Digital Ischemia

01/01/2020

Father Episodes cont’d

A further instalment of eccentric vignettes, following the original Father Episodes

Shortly after Father arrived, he presented me with half a dozen nail files and a magnifying hand mirror.
“I thought you might like these for… female titivation.”
I gratefully frowned at the rust spots on the mirror and the assorted specifications of filery: a wide array of shape, coarseness, colour and a common theme of unfit for purpose.
He saw he was losing ground in this attempt to ‘shed’ benevolently.
“I purchased the series in trying to find the right one. I haven’t used them.”

——

One evening there was a crescendo of televised warfare, culminating in the vociferous cry, “get ‘im! Get ‘im!” This was followed by a rapid series of clunks and curses, “you blighter!” as Father’s reclining chair misinterpreted his vigorous limb-flinging and unfolded on him. His cries of chagrin continued as he flailed in vain to regain sight of the television and reach of the remote control, with the escalating frustration of the battle continuing without him.

——

Father wears Marks & Spencer’s navy blue moccasins with the special sheep fluff lining. This is a permanent association like birds and feathers, dating back to at least 60 years before any such product was available with the St Michael label. Once there was even a delighted but nebulous epiphany around a previous life as a Native American. Michael of course having received his sainthood for services to ‘cowbags and indibugs’, as the inchoate Father coined his favourite game c.1884.

These slippers are replaced every year in December. Never washed, just replaced. They are purely for nighttime trundles and restricted to the journey between bedroom and bathroom. Not too controversial. However, in my house, I prefer to wear slippers throughout, a probably pointless commitment coincidentally following a substantial outlay for new carpets.

As a spectacularly deviated protest, shortly after moving in, Father explained to me that he was now alternating between two pairs of Marks & Spencer’s navy blue moccasins. The original pair size 7 for original restricted use. Plus a new pair size 7 1/2 for daytime and entire house expeditions. Size 7 1/2, he elaborated, because of the addition of a layer of sock, which would not fit in size 7. Notwithstanding this duplicate provision, he would still sneak about in his shoes like a first class rotter, just to demonstrate that he did not recognise my authority.

After he had moved out, I discovered his final revenge. In one of his now empty rooms, the neutral coloured carpet that had required that substantial outlay was now adorned with two large, well worn, blue patches. These locations correspond exactly with his two chairs: the recliner for leisure purposes, and the executive computer operator chair for hyper-consumerism diversions.

It could have been worse: it could have been neutral-coloured dog shit from Outside.

——

Shortly after Father had departed to his new residence, one of his old friends, Don (the name has been changed to protect the undead) wrote to me seeking Father’s new address. Since Don supplied an email address, I promptly contacted him with the sought contact details.

Don responded with no less than 23 emails, in progressive stages of drafting, conveying his appreciation as well as some family updates. It seemed his webmail account had some synchronisation glitch that shared every saved stage with the recipient. I let him know and thought the contact was concluded.

Some weeks later, I received an unexpected email from a suspicious account with Don’s name as alias, plus a suspicious lack of text and presence of attachment. Clearly spam, and not surprising following the previous IT dodginess.

In my next conversation with father, I was prompted to enquire whether Don and he had got successfully in touch following their communication fankle.
“No. I received a nonsense attachment.”
“Ah, you got that too. I think it was spam.”
“Did you get the subliminal message?”
“No?”
“Don is dead.”

I was so utterly bewildered by the sheer non-sequitur of this reasoning, that he chuntered on about some trivia for a couple of minutes before I stopped him to protest that (A) it was consistent with the pattern of spurious emailing I had experienced as well as having all the hallmarks of spam, pointing toward a compromised mailbox, and (B) if you suspect one of your oldest friends is dead, however unconventionally you have received the notification, it is usual to contact their family and express condolences.

Needless to say, Don was not and is not dead. Long live Don, and death to personal correspondence gremlins.

——

Phone calls are either epic waffles and whinges about the weather and Waitrose, or abbreviated bulletins concerning his health status. The latter comprise two minutes maximum, concluding with “end of message,” then a click as the connection is terminated. Either way a monologue.

I called Father one afternoon. As often happens, there was a twenty second delay between him lifting the handset and responding verbally into the phone.
“[mumble]”
“Have I woken you up?”
Further pause before further muffled response. “I’m eating a peppermint.”
“So, you’re safely back home?” Stating the bleeding obvious as invitation to journal the banal.

In the background, a chime resounded.
“Ah: doorbell. Hang on.”
I have learnt over the years to swiftly pull the phone away from my ear before the statutory series of amplified sound effects as he abandons the handset and shuffles off.

Following a couple of minutes of distant conversation, sound effects resumed, then conversation.
“My helper. Just a quick visit. Been here already. Earlier. [mumble, mumble, breathing]”
“Shall I call another time then?” Pause for peppermint-filtered mumbling. I continue. “Allow you to have one conversation at a time?” Even one can be a challenge.
“[Mumble] call back later on.”
With cheery relief I hung up. Total call time three minutes seventeen seconds. Total conversation time substantially less.

