Enduring love

from the film

This book by Ian McEwan starts with a man falling to his death from a balloon - it is disturbing in the way it portrays how easily a chance encounter can devastate a seemingly stable person's well being. Although the chance encounter is with someone with de Clérambault's syndrome which is a bit way out. But one should not necessarily believe all that one reads because he also writes "From one of the downstairs apartments came a muffled symphonic climax, banal and overstated, Bruckner perhaps" (ref). This may present a common prejudice rather succinctly and I know it does not have to affect my own opinions but, insecure as I am, it makes me wonder whether if it is I who am banal (= so lacking in originality as to be obvious and boring) and overstated?

If you don't see sharp you'll be flat

Visual C# is a strongly typed, object orientated and managed programming language. As opposed to the computer's native computer assembler which is not typed, orientated or managed at all.

If I've lost you already, it's likely to only get worse so, if I were you, I'd go find something else to do.

The point I am making is that IMHO the education of all serious programmers ought to start with assembler before moving on to a high level languages like C#. Because otherwise they will inevitably fall into the traps of unnecessary obfuscation, abstraction, bloating, redundancy, and other such anti-Occam's Razor-isms that force the rest of us to buy ever increasingly complex computers.  The young people of today won't believe you when you recall surprisingly complex software that used to run within the MSDOS memory limit of 640Kbyte. Not that complexity is bad per se - nature is full of it!

"Managed" means the language depends on, in this case, the gargantuan Microsoft .NET framework and cannot run without it. Which means the programmer does not have full control of the machine and the very simplest program still needs all that framework code.

The objects in "Object orientated" are packages of code that are called by the main program rather like subroutines of assembler-speak but with many more bells and whistles which are nice but only when needed. C# forces the programmer to use objects even when something less heavy would be more efficient all in the interests of readability and self documentation.

"Strongly typed" means that every quantity is forced to be of a specified type. Like when Mickey Mouse is doing his homework and asks "what is 3 + 4?" and Pluto replies "Is it apples or bananas?"

The computer itself only knows about "bits" aka binary digits that are either "on" or "off".  Groups of these can represent either instructions or data according to context. The computer doesn't care if the data describes apples or bananas. That's the programmer's job. Just as it is the mathematicians job to decide how to use an algebraic symbol or the what to use the digits 0 to 9 for. So when C# insists that a symbol must describe e.g. apples, that distinction is purely in the mind of the compiler (the software that converts a high level language like C# into assembler).

Which is all fine and dandy until it gets out of hand.  Like when the QuickBooks SDK interface which I have been working with requires me to use their programmer's name for a value that, to the computer, is just an integer and woe betide if I spell or capitalise it wrongly.

This morning I read a news article reporting how, when a certain Jennifer Null tries to buy a plane ticket, she gets an error message on most websites. This is a prize example of the point I am making. There is no reason why a programming language should not define a special value to mean that a variable or database field has not yet been assigned, but to confuse a string of characters "Null" with that value is unforgivable.

I came across a new word recently that describes this nonsense nicely: cruft = badly designed, unnecessarily complicated, or unwanted code or software.

Being different

I've just finished reading Black Swan Green, a semi-autobiographical book written as if by 13 year old Jason Taylor. Books I enjoy are ones that make me laugh or cry - this one did both. Jason has a stammer and is treated unmercifully by many of the other kids in the comprehensive school he attends. He also has to deal with his parents splitting up. My heart goes out to him - I want to get alongside him, encourage him, befriend him, assure him he is worth more than gold. Because, like the author, I've been there. OK my school days were not as bad as his (but then I didn't stammer) but, like Jason, I was low down in the pecking order even if not a "leper". All because I was different. I had different interests; my parents had no TV and did not approve of "pop music"; I have never been a social animal; I have no interest in following or playing and am somewhat clueless about organised sport. And to cap it all my family were evangelical Christians. As a result there were certain boys I avoided like the plague. True, I got physically bullied a few times, but the most of the aggro was spoken or exclusion. How untrue the saying "sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me".

