Paris Transport

I took the pictures below on a business trip to Paris last year some time, and they've been sitting in a folder on my computer since. I thought the contrast generated by the juxtaposition of the two is nice.

Female Chauvinism

Yay! The bad old days are, if not entirely behind us, at least dying slowly like a second-rate soap character. Although sexism has not been entirely eradicated, we're not doing too badly.

Except perhaps not as well as I had hoped. You see, and let's be quite frank these are isolated cases, it still lingers on in the hearts of some. My line of work brings me into contact with plenty of 'old boys', whose attitude to women would lead to the bachelor life if they hadn't already subjugated their wives when it was all the rage to do so.

What surprises and annoys me is that a female associate of mine is just as bad as any man, continually stereotyping in a rather strident voice about all the men in her life. It wouldn't be quite so galling if she didn't spend a large proportion of the remainder of her time moaning about how she, as a woman, never gets taken seriously in a male-dominated sector.

Does she realise that if she doesn't give respect she won't receive it? Why should she be treated equally if she's unwilling to extend the same courtesy to others? Hmmm.

Lick the link!

My mind subconsciously inserted the 'c' at first, but it's much better when you realise what it actually suggests...

Perhaps it's a new form of interactive advertising. Mmm, taste the engine oil and the burning rubber. 

A sad, sad day...

News reaches us of the passing of a legend. 

At the age of 5, one of the twin Italian police Lamborghinis is, alas, no more. Adopted by the Polizia di Stato ('Polizia') in 2004, the Gallardos, painted in traditional powder blue with white stripes, patrolled the motorways just for a lark, really. Although it was suggested - through the inclusion of a defibrillator in each vehicle - that there was some serious intent to their existence, everyone knew it was all a massive publicity stunt.

All that came to an end for one of the plucky pair, however, on a dark, wet, treacherous road near Cremona, northern Italy. Though details are hard to come by, reports suggest that the Lambo may have been the victim of carlsaughter: it swerved to avoid a vehicle which strayed into its path, before ploughing into a row of parked cars.

No longer will the Polizia awake to the sight of the Lambo. The garage will remain cold and empty. 

A moment's silence, please, for the passing of a legend... 

Giant Reindeer Terrorises Covent Garden!!

Seriously, this thing was enormous. It was eating children whole. The discarded umbrella of its last victim can just be seen at the base of the pedestal it has mounted in order to chew people on the rooftop terraces.

Huge government/media hush-up about the whole thing. I'm going into hiding immediately after this post - once they know I've let the truth out, I'll be extraordinarily rendered... rendited......... rendicated... Whatever.

Rumour has it that it escaped from a government gene splicing facility, and is a chimera of deer/lightbulb/topiary parentage. 

Three random photos

No theme here, just three things I've photographed in the last day...

A rainbow over a thing (?) in Birmingham:

Jen's birthday candles - yep, they're different colours. Chemistry rocks.

An Aston V8 Vantage out of my office window:

My cup(board) underfloweth

One of our kitchen cupboards really does look like this. I built a pantry and now there's nothing in the cupboards! The Vegemite is mine (yes, I'm Australian, no, it's nothing like Marmite), and the Nutella is Jen's. 

Anti-bullying Campaign - so near yet so far...

Tricky ground here, very thin ice. But it's my blog, so let's dive in.

Listening to the radio in the car on the way to work this morning, I heard a trail for an anti-bullying campaign Radio 1 are running at the moment. It's great that they're taking their social responsibility so seriously. I really hope it has an impact on one of the worst features of our society. Bullying is evil, and those perpetrating often don't realise the impact they are having on the lives of their victims.

My concern comes from the advice which is usually wheeled out during these campaigns. The focus is almost invariably about what you as a victim might be able to do to stop the bullying. I hate to break it to the hard working campaigners, but the reality is that there is often very little that the victim can do.

