Found wandering around Kent in wet clothes over a month ago, traumatised and seemingly mute, yet able to play beautiful music. You've probably heard about the "Piano Man" and his mysterious and silent arrival from nowhere.
Me and Piano Man have a lot in common. He plays the piano very well, I play it very badly. He has blonde hair, I have almost blonde hair. He doesn't speak, I work in a library where no one's allowed to speak. He wears a suit, I own a suit. We're practically twins. Not identical, obviously - he's much taller than me.
Despite my obvious affinity with the man, I'm afraid I haven't been able to acheive a telepathic connection to ask him who he is. Actually, I haven't tried, but since I've never displayed telepathic tendencies before, I'm assuming a no. Let's hope more conventional methods reveal his identity soon, so that the film of his story can have a happy ending. It's going to be called Piano man - you saw that here first.
Wednesday, May 18, 2005
Sunday, May 15, 2005
Too much to learn, too little space
Is there a limit to what we can learn? I'm not talking about the level of complexity of the information, but the amount. Will I reach a point in my life where my brain is full? Will learning new things mean forgetting others?
I think my train of thought here can be more adequately articulated by the master of wondering, Homer Simpson:
If Homer's theory is correct, when my new found enthusiasm for learning French takes off, I'm going to start forgetting English. I'll start saying fromage and forget that I used to call the yellow stuff cheese. When I get down to learning some Latin, my brain be so cram-jammed full that I start forgetting the French words I just learnt.
Then who knows what will happen when I finally get around to refreshing my biblical Greek and Hebrew. I may be reduced to a gibbering wreck who can only compose sentences in fragments of several languages, most of which no one speaks any more.
Ego pense that estin time aller el bed.
I think my train of thought here can be more adequately articulated by the master of wondering, Homer Simpson:
Every time I learn something new, it pushes some old stuff out of my brain. Remember when I took that home winemaking course, and I forgot how to drive?
If Homer's theory is correct, when my new found enthusiasm for learning French takes off, I'm going to start forgetting English. I'll start saying fromage and forget that I used to call the yellow stuff cheese. When I get down to learning some Latin, my brain be so cram-jammed full that I start forgetting the French words I just learnt.
Then who knows what will happen when I finally get around to refreshing my biblical Greek and Hebrew. I may be reduced to a gibbering wreck who can only compose sentences in fragments of several languages, most of which no one speaks any more.
Ego pense that estin time aller el bed.
Friday, May 13, 2005
08700130624 again
Would you believe it, it seems people are actually reading my blog. The very fact that you're reading this now confirms it. Unless you're me, in which case stop procrastinating and get back to work.
So, am I dazzling people with my witty charm? Are you here because you want to be wowed by my amazing writing skills and entertained by my amusing descriptions of the quirks of the world?
Maybe you are. But if you are, then you're one of the few people who is here to be entertained. All the others are here to share in my loathing of the telephone number 08700130624, a number I had a little rant about on here a few weeks ago.
Considering so many people seem to be having the same problem as I did, I think it's time for an update to the story.
After writing that post, the phone rang again for the fourth time that evening. This time, I answered it. It was Sky TV, who had called me several times before to try and persuade me to subscribe to their services. Once more I told them I'm really not interested, thank you. Suprisingly, the salesperson didn't stay on the line to try and convince me, but politely said goodbye and put the phone down.
Still dazed from this unexpected revelation that not all sales people are impossible to say no to, I dialled 1471 and guess what? 08700130624. Of course. Now, whether this is really Sky's number or some bizarre shared telesales number thing (however that might work), I don't know. In any case Sky have certainly gone down in my estimation, which given the extortionate price of their subscriptions wasn't very high in the first place.
Feeling weary and frustrated at my disturbed evening, I sat at my computer again and hoped the tinternet could help me. At the back of my mind I knew there was some kind of service that I could sign up for that was meant to stop me getting these calls, so I did a bit of googling and found the Telephone Preference Service. Signed up straightaway and...
...it worked! After a few days the calls stopped. Instead of one or two per evening (not all from Sky, by any means), I've had one in the last three weeks, and that was only one of those automated recordings that you can hang up on without feeling bad. Peace once again.
