Jerusalem's a strange place, primarily because it's so close to the edge of chaos. It's a place where entire civilizations regularly collide and occasionally have been known to collapse, and everyone here is aware of that. So in general Jerusalem is a gentle place despite all its hard edges, because the option is to be totally unforgiving; totally prejudiced; totally in fear of 'the other'. And that means that here - maybe even more than in Europe - people tend to be very careful when it comes to respecting each others' religious sensitivities.
So tonight I'm in a bar I tend to regard as Jewish, and I'm on a roll, I'm mouthing off about that whole thing with the Mohammed cartoons, and I'm demanding loudly to know exactly where these impoverished Arab street types get all their flags from? I mean, it's not like it's warm in the winter here and we all know there's not a lot of money in the Palestinian controlled areas... so what's this all about, when you look in the linen cupboard and there's nary a blanket in sight but there are hundreds of flags just in case some new Jihad's declared? Do Islamic fundamentalist mamas sell their hair to buy a new multi-pack of international flags just in case little Ahmed needs to burn one at some point? Or do they walk into the mosque and the imam hands out new flags and tells them this is the latest enemy? Y'know, I kind of almost, nearly, understand the hysterical hatred of one warring side for another, but that whole thing of where the flags come from somehow passes me by...
So that was my theme, and it seemed to be going fairly well, except that the Israelis working in the bar tonight were glancing across at a co-worker and then back at me, and they weren't laughing.
These are the people that renamed their Brain Haemhorrage cocktail in honour of Ariel Sharon recently, so it's not like they're delicate or anything.
These are the guys that came out with "Knock knock/Who's there?/Interrupting cow/InterrupMOOting cow MOO who?" - they're fine with 'silly'.
Their cook's from East Jerusalem. Ah. And it's way too late for me to pretend he just misheard me. So I asked him outright whether he keeps any flags in his linen cupboard at home, and thankfully he laughed and said he only keeps a single white one for emergencies. Better still, he told me this true story. He was walking down the street in East Jerusalem a week or so back and there was a flag stretched across his path. "So did you walk on it?" I asked, interested. "Of course..." - and the way he said it, you could hear how much this is 'expected behaviour'. It would've been a problem for him to ignore it. So he was walking over this flag in the street and, as he was trampling it, realised he had no idea which country it represented. So he went home and turned on the news, and now he even knows where Denmark is...
And now the Israelis in that particular bar are allowed to talk about all that stuff too, so I guess something good came of my big mouth for once.
*Of course it's not funny, these are Danish political cartoons!
Saturday, February 11, 2006
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
No future
OK so here's the way I'm seeing things right now.
Hamas got into power in the Palestinian Areas a couple of weeks ago, and I genuinely believe that most of the people that voted for them did so because they're good in local government. Most of them.
I also believe that most of them would _not_ have voted for Hamas if they'd anticipated their being in control of their 'national' government.
Doesn't every place screw up this way, some time or another?
But the problem is Hamas themselves, who now have a mandate, and whose external ticket is pure homicide - toward Jews in particular, but also toward anyone else not part of Islam.
And the Arab states are wetting themselves through joy, and the rest are wetting themselves through fear.
If the West drops PA funding because Hamas is what it is, Muslim fundamentalist states will pick up the tab. And I truly believe that will lead us all directly to World War III (the official version).
If the West doesn't drop PA funding because it thinks Hamas doesn't really mean it, there will be a localised war between Israel and the PA areas. Maybe not immediately, but very soon. This will eventually lead to World War III (the official version).
So call me an optimist...
Hamas got into power in the Palestinian Areas a couple of weeks ago, and I genuinely believe that most of the people that voted for them did so because they're good in local government. Most of them.
I also believe that most of them would _not_ have voted for Hamas if they'd anticipated their being in control of their 'national' government.
Doesn't every place screw up this way, some time or another?
But the problem is Hamas themselves, who now have a mandate, and whose external ticket is pure homicide - toward Jews in particular, but also toward anyone else not part of Islam.
And the Arab states are wetting themselves through joy, and the rest are wetting themselves through fear.
If the West drops PA funding because Hamas is what it is, Muslim fundamentalist states will pick up the tab. And I truly believe that will lead us all directly to World War III (the official version).
If the West doesn't drop PA funding because it thinks Hamas doesn't really mean it, there will be a localised war between Israel and the PA areas. Maybe not immediately, but very soon. This will eventually lead to World War III (the official version).
So call me an optimist...
Monday, January 16, 2006
World gone mad
I've been watching events unfold in Hebron with my eyes popping, and tonight I think the nadir was reached. The headline in Ha'aretz currently reads 'Jewish Hebron areas are a closed military zone'.
The situation in Hebron has the potential to divide Israel, much much more than the Gaza pullout ever did. This isn't one of those hilltop settlements with football-pitch lights; this is a real town, there are no tall walls separating the Jewish contingent from their Arab neighbours there, just a fence that can be broken down. Drive-by shootings are common in the area, but still the religious choose to live there. Why? Because it's somewhere Jews have lived forever; the Tomb of the Patriarchs is in Hebron, the field that Abraham bought so that he could bury Sarah. It's the ancient capital of Israel, the city David ruled from before taking Jebus and re-naming it Jerusalem. The souk that the IDF are trying to evacuate now is Jewish-owned, and has been for the last 200 years. The property legally belongs to the people who are living in it. Even the local Arabs don't dispute that claim.
I don't think anyone likes witnessing the stone-throwing, looting and house-burning antics of the last few days. That's mob behaviour. But it's not the community that are the mob here - it's the crowds who arrived from other areas to offer their support. The locals there say that when that Arab-owned house was set alight, their own people put the fire out. The community leaders appealed to the supporters to stop the violence, and it appears they actually have. Possibly too late; the damage is done and the press, both within and beyond Israel, is terrible.
In the meantime, the local Magistrate's Court have issued an injunction against the evacuation of three of the affected stores, which is an interesting turn of events. It's just as inexplicable as everything else in this mixed-up story. I mean, you can understand why Olmert would want to carry on in Sharon's boots, but could you really see Sharon evacuating Jews from Jewish-owned property in a place of such religious significance? Because I couldn't, and can't.
It seems to me that, assuming this evacuation goes ahead, every single settlement and Jewish area in the West Bank anticipating a relatively secure future will be forced to recognise that that future is gone. Where to from there?
The situation in Hebron has the potential to divide Israel, much much more than the Gaza pullout ever did. This isn't one of those hilltop settlements with football-pitch lights; this is a real town, there are no tall walls separating the Jewish contingent from their Arab neighbours there, just a fence that can be broken down. Drive-by shootings are common in the area, but still the religious choose to live there. Why? Because it's somewhere Jews have lived forever; the Tomb of the Patriarchs is in Hebron, the field that Abraham bought so that he could bury Sarah. It's the ancient capital of Israel, the city David ruled from before taking Jebus and re-naming it Jerusalem. The souk that the IDF are trying to evacuate now is Jewish-owned, and has been for the last 200 years. The property legally belongs to the people who are living in it. Even the local Arabs don't dispute that claim.
I don't think anyone likes witnessing the stone-throwing, looting and house-burning antics of the last few days. That's mob behaviour. But it's not the community that are the mob here - it's the crowds who arrived from other areas to offer their support. The locals there say that when that Arab-owned house was set alight, their own people put the fire out. The community leaders appealed to the supporters to stop the violence, and it appears they actually have. Possibly too late; the damage is done and the press, both within and beyond Israel, is terrible.
In the meantime, the local Magistrate's Court have issued an injunction against the evacuation of three of the affected stores, which is an interesting turn of events. It's just as inexplicable as everything else in this mixed-up story. I mean, you can understand why Olmert would want to carry on in Sharon's boots, but could you really see Sharon evacuating Jews from Jewish-owned property in a place of such religious significance? Because I couldn't, and can't.
It seems to me that, assuming this evacuation goes ahead, every single settlement and Jewish area in the West Bank anticipating a relatively secure future will be forced to recognise that that future is gone. Where to from there?
Friday, January 13, 2006
Desert rain
So I'm in Mike's relatively early one night, because my sleeping pattern's messed up and I was trying to normalize it (up all night and all day, then drink, then go to bed before midnight). Udi - who always drinks early, so I rarely see him - turned up at around 9 and stayed an hour or so, so we got talking. Turns out he's heading out to the Sinai for a business meeting next day. Would I like to join him? 'Course I would...!
That whole sleep thing never worked out; I just went back to Mike Perry's place and sat drinking coffee and watching videos with him until 4am. Udi and his dog Meggi picked me up from the top of our street at 5, and we drove off through the pouring rain. This particular bout of heavy rain had also reached the Judean desert, so instead of taking the obvious route via Jericho and the Dead Sea and risking the boulder-carrying flash floods there, we ended up driving rather nervously via Hebron out in the Territories. So I've seen a few settlements now - and guess what, some of them are old places that look like - and effectively are - real towns. But others look like army camps and have floodlights stationed all around their (electric?) perimeter fences, and those kinds of settlements I think it'd be hard to argue a case for. Not that it stops people trying...
We drove on past Dimona and into the Negev desert, which goes on for miles but changes its geological structure so often it'd be possible to tell where you were from the shape of the mountains, and the colour and texture of the rocks, and the amount and species of growing things - but only if you knew the area really, really well. And it rained all the way, which Never Happens (allegedly).
We left Udi's car in Taba and walked through the crossing (72 shekels to leave Israel, 35 to enter Egypt) just behind three coachloads of Arabs on their holiday outings, so it took a while to get through. In the end I think we went ahead a little because everyone was scared of Meggi (who is tiny and cute); there's no culture of pet ownership in Muslim areas. The rain stopped, and Ahmed met us on the other side to drive us - alarmingly, on the wrong side of the road much of the time - the final 70km to Nuweiba, where Udi's meeting was to take place. It seemed very unreal to be drinking sweet, strong, black tea and sharing a cigarette outside the office with the Bedouin workers there, watching camels and goats and children wandering the streets ad hoc, while somewhere out back of town an imam sang to call the local Muslims to prayer. That glass of tea worked wonders though, and I went for a long walk afterwards to investigate the place.
Fully acclimatised, I arrived back at the office just in time for Udi and Gasser's initial meeting to end, and we all three (four including Meggi) got into a 4WD and went in search of the perfect spot to build something new along the Taba/Nuweiba coastline. We found two I'd have jumped at if I'd been rich, but nothing along the lines the guys were hoping to find; one of my (and Meggi's) favourites was by a hidden dew pond just a step away from the Red Sea beach ('too damp to build on') and the other on a mountain top overlooking Faraon Island/the Saleh el Din castle ('poor access'). By this time Udi was starting to fall apart a little - like most Israelis I know, if he doesn't eat three meals a day he thinks his throat's been cut - and we drove back to Nuweiba in search of food as the sun sank low in the sky. Gasser's folk had been busy during our absence, and we arrived to find 12 other people waiting for us to get there so's the banquet could begin! Salads, breads, dips all sat on the table and were replenished as we went along. The wine - an Egyptian cabernet sauvignon - was sweet, fruity and very very drinkable, and the meat - different kinds of which came around at five-minute intervals - was spicy and succulent. The company was intelligent and amusing, all except me because I'd by now gone 50-something hours without sleep and was struggling some. A Scots couple present produced half a bottle of single malt whisky when the first round of coffee arrived, and Udi responded by producing his bottle of duty-free vodka. Any other time this would've been great news! We got through a platter of fruit and more coffee, then dessert arrived in the form of a cake. By this time my eyes were closing despite my best efforts, and Udi - who was also tired, having been up since 4am - felt it was time to break up the party. Gasser very kindly offered to pay for us to spend the night in a nearby hotel, and we quickly took up on the offer; Udi tells me I was snoring within 2 minutes of my head hitting the pillow. It wasn't even 9 o'clock by then...