Take, for instance, the nugget of advice chucked into the trail on the radio. 'Just be yourself', it said. I can tell you right now that 'just being yourself' is one of the prime reasons people get picked on. I was 'just being myself' when I went to secondary school. I got off lightly compared to those who commit suicide in the face of the relentless abuse they receive, but it took years to rebuild my confidence. I still suffer occasional outbursts of rage, the origins of which can be traced fairly precisely to those times when I was victimised.

Other suggestions, such as ignoring the bullies, really don't work. Once they have a target, they will pester and pester and hunt their victim until that person cracks. It doesn't stop until they've got what they want. This isn't a movie where the plucky underdog can utter a few choice witticisms and throw the bullies off their back. The real world doesn't work like that. In the real world, they keep going and going until you can't take it any more. Then they carry on.

The only way to eradicate bullying is to eradicate the bullies. I don't know what it is these kids don't get at home, but something in their behaviour has to be modulated. There is always a reason someone is a bully at school (or anywhere else, for that matter), and our attentions must be focussed on dealing with those issues. This way not only do we help the victims, but (and just as crucially) we help the bullies become human beings again.

I think it's great that Radio 1 would dedicate so much time to such a worthy cause, but I can't help feeling that they've got it horribly wrong.

If you're a victim reading this, I can offer one piece of advice. It served me well; perhaps it will help you. Find something that is yours, something they can't take away from you, something they cannot destroy, no matter how hard they try. Keep it safe, keep it from them. Share it with those you love and trust, even if that's your dog or a stuffed toy. But keep it from them at all costs. My 'thing' was my imagination, the world behind my eyes into which I can retreat so easily. Without it, who knows what might have happened. That thing will be your anchor, the thing that gives you strength. In the dark moments, think of it. It will be a lighthouse.

If you've read this far, thank you. 

Legend in the building?

There's a Post-It note stuck to one of the coffee pots upstairs. Says "D.C." on it. The only feasible explanation for this is that David Coulthard is in the building. Someone that important would need their own coffee pot. 

Three small things

1) Egalitarian coffee: the coffee packet says "for all kinds of coffee maker". There's a wonderful inclusiveness there. "Hey, you! Even though you're ugly and you smell, you can still make coffee with me!"

2) Only Fools and Horses: why do I have OFaH snobbery? Why do I automatically think less of someone who finds it funny?

3) Apple flavour: I've tasted any number of apple flavoured products - they all taste the same, and yet none of them taste of any variety of apple I've ever eaten. 

More Autumnal Picturation

A couple more from the garden as it succumbs to the changing seasons.

First up, one of the very few berries not to fall victim to one of the very few birds not to fall victim to the cat...

Secondly, hydrangea head standing tall while all around it stumble and fall.

An arc of spectral colors, usually identified as red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, and violet, that appears in the sky opposite the sun as a result of the refractive dispersion of sunlight in drops of rain or mist [1]

Nothing spectacular about this. I was out washing the car on Sunday morning, and in between bouts of getting soaked by passing rain showers and attacked by my cat, I managed to take the photo below. I was struck by the fact that the rainbow arcs from one house to another, and also by the geometric contrast with the overhead phone lines. Slightly processed, as it was from my 'phone. Small reflected 'bow barely visible above.

[1] answers.com

Strawberry Leaf

More messing around with a camera and the season of Autumn.
 

This Flower

I can't remember what the plant's called, but you've probably had one at some point or other, usually in the region of Christmas. Keep them going and they give an amazing display once or twice a year. The overall effect is stunning, but what I really like is taking the individual flowers in isolation - the colour intensity is immense, and the sharpness of the photo needs no enhancement. Wonderful.


Here's another, in fact:

Strange Things on the Sides of Buses, #283: "Style & Comfort Redefined"

I don't know what you look for in a bus. Personally, I look for it being out of my way, but others (who regularly use buses) would, I imagine, prefer ease of access, or low cost, or kindness to the environment, those sorts of things.

Comfort, too, would probably be fairly high on the list of priorities, so whoever put the slogan "Style & Comfort Redefined" down the side of the bus I saw this morning at least got part of it right.