At least one thing came out of the whole saga, and that was that I managed to write a post that brought people to my blog. Now, if only they'd start leaving comments, because it's good to talk ;-)
So, am I dazzling people with my witty charm? Are you here because you want to be wowed by my amazing writing skills and entertained by my amusing descriptions of the quirks of the world?
Maybe you are. But if you are, then you're one of the few people who is here to be entertained. All the others are here to share in my loathing of the telephone number 08700130624, a number I had a little rant about on here a few weeks ago.
Considering so many people seem to be having the same problem as I did, I think it's time for an update to the story.
After writing that post, the phone rang again for the fourth time that evening. This time, I answered it. It was Sky TV, who had called me several times before to try and persuade me to subscribe to their services. Once more I told them I'm really not interested, thank you. Suprisingly, the salesperson didn't stay on the line to try and convince me, but politely said goodbye and put the phone down.
Still dazed from this unexpected revelation that not all sales people are impossible to say no to, I dialled 1471 and guess what? 08700130624. Of course. Now, whether this is really Sky's number or some bizarre shared telesales number thing (however that might work), I don't know. In any case Sky have certainly gone down in my estimation, which given the extortionate price of their subscriptions wasn't very high in the first place.
Feeling weary and frustrated at my disturbed evening, I sat at my computer again and hoped the tinternet could help me. At the back of my mind I knew there was some kind of service that I could sign up for that was meant to stop me getting these calls, so I did a bit of googling and found the Telephone Preference Service. Signed up straightaway and...
...it worked! After a few days the calls stopped. Instead of one or two per evening (not all from Sky, by any means), I've had one in the last three weeks, and that was only one of those automated recordings that you can hang up on without feeling bad. Peace once again.
At least one thing came out of the whole saga, and that was that I managed to write a post that brought people to my blog. Now, if only they'd start leaving comments, because it's good to talk ;-)
Tuesday, May 10, 2005
Unputtadownable
I admit it, I'm hooked.
The Da Vinci code is positively, irrefutably, completely deliciously unputtadownable. The prose bumbles along happily, with dialogue so contrived that you'd think you'd want to scream at the pages, but you don't. You want to keep turning the pages, because the plot is so magestically intruiging that you know you won't be able to sleep for wondering. Every chapter ends leaving you wanting to know what's next.
Yesterday, a young librarian was reported missing having been last seen with a copy of Dan Brown's The Da Vinci code clutched to her chest. Police fear the book may have swallowed her, and hope she will be freed from its hollow belly in a couple of days.
Seriously, you're lucky I even got as far as the computer to compose this post. I can still see the book out of the corner of my eye...
Composing this post has forced upon me the realisation that the world is in need of a campaign to get unputtadownable in the Oxford English Dictionary. Well, any dictionary will do really, as long as it's a real one. You know, with pages. Commonly found in libraries and on my bookshelf.
Unputdownable may already be in the dictionary, but as I was writing the first paragraph above it was unputtadownable that tripped of the ends of my fingers and on to the screen without hesitation; unputdownable just feels contrived. Bland and rhythmless. Unputtadownable is as it should be, without a doubt. It doesn't have quite the same ring to it as bouncebackability, but it's getting there.
All it needs is for people to start using it. What is a dictionary but a record of how language is used? If you use it, they will come... or something.
Use it. Please? Let's be rid of the boring unputdownable forever. I just can't cope knowing there are people out there using a five syllable word when six is so much better.
The Da Vinci code is positively, irrefutably, completely deliciously unputtadownable. The prose bumbles along happily, with dialogue so contrived that you'd think you'd want to scream at the pages, but you don't. You want to keep turning the pages, because the plot is so magestically intruiging that you know you won't be able to sleep for wondering. Every chapter ends leaving you wanting to know what's next.
Yesterday, a young librarian was reported missing having been last seen with a copy of Dan Brown's The Da Vinci code clutched to her chest. Police fear the book may have swallowed her, and hope she will be freed from its hollow belly in a couple of days.
Seriously, you're lucky I even got as far as the computer to compose this post. I can still see the book out of the corner of my eye...
