Clampdown

“

Hey Mike. Mike? Mike.

Mike, can you hear me? Cannn youu hearrrr meee.

Yes, I can hear you, but I don’t think you can hear me. No I’m not on mute. Have you got your sound up? Better? Good. No, don’t worry. We’ve all done it.

I think Janice has just jo—ah. Janice. I can—I can hear—dammit—I can hear myself.

Try

Your

Headphones.

Let me try it now.

Yes, that’s better.

Cool. And here’s Ralph and Sally. We’re just waiting for Theresa. Ralph. Your video is futzing. Does anyone else see it? No, it’s just you. Janice and Mike and Sally are just fine. Try—all right, we’ll wait for you—OW. Who’s causing the feedback?

Will everyone—SALLY. It’s no good. Mute your laptop and dial in on the phone. Yeah, we get that sometimes. Don’t worry about it.

Okay, so, I’ve just had an email from Theresa. Her previous call is overrunning. We’re stuck without her though because we need her decision from the internal team meeting. Yeah I wondered that, but she says she doesn’t want to put it in an email. I’m going to have to drop off in another 20 minutes though, so if she’s not done I’ll have to leave it with you, Sally.

Yeah, I had a lovely time off, thanks. Don’t really know where the time went. We had planned to go visit my father-in-law in Colorado, but obviously all the flights were cancelled and he’s like eighty-six or something so would have been too risky anyway.

Did some gardening, fixed a few things up. Tried to stop the foxes getting in. I wanted to do some writing, get into the loft and finish the model off with Joshua, that sort of thing, but the weather was so nice we just hung out in the garden. Yeah, very fortunate.

Hey Ralph. It’s not brilliant but it’s better than it was. Try rebooting your modem when you get a chance.

The model? A scale model of London City Airport. Well, the runway at least. It’s about fifteen feet long.

In the loft. I got into a habit of buying Joshua those little die cast aeroplanes from all the trips I was doing, and decided he needed somewhere to keep them. He loves it, even if it isn’t finished yet.

They’re doing great! Percy seemed to be a bit poorly a couple of weeks ago, but she’s laid an egg every day for eight days on the run now, so I guess she’s fine. We’ve been letting them out for hours at a time when we’re in the garden, they’re very happy. Lots of eggs—fortunate we got them before all this kicked off. Complete coincidence, yeah. We’d been talking about keeping hens for ages, and got them beginning of February. Very lucky, yes.

Hahah. No you can’t.

Man, I know. My legs are killing me. I’ve got muscle pains where I didn’t know there were muscles. Oh, a guy called Joe Wicks. He does these PE lessons every morning, live-streamed on YouTube. Ostensibly for the children out of school but I think lots of parents do them too. Millions of views daily.

You think so? End of May earliest, I’d have thought. Heh, I was reading something by this guy I know on twitter, he’s a VP at a big pharma—no, UK; GlaxoAstraSmithklineBeechamZeneca or whatever it’s called now—and he’s hoping, get this, he’s hoping open plan offices slash hot-desking will be made illegal. I’ll dig the link out after this call.

Seriously, I’m with him. Open plan offices are bad enough but this hot-desking lark? I hate it. Especially after being able to work from home for a month now! I want a little cubicle with my own stuff where I can just sit down and focus. I wrote about this before. And all that horseshit about serendipitous interactions or being close to the people you’re working with so you can talk to them? It’s bollocks.

Hm, sounds like Theresa isn’t going to make it. And I’m going to have to go to the doc’s in a minute.

Haha, like where would I have caught it? Yeah, nothing serious. I was playing hide and seek with Joshua and leapt over a bush that had a fencing spike in it. Got to go back and get the stitches out.

Didn’t hurt that much, to be honest. At least, not until the medic started poking it to see if the local anaesthetic had kicked in yet. It was “Nope, nope; a little pressure, nope, OUCH. Positive control?”

Well, that’s what I was worried about. I rang the minor injuries unit up, they said fine, come in. There was someone masked up on the door, quizzed me about any fever or cough, and nobody else in the waiting room. But the receptionist… so there’s like barbed wire and watchtowers and minefield signs all around her desk, stay six feet away, all that stuff, and she’s wearing a face mask, right? But she’s speaking very quietly, behind the mask, six feet away, and I’m leaning forward feeling a right div ‘cos I have to ask her to repeat everything.

Medic was lovely though. Had a nice chat about her career in IT before becoming a paramedic, her time in Australia, trying to keep the kids sane during the lockdown.

Seriously though, I don’t know what the fuss is all about. I was walking out of the unit about an hour after it happened, six stitches and a steristrip better off. Saw one other patient.

OK, I’ve got to go. Sally, can you align with Theresa please and reschedule if we do need to talk through it?

You’re the best. Catch you guys tomorrow.

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If music be the food of love, rock on

One of the problems of having so many websites is knowing which particular wibble goes to which one.

And generating enough content to keep them fed, of course.

