get a hangover.

In this case, my surroundings contributed to the speed and amount I drank. It was an evening out with the Bowland College senior members (i.e. staff, not students), so we went to soulless 'shirts' pubs I wouldn't ordinarily even consider, crowded by bald or shaven-headed men in their forties there to watch the barely-dressed teenage girls, a background cacophony of football on numerous TVs contesting with cynically-programmed 'happy' music preventing any attempt at conversation. Deeply depressing and not an aspect of society I choose to encounter.

All this for an item of unsolicited junk mail which hit the bin within seconds of being opened.

It was from a design company* (self-evidently) touting for work, but if they can afford to speculate with such an expensive mailshot, they're presumably charging too much.

*: which according to Google, has no website. A company proposing to undertake web design work, which doesn't have a website of its own. I don't think so.

Nope. I can only presume the metal had become weak by day after day of slightly flexing in my pocket, plus whatever damage might have been caused by the previous owner of the house. It did break at a particularly deep notch in the shaft.
I was immensely lucky that it snapped as I was closing rather than opening the door, so I wasn't locked out of the house. I could get in, but with the broken shaft in the keyhole, the door couldn't be locked from the outside. The obvious plan was to use a spare key to force the broken one out from the other side, but the door is visibly thicker than two keys. The lock is an integral part of the door too, so couldn't be independently replaced.

There was another scary moment whilst it seemed the broken key was fouling the mechanism and the spare key wouldn't lock the door from inside either, but that was easily solved by realigning the slots. In doing so, I noticed that the broken key had been pushed out very slightly - the door must be a few millimetres thinner than I thought. Enough was projecting for a knife to lever it out further, then just enough for a pair of needle-nose pliers, and it was out. Trauma over.

A horrible incident, which is bound to worry me every time I use the door from now on. I'll need to have a couple of new keys cut asap, as I can't assume that the current spare key is less likely to snap, so I'll check whether a more resilient metal is available, and be far more cautious in future.

When I first moved to Lancaster a decade ago, the cinema's programme warned viewers to dress warmly, as the auditorium wasn't heated. Funding later added heating, but I doubt that came from ticket sales - one of the best aspects is that one can occasionally watch a film on a huge screen with as few distractions as in a darkened living room, with under ten people in the auditorium.

In fact, it was rather surprising to find that about ¾ of the seats were filled for 'Cold Mountain'. From a quick glance around the room, I was a little dismayed to see that the vast majority were around 60 years old. That's not really ageism, merely an indication that this wasn't a typical Dukes audience, and was likely to be of a type I've occasionally encountered there before: very infrequent cinema goers, who simply don't know how to behave. Rustling sweet wrappers might be common in most cinemas, but are so rare at The Dukes as to be particularly noticeable. Full-volume conversations in the middle of a film wouldn't be acceptable in any cinema, but as I said, these are people unaccustomed to cinema etiquette.
Luckily, it was a false alarm, and the audience were unobtrusive throughout, only betraying their inexperience of Dukes custom by leaving the moment the credits began - the regulars stayed to the end of the credits, as usual ;)

Fourteen years of standard school, and five years at medical school made her Dr. T. A further six years experience as a Junior and then Senior House Officer led her to a sequence of stunningly tough exams (costing £1,000 just to take, pass or fail). Once officially accepted into the Edinburgh College, she sheds the title 'Dr.', as UK surgeons are distinct from their medical colleagues - bizarrely, the lack of a 'Dr.' is a matter of prestige.

I don't even know her full list of titles, but at the least it'll be Ms. K. T., BSc (Hons.), BM, BS, MRCS (Ed).

The ads appear tomorrow, so the faculties* got round to preparing the relevant web pages and liaising with central web admin (in practice, me)... today. Planning? Forethought? Nah.
I won't go into detail, as it'd be rude and probably foolish to publicly criticise my colleagues and employers, but a lot of links have been amended today, a few rather important pages have had to be recoded from scratch, and a couple of people have required extended e-lectures on rather basic html.

Somehow I didn't find time for lunch, and drank rather too much tea (I drink it with one sugar and a little milk, and used a full pint of milk between 09:00 and 18:00); the sucrose and caffeine are suddenly wearing off.

