Paperback Writer

I made a list.

I’m doing quite well with it—ticked off more than half, and others are ‘in progress’. I’m not going to finish it before I start work again, but I’ve given myself permission not to get through everything, and I’m okay with that.

One of the things I don’t think I’ll finish before the summer is the novel that I started writing back in… 2009 I think, or possibly earlier. It’s not A Momentary Lapse of Reason, although it is set (mostly) in Cambridge, and it’s very definitely lab lit. (AMLoR is finished, by the way—we just haven’t finished serializing it yet.)

It’s been a project that has been on and off. Real life (jobs, children) got in the way. My main characters spent 6 years in the pub as I tried to figure out how to get them out and back to work. I last made significant progress (getting said characters out of said pub) before Covid.

But over the last couple of weeks I’ve written about 20,000 words and pulled together all the disparate bits of ideas and plots and devices, making sense of notes such as “The Gavin sting” and “don’t forget the mascarpone”, and I finally know how to finish it.

This year, I promise. I hope you’ll like it when I’m done.

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We need medicine

I caught up with Wanda on Friday.

She’d managed to inspect the captured swarm the day before, and all seemed hunky-dory. No eggs yet, but you can expect to wait a couple of weeks before a newly mated queen will start laying.

Bee on lavender

We opened up the main hive, and similarly couldn’t see any eggs. More concerning though was the complete absence of a queen. Our hypothesis is that we hadn’t destroyed all the queen cells before the new monarch had worked her way out, which probably means she’d been deposed by the existing workers, and any new queens had swarmed. There might still be a queen somewhere, but it’s not looking good for that hive.

Before I started working, she asked me not to stand on the large plantain that was standing by the hive. That led to a conversation about tea (which you can make from plantain), and the surprising properties of goosegrass—or cleavers, as Wanda knows it.

Afterwards, we inspected the grapevine that she’d bought for her husband a couple of years back. I asked her how she pruned it, and we talked about replacement vs cut-back methods. Then she asked me what I sprayed my vines with, and I said “Nothing,” as they spread over a large area and I’m concerned about the effect on beed.

So she told me about neem oil and its seemingly magical properties. She gave me her recipe for fungicidal/insecticidal use, adding that it worked a charm on broad beans (what is it about broad beans and blackfly?!). She even gave me a sample to try, which I will probably do at the weekend.

We talked about the tinctures she’s made with neem (including one for psoriasis), and other potions she’s cooked up and used to beneficial effect, and I asked if she could write them down and share with me so I could put them on my recipe site. She agreed, so hopefully soon I’ll be able to try some, or at least convince you to test a few, and we can do some experiments.

Because you can still do science, even if you haven’t been in a lab for 15 years.

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Learning to fly

Hive

Hive and seek

I’ve written at length about our hens. What I may not have mentioned is that last year we got a hive, and some bees to go in it.  The bees did what bees do, and we had a few jars of honey.

Honey

Honey

Tragically,  the colony died in November, following that bizarre autumn we had with temperatures of 20ºC followed by a chill. I harvested what I could (including the ivy honey they’d made, which is an ‘acquired taste’), cleaned the frames up, and stored everything away.

We started again in mid-April, with a fresh 5-frame nucleus, and although they struggled a bit with the wet weather we’ve been having, they are doing the bee thing now. We’re a little wiser, and hopefully this colony will fare better.

Part of the ‘wiser’ thing involves talking to people who have been doing this a while.

I answered a call for help on the local beekeepers’ association WhatsApp last week. Someone was worried about the behaviour of their bees. The consensus was that they were swarming, but as she had just had a knee replacement (her own, not a bee’s knee), she was unable to do the lifting of heavy hive parts needed to inspect the colony.

Bee thyme

Bee having the thyme of her life

As I had some time on my hands, I offered to help. I’d also noticed from her video that she had the same sort of hive as me—a clever set-up that allows you to drain the honey from the frames rather than needing to faff around with centrifuges and whatnot. I thought I might be able to get some tips.

Inspection

Inspecting the flow

I got there, we talked a little, then we suited up and starting looking at the frames.

What we discovered was that the queen had not been laying eggs, and had probably departed with the swarm (or had died or otherwise vamoosed). We also found an empty queen cup—the special cell that queens grow in when the not-so-loyal subjects of the old queen decide it’s time for a new one. We had no idea where either queen was, and weren’t minded to check every single frame looking for her.

We put the hive back together, and I was about to de-suit when Wanda’s husband came home, suited up in motorcycle gear. Turns out Chris is allergic to bees, although very keen on the art, and he builds all the equipment.

Chris, having no clue about what we’d seen in the hive, said,

“There’s a swarm in the lane.”

So I put my suit back on, grabbed a polystyrene bait hive that Chris dug out from behind the shed, and went to collect my first swarm.

