May 31, 2004
I'm ready for my close up, Mr DeMille
I toddled along to Bedford today on the basis that there was an open audition for extras for a major feature film which is being shot in a nearby aircraft hanger and which the production company cannot name under any circumstances but which everyone else knows is Batman Begins. The town itself turned out to be a small industrialised sort of a place, in vague proximity to Milton Keynes (famed for concrete cows and roundabouts - thus endeth my knowledge) which flatters itself by having a wholly unwarranted tourist office in close proximity to the train station. That or I've become entirely too jaded after living in a major metropolitan area this long.
I made the eminently sensible decision to turn up about an hour early, at which point there were between forty and fifty people in the queue ahead of me (oh alright, there were 46, but don't tell anyone I counted). An hour later, there were a couple of hundred behind me (I can tell you exactly, but that really isn't going to make me look good...). The crowd was surprisingly varied, covering a broad spectrum of ages, races and genders. I'd half expected a brigade of trench-coated goths (of whom a few were present), but on the whole it seemed a fairly representative cross section of society. I found myself waiting with a pleasant family on one side (although their sons ability to dislocate his shoulder at will was somewhat disconcerting), and an extremely nervous lad on the other who refused to be drawn into any sort of conversation, despite my best efforts. He certainly made me feel better about my own social graces, which may not be as lacking as I once thought.
As for the audition itself, well... I'd love to say that I finally got a chance to perform my one man Shakespeare revue followed by my 76 minute self arranged medley of the greatest hits of Andrew Lloyd Webber to the acclaim of all, but alas it seems that particular performance will have to wait for another time. In the end, all they wanted were a few particulars after which a photograph was taken and... that was it. Slightly disappointing all things considered. The opportunity to actually appear in the film does make up for it a little, but given that one of the particulars they seemed especially interested in was whether I had my own transport or not (which I do not), I'm not inclined to rate my chances. Still, I'm glad I went along, since I would have kicked myself to have missed it. Now I just have to spend the next few months sitting by the phone waiting for my moment of fame to arrive. I'm not asking for much really - I think 15 minutes should suffice perfectly well...
May 29, 2004
And the gosling's getting fat
I've been watching a gosling grow for several weeks now. It lives with it's parents in a pond I pass by on a regular basis. It's a curious little creature, constantly prodding it's beak around at this and at that, trying to piece together this strange world in which it finds itself. It seems to be the only gosling around - there are only two other geese that frequent the pond I can only assume are the parents. The mother in particular seems quite protective of her charge, never venturing too far away, and always keeping a watchful eye on any interlopers in the area. I think she's gotten used to me by now, or at least doesn't consider me much of a threat as she tolerates my presence and doesn't seem to mind too much if I come in for a closer look.
I sat by her this afternoon and together we watched her offspring. The little avian had climbed up on a flat-topped rock on a small island in the centre of the pond. The poor thing seemed stuck up there and looked quite uncertain as to how it was going to get back down again. Every so often it would gingerly step up to the edge of the rock, crane it's neck downwards towards the water and try to reach down with one webbed foot. The water was only a couple of feet at most beneath it, but it's only a small bird, and I dare say the drop appeared considerably higher from it's perspective. After a brief while it the realisation seemed to dawn that it couldn't reach the water that way, and looked around for an alternate route. Eventually it discovered a rocky slope and began awkwardly stepping from stone to stone until it reached water, at which the mother shook her tail in what I took to be a display of satisfaction and moved to join her child. They made an adorable family.
The excitement over, I got up to leave, only to be disturbed by a woman in a long dark purple coat sprinting by me. She was followed close behind by a man wearing a navy blue overcoat. He appeared to be chasing her. I turned around to try and work out what was happening and someone hissed at me not to look into the camera. Admonished I turned away, slightly confused. I soon realised that I'd inadvertently been sitting in the midst of a some filming that had been going on. I've no idea what exactly, but if you see a film or television programme featuring a woman in a purple coat being chased past a pond - and perhaps past someone bearing an uncanny similarly to myself - do let me know. I'm somewhat curious.
You don't have to be mad to work here
More interviews at work today. A seemingly never ending stream of them in fact. It wouldn't have been so bad, but my usual co-conspirator in these affairs had the day off (driving up to Edinburgh - I should take my cues from that), leaving me to take the lead. The position is for a contractor, and requires someone with a great deal of experience, so I found myself in the odd position of interviewing several people vastly more knowledgeable than myself (and gratifyingly, at least one person who wasn't), including one with about 20 years more practical experience. Fortunately it wasn't nearly as intimidating as feared it might be, and nor did I feel like a complete fraud (mayhap just a small one).
One of the more memorable candidates hailed from Bulgaria, and her English, though perfectly reasonable, was heavily accented with what, had I not known her background, I would probably have assumed was a Russian inflection. It was the sort of voice you'd expect to repeat phrases like "There'll be no escape for you this time, Mr Bond." Her speech patterns had a wonderful sine-like cadence, rising and falling in pitch from phrase to phrase, that was quite delightful to listen too. She'd also picked up a few unusual quirks, such as making a statement about something she'd done, then asking "why?" before delving into a deeper explanation. Why? I'm not entirely sure, but the slight pause before she continued left me continually wondering whether it were merely rhetorical or whether she was actually demanding a response from me.