Things improved somewhat at college - undergraduates are almost expected to be slightly odd. But the ostracisation and resulting imprisonment for being different still haunts me. In one sense I am not bothered - I am happy enough in my own company - let my enemies go to hell! But "it is not an enemy who taunts me - then I could bear it; it is not an adversary who deals insolently with me - then I could hide from him. But it is you, a man, my equal, my companion, my familiar friend. We used to take sweet counsel together..."

Jason comes to terms with his identity, comes to have the courage of his convictions. But first he has to form those convictions and that's where I get stuck. How can I be convicted whilst I am so unsure? How can they meet us face to face till we have faces?  Some folk, some of them my peers, appear to have such strong convictions and I marvel (but I have also seen strong people fall). Lord (maggot that I am says) - I believe - help thou my unbelief!

It ought to be easier. Jesus declared "I thank you, Father, Lord of heaven and earth, that you have hidden these things from the wise and understanding and revealed them to little children..." and then invites "Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light." Really? I suspect it is us that turn this around and make it so hard. In my sort of upbringing one is made to feel second class if one does not read one's bible, pray and proselytise enough. Jesus sometimes spent whole nights up mountains in prayer - I rather suspect he did so because he wanted to and not because he felt it was his duty. So well might Jesus later denounce the scribes and Pharisees who "tie up heavy burdens, hard to bear, and lay them on people's shoulders".

Graduation

Long, long ago, mid 1974 to be more precise, I graduated from Oxford University with first class honours in Natural Science (Physics). This should have been a great occasion I suppose, but my memories of it are all fuzzed. The whole affair rather horrified me.

There was this tradition that your scout should adorn you with the graduation gown at the appropriate moment for which he expected a tip and this arrangement frightened me - how much, why, etc. I have always abhorred tipping. Partly because I am tight with money and partly because I get embarrassed. I think I neither asked my scout to do the honours nor tipped him - but my memory is hazy on this point.

I have only two pictures to record the event, both very poor quality. I suppose my father is behind the camera. The backdrop is the Sheldonian Theatre, venue for all graduation ceremonies. What had just happened inside its walls is totally gone from my memory. As with my wedding day, I was glad when it was all over.

Aunty Mary on the left and Nana and mum beside me

My mum in her dress purchased for the occasion

I hate public affairs in which I am on show.  Earlier in my life I was sent to Sunday School and every year there would be an anniversary event which the mums and dads would attend and at which the children would perform and then be given a prize - perhaps a sentimental Christian story book.  The quality of the performances was awful but even more awful was being expected to stand up and deliver such an awful performance. I still cringe just thinking about it. Perhaps my whole life has been jeopardised by those anniversaries.

It's this being expected to be what one is not that gets me. A bit like a Mexican meal - zillions of pots of this and that, some hot and some cold, which you have to dump on top of a dank circle of dough and mix it all together and somehow get it to one's mouth before it succumbs to the law of gravity, by which time the whole thing is stone cold and thus lost some of its appeal. And to add insult to injury you then have to wash and dry up all those zillions of little pots. Why not just mix it altogether before serving it? At least that way it might stay warmer.

A very different college

As I have remarked elsewhere I enjoyed and have greatly appreciated my undergraduate years at Oxford. I spent another three years in a very different college, one which was just as vital to my education. I want this post to be a sort of fond memorial of those years.

I recall that last journey in our own car - an ancient, hideously yellow, but very reliable Volvo estate... and savouring, somewhere along the North Wales coast, the last packed lunch that my wife would make for many years. After getting lost for a while in Dublin (they didn't believe in signposts back then) we finally arrived late-evening at our destination in Co. Down and were met by a member of the community who informed as that, as a meeting was in progress, could we find our own way to "No. 2" in the village several miles away? No. 2 turned out to be fairly horrific and damp rented accommodation that we would share with other community members. Our three kids got an attic room literally under the roof tiles - they were young and half asleep so I had to half carry them up the two flights of stairs and stagger under the low beams in the attic to get them to bed. I suppose it was not until the next morning that we made it to "the farm".