——

My sister visited him on one occasion and inevitably found herself detailed with a list of specially selected noisome chores. In the depths of some wardrobe manoeuvres, she identified a stack of brand new, polythene-sealed shirts.
Father pronounced, “bin.”
Her expression clearly expressed bewilderment so he expanded.
“Wrong fabric. Should be poly-cotton mix.”

My sister’s attempts to tackle this monstrous illogicality from the angles of (A) return to retailer for financial recompense and (B) donate to charity met with the characteristic Wall of Disinterest. This is a fascinating feature of the Pilgrim’s Progress that was under-written and sadly lost in an early draft.

The material continues to accumulate…

26/12/2019

Missing Hen Harriers: time for zero tolerance

This updates my post on grouse shooting from July 2016 on my Lifelogy blog, particularly in the light of the publication of the Grouse Moor Management Group (Werritty) report for the Scottish government. Also, as climate change receives welcome focus, we should not overlook the extinction crisis. Climatic upheaval is not to blame for the biodiversity crisis, but ‘the enemies of old’ – agriculture and killing.

Today those of us within ear-‘shot’ of a game estate will be subjected to the usual ‘cracking’ soundtrack…

The campaign to ban driven grouse shooting began because the pastime is incompatible with the salvation of hen harriers in particular and the protection of raptors in general. Golden Eagles, whilst recovering well at the national scale, are under-represented in those parts of their range containing grouse moors. Driven grouse shooting requires intensive land use to maximise the grouse available for shooting. The grouse are ‘driven’ at the guns – beaters flush them toward the shooters, a form of ‘canned hunting’. Despite legal protection, these birds of prey keep disappearing from our skies and often turn up poisoned or shot. There is sufficient suitable habitat for over 300 pairs of hen harriers in England and Wales; the actual number of nesting attempts is in single figures – “a tiny handful“; the number of successful breeding attempts is usually zero.

hen harrier

Hen harrier, via Scottish Natural Heritage media library – copyright-free images of English hen harriers are as rare as…the birds themselves

The justification for seeking this ban has widened to include grouse shooting’s other serious negative consequences – the collateral damage:

– Environmental damage: burning and draining moorland to produce optimum heather for the grouse damages its carbon- and water-retaining ability, thereby contributing to climate change and increasing flood risk downstream, i.e. where more people are. Yet we pay these estates to ‘manage’ the land this way through our taxes which subsidise them.
– Animal cruelty: particularly for those unfortunate wild mammals and birds caught in snares or pole traps and left to suffer a slow, painful death.
– Food safety: the lead shot disperses throughout the grouse meat so its consumption is well above recommended levels. When used correctly, the medication flubendazole is effective in reducing endemic strongyle worm levels in grouse guts with residues in food for human consumption presenting a very low risk. Hiwever, there is some evidence that prescription levels are too high, that gritting holidays are not always observed, and that grit may not always be withdrawn from grouse at least 28 days before Red Grouse enter the food chain.

Why the absolutism? Surely conservationists and animal rights activists should be having dialogue with the proponents of grouse shooting?
They have been, for decades – “decade after decade, initiative after initiative has stumbled and fallen.” Land owners and managers have had opportunity after opportunity to change their ways through negotiation. They seem to be unmotivated while they can have their cake and shoot it. What is considered as environmentally sustainable can depend on the values attached to ‘nature’ and biological science. But it’s deeper than that: they dispute scientific premises and conclusions at the most fundamental level. They maintain a tension between the ‘expert’ knowledge of scientists reported in peer-reviewed sources and ‘local’ knowledge held by practitioners based in the field. Meanwhile raptors continue to be poisoned, shot, or just disappear in the vicinity of grouse moors.

“The [Hawk & Owl] Trust has watched with dismay as an increasingly adversarial and acrimonious argument has raged for almost twenty years between environmental campaigners and grouse moor interests.”

And yet this dismay has fostered a rather tolerant approach.

“The knowledge that [hen harriers] were tagged (and the fear that other HHs might be) would prevent any gamekeepers from shooting them in the sky.”

Unfortunately not. Satellite-tagging hen harriers only confirms that they ‘drop off the radar‘ in the vicinity of grouse moors.

“Should any Moorland Association, Game & Wildlife Trust, or National Gamekeepers Organisation member be proved to have illegally interfered with a Hen Harrier nest or to have persecuted a Hen Harrier on their grouse moors, the Hawk & Owl Trust would pull out its expertise from the brood management scheme trial.”

Ah, proof: therein lies the problem; the protection of this species has been a legal imperative since 1954. Since then the number of hen harriers has decreased and the ratio of convictions to persecution incidents is miniscule. Obtaining the necessary evidence to support a prosecution is very difficult.

