which we Greeks call atoms

I’m not a hypocrite, but...

2013-05-06T18:34:00.000+01:00

There were some particularly nasty comments flowing in the vicinity of “English comedian, actor and presenter” Rufus Hound and former Conservative MP and “English author” Louise Mensch the other day; two people of whom I’d normally have little interest. I ought, I suppose, to be more upset at Hound’s description of his adversary as a “cocksucker” – should that be one word, or two? – yet outrage hardly needs my help. His mealy mouthed defence, sadly all too familiar, was spectacularly ill-thought as it effectively amounted to ‘anything goes’ when someone fails to share the same point of view - so long as you can claim it’s figurative; which of course most (all?) Anglo-Saxon insults are.

Neither do I have much time for UKIP, yet included in his abusive rant was one clarification that reminded me of the “I’m not racist, but” ad-hominem attributions to the silly party from various right-on commentators. Our comedian says:

I believe in a free press, for what it's worth, but I don't believe the press we have currently is capable of handling that responsibility.

… which would make for great satire were it not for the fact he’s serious. And unfortunately there are far too many serious types who share this contradiction. If you believe in a free press, there is no qualification, there is no Leveson-inspired regulatory body, or if there is, then you don’t, and you should stop pretending otherwise. In just the same way as one can’t say “I’m not racist but”, you can’t claim to “believe in a free press, but”. Or to put it yet another way, yes, you are and no, you don’t.

Seconds out

2013-04-20T16:30:00.001+01:00

Margaret Thatcher’s seemingly much anticipated death provoked all the expected nonsense from those on the left determined to offend, and those on the right determined to be offended. I was both puzzled and despairing and, as ever, determined to avoid conflict. Thus I have passed in the past on the temptation to question derogatory comments on the death of a disabled child - I mean, where do you start? And if I could do that I could resist providing an alternative view of the Iron Lady; besides, you really can’t argue with “fact” and “end of” in the same comment.

Events have overtaken me, yet I was stopped in my tracks some weeks before by a post comparing the Tory government’s supposed campaign of persecution with the “scapegoating of the Jews in the early years of the Third Reich”. Wow. I’ll credit their omission of the Liberal party as a deliberate insult to the junior coalition partners, and quite funny at that; I’ve noticed how uncomfortable my few acquaintances of that persuasion can get when joking “we’re all friends now”.

Silly comments from people with a far superior education; I’ll never get it. And I let it go because whilst I may decry the ease with which those in the middle ground (and I’d like to pretend I’m one) cede control to the more virulent of their side (and there’s always a side), if your friends of a different political hue are “off on one” it’s easier to let them get it out of their system. I’m wrong of course, I know that. In a gentle way, you can shake the world; cynicism or a general weariness, I’m not entirely sure I believe, but the occasional nudge won’t hurt.

…where you won't do very much harm

2013-03-15T22:42:00.000Z

We cast a shadow on something wherever we stand, and it is no good moving from place to place to save things; because the shadow always follows. Choose a place where you won't do harm - yes, choose a place where you won't do very much harm, and stand in it for all you are worth, facing the sunshine.
-- E. M. Forster, A Room With A View

I should think this a popular quote. I imagine younger readers fastening to this advice, as I did so many years ago, noting, but mostly brushing aside the note of caution. Some marry a George or Lucy, others a Cecil or Charlotte. Some forget, for they no longer need to remember, others return with a rueful smile or occasional tears; I can’t think which is more appropriate, though appropriate of course has nothing to do with it.

Love don't live here anymore

2013-02-10T17:57:00.000Z

I think I must be a little sensitive today but I can’t pretend I’m not hurt. Do you remember when we first met? It was a long time ago, I remember it was a Sunday and I didn’t want to go out, I didn’t want to appear needy either but my other efforts hadn’t worked so I gave you a call. The lady who answered was lovely and though she couldn’t help me with my needs she had a friend who could; he was lovely too; so patient and understanding he must have spent an age ensuring satisfaction and believe me, I was. Do you remember this was back in the days before the internet, well, before broadband anyway; back then we had to wire things up to make a connection and it didn’t always work. Online shopping was for dreamers such as you and me, but we didn’t let that stop us. Later that day I put in my first order.