It kept me on my toes at least.
I was also slightly curious about the final candidate, who was aptly qualified and extremely personable, but who kept jotting things down with a brightly coloured pen, branded in a bold black typeface with the name of a well-known anti-depressant. I was more amused than concerned, and I'm certainly not inferring anything from it, but I do think that when my time comes to be interviewed again I'll be slightly more careful in my choice of accoutrements...
May 27, 2004
To the undiscovered country
Well, I think I spent enough time yesterday whining about my nebulous and ever shifting goals. Time to put my mind to happier matters instead. There's a bank holiday coming up after all (yes, another one). Three more days of fun, frolics, and most importantly of all, no work! Huzzah! Come to think of it I'm sure it's been a goodly while since I had a proper frolic... Anyway, beyond that there are plenty of events on my calendar that I'm very much looking forward too. A group of friends I see but too rarely will be descending on London in just a few short weeks, and they really are most excellent company. A little beyond that there's a concert coming up that I'm muchly looking forward too. I could delve into detail about it now, but that would just spoil the surprise wouldn't it? Needless to say I'll tell you all there is to tell afterwards. In the slightly further future I have a birthday coming along and to celebrate (or commiserate - having dipped a two or two into my thirties I'm still not certain if I'm quite ready to turn 31. Perhaps I'll simply turn thirty again and see if anyone notices) I've booked tickets with some work friends to see Much Ado About Nothing at Hampton Court Palace, a setting in which Shakespeare himself once performed. Everybody say "ooh". There's not much going on in August yet, but I think I shall remedy that by booking my much delayed weekend outing to Paris. That brings me nicely to the late summer month of September, during which wedding bells shall chime throughout the land to mark, at last, my dear brothers betrothal. I think I can safely mark that in advance as the highlight of my year. The accompanying jubilation will hopefully last me until the beginning of December at which point I depart for the slopes of Tahoe for a skiing holiday (having escaped without major incident the last time around, I feel it will be time to test my luck once again).
And then comes Christmas. And you know what I want for Christmas this year? Everything! And since I'm holding the purse strings, there's a good chance I might even get it...
May 26, 2004
"I've already waited too long"
The title is a line from "How soon is now" by The Smiths, which iTunes saw fit to play for me as it continues weaving aimlessly through my song collection. I've been feeling in a bit of a funk recently and I know exactly why: it's the waiting. I like to think of myself a patient person, despite what some might claim to be overwhelming evidence to the contrary. The truth of the matter is fairly simple - I'm only impatient with the small things. The big things I can wait (and have waited) years on. But there's only one big thing I'm left waiting on now - I want out of this place, this city. I'm fed up with it. It's not one thing in particular, so much as the fact that I made up my mind to move on a long ago and I'm still here. I've let myself be persuaded to stay... no, let me be honest about it, I've persuaded myself to stay. There's nothing keeping me here except my own misguided sense of responsibility - what other people have asked of me is nothing more than an excuse I've been using to stick around. Goodness knows why. I've strung myself up in this limbo neither wanting to be here, and not entirely sure what lies ahead of me there. It feels like the one of those interminable Christmas Eve's when the night seemed to stretch on forever, except that now the promise of morning seems empty and hollow.
Only 7 months to go.
I'll be home by Christmas.
Promise.
May 25, 2004
Close your eyes
A nice lady from RNIB came to our office to talk about the websites we manage and how we can better structure our sites to aid navigation by the blind and partially sighted. It's something I'd looked into before and I've already taken some steps to make our sites more accessible, but it was good to have finally have someone in front of me who could codify exactly what needs to be done. The event yielded two surprises. Firstly that she rated our sites as well above average - pleasingly enough, and forgive me if I seem to toot my own horn a little here, what she thought was good was the direct result of my handiwork, and what was bad was either related to areas outside of my control (though not for long), or else was a due to the interference of the marketing department (I told them, dammit!). We're not perfect by a long shot, but we're a lot closer than I'd thought we'd be. Secondly she was surprised that I was so responsive to her suggestions. I spent pretty much the whole session taking notes and agreeing that most of her recommendations were jolly good ideas and that I'd be only to happy to implement them. Apparently that's not the usual state of affairs and I really don't understand why that should be so.
I have a bad tendency to be somewhat dismissive of the work that my company does, being as it's largely sport related and thus something I find crushingly dull. But I do take my work seriously, and I do care about the end results (and I can be quite passionate about them too, as our marketing department have discovered to their cost). Ensuring the sites are as accessible as possible should be the least that we can do. That other people should think differently is something I can't begin to fathom.
The day ended with a fascinating demonstration of screen reader software that I found particularly eye opening (pardon the phrase). For the first time I began to understand just how liberating technology is, and just how usable computers (even Windows based systems) can be for the blind. It's certainly something I intend to bear in mind in my future endeavours. I wish the lady from the RNIB the very best and hope that she is able to persuade others in future likewise.