I snipped away a few branches and brushed as many bees as I could into the bait hive, and then strapped it to the fence.

Bait hive

Looking for a new pad

When I went back a few days later to help Wanda instal a new queen to the original hive (yes, you can mail-order royalty), she told me that she’d gone out later and found the new queen in the swarm, and captured her in the bait hive. So we split the old hive (finding another queen cup as we did so), so that the queen Wanda had found would have some stores and brood in her new pad, and installed the new queen in the old hive.

I will go back at the end of the week and check that both colonies are doing OK.

It turns out that Wanda and Chris have been keeping bees for about 25 years. They had an operation with 100s of hives in Zimbabwe, and I am hopeful to hear lots more tales of their adventures there, where beekeeping is more akin to guerrilla warfare than the (mostly) gentile pastime it is here.

What fun.

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Higher

This is a cross-post of something I wrote on LinkedIn.

Treehouse

It’s a treehouse rather than a strategy house but I still built it.

One of the most fun projects I’ve been involved in was the series of global Annual Brand Meetings we ran for a client. In partnership with the client we would come up with a theme for this 4.5-day meeting, build the agenda, organize workshops and liaise with other partners to build the room and the stage.

And of course write the slides.

Oh, the slides.

It was a Global Commercial Marketing-led event, with participation from affiliates around the world, and we would grapple with the Brand strategy and activation plans to address the challenges (and celebrate the successes) of the blockbuster product.

As a Writing team, we helped clients from Commercial, Medical and Market Access, from Global, the Regions and from selected Countries, put together their messages and presentations that recognized where we were, where we wanted to go, and—critically—how we were going to get there over the following 12 months. And we had to do all that in a manner that was clear, accessible, internally consistent, understandable across the global operation—and without killing people by PowerPoint. We had the opportunity to be reasonably creative with our slides, although people would often still try to cram too much into their presentation. A couple of times we even arranged some presentation skills training for them.

As I say, it was fun, if very hard work trying to balance all the conflicting demands of the different functions and personalities. On more than one occasion we’d deliver the showfile no more than 5 minutes before the scheduled start of a session, having been up most of the night putting the finishing touches on slides, before someone would come to us at breakfast and say “Oh, one last thing…”

One particular year just before the pandemic, the meeting had been reduced to 2.5 days to save budget. The theme of the meeting was ‘mountains’, because we were encouraging the entire Brand Team to make that final push for peak sales. Perhaps a little obvious, but we did get to play with some lovely photography and graphics concepts for the meeting.

And, because cramming the messages and value from four days into two and a half wasn’t enough of a challenge, someone made the decision (I honestly don’t remember if it was us or the client) to have slides made to fill the super-wide screen LED display that covered half of one wall of the 300-seater conference room.

For the most part, we used the centre of the screen for a standard 16:9 presentation and the outer parts for repeater screens and close-up video feed of the speaker. But for the intro talks in each session—i.e. the most senior presenters—we filled the screen. We are talking slides that were 4320 pixels wide and 940 deep. That’s more than four times wider than high, and a real challenge when you’re working on a tiny laptop screen.

Admittedly for most of those presentations we cheated a bit and had some static themed graphics either side, and only played with the middle third for content. We still had to contend with crammed graphs and tiny text supplied to us in standard PowerPoint and make them sing somehow, but it was doable.

Then as I was sitting in the slide room in the Barcelona conference centre, reflecting on 2 days of successful meeting and thinking about going and getting some dinner,the VP of Global Medical Affairs (the therapeutic area medical head) for this multi-billion dollar drug came up to me and said,

“Richard…”

Now, I liked VPGMA. We’d done some great stuff together, and had some really good discussions about the product and what we were trying to achieve. So I was inclined to be sympathetic to his request. And then he told me what he wanted.

He was due to open the proceedings for the final day—recap the meeting so far, give a 10-minute Medical Affairs talk, and introduce the morning’s speakers. He’d seen the amazing slide work we’d done for his colleagues in the other functions, and didn’t want to give the standard data-heavy medical spiel.

So we had a chat about how we could just use graphics with key numbers highlighted, the fewest possible words, and fit it all in under 3 minutes with some animations to bring it seamlessly together.

Then he dropped the bomb.

“And I want it to be timed,” he said, pulling up an MP3 on his laptop, “so that the messages come on screen at the same time as the words in the song”.

We listened to the song and I searched up the lyrics.

“Sure,” I said, without knowing if it was even possible. “We can do that.”

“And I don’t want to click through. I don’t want to say anything after presenting the agenda. I want it to run automatically from start to end.”

“Across the entire screen?”

“Across the entire screen.”

Dear Reader, I learned a lot about animation timings in PowerPoint that evening.