“It would be rank stupidity, if not political suicide, for any moorland manager to continue to persecute problem birds when a way out is being provided.”

No, it wouldn’t be, because they are already practically impervious to the law. The risk from continuing the status quo is very small. I appreciate the forgiving, pluralist attitude – “behavioural change is seldom achieved by outright adversarial opposition” – but there is currently no incentive for moorland managers to change their behaviour at all; neither carrot nor stick. There is nothing more that they want. There is no real threat of their lifestyle being at all curtailed. They simply don’t acknowledge that their actions are in any way related to the problem. They wring their hands about the loss of these lives and continue business as usual. They produce superficial marketing exercises that seem to presume an inalienable right to continue their activities. We need to raise the stakes.

grouse moor empty sky

Empty sky above grouse moor, via Wikipedia

In sufficient numbers, hen harriers can reduce the densities of grouse to such low levels that driven grouse shooting is impracticable. There are clearly two ways to view this statement: a viable business ‘producing’ grouse must eradicate hen harriers; or driven grouse shooting demands ecocide.

This is not about all shooting, it’s not even about all grouse shooting; this is about a specific activity undertaken by a minority who are entrenched in their worldview. Our ethical sense has evolved into the 21st century and we recognise animal cruelty, environmental damage and food safety as issues.

Why are we paying via our taxes to subsidise this activity? Why are we paying again to our water companies for the additional treatment required by water running off those moors? Why are we paying again for increased insurance premiums due to increased flooding risk? Why are we paying again for police investigations of wildlife crimes which are very difficult to resolve? Why are we paying again for government supported study after research study after collaboration after working group after action plan which do nothing to change any of the stakeholders’ perspectives and leave the problem entirely unaffected?

Grouse shooting contributes to the economy? How much? And how much would be contributed by a more sympathetic activity, such as rewilding or ecotourism? Or just by the absence of all the aforementioned costly impacts? Beside the financial cost, what about the moral cost? How quickly trade-offs between economics and criminality arise: “the task of balancing the issue of tackling wildlife crime with the contribution that grouse moor management makes to the rural economy has proved very difficult.” Why do we allow this minority to indulge mercenary militaristic superiority fantasies through inflicting tremendous cruelty on other creatures? What about nature’s intrinsic value? Driven grouse shooting is not sport and it’s not acceptable.

Ban driven grouse shooting. If that’s not attractive enough a prospect, it’s an anagram of ‘overburdening hooting ass’.

Plenty more detail from Mark Avery.
Plenty of facts and figures from Raptor Persecution UK.
More ammunition from Chris Packham.

The original version of this article is also published at Wildlife Articles.

08/12/2019

Just Gasking

Filed under: Essays, Uncategorized — Tags: , , , , — Teepwriter @ 15:00

On Thursday I missed a call. I was elongated on my chaise and not for moving. And I had someone with me. Not on the sofa. For once I was not in the toilet. And for once curiosity overcame lassitude and propelled me to investigate the number, since it was not mostly comprised of zeros.

Curiouser still, the internet gave me an interesting answer: “When WE ring YOU, it shows as 01738 476693.YOU ring US on 01577 867250.” Compelled by capital letters and red text, I was agog to learn the name of this communicative establishment: “Arngask Primary School, Main Street, Glenfarg.” A mere stone’s throw from here!

Such curiosity! I wonder what Arngask Primary School could want from me. My legendary ‘adult’ ‘humour’ combined with my antipathy toward the festive season? Could they have over-interpreted my recent prehensile clawing at my rightful title of ‘Queen Nerd’*? They are after all seeking a solution for their mysteriously vague ‘mind craft technical issues’. If their neurology needs ratcheting, I’m ready to wield the instrument. Further reviewing their exciting (amended) programme for the week commencing 18th November, I find myself entirely enticed and exhorted.
[*more anon]

I shall bring my PE kit. As a self-confessed Maths Bag, I shall go out. I shall harken to Mr Bulley’s Bolero. I shall taste a rugby tot. Not to mention the irresistible blank bullets. Most of all, I would love to learn more about mandarins. And the very next entry resolves my tiny transport misgivings: I need only secrete myself aboard the trusty mobile library with a few provisions, and after several days touring the beautiful scenery of Perth and Kinross, I shall be issued, raring to go, at Arngask, and stamped due for return by 15 January 2020. Farewell!

Monday 18th Nov
No Mindcraft Club 3.15 – 4.15pm technical issues
Bring your P.E. kit
Maths Bags P1-4 go out
P6/7 Show Racism the Red Card

Tuesday 19th Nov
Bring your P.E. kit
Mr Bulley Music lessons on Guitar Class – places available, find out more at http://www.pkcmusic.com
 
Wednesday 20th Nov
Bring your P.E. kit
Chanter Class music lessons 3.15pm – 4.00pm (enquiries to Mr Kennedy 07736 383755)
Return Maths Bags please
Nursery – P2 Rugbytots Rugby Tasters
 
Thursday 21st Nov
Bring your P.E. Kit
Parent Council Meeting 6.00pm. All welcome
 
Friday 22nd Nov
P6/7 Mandarin Lesson
Mobile Library Visit
Bring your P.E. Kit 

03/11/2019

PalmKeys

I need a tactile, curved surface. I need to feel every character, even in awkward positions or the dark. I am of course referring to the perfect smart device input fandangle. Context-sensitive touch screens are all very well, but they demand far too much attention to the medium, and far too little to the message.