Confessions has been neglected of late—not because I want to, or am uninspired, but because it’s difficult to find subjects that are ‘safe’, considering the day job. Especially seeing as the HR person at work stalks me on Twitter.

Something I’ve been meaning to do for a long time; in fact, ever since I came across the word; is create a website about my exploits in the culinary arena. I’ve been saving straight recipes at the BioLOG, but I finally got around to not just registering the domain name but actually putting content there.

Magirism is defined as the art and science of cooking, and I can’t think of a better description of what I do the kitchen. And so Magirisim.org is intentionally descriptive rather than prescriptive, and it’s mostly about the stories.

Please enjoy—and especially the cider.

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The Twelfth of Never

I may have mentioned once or twice the collaborative webstory that germinated a decade ago and half a world away (quite [lab-]literally).

In fact, I’ve just found on my Mac a file from December 2006, with some notes on how to finish the story—written around the time I was recovering from pneumonia. In Australia.

Anyway. Without further ado, A Momentary Lapse of Reason is now being serialized at LabLit, land of the free, the brave, and the scientist in fiction! /inc sound.fanfare

Go read it. Please.

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My blue heaven

Bluebells in a wood

Wordsworth lost it when he saw fields of daffodils. I wonder what he thought of bluebells.

It’s been a busy 2 weeks—a long-awaited holiday from work, with my birthday in the middle. Staycations around here always end up with a list of things I haven’t done, often seemingly longer than the to-do created at the beginning. Back to work tomorrow, and it’s tempting to slip into a maudlin haze of regret and self-flagellation.

But this afternoon we took a trip out to some nearby woods with their eye-aching green and blue carpets, and the memory of what brought me back to these shores 10 years ago.

I found peace again.

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Alice’s Restaurant Massacree

I fell a bit behind with the shopping lists, which is a shame because I really wanted to show you this one before Christmas.

It’s a full-blown pre-Christmas shop. Right at the top we’ve got mistletoe and greenery—both queried though: maybe she (definitely a ‘she’) wasn’t sure if Waitrose would have them, or maybe there was already another trip planned.

There’s an interesting mix of precision here: carrots, leeks, clementines … but four bananas, two each of limes and lemons; haddock … but a general ‘dinner.

Two crème fraiche (again; with diacritics), but a small cream. 

How many baguettes? A misfiled pastry (together with the foil this makes me think she shops by aisle, although I happen to know that the cream is not near the bread, so not entirely sure what’s going on there. Perhaps it’s by recipe rather than aisle?).

Questions remain. What sort of wine? Why is panko underlined? Did she decide on tonic, or soda? Which paper?

And the pièce de résistance, right down at the bottom, in the middle of the page, set aside from everything else on the page, underlined …

TURKEY!

I feel there’s a metaphor in here, somewhere.

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Twelve days of Christmas

https://www.instagram.com/p/BsDEIQGFv1Z/?utm_source=ig_web_button_share_sheet

So that was Christmas. And what I did was a little project that you might have missed: a photo for every day of Christmas, from the first to the twelfth. No commentary or explanation, just the photo, and the day as a title.

Each photograph had something to do with our family Christmas, and hopefully will remind us of some of the fun things we got up to.

While each photograph might not have been from the actual day it was posted, it was taken within a few days.

They’re all on Instagram, no tags or anything (so really difficult to find or link together, not entirely by lack of design), but they are our first 12 pictures on the account.

Enjoy.

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There are worse things I could do


Hastily snapped this, as we went into the shop. But to be clear, the mystery shopper wanted the same number of fillets as en croute. Perhaps they were having coeliacs around?

An engineer’s or a computer programmer’s brain behind this list, I fancy. Or perhaps ex-military. Eggs, large*. Vanish, small. Tea, milk two sugars. I’m assuming the tin (large; cut) is bread. Purée, accent (approval).

I’m hesitant to forgive the ‘water’ though. Come on. This is England, and plastic is overrated. Won’t somebody please think of the oceans.

*But a strange inconsistency—I would have expected ‘Eggs, large, 6’.

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Town Called Malice

Charles and the Big Boys

I went to a gig on Friday night.

That in itself is probably worth a blog post, but this gig was a bit special because the Younger Pawn was playing bass in a band called Charles and the Big Boys, and they were supporting an apparently well-known act playing in Islington.

I’d managed to keep the date free from work trip commitments and childcare duties (which again is a post on its own), and with an eye on the fast trains to Gravesend, went along. The elder pawn was visiting from Southampton, and both boyfriends were there, so it was a real family affair. YP was especially pleased, having been trying to get me to one of their gigs for a good time now.

Set list

Given the ages of the C&tBB members—it actually Charles’ 19th birthday—I expected to be the oldest person in the room, but the crowd demographic was curious. It was mainly 50+ year-old men. There were a few women of similar age, a young cove in a parka … my kids, and the Big Boys.