The years passed, I moved house and though we kept in touch somehow we’d lost the magic of those early days. As fate would have it the local supermarket was one of yours; now we could have more than just an online relationship. I walk there several times a week to see your stripes of red and blue, though I must confess I haven’t always been true; this won’t be easy to read but you deserve the truth; there have been times I’ve used Aldi. They’re a little closer, a little easier on the pocket but that’s no excuse, and I’m sorry; I hope one day you’ll have it in your heart to forgive me. I suppose I ought to apologise to Aldi too - or it might be Lidl, I never could tell those two apart.

Was this the reason, I wondered today, or am I conceited to think it’s all about me? You see recently you’ve felt a little distant. I know I’m getting older, my hair is greyer and the walk does feel longer and no doubt you’ll tell me it’s my imagination, but I’m beginning to think you don’t care. Those yellow price labels you used to reserve for special occasions, now I see them everywhere; and you’re not always using them to denote something worthwhile, those price reductions you made available to all but were really intended for me (I know this; you don’t have to say anything, on that matter at least). Recently it’s become random, yellow and white plastered with abandon and then today what felt like a deliberate insult: “Cadburys Chocolate Mini-Rolls 6pk - £1.40… Special Purchase”

Special Purchase? What’s so special about that, I’ve never seen them more expensive - and you of all people know how I like a chocolate roll. Is there something wrong? Have I done something wrong? Do you not want me anymore? Have Asda been mean, are they telling fibs? It’s all lies. Well… I suppose there was that one time but please believe me, it meant nothing. No doubt you’re beginning to think I’m a bit of a tart, maybe that’s why you fling such yellow label provocation in my face. Have you really had enough? Should I turn around and go? Please tell me, am I not welcome anymore? You needn’t worry about me; somehow, I don't know how, but somehow I will survive.

Refactoring marriage

2013-02-03T22:43:00.000Z

This Tuesday the House of Commons will be voting for the past or the future, and whilst I hope for the latter I wondered on the possibilities with our current imperfect arrangements. I confess to some trouble in deciding which derived from the other, in a software rather than historical sense. All this argument over labels drives one to distraction; an object is defined by its attributes, not by a name; and therein lay one possible solution.

Happy deadline day

2013-02-02T22:49:00.000Z

In an act of supreme (really?) irony, though I’m never sure what that is nowadays and after all my complaining - which I so enjoyed - at Apple’s culpability in something or other, I received an iPod Touch for Christmas. It’s not quite the latest model so I estimate three years from now I’ll find I’m repeating myself; as Apple themselves might say, three years seems like an awfully long time....

I have been busy in general but particularly this week. My now ex-development partner left for pastures new, which in addition to being a surprise was a real shame since he was great to work with. The job itself continues to inspire, overload and a whole set of other adjectives that add up to scary fun. I am at that place where several things have begun to properly click, yet in addition to ‘getting it’ I’m aware of just how much there is still to get; I like the challenge. So with unexpected news I found myself staying overnight at the north-end of the country, running through a few of those things I still didn’t get, fitting in a meeting or two before travelling home and having to stop - for I was knackered - on both the M6 and M5 for extra-shot coffee.

The following morning I was tired with a full day and faced with deadlines that had nothing to do with work. Football, blog - so that I’d have something to show for January (I needn’t say how that went) and to fill in my tax return. Aforementioned work meant leaving this to the very last day, something it seems I did last year though I can’t recall last year’s excuse. This time however I’ll fill in that form or dial that number and try to opt out of the nightmare that is wondering where you’ve put your P60. And this time, this time I mean it (© 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012 etc.)

Second sight

2012-12-23T14:13:00.000Z

I decide to prove the model of iPod Touch bought all those years ago (3 ‘normal’ years = 21 ‘Apple’ years) rather than settle on indirect signs. Wikipedia’s information that a particular generation can’t be updated beyond a certain version of iOS is a strong clue, as is the rather annoying discovery that whilst this version is good enough for some apps, if the model isn’t as required you’re still going to be stuffed buying your apps whilst the device is attached rather than through the device itself; you’re allowed to purchase even though the app won’t play. Over to the Apple website where I find proof comes in the form of a model number on the back, yet I can only see the memory capacity, under which I can make out some etching indecipherable to the naked eye.

Great - another evisceration of Apple, what could be better? There’s a USB microscope on the PC next door, I can write a blog on this and I’m going to be so witty, just like the last time, only my daughter spoils it all by walking into her room and asking for an explanation, upon which she picks up the iPod Touch unbidden, looks on the back and reads out:

Model number A1288. There... now can I have my laptop back?