May 24, 2004
Bad people have parties too
I tend to refrain from political commentary around here. I'm not entirely sure why, though if I were to search for an answer I'd likely accuse myself of being too cowardly to venture an opinion. After all, to state an opinion is to risk being wrong. Alternatively if could just be that I prefer to think about fluffier and happier matters
Now, regardless of whether I believe the war in Iraq was/is just (I'm never quite sure which tense to use, given that the war was officially declared over a year ago), it still represents one of the most audacious bait and switches in the history of modern politics. The segue from Afghanistan to Iraq was breathtakingly seamless. I haven't seen any opinion polls about just how many people (Americans in particular, though I'd be interested in a breakdown for the rest of the world too) believe Saddam Hussein to have been responsible for the events behind the attack on the World Trade Centre, but I dare say it would be illuminating.
I'm curious as to how such a feat was achieved. I'd like to think it would take a considerable amount of supremely well handled spin to manipulate public perception so thoroughly, but quite frankly the handling of public relations on the matter of the war seems to have been generally atrocious. Certainly the American government has been thoroughly vilified by the media in other nations over it's actions. Perhaps the U.S. media has been attempting to portray matters in a more positive light. However, I fail to see any positive interpretations of this quote from Brigadier General Mark Kimmitt about the possibility that a recent air strike in Iraq may have inadvertently targeted a wedding party:
"Bad people have parties too."Aside from the fact that it strikes me as condescending cant, it also seems typical of the supreme inability of the powers behind the war to admit to, or even consider the remote possibility of liability - in this case even as possible video evidence comes to light. Perhaps it's a consequence of the litigious society we seem to live in, that we cannot apologise without facing dire consequences but it seems to me a remarkably sad state of affairs.
May 23, 2004
The voices made me do it
Like most people, I prefer to think of myself as someone relatively immune to the adverse influence of advertising, despite the fact that like most people I'm bombarded with it near constantly throughout my waking hours. Still, I'm comforted by the illusion that such efforts are wasted upon me.
However, today I was entrapped by a new ploy: A talking window. I was merrily strolling down the street, minding my own thoughts as per usual, when I was distracted by the unmistakable sound of a voice trying to persuade me to buy something. I wasn't actually interested in the marketing schtick so much as I was puzzled as to where it was emanating from. I looked around for the source without noting any obvious speakers. Then I closed my eyes and listened and realised that it didn't appear to be coming from a single point. I walked in the general direction of where I believed the epicenter should be and found that I'd reached a shop window, probably some 7 or 8 feet square. Curious now, I pressed my hand against the glass and felt the unmistakable vibrations of a speaker. I peered closer and saw a small device attached to the lower left corner of the window. I went inside to take a closer look at it.
And that's when it hit me and my error became clear. I'd been lured into a furniture store (MFI, if you're curious). It was a trick of some kind, especially since there was no furniture store where I was, only a... only a boarded up shop front on which a score of construction workers had been busying themselves for the last couple of weeks... oops. Should have seen that one coming. I've been avoiding furniture stores for a while now, ever since an unfortunate encounter with Fired Earth a few weeks ago left me pondering the cost of a new bathroom suite. I came to the conclusion that as I new flat owner I was still overly sensitive to the nefarious influences of furniture stores and home improvement programmes and that both were best avoided. Consequently, this was no place for me to be - I had to leave immediately before I was enraptured with some new... and then I saw it. The answer to my storage dreams. My flat you see (the one that I'm still steadfastly not living in despite having owned it for over a year now) is just a tad, how to put it, compact and bijou. As a result one of my concerns is where I'm going to put... stuff (the ellipses are mandatory and must be pronounced) . I've lived in small spaces for most of my life and the proper storage of... stuff is of paramount importance to me. It's not a desperate worry, more of a problem to which a solution had yet to present itself - until today . I found myself gazing upon a beautiful fitted bedroom suite whose dimensions and layout near perfectly reflected my own bedroom - and my own tastes. It included a wall of wardrobes and drawers! So many drawers, so many places to put... stuff. I've no idea what sort of repuation MFI have these days, but it all looked solidly put together and everything closed with a satisfying "thunk".
I've now added a new bedroom to my list of potential flat purchases. And all because of a talking window. It's definitely an interesting bit of technology, albeit with the potential to be hugely intrusive, not to mention the possibility of misuse by evil marketing departments. Sigh.
May 22, 2004
A curious measure
In a place called Seven Dials (where there are indeed seven sun dials) I glanced downwards and saw a length of tape stretched out upon the ground. There was writing on the back of the tape in bold black marker pen, now faded with time to a dull grey but still legible. I started reading it, curious to see where it would lead. Over pavement and road I read phrases and quotes, all in the same hand, cheerfully exhorting the reader to live their lives as best they can, to smile and be happy. I followed it on. The upbeat phrases and quotes were interspersed with a series of small doodles, hearts and stars (and a giraffe) and other icons of that ilk. More words followed.