The reason for this became apparent when the first act took the stage. Some middle-aged bloke in a trilby, backed by (presumably) his wife, two guitarists and a drummer (who, surprisingly, seemed to be about 15). The music was kind of mod/ska revival; decent enough tunes that you could jiggle along to, although the exhortation to skank did seem a little out of place. Obviously the crowd were their mates.

The second act I really enjoyed. Rock/punk: the lead singer (again, in his 40s) belted them out with passion and energy, and the lead guitarist (who remained from the first act) got a chance to shine with some screaming solos. And a harmonica.

Now, this was when C&tBB were supposed to be on, and then I could have made my exit, avoided the carnage of the last fast train of a Friday night. But sadly, the keyboard player had had a death in the family, and the headline act was a man down. So they shorted their set list, and played what they could. As a support act. And this was the band that all these middle-aged men (and their wives) had come along to see.

Even allowing for the lack of a keyboard, it was pretty staid, to be honest. Although these guys have been featured on national radio, even the crowd-pleaser at the end (with its call and response) felt flat. Less mod, more MOR. They went on a bit, and by this time I was getting seriously worried about that last train.

Post-set

But finally, C&tBB came on, and we lost most of the middle-aged blokes in the crowd. It’s a small venue, and it did leave the back of the room feeling a bit empty. But I hope that those who did stick around appreciated it, for this was worth waiting for: young, energetic, passionate and original. I certainly did, and was buzzing as I hugged YP and headed for the last train to Kent.

And that, boys and girls, is how my daughter’s band headlined the Hope and Anchor.

Docs

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Rock Lobster

This list is written on a crumpled Post-It note.

I like it. Crisp, business-like, no nonsense. Actually scrunched up to be discarded when it had served its purpose.

A parent, with young children.

Tuna. Fine. Rock salt—not the sea flakes of someone who is really into cooking, but commendable. Busy parent probably has no time for salting her chicken the night before.

Baking powder. Bicarb and eggs. I see a cake in her children’s future.

Shapes… what kind of shapes? Family shorthand—fine.

No particular order, this; probably written down as the thoughts occurred, or as she surveyed her organized if slightly untidy kitchen (this is not a judgement: kitchens are always untidy if there are children in the house. Unless you’re some kind of psychopath).

Washing up liquid—any old brand will do, I guess. Suckies—those delicious yogurty things that it is actually against the law to eat if you’re over the age of about 7.

Sesame chicken… mmm, I’m liking this. Mayo, sure. Chicken again—wait, what’s this? A filing breakdown? Or maybe they do really like chicken.

Bananas, blue milk (of course—children again) and croissants for Sunday morning breakfast. Perhaps with home-made jam? We know she bakes, so perhaps.

Antibac wipes. Children, sure; fastidious, definitely—even if this list weren’t a dead giveaway.

Fabric softener, and then, way out on the right-hand side, almost less than an afterthought, ‘unstoppables‘. I had to look these up.

Not just children, but possibly very small, somewhat pungent children as well.

Whoever you are, I hope they enjoyed the sesame chicken.

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Summertime

A year or more ago we were doing our weekly shop, and I found a shopping list in the trolley. Not ours—evidently somebody had been to the shop, got their stuff, and left their list behind (by design or accident is not recorded).

For some reason I was intrigued by the list, and kept it. Over the following months and regular shops I collected a few more such lists, for no other reason than it tickled me to think about what they said about the shopper. I thought it might be diverting to share them with you—as I re-find them in the garage, car, various piles of doom-laden paperwork…

This one is interesting first off because it’s written in fountain pen. It looks to be carefully collated with this particular trip in mind, perhaps the night before. (Quite unlike my own lists, which grow during the week as we think of things or run out of them.)

It’s written on the back of a carefully cut ‘Visit Canterbury’ postcard; the fragment I have has ‘Royal Museum and Free Library (Founded 1858)’ on the picture side. The edge is 4″, so if this is a 4″x6″ postcard we could hypothesize the shopper managed to get three shopping lists from this one card. I admire the thrift, and wonder where the other two are.

The list itself isn’t remarkable—cereal, coffee, peas (fresh or frozen though?), beans and fruit… ah! She (I think it’s a she, from the writing) wrote ‘peas’ twice and then scrubbed one out. If we were to categorize our shopping we might put peas with runner beans, although it’s that one that’s redacted.

Some, if I may be so bold, distinctly middle class fruit. A specific number of lemons. Four lamb chops… shopping for dinner with friends? A family of four Sunday lunch?

Milk, standing proudly alone (I never bother writing milk on my lists. We always need milk of a Saturday.)

Sourdough bread… just one, mind. Unit unspecified.

White wine, and red wine—1 bottle. How much white wine then? Multiple units? Is the ‘1 bottle’ an exhortation not to get carried away? What is it about the 1 bottle of red wine, an elegant sufficiency? And is our mystery shopper going to open it when they serve the lamb chops with peas and beans?

I do hope so, but I guess we’ll never know.

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