I woke at 4.30 am and decided there was no point in going back to sleep, so got up and dressed and took one very happy doglet for a long stroll around the hotel grounds. We had a car promised for 5.45 to take us back to Taba, so Udi wasn't too far behind me, and by 5.30 we were sitting in the hotel lobby drinking a morning cup of instant coffee and clutching our 'breakfast bags'. The car arrived at 6, and we were in Israel by 7.15 - amazing the difference it makes when you go through the border with an Israeli, I was expecting to hold up the proceedings for at least an hour! - with Udi back behind the wheel. We stopped at Yotvata for a proper cup of coffee (l'foukh, gadol), which woke us both up, and - since the sun was shining - drove back via the Dead Sea/Jericho route, which took a full hour less than meandering around the Territories in the dark the previous morning. The floods hadn't happened to the extent Udi had anticipated, and there were only a few small heaps of rocks by the road to show where some small impromptu wadi had deposited its load. The real thing's supposed to happen this weekend now, which is a bit of a shame because the desert between Jericho and Jerusalem is just greening over through yesterday's rain, so the mountains there will be in flower by then - but too dangerous to visit.
That whole sleep thing never worked out; I just went back to Mike Perry's place and sat drinking coffee and watching videos with him until 4am. Udi and his dog Meggi picked me up from the top of our street at 5, and we drove off through the pouring rain. This particular bout of heavy rain had also reached the Judean desert, so instead of taking the obvious route via Jericho and the Dead Sea and risking the boulder-carrying flash floods there, we ended up driving rather nervously via Hebron out in the Territories. So I've seen a few settlements now - and guess what, some of them are old places that look like - and effectively are - real towns. But others look like army camps and have floodlights stationed all around their (electric?) perimeter fences, and those kinds of settlements I think it'd be hard to argue a case for. Not that it stops people trying...
We drove on past Dimona and into the Negev desert, which goes on for miles but changes its geological structure so often it'd be possible to tell where you were from the shape of the mountains, and the colour and texture of the rocks, and the amount and species of growing things - but only if you knew the area really, really well. And it rained all the way, which Never Happens (allegedly).
We left Udi's car in Taba and walked through the crossing (72 shekels to leave Israel, 35 to enter Egypt) just behind three coachloads of Arabs on their holiday outings, so it took a while to get through. In the end I think we went ahead a little because everyone was scared of Meggi (who is tiny and cute); there's no culture of pet ownership in Muslim areas. The rain stopped, and Ahmed met us on the other side to drive us - alarmingly, on the wrong side of the road much of the time - the final 70km to Nuweiba, where Udi's meeting was to take place. It seemed very unreal to be drinking sweet, strong, black tea and sharing a cigarette outside the office with the Bedouin workers there, watching camels and goats and children wandering the streets ad hoc, while somewhere out back of town an imam sang to call the local Muslims to prayer. That glass of tea worked wonders though, and I went for a long walk afterwards to investigate the place.
Fully acclimatised, I arrived back at the office just in time for Udi and Gasser's initial meeting to end, and we all three (four including Meggi) got into a 4WD and went in search of the perfect spot to build something new along the Taba/Nuweiba coastline. We found two I'd have jumped at if I'd been rich, but nothing along the lines the guys were hoping to find; one of my (and Meggi's) favourites was by a hidden dew pond just a step away from the Red Sea beach ('too damp to build on') and the other on a mountain top overlooking Faraon Island/the Saleh el Din castle ('poor access'). By this time Udi was starting to fall apart a little - like most Israelis I know, if he doesn't eat three meals a day he thinks his throat's been cut - and we drove back to Nuweiba in search of food as the sun sank low in the sky. Gasser's folk had been busy during our absence, and we arrived to find 12 other people waiting for us to get there so's the banquet could begin! Salads, breads, dips all sat on the table and were replenished as we went along. The wine - an Egyptian cabernet sauvignon - was sweet, fruity and very very drinkable, and the meat - different kinds of which came around at five-minute intervals - was spicy and succulent. The company was intelligent and amusing, all except me because I'd by now gone 50-something hours without sleep and was struggling some. A Scots couple present produced half a bottle of single malt whisky when the first round of coffee arrived, and Udi responded by producing his bottle of duty-free vodka. Any other time this would've been great news! We got through a platter of fruit and more coffee, then dessert arrived in the form of a cake. By this time my eyes were closing despite my best efforts, and Udi - who was also tired, having been up since 4am - felt it was time to break up the party. Gasser very kindly offered to pay for us to spend the night in a nearby hotel, and we quickly took up on the offer; Udi tells me I was snoring within 2 minutes of my head hitting the pillow. It wasn't even 9 o'clock by then...
I woke at 4.30 am and decided there was no point in going back to sleep, so got up and dressed and took one very happy doglet for a long stroll around the hotel grounds. We had a car promised for 5.45 to take us back to Taba, so Udi wasn't too far behind me, and by 5.30 we were sitting in the hotel lobby drinking a morning cup of instant coffee and clutching our 'breakfast bags'. The car arrived at 6, and we were in Israel by 7.15 - amazing the difference it makes when you go through the border with an Israeli, I was expecting to hold up the proceedings for at least an hour! - with Udi back behind the wheel. We stopped at Yotvata for a proper cup of coffee (l'foukh, gadol), which woke us both up, and - since the sun was shining - drove back via the Dead Sea/Jericho route, which took a full hour less than meandering around the Territories in the dark the previous morning. The floods hadn't happened to the extent Udi had anticipated, and there were only a few small heaps of rocks by the road to show where some small impromptu wadi had deposited its load. The real thing's supposed to happen this weekend now, which is a bit of a shame because the desert between Jericho and Jerusalem is just greening over through yesterday's rain, so the mountains there will be in flower by then - but too dangerous to visit.
Thursday, December 08, 2005
Peace at last
Back in Israel, and - an unprecedented two weeks down the line - finally back in Jerusalem, where I get to sleep more than four hours at a stretch, and boy does that feel good! Nothing against Tel Aviv (at all), and it was good to see the Zend people and the Hayarkon folk and the Mike's Place gang again, but Jerusalem's like nowhere else in this world.
I'm still trying to analyse why.
I think - maybe - it's something to do with the way the sunrise paints every building golden-pink, and the sunset does the same only in pure gold. And then there's the stillness in the air. And the friendliness of the people. And the silence in the night-time. And (in Nachlaot, in 'my patch') the musicians rehearsing in the evening before they leave home to play, and the singing in the synagogues floating into the quiet night just before dawn. I think - maybe - it's something to do with all that stuff.
Whatever it is, the depression that's been on my back since March is gone. Even in Tel Aviv it was still making itself known, but not here. 'Course it helps that this is panning out to be a strangely mild winter (so far) and the weather's like a pleasant English May, but that's not all of it, by any means. (And actually the locals are hoping for rain, for obvious reasons.)
Mike's in Jerusalem has moved to a much better place - off Yafo, and through an off-road compound (very secure), and filled with tiny rooms and cellar areas. It's a brilliant building for live music, and Daniel looks so much happier there it's cheering just to see his face. The Blue Hole's also undergone some renovation, and now boasts a small underground area where they're testing out live music - hopefully on a smaller scale, because that room's perfect for something jazz-like rather than the full-on rock/blues you tend to find at Mike's. I haven't had the opportunity to check out my other old haunts properly yet - although I did wander into Egon's and gape at their shiny new bar briefly - but doubtless will do so as soon as payday arrives.
My landlady Denise hasn't changed, and I had a plate of cooked potatoes more or less on arrival :) She suffers from breathing problems these days, so the flat's smoke-free at present. That won't be a problem while the weather's still fair, but we might have to re-negotiate when the heavy rains and winds turn up, I don't know. We'll see. I got through today on a record-busting 10 Mustang...
The cats are, of course, everywhere. But they look well-fed and clean, and both are an improvement. I'm told that 2005 was the summer the tourists came back to Jerusalem, and everyone's better off as a result. Interestingly, the tourists seem to have skipped Tel Aviv for the most part - and the state of the cats there reflects it, they've become rat-like again. But hey, at least the water's clean :)
I'm still trying to analyse why.
I think - maybe - it's something to do with the way the sunrise paints every building golden-pink, and the sunset does the same only in pure gold. And then there's the stillness in the air. And the friendliness of the people. And the silence in the night-time. And (in Nachlaot, in 'my patch') the musicians rehearsing in the evening before they leave home to play, and the singing in the synagogues floating into the quiet night just before dawn. I think - maybe - it's something to do with all that stuff.
Whatever it is, the depression that's been on my back since March is gone. Even in Tel Aviv it was still making itself known, but not here. 'Course it helps that this is panning out to be a strangely mild winter (so far) and the weather's like a pleasant English May, but that's not all of it, by any means. (And actually the locals are hoping for rain, for obvious reasons.)
Mike's in Jerusalem has moved to a much better place - off Yafo, and through an off-road compound (very secure), and filled with tiny rooms and cellar areas. It's a brilliant building for live music, and Daniel looks so much happier there it's cheering just to see his face. The Blue Hole's also undergone some renovation, and now boasts a small underground area where they're testing out live music - hopefully on a smaller scale, because that room's perfect for something jazz-like rather than the full-on rock/blues you tend to find at Mike's. I haven't had the opportunity to check out my other old haunts properly yet - although I did wander into Egon's and gape at their shiny new bar briefly - but doubtless will do so as soon as payday arrives.
My landlady Denise hasn't changed, and I had a plate of cooked potatoes more or less on arrival :) She suffers from breathing problems these days, so the flat's smoke-free at present. That won't be a problem while the weather's still fair, but we might have to re-negotiate when the heavy rains and winds turn up, I don't know. We'll see. I got through today on a record-busting 10 Mustang...
The cats are, of course, everywhere. But they look well-fed and clean, and both are an improvement. I'm told that 2005 was the summer the tourists came back to Jerusalem, and everyone's better off as a result. Interestingly, the tourists seem to have skipped Tel Aviv for the most part - and the state of the cats there reflects it, they've become rat-like again. But hey, at least the water's clean :)
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
My Bloody Valentine
And so it was Hallowe'en, yet again, already.
It's been six unbelievable years since the one person I wanted to grow old with, died. He just didn't wake up one day and that was it; we were in our mid-thirties, and our story had a sudden ending.
We spent most of our life together in Hitchin, so I went back to Hitchin tonight in the hope of finally laying his anxious ghost to rest. I've somehow managed to miss being in this country for most of the Hallowe'en nights between six years ago and now, but there are other people in the area who still miss Floyd, and some years ago a bunch of us arranged to have a meeting on this night every year we were around.