The meeting room in "C-block"

Breakfast was at 06:00 every morning and consisted of a quick bowl of porridge (no milk, no sugar) followed by devotions in the meeting room and then work. It was November and still dark at 06:30 and even when dawn eventually managed to struggle lethargically above the horizon it was grey - everything was grey, the mountains, the houses, the flowers, the people. The first task I was given was to make a bungalow's worth of wooden door and window frames for a customer. Although I had machined hardwood stock to work from, all the joints had to be made the hard way with mallet and chisel and it felt like the job was interminable. It was cold too - because the workshop had only three walls. But good training - since then I have been involved in other projects that have degenerated to the same feeling of morass! Staying motivated is a choice we make.

The accusation has been made that we were part of a cult - I think not and this definition would tend to agree but, towards the end, things went bad. For me the reason for leaving was a matter of conviction.

The shop

These pictures were taken in the good times. I mentioned the shop in a previous post: here it was just a farm shop but by the time we were at Abba it had evolved to a high class delicatessen, hence the large quantities of blue cheese. As I stated in my previous post, after my time Abba was taken over by and is now thriving under new management. Any reminiscences I record here have absolutely no connection with the present company.

The main house

Much happened in those three years. Somewhere along the line the decision was taken to open a high class restaurant and before long we had the exclusive Memories, by reservation only, the more accessible Kitchen Garden which kept busy particularly at weekends, and a coffee shop where you could enjoy home baked scones with jam. We had our own bakery where bread and savoury pastries were made daily for the restaurants and also sold locally. There was a period soon after I had started working for Abba in Belfast but was commuting daily from the farm when I would get home in the wee hours only to find Alison just getting up to start work in the bakery. Thankfully this arrangement did not persist - it was not long afterwards that our family moved to Belfast.

At the beginning of the restaurant phase I fancied myself as a chef. I figured it would be an easier life than hauling concrete blocks. Such foolishness. I cooked one meal for what was perhaps our first booking. When I say "I cooked" it was my assistant who was really in control - her expertise was legendary. But at the time I thought I was something. As the meal was ready ahead of time I took a short walk to get some fresh air in my lungs. A short walk - unheard of liberty! I remember reveling in the freedom. I was my own boss even if only for half an hour. I don't think there was anything exactly wrong with the meal - it was good home cooking - but I was never invited to cook again. And that possibly was my salvation.

There was the time we arrived back from a trip to England only to find, surprise surprise, that our bedroom furniture was being moved. We must have changed bedrooms maybe a half a dozen times in those three years. The accommodation was mostly converted farm buildings. One particularly notable suite we had was a couple of rooms (one for the kids) on the first floor and directly above the wood-burning boiler that heated the main house. This gave us welcome warmth (as well as smoke) since there was no door between our bedroom and the outside world - just a thick curtain. And a make-shift outside ladder was the only access. Not too convenient for loo trips in the middle of the night, but I cannot remember complaining about this arrangement - in fact I think we rather liked the way our accommodation was self-contained and apart from the rest of the community. I can remember complaining about other issues though.

Turkey plucking

Every December the community would earn some ready cash by hand-plucking turkeys for the Christmas market. Some of us maintained this practice for the first few years in our new home in the Republic. I was never very plucky myself and did what I could to avoid the imposition but nevertheless on occasions found myself bird in the hand. I regret to say that to this day I cannot enjoy eating turkey. It's that stench.

I wasn't invited to cook again but I still got to work in the restaurant kitchen on numerous occasions. I was the itinerant and de facto electrician and plumber in those days. Itinerant because by now I had graduated to Abba.  Every so often the command would filter northwards for me to be released for work back at base, so my lessons were hastily rescheduled and I'd be on the road back to Co. Down. O sweet Ballynahinch, were you aware of my oft nocturnal comings and going through thy streets?