*: Faculties are administrative groupings of academic departments e.g. Arts & Humanities, Applied Sciences, etc., not what Americans would understand as 'Faculty' i.e. 'the teaching staff'.

On Friday evening, my phone line was a bit crackly, but its ability to carry digital data was far worse, the modem audibly struggling to connect to my ISP. Once online, data transfer was appallingly slow, and within a minute or so, I was disconnected. Checking e-mail was a challenge, uploading revised web pages or images a near-impossibility. I checked everything: modem, cable, junction boxes; I even inspected the cable linking my house to the telegraph pole, but found nothing. Connectivity to my backup ISP was no better, so I deduced that there was either a problem with the modem hardware or the local telephone exchange. I couldn't do anything about either once offices and shops closed on Saturday, so had to wait it out.

Internet access wasn't much better yesterday, so I was dreading working from home today, but it seems the problem was with the external phone network, and that it was fixed overnight, as everything has been fine today.

It's a little disturbing to note how much I missed it. If I'd been able, I probably wouldn't have wanted to go online, but the knowledge that I was unable to connect (or rather, I could, but uploading a 54kb file last night took over 40 minutes and 27 logins) was annoying.

Well. That was a fascinating narrative, wasn't it? Whatever; I think it's worth posting anyway, just in case anyone else experiences the same thing and wonders whether others have too.

"Lecturers and computer-related technical staff..."? Yes, that's me - the AUT is the union I'd be expected to join, if I was a member of any union, but I'm not.

On the whole, I don't particularly like working from home, with the dual problems of being too comfortable during the first half of the day (it would be easy to stay in bed that little longer, and be distracted by personal projects) and not having a distinct stopping point at the end of the day (in the past I've kept going, sometimes as late as 22:00 before realising I haven't eaten); I had far too much experience of that lifestyle during my PhD. Just for a couple of days, though, it's okay.

Predictably, it includes Valentine offers, including the usual tacky lingerie, champagne truffles (which sound foul), cheap rosé wine and skin-tight, all-in-one lycra cycling suits. Eh? Kinky, or just odd?
For those who regard Valentine's Day in much the same way as me (and, thankfully, Helen), the other side of the leaflet advertises angle grinders and orbital sanders....

Semi-random observation: my father, in Norway, has received junk mail leaflets like this from local shops for at least a decade, which I noticed because they were uncommon in my mail in the UK. However, over the last couple of years, the volume of this 'genre' of junk mail has increased; I think there's a correlation between that and the expansion of mainland European retailers in the UK - Aldi is German, to give one example.

Heavy rain fell all day on Saturday; not heavy showers or sustained light rain, but sustained heavy rain. Not a problem for me; I just stayed in for 42 hours from Friday to Sunday. Sunday and Monday were okay, but the rain began again that evening and by yesterday the water table was at the surface, even on high ground, so further rain had nowhere to go. The storm water drain in my street was full, and this was at the top of Lancaster - I can only wonder what was happening in town.

Cycling to work, I saw sports fields under water, and the tiny Burrow Beck was in flood, about a metre (call it 3') above the normal level, five times its usual width, and with standing waves more usual on a major river. I was momentarily concerned to see it had already reached the top of two bridges, which could easily have become blocked forming unstable dams - when that happened on the (much larger) River Roeburn in 1967, a large proportion of Wray village was swept away, even stone-built terraced housing. I've been past again today, and there a couple of fresh gouges in the stonework of one and the council have installed a barrier deflecting floating debris away from the other, so it's in hand.
The rural section of the route to work was totally flooded, but only to a depth of 10cm (4"), which wasn't a problem.

So, fairly trivial for me, but my daily route largely follows a ridge of high ground, so I saw little of the impact elsewhere. Apparently the Lune was extremely high through Lancaster, and A. was sent home early from his work placement in Kendal, as the Kent was flooding over a large area of southern Cumbria. The national news reported major flooding, particularly in North Wales. Capel Curig, Gwynedd received 167mm (6.5") of rain within 24 hours - four times the average February rainfall in London. The Guardian adds a further statistic: that Capel Curig has received 426mm of rain since Saturday, equivalent to half of London's average annual rainfall. The day was also anomalously warm, with Hawarden, Clwyd (where I went to school) registering the second highest 3 Feb. temperature ever, 16.2°C (the highest ever 3 Feb. temperature was yesterday too, in Yorkshire).