It was a bit of a sad turnout in the Red Hart this time, in that only Andy (ex-landlord, ex-employer, owner of studio, music production man), Tracy, his gf of three years (?! when did that happen again?!) and myself were physically present. But Ken, Floyd's old buddy and supplier of Ivor Cutler tapes, who wanted to be there and couldn't, enlivened our evening with text messages from Newcastle. The other Andy, the pub landlord both then and now, stood us a round at the official end of the night; and his partner, Livi, whose task it was all those years ago to break the news to me that Floyd was dead, shared a box of wine with me after everyone went home, talked long and hard about the old days, and helped me smoke my way through all the cigarettes I could afford.
That's how I ended up leaving the bar some time after 7am and coming home on the commuter train - breathing fermented grapes, cackling over a copy of Viz, muttering lines from our play under my breath, and alienating everyone out there with a proper job. Floyd would have approved. Fuck it, Floyd would've loved it...
I don't know if it's possible to say how much I miss Floyd. I rather suspect it isn't.
It's my mother's birthday today (there's a kind of theme running through my life whereby everyone I love dies on someone else I love's birthday) and I need to get her flowers 'and shiznit', as Sara would say. Mum arrived home from Canada last night, exhausted but still sympathetic - my Dad died on Nigel's birthday, so she's familiar with the theme even when it touches on her own special day. But the note she left me this morning was pretty unsentimental and Mum-ish. It went something like 'Steph, would you please track down that funny smell in the kitchen?'.
(I had a nasty incident with a pound of cod and two unseasonably warm days last week.)
Freesias in the fridge should do the trick...
I missed the good part about walking back into Hitchin after all those years. It was down to the total stranger I met in The Albert (the bar nearest the station) who asked why I was visiting the town and who, when I told my story, was visibly stirred: "He's a bit of a legend hereabouts, is your Floyd."
You'd have to witness the crap flying around in Baldock - only five miles up the road - to fully appreciate just how wonderful it was to hear that from someone who never even met my man. I think if things don't pan out in Israel, for whatever reason, I'll be living in Hitchin for the rest of my days.
It's been six unbelievable years since the one person I wanted to grow old with, died. He just didn't wake up one day and that was it; we were in our mid-thirties, and our story had a sudden ending.
We spent most of our life together in Hitchin, so I went back to Hitchin tonight in the hope of finally laying his anxious ghost to rest. I've somehow managed to miss being in this country for most of the Hallowe'en nights between six years ago and now, but there are other people in the area who still miss Floyd, and some years ago a bunch of us arranged to have a meeting on this night every year we were around.
It was a bit of a sad turnout in the Red Hart this time, in that only Andy (ex-landlord, ex-employer, owner of studio, music production man), Tracy, his gf of three years (?! when did that happen again?!) and myself were physically present. But Ken, Floyd's old buddy and supplier of Ivor Cutler tapes, who wanted to be there and couldn't, enlivened our evening with text messages from Newcastle. The other Andy, the pub landlord both then and now, stood us a round at the official end of the night; and his partner, Livi, whose task it was all those years ago to break the news to me that Floyd was dead, shared a box of wine with me after everyone went home, talked long and hard about the old days, and helped me smoke my way through all the cigarettes I could afford.
That's how I ended up leaving the bar some time after 7am and coming home on the commuter train - breathing fermented grapes, cackling over a copy of Viz, muttering lines from our play under my breath, and alienating everyone out there with a proper job. Floyd would have approved. Fuck it, Floyd would've loved it...
I don't know if it's possible to say how much I miss Floyd. I rather suspect it isn't.
It's my mother's birthday today (there's a kind of theme running through my life whereby everyone I love dies on someone else I love's birthday) and I need to get her flowers 'and shiznit', as Sara would say. Mum arrived home from Canada last night, exhausted but still sympathetic - my Dad died on Nigel's birthday, so she's familiar with the theme even when it touches on her own special day. But the note she left me this morning was pretty unsentimental and Mum-ish. It went something like 'Steph, would you please track down that funny smell in the kitchen?'.
(I had a nasty incident with a pound of cod and two unseasonably warm days last week.)
Freesias in the fridge should do the trick...
I missed the good part about walking back into Hitchin after all those years. It was down to the total stranger I met in The Albert (the bar nearest the station) who asked why I was visiting the town and who, when I told my story, was visibly stirred: "He's a bit of a legend hereabouts, is your Floyd."
You'd have to witness the crap flying around in Baldock - only five miles up the road - to fully appreciate just how wonderful it was to hear that from someone who never even met my man. I think if things don't pan out in Israel, for whatever reason, I'll be living in Hitchin for the rest of my days.
Friday, October 14, 2005
PHP London
Matt Zandstra and I share a long history of attempting to drop in on the London PHP user group's monthly meeting, usually thwarted by either cash tragedies (mine) or parental duties (his). This month I finally made it in following a frenzied exchange of email with Matt, who wanted to go but was suffering from an ear infection brought on by (as far as I can figure) the aforementioned parental duties. Bribery, threats and whisky remedies having had no impact on his 'headful of hurty concrete', I went alone. But that was OK, because this month Rasmus Lerdorf was speaking there - there would be at least one person in the room I already knew, if not a bosom pal.
I arrived late-ish - around 9pm - and half-expected the proceedings to be over already. They weren't. I grabbed an extremely cheap (in London terms) pint of cider from the bar, then meandered down to take a look at the downstairs room, having been pre-warned that it would be filled to capacity. I could see Rasmus' hand waving in front of his APC slides above a roomful of silhouetted heads and decided it'd be an uncomfortable moment for me to walk in just then, given my Zend connections, so I left him to it for a bit longer.
Half an hour passed in pleasant small talk with one of the barmaids and some gay bloke with a lot of facial furniture. Then someone with an unmistakably geek t-shirt hove into view. I asked him if there was enough room downstairs for me to join them. He thought there was, and invited me in.
Standing at the back of a room always reminds me of school. Can't imagine why. It makes me want to chain-smoke and giggle and pass notes. There was someone with similar issues on the back-most seat, which cheered me immensely. Don't get me wrong, we were both listening intently - Rasmus had moved on from APC to talk about the many things that could be done with SOAP and the wonders of REST by then. I mumbled something about not understanding ning to the rebel guy. He looked up at me and said, very gently, 'Have you ever heard of a scripting language called PHP?' I nodded dumbly. He went on to explain who Rasmus was... which was kinda sad, I was hoping he'd explain what ning was for.
Later I asked whether Rasmus had had time to look into 'that ning thing' yet. He had, but had been left as blank as I was over it. I guess we're not Andreessen's target audience here.
My rebel friend glanced at me and said, very carefully, 'ning - right?'
The chatting time came, the rebel friend left, Rasmus was inundated, and I hung out at the end of the room where laptops had suddenly opened. They were a good bunch of guys - proper geeks, but not nasty about me using doze, and able to cope with criticism about their own code. I made an ill-advised rush to get another pint of cider before closing time - ill-advised because the group had already, unbeknown to me, decided to stroll on down to a late bar. I made a worse-advised decision to grab a plastic glass and join them there - worse-advised because it led directly to my missing the last train home.
There were some good conversations, but everyone else cleared off when Rasmus went back to his hotel, leaving me alone to psyche myself up for getting home the interesting way. It was probably best that it happened like that, but I have to say that finding the Edgeware Road (a very straightforward road to leave London by) was the most difficult part of the journey home. Two Iranians and a Greek later, I fell out of a truck (trying to protect my laptop, I normally throw baggage out first) at the Baldock services (ok but I love that site) with a 2.5 mile walk ahead of me, and it was well after 6am when I got home.
Still it was worth it, if only to see how Rasmus coped with everyone speaking the way I do - I haven't met anyone yet in the whole of php.net that can understand a Brit accent from scratch :) OK so I didn't meet the people I'd hoped to meet - the PHP London crew are organising a full PHP conference in the near future and I'd hoped to meet someone prepared/able to discuss their plans for that - but even so it was a proper geek night out. The only one I've ever joined in my own country, and it felt just like the German version (ok, but I love that conference).
I arrived late-ish - around 9pm - and half-expected the proceedings to be over already. They weren't. I grabbed an extremely cheap (in London terms) pint of cider from the bar, then meandered down to take a look at the downstairs room, having been pre-warned that it would be filled to capacity. I could see Rasmus' hand waving in front of his APC slides above a roomful of silhouetted heads and decided it'd be an uncomfortable moment for me to walk in just then, given my Zend connections, so I left him to it for a bit longer.
Half an hour passed in pleasant small talk with one of the barmaids and some gay bloke with a lot of facial furniture. Then someone with an unmistakably geek t-shirt hove into view. I asked him if there was enough room downstairs for me to join them. He thought there was, and invited me in.
Standing at the back of a room always reminds me of school. Can't imagine why. It makes me want to chain-smoke and giggle and pass notes. There was someone with similar issues on the back-most seat, which cheered me immensely. Don't get me wrong, we were both listening intently - Rasmus had moved on from APC to talk about the many things that could be done with SOAP and the wonders of REST by then. I mumbled something about not understanding ning to the rebel guy. He looked up at me and said, very gently, 'Have you ever heard of a scripting language called PHP?' I nodded dumbly. He went on to explain who Rasmus was... which was kinda sad, I was hoping he'd explain what ning was for.
Later I asked whether Rasmus had had time to look into 'that ning thing' yet. He had, but had been left as blank as I was over it. I guess we're not Andreessen's target audience here.
My rebel friend glanced at me and said, very carefully, 'ning - right?'
The chatting time came, the rebel friend left, Rasmus was inundated, and I hung out at the end of the room where laptops had suddenly opened. They were a good bunch of guys - proper geeks, but not nasty about me using doze, and able to cope with criticism about their own code. I made an ill-advised rush to get another pint of cider before closing time - ill-advised because the group had already, unbeknown to me, decided to stroll on down to a late bar. I made a worse-advised decision to grab a plastic glass and join them there - worse-advised because it led directly to my missing the last train home.
There were some good conversations, but everyone else cleared off when Rasmus went back to his hotel, leaving me alone to psyche myself up for getting home the interesting way. It was probably best that it happened like that, but I have to say that finding the Edgeware Road (a very straightforward road to leave London by) was the most difficult part of the journey home. Two Iranians and a Greek later, I fell out of a truck (trying to protect my laptop, I normally throw baggage out first) at the Baldock services (ok but I love that site) with a 2.5 mile walk ahead of me, and it was well after 6am when I got home.
Still it was worth it, if only to see how Rasmus coped with everyone speaking the way I do - I haven't met anyone yet in the whole of php.net that can understand a Brit accent from scratch :) OK so I didn't meet the people I'd hoped to meet - the PHP London crew are organising a full PHP conference in the near future and I'd hoped to meet someone prepared/able to discuss their plans for that - but even so it was a proper geek night out. The only one I've ever joined in my own country, and it felt just like the German version (ok, but I love that conference).
Lucky me
September, October... same old, same old. My mother's been disastrously ill again, this time with a chest infection that just hangs and hangs, rendering her physically weak and all too easily depressed. If it weren't for the fact that my uncle lives within reach, I'd be on the brink of cancelling my Israel trip altogether(! please god don't make me have to do that) - I'm very glad he's on hand right now.