Santa Claus has come to town

2012-12-10T23:19:00.000Z

Children are great for this time of year; before they come along the message has likely given way to parties and some much needed time off work. Once they arrive, sweeping you up in the purest joy they amplify the true meaning of Christmas, which is something to do with presents and Santa. The latter made an appearance on the weekend courtesy of our local Round Table, his arrival heralded much excitement as I swept up my daughter and headed to the front door, opening it just in time to catch the man in the bright red suit as he was strolling past. Turning, he came forward and offered her a sherbet lolly from the tin he was carrying. “Thank you, Santa”, we said, for I may have joined in, and on closing the door my daughter turns to me and says

Daddy, you are SO embarrassing.

The anti-upgrade, from Apple

2012-12-02T18:31:00.000Z

A month elapses between posts, five days pass between tweets. Once again I find myself with nothing left to say - which doesn’t sound likely - or no time in which to say it, or perhaps I’ve once again forgotten how. I passed on the gift-wrapped opportunity to give the BBC a well-deserved kicking over the Newsnight debacle and have given my brain cells a well-deserved kicking instead; and all because the developer loves his WPF. Well maybe it’s too early to call it love, but there’s enough of a sense of how much there is to learn and how worthwhile it will be. My car, I wrote about my car, several paragraphs about my car and I have no interest in cars. My car has gone to the great big scrapheap in the sky for which I was paid a sum just short of a cheap tablet computer, or a fraction less than the cost of my daughter’s Christmas present.

Then just as I’m about to give up the ghost, Apple push me over the edge when I rather optimistically decide that, yes, I will update iTunes and I’ll update the firmware on an iPod Touch. What was I thinking? Logic suggested this way I might be able to run some of the newer apps. I was tired. It’s not something I’d normally attempt, especially on a device that’s three years old, which in technological terms is still three years old but to Apple is an opportunity for a good shunning.

I have two complaints; I’ll start with the minor first. If I have my device connected, you’d think when purchasing an app the store would be able to first detect whether the device is capable of running it; you’d be wrong. The tipping point however was finding that previously purchased apps won’t re-install on an iPod Touch with the updated OS because they now require an even newer version of the OS, one not available to your ancient device. Can you imagine the shit storm Microsoft would endure if an OS upgrade resulted in a third of people’s purchases no longer functioning? Apple doesn’t really care.

And that’s because of you since, thirdly - OK, three complaints - whilst this might be Apple’s fault, really it’s yours; maybe it’s not you, but statistically speaking there’s every chance it’s the person sat next to you. S/he’s the person who nodded approvingly when Tim Cook CEO issued his non-apology for the farce over Apple Maps; since it sounded vaguely like an apology that was all it took for some of their captive audience to express sympathy - yet it was something entirely avoidable and it happened for two reasons. Let’s not kid ourselves that Apple was in any way surprised over the inadequacy of their product. They upgraded their customers to Apple Maps because there’s a lot of money in controlling the map, and also because they don’t care, or at least they gambled correctly that they could get away with it.

They don’t care because they don’t have to. You see, you - or the person sat next to you - are equivalent to Ferris Bueller’s best friend Cameron, and Apple is like his hypothesised girlfriend. And Ferris was right to be concerned:

She won't respect him, 'cause you can't respect somebody who kisses your ass. It just doesn't work.

For you

2012-11-29T23:11:00.000Z

This gentle kiss, the slightest trace,
those tactile moments that lead to more.
I recollect desire, bound in memory,
ofttimes wistful though ne’er forlorn.

Wishing well emotion extant,
my verse unbundles, undone while
I think of passion once laid dormant
and it gives me cause to smile.

Quiche, through and through

2012-11-25T16:36:00.001Z

It was a long week. Last Sunday I finally decided to fix the car which had been SORN’d for over three and a half years. I started by replacing the battery. For reasons that I’m not going to make clear as it would make me sound like an idiot, I’m curious as to how long a never-used battery lasts after having been bought. Is it I suspect, like a not-used-in-a-long-while battery, dead unless given a charge every now and then? Let’s pass on that, on Saturday I bought another battery, and on Sunday I took over two hours to remove the dead one in the car. On the VW Polo there’s a plastic casing inside which the battery sits that wasn’t quite as described by the Haynes manual my father helpfully bought me 18 months ago. Nevertheless I felt a misplaced sense of manly achievement, though this wasn’t enough to fix the car.