Composing this post has forced upon me the realisation that the world is in need of a campaign to get unputtadownable in the Oxford English Dictionary. Well, any dictionary will do really, as long as it's a real one. You know, with pages. Commonly found in libraries and on my bookshelf.
Unputdownable may already be in the dictionary, but as I was writing the first paragraph above it was unputtadownable that tripped of the ends of my fingers and on to the screen without hesitation; unputdownable just feels contrived. Bland and rhythmless. Unputtadownable is as it should be, without a doubt. It doesn't have quite the same ring to it as bouncebackability, but it's getting there.
All it needs is for people to start using it. What is a dictionary but a record of how language is used? If you use it, they will come... or something.
Use it. Please? Let's be rid of the boring unputdownable forever. I just can't cope knowing there are people out there using a five syllable word when six is so much better.
Monday, May 09, 2005
Da Vinci mode
So, I've finally sucumbed. Sitting at the foot of my bed, waiting expectantly for me to open its pages and be consumed by its brilliance, is my mother's charity shop bought copy of The Da Vinci code.
My expectations are that I will be gripped by the intricacies of mystery at once, yet at the same time be laughingly horrified by the factual inaccuracies and giddy with hilarity at the awkward, muddy prose. I imagine I will be left with the notion that, when it comes to creating a best seller, over the top plot is more important than literary skill.
I'm hoping my expectations are wrong. Except for the being gripped bit, because that's always good.
My expectations are that I will be gripped by the intricacies of mystery at once, yet at the same time be laughingly horrified by the factual inaccuracies and giddy with hilarity at the awkward, muddy prose. I imagine I will be left with the notion that, when it comes to creating a best seller, over the top plot is more important than literary skill.
I'm hoping my expectations are wrong. Except for the being gripped bit, because that's always good.
Sunday, May 08, 2005
Skinny wrists
The worst thing in the world has happened. A tragedy so great that I'm still having trouble coming to terms with it. It's so terrible I'm not sure I believe it. What have I done to deserve this?
I've lost my white band.
One day it was there, decorating my wrist with its simple charm, spreading the message about ending global poverty and making me feel like a better person. The next day it was gone; my wrist was bare. It feels naked without it.
What is my wrist's purpose without its band? All it does is wear a watch and keep my hand attached to my arm. With its white band it had purpose. There's only one thing for it - I'll have to buy it another.
Do they do extra small sizes that won't fall off skinny arms like mine?
I've lost my white band.
One day it was there, decorating my wrist with its simple charm, spreading the message about ending global poverty and making me feel like a better person. The next day it was gone; my wrist was bare. It feels naked without it.
What is my wrist's purpose without its band? All it does is wear a watch and keep my hand attached to my arm. With its white band it had purpose. There's only one thing for it - I'll have to buy it another.
Do they do extra small sizes that won't fall off skinny arms like mine?
Wednesday, May 04, 2005
You know you're a librarian when...
... you worry about punctuation
... you tell people to be quiet in bookshops
... you use acronyms more than you use real words
... you know what all the acronyms you use stand for
... people are amazed that you need two degrees to stamp books all day
... you read dictionaries for fun
... you know when you're breaking copyright law
... you've left your friends in the pub to go and look something up
... you can tell what someone is going to ask you by the look on their face
... 245 00 $a makes perfect sense
... you have dreams/nightmares about Dewey
... you know what the last digit of an isbn is for
... you pride yourself on not conforming to stereotypes
... you smiled at at least two of the above
... you tell people to be quiet in bookshops
... you use acronyms more than you use real words
... you know what all the acronyms you use stand for
... people are amazed that you need two degrees to stamp books all day
... you read dictionaries for fun
... you know when you're breaking copyright law
... you've left your friends in the pub to go and look something up
... you can tell what someone is going to ask you by the look on their face
... 245 00 $a makes perfect sense
... you have dreams/nightmares about Dewey
... you know what the last digit of an isbn is for
... you pride yourself on not conforming to stereotypes
... you smiled at at least two of the above
Tuesday, May 03, 2005
Sod's law
Sometimes, things don't go right, and sometimes they don't go right in such a laughably ironic way that we pretend these events are governed by an imaginary law that we have no control over. This makes us feel better.