In an effort to fulfill the last of my late father's earthly obligations, Mum's heading off to Canada tomorrow - chest infection or no chest infection - with three teenaged grandchildren in tow. All I can do is wait and see how she is when she comes back. She's supposed to be joining me in Tel Aviv for a week in late December... assuming she's well enough to be left at all, assuming I'm given a three month Israeli visa, and assuming she's well enough at that point to get on an aeroplane. (I don't really think she is at present, but there are relatives at the other end who can/will take a lot of stress off her shoulders.)
This last week in particular seems to have been one long lurch from crisis to crisis, with arguments and misunderstandings (at work, at php.net and at home). It's left me sadly lacking in enthusiasm for anything much. Instructive, then, to spend an evening with a couple of people I hadn't spoken to in a long while. Gary and I had a long and turbulent friendship, which fell apart when he spread a hurtful and wholly untrue rumour about the way Floyd died - and continued to do so long after I'd asked him to cut the crap, primarily because he didn't know Floyd well enough to know how wholly untrue it was - he was so sure of Floyd's heroin addiction it must be me that had it all wrong, somehow, poor little victim that I am. Of course 'the closest are always the last to know' came into it... Eventually I told Gary, publicly and stridently, exactly what I thought of him, and naturally I brought up everything he'd ever done to upset me while I was at it. This was well over a year ago, probably nearer two years ago, I don't know. We haven't spoken since.
We bumped into each other yesterday and I got an earful from both himself and his girlfriend, who was present when I had my angry-and-upset moment. They've been tearing themselves up over it for nearasdammit two years. WTF?!
Life's much, much too short.
I bought them both drinks, spent the next five hours talking with them, made amends. So much desperate unhappiness there you could touch it.
I'd forgotten how lucky I am. It's good to be reminded sometimes :)
In an effort to fulfill the last of my late father's earthly obligations, Mum's heading off to Canada tomorrow - chest infection or no chest infection - with three teenaged grandchildren in tow. All I can do is wait and see how she is when she comes back. She's supposed to be joining me in Tel Aviv for a week in late December... assuming she's well enough to be left at all, assuming I'm given a three month Israeli visa, and assuming she's well enough at that point to get on an aeroplane. (I don't really think she is at present, but there are relatives at the other end who can/will take a lot of stress off her shoulders.)
This last week in particular seems to have been one long lurch from crisis to crisis, with arguments and misunderstandings (at work, at php.net and at home). It's left me sadly lacking in enthusiasm for anything much. Instructive, then, to spend an evening with a couple of people I hadn't spoken to in a long while. Gary and I had a long and turbulent friendship, which fell apart when he spread a hurtful and wholly untrue rumour about the way Floyd died - and continued to do so long after I'd asked him to cut the crap, primarily because he didn't know Floyd well enough to know how wholly untrue it was - he was so sure of Floyd's heroin addiction it must be me that had it all wrong, somehow, poor little victim that I am. Of course 'the closest are always the last to know' came into it... Eventually I told Gary, publicly and stridently, exactly what I thought of him, and naturally I brought up everything he'd ever done to upset me while I was at it. This was well over a year ago, probably nearer two years ago, I don't know. We haven't spoken since.
We bumped into each other yesterday and I got an earful from both himself and his girlfriend, who was present when I had my angry-and-upset moment. They've been tearing themselves up over it for nearasdammit two years. WTF?!
Life's much, much too short.
I bought them both drinks, spent the next five hours talking with them, made amends. So much desperate unhappiness there you could touch it.
I'd forgotten how lucky I am. It's good to be reminded sometimes :)
Sunday, September 04, 2005
The Month That Was Nearly A Week
Well, August just flew by and there was too much going on to write about. Dontcha hate it when reality flaps about that way? It was pretty mixed-up too...
August opened with the week when my mother collapsed and ended up spending several days in the local hospital on a drip, first trying not to remember my father's bad times there (he died of cancer) and then trying not to panic over their MSRA record. Pending full test results, it looks like a one-off scare rather than anything horribly long-term and disabling, but of course none of us knew that at the time - we had an anxious few days while Mum lay there being ill and scared and un-Mum-like.
She came out of hospital and went straight to organising herself some private medical tests so she could get it all behind her before the next school year began. Then she went to Menorca with a friend and relaxed between clinic visits.
Somewhere between the hospital trips and airport runs, Nigel and I headed off to the Austrian Tyrol, where I introduced him to the twin concepts of sleeping in a tent and drinking hot chocolate with a lot of schnapps in it. Then we drove into Italy in an attempt to escape the Alps (you can have too much Alp) and witnessed some bizarre shit going down in a small village high up on some godforsaken Alm, while lightning flashed and thunder smashed all around us & a single mournful church bell never stopped tolling. I still think that bus-stop was stolen, I don't care how many people were sitting waiting next to it - no way was the road wide enough to take a bus. Some of those people were dribbling vacantly and may have been stuck there for years. We struck lucky and found a hotel back near sane old Innsbruck, instead of having to lie awake under wet canvas all night waiting to be murdered by Rupret the Donkey-Boy or whatever Nigel called him.
We ended the holiday in a pleasant Gästhaus in Liechtenstein, which is a very odd little country - an almost completely feudal society, and the locals speak German with an Italian accent. We bumped into the Prince (Hi, Prince!) when Liechtenstein celebrated something Nigel swears translates to 'National Ascension Day'. Uhuh. The fireworks were extremely cool that night, although the beer was a little damper than usual IMHO. Our local contact, Jürgen (say it with at least 5 'R's and you'll have the accent right) somehow managed to justify our hotel bill as a company expense, which came as a nice surprise, especially as we missed our flight home at the end of the week and had to fork out for replacement flights and an extra night camping by the Bodensee.
I came home to over 500 unopened emails on the PHP internals list alone, having been absent for a whole 6 days. Every time I look at that week's buildup I can feel my brain slithering down the back of my neck... I've been summarising it for at least 5 days in total, and it doesn't seem to get any less. It's not easy, folks. Someone mentioned PHP 6 and everyone brought their pet projects out into the open all over again (thank you so much Sara for being one of the few that didn't, or there'd have been nearer a thousand wretched emails there!). Now try and make that into seamless prose that actually conveys what was discussed. See?
Given the resulting writers' block, I concentrated on PHP-GTK 2 for most of last week, with some cheering results. I adapted the win32 build system Wez wrote for PHP, and it works beautifully on my box. Andrei gave me CVS karma for the PHP-GTK source module when I sat up and begged nicely, so the whole thing's in cvs.php.net now, waiting for someone else to be able to make head or tail of it. I did write some instructions, but in retrospect I'm not sure how useful they were - I'd relied fairly heavily on the fact that whoever tries to build the php-gtk2.dll using that system will necessarily have already built PHP 5 on the same machine and in the same way beforehand, but that might have been a little optimistic. Anyway it works, and PHP-GTK 2 looks really promising (faster, smoother, more elegant, extensible from userside, better cross-platform support, and there are even some nicer GTK error messages), but I've just found out how many fiddly little bits and pieces still need writing prior to release.
Some guy named Tom Rogers - who I'm hoping is about to come on board too so we can learn our way around the project codebase together - wrote half a decent override this morning for the colour-grabbing functions in GtkColorSelection, and I wrote the other half. I hadn't realised how much of a kick I'd get out of committing that :) it's a really good feeling to make some minor changes and suddenly something that didn't used to work for anyone, works for everyone. I could fall in love with coding all over again! As it is it's kept me out of trouble - I was up all last night beating the keys, so to speak, so I didn't spend the afternoon as planned getting drunk at Scouse's BikeFest. Which is just as well, 'cos my mother's coming over for a 'special dinner' tonight anyway.
And tomorrow it's back to the horrible long summary (and the ones that need catching up on since then), plus I've been sent two seriously cool articles over the weekend that need to be live this week on zend.com if possible...
Oh and I booked my flights for Israel now. I'm flying out on November 20th :):):)
August opened with the week when my mother collapsed and ended up spending several days in the local hospital on a drip, first trying not to remember my father's bad times there (he died of cancer) and then trying not to panic over their MSRA record. Pending full test results, it looks like a one-off scare rather than anything horribly long-term and disabling, but of course none of us knew that at the time - we had an anxious few days while Mum lay there being ill and scared and un-Mum-like.
She came out of hospital and went straight to organising herself some private medical tests so she could get it all behind her before the next school year began. Then she went to Menorca with a friend and relaxed between clinic visits.
Somewhere between the hospital trips and airport runs, Nigel and I headed off to the Austrian Tyrol, where I introduced him to the twin concepts of sleeping in a tent and drinking hot chocolate with a lot of schnapps in it. Then we drove into Italy in an attempt to escape the Alps (you can have too much Alp) and witnessed some bizarre shit going down in a small village high up on some godforsaken Alm, while lightning flashed and thunder smashed all around us & a single mournful church bell never stopped tolling. I still think that bus-stop was stolen, I don't care how many people were sitting waiting next to it - no way was the road wide enough to take a bus. Some of those people were dribbling vacantly and may have been stuck there for years. We struck lucky and found a hotel back near sane old Innsbruck, instead of having to lie awake under wet canvas all night waiting to be murdered by Rupret the Donkey-Boy or whatever Nigel called him.
We ended the holiday in a pleasant Gästhaus in Liechtenstein, which is a very odd little country - an almost completely feudal society, and the locals speak German with an Italian accent. We bumped into the Prince (Hi, Prince!) when Liechtenstein celebrated something Nigel swears translates to 'National Ascension Day'. Uhuh. The fireworks were extremely cool that night, although the beer was a little damper than usual IMHO. Our local contact, Jürgen (say it with at least 5 'R's and you'll have the accent right) somehow managed to justify our hotel bill as a company expense, which came as a nice surprise, especially as we missed our flight home at the end of the week and had to fork out for replacement flights and an extra night camping by the Bodensee.
I came home to over 500 unopened emails on the PHP internals list alone, having been absent for a whole 6 days. Every time I look at that week's buildup I can feel my brain slithering down the back of my neck... I've been summarising it for at least 5 days in total, and it doesn't seem to get any less. It's not easy, folks. Someone mentioned PHP 6 and everyone brought their pet projects out into the open all over again (thank you so much Sara for being one of the few that didn't, or there'd have been nearer a thousand wretched emails there!). Now try and make that into seamless prose that actually conveys what was discussed. See?
Given the resulting writers' block, I concentrated on PHP-GTK 2 for most of last week, with some cheering results. I adapted the win32 build system Wez wrote for PHP, and it works beautifully on my box. Andrei gave me CVS karma for the PHP-GTK source module when I sat up and begged nicely, so the whole thing's in cvs.php.net now, waiting for someone else to be able to make head or tail of it. I did write some instructions, but in retrospect I'm not sure how useful they were - I'd relied fairly heavily on the fact that whoever tries to build the php-gtk2.dll using that system will necessarily have already built PHP 5 on the same machine and in the same way beforehand, but that might have been a little optimistic. Anyway it works, and PHP-GTK 2 looks really promising (faster, smoother, more elegant, extensible from userside, better cross-platform support, and there are even some nicer GTK error messages), but I've just found out how many fiddly little bits and pieces still need writing prior to release.
Some guy named Tom Rogers - who I'm hoping is about to come on board too so we can learn our way around the project codebase together - wrote half a decent override this morning for the colour-grabbing functions in GtkColorSelection, and I wrote the other half. I hadn't realised how much of a kick I'd get out of committing that :) it's a really good feeling to make some minor changes and suddenly something that didn't used to work for anyone, works for everyone. I could fall in love with coding all over again! As it is it's kept me out of trouble - I was up all last night beating the keys, so to speak, so I didn't spend the afternoon as planned getting drunk at Scouse's BikeFest. Which is just as well, 'cos my mother's coming over for a 'special dinner' tonight anyway.