Of course such a culmination of superlative design and engineering does not exist. The very fact of me wanting an object of this specification means it will not exist. I must design and create my own. However I’m having a little trouble with electrical devices this week.

First the toothbrush declined to switch on/switch off/charge, except at random times to suit itself. Toothbrushing operations became unpredictable. At other idiosyncratic times of day or night the charging light would spontaneously and irregularly flash or the motor suddenly and unnervingly grind into action. The silver spindle oscillating like a high-speed lighthouse. Clonking it off the porcelain didn’t help. My presence was no longer required. I now see condensation within the light – probably not helpful for something that tries to maintain a safe demarcation between electricity and water.

Second a smoke alarm started emitting an annoyingly loud electric squawk once every minute. I found I couldn’t not count the seconds. I had to get between the kitchen and wherever without being in the hall at the deafening moment. I couldn’t eat my breakfast without counting in order to plug my ears every 60 seconds. This is disruptive to my perfectly engineered routine, not to mention higher thought. The alarm resisted being prised off the wall with my grabber, certainly in less than 60 seconds. Kind neighbour with greater stature easily executed the required ‘lift and twist’, then dug out battery compartment. The battery proved to be soldered to its anode and cathode, and the action proved to void the warranty, as helpfully blurted at me by the helpline. Presumably I was supposed to bury it in the garden until resolution could be arranged.

Third the heating timer had amnesiac episode. Late in the evening the boiler fired up. This proved to be because the timer had forgotten the actual* time as well as the program, and seemed to be sleeping, as I wished I was. Thankfully I managed to lean on the right combination of buttons while simultaneously thrusting a safety pin into the reset slot with my teeth. Bizarrely the actual* time was recalled, but the program has defaulted to factory settings. So be it.
[*Actual time was at that time defined as British Summer Time minus 10 minutes. As the seasons change, it is far easier to adjust the ‘actual’ time once than reprogram the start time seven times. Plus factoring in the vagaries of my circadian clonkwork.]

Three things. Constitutes synchronicity. Am I emitting pulses of disruptive electromagnetic radiation? Has Pluto gone retrograde again, causing cosmic havoc? I suppose it is that time of year – the darkening quarter when crackly mischief oozes out of musty corners. So, you can feel fully confident that this device has designed-in resistance to gremlins. Back to the drawing board. With electricity. And rubber gloves.

Sweetcorn cobs annotated with keyboard characters

Obviously, to the undiscerning eye, these will look like grenades. So I must get in a pre-emptive strike! With my explosive! branding: PalmKeys™️. How damp. Sounds like some plastic-fronded holiday resort in Florida.

These may also look like warped versions of those horror-inducing keyboards that split unpleasantly down the middle, giving that referred discomfort of ‘slackness’ in the underwear area and imperative concern that a seam somewhere has gone.

However, they are in fact based on the eminently fondleable appearance of one of my most formative ‘characters’: Wordy from the BBC children’s television learning program Look and Read.

Wordy from the BBC children's television learning program Look and Read

Please note the incorporated strap which passes across the back of your hand and keeps your PalmKey firmly positioned so you can type with confidence. This is made from the innovative plant-based fabric Maiztex which has strength and durability but also a comfortable silky fibrous layer against your skin.

And if all this wasn’t enough, they double as hand-roller-skates, allowing you to reach all sorts of unpleasant recesses.

03/10/2019

Pratchett’s Prescience

Terry Pratchett’s Discworld counterpart for Capability Brown, Bloody Stupid Johnson, offers mindwarping clues to understanding our present political predicament

Lancelot Brown (born c. 1715–16, baptised 30 August 1716 – 6 February 1783), more commonly known with the byname Capability Brown, was an English landscape architect. He designed over 170 parks, many of which still endure. He was nicknamed “Capability” because he would tell his clients that their property had “capability” for improvement.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Capability_Brown

Ironically his poor mother was too early to receive this assessment of potential, hence the inordinately long labour to bring Lancelot into existence. 250 years later, modelling one of his incidental, recurring characters on Brown, Terry Pratchett went three better.

Perhaps the Discworld’s most notable inventor is Bergholt Stuttley “Bloody Stupid” Johnson, an architect whose ability to get things wrong bordered on mythical. Although evidently able in certain fields, Johnson is notorious for his complete inability to produce anything according to specification or common sense, or (sometimes) even the laws of physics. This fact never stopped him from trying, however.