For about 10 or 15 meters it ran on. And then it stopped, right in the center of a cobbled road. The end looked torn, perhaps by traffic, perhaps by hand. I looked around to see if it continued anywhere, but that area is a maze of interconnecting streets and I was unable to pick up the trail of the tape again. I wish it would have carried on as I would liked to have find out where it was supposed to lead - if anywhere - but I was glad to have stumbled across it regardless. I have no idea how or why it came to be, but it was a strange and slightly wonderful thing to encounter and I salute whoever thought of it.
And no, it wasn't a dream this time.
Well, not mine at least...
May 21, 2004
Dream girl
I wandered through the streets of a Kensington that never was. Narrow alleys flooded with daylight where darkness should have been, lined with with red brick shops selling their wares - intricate, fragile curios, brightly painted wooden toys and... photographs, walls and walls lined with ancient prints of people and landscapes and friends and family, all in shades of grey and sepia. And in one of those twisting cobbled streets I happened upon a girl or a woman. She was small and lithe and agile, and her eyes were as bright as her smile. She asked for my help. I don't remember with what, but it turned out to be nothing more than a ruse. She ensnared me in a golden ribbon and danced away with my wallet. I disentangled myself and started in pursuit. There was no malice in her actions, only mischief and I felt no anger towards her. She knew I was following behind, she expected it of me and led me on a merry chase. Through crowds she darted and weaved, and in and out of doorways she flitted, always trying to keep a step ahead of me, glancing backwards with a twinkle in her eye to see where I was. I caught up with her - she didn't expected that, but she wasn't upset. It was all a big game and she was delighted to find someone to play with. And I felt the same way.
We walked on together, looking at the shops and she stopped before the photographs, looking sad as she reached up to touch one. I don't know why. We stopped for tea and sat outside in small square overgrown with foliage, like an age old churchyard, where we ate platefuls of scones covered with strawberry jam and clotted cream. We chatted amiably about things I won't reveal before running off through the streets of Kensington again, spreading mischief before us. I think she saw herself in me and I in her.
And then I woke and it was a painful sort of waking. I've never befriended anyone in a dream before. I wish she were real.
May 20, 2004
Give!
I rarely carry much money with me. It's not uncommon, as far as I'm aware, especially in large cities - I know several people who equate carrying large sums of money about their persons with the notion of painting a target on their foreheads and wearing a sign saying "mug me". That's nothing to do with my reasoning of course - I simply dislike trying to calculate how much money I need to last me for any given period of time. Too much thinking about the future can't be good for you so instead I usually take out £20, wait until it runs out and then repeat. Larger purchases are made using a debit card. It's a system I have little problem with, although it's enlightening to realise how much I depend on one small piece of plastic.
The relevance of this train of thought will become clearer in a moment. You see I made the mistake of trying to take some money out of a cash machine earlier. There was no way to know it was a mistake when I began the transaction, though that offers little comfort even with the benefit of hindsight. The cash machine didn't look terribly unhappy when I approached it, and it seemed to deal politely enough with my various requests... until it came time to return my card. At this point it developed something of an attitude problem and refused to let it go. Then it started beeping at me. If my long association with technology in all it's various guises has taught me anything it is this: When something starts beeping at you it is officially a bad sign. Of course, the worse portent is when the beeping stops - then you're really in trouble.
So with the incessant beeping still ringing in my ear, I bent down to examine the card slot and there, lodged just inside the slot - conveniently out of fingers reach - I could see my card. I tried to pry it out, but alas, unlike so many of my friends and family I go about my daily life without any such implements as a swiss army knife. The pace of the beeping increased. I searched about to see if there was something I could use to pry it out, but before I could conjure up anything I realised to my horror that the beeping, so irritating only a moment before, had ceased.
Time slowed. I stretched out a hand towards my card and cried out "noooooooo" in the fashion we've witnessed a thousand times before in films and on tv as my card was sucked back into the belly off the beast in grating slow motion.
The bank had closed it's doors, but I knocked on them anyway. Eventually someone approached and gave me a decidedly suspicious glance. I pointed at the beastly machine and said "it ate my card." I received little sympathy and was instead told that nothing could be done and that my card would be destroyed. I dejectedly pointed again and repeated "it ate my card," before walking off despondently.
I rarely carry much money with me. I have 60p left to last me until a replacement card arrives. This is going to be an interesting weekend...
May 19, 2004
Restless tonight
For the past few weeks I've not been having any trouble sleeping. I go to bed, close my eyes and gently drift off to the land of nod without any problems at all. Except... except I don't want to. And I don't know why.
This is an unusual situation for me. I actively like sleeping and have nothing but positive thoughts memories associated with it. And dreaming too - dreaming remains perhaps my single favourite activity. But I just don't want to go to sleep. I've been finding myself staying up later and later, reading, playing games, watching television, browsing the net - my usual horsemen of procrastination. Nothing constructive or creative, nothing more than excuses to stay up late. And I'm a grown man for goodness sake - I haven't needed an excuse to stay up late since half a lifetime ago.