And tomorrow it's back to the horrible long summary (and the ones that need catching up on since then), plus I've been sent two seriously cool articles over the weekend that need to be live this week on zend.com if possible...
Oh and I booked my flights for Israel now. I'm flying out on November 20th :):):)
Thursday, August 11, 2005
So Bizarre...
From an elderly article entitled "Every Word You Say":
It says Stewart Copeland was filming the tour. Now Floyd told me he'd met Stewart Copeland; fairly typically, he described him in less than flowery language. Floyd didn't have much time for the middle classes, full stop. But he never told me the guy was filming them on stage...
I wonder if he knew?
The Police member who underwent the greatest shock was probably Stewart Copeland. As the band prepared to finish writing the album in February, there were continual, gruesome TV reports of the bombing of Beirut. Stewart Copeland had spent much of his youth there, due to his father's CIA - connected overseas job. "My home town was being bombed. I found out my nanny, who'd raised me, was killed by American supplied bullets. I couldn't write about anything except war and hate. I wanted to kill," he said. Though some of that hurt has filtered through to Synchronicity, much of it was sidetracked into a filmscore he's been writing, for Francis Ford Coppola's Rumble Fish. And there was another film project, directed and shot by Copeland in collaboration with brother Miles. He spent two weeks following a tour by Anti-Nowhere League, Defects, Chron Gen and Chelsea, filming a dozen gigs on one hand-held camera. "I want to invent the 'C' film," was the explanation. Before the 30-minute "So What" goes on general release, he hopes to send it on a tour of British punk gigs with the soundtrack played at full PA volume. "We want to get the audience to react as if it was a band playing. We tried it at The Marquee but didn't get the response we wanted." That was mostly because of not knowing how to best cut the film for effect. He's now re-edited the feature."
It says Stewart Copeland was filming the tour. Now Floyd told me he'd met Stewart Copeland; fairly typically, he described him in less than flowery language. Floyd didn't have much time for the middle classes, full stop. But he never told me the guy was filming them on stage...
I wonder if he knew?
The Killing Fields
Russ surprised me tonight.
Russ is the only Maori I know. I can't properly pronounce the tribe he's from, much less spell it, but he's incredibly bolshy (and considers this normal), and he's also a nice guy when he bothers to listen. Most times he just makes decisions before listening, which isn't so cool. I'd also guess that his given name isn't 'Russ'. I'd guess that's what he calls himself here.
He's due to fly back out home to New Zealand in the next few days. I hadn't seen him for a while, so didn't pick up on this fact until tonight - although he says he'll be back for more work in the luxury of South East England in the fairly near future. He'll be missed, and not only by me; he's somehow managed to wangle his way into the hearts and minds of several locals. I wish I knew how he did that :-z
He drank a toast to me tonight: 'You walk your own way and don't take shit from no man, and I like talking to you because you remind me of my tribe. We're the same.'
Bless. It must be some kind of tradition out there, to come up with a toast for every person in the block when you leave.
Meanwhile Rose, the beautiful, engaging, funny and sharp blonde behind the bar, has hit marital quagmire after mere months of wedded bliss. She has bruises on her arms and her chin is held high. 'I've told him to leave, and he's leaving'. I hope so, he was never right for her and her five children. But I remember Rose on their wedding day, skitting across from the bar in her wedding gown to pick up cigarettes from the off-license I worked in at the time, beautiful as ever and so very happy. She looks like a female version of Derick Rethans, whom few people would (I suspect) regard as beautiful - but she definitely has the same nose, chin, eyes. I don't know how the alchemy occurs, but it does. In Rose, the slanted eyes and comically long, thin nose and mouth turn out as 'delicate' and 'pixie'. Perhaps the mischief in her makes that difference, I don't know. It disturbs hell out of me to see the marks of her being beaten. The jealous marks of a man who just discovered that his wife's children will always come first. You'd think he'd figure that idea and learn to live with it before he married her...
They seemed so happy.
And maybe that 'seeming' is why Russ gave me the toast he did. I don't allow 'seeming' in my life, I prefer the truth.
Russ is the only Maori I know. I can't properly pronounce the tribe he's from, much less spell it, but he's incredibly bolshy (and considers this normal), and he's also a nice guy when he bothers to listen. Most times he just makes decisions before listening, which isn't so cool. I'd also guess that his given name isn't 'Russ'. I'd guess that's what he calls himself here.
He's due to fly back out home to New Zealand in the next few days. I hadn't seen him for a while, so didn't pick up on this fact until tonight - although he says he'll be back for more work in the luxury of South East England in the fairly near future. He'll be missed, and not only by me; he's somehow managed to wangle his way into the hearts and minds of several locals. I wish I knew how he did that :-z
He drank a toast to me tonight: 'You walk your own way and don't take shit from no man, and I like talking to you because you remind me of my tribe. We're the same.'
Bless. It must be some kind of tradition out there, to come up with a toast for every person in the block when you leave.
Meanwhile Rose, the beautiful, engaging, funny and sharp blonde behind the bar, has hit marital quagmire after mere months of wedded bliss. She has bruises on her arms and her chin is held high. 'I've told him to leave, and he's leaving'. I hope so, he was never right for her and her five children. But I remember Rose on their wedding day, skitting across from the bar in her wedding gown to pick up cigarettes from the off-license I worked in at the time, beautiful as ever and so very happy. She looks like a female version of Derick Rethans, whom few people would (I suspect) regard as beautiful - but she definitely has the same nose, chin, eyes. I don't know how the alchemy occurs, but it does. In Rose, the slanted eyes and comically long, thin nose and mouth turn out as 'delicate' and 'pixie'. Perhaps the mischief in her makes that difference, I don't know. It disturbs hell out of me to see the marks of her being beaten. The jealous marks of a man who just discovered that his wife's children will always come first. You'd think he'd figure that idea and learn to live with it before he married her...
They seemed so happy.
And maybe that 'seeming' is why Russ gave me the toast he did. I don't allow 'seeming' in my life, I prefer the truth.
Monday, August 01, 2005
17 syllables
My mate Nigel's going through one of those 'sad and lonely' phases we all go through from time to time. For the last few weeks, when I've stayed over, we've crashed out to the strains of Have you ever fallen in love (with someone you shouldn't have fallen in love with)? - thanks so much Pete Shelley.
Eventually something snapped, the inevitable happened, and he slept with the wrong woman. It was partly my fault; she seemed like a gift at first sight, and I kinda propelled her his way, but then neither of us knew she was the wrong woman. We should both have listened to her better; she wanted something permanent, which is the last thing on his mind at present, sad and lonely or not. As things are, we're both guilty as sin and hoping she wasn't unduly upset at his instinctively blunt reaction to her too-early mention of the R word. I have to say I'd have reacted in exactly the same way he did; relationships aren't something you have, like a house, they're something that happen, like the weather, and there's something odd about asking someone else whether you can have one. But I guess that's why we're friends...
Nigel is a little nervous and twitchy since that night, particularly when it grows dark, expecting retribution to strike him down in increasingly obscure and macabre ways. So I'm publishing the slightly non-traditional haiku we wrote tonight to mark the occasion, and to remind him of the aftermath next time there's a next time. It's named Bunny Boiler, after that scene in Fatal Attraction:
(NB I should make it very clear at this point that the lady in question is a pleasant person who is entirely unlikely to do any such thing :)
Eventually something snapped, the inevitable happened, and he slept with the wrong woman. It was partly my fault; she seemed like a gift at first sight, and I kinda propelled her his way, but then neither of us knew she was the wrong woman. We should both have listened to her better; she wanted something permanent, which is the last thing on his mind at present, sad and lonely or not. As things are, we're both guilty as sin and hoping she wasn't unduly upset at his instinctively blunt reaction to her too-early mention of the R word. I have to say I'd have reacted in exactly the same way he did; relationships aren't something you have, like a house, they're something that happen, like the weather, and there's something odd about asking someone else whether you can have one. But I guess that's why we're friends...
Nigel is a little nervous and twitchy since that night, particularly when it grows dark, expecting retribution to strike him down in increasingly obscure and macabre ways. So I'm publishing the slightly non-traditional haiku we wrote tonight to mark the occasion, and to remind him of the aftermath next time there's a next time. It's named Bunny Boiler, after that scene in Fatal Attraction:
shotgun window head exploding
spattered wall my brain
death (probably)
(NB I should make it very clear at this point that the lady in question is a pleasant person who is entirely unlikely to do any such thing :)
Saturday, July 30, 2005
The Indian Takeaway
I'm English, right? - whatever else I may be, and one of the reasons I need a blog in the first place is because there's such a huge schism between me and most English people. I've not only been to Israel, I've also come to the conclusion that the Jews aren't in the wrong.
In England, that makes me akin to the guys that visited South Africa for sunlit holidays in the late 1970's and early 1980's.
But I'm English, so I had my first taste of Indian food when I was 6, and delighted both my father and the waiter by asking for more.
When I first came back from Israel, I had a fight in my local Indian restaurant-come-takeaway. They asked a simple question ('Where have you been?') and they got a simple answer ('Israel'), but I might as well have said 'Hell' or 'Breachwood Green'. The attitude changed, and although I got my food, it was made very clear to me that I was unwelcome there.
Four months down the line I risked visiting the same place. Only one of the men that worked there _that_ night, was working there tonight, and he gave me some tension. Like I'm planning to blow _him_ up... it's always interesting to live on the 'B' side. While I waited for my food to come, some skinny long-haired kid I never saw before walked by in the street outside. Our eyes met, and we both winked and smiled. The waiter promptly interrogated me: did I know that man? - because he was a bad, bad man.
I have no clue what the 'bad, bad man' ever did to deserve that accolade. Perhaps he went to Israel too?
I was trying to be sympathetic. I would like to be sympathetic. I have some problems with being sympathetic. I have issues with the fact that it was ever a problem to the owners there that I've been to Israel. I have issues with the idea that Muslims generally don't follow this thing; I saw a march against Salman Rushdie back in Sheffield that made my blood run cold. 3000+ people marching for blood and death and destruction. I haven't been on a march myself since then (I used to do that kind of thing), because the idea that this could happen in England at all, struck me deeply. Because I saw neighbours I knew and liked on that march, and because they locked up their shops and their wives and their children and they went out, men united in hatred. If the English tried to do that it would be prevented by the authorities; there's a law here about incitement to hatred. On that occasion, the Muslims were allowed to demonstrate their allegiance to a fatwah, and I suspect were under pressure to do so from the mosques. The powers-that-be felt it was more safe to allow their protest than to mention the rulebook; and on that day I walked in the opposite direction, alone.
I want to believe that there are good Muslims in the UK who hold both their religion and their civic responsibilities in their hearts, but I've yet to find a single one who does that without being compromised in some way.
I actually know more good Muslims in Israel than I do in England. What does that tell you?
In England, that makes me akin to the guys that visited South Africa for sunlit holidays in the late 1970's and early 1980's.
But I'm English, so I had my first taste of Indian food when I was 6, and delighted both my father and the waiter by asking for more.