You've probably heard of Murphy's law. For anyone who hasn't, it's usually defined as the principle that anything that can go wrong will.
The most frequently cited example usually involves toast, but it works for bread of most descriptions. The law states that if you drop said toast on the floor, it will always fall butter side down, thus attracting a large covering of dust, colourful fluff, and cat hairs. Even if you don't have a cat.
Where I come from, we call it Sod's law. Who Sod is, I don't know, but he probably predated Murphy and then got quietly sidelined in most parts because people thought sod was a naughty word. SOD. Sod. Sod sod sod. Chunk of earth. Using a word that is often used as a swear word (see The best of British if you are of a non British English persuasion) is somehow appropriate, since the circumstances it prevails in often cause the protagonist to hurl a long stream of obscenities at the world in general.
Sod's law may be a fabrication, but in our imaginations it's real as a misplaced nail. It's also sadly misrepresented by the gentle anything that can go wrong will go wrong explanation.
It's not just that anything that can go wrong will. It's that the things that go wrong are the very things that you were hoping wouldn't. It's a cruel set of circumstances that seem so improbable as to cause exclamations of anguish and disbelief for weeks to come. It's that your toast landed butter side down when it was the last piece of edible food in the house and you were waiting until after you'd eaten it to clean the floor it landed on.
To give another example, it's not just that it rained today. It's that it rained today after three days of glorious sunshine. Three days of glorious sunshine that persuaded me to walk to work today without a coat. That's Sod's law.
You've probably heard of Murphy's law. For anyone who hasn't, it's usually defined as the principle that anything that can go wrong will.
The most frequently cited example usually involves toast, but it works for bread of most descriptions. The law states that if you drop said toast on the floor, it will always fall butter side down, thus attracting a large covering of dust, colourful fluff, and cat hairs. Even if you don't have a cat.
Where I come from, we call it Sod's law. Who Sod is, I don't know, but he probably predated Murphy and then got quietly sidelined in most parts because people thought sod was a naughty word. SOD. Sod. Sod sod sod. Chunk of earth. Using a word that is often used as a swear word (see The best of British if you are of a non British English persuasion) is somehow appropriate, since the circumstances it prevails in often cause the protagonist to hurl a long stream of obscenities at the world in general.
Sod's law may be a fabrication, but in our imaginations it's real as a misplaced nail. It's also sadly misrepresented by the gentle anything that can go wrong will go wrong explanation.
It's not just that anything that can go wrong will. It's that the things that go wrong are the very things that you were hoping wouldn't. It's a cruel set of circumstances that seem so improbable as to cause exclamations of anguish and disbelief for weeks to come. It's that your toast landed butter side down when it was the last piece of edible food in the house and you were waiting until after you'd eaten it to clean the floor it landed on.
To give another example, it's not just that it rained today. It's that it rained today after three days of glorious sunshine. Three days of glorious sunshine that persuaded me to walk to work today without a coat. That's Sod's law.
Monday, May 02, 2005
Chronological investigation
Is it only Tuesday? There must have been some mistake. Someone moved a couple of days from last week and is making me do them all over again. I won't stand for it, I won't.
I swear, I already did Tuesday! Who's in charge here? Because I want to make a complaint. What do you mean, not your department? This is the Department that Decides Everything, isn't it?
Don't worry, I'm skilled in the art of chronological investigation. Me and google'll find out who's responsible. Even if it takes all day.
Any information with regards to the theft of days from previous weeks and their subsequent abandonment in the middle of this and following weeks will be treated in strictest confidence.
time|rants|humor
I swear, I already did Tuesday! Who's in charge here? Because I want to make a complaint. What do you mean, not your department? This is the Department that Decides Everything, isn't it?
Don't worry, I'm skilled in the art of chronological investigation. Me and google'll find out who's responsible. Even if it takes all day.
Any information with regards to the theft of days from previous weeks and their subsequent abandonment in the middle of this and following weeks will be treated in strictest confidence.
time|rants|humor
Sunday, May 01, 2005
My white band
Unless you don't want to make a difference, then don't bother.
poverty|traidcraft|charities
Growing vegetables
My gardening exploits have today ventured into previously unchartered territory: vegetables. Tomatoes, chill peppers and plain old ordinary peppers to be precise. Hmmm, aren't they technically all fruit?