Here's the thing, though: since when has one of the key attributes of a bus been how stylish it is? Let's set aside for a moment the fact that this is clearly a falsehood in any case, and concentrate on the reality that, for some reason, the coachworks have deemed it necessary to make this bus 'stylish'.

How is this going to change the experience for the average passenger? Are hundreds of people suddenly going to hop up a couple of levels on the old 'fit-o-meter' because they've been seen on a stylish bus? Will it ease their minds as they sit languishing in the quagmire of yet another Sheffield jam, knowing that they are lookin' smoooooth? Will they arrive at their destination feeling any less cheated by the ridiculous cost of public transport, or the fact that they've had to sit next to an old git who smells of wee?

I don't profess to understand for one second the world of marketing, so perhaps this is some clever trick I've missed. Or perhaps there really was a survey where it turned out that one of the most common complaints was "well, it could look a bit more stylish, couldn't it?". Perhaps "Style & Comfort Redefined" is exactly what people are after.

But then again, perhaps not.

Fictionary update

I'm still adding to the Fictionary. Today's entry is 'Preferdactyl'. Go and have a look...

Anatidaephobia

Was reminded of my favourite phobia today - 'Anatidaephobia' is the fear that somewhere, somehow a duck is watching you...

At long, long last...

Finally, in his tenth year in the sport, Jenson has done what he was born to do. Hats off to a top driver, winning the world championship in fantastic style. 

The Curious Language of Fashion

Actually, it's not that curious, it's just French, and most of us have come across French at some point in our lives. But I thought it odd that I was able to populate the following chart exclusively with French terms without having to dig around at all. It should be fairly self-explanatory:

Couldn't be bothered to find out how to put accents on the labels in Excel, seemed like too much effort...

Limoculture

I'm rather proud of this one. It's a lemon tree, grown from seed (or should that be 'from pip'?). Admittedly, I had little to do with the germination, having discovered the growth in a rather decrepit lemon I was juicing one day. But the seedling was lovingly transplanted from its doomed home into a purpose-built growing environment (a plant pot with some potting compost thrown in). It's not central, because it used to have a friend, from which it has now been parted; it's better that way.

I know nothing about lemon tree growing, so I can't pretend to offer expert advice. However, I can give you the following tips based upon my experiences:

• to begin, keep an old lemon for a good long while, at room temperature. You could even cut one end off to see if things grow towards the light
• when you have a seedling, plant it in good quality normal potting compost. I'm sure you're meant to use something special, but I didn't, and just look at it!
• Don't get it too wet, but don't let it dry out - put the pot on a saucer and water the saucer rather than the pot
• Pick a warm, sunny position for your plant - it'll love a warm, sunny position if mine is anything to go by

That's it, really. No idea if it'll ever bear fruit, but lemon trees are quite nice to look at anyway. 

Skylights

For the most part, what we as humans have created is a bit rubbish. The majority product of our civilisation seems to be concrete. Admittedly, the Romans were at it way before the rest of us, but they did it with, well, a bit more class...

However, this morning I was reminded that sometimes, and quite by luck, we as human beings create something truly majestic. It's transient, and you have to be up early to see it, but it is a wonder which never ceases to lift my spirits.

I refer, though you may never have guessed it, to pre-sunrise contrails. Blazing across the sky in a dash to burn as many hydrocarbons as they can, aeroplanes leave trails of hot exhaust fumes, which condense as they cool and lead to the creation of long, thin clouds in the upper atmosphere. Unless you are blind, or have never seen the sky, you will be familiar with the lattice-work of trails criss-crossing most of the sky on a clear day.

Pre-sunrise, though, these tracks take on a new aspect, as the sun - already risen for those in the upper atmosphere - sets the trails alight, tingeing the edges golden, and if the conditions are right casting massive shadows on cloud layers above.

It shouldn't be underestimated quite how beautiful this spectacle is. Yes, it's the product of an activity which fills our atmosphere with greenhouse gases, but to paraphrase slightly, every contrail has a silver lining.