Three and a half years and I confess the main (only?) reason for this effort was the knowledge my Ford Puma - 117,000 miles on the clock with one not-so-careful owner - had about as much chance of passing its MOT as I have of reading The Busconductor Hines, which was Friday’s Kindle Daily Deal. This of course was a purchase with the noble purpose of understanding how the other half think (other readers that is) and at less than the cost of a prawn sandwich I couldn’t go wrong, though on reflection I should have bought the sandwich; given that it’s set in “Thatcher’s Britain” I only have myself to blame.

On Monday I called the RAC. My heroic and ultimately successful struggle with replacing the battery had not been enough; the engine turned as if from a slumber with no intention of waking up. It was time for the professionals. Mine spent hours in the rain with me watching him doing something with coils and spark plugs and fuses, several times he removed and replaced the engine cover - I didn’t know you could do that, I didn’t even know it was a cover - at one point he used a hair dryer and hit the base of the car with a screwdriver. Was an oxyacetylene torch involved? It may have been. Yet even an expert wasn’t enough; at a cost of £90 (since it had no MOT and therefore wasn’t covered) I had to have the car - the good car that is to replace my crappy car - towed to the garage.

To Rockhampton; a small village that can be reached along the back roads from my not so tiny town, there you will find Woodward Motors. An essential part of my motoring life for several years and the one on whom I was reasonably sure. It could be the fuel pump, was their guess when I handed over the keys, and a phone call the following day confirmed it to be the case; this, some rusted up brakes, a service and an MOT accounted for an impressively large bill, impressive for a VW Polo. I wasn’t impressed; I’d deserted the car and gotten my just desserts.

Flooding meant a delay of a few days; it wasn’t until Friday when I could pick up the car from a sand-bagged garage. I had only the car tax left which at ‘only’ £135 was cheaper than before. On the point of applying online, being prepared to wait a few more days before I could drive, I remembered something called a post office and thus only 15 minutes later I had a legal car, one I could drive once I get rid of the smell.

If car tax was the second, the first saving was insurance. A worthless car costs more to insure than one with value, this despite the insurer only replacing to the market value of the car. My father reminds me this is because I am seen as more likely to have an accident in a 1.7L Puma than I am a 1.2L Polo, though as anyone who’s seen me drive will know, I am no more likely to have an accident in one of those cars than I am the other. I can’t possibly be blamed for having been hit three times, though there was that one time I span off into a ditch. Oh, and the time I swiped the concrete pillar in the car park, accounting for a large dent over the rear wheel arch. Yours, for less than the cost of a cheap tablet computer. Though on reflection....

Continuing adventures

2012-10-24T22:37:00.000+01:00

I’ve not been too productive when it comes to writing, but then I have an excuse; not so long ago, I started a new job. As befits a new job, at least one worth sticking with, there’s a level of tiredness from taking in all that’s new; that’s the attraction. A new language, a new subsystem for building the UI, a new model design pattern, it’s all good. Mind you the office is 170 miles away, which is why I work from home with an occasional one-day visit; that’s a long day; up before 5am, back home as late as 8pm. So the reading has faltered too.

I was on a roll; The Sense of An Ending, Waterland, The Mayor of Casterbridge and A Tale of Two Cities to name a few. I’ve started the long run-on sentences of All The Pretty Horses – thankfully I’m used to McCarthy’s play-by-his-own-rules punctuation - but it’s had to wait until a short break this week to give it its due. Before then, instead of useful activities such as practicing how to read and write, I found myself perturbed by the recent events in Emmerdale. How did their first ever music festival make a £0.5 million profit on those crowds? Oh, and somebody else was murdered. It’s enough to have you lying awake at night wondering whether the alphabet can be re-produced in a semi-recognisable format using only nine pixels; some companies spend millions producing ‘retina displays’ but I like to ‘think outside the box’. It must be the long hours.

Zombie apocalypse preparation update

2012-10-03T21:16:00.000+01:00

“The best place to hide” I mused some time ago whilst waiting by the fountain in The Mall at Cribbs Causeway - where all the cool kids hang out - “the best place to hide in the event of a zombie apocalypse would be John Lewis”. A rather childish thought I realised on a subsequent visit to their top floor; whilst the escalators to the food hall are easily blocked off, I hadn’t taken account of the elevators. “Can zombies operate elevators?” I wondered. I still do, I can’t remember from The Walking Dead whether they can even use doors, but I think the thing is, with all those flailing arms someone - or rather something - is going to get through unless you lock it up/down.