I sat in the slide room with the rest of the writing team, and as the night wore on and one-by-one they finished their own “one more thing”s, they gathered around the wide-screen TV I was using as a second monitor. Every now and then I’d say “Right, here we go,” and test the next 20-second segment. There’d be the occasional comment, such as “You’re a little bit fast, there”, and I’d go and tweak that one slide and then check all the other timings that were affected, before running the animation again.

We were heartily sick of the song by the time, a couple of hours after midnight, I exported the file as an MP4 and sent it to VPGMA with a short note asking for his approval.

In the morning, I had to upload the video to the AV desk, and explain to the AV crew that no, the first part isn’t slides, you need to switch from the holding screen to the video, and then back to the slideshow for the next presenter. They got it eventually, and we even managed to test it—with 5 minutes to spare, of course.

And the best part of this entire story?

It’s the only time I’ve ever seen Head of Medical receive a standing ovation at a Brand—or any other—Meeting.

 

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I’m still standing

Big Vet doesn’t want you to read this post.

Chickens, famously, do not have teeth.

Instead they have gizzards, A gizzard is a kind of bag betwixt beak and stomach in which foodstuff is ground by little bits of stone and the like that they pick up from their surroundings—grit. Gizzards are muscular organs, as they need to be able to grind items as hard as wheat and sweetcorn kernels. This is probably why they were the source material for the production of a protein that was the subject of a certain thesis.

Gizzards, or more commonly ‘crops’, are subject to a range of disorders, and in particular, “pendulous, or spastic” crop, which “occurs when the crop muscle becomes stretched and the crop will fill to a massive size“.

We got our first three hens in February 2020. This was an undertaking totally unrelated to Covid, although you might be forgiven for thinking we were going into survivalist mode. One of the hens suffered from a massive gastrointestinal tumour and had to be put down in the first week of 2021.

We got two more hens in the February. One came into lay and then 2 months later had a prolapsed vent and died. The other, Artemis, developed a pendulous crop. After that, we changed our supplier.

But Artemis (Arty to her friends) is still alive today, and that’s what I want to talk about.

A pendulous crop is, according to the veterinary profession, a death sentence. Without being able to grind her food, the affected hen will starve to death in the midst of plenty.

I took Arty to the vet in Maidstone—a 25-minute drive away. Poultry vets are few and far between because chickens are not really kept as pets, and commercially, if a chicken gets sick it’s goodbye chicken, thanks for all the eggs.

However, an hour and about £150 later I came away with little hope and seven syringes of an intramuscular injection, the name of which I forget, that the vet said might (might) stimulate the muscles of the crop to contract properly and save Arty’s life.

Yeah, learning how to give i.m. injections into the breast of a chicken wasn’t on my bucket list but here we are.

And, you know what, it worked.

For about a month. And then the pendulous returned, and I thought that’s it, thanks for all the eggs.

Until we came across the concept of chicken bras.

There’s a little place that makes these things, just for this sort of condition, and Arty has been wearing one (or two, because she keeps snagging them off on the various branches in the run) for the last 3 years, almost.

And the damn things work, and she’s been laying eggs like a normal hen, but with a natty blue and white bra.

Arty (left), trying to avoid me

Arty (left), trying to avoid me. Rhea’s cool.

Okay, so she hides from me when I have to go into the pen to readjust her over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder (see ‘snagging’, above), and her crop is still pendulously huge if you take it off, but it works.

Big Veterinary does not want you to know this.

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Sweet home Alabama

It never ends.

Evil incarnate

Evil incarnate

There’s always something to do, whether it’s laying turf, repairing hoses, or pulling up the wild onions.

I’m taking advantage of the unexpected time off to fix things around the house and garden. In the best traditions of yak shaving, there’s always several things you need to do before you can fix the thing you set out to fix. The chess pieces you have to put on the board (and the multiple trips to Wickes) before you can actually drain the hanging water feature to reseal it.

And of course while I’m going around the garden I spot other things (including wild onions, natch) that I didn’t even think about before I saw them and I then I have to sort that out before I get to job I started—or intended to, anyway—a week ago.

And then there’s the stuff that critically fails just about just before you’re about to go out for your pre-birthday dinner.

Gaffer tape for the win

Gaffer tape is the best. Except when it’s black insulating tape.

Which resulted in another trip to Wickes on Saturday and, what of all days I’d forgotten, was Vaisakhi, which explains all the magnificent dastars, not to mention the surfeit of BMWs and Mercedes parked all the way up our road. And what should have been a 5-minute dash turned into a 20-minute detour through the less frequented parts of Gravesend and slightly elevated cortisol levels because I had to finish fixing the hose (and several other things, ibid) before an indeterminate number of people turned up for my birthday party.

FIRE

Fire makes it good

I did make it back in time to light the pizza oven, lay out the kegs, and even enlist the Pawns to help me decide whether any of our homemade wine was worth serving (or even legal). They didn’t take much persuading, it has to be said.