Thus would start a three day and night virtually non-stop electrical and plumbing remodel of the make-shift restaurant kitchens to facilitate some new move around or equipment purchase. Gas pipes, hot and cold water, waste, three-phase electricity, lubricated with endless cups of coffee and left-over scones. There comes a point where the human body cannot take another coffee or scone. There comes a point where you look at - this 'ere pipe has got to feed down and through this 'ere wall and round these corners and get behind that there piece of equipment and - oh - how slow the progress is - every joint to be soldered becomes a marathon.  But it would, eventually, as most things do, come to pass. My hands would be full of cracks and grazes but, oh bliss, the journey back to Belfast at last. Mind the curbs though - on several occasions the car mounting the curb would jolt me out of sleep. I was more fortunate that one community member who sustained a serious accident in which the vehicle was written off - for the same crime of falling asleep whilst at the wheel.

Or at other times I might be called in to mend a leak or replace a fuse whilst the kitchen was in full swing, saucepans flying (literally), shouting, clatter of dishes - such a strange feeling being able, indeed welcome, to pass through all that din and confusion with diplomatic immunity. Since those days I have worked in several hotels (installing or repairing minibars) and felt similarly as if in another world. Opening a bedroom door with my pass key whilst clearly announcing "minibar service!" only to find two pairs of feet sticking out of the bed. "Come in, come in, don't mind us" the owners would herald.

There was a period when, every Saturday evening, the whole Abba staff would up and leave after the last lessons and drive in convoy to the community where we would spend most of the rest of the night cleaning up the restaurant areas ready for the Sunday trade.  On one such occasion I was following the lead car as it was motoring up the Ormeau road at considerably above the speed limit. The RUC arrived and guess who they pulled over? The injustice! Fortunately I was only given a warning - they were more concerned that a gang might have been stealing the Abba fleet.

Two of my boys

But there was fun to. It wasn't all hard work. We enjoyed special meals, BBQ's, times of praise and worship, school performances like the one above. On one occasion we even went the the seaside, complete with ice creams doled out!

my son, Tyrella beach

And then there were the potatoes.  Every year we would pick potatoes for a local farmer. And we grew our own crop too. When I say "we" - in fact I can only remember one time myself - I was too busy driving Abba cars or rerouting the kitchen pipework for the N'th time. But one time I recall - after a few hours the back begins to ache real bad, and the monotony... Then someone shouts "lunchtime" and we all rush together to receive our packed lunches. We open the package expectantly only to find a cold baked-potato staring back. No butter, cheese or salt. Just a potato. Another potato.

A break whilst potato picking

We had an affinity for potatoes. One winter (before I moved to Belfast) money was particularly short and for a good few of us potatoes became the staple. Potatoes for breakfast. Potatoes for lunch... We conjured up many ways of cooking those potatoes but there are limits when the necessary extra ingredients are missing or in seriously short supply. But we survived that winter (although I lost weight). There was the time when a tray full of scones destined for the shop got freezer-burn so could not be sold and, oh, how I relished every bite not having had anything made from flour for months.

There was the time the potato barn collapsed. The barn was in fact owned by a neighbour and had brick walls to half height then steel framework above. We were dumping trailer load after trailer load of potatoes into this barn - someone suggested that maybe we should stop but, no, we kept going until the outward pressure pushed the brick walls over and so the whole superstructure collapsed on top. It was, of course, late at night, raining and a howling gale (what else?) - someone fetched polythene and somehow we managed to cover the catastrophe in an attempt to at least save the crop. We did eventually rebuild the barn so I suppose the neighbour ended up better off.

What did these years teach me? Not that I'm out of school yet, mind you. To be content whether abased or abounding. To be more confident in my own ability to discern - for example the difference between anointing and charisma. To apply myself to the task in hand whatever it might be. When all was said and done these three long years had no negative effect but rather have grown me up. I recall Joseph's summary after all he suffered: "As for you, you meant evil against me, but God meant it for good, to bring it about that many people should be kept alive, as they are today". Not that anyone meant evil against me but it did feel like it at times!