And then there are the emergency exits. And staff access. We’re going to have to do something about that.

There were three prompts

2012-09-30T18:19:00.000+01:00

This may be an indication of my short-attention span, but placeholder text used as the label has been bugging me for a while, and it seems to be getting more popular. I use it on the web version of this blog; the Search function in the top right uses a placeholder, though if you’re using Internet Explorer you won’t see anything unless it’s IE10. And if you’re using Firefox then older versions will result in the text clearing on focus, unlike Chrome (and presumably other WebKit browsers) where it only clears on user input.

Imagine however that all browsers implement HTML in a consistent manner and that there’s some placeholder text identifying the input that’s been designed to disappear on the text box receiving focus. Or imagine I’d used jQuery. For a single input field it’s a fair solution but for more than one it doesn’t work; I’ve found it niggling for something as simple as the usual three prompts (email, name and website) before adding a comment.

Proponents will point out the snapshot is unfair. In real life I’d be entering this information together; I’d know what I’d just clicked on. This might be true for some, it depends on the point at which your focus moves to the next field; is it before or after you click? For me it’s ‘after’, or would be if I used the mouse (or similar) to navigate the input. However, I use the keyboard and, I suspect like most who do, my focus doesn’t move until I tab away; hence my attention would only move to the next input field after it had already received focus, and lost its identifying label. Therefore if there is placeholder text it shouldn't clear until the input has content, though I'd question whether user content is an adequate identifier.

Materialistic wobbles

2012-09-21T17:11:00.000+01:00

On Tuesday I caved. In the week in which the world updates their iPhone, I upgraded my Nokia... to another Nokia. This is my first smartphone and I chose not to follow the herd, or even the Android herd that ~~copies~~ follows it; at least that’s what I tell myself. From a distance I genuinely prefer Windows Phone to those two big hitters; so what if Microsoft supposedly makes more money from wielding its mighty patent sword at Android than it does from its own operating system - it has originality to commend it. But comparisons are unwise since the closest I’ve come to a Jesus phone is a three year old iPod Touch, though I did once hold a Samsung Galaxy Nexus.

Could this be a case of blissful ignorance? It matters not, as the main reason for my conversion was a £7.50/month tariff, cheaper than what I had been paying; this isn’t a materialistic wobble after all. It’s not an iPhone or top-of-the-range anything; it's more a bottom-of-the-range something that still manages to drag me into the modern world. I’m not sure whether this is a good or a bad thing. I suspect bad. I suspect I'll forgive myself. And reading of the misfortunes riddled in Apple Maps I confess to a certain schadenfreude since the pre-installed Nokia Maps on my Lumia knows exactly where I am - in my bedroom - useful that.

It’s broken because we designed it that way

2012-09-19T18:06:00.000+01:00

Scott Hanselman’s recent post, on a week of annoyances caused by troublesome software, was entertaining because we’ve all been there. Thankfully it managed not to indulge (or at least I could stomach) the allusions to a lack of “passion” and “craft” and the comments were mostly sane, albeit I didn’t necessarily agree. I must confess to occasional astonishment at how much does work, not only in the world of IT but the world in general; yet we can do better, and if we didn’t think so then what’s the point?

It doesn’t have quite the same impact, but many of his gripes would be more accurately described as “less than perfect” rather than “broken” and it strikes me - in development, now more than ever - that “less than perfect” is not only allowed, it’s actively encouraged - I’m thinking of “release early, release often”. For example, I like Agile - since customer requirements will evolve it’s helpful to have an adaptive method that anticipates this - but it comes with an understanding that what’s initially released isn’t the finished article. Ironically the separation of concerns afforded by such patterns as MVC and MVVM not only enable this, but necessarily come with additional code you’d expect with any abstraction.

One can argue the difference between internal and external releases, and there is a balance, but if we don’t release early then any perceived advantage from user feedback becomes moot. The point here is that “less than perfect” is something we accept, as quicker and better is expected in the long term. The business challenge is to ensure as much effort is extended to the updates as the early release - which in turn requires challenging (or should that be refining?) an “if it ain’t broke” mentality.

A further confession: I’m not particularly understanding when “less than perfect” hits me; though yesterday’s example was a bug. In creating an online account to manage my Barclays mobile phone insurance I discovered the password format validation was different to that on logging in; the latter was strictly alphanumeric, the former allowed for what would have been more secure. Thus the telephone call I’d hoped to avoid by creating said account became inevitable; not that I could explain the problem to the person on the other end.