When I first came back from Israel, I had a fight in my local Indian restaurant-come-takeaway. They asked a simple question ('Where have you been?') and they got a simple answer ('Israel'), but I might as well have said 'Hell' or 'Breachwood Green'. The attitude changed, and although I got my food, it was made very clear to me that I was unwelcome there.
Four months down the line I risked visiting the same place. Only one of the men that worked there _that_ night, was working there tonight, and he gave me some tension. Like I'm planning to blow _him_ up... it's always interesting to live on the 'B' side. While I waited for my food to come, some skinny long-haired kid I never saw before walked by in the street outside. Our eyes met, and we both winked and smiled. The waiter promptly interrogated me: did I know that man? - because he was a bad, bad man.
I have no clue what the 'bad, bad man' ever did to deserve that accolade. Perhaps he went to Israel too?
I was trying to be sympathetic. I would like to be sympathetic. I have some problems with being sympathetic. I have issues with the fact that it was ever a problem to the owners there that I've been to Israel. I have issues with the idea that Muslims generally don't follow this thing; I saw a march against Salman Rushdie back in Sheffield that made my blood run cold. 3000+ people marching for blood and death and destruction. I haven't been on a march myself since then (I used to do that kind of thing), because the idea that this could happen in England at all, struck me deeply. Because I saw neighbours I knew and liked on that march, and because they locked up their shops and their wives and their children and they went out, men united in hatred. If the English tried to do that it would be prevented by the authorities; there's a law here about incitement to hatred. On that occasion, the Muslims were allowed to demonstrate their allegiance to a fatwah, and I suspect were under pressure to do so from the mosques. The powers-that-be felt it was more safe to allow their protest than to mention the rulebook; and on that day I walked in the opposite direction, alone.
I want to believe that there are good Muslims in the UK who hold both their religion and their civic responsibilities in their hearts, but I've yet to find a single one who does that without being compromised in some way.
I actually know more good Muslims in Israel than I do in England. What does that tell you?
Sunday, July 24, 2005
Summertime (and the living is easy)
It's July, so naturally I spent two hours killing wasps as the sun struggled to rise this morning. They'd invaded the kitchen in the caretaker's cottage, even crawling across the Spanish cat Nidos' dinner. A yowl, a bang of the catflap and an appalling choking sound was readily discernable over my wasp-flattening slaps (I couldn't find the spray so dinner mats did the job). No sign of the cat, when I went looking in the grey dawn; he didn't come home for the rest of the night either. I found him some hours later, all puffy-jawed betrayal, curled in the porch avoiding the summer rain and pretending to sleep.
I swept up over thirty horrid little stripey corpses before feeding the understandably nervy cat...
On to business. I suppose 'business' ought to be writing this week's Zend summary at present, but it isn't, because I found myself within sight of the end of my TODO. That means I'm finally free to do some php.net work because I finally have spare time to do it in, so I tried yesterday to install MSVS 6.0 onto this laptop for the first time in its life. That CD-ROM has been through a lot over the last year or so; I took it everywhere just in case I needed it, and it's suffered greatly as a result. There are holes in it :-(
Microsoft seem to have finally realized that a lot of people out there code just because they like coding, and now offer some free development tools, but they don't appear to make old, stable, well-used and 'industry standard' tools available for download - just things that weigh 300 megabytes, which aren't an option without cable. Edin Kadribasic sympathised and suggested I try Visual Studio Express beta.
From the installation notes (heavily edited):
3. Microsoft Visual C++ Express Beta 2
3.1. Product Installation
3.1.1. If you only install Command Line tools, you will not need to register, and the tools will not expire. Once you add the Graphical IDE, registration will be required and expiration will take effect.
3.1.2. MSDN Express installation requires Express "Graphical IDE" to be installed.
Hidden away in the small print somewhere is some mention of the fact that you need Windows XP service pack 2 installed before you can use it at all. Over dialup? Forget it.
Just give me VC++ 6.0, eh guys? I knew where I stood with that...
I swept up over thirty horrid little stripey corpses before feeding the understandably nervy cat...
On to business. I suppose 'business' ought to be writing this week's Zend summary at present, but it isn't, because I found myself within sight of the end of my TODO. That means I'm finally free to do some php.net work because I finally have spare time to do it in, so I tried yesterday to install MSVS 6.0 onto this laptop for the first time in its life. That CD-ROM has been through a lot over the last year or so; I took it everywhere just in case I needed it, and it's suffered greatly as a result. There are holes in it :-(
Microsoft seem to have finally realized that a lot of people out there code just because they like coding, and now offer some free development tools, but they don't appear to make old, stable, well-used and 'industry standard' tools available for download - just things that weigh 300 megabytes, which aren't an option without cable. Edin Kadribasic sympathised and suggested I try Visual Studio Express beta.
From the installation notes (heavily edited):
3. Microsoft Visual C++ Express Beta 2
3.1. Product Installation
3.1.1. If you only install Command Line tools, you will not need to register, and the tools will not expire. Once you add the Graphical IDE, registration will be required and expiration will take effect.
3.1.2. MSDN Express installation requires Express "Graphical IDE" to be installed.
Hidden away in the small print somewhere is some mention of the fact that you need Windows XP service pack 2 installed before you can use it at all. Over dialup? Forget it.
Just give me VC++ 6.0, eh guys? I knew where I stood with that...
Sunday, May 08, 2005
Tulpen uit Amsterdam (and some other stuff too)
Wilhelm's still alive :-) This being a guy I met two years ago and spent all night talking to. The first night in Amsterdam, we did exactly the same thing. Result: I spent the PHP-GTK 2 talk hanging around the womens' room at the RAI trying to either vomit or sleep... and most of the rest of the conference simply trying to sleep. But thanks anyway to Sander for trying to make things feel better with a couple of lagers and a plate of chips, and no I probably would've taken those medications even if I'd known I'd be sitting next to non-drinker Zeev half an hour later (trying not to breathe out) for a pertinent-to-the-DevZone meeting.
The apartment I booked for the conference was fantastic, no two ways about it. The only thing between it and perfection was the lack of WIFI, but I'm told that this will be in place by next year's bash. Coolth * 1000, and no I'm not publishing their address before I have the chance to book us in again! Most of the time it was just me, sniper, Christian Weiske and Carsten Lucke in residence, but on the final night there we had visitors, and it proved itself capable of allowing the people in the bedrooms to sleep through our loud talking in the lounge. It's very central - close to Dam Square - and also close to a number 4 tram line, meaning it took a maximum of 15 minutes to reach the RAI. We'll be back, for sure!
The most interesting item in the whole of the conference was Andrei's talk about the pending support for internationalisation in PHP. He's spent the last few months writing support for ICU, the IBM i18n library, into the Zend engine - I believe he's been doing this during paid Yahoo time - but, as with most major development efforts in PHP these days, the actual development process has been confined to a pretty small group of core developers, and several of the rest of us had a lot of questions to ask about the implementation. The chief discussion was in the Novotel bar at the end of that day, mainly because it's the kind of 'exciting' that makes you think subliminally about it for the next several hours even when you're pretending to think about something else (e.g. not being sick in the womens' toilets). Then we all went out for beers and etc, predictably enough. You have to understand that the vast majority of these guys are still under 30, and that includes Andrei.
Apart from that it wasn't a good PHP conference for me - there seemed to be a lot of Zend-related meetings in there one way or another, and I missed the careless free-for-all of yesteryear. I haven't had time to do a lot for php.net recently, not being the fastest of coders and/or thinkers (no really, people that know me at home need to understand this - the php.net core devs are way ahead of me most of the time), and I felt very much like a hanger-on rather than central to it all. This is frustrating - there are three projects currently that I'd really like to have some involvement in, and I can't see a way clear to do it. Two of them are headed by Andrei; it's almost like he's taken Sterling's place as innovator.
I spoke with Sterling tonight, nothing to do with development, just gossing. Amongst other things, I wanted to know if it's ok to blog embarrassing stuff. He felt that it was ok to think about it twice and then do it anyway. So here goes:
The final night in Amsterdam, and Jerome (conference speaker), Philippe (the guy sleeping below my bunk in the mixed dorm at the hostel that night) and myself went out for a few beers and etc. The 'and etc' took effect pretty quickly, and the lads wanted to go somewhere 'more Amsterdam-ish' - we were in fact in a pretty good bar in the middle of the redlight, but I'm 20 years older than either of them so who'm I to judge? I figured that the places they wanted to be weren't the places I'd want to be, so I stayed where I was, alone, at a table, by a window. It's the 'by a window' part that you need to hang onto here.
This was the only window in the entire street that didn't have a naked woman behind it.
Got to there?
OK, so I'm flashing my breasts at the window every now and again, because it amuses me and I'm stoned. This went on for around 20 minutes, and then I just as suddenly lost interest in the joke and went to sleep, I've no idea how long for.
The barman woke me and asked me to leave, and the bar at this point was empty of customers, apart from one Syrian guy who was sitting opposite me and wearing a funny smile. He asked for a cigarette, which I - unusually - refused because I thought he was creepy. I was right. 400 metres down the street I took a back-alley to check - sure enough, his footsteps were still echoing behind mine. I led him around the block and then went to a hotel on the street I was staying in. It had a night bell, which I rang. The night porter came out, all smiles: "And what can I do for you, madame?" "Actually, I'm not staying here," I apologised. "But I'm hoping the guy behind me is, because he's been following me for the last half hour, so he's probably lost." The Syrian loomed up out of the shadows with a big smile on his face. "Yesssss?" growled the night porter to him. That's when the Syrian recognised that he wasn't on home territory, and he'd have done well in a Charlie Chaplin film for the facial expression he had.
I left them to sort it out and went home.
Didn't occur to me until the next morning that the poor Syrian probably saw me displaying my breasts earlier and assumed I was an unusual act...
Scuse me while I go to investigate the sound of breaking glass - it's Saturday night in Baldock again already.
The apartment I booked for the conference was fantastic, no two ways about it. The only thing between it and perfection was the lack of WIFI, but I'm told that this will be in place by next year's bash. Coolth * 1000, and no I'm not publishing their address before I have the chance to book us in again! Most of the time it was just me, sniper, Christian Weiske and Carsten Lucke in residence, but on the final night there we had visitors, and it proved itself capable of allowing the people in the bedrooms to sleep through our loud talking in the lounge. It's very central - close to Dam Square - and also close to a number 4 tram line, meaning it took a maximum of 15 minutes to reach the RAI. We'll be back, for sure!
The most interesting item in the whole of the conference was Andrei's talk about the pending support for internationalisation in PHP. He's spent the last few months writing support for ICU, the IBM i18n library, into the Zend engine - I believe he's been doing this during paid Yahoo time - but, as with most major development efforts in PHP these days, the actual development process has been confined to a pretty small group of core developers, and several of the rest of us had a lot of questions to ask about the implementation. The chief discussion was in the Novotel bar at the end of that day, mainly because it's the kind of 'exciting' that makes you think subliminally about it for the next several hours even when you're pretending to think about something else (e.g. not being sick in the womens' toilets). Then we all went out for beers and etc, predictably enough. You have to understand that the vast majority of these guys are still under 30, and that includes Andrei.