Johnson was not incompetent, far from it; indeed in many ways he was a kind of genius. Pratchett suggests on numerous occasions that he possessed a kind of “inverse genius;” as far from incompetence as genius but in the opposite direction. … While π ≈ 3.142 is a fundamental constant, in the backstory to Going Postal Johnson manages to produce a wheel for which π = 3 as part of his Automatic Mail Sorter. As with a significant number of his creations, the Sorter did work, but the implied distortion of space-time created some side effects, including the Sorter’s ability to sort mail (i.e. output sorted letters) that had not been written yet or might never be written.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Technology_of_the_Discworld#Bloody_Stupid_Johnson

This has dazzling ramifications for the Westminster Plan to Make Britain Best Blighter Again, a slippery beast that no one person knows in its entirety and does not exist in the conventional sense. So, if we can distort the fundamental rules of space-time, the Plan may actually work, for certain values of ‘work’, and of course with some interesting side-effects.

The fact that [Johnson] continued to receive commissions after the defects in his abilities became apparent is considered to be the ultimate expression of the apparent thinking behind the Victorian follies, i.e. an indication that the person commissioning the work can afford to waste money like this.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Technology_of_the_Discworld#Bloody_Stupid_Johnson

This is the first rational explanation for Brexit. Commissioning irrational, inept, inarticulate people to deliver this historic act of self-harm is the ultimate expression of British power. “We are so {insert current promotional superlative} we can afford to squander and destroy vast swathes of our resources and opportunities.”

No drawbacks really, just excepting that tiny wee issue: THIS ISN’T A FANTASY WORLD. It’s enough to make you wish for a transparent tyrant in the style of Lord Vetinari, but that’s just my personal fantasy.

17/09/2019

Highbrow Raising

I was recently accused of ‘highbrow’. This concerns me. Firstly, I feel my content is far too eclectic and mongrel to be highbrow. Highbrow implies refinement. Not smut. Secondly, why is highbrow pejorative? Why must it imply elitist exclusivity (an intellectually snobbish way of saying intellectual snobbery)? Should we not maintain the dynamic range of subject matter? Or, conceited to say so, but even raise the level of debate? Rather than, say, BBC-style, dilute to the lowest common denominator.

There is surely demand for miscellaneous, middle-aged, middle-class, morally philosophic pedantry? I will not be smart-shamed! No, as always happens when I’m challenged, I will be defensive, obtuse and perverse.

What is it about Benjamin Britten’s writing for strings that makes them sound as if they have been recorded in mono? There is some characteristic compression in space, pitch and amplitude that seems perfectly suited to the recording technology at the time. After all, his name is an anagram of tin bert. Bert being a technical term in the sound engineering world, for which I have not yet found satisfactory definition, but surely subtly modifies the derogatory ‘tinny’.

Where Mr Britten and I can share common ground, I believe, is in a penchant for the night male. Sadly that only works as a homophone, a fact that Mr Britten might appreciate, as one whose aural orientation was for his own generation.

This is the night male crossing the border,
Breaching the fence and restraining order.
Obsession, fixation, denying he bored her:
These are the terms of his psychiatric disorder.

Past new cut grass and mower-scarred boulder;
Trailing his phlegm over his shoulder.
Snorting noisily as he passes,
Silent smiles from his punch-bent glasses.

Left hand on down-pipe, right hand on ledge,
Anything for pleasure, scars give him edge.
Hauling up buttocks, embedded with grime:
The gradient’s against him, he’s in decline.

Birds turn their heads as he encroaches,
The full moon blushes at photos he poaches.
An un-neutered cat howls at her mate,
Then squirms away, hissing with hate.

In the dorm he passes no-one awakes,
But a jug in a bedroom gently shakes…

Hm, my mental stylus seems to have skipped to AC/DC… Yes, it’s Night Prowler. But ghastlier yet, the tune is something else: Night Fever. Yes, the Bee Gees. No one can possibly need YouTube karaoke support for that, so I offer it merely for citative rigour. One song to the tune of another, but not at all what Humph intended. And Benjamin must be rotisserating in his monochrome satin shroud. WH Auden has surely evaporated in a plume of disgust. Still dismissing me as highbrow?

As it turns out, the only nocturnal emission in my vicinity is something that quips in the night. Promising but thus far I am haunted only by a bird. Of the female gender. If it actually is Ms Tawny Owl. But this is more my desperate grasping, ahem, than the confident result of research.

Quizzing the internet for “identify nocturnal bird call site:uk” returns primarily, reassuringly, the enquiring mind of the RSPB: where did you see it? Um, garden. How big? Approx. 40dB. What colour of feathers? Black. Type of beak? Open. Doing what? Calling! What colour legs? Black. Unfortunately only my answer to the first question is acceptable to the RSPB, reducing the ‘field’ of potential results to a mere 157. ‘Call’ themselves bird experts.