I think we need a new definition here, and I'm going to coin it. If it's sweet, it's fruit. Strawberries yes, tomatoes no. Apples yes, cucumbers no. An aside: strawberries are the only fruit to have their seeds on the outside. I'm a mine of such gems, I swear.
As for my new plants, I think their chances of survival are quite good, all though time will tell. It seems to be house plants that I generally kill because I have to remember to water them. Having said that, with summer looming I imagine my outdoorsy veg will be needing a daily extra drop of the soft stuff too. They've received their dose by watering can today anyway, which is a good start. One day at a time.
vegetables|gardening|horticulture|plants
I think we need a new definition here, and I'm going to coin it. If it's sweet, it's fruit. Strawberries yes, tomatoes no. Apples yes, cucumbers no. An aside: strawberries are the only fruit to have their seeds on the outside. I'm a mine of such gems, I swear.
As for my new plants, I think their chances of survival are quite good, all though time will tell. It seems to be house plants that I generally kill because I have to remember to water them. Having said that, with summer looming I imagine my outdoorsy veg will be needing a daily extra drop of the soft stuff too. They've received their dose by watering can today anyway, which is a good start. One day at a time.
vegetables|gardening|horticulture|plants
Saturday, April 30, 2005
Immortalised
Despite the hugest white band in the world ever gracing my blog, I haven't actually mentioned the make poverty history campaign for a while. Nevertheless, it seems my support for the cause didn't go unnoticed, with whitebandblog giving me a mention. Apparently, I ought to be "immortalised in cyberspace." Oh, the glory. Which is of course so not what this is about.
As for me, I'm wearing my white band with pride these days ever since it arrived on the door mat in a beam of heavenly white light.
The plan was to post a photo of it adorning my wrist, but my digital camera has gone walkies with a friend. Soon, soon you will be able to see how magnificent the band looks. Which again is so not what this is about. Did I mention I got a silicon one? Gold dust, absolute gold dust.
poverty|blogging
As for me, I'm wearing my white band with pride these days ever since it arrived on the door mat in a beam of heavenly white light.
The plan was to post a photo of it adorning my wrist, but my digital camera has gone walkies with a friend. Soon, soon you will be able to see how magnificent the band looks. Which again is so not what this is about. Did I mention I got a silicon one? Gold dust, absolute gold dust.
poverty|blogging
Friday, April 29, 2005
Tagging libarians
Yesterday I discovered tags at Technorati. Now I'm obsessed.
Would it be overly soul-bearing of me to admit that my main motivation for writing this post is not the desire to enlighten, entertain or educate the world, but the need to satisfy a sudden and overwhelming craving for a new form of subject analysis and indexing? I'm a librarian, you know. Have I mentioned that before?
I spent half of last night thinking up and applying tags to days old posts, then clicking and testing and testing and clicking and comparing my posts with other posts on the same tag pages. I felt a wonderful sense of satisfaction as I sorted my posts into sensible and meaningful catagories in the knowledge that this will help people find posts that interest them. My mouth is already watering at the prospect of tagging this post.
This is the stuff that librarians are made of. If you too are religiously tagging your posts, then firstIy, congratulations. Secondly, if you aren't already engaged in the working world of information, I suggest you consider a career change. Seriously, I classify things every day and get paid for it.
I think it was Cliff in Cheers who once said that inside every mailman there's a librarian waiting to get out. It seems that inside every tagger there's a bit of an information professional too. And in my case, vice versa.
technorati|tags|librarians|information|obsessions|careers|blogging|internet
Would it be overly soul-bearing of me to admit that my main motivation for writing this post is not the desire to enlighten, entertain or educate the world, but the need to satisfy a sudden and overwhelming craving for a new form of subject analysis and indexing? I'm a librarian, you know. Have I mentioned that before?
I spent half of last night thinking up and applying tags to days old posts, then clicking and testing and testing and clicking and comparing my posts with other posts on the same tag pages. I felt a wonderful sense of satisfaction as I sorted my posts into sensible and meaningful catagories in the knowledge that this will help people find posts that interest them. My mouth is already watering at the prospect of tagging this post.