Nothing obvious strikes me as a probable cause. No bad dreams or nightmares - but then I never have bad dreams or nightmares. It could be climate related I suppose - there has been something of a warm spell recently and I do sleep less during the summer months, although this normally manifests itself in my waking earlier. Some deeper underlying cause perhaps? Not that I know of. I just don't want to sleep. I just started iTunes randomly flitting through songs (further procrastination) and the first song to begin playing was "One Thing" by Finger Eleven. It's a good song (or at least, I like it - make of that what you will), but it's first line happens to be "restless tonight".
I can relate to that.
May 18, 2004
Same bat time, same bat channel
For someone who hates to be late, I seem to have an uncanny inability to make it to dental appoinments on time. I was only thirty minutes late today around (a whole 23 hours and thirty minutes of an improvement - doesn't that count for anything?), but it was still enough to levy me with another £15 fine. Sigh. I would have claimed it was because of a late train, and I was already to launch into a tirade against the neverending stream of inefficiences which constitute the British Rail network (or remnants thereof), when I realised that I'd in fact mixed up the departure and arrival times. Oops
Anyway, I suspect the otherwise kindly receptionist is beginning to weary with me a little, since she treated my "Same time next week?" request with air of something akin to resignation...
May 17, 2004
And keep telling them
Jules is gone. I never knew her, but for whatever it's worth Alan, I think you've done her proud.
May 16, 2004
Where life is Viewtiful all the time
I've done it. By jove, I've finally done it! I should warn you, though, not to get too excited, as I've done nothing more than complete a video game: Viewtiful Joe. I'll explain the reason for my abject joy a little further on.
In the meantime, if the malapropped title in the style of Donkey Kong hasn't given it away, the game hails from Japan, and is, well, extremely Japanese. At heart it's little more than a sideways scrolling beat 'em up whose lineage can be traced directly back to such genre icons as Final Fight and Double Dragon, and likely beyond. The format for such games is simple. You (or the character you control, I should more rightly state) start out at the left side of the level and your task is typically to reach the right side of the level, beating to a pixellated pulp the villainous hoards you encounter along the way. If you're after depth, look elsewhere. It's not my favourite genre but Viewtiful Joe managed to catch my eye anyway. For a start, it looks unlike any other game I've encountered. Cel-shaded graphics have pretty much reached the mainstream, but VJ contains one of the best examples I've yet seen. For the most part, the action takes place in a 2d plane, but everything is rendered in 3d, allowing the camera to pan and scroll freely.
Secondly, the sheer verve and weirdness of the thing are darn near irresistible.
In terms of the mechanics of the game, VJ has a extra tricks up it's sleeve which lift it above other games of it's ilk and which tie in quite neatly to the plot. The game begins with Joe and Sylvia, his girlfriend, on a date to the movies, watching the latest outing of Joe's favourite superhero, Captain Blue, a pot bellied, mustachioed power ranger who looks as though his best days are behind him (Japanese, remember?). Things don't go so well for either Captain Blue or Joe, though, and not only is the good Captain defeated in the film, but the mysterious villain of the piece reaches through the screen and kidnaps Sylvia too. Captain Blue, unable to continue, bestows the magic word "Henshin" upon Joe, transforming ordinary Joe into the newest hero on the block, Viewtiful Joe, a slightly trendier power ranger, trailing a pink scarf (which doesn't look nearly as out of place is it probably should do, and no, they don't explain the name, so don't ask me). Joe is then sent into the film to rescue his beloved Sylvia. The VFX powers with which Joe finds himself are all movie related, such as fast-forward, slow-motion and zoom-in. Fast forward and slow-motion are both, as you might expect, time related powers, which correspondingly accelerate and decelerate time, allowing Joe either rain down a hail of punches upon his enemies in the blink of an eye, or else reduce time to a crawl so he can pick them off one by one. Zoom-in focuses the camera in on Joe, causing his enemies to quiver with terror.
And it's just plain fun to play. Joe is a wonderfully responsive character to control and the time warping mechanics are beautifully integrated into the game play. See a rotary bladed platform hovering tantalisingly out of reach? Slow down time and it drifts downwards until you jump up on it. Similarly, if the platform won't go high enough, speed up time until the blades whirr faster to propel you upwards. Also, if things are going badly, you can strike a pose, which will run down your VFX meter but cause damage to everyone around you. Joe himself an endearingly expressive lead and his cockiness knows no bounds. If he taxes his VFX powers through overuse, he temporarily reverts back to ordinary Joe, until his power meter restores itself. In keeping with the powers gifted him, he has to speak the magic word "Henshin" to become Viewtiful Joe again. Joe being Joe can't resist putting his own spin on it which results in his hideously addictive catch-phrase, "Henshin a-go-go, baby!"