The rest of the search results are lifestyle magazine-style articles discussing, silently, an arbitrary selection of nocturnal animals. Or—shudder—amateur bird nerds querying forums about their own personal encounter which sounded like (a) a dementor, (b) boiler pipes freezing, (c) a cow being unwell, or (d) a maniacal laugh. No help.

History is written by the victors.
Self-help guides are written by the lucky.

We all want to be helpful, to share our good fortune, but I think lifestyle gurus over-estimate their level of control in the process. Their personal random sequence of experiences and behaviours become the magical formula to fix everyone. Their perspective on the world becomes the universal panacea. Then the marketing kicks in. Marketing, ironically, alienates me. Marketing ironically, ironically, might get my attention.

Book introductions are a good gauge of the author’s effort and commitment. I enjoy openers along the lines “I just can’t put into words the rollercoaster experience of the past few years”. Oh please try. Oh, you have. Oh dear, I can’t seem to stop the book snapping closed.

While we’re in the realm of people volunteering unsolicited advice, I particularly love the half-baked ones.
“You can easily calculate how much protein you should eat with this formula: Your body weight X 0.5 = grams of protein to eat.”

I should eat half my body weight in protein? Daily? Seems unlikely.
Do you mean my body weight in kgs? Then about 25g protein? Seems inadequate.
Surely you can’t mean my body weight in imperial measures if you’re talking about grams of protein?! Less than 4g protein? Ridiculous.
Pounds then? American style? Sigh. Then I should eat 54g protein per day. That’s the first one that sounds believable.

Or, of course, perhaps you mean per week or per year. But I have now spent so much cognitive energy on this ‘easy’ calculation I will need to protein binge for the rest of the year. Last pernickety thought: multiply by a half rather than divide by two? Maybe your arithmetic needs a little more protein.

That’s your sneak preview of my 2020 Edinburgh Festival Fringe show: Fussy ain’t Funny. That should lower the highbrows.

15/09/2019

No Question

I have switched off my answerphone. The thing we used to have before voicemail. Not a separate device, not quite that antiquated, but a landline connection ‘service’. This reactionary decision is the culmination of a concatenation of rabid hyper-marketing blunders. The answerphone ‘service’ would spring into action after two and a half rings. For me to issue cognitive demand and observe the statutory latency before my pitiful physical husk will spring into action and reach the phone in person takes at least seven rings. Therefore I was receiving a lot of frustrating messages:
—advantage of this FREE offer please dial 2 now.
Or
Sorry we have been unable to reach you. Please could you contact us at a time that is convenient to yourself on buzz clonk between the hours of distorted exhaling.
Or
Please can you call the health centre.

Has the practice computer spat me out as the winner of the monthly minor ailment lottery? Has my women’s invasive procedures number come up again already? More pressingly (shudder), why should I pay twice to get that information? It’s four pence per minute to make that call! On top of £1.80 per month! Plus VAT! And that’s without reducing to a monetary value my inestimable time and energy.

Dare I suggest that most of these messages are a waste of time even to listen to? My number has been registered with the Telephone Preference Service (TPS) as ‘Do Not’ for many, many years. It used to be worthwhile – I mean, a maliciously satisfying experience – to keep a notepad of entrapment by the phone. When my blood was fizzing I would answer one of these irrelevant calls and persistently grill the hapless ‘agent’. I would note all their pertinent details and punch them into the TPS web form.

Initially the response would be helpful:
“TPS has notified the company you reported that a complaint has been received relating to a breach of the above regulation. They have been instructed to investigate your complaint and respond to us within 14 days of receipt of our letter of complaint. We have also asked that they do not make any more unsolicited direct marketing calls to your telephone number and that it is suppressed.”

I could hear stygian moans as the marketing monster was run through with my rusty skewer. I could hear sweat trickling as the ‘agent’ was spotlighted for sacrifice as an example the rest of the battery of oppressed operators.

But more recently responses have become jaded:
“Despite our best efforts, TPS has not been able to ascertain valid contact and/or address details to raise this particular complaint. … during the course of our investigation the company name and/or telephone number supplied is found to be fictitious.”

Fictitious?? Have they the temerity to suggest that I have nothing better to do than invent spurious marketing callers? As if I spend my time creating characters and scenarios! Tempting as this may be… in a reverse sort of way. But I’ll return to that idea. Backwards.

No longer satisfied by this expenditure of my precious time and energy, I resorted to simply not answering phone numbers I didn’t recognise. This is in addition to not answering calls when I’m in the toilet. Which happens often. The coincidence, I mean. I’m basically not answering the phone. Which brings me back to the thing that does. Did.