London in 2012, not London 2012

2012-09-14T12:33:00.000+01:00

Think of this as a bump... with pictures.

Amazon’s square peg, round hole

2012-08-28T16:38:00.000+01:00

This post is hardly cutting edge; a search shows people asking the same question as my mother, only three months ago. Not quite the same, my Mum’s phone call said she couldn’t find the option to switch off the radio on her Kindle; it wasn’t until after we’d hung up, having agreed to her stopping by after church because I had no idea, that I realised she meant wireless. And indeed this wasn’t a case of her forgetting how, or having lost the hand-written instructions she makes for every device, be it DVD player, iPod or this, her latest device. The wireless on/off option had disappeared. It wasn’t on the main menu, nor had it moved to the settings sub-menu.

Only of course it had. If I’d looked more closely at the blurb under ‘Airplane Mode’, which I’d briefly registered as not having seen before, or if I’d even given some thought as to what ‘Airplane Mode’ might be, I’d have realised this was the wireless option, relocated and renamed and with the on/off options therefore reversed. Presumably done with the noble intention of consistency with other products, the iPhone for example, that’s still a crap user experience.

An iPhone has several functions transmitting a signal and ironically, depending on the aircraft operator, since ‘Airplane Mode’ isn’t standard, it allows you to re-enable the Wi-Fi independently. So if Amazon is determined in its effort to be consistent, to a term that isn’t, it needs a specific option for switching the Wi-Fi on/off, in addition to its ‘Airplane Mode’ - which on my mother’s Kindle can only switch the Wi-Fi off/on. Or perhaps Amazon should concentrate on applying patterns where they fit.

Understood by all and with value to none

2012-08-14T23:17:00.000+01:00

The closing ceremony of the London 2012 Olympics was what I’d feared of the opening ceremony. An antithesis of that glorious spectacle it was a mess of ideas, a shambles, a ‘history of British music’ degraded to a party or some such excuse. Early on we were treated to an extended montage of athletes crying, and with subtlety suitably bludgeoned it was on with the show.

And what a show; the stage imaginatively made up in the style of the union flag, the athletes were kettled within and encircled by several billboard trucks driven to the tune of David Bowie’s Fashion. From each truck emerged the fashion supermodel pictured who then, to prove his or her versatility, walked to the centre of the stage and posed fashionably. Some marvelled, some wondered. It was this sense of the unknown, this crazy sense of danger that kept me watching; here, some supermodels standing upright; there, a middle-aged pop group aboard a flatbed, none of whom wore seatbelts, one of whom, the saxophone player, dangled from a wire; it was madness.

Or was the highlight Liam Gallagher and his new band, whose ‘new arrangement’ of an old Oasis ‘classic’ amounted to singing out of tune? Not a problem with recorded slots, of which there were several including the aforementioned Bowie, and of course John Lennon whose challenging contribution - “Imagine there's no countries, it isn't hard to do” - caused the more enlightened athletes to vanish in a puff of logic.

Not to be outdone, George Michael - who was able to attend - in a paean to the great days of Top of The Pops, mimed to a recording of his new song. It’s an outrage, suggested various commentators afterwards, to use the occasion to plug your latest single, and who presumably thought the Spice Girls and The Who had appeared for philanthropic reasons. There were lights, there were fireworks, an emotional time was had by all. I’d liked Michael’s performance, preferable anyway to the adoration inexplicably given to five wannabe pop stars screeching “spice up your life”, which was my daughter’s favourite moment; my daughter is ten.

Medalling

2012-08-11T22:29:00.000+01:00

The party is almost over and as befits two weeks of almost non-stop entertainment, I am due an almighty hangover. I’ve enjoyed the Olympics so much that a verbing medal no longer perturbs; though a podium probably would; small steps and all that. So good, I couldn’t manage the upset required at Aiden Burley’s asinine comments on multiculturalism during the opening ceremony, nor the daft notion that ‘super Saturday’ - a day on which Team GB won six gold medals - somehow proved the Conservative MP wrong. He was wrong, but the ‘proof’ was equally silly.

So many sports, some of which I was only barely aware, yet sensible to this: whilst it has been fun, I am no more motivated to get on my bike, take up running, dive back into the pool or punch or kick someone for sport; at least, no more inclined than I was before all this started. Many I know, will be; some of whom may medal in the future. You see, I am trying.