The only downside to the game is that it's hard. And when I say that, let me be certain that you understand me. This game is hard. Hard. HARD! I cannot stress this enough. Before buying it, I'd read a review that commented on the learning curve. That reviewer said it started to get a bit hard at around the third level. I found myself struggling half way through the first level. And it doesn't get any easier. I can only imagine that the designer was having a particularly bad day when he decided upon the difficultly level, because it's tortuously challenging. Partly this is as a result of there being too few save points - each level will allow you to save once in the middle. For the first half of each level, this isn't too much of a problem - the real difficulty comes with the second part. Not only do you have to slog through the remainder of the level, but at the end you do battle with the end of level guardian, a hulking, seemingly invulnerable behemoth who will immediately pummel you into submission. The already high difficulty level just spikes when you reach these guys. Once all your lives are gone, which doesn't take long I promise, you're sent back to the last save point, to begin again. It becomes a bit of a grind all too quickly. But you carry onwards, because despite it, the game is just plain fun. Until you reach the 6th level. I swear the design of this level indicates vindictiveness of the highest order. Here the pattern you've been used to on prior levels broken - this level consists of the first four end of level guardians you originally fought and hoped never to see again. But now you have to beat them one by one without respite. It's almost enough to make a grown man cry, but the happiness you feel when you've finally beaten them... is quickly shattered when you realise that there's an entirely new fifth guardian to fight at the end of it who's even more mind-numbingly difficult. This is enough to make a grown man weep. I bought this game back in September. It took a couple of weeks to reach the last level, and then I stalled. It just couldn't be done. No human being could do this. I ended up throwing down the controller in disgust on more than one occasion, putting the game back in it's case and swearing that I was done, that I was defeated and that I was never going to play the game again. Except that after a while I'd get the nagging feeling that it couldn't have been as bad as I remembered, and that perhaps this time it would be different. Perhaps this time I might complete it. This delusion went on for months, until at last, today I've done it. I've completed it. I'm not entirely sure how, but I believe blind luck played an important part.
And what's the reward in the game for finally having bested it? You find that there's a new mode unlocked. A hard mode.
Words fail me.
May 15, 2004
Never tell me the odds
As I was walking along the street today, I found myself wondering about the likelihood of randomly encountering a familiar face amongst the crowds. I also tried to remember when the last time such a thing had happened to me, if ever. The closest I came was during one of my first trips to London, about 9 years ago, when I found myself in a terrible rush trying to get to Kings Cross in order to catch the last train to Edinburgh after what had turned out to be a quite ghastly day. I'd ended up in a throwing myself on tube carriage in a last ditch attempt to reach the station on time. I found an available seat (no easy task on the tube in rush hour) and slumped down in it, contemplating the rotten turn the day had taken. I then looked up to realise that the person sitting directly across from me looked remarkably like Vinay, the sole resident of the city familiar to me at that time. The similarity was easily explained by the fact that it was indeed Vinay.
The coincidence has pleased me ever since.
As for my wonderings earlier today, they were rudely interrupted when an ex-colleague from a few years ago popped his head of the window of a passing car and waved briefly before disappearing off into the distance. I now believe the likelyhood of such an encounter is probably a lot higher than I initially thought...
May 14, 2004
The beast of Brentford Dock
Something went growl in the night.
My nocturnal reverie was disturbed at three o'clock this morning by a cacophony of howling and pained screeches outside my bedroom window. It took me a moment to assimilate exactly what was happening - a moment or two longer to convince myself that I was not in fact dreaming, although the event did have a dreamlike quality.
I'd been woken by two animals clashing outside. I'd hazard one was a dog, but I'm not certain about the other. There was an almost feline quality to it's howls, but it wasn't a cat. A fox perhaps? It doesn't matter. I'd never heard anything like it before. The noises they made were furious, primal, and utterly terrifying. I doubt they were large creatures, but the fury with which they engaged each other was startling. I was listening to two creatures fighting for survival and it was horrifyingly brutal - a violence my cloistered existence left me unprepared to deal with. Perhaps it had something to do with just having woken - I honestly don't know - but I couldn't move, I didn't know how to react. The fight didn't last long, though it felt like an age to me. One animal fled - I don't know why - and the other was left behind, clearly injured, to judge from the pained gurgling sounds it made. After what I'd heard I was worried for it's survival and, recovering my senses, I rushed outside to see if I could help the poor beast. Unfortunately I probably scared it even more - by the time I got outside it was already some distance away and disinclined to come nearer. I wasn't wearing my glasses so all I could make out was a black shape limping away into the darkness. A second later it was gone. Another shadow in the night.
I went back inside and pondered what I'd witnessed before settling into a restless sleep.
May 13, 2004
Unfinished business
Not too much to say tonight. I've been working on a new theme for Blog and it's proven to be more of a challenge than I thought it would - Microsoft seem intent on stymieing me at ever turn. I tried to do something clever and it didn't pan out quite as I'd intended and there's a simpler way to achieve what I finally ended up with. I'm a little fed up with it now, so I'm going to leave it alone for a while and then see if I can't tart it up some more later on. I've added it to the theme chooser so you can have a look at it anyway. It was going to be called "Clouds", but then I decided that wasn't nearly pretentious enough and thought to call it "Aether" instead. Bear in mind that it's unfinished and a little buggy, so please be gentle with me.