This is the stuff that librarians are made of. If you too are religiously tagging your posts, then firstIy, congratulations. Secondly, if you aren't already engaged in the working world of information, I suggest you consider a career change. Seriously, I classify things every day and get paid for it.
I think it was Cliff in Cheers who once said that inside every mailman there's a librarian waiting to get out. It seems that inside every tagger there's a bit of an information professional too. And in my case, vice versa.
technorati|tags|librarians|information|obsessions|careers|blogging|internet
Thursday, April 28, 2005
What I didn't
Inspired part by 10 things I did today and part by my the what might have been track of my imagination, here's my list of ten things I didn't do today. Trust me, it's far more interesting that what I did do.
I didn't:
1. Get up at dawn and go for a brisk stroll in the fresh spring air
2. Hop, or stand on one leg in any manner
3. Get a paper cut from an overly aggressive book
4. Need to use my umbrella
5. Spend any money
6. Laugh out loud in inappropriate circumstances
7. Expend any physical effort other than was absolutely necessary
8. Learn how to fly
9. Write a letter
10. Bring people's of all nations together in peace and harmony
life|humor|thoughts
I didn't:
1. Get up at dawn and go for a brisk stroll in the fresh spring air
2. Hop, or stand on one leg in any manner
3. Get a paper cut from an overly aggressive book
4. Need to use my umbrella
5. Spend any money
6. Laugh out loud in inappropriate circumstances
7. Expend any physical effort other than was absolutely necessary
8. Learn how to fly
9. Write a letter
10. Bring people's of all nations together in peace and harmony
life|humor|thoughts
Wednesday, April 27, 2005
First time voters
Over the past few days the British media have been deluging us with stories of small children who have received polling cards for the general election. To the gleeful parents of said children, I have a few things to say.
To receive a polling card, a person must be on the electoral register. If your baby has received a polling card, then they have clearly been registered to vote as though they were adults.
There are only two ways I can see this happening. The most obvious explanation is that you were unable to follow simple instructions when filling in the registration form that came through your door, and are now basking in inadvertant glory without a hint of shame at your incapability.
The more cynical explanation is that you knew exactly what you were doing when you filled in that form with your baby's name, and were already thinking which newspapers you could contact when the inevitable polling card dropped through the letterbox.
Either way, I must thank you for pointing out yet another flaw in our electoral system. Of course, no baby, no matter how cute and dribbly, is going to be able to turn up at the polling station with their card clutched in a tiny tight fist and be allowed to vote. But if one year old people can be registered to vote, what's to stop imaginary people being registered? Some unscrupulous person could get three cards in three different names and go along three times. You'd hope someone might notice the same face showing up more than once, but you wouldn't put money on it.
Don't even get me started on postal voting, which seems to me to be about as secure as sending off for a free sample...Try democracy for one election, and if you don't get the desired results, next time you can sell your vote to your neighbour!
politics|elections|voting|democracy
To receive a polling card, a person must be on the electoral register. If your baby has received a polling card, then they have clearly been registered to vote as though they were adults.
There are only two ways I can see this happening. The most obvious explanation is that you were unable to follow simple instructions when filling in the registration form that came through your door, and are now basking in inadvertant glory without a hint of shame at your incapability.
The more cynical explanation is that you knew exactly what you were doing when you filled in that form with your baby's name, and were already thinking which newspapers you could contact when the inevitable polling card dropped through the letterbox.
Either way, I must thank you for pointing out yet another flaw in our electoral system. Of course, no baby, no matter how cute and dribbly, is going to be able to turn up at the polling station with their card clutched in a tiny tight fist and be allowed to vote. But if one year old people can be registered to vote, what's to stop imaginary people being registered? Some unscrupulous person could get three cards in three different names and go along three times. You'd hope someone might notice the same face showing up more than once, but you wouldn't put money on it.
Don't even get me started on postal voting, which seems to me to be about as secure as sending off for a free sample...Try democracy for one election, and if you don't get the desired results, next time you can sell your vote to your neighbour!
politics|elections|voting|democracy
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