The isle is full of noises

2012-07-30T18:22:00.000+01:00

I’ll admit to wincing when I heard there would be an NHS section, it sounded a little too ‘eastern bloc’ for my taste - workers of the state perform for your entertainment - yet what we got was fun, not light hearted fun - that came later with Mr Bean’s Chariots of Fire - but creepy fun, the much reviled American NBC commentary were right about that, it was kind of creepy and all the better for it. My biggest concern was a rehash of the tried and tested, some bland brightly coloured offering understood by all and with value to none. Instead nurses jived around beds before settling their charges down for the night; J.K. Rowling began with a reading from Peter Pan, from which sprouted imagined terrors, ghouls from every corner, the child catcher, the Queen of Hearts, Voldemort towering over all. Who would save the children? Why a band of Mary Poppins, of course.

Even the lesser segment - into the digital age - effectively a performance to a rock-through-the-ages concert, avoided the temptation to delve into the merely popular but kept faith with those providing an alternative, an independence, or who, if I may indulge in cliché, have stood the test of time. I don’t like rap but for a few short minutes I was a Dizzee Rascal fan. And there were so many other great touches; the Queen and James Bond featured together, illuminated doves cycled around the stadium to the Arctic Monkeys singing The Beatles’ ‘Come Together’, and at the end of it all the lighting of the torch, itself a wondrous architectural achievement.

All of this, all of it, was set up by an extraordinary opening 30 minutes. First the orchestra playing Nimrod from Elgar’s Enigma Variations, then the countdown until we were ‘live to the world’, starting with a terrific recorded opening sequence taking us from the source of the River Thames into the Olympic stadium, live. Songs followed representing the constituent parts of Great Britain and Northern Ireland - my daughter joined in for Flower of Scotland - topped and tailed with Jerusalem; Nimrod then Jerusalem, two of my favourites, how did they know? This was a precursor to an economic history of our country, the history I was taught at school; the tearing up of land that forged the industrial revolution which in turn would lead to Victorian riches and place us at the centre of the world. From Kenneth Branagh’s inspiring lines from The Tempest, his Brunel strode the stage as six stacks sprung from the ground to power a new forge; ‘molten iron’ blazed a path to a ring, tempered then lifted glowing into the sky to converge with four others.

A shame that some were unable to watch this without political context, and thus judged based on whether this self-constructed context matched their own; how narrow a life they must lead. Personally it made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. It was entertainment, it was history lesson. It was magnificent spectacle without losing its humanity. It was, as another of J.K. Rowling’s creations might say, bloody brilliant.

Sharing via AddThis

2012-07-26T20:27:00.000+01:00

A long time ago I decided to add some ‘social sharing’ into the blog; the how in this instance being more important than the why. I didn’t care for the layout of Blogger’s own set of share buttons so hacked an alternative, adding in the Google +1 button when it became available. Sometime (or was it immediately?) after the launch of their new social networking platform the +1 button was extended to “recommend on search, share on Google+”. Whilst this was kind of OK - platform first, then API - it twisted the metaphor; when, I wondered, would Google+ have a function dedicated to “Share”? It happened so quietly - back in April - I hardly noticed; the share buttons on YouTube had altered, specifically Google+ no longer referenced +1. This is much better; the lack of direct sharing must have further limited people’s use of Google's offering.

My first thought was to enter the HTML jungle representing this blog - in which there has been far too much messing around - and code up a new button. My second thought, which occurred shortly after escaping said jungle, was to look for something else. Something unobtrusive and easily configurable, I settled on AddThis. Using their “Install Blogger Widget” option places some HTML-generating JavaScript in a widget. Done this way it’s easy to remove - always reassuring - and still relatively easy to customise, of which there are a plethora of options.

It's early days, but so far I've only three gripes. Visually I'm not keen on the two-column pop-up menu showing the other bookmarking and sharing options, and I don’t really want to spend time overriding the styling. Having said that my two other concerns are addressed if I hide the menu header. The first of which is if I select one of the services the header changes to “Share successful!” irrespective of whether I have shared. The other is something that happens in Chrome (but not IE or Firefox) as a result of the following piece of AddThis code:

It took me a while to track down as I hadn’t noticed that I’d explicitly closed the menu, and then I assumed I’d left some code of my own hanging around; it is in truth the kind of thing I’d do in testing. Then I noticed this behaviour everywhere. For example, using the Chrome browser I tried this out on the official London2012 page detailing the Olympic opening ceremony: Hover over the “Share” icon, explicitly close the pop-up menu by clicking on “X”, then press a key, (almost) any key; I typed “A”. Well, it made me smile.