Nighty night
May 12, 2004
I wasn't late, the appointment was early
I finally had my dentists appointment today. The good news is that it only cost me £15. The bad news is that £15 was a fine because I was supposed to turn up the previous day and hadn't. I'm normally extremely punctual when it comes to appointments, sometimes to the point of obsessiveness - I've been known to scope out areas before hand to ensure that I know where I'm going and the best route to take as well as ensuring I have various contingencies covered. I really do loath being late for anything and few things will make me crankier than realising I'm tardy... so I'm not quite entirely sure what went wrong today. I knew the appointment was for the 11th. And I knew that today was the 12th. But I still turned up on the wrong day. Sigh.
I've remarked before than if I'm going to be late for anything, it's not going to be by mere minutes, but more likely by hours or days. At least I'm staying true to form...
May 11, 2004
Tell them
I ran across a quote from Neil Gaiman yesterday. It went something like
"You can take for granted that people know more or less what a street, a shop, a beach, a sky, an oak tree look like. Tell them what makes this one different."Actually, it went exactly that like that. It's the sort of advice I'm instinctively inclined to take to heart, much like another quote I came across in my youth that's stuck with me throughout the years: "Dare to be different". It also makes me wonder if I haven't been taking too much for granted recently, that perhaps I've a tendency to look at the world around me as an enormous, irritating, noisy whole, rather than paying closer attention to it's myriad constituent parts, a great many of which are rather wonderful. Consider yourselves amongst them,
Cynicism seems to be running rampant these days. I tell myself I don't subscribe to it, and certainly I do so less than a large number of people I know or work with, but even then I can't help but smirk at the likes of despair.com, a site resplendant with such bon mots as:
Always remember that you are unique. Just like everbody else.It's funny, but at the same time also rather sad. Likely it's funny because it's sad. People in society today seem torn between asserting their individuality and desperately trying to fit in, with the need for the latter, from personal observation, often overriding the need for the former. I managed to avoid peer pressure at school by taking the easy way out of simply having no friends (alright, I confess, it wasn't necessarily that easy - it took a lot of work, and even then I still had a couple left). As such, I've never been too concerned with the notion of fitting in - the outsiders perogative, if you will. But perhaps because of that I've developed my own skewed form of cynicism, casting myself as the outsider in opposition to a world which I'm not making the effort to view in detail, instead picturing it as nothing more than a grey, amorphous blob.
Time to peer closer. Tell them what makes this one different.
Indeed.
May 10, 2004
Playing pedagogue
I've found myself taking on the role of teacher at work recently. In an effort to bolster the dwindled ranks of the development team, our manager has decided to try and purloin Simon, a member of the support team who's a bright enough lad and who usually ends up twiddling his thumbs during the quiet summer period. Apparently he's looking for "new challenges" - well, if ever there was a time to be careful what you wish for...
The plan is for the current developers to take turns to try and impart the necessary knowledge to become a Java programmer. I volunteered to go first. To be honest, I suspect our manager has drastically underestimated the length of time it will take for Simon to become a productive member of society... erm, I mean the development team, but it makes a change from what I've been up to of late and it's proving to something of a challenge for me too.
Probably the hardest part for me is trying to remember what it's like not to know what I know. Simon is starting from scratch so I've been covering what I consider to be the fundamentals of coding, but even then I find myself making certain assumptions and more than once I've caught myself giving circular definitions (i.e. it's like x because of y, and like y because of x, without adequately describing x or y). Fortunately Simon has been patient with me and whatever qualities I may lack as a teacher, patience isn't one of them. However, my task hasn't been made easier by the fact that Simon had been trying to plough through one of the ubiquitous "Learn Java in 24 hours" books on his own and so has a number of questions which I just can't explain without delving into concepts I'd rather not at this stage. I had a glance through the book to see if there was much useful advice I could rip from it, but I quickly came to the conclusion that it's, well, rubbish (at least for a complete beginner). Everything is presented in the wrong order. I ended up telling Simon that it would make more sense if he read the even chapters first and the odd ones. He thought I joking at first, but he did and it did. We haven't advanced very far yet, but I am pleased with the progress he's made. Enough to make me feel as though I'm doing something right. He even wrote his first class today. I felt so proud.