Music, anger, etc.

Why am I getting so hacked off with music lately?

Was listening to Radio 1 and had to turn it off because it's all so damned boring and similar.

It's driving me nuts, all the stupid can't-write-an-original-lyric-for-love-nor-money "R'n'B" (my word, how I hate that concatenation), or the dire pseudo-rock-miserable-moaning-American stuff, or the I'm-a-stupid-ex-model-and-I'm-going-to-tell-you-you-can't-have-me-even-though-I-don't-realise-I'm-the-last-woman-you-would-want bull.

Grow some talent, you half-arsed idiots...

And so it begins... again...

With Lost now a distant memory (well, sort of...) a spangly new 'show' [1] has appeared to fill the missing "did you see?" item in the water-cooler conversation agenda.

FlashForward [2] has burst onto the modern sci-fi/spooky/conspiracy/Armageddon scene. I won't bore you with details, there's a fairly uninspired Wiki article here so feel free to check it out yourself.

Just thought it worth noting that there's another 'must-see' [3] Sunday night thing set to spawn a thousand pointless internet discussions about plot directions [4]. Yay.

[1] What's wrong with the word 'program'

[2] A smart adaptation of the word 'flashback'. Geddit? Good.

[3] Which means I mustn't.

[4] In this sense, the situation strongly resembles that of the Apple fanbase trying desperately to predict what's going to be released next, and scrabbling like starving vultures over every little tidbit of news.

Can you smell snow?

Wintry feelings today. Thoughts turn to Christmas, and to snowboarding, and other activities enjoyed in the dark, dormant months. The darkness and the coldness combine with shuttered windows and bright lights to induce sentiments not felt for some time. I long for winter in summer and for summer in winter. And in autumn and spring, I anticipate, and grow restless.

Winter is book reading time, and book writing time. As the days draw in and it becomes too cold, wet or treacherous to venture far from home, the mind begins more than ever to turn in on itself, to wander further into the realms of the imagination. Summer may be a fertile time for plants, but winter is when literature is grown and harvested.

Perhaps this winter my labours will bear fruit at last. A good book is there, bubbling under the surface, ready-written, if only in my mind. To the page it must be committed, and then... and then, well, who knows?

"Missing Posts", or "My Scattered Mind"

I used to have myriad posts about a certain author on my blog. I even had a label specifically allowing me to identify and track my varied rantings. Now they're all gone, and I can't remember if I deleted them, or whether they've been removed by some higher power. They weren't all that complimentary.

Part of me loves the fact that I'm so scatterbrained. It allows my mind to wander from fantasy fiction to crime thriller in the space of two Post-It notes. It gives me the freedom to make up stories, and will, in time and with much luck, lead to a career doing what I love - writing books which people want to read, will enjoy, will lend to their friends with glowing recommendations.

It drives my wife crazy, though. She's very down-to-earth, grounded, amazing at organising not only her life, but mine and that of our daughter too. Not that she's lacking imagination, or indeed intelligence, with which she has been blessed in greater abundance than anyone I know. No, she's merely capable of operating without the fear that she might forget to breathe.

I do DIY and feeding the rabbit, and writing stories and staring into space. And half the time she has to remind me to do those things.

JK Rowling Denied Top US Honour

Linky. 

Oh my. I really don't know how to begin here, or where to go after that, or even what conclusion to draw. Let's make a list.

1. Hahahahaaaaaa. She didn't get the award.
   
   
2. Hahahaaahaahaa. Some Americans (usually including, but not limited to, those who thought George Dubya as President was a good idea...) can be so flippin' narrow minded about literary endeavour, yet they're all about their 'free speech' bull. I have to tell you, the books are so realistic that I want to sue my parents for not sending me to Hogwarts and giving me the chance to be a wizard. Oh no, hang on a second, that's not right...
   
   
3. "Past literary recipients of the award include John Steinbeck and Harper Lee." She's in that class, is she? She deserves to rank alongside the authors of Of Mice and Men and To Kill a Mockingbird? Fools.