More heavy rain this morning. My boots and waterproofs, already challenged yesterday, seem to have given way today, and I'm looking forward to 'home time', so I can get changed. However, if that's the worst I have to worry about, I'm better off than much of the country.

Then it stopped again, the skies cleared, and now, after four hours, the snow has almost all gone. I just hope the meltwater hasn't already refrozen; I'm leaving for home on time for once, just before dusk, to minimise the risks.

To give the forecasters credit, I think we've just been lucky in Lancaster; conditions elsewhere in the UK have been worse.

This is the first ever time I recall actually anticipating bad weather, and tracking it on successive forecasts; the first time I've glanced from a weather radar sequence on my PC monitor to a perfectly clear sky outside, knowing it's about to change drastically. I frequently time my departure from work to meet gaps shown in the rain radar, but this feels ominous; I'll even use the word 'portentious'.

Reader outside the UK mightn't understand the reaction to this shift in the weather; by global standards, these aren't extreme temperatures or wind speeds, and a few centimetres of snow might seem trivial. However, there are a few points to note.

Firstly, and maybe most trivially, the immediacy of the change is rather shocking. UK average temperatures rarely drop by ten degrees within a matter of hours. A gradual trend allows acclimatisation and might even go almost unnoticed, but a sudden drop *feels* even colder than the thermometer says!

Secondly, though the extremes aren't that extreme, the temperature shift passes through a critical range for the properties of water. At -2°C, the weight of a person walking on lying snow will melt it, wetting and severely chilling his/her feet, or refreezing and reducing safe traction (both on that individual's feet and on the pavement, affecting other pedestrians). At -20°C, lying snow is frozen, so is somewhat less hazardous. Similarly, relatively warm snow falling on a person walking (or cycling...) will melt, magnifying the effect of temperature and wind chill more than really cold snow bouncing off dry.

Thirdly, the UK simply copes very badly with even mild winter conditions. Buildings, and especially their water supplies, are inadequately insulated, so pipes burst and hundreds die of hypothermia in their own homes. British drivers tend to have neither the training nor experience to travel safely over ice or the thinnest coating of snow. Bizarrely, the nation reacts as if each winter is the first ever, and that it's inconceivable that frozen water might fall from the skies, so year after year, a single snowy morning brings road and rail networks to a halt.
In countries like Norway, real winter weather is to be expected, and lifestyles / social provision have evolved to accommodate it. Houses are well-insulated and often even triple-glazed (as I said earlier, this is the first house I've occupied since 1990 which has had double-glazing), and drivers proceed sensibly on totally snow-covered roads, at sensible speeds using studded winter tyres.

Uh oh. In the time I've taken to write this, the stars have vanished, the sky has acquired the uniform orange of street lights on low cloud, and the road is wet, though it's not raining or snowing right now. It's almost here...

I view the motivation differently: there is pleasure in denial. To exert self-control makes one feel good about ones self, rather more than the fleeting pleasure of surrendering to temptation, with subsequent self-loathing.

I agree that extending secret, personal satisfaction to vocal self-righteousness is annoying, but I can understand the (subconscious) reasoning.
As an observer, it would indeed be preferable for someone to practice self-denial without trying to transfer guilt onto others, with the unspoken messages "how can you eat that in front of me when you know I 'can't' have any?" and "I'm mentally strong and physically healthier for resisting, but you're weak and foolish for eating unhealthily."
However, I'm aware that some need the approval of others, so feel compelled to loudly point out their compliance with self-imposed restrictions. It's even simply social bonding, an opportunity to receive and give praise from/to friends. Only when explicitly analysed does it appear crass self-promotion; unacknowledged, it seems okay.

Undoubtedly this is only a partial view, by someone who has never experienced a weight-reduction diet; at 1.85m and 70-80kg, and male, I've never felt a need to diet. However, at certain times in my life I've needed such external markers to feel good about myself, and I know that 'worthy' denial can boost self image.