But let’s not overreact. Surely these things can be adjusted? No. This is where it all became hostile and polarised. Referring to my communication provider’s website, it seems I’m not the first person to seek to delay the answerphone’s doggy over-helpfulness. But, horrors! My communication provider admits to being merely a sheepish middleman in this unsatisfactory transaction. The actual service is provided by that paragon of customer-oriented quality and technical excellence: BT. Reference to BT’s website derives only the latest in a long series of customer disappointments: BT’s hair-trigger answerphone is not adjustable. In any way. Just no.

Slowly I succumbed to a surge of bile. For I have been inadvertently giving my small pile of groats indirectly to BT. Yet I firmly severed BT 10 years ago when I learned that (a) they were overcharging me in order to (i) bombard me with irrelevant marketing opportunities for which they would then erroneously charge me, and (ii) pour eye-watering sponsorship into irrelevant sporting occasions, and (b) their connectivity was no better than that of the gory strands that fall out of my womb every month. To BT or not to BT; there’s no question. I had been telephonically violated.

Victimhood doesn’t last long, however. Very soon it transmogrifies into evil plans. How to have my intricate and deliciously disproportionate rewengay… Introducing: the Questaphone(TM). Shortly.

Once hoisted into my loft, Providence will smile upon me: the first box I plunge my non-dominant hand into will give up not a dead mouse but the tape data recorder that accompanied my 1985 BBC 64K personal computer. I loved those 64Ks. I used every one of them. I would wake in the night and switch on the monitor to check it was still flickering with a coruscating cascade of coloured pixels. Progress advanced at a rate of one pixel every 10 minutes, pictorially representing carefully selected and previously uncharted territories of the Mandelbrot Set.

Rendering the full map of my specified coordinates in abstract space might not be finished until after breakfast. Which was just as well, because if I was too hasty or groggily malcoordinated in commanding it to print this magnificently, infinitely detailed design, the overheating processor would quiver, the monitor would collapse to anguishing black, and the night’s toil would be lost. Computer science lesson number one: they bust.

I also typed up my chemistry project on it – using a SodaStream to carbonate salt water. Not potable. This groundbreaking series of experiments would establish oceanic acidification versus the absorption of atmospheric gases depending on several unrealistic parameters. Not that anyone was paying attention to fringe treehuggery in 1989.

Shortly before that underrated thesis was complete, I literally bumped into the End of Space. Error. I had to split the document into two halves – title page to page 8 and pages 9-17 – and store both on the aforementioned tape data recorder. I could edit one half at a time. If page 8 spilled over, I had to write down those words and manually retype them on page 9. These days we grumble about the slowness of a device the size of a notepad as it hurls tyrannosaurabytes of data around the planet.

Aside from the nostalgia, what I’m after is the sound that tape data recorder made, to let me know it was faithfully reading data from the tape and passing it along to the computer, bit by careful bit. Except when the tape fankled. Computer science lesson number two: crunching and snapping means bust. That soundtrack is ingrained in my memory. Soon it will haunt every call centre that dares to disregard my Telephone Preference.

“Thank you for contacting me in 1986. Unfortunately I am not or was not or will not be answering the phone. Please find embedded in the electronic substrata of this call, undoubtedly recorded for training and quality purposes, the details of the hiding places of all my mountainous piles of groats.”

I have reverted to my grandfather’s assertion: “telephones are not for chatting; they are for making appointments.” Don’t call me. There’s no answer.

20/05/2019

Grey Eyes

Filed under: Essays — Tags: , , , , , , , , , — Teepwriter @ 10:50

There seem to be a lot of fictional characters out there with grey eyes. Are there any real people with this attribute? I have seen blue, turquoise, green, amber, brown, and intermediate shades and flecky or ringed combinations. I see these with my own mongrel eyes which appear to be teal flecked with shitey broun. But never grey.

“Her hair was dark red, but her eyes grey, and light at whiles and yet at whiles deep” William Morris, The Well at the World’s End
“The serious grey eye possessed for me a strong charm” Charlotte Brontë, The Professor
“His eyes were steely grey and very solemn” John Buchan, Mr Standfast
“A thick red beard, piercing grey eyes, a nose without nostrils, and marks of the hot iron on his forehead and on his cheeks” Aleksandr Pushkin, The Daughter of the Commandant

Does this fall into the ‘poetic licence’ category along with ‘cerulean’, ‘limpid’ and ‘rheumy’? I’m all for keeping the rich variety of language alive, but not words that never get used other than in this exclusive linguistic cul-de-sac. Is ‘grey’ an exaggeration like ‘chiseled features’? Does ‘grey’ mean something else in this context? Is there some literary quality to alluding to a genre while departing from the literal?

“Glorious was his face, and his grey eyes gleamed with wrath and mastery as he spake in a clear voice” William Morris, The Well at the World’s End
“Very low forehead, very diminutive and vindictive grey eyes, somewhat Tartar features, rather flat nose, rather high cheekbones” Charlotte Brontë, The Professor
“She is delicately fair, with fine grey eyes and dark eyelashes” Jane Austen, Lady Susan
“Unfortunately, in his dark-grey eyes there was an absence of any definite idea” Ivan Goncharev, Oblomov
“Aksynia had naïve grey eyes which rarely blinked” Anton Chekhov, In the Ravine

If I read another character description with grey eyes I may sink my teeth into the e-paper.