The perfect pillow

We have just invested considerable expense in a couple of 100% goose-down pillows. Having only slept one night using mine, the jury is still out on whether it will improve my lifestyle - but it had better!

One thing I noticed straight away was that it has no temperature control.

Since early childhood I have maintained that the perfect pillow should have a means to vary its temperature.  Particularly to make it colder than ambient. Am I alone? - and why is there no such pillow on the market?  There are products like here that claim to cool but their effect must only be short term as there is no refrigeration involved.

As a child my head would sometimes feel as if it were a huge sphere, tight and fit to burst, enormously heavy, and in urgent need of cooling. Doubtless caused by a fever, this feeling was recurrent to the point where I would dread it happening. The perfect pillow surely would have alleviated my suffering at those times.

Warring with my pillow whilst trying to sleep I realise how heavy my head is even when am I not running a fever. Apparently it is about 8% of my total body mass (good thing I am not overweight!). Any lumpiness results in spot pressure points which aggravate. Therefore the perfect pillow should also stay homogenous and easily conform to the shape of one's head so as to distribute its weight evenly.

I must also be able to mold the pillow so that it stays away from my mouth. My mouth is very particular about what it touches and, anyway, if I don't adjust the relative pressure inside my mouth so that it is slightly negative it can, when combined with the capillary action of an adjacent pillow, sometimes dribble. A wet pillow is not nice. Whilst on the subject of mouths I will note that, in ortder to sleep, I also have to consciously adjust my bite so as to minimise the pressure on my teeth. My teeth are very unreasonable in this respect.

Sometime I like my head a little higher, sometimes lower, and adding a second pillow goes too far, so the perfect pillow should also be adjustable in height.

I usually sleep on my side. Unless Ali is fast asleep this means on my right side, otherwise she claims that my breathing keeps her awake.  My body is apparently very inconsiderate in its insistence to continue breathing even when sleeping on my left side. If my stomach is acting up (sick feeling, or simply over-full) then I have to go into "I am sick" mode. This necessitates lying on my back with my head propped up on two pillows and no weight on my stomach. It would obviously be handier if, at a flip of a switch, a single pillow could accommodate this special requirement.

Sometimes, usually after the inevitable-now-I-am-older midnight loo-trip, I switch to being "arm sleeper" and have to mold the pillow accordingly.  The invention in the above picture is a good idea but I am hardly likely to want to switch pillows. Therefore the ideal pillow must accommodate one's arm with ease.

Why am I going on at such length about such a seemingly trivial subject?  Each of us spends almost a third of our lives snuggling my pillow. That's a good deal longer than I have ever snuggled anything else apart from, possibly, my computer mouse. Maybe if we gave more consideration to our pillows we would be better people.

Tower of Babel

And the LORD said, "Behold, they are one people, and they have all one language, and this is only the beginning of what they will do. And nothing that they propose to do will now be impossible for them."

Long ago when I worked as an engineer for the BBC there was a man in the Research Dept, let's call him Mr Black, who was venerated as an oracle, because he understood the vagaries of radio propagation across mixed terrain, antenna theory, and the like. Black magic stuff.  He might, for all I know, have been the world's best expert on the subject.

Few folk like him exist today. There is no need. We simply go to the god Google to get our answers.

Not too many years back Farnell issued a paper catalog every year and this was my Bible when designing a new electronic circuit. The same information was available on the internet but I found the book quicker. Now we have faster broadband and the search engines have improved so it is (usually) quicker to use the internet.  I note that Farnell have stopped issuing the catalog.

I have recently been working on a software project using Visual C#, a language I had never used before. They didn't teach me C# at college, I haven't read any books, and yet it is a very verbose and often convoluted and not at all intuitive language. At every turn I was typing "C# this" or "C# that" into the search bar and discovering almost instantly advice from many other programmers worldwide. Who needs a tame Mr. Black when you can consult a whole world of knowledge?

And what will now be impossible for them?