Apart from that it wasn't a good PHP conference for me - there seemed to be a lot of Zend-related meetings in there one way or another, and I missed the careless free-for-all of yesteryear. I haven't had time to do a lot for php.net recently, not being the fastest of coders and/or thinkers (no really, people that know me at home need to understand this - the php.net core devs are way ahead of me most of the time), and I felt very much like a hanger-on rather than central to it all. This is frustrating - there are three projects currently that I'd really like to have some involvement in, and I can't see a way clear to do it. Two of them are headed by Andrei; it's almost like he's taken Sterling's place as innovator.
I spoke with Sterling tonight, nothing to do with development, just gossing. Amongst other things, I wanted to know if it's ok to blog embarrassing stuff. He felt that it was ok to think about it twice and then do it anyway. So here goes:
The final night in Amsterdam, and Jerome (conference speaker), Philippe (the guy sleeping below my bunk in the mixed dorm at the hostel that night) and myself went out for a few beers and etc. The 'and etc' took effect pretty quickly, and the lads wanted to go somewhere 'more Amsterdam-ish' - we were in fact in a pretty good bar in the middle of the redlight, but I'm 20 years older than either of them so who'm I to judge? I figured that the places they wanted to be weren't the places I'd want to be, so I stayed where I was, alone, at a table, by a window. It's the 'by a window' part that you need to hang onto here.
This was the only window in the entire street that didn't have a naked woman behind it.
Got to there?
OK, so I'm flashing my breasts at the window every now and again, because it amuses me and I'm stoned. This went on for around 20 minutes, and then I just as suddenly lost interest in the joke and went to sleep, I've no idea how long for.
The barman woke me and asked me to leave, and the bar at this point was empty of customers, apart from one Syrian guy who was sitting opposite me and wearing a funny smile. He asked for a cigarette, which I - unusually - refused because I thought he was creepy. I was right. 400 metres down the street I took a back-alley to check - sure enough, his footsteps were still echoing behind mine. I led him around the block and then went to a hotel on the street I was staying in. It had a night bell, which I rang. The night porter came out, all smiles: "And what can I do for you, madame?" "Actually, I'm not staying here," I apologised. "But I'm hoping the guy behind me is, because he's been following me for the last half hour, so he's probably lost." The Syrian loomed up out of the shadows with a big smile on his face. "Yesssss?" growled the night porter to him. That's when the Syrian recognised that he wasn't on home territory, and he'd have done well in a Charlie Chaplin film for the facial expression he had.
I left them to sort it out and went home.
Didn't occur to me until the next morning that the poor Syrian probably saw me displaying my breasts earlier and assumed I was an unusual act...
Scuse me while I go to investigate the sound of breaking glass - it's Saturday night in Baldock again already.
Saturday, April 30, 2005
Another time, another planet
Having given up on my old life now, I've finally achieved some kind of equilibrium. It just means I drink in different bars and get to talk to people who haven't suddenly decided to hate me while I was out of the country, but it's better, if not altogether happy.
Friday nights are still hell, and the policemen (it's true about them getting younger by the way) all say 'hello' when I walk by. It makes me feel about 90 - if they'd done that when I was a kid I'd have been panicking inside and running the ever-present list of recent crimes through my mind. Now I'm just pleased to see them, and I guess it shows. The car hasn't been attacked since the last incident reported here, but then again it hasn't spent Friday night here either...
I managed to break (or at least, I think I managed to break) Zend's CVS server just after the weekend began, which effectively means I'm in the twin position of having a lot to do and no way to do it. 'Just enjoy the day,' offered Rick, my direct boss. Hm kay. So what do people actually do with free Saturdays? It's not just Zend - I've never taken weekends in the standard sense, usually because the kind of job I've had hasn't been the kind where weekends are different to any other days. They're very much an office construct. Historically, weekends have generally consisted of Tuesday as far as I'm concerned, which became less interesting when the licensing laws changed to allow all-day opening. Until then it used to be considered pretty wonderful if you could get market day off work - the bars in chartered market towns were allowed to stay open until 4pm on market days - and in Hitchin, where I spent most of my adult life to date, market day fell (and still falls) on a Tuesday.
Happy days :-) learning to play pool with the bikers in the George and strolling home rat-arsed at 4.10pm ('drinking-up time' was extended from 10 minutes to 20 minutes, eventually). Having a weekend on a Tuesday was easily worth having to work a Saturday and Sunday, back then. I actually still prefer it that way now, too.
So it's a Saturday, a rare Saturday when I don't have anything to do (or at least, I don't have any way to do it), and it's even a warm-ish day. The laundry's in, the kitchen's fairly tidy, the meal I'm making later won't take much over 20 minutes, packing for next week's Amsterdam trip (PHP international conference) will take maybe 10 .... I ended up looking at the stuff in the outhouse I've been promising Mum I'll clear out forever.
And then some handwriting leaps out at me from amongst a sheaf of old papers, and it's not my handwriting, it's Floyd's.
Floyd was my very ex-partner, who died suddenly on Hallowe'en 1999, just two weeks after coming out with the 'Millennium Disease' theory - "have you noticed how everybody's falling apart because of the Millennium?" - and roughly 40 years before either of us expected him to do anything so dramatic. There was a spate of sudden deaths around that time (like, 6 of my family, my cat, our dog, and over 30 of my friends) which seemed to prove his theory correct, but it's not hugely comforting to think of that. I think he was talking about marriages at the time...
Anyway there's his stuff; a short story, one of many stories and poems he wrote. I remember this one clearly; he'd actually written it for radio, and played me a recording of it he'd made (he was an excellent performer). And it occurs to me it'd be kinda nice to put it online, because if you google on 'Chron Gen' or 'bb floyd' you don't get the kind of results you would expect to find if his band had been successful after the www reached the average household, and because he didn't live long enough to even see the Internet in action, but I'm sure he'd have published his bits and bobs on it if he had.
So there's my Saturday task.
Friday nights are still hell, and the policemen (it's true about them getting younger by the way) all say 'hello' when I walk by. It makes me feel about 90 - if they'd done that when I was a kid I'd have been panicking inside and running the ever-present list of recent crimes through my mind. Now I'm just pleased to see them, and I guess it shows. The car hasn't been attacked since the last incident reported here, but then again it hasn't spent Friday night here either...
I managed to break (or at least, I think I managed to break) Zend's CVS server just after the weekend began, which effectively means I'm in the twin position of having a lot to do and no way to do it. 'Just enjoy the day,' offered Rick, my direct boss. Hm kay. So what do people actually do with free Saturdays? It's not just Zend - I've never taken weekends in the standard sense, usually because the kind of job I've had hasn't been the kind where weekends are different to any other days. They're very much an office construct. Historically, weekends have generally consisted of Tuesday as far as I'm concerned, which became less interesting when the licensing laws changed to allow all-day opening. Until then it used to be considered pretty wonderful if you could get market day off work - the bars in chartered market towns were allowed to stay open until 4pm on market days - and in Hitchin, where I spent most of my adult life to date, market day fell (and still falls) on a Tuesday.
Happy days :-) learning to play pool with the bikers in the George and strolling home rat-arsed at 4.10pm ('drinking-up time' was extended from 10 minutes to 20 minutes, eventually). Having a weekend on a Tuesday was easily worth having to work a Saturday and Sunday, back then. I actually still prefer it that way now, too.
So it's a Saturday, a rare Saturday when I don't have anything to do (or at least, I don't have any way to do it), and it's even a warm-ish day. The laundry's in, the kitchen's fairly tidy, the meal I'm making later won't take much over 20 minutes, packing for next week's Amsterdam trip (PHP international conference) will take maybe 10 .... I ended up looking at the stuff in the outhouse I've been promising Mum I'll clear out forever.
And then some handwriting leaps out at me from amongst a sheaf of old papers, and it's not my handwriting, it's Floyd's.
Floyd was my very ex-partner, who died suddenly on Hallowe'en 1999, just two weeks after coming out with the 'Millennium Disease' theory - "have you noticed how everybody's falling apart because of the Millennium?" - and roughly 40 years before either of us expected him to do anything so dramatic. There was a spate of sudden deaths around that time (like, 6 of my family, my cat, our dog, and over 30 of my friends) which seemed to prove his theory correct, but it's not hugely comforting to think of that. I think he was talking about marriages at the time...
Anyway there's his stuff; a short story, one of many stories and poems he wrote. I remember this one clearly; he'd actually written it for radio, and played me a recording of it he'd made (he was an excellent performer). And it occurs to me it'd be kinda nice to put it online, because if you google on 'Chron Gen' or 'bb floyd' you don't get the kind of results you would expect to find if his band had been successful after the www reached the average household, and because he didn't live long enough to even see the Internet in action, but I'm sure he'd have published his bits and bobs on it if he had.
So there's my Saturday task.
Sunday, April 17, 2005
Yeah yeah, it's not fair...
I keep hearing Jilted John, I don't know why...
My mother's car didn't just get egged this weekend, it got a brick through its window. She's gone to stay with my uncle because she doesn't dare leave the car out on the street here with no window, and we have nowhere to hide it, and it can't be fixed 'til Monday.
She talked about the violence on the street here last night - I was lucky, I went over to Nigel's place and missed all the 'excitement'. I'm very glad I did that, for myself, but not for Mum.
So tonight it's my turn, I'm in the flat alone, and for once there hasn't been any violence on the streets. I was treated to the violence of the bars instead, which isn't the same thing at all as it doesn't involve the physical stuff. For some reason as I got up to leave tonight I said to the one woman I most admire in Baldock that it was always a pleasure to see her. It is; she's pretty and she's funny, and she lifts the mood as soon as she walks through the door, for everyone present. Her response? "I wish I could say the same for you, Steph."
We've never even held a conversation.
The friend that accompanied her did hold a conversation with me, briefly, on the subject of child-rearing. She explained to me that Floyd and I had been cruel to the niece we raised. But then went on to describe the difficulties she's having with her 7-year-old son's manners, which to me says that she was never cruel enough. If you don't teach a child right from wrong before it reaches 7, how can that child ever know right from wrong? Obviously we weren't going to agree on that point, so I let it ride. Which led to her asking me, was I from 'that family in the High Street'? - the one where a baby was unwittingly murdered by its own mother some two years ago. Gee thanks.
The murderess in the case is from this town. Everyone here went to school with her. There's a huge amount of sympathy for her locally, and a general feeling that she was led astray by falling into bad company. Strangely, I've known the 'bad company' she was living with at that time for the last 20-odd years. When his father was dying - which took some years, as the old boy had a very slow cancer - I know that the 'bad company' was attentive and caring; he took food and beer to his father on a daily basis, he spent time with him, and he gave at least as much as he received, in the way of gossip, and company, and simple fun. But he wasn't 'from here'. And neither am I, thank God. Neither am I.
So why are we being attacked? Because I've come to the point now where I'm beginning to believe that everyone around is not being attacked, there's something personal in this; the rest of the cars in our street remain untouched.
There are a number of possibilities.
One is the recent conviction of an old (and elderly) friend of the family for paedophilia. Incidents 30 years old. No telling whether it carried into more recent years, and the guy's had a complete breakdown since his conviction, so they can't even send him to jail - just wreck his life. Of course we have to believe the conviction, and of course we're all duly appalled - but jesus, he's knocking 80. Why did it have to be now?