When the bough breaks

2012-07-24T21:25:00.000+01:00

How fragile we are, our lives hanging on such an unconvincing thread; from one end plugged into a wall socket, once used for nothing more complex than a telephone call, now winding around the living room, behind the chairs and the bookcase, to the other end plugged into a router; from which other wires protrude; one to the BT Vision box, another to the Nintendo Wii, one more to the television; wires; wires everywhere.

When the router breaks...

On Sunday afternoon I settled down to watch Kick Ass on LoveFilm Instant, or rather with the two hours of streaming my DVD package allows, only to have it buffer then come to a complete stop. Navigating to another page and a check with my daughter - who through BBC iPlayer, ITV player, YouTube, Netflix and so on, can usually be relied upon to be doing something - confirmed she could do nothing either; there was trouble ‘t router. A reboot later and things were still slow, no chance of video, with occasional outbreaks of adequate performance allowing me, for example, to log on to the BT website and do a speed test. The last time I had such problems I phoned an engineer and we were close to the point where I’d be unscrewing the phone socket, only – thank God - I hadn’t a screwdriver. So with a promise to try this later, I bought a new router instead.

And lo, did the shiny new router provide broadband performance to the speed foretold. This time, well hopefully I’m not on the way to another fried ‘Home Hub’; I don’t fancy the wiring checks required before BT will (presumably) replace it. It was a Sunday, and this being a connectivity problem involving a number of possible suspects, I did the only sensible thing I could do; I mowed the lawn. Try again later, the advice of many, work instead of games; I may be able to play after.

And yea, did the internet return; too late to watch a film, and knackered from gardening, I settled in with the last few episodes of Breaking Bad. Yo, Jesse; at the end of season three he really has broken bad, and it won’t be until Netflix UK start showing series four that I find out what happens next. On television, through the Wii; for Sunday’s challenge aside, Netflix with my help is now as reliable as BT Vision or BBC iPlayer, and this wasn’t always the case. I don’t know whether a wireless Wii is more prone to interference or whether the wireless card was cooked – broken IT appliances often acquire a baking metaphor – but with a LAN adaptor (the console has USB connectors) it worked perfectly, giving me cause to smile… and another wire to worry about.

Four years ago

2012-07-19T17:31:00.000+01:00

Because four years ago I took my then six-year-old daughter swimming, having had to drive to Bradley Stoke rather than walk to our local swimming pool. Back then there was no family changing at Thornbury Leisure Centre; even now, if the plans are accurate - and I should check this - it’s not much better. I suppose it’s logical; any refurbishment not involving a 100% conversion to family changing will result in a bias towards the female changing rooms; which is a shame as I’d like to take my daughter more often.

Four years ago, on a Friday evening, we jumped into the Bradley Stoke pool and before I can make my usual suggestion of warming up with a couple of lengths, she’s off. Flying along with a ragged front crawl she’s half way before I can even respond, turning back she switches to the breast stroke. Then again, this time more streamlined - she always was the better swimmer; lessons, you see - and I have to make an effort to keep close. On this occasion there was no letting her touch home first, and when she did so my daughter looked back at me with a big smile. “You’re keen!” I said on catching up. “I’m Rebecca Adlington” she replied, “and I’ve just won the gold medal.”

Whine like you mean it

2012-07-17T23:17:00.000+01:00

The anti-Olympic dirge has lessened from its opening crescendo of complaint aimed at Olympic traffic lanes, they’re back to whining about everything - truly this is the age of social media. There are times you have to throw your hands in the air - exasperation, not surrender - I get it, you don’t like the Olympics. And fair enough, the heavy-handed enforcement of commercial rights has been unedifying, the level of security frightening; it is, I find, a little too close for total enjoyment; I’m one of those hoping it can go off without anything really bad happening.

But my daughter doesn’t see this, she’s really excited, and one who doesn’t normally care for sport. Her attention is drawn to whether Usain Bolt is still the fastest man in the world, whether her original inspiration, Rebecca Adlington, will win again. And the enthusiasm of one ten year old trumps the practiced cynicism of countless others every time; the rest of you can shut up, I’m going to enjoy myself too, or at least try.