Those are just some of the myriad thoughts which came to mind when I saw this. It's not even JK's fault (for once) but she's such a raving numpty anyway.

Not bad for a mobile phone...

This little dude won't wake up until the sun gets to him in an hour or two. Those are oregano flowers he's hugging.

The Perils of Turbo Diesel

Coming up to one of my favourite roundabouts this morning, I was flanked by a Skoda Roomster. It'd been bugging me for a little while, following closely on busy roads, and now it had pulled nearly alongside on a short section of dual carriageway. The roundabout, though, is an old friend. We understand each other. I know how it flows.

Determined to teach Mr Skoda a lesson, I looked well ahead and saw that, should I time things just right, I would be away. It would be a brave or foolish man who thought they could keep up with me. Speed wasn't to be my escape, mind. Timing was what it was all about. Finding that gap in the traffic which left him for dead.

I got it spot on. With my engine singing at 3,000rpm in third, I gave a little squeeze of the throttle and nipped out onto the roundabout, having barely slowed. Skoda man, I noted with delight, was left floundering. Victory was mine!

Except that following pride very nearly came a fall. Not everyone was applying such judgement this morning. Ahead of me, lumbering like a whale, an S-type Jag had wandered out into the path of traffic. Its portly incumbent, realising the mistake he had made, quickly raised a hand in apology as I bore down upon him.

For a moment I could see the crash coming. Instinctively I lifted and slotted the car down to second, using engine and wheel braking together to shed speed. For a brief moment it looked like even this would not be enough to save us.

And then something mind-bendingly strange happened. The Jag was no longer there. It didn't so much move out of the way as simply bend space and time to not be in my path. I sailed past the rear of the silver beast, glancing to the right in time to note (as one often does in life and death situations) the small details which told me that this Jag, this lumbering, walnut-dashed beastie, had a heart of solid gold: it was the twin turbo diesel which will happily lap the Nordschleife in 9.

Turbo lag had left us on collision course, but by the same token turbo boost had saved us both.

I have no idea what happened to the Jag. I survived unscathed, as you may be able to guess. The last I saw, the poor unfortunate behind the wheel was experiencing the kind of face-melting acceleration normally reserved for shuttle astronauts on take-off.

What an engine...

Vulcanography

Thanks to my amazing wife, I was able to enjoy a fantastic long weekend celebrating my descent into middle age. One of my personal highlights (apart from being up close and personal with a ring-tailed lemur...) was the chance to see the Vulcan bomber flying again for the first time in far too long. The big delta wing used to fly every year at Biggin Hill, no more than a couple of miles from where I grew up, and each year I thrilled to see, and more importantly hear it.

Perhaps not the best picture (not even the best I took of it during the display), but this is the memory which will stick, the climbing turn with the four Olympus engines screaming, bomb bay open and empty, but never lacking menace.

Sometimes...

... this city throws something so spectacular at you, you'd be a fool to miss it. Shot in full colour. No post-editing, but it has been slightly cropped.

Cark Park Lambo Bingo

Working opposite the DVLA offices has its drawbacks at times (especially the last day of the month), but occasionally there are moments which make it all worthwhile. For those not in the know, that's a Lamborghini Gallardo in 'Giallo Halys' yellow.

Tension

There's a guy sitting across from me. He has a mug of some warm beverage, probably tea since I can't smell the burnt vegetation 'aroma' of coffee, and every so often (annoyingly irregularly) he takes the loudest slurp you could possibly imagine from the mug. The volume is simply phenominal. Comical, almost.

Except that I want to punch him. Really hard. In the face. Every ridiculous-volume slurp pushes me closer to the edge. Rage is building like a tsunami within me, waiting to burst forth and pound the idiot into the floor.

Friday is not a calm place for thomas.

Train Station Book Sales

I'm sure I can't be alone in my urge to buy books in train stations. That is, after all, why even the coffee shop on Platform 6 at Sheffield station has a considerable range of books and magazines on offer.