One is the fact that both my mother and I will attempt to stop things that we see are wrong. "Kick him again and I'll call the police," said my 65-year-old Mum to one teenager. "What the FUCK do you think you're playing at?" said me to another. They stop - but maybe they don't forget.
One is the fact that I just came back from Israel, and all England hates Israel, or so it seems.
And one is that I allegedly slept with the partner of the aforementioned unwitting murderess. (Except that I didn't, but hey, don't let the truth get in the way of the facts!)
- or it could be simply that we're not from here...
My mother's car didn't just get egged this weekend, it got a brick through its window. She's gone to stay with my uncle because she doesn't dare leave the car out on the street here with no window, and we have nowhere to hide it, and it can't be fixed 'til Monday.
She talked about the violence on the street here last night - I was lucky, I went over to Nigel's place and missed all the 'excitement'. I'm very glad I did that, for myself, but not for Mum.
So tonight it's my turn, I'm in the flat alone, and for once there hasn't been any violence on the streets. I was treated to the violence of the bars instead, which isn't the same thing at all as it doesn't involve the physical stuff. For some reason as I got up to leave tonight I said to the one woman I most admire in Baldock that it was always a pleasure to see her. It is; she's pretty and she's funny, and she lifts the mood as soon as she walks through the door, for everyone present. Her response? "I wish I could say the same for you, Steph."
We've never even held a conversation.
The friend that accompanied her did hold a conversation with me, briefly, on the subject of child-rearing. She explained to me that Floyd and I had been cruel to the niece we raised. But then went on to describe the difficulties she's having with her 7-year-old son's manners, which to me says that she was never cruel enough. If you don't teach a child right from wrong before it reaches 7, how can that child ever know right from wrong? Obviously we weren't going to agree on that point, so I let it ride. Which led to her asking me, was I from 'that family in the High Street'? - the one where a baby was unwittingly murdered by its own mother some two years ago. Gee thanks.
The murderess in the case is from this town. Everyone here went to school with her. There's a huge amount of sympathy for her locally, and a general feeling that she was led astray by falling into bad company. Strangely, I've known the 'bad company' she was living with at that time for the last 20-odd years. When his father was dying - which took some years, as the old boy had a very slow cancer - I know that the 'bad company' was attentive and caring; he took food and beer to his father on a daily basis, he spent time with him, and he gave at least as much as he received, in the way of gossip, and company, and simple fun. But he wasn't 'from here'. And neither am I, thank God. Neither am I.
So why are we being attacked? Because I've come to the point now where I'm beginning to believe that everyone around is not being attacked, there's something personal in this; the rest of the cars in our street remain untouched.
There are a number of possibilities.
One is the recent conviction of an old (and elderly) friend of the family for paedophilia. Incidents 30 years old. No telling whether it carried into more recent years, and the guy's had a complete breakdown since his conviction, so they can't even send him to jail - just wreck his life. Of course we have to believe the conviction, and of course we're all duly appalled - but jesus, he's knocking 80. Why did it have to be now?
One is the fact that both my mother and I will attempt to stop things that we see are wrong. "Kick him again and I'll call the police," said my 65-year-old Mum to one teenager. "What the FUCK do you think you're playing at?" said me to another. They stop - but maybe they don't forget.
One is the fact that I just came back from Israel, and all England hates Israel, or so it seems.
And one is that I allegedly slept with the partner of the aforementioned unwitting murderess. (Except that I didn't, but hey, don't let the truth get in the way of the facts!)
- or it could be simply that we're not from here...
Thursday, April 07, 2005
It's For Real
Sounds like an advertising slogan, no?
I'm just talking about the England I came home to, yeah yeah whinging again - I promise (tho' I often break my promises) that this'll be the last time I mention it.
My mother's car had eggs thrown over it twice last week - not by birds, but by teenagers. Don't these kids know it's not even properly Spring yet?
There was someone in our cellar a couple of nights back. There's nothing down there to steal, but it's still scary stuff, given that my antiquated (sorry Mum, going for the pink pound) mother generally lives alone; the gate aka 'drawbridge' is kept permanently locked these days, and the garden is surrounded by high walls. So where did this guy - I assume it was a guy, or guys - come from, and how?
Our wash-house - which is protected in the same way - has been broken into so often now that my mother's given up trying to keep food in the freezer there. Because it gets stolen, and she doesn't like the thought of those kids getting food poisoning.
The kids hang out on the streets any time it isn't actually raining. And no, we don't live in London or Manchester or some godforsaken suburban sprawl, we live in what used to be a pleasant, if dull, little town on the edge of nowhere.
Dave the Bar nods when I mention the hassle Mum's been going through. 'Yeah, it's gone seriously downhill around here lately.' Great. Cool. Fantastic. Fix it?
So maybe it's not just me being paranoid after all. Maybe England _is_ just turning into a land of disrespect and thuggery. Or at least, this small part of it.
My brother mailed me tonight to say he's had enough of the Big City (his joke name for our small town) and is taking his herd of children back into the sticks just as soon as he can sell his house.
Dave also has children. He's been trying to sell up for over eighteen months, so I'm not holding my breath...
People here are gobsmacked (there is no better word) when I say I find it aggressive here after Israel. After all, everything you see in the press and on the TV says that Israel's one of the scarier places to be in the world. But then, there's no big story and no good pictures to be had out of a lone middle-aged woman walking home through city streets unaccosted at 4am. Even if there are thousands like her, night after night, it just doesn't make great news! Which just goes to show precisely how limited the idea of what constitutes 'great news' is.
Oh and my tooth fell apart today too. And I don't have a dentist in the UK since mine was arrested for selling cocaine back in the caring sharing 90s.
(Not that these items are related - but they kind of are, in a way.)
That's enough of the grumblies; I started to fit in better now (I swore at someone or something, and I can cross a road without thinking about where I am too hard, and I make it to the bar before it closes nearly every night now) so I guess I'll be back to my normal self in another week or so.
God help us all.
I'm just talking about the England I came home to, yeah yeah whinging again - I promise (tho' I often break my promises) that this'll be the last time I mention it.
My mother's car had eggs thrown over it twice last week - not by birds, but by teenagers. Don't these kids know it's not even properly Spring yet?
There was someone in our cellar a couple of nights back. There's nothing down there to steal, but it's still scary stuff, given that my antiquated (sorry Mum, going for the pink pound) mother generally lives alone; the gate aka 'drawbridge' is kept permanently locked these days, and the garden is surrounded by high walls. So where did this guy - I assume it was a guy, or guys - come from, and how?
Our wash-house - which is protected in the same way - has been broken into so often now that my mother's given up trying to keep food in the freezer there. Because it gets stolen, and she doesn't like the thought of those kids getting food poisoning.
The kids hang out on the streets any time it isn't actually raining. And no, we don't live in London or Manchester or some godforsaken suburban sprawl, we live in what used to be a pleasant, if dull, little town on the edge of nowhere.
Dave the Bar nods when I mention the hassle Mum's been going through. 'Yeah, it's gone seriously downhill around here lately.' Great. Cool. Fantastic. Fix it?
So maybe it's not just me being paranoid after all. Maybe England _is_ just turning into a land of disrespect and thuggery. Or at least, this small part of it.
My brother mailed me tonight to say he's had enough of the Big City (his joke name for our small town) and is taking his herd of children back into the sticks just as soon as he can sell his house.
Dave also has children. He's been trying to sell up for over eighteen months, so I'm not holding my breath...
People here are gobsmacked (there is no better word) when I say I find it aggressive here after Israel. After all, everything you see in the press and on the TV says that Israel's one of the scarier places to be in the world. But then, there's no big story and no good pictures to be had out of a lone middle-aged woman walking home through city streets unaccosted at 4am. Even if there are thousands like her, night after night, it just doesn't make great news! Which just goes to show precisely how limited the idea of what constitutes 'great news' is.
Oh and my tooth fell apart today too. And I don't have a dentist in the UK since mine was arrested for selling cocaine back in the caring sharing 90s.
(Not that these items are related - but they kind of are, in a way.)
That's enough of the grumblies; I started to fit in better now (I swore at someone or something, and I can cross a road without thinking about where I am too hard, and I make it to the bar before it closes nearly every night now) so I guess I'll be back to my normal self in another week or so.
God help us all.
Friday, March 25, 2005
Mediterranean Homesick Blues
We had a full staff meeting today at Zend - all of us, from all over the world, connected by long-distance telephone, a common purpose, and the sound of a small child making a lot of noise. Of course we all denied having any children on the spot, but it was funniest hearing the Israeli office in full flow. (C'mon Amnon, we all know it was you!)
'Course I got homesick - for about the first 40 minutes, anyway. After that I remembered how non-virtual staff meetings always go on for at least half an hour longer than my attention span can manage, and practiced throwing paper aeroplanes at myself in the hallway alone at home.
Still it seemed strangely quiet when the meeting was over, and I couldn't settle back to work for a while.
England's becoming more itself again (to me), if still aggressive. I got a fulsome apology and part of my bar bill paid by the guy who was so obnoxious the other night; that's something to hold onto I guess. My second best friend's going through a rough patch - no work, no car, no money - and can't come over to visit, although we plan to party like crazy when my paycheque comes. My best friend of all is in Ireland practising being a husband - no point there, I know he'll either be very good or very bad at it, there'll be nothing in between, he's Catholic. And my third best friend (Capricorns always have three very good friends) is the ever-faithful Nigel, who bans me during the week on account of my being an evil influence.
I have this Saturday night reserved for his birthday, and hopefully - this being a very rural Saturday night indeed - some of the edge of this rough culture will be softened then.
Why the blather? - ack, it was just a little episode earlier tonight, standing in a queue at the garage waiting to pay a fiver for the half-litre of petrol I'd just spooned into my mother's car, and someone drop-kicked me directly behind the knees. Obviously aiming for that spot that makes you crumple and fall over, but thankfully he missed. Just some guy I vaguely know. 'Orl right girl? You been away?'
Yeah, I been away alright, and I wish to God I still was.
'Course I got homesick - for about the first 40 minutes, anyway. After that I remembered how non-virtual staff meetings always go on for at least half an hour longer than my attention span can manage, and practiced throwing paper aeroplanes at myself in the hallway alone at home.
Still it seemed strangely quiet when the meeting was over, and I couldn't settle back to work for a while.
England's becoming more itself again (to me), if still aggressive. I got a fulsome apology and part of my bar bill paid by the guy who was so obnoxious the other night; that's something to hold onto I guess. My second best friend's going through a rough patch - no work, no car, no money - and can't come over to visit, although we plan to party like crazy when my paycheque comes. My best friend of all is in Ireland practising being a husband - no point there, I know he'll either be very good or very bad at it, there'll be nothing in between, he's Catholic. And my third best friend (Capricorns always have three very good friends) is the ever-faithful Nigel, who bans me during the week on account of my being an evil influence.
I have this Saturday night reserved for his birthday, and hopefully - this being a very rural Saturday night indeed - some of the edge of this rough culture will be softened then.
Why the blather? - ack, it was just a little episode earlier tonight, standing in a queue at the garage waiting to pay a fiver for the half-litre of petrol I'd just spooned into my mother's car, and someone drop-kicked me directly behind the knees. Obviously aiming for that spot that makes you crumple and fall over, but thankfully he missed. Just some guy I vaguely know. 'Orl right girl? You been away?'
Yeah, I been away alright, and I wish to God I still was.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)