Incidentally, the restaurant, 'The Gatehouse', at White Cross, Lancaster, is normally excellent, but for once I was unimpressed. The batter on the chicken, apple and ginger fritters was undercooked, and the cod in mussel sauce was excessively salty; that might sound picky, but we split the bill as £25 each for two courses and rather ordinary wine, so one would expect better. A pity, as otherwise I'd recommend it.

Also incidentally, happy birthday Alizon!

The result: 9 buns (53%) are pretty good. Though pale underneath, they are fully cooked, and pale is far better than the dark wetness of undercooked. A further three were marginally worse, but I'm being picky, so it'd be fair to claim a 70% success rate. The remaining five were still undercooked, two only slightly, three rather more, so I turned them over and returned them to the oven for a further five minutes, just to finish them. They're cooling now.

Rather than sit by the 'phone staring into space, I went to the library to check my e-mail at a public-access terminal. Having done that, I popped into ISS (tech support), since Staff Help Desk is based just by the public computers. Three more cases had been reported, spaced well across campus, with nothing obvious linking us.
Back in the office, I thoroughly cleaned my keyboard (I was bored, okay?), then went to lunch early. I ate at my desk as usual, in case the 'phone rang, but it didn't. I tried booting again anyway - and it worked.

Staff Help Desk later told me all cases had resolved themselves - the tech had found no faults. In one sense, that's great, but in another: what if it happens again tomorrow?

After 15 mins I had a 40% success rate - four of the ten buns were about right, being browned on top and cooked through to the base. Unfortunately, the remaining six weren't cooked even nearly as well, and some hadn't even browned. The deciding factor seemed position on the tray. All were at the same height (same shelf of the oven), but those on the near left cooked drastically better than those on the rear right.
I removed the best four, then gave the rest a further five mins (without thinking to turn the tray, so the worst were still in the bad spot). After that, and a few mins cooling, I transferred them to a wire rack; the point at which I'd see whether the undersides had cooked. Not completely. They were far better than last week's batch, but still not quite right.

I'll have to judge after I've tried a few, but my first impression of the taste isn't quite as good as the fist attempt; next time I'll raise the butter quantity, probably to 80% of the listed amount, but not the full 100%.

As instructed, I waited a minute, then removed them from the oven and transferred them to a wire rack to cool - or tried. That's when I discovered that they were properly cooked on the upper surface and sides, but virtually raw underneath. If I'd left them longer, the tops would have blackened. They'd simply cooked too quickly, and the heat hadn't penetrated.
I wasn't sure what to do, so I let them cool for a while on the baking try (I couldn't transfer them), but they only solidified slightly as the temperature dropped. I flipped them over, and it was even more obvious that they were undercooked, as the inner material was much darker than the cooked edges, and shiny, i.e. still wet . Finally, I put them back in a hot oven for another 5-7 mins, upside-down, so more cooked and they were at least rendered safe to eat, if a little moist and chewy.
Having spoken to a couple of people, two faults may have been significant. Firstly, Harriet may have advised the use of too much butter; 5oz (ounces; 1oz = 28g) together with 8oz flour, 5 oz sugar, 5 oz dried fruit and an egg seems rather a lot, and that might have caused them to flow and flatten to the extent they did. Secondly, the combination of temperature and time mightn't have been quite right for my oven.

So, not perfect, but a useful exercise, and the results certainly taste good. I'll try the recipe again in the week, once I've eaten the first batch, and I think I'll experiment.

A similar curve, in the front forks, is also what seems to have accepted the full force of the crash - the front forks are bent back, so severely that the paint has split. This puts the front wheel almost in contact with the frame (the mudguard held it away slightly), and the wheel fouls the pedals when the handlebars are turned; the bike is unrideable, as it's severely unstable and can't turn corners.

I was stunningly lucky; I was unhurt, and the bike merely needs new forks. I could so easily have hit my head. I always wear a helmet for commuting to work in traffic, but heading across town to watch a DVD with J & Fi, I hadn't bothered. Something of a wake-up call.