I understand the theory: you're going on a long, boring train journey. What better than a book to keep you entertained? It makes perfect business sense, of course.

Except I think there's something deeper there. I think there's a link to the romanticism of train journeys. I've blogged on the subject before (here). Bookshops, too, are powerful places, full of possibilities, of chances to experience all that life has to offer.

Combine the two and I believe you create an irresistible draw. There is a common thread running through both - the opportunity for adventure, the chance to take a step into the unknown.

The same is wholly true of shops selling Moleskine notepads at stations. The very thought of writing in a Moleskine diary whilst travelling by train is enough to send me into raptures.

WHSmith have noted the extent of the effect, of course, positioning their shops in practically every medium or large station in the country. The strategy is tinged with genius.

Old, wise cat...

... is wise and old.

Lunar-cy

Bad pun, sorry.

I went to see Moon last night. It's a fantastic film, definitely recommended for anyone who enjoys traditional science fiction - you know, those films where you didn't have to show people being mercilessly hunted down by aliens or space ghosts, then ripped to shreds in front of your very eyes. It's supposedly an homage to the likes of 2001: A Space Oddessy, and it's easy to see why comparisons have been drawn between the two.

It can in no way be considered a coincidence that the film has been released in the month when we celebrate the 40th anniversary of the moon landings. Much has been said in the past about the veracity of NASA's claims that it did in fact manage to put a man on our natural satellite. I tend to believe that they did so, even in the face of strong belief from the conspiracy theorists that the landings never happened. Even now they must be frantically blogging about how the latest satellite pictures of the landing site are faked.

So, no, I'm not going to come up with some astonishing reason why the moon landings were faked. I'm in fact going to discuss why it is we've not been back since our brief, several-year dalliance with that eternal presence in the night sky.

The moon landings have often been viewed as the result of the ultimate non-hostile arms race. That's a bit of a contradiction in terms, yes, but it's also quite right. At the time of the race for space, the world was gripped with tension regarding the potential for all-out, extinction event nuclear war. It terrified people that politicians and war-mongerers (and let's face it, there were plenty of the latter on each side) had the power over large-scale destruction of cities and, more importantly, people.

The space race gave a new direction to the minds of the masses. Whether or not the Americans and the Soviets conspired to make it happen remains a point of some conjecture. Certainly there was a very sudden desire to be in space, more so than ever before. Either way, the result was a sudden leap forward in technological capability, the likes of which are rarely seen outside of wartime.

Then, once America had been to the moon a few times, suddenly no-one was interested any more. Perhaps it was the association of the space race with the nuclear arms race which meant that, as nuclear disarmament became more popular, suddenly the achievements were no longer politically correct. That wouldn't go far enough to explain why we've not been back, though.

I think there's something else at play, too.

Ever since the dawn of the industrial revolution, the world had been forging forward with technological advances at an astonishing rate. When our enthusiasm for bigger and better and more mechanical faltered, it was bolstered by first one world war, and then, handily, another. By the 1960s, though, despite the cold war driving us forward, we were beginning to flag once more. Perhaps, subconsciously aware of this, the human race decided to try advancing one more time.

The space race was, I believe, the last hurrah of the industrial revolution, the swansong of an attitude that the end goal was worth the cost; that failure simply wasn't an option; that we could bloody well do it, whatever 'it' was.

Since then our enthusiasm for advance of this kind has waned. The new industrial revolution has taken over, where microchips are more important than machines. Microchips don't get you to the Moon - after all, I was taught as a child (perhaps a little shortsightedly) that there was more computing power in my pocket calculator than the Apollo modules which took men there. Nowadays, of course, computers control everything, and that is possibly part of the problem.

There's something else, too, and it's a bugbear of mine. I refer to the combined safety/blame culture which has insidiously crept its way into modern life. The theory goes that all accidents are preventable (as long as you fill out enough paperwork) and that all accidents, regardless of cause or associated randomness, are someone's fault.