And the win, the real win, was that the 2023 harvest (Pinot Meunier and Chardonnay from the greenhouse vines and possibly even more Chardonnay from the barbecue corner [we have no idea what it is because we didn’t plant that vine. It just produces hundreds of pounds of grapes every year]) not only popped when I opened it, but retained its fizz, and was eminently drinkable (if a little cloudy at the moment). I have, finally, cracked the Merret problem, and we opened another bottle today and it was just as good.

Sparkles

Sparkles

How was your weekend?

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The Times They Are A-Changin’

Hard to believe, but 4 years ago we were in lockdown. Bit of a shit time, really, with scary NHS bears yelling at us to STAY HOME, schools shut, people being shouted at for being (gasp) outside, and all that NHS crapping clapping. At least there was Joe Wicks.

Scary NHS bear

Let’s not do that ever again. Please.

It wasn’t all bad. I built a scale model of London City Airport (and of all the airports in the world this being the best is the hill I will die on). I learned how to make bagels.

And I built a treehouse.

Throw a pallet in a tree

This started with me throwing a pallet up into the willow tree and then figuring out what I needed to put on top of it, and then negotiating the shortages of all sorts of building materials (because everybody was at it, remember?) and fucking social fucking distancing at fucking Wickes to collect the damn materials once they were in stock and cramming it all into my tiny Peugeot (God rest her soul) to get them home.

Treehouse, nascent
Joshua, being 6 at the time, wasn’t exactly helpful, but at least he enjoyed it.

Today, nearly 4 years after assembling the roof and then disassembling it ‘cos I had to get it into the damn tree, I finished the project.

Oh, it’s been loved and used (and almost turned into a gin deck) since June 2020, but the skylight was just just a hole covered by loose roofing felt.

One of my ‘sabbatical‘ projects was to actually fit the skylight.

Today, dear reader, that happened.

Chisel

And Joshua was actually helpful. He was able to hold the window from the inside, chip away at the rough edges, and even wield the No More Nails gun to immense effect.

I guess 40% of your time on Earth will make that kind of difference.

How times change.

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This is what we find

While making Richard’s Famous Margaritas(tm) (note to self: post this on Magirism at some point) this afternoon, I had to clear the Triple Sec optic from the sugary gunge build-up. After cleaning, I picked up the wrong receptacle and dropped two measures of Triple Sec into the dregs of my Tribute instead of the cocktail shaker.

Optics

Jenny said something about my career coach and turning disaster into opportunity, so I dropped in the juice of half a lime and a couple of measures of pisco and made something that was quite wonderful.

Come to my birthday party and discover more about this metaphor.

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The Country Life

I set up a WhatsApp group for the locals, so I can let them know when I have eggs available.

“Hello Richard!” they’ll message, “Any eggs available today?”

At this time of year, with an average of 4 eggs daily, the answer is invariably ‘yes!’, and they’ll pop round, cash in hand, 20 minutes later.

There’s something deeply satisfying about the whole arrangement.

I also have a standing order (6 eggs/fortnight) and an advance order for Easter Saturday, so I have to watch supplies, but I still had 2 eggs at lunch today, as well as enough to make gelato and pavlova.


In news to warm the cockles of Henry’s, I planted out my potatoes today. Jenny has been chitting the Maris Pipers and the Charlottes since January, and now they’re looking alien enough to go in the ground. It’s also past the Spring Solstice, so the time is right, and in they go.

I’ve got 2 rows of six of each, plus a couple of tubs for the leftovers. It’s taken about 8 years but the main ‘physic’ patch in the garden felt like real soil this afternoon, so we’re hopeful for a decent crop.

Po-tay-toes

Po-tay-toes

 

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My Generation

Lady Tulip

Lady Tulip

Back in January I predicted that we would hit our 14 kWh daily average sometime around the end of April.

I was a little off, as we first passed that marker on 1 March—surprisingly for such a rainy day, I thought. The battery kept us going all night, too.

Since then, we’ve had a week of 10 to 13 kWh, and then we’ve been wet and gloomy and down at the 5 kWh per day level. But yesterday we were just shy of 20 kWh, and the battery again lasted the night.

I ran the Zappi this morning though, and it’s clouded over again, so we’re still not turning a profit.

We had the tall eucalyptus tree trimmed last weekend, as it was tall enough to reach the house if it fell in the wrong direction, and was throwing shade on the solar panels in the afternoon. I don’t think I’m going to be able to test what difference it has actually made to the generation, but it had to be worth something.

In any case, the days are getting longer and brighter, the tulips and cherries are coming into bloom, and all five ladies are doing the business, sometimes all on the same day. I’ve also turned the heating off.

Eggs

They sure are

You really can’t stop it now.

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