As I ponder this important question, I notice that the examples I have are from novels at least a hundred years old. Why am I so soaked in medium-ancient literature? Because it’s in the public domain, of course, and I’m a Gutenberg glutton, or skinflint. But there may be another key feature of the hundred year old literary world: after all, they existed in monochrome, didn’t they?

03/05/2019

Skye Bette

Filed under: Essays — Tags: , , , — Teepwriter @ 15:05

Apparently March was criminal charity month. One night, while I was not sleeping but perambulating back and forth through the upper gallery—hullo moon, hullo sunrise, hullo birds, etc.—I was also placing bets of £200 on skybetdotcom.

I wonder how, when I have to enter a string of numbers, password, pass number and especially memorable word or character combination in order to access my small pile of groats, some other person (or device) is able to request great wads of money from my account without any of these. And exceeding the balance by four times. Had I not spotted this spurious outgoing while it was still a pending transaction, my bank would have happily allowed my money and a lot more to go, well into the sub-zero realm.

I wonder which of the two purchasing transactions I had made in the previous month, which involved me revealing selected subsets of my financial encodements, lead to this event. Did either of those businesses store my information unsecurely? Were their webpages interfered with? Was somebody listening to which keys I tapped?

Having barely set banking wheels in braking motion, the telephone rang, displaying an impossible number, i.e. one that starts with ‘1’. I answered, imagining this might be a clandestine follow-up to my recent crime prevention effort. Had MI5 already picked up my case?

No. The caller was an automaton claiming to be BT soullessly informing me that it was terminating my internet connection, but—BUT—I could press ‘2’ if I wanted to avert this disaster. There are several reasons why this is feeble nonsense. So, not a follow-up; a further crime attempt. And all the more curious, since my phone number is not publicly available.

Suddenly I seemed to be a beacon of interest for unethical, financially extractive activities. Or are there people (or devices) out there, punching in random numbers until either they find they’ve successfully purchased something or a distant phone rings.

I returned to contemplating Skye Bette, whom I imagine sitting in a fag-singe-perforated onesie, on a skin-grease-shined sofa, attempting half-witted larceny on a half-cracked smartphone. Or—trying to trace tenuous clues from my possibly risky recent transactions—a disillusioned pharmacy warehouse worker who considers my blowing several pounds on branded painkillers a sign of entitled opulence begging for direct action. Who has nocturnal betting habits?

Ah, but, what a silly thing to spend my money on. Surely the person (or device) placing the bet can not have received any winnings, because their outlay or placed bet was not yet authorised. (I’m sure there are proper words for this in betting parlance, but of course I wouldn’t know.) Betting businesses have surely learned not to pay out before the down-payment is honoured. They’re well known for not losing money. Except when they’re casinos inherited by certain execrable heads of state. And supposing there were winnings, where would they be electronically spat? Would it not be suspicious to request your winnings be paid elsewhere?

If the person (or device) clutching sufficient of my financial codes to get past Go had immediately rushed out and bought bread or pants or, in the case of a non-human device, some USB trinket, they would’ve had the thing in their paw or socket. The argument would then have been between the retailer and the bank as to who had been a little hasty in grabbing for profit and failed the security procedures and who should get to keep the money. Now all the person (or device) has is a cancelled bet. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

If the stealage was for food or shelter I might have managed a sliver of sympathy. But perhaps it was me after all. It has the ring of the unhinged. Perhaps I have a multiple personality disorder. Perhaps I have reverse narcolepsy. Why would I throw £200 away? Dare I cackle in the face of fate? I really don’t have the mental acuity at 3AM.

02/05/2019

Easter Peace Stir

Filed under: Essays — Tags: , , , , — Teepwriter @ 16:05

Blue sky through shrubs with sun-flare

Easter weekend. Mid April. Scotland. Four days of blue sky and 20°C. Unusual.

I emerged into the garden to inspect the confused combination of grey sticks and greens sprouts. I listened to try to distinguish the great-tit from the blue-tit. To try to figure out why starling calls sounds like a geiger counter. Or something falling from a great height.

Instead I heard the pulsing grind of a car being water-jetted, the rattling whine of a hedge trimmer, the drone and clack of a lawnmower, the lazy buzz of a light aircraft, and the steady thundering whoosh of passing traffic. Seventeen million people changing places for the weekend.

A second water-jet fired up: not another mere electric effort, but a full diesel-powered industrial version that sounded like a generator used to power drilling tarmac.

I wonder about this unusual weather, and I wonder about our urge to create work for ourselves.

When the apocalypse comes, I shall surreptitiously tap into the personal crude oil well that my neighbour seems to be drilling for, in order to ensure a continuing supply.

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