This is a silly, woolly-headed, Daily Mail sort of attitude, and it's ruined the advancement of the human race. Only when we take risks do we receive the greatest rewards.

Our unwillingness to take even the slightest chance is, in my opinion, an underlying cause of our failure to return to the Moon, and then make the leap to Mars.

Luckily, our attitudes are changing. People are beginning to rebel against our current development malaise, and steps are being taken to redress the balance.

Let's hope it's not too little, too late.

Flowering Herbage

The marjoram in our herb patch has begun to flower after weeks in bud. Thank goodness for decent macro settings...

10 Things I Hate About Focus

The top ten reasons I hate my car, and now officially refuse to buy myself another Ford, in no particular order:

1) The radio all but refuses to pick up any stations

2) The clutch pedal damping spring snapped

3) The washer bottle empties itself once a month, whether in use or not

4) The power steering header tank exploded, taking the belts with it

5) The steering rack had to be replaced

6) ... and so did the suspension mounting points, because a bearing race was missing

7) The capacity of the boot is one suitcase

8) The washer jets were replaced because they were leaking on the engine and causing a misfire

9) Now they just leak all over the bonnet instead

10) The windows rattle in the doors when they're down

I could go on about the easy-stain seat fabric and the terrible dealer experience, but I fear I might run outside and torch the damn thing...

Next Blog Game

I have a real problem playing the Next Blog game, in that almost every blog I get directed to is in a foreign language.

It's not that I particularly mind people blogging in their native tongue, it's rather that I find it somewhat surprising that I rarely if ever find one written in English. I sort of thought a decent percentage would be in the native tongue of blogger, and yet Next Blog has today shown me such wonders as El Blog de Julio, which whilst lovely in its own special way, is also in Spanish and therefore almost wholly unreadable, for me at least.

I don't know the cause of the issue, and thus have little hope of resolving it, but a problem shared is a problem spread out over lots of other people, or something.

New Blog!

I've made a dedicated place for all the Fictionary entries. All the new Fictionary words will be posted at Fictionary. That's Fictionary.

Wooh, and indeed hoo!

Panorama-orama

This beautiful sky was snapped in the same place as the sunset the other night. This time I took a chance on the panorama setting on my phone. Click the pic for a bigger version.

The urge to write is strong in me today. I wrote last night, into the wee small hours, keeping Jen awake with my constant tap-tap-tap (sorry, sweetheart). It was gold, too, the good stuff. Not pouring out of me like it used to, but I like to think I've replaced quantity with quality.

I've done my usual trick of making myself believe that this might be the one, the book that gets finished and submitted. I'm not bored of it yet, despite a temporary diversion into the world of sci-fi (a weird place, full of words I wouldn't dare use in 'real' fantasy, like synchrotron), and that's a good sign. To come back to a book so often gives me hope that I might see this one through. I'm a bit of a plot magpie, and that has to stop if I'm ever to get anywhere.

So, the dream is still alive, dreamt in the hours between when I'm meant to be asleep and when I actually get there.

I'll keep writing this post, every so often. It's littered throughout the history of the blog in so many forms. One day I won't have to write it any more. One day.

Sunset over the Peaks

Driving home from a friend's house last night, I was confronted with this sunset. My new camera phone is still way short of what a real camera could achieve, but for making sure I don't miss moments like this, it's priceless.

'King of Pop' goes all Diana on us...

Well, that's going to spark several days of national mourning, more's the pity.

I have sympathy for Jackson's family and friends - at this point in time the world will just have fallen away from beneath their feet. The coming days and weeks will be full of pain for them.

For the rest of us, though (that's the vast majority of the world who have never even met the guy), we have no right at all to show such overblown levels of 'me too', self pitying grief. Oh, poor us, some bloke who sang a few good songs died. So what?

You know what I'll be mourning today? The death of proportionate and appropriate response.

Fictionary Entry of the Day: Moddle

Moddle (mŏd'l)

1. noun the unsteady, rolling gait of an overweight internet discussion forum moderator

2. verb to walk in such a fashion