Still he won't be on my watch for very much longer. I'd quite like to continue, but practical necessity intervenes and so I'll soon be passing him on someone else to follow in my footsteps. Hopefully I won't have spoiled him ;)
May 09, 2004
In which I prove to be a harsh tourmaster
For some strange reason it feels much later than it actually is. The clock says it's only five to twelve, and yet I could almost swear it was around two o'clock. I think my biological clock is fairly trustworthy for the most part - I don't bother with watches if I can help it, and if I take a guess at what the time is, I'll usually be within 10 minutes or so. Good enough, mostly, although I do get incredibly uptight when I think I'm going to be late for anything. Today I carried on dragging my brother around the various sights of London that I think are worth seeing. On the spur of the moment, I even picked up tickets for The Lion King, which is by far my favourite show to drag people in to (friends that is - I don't accost random strangers in the street and drag them into musicals. Well, not often anyway...). The performance was at 3pm, which gave us a couple of hours to rush hither and zither across my favourite sights like St Paul's and the Tate Modern before dashing back to the theatre. Poor Jamie complained once or twice that he wasn't used to walking so much and at such a pace, but I didn't take much heed until we arrived for the show and I realised he was limping. And the only tickets I could get were standing room only. Oops. Still, he should get a decent nights sleep to help him recover before I have to wake him at some ungodly hour tomorrow morning to make certain he catches his train on time. Hmm, hang on a second, that means I have to get up at the same ungodly hour too, doesn't it? Hmm, I think I'd best be off to bed now.
Nighty, night.
May 08, 2004
Accent? Vhat accent?
One of my brothers is down visiting for the weekend, so I laid all of London bare before him and asked him to take his pick of all the entertainments on offer. From some of the finest theatre, opera, and ballet companies this land has to offer, to the artiest of art house cinemas.
So we went to see Van Helsing.
I didn't know much about the film going in, save that it was a Stephen Sommers film. This I knew because I'd seen the trailer, which positively screamed Stephen Sommers at me (not necessarily in a good way) - he's a distinctive film maker, that much I'll say about him. He's also the gent responsible for The Mummy, a film I'd actually rather enjoyed. It was loud, brash and suffered from some lapses in logic that would have been unforgivable, save for the fact that the film was so endearingly good natured, you couldn't help but smile, and be carried along in the wake of it's absurdities.
Unfortunately, since then Mr Sommers appears to have become something of a Hollywood go to guy whenever a loud, brash and illogical action film is required to fill out the summer schedules - he followed the success of The Mummy with The Mummy Returns and The League of Extraordinary Gentleman. These presented ever larger spectacles, hand in hand with even greater larger lapses in logic (like taking a submarine the size of an aircraft carrier down a Venice canal. I mean, c'mon!) . And, in my estimation, they weren't quite as good natured which made their (all too obvious) flaws all that much harder to forgive.
Which brings us to Van Helsing. As you might expect, I didn't have terribly high hopes going into the cinema, but perhaps because of this I was pleasantly surprised. It still betrays the classic trademark Sommers traits of loudness, brashness and wanton nonsensicality, and I'm quite certain it won't be picking up any Oscars (outside of the technical categories at least), but it's enjoyable fare and, within the confines of it's own skewed internal logic, everything seems reasonably self-consistent (compared to The Mummy Returns and LoEG at least). It still betrays one of Sommer's greatest plotting weaknesses, namely his over-reliance on outlandish co-incidences to resolve dangling plot threads, but as with The Mummy, the whole thing trots along at such a breathlessly ludicrous pace and applies enough of a charm offensive to enable you to over look it. That said, I still can't escape the feeling that Sommers is trying to make an Indiana Jones for modern audiences. It may never happen and it certainly hasn't happened here - after all, I know Indiana Jones, and you sir, are no Indiana Jones.
I should probably mention that the effects work is of a high standard (the cgi still looks like cgi, but I consider it discourteous to complain about such things - it's good cgi after all), with possibly the best effect the film has to offer being Kate Beckinsale's corset. I mean, that was a special effect right? People in real life don't have waists that narrow surely...?
May 07, 2004
For the attention of rAdams everywhere
May Neil forgive me for shamelessly lifting this from his blog, but since there are some... Minneapoleans? Minneapelites? Minnelaplanders? folks from one of the Twin Cities present around here, I thought it was applicable:
Nearly forgot: if you're in the Minneapolis area in August, Scott McCloud is reprising his amazing comics theory and practice workshop seminar. If you want to make comics (or if you already make comics and want to do better comics), you should seriously think about doing Scott's seminar.Scott McCloud, for those of you unware, is the author of Understanding Comics, a superlative treatise on the theory and practice of sequential art (aka comics). It's an incredible work, which my descriptions can only fail to justice to. Suffice it to say that if you have any interest in the medium, even in passing, you must read this book.You can sign up for the course [here] and read about what the course consists of at [here]. Scott is a national treasure, he doesn't teach the course often. Personally, I'm hoping that enough people sign up that they make Scott do an extra week, as they did in 2002.
Scott also promises that I will really really like Flight Comics, and I believe him. I just need the time to browse, and prove it to myself...
May 06, 2004
Mark is patient and says little
I got into an argument with someone at work a while ago about a sign-on mechanism for a new product that's being developed. The design produced by the marketing department featured a large graphic which looked exactly like something that should be clicked on, but in fact did nothing. I tried to explain to assorted marketing people why that was a bad idea. I was overruled on the grounds of "but that's how Sky does it". That chafed a little, since, as I've mentioned before, I'm rather proud of my skills when it comes to user interface design, whereas marketing have time and time again demonstrated that they wouldn't know a decent user interface if it dressed up as an early English monarch and sang "I am a user interface I am" to the tune of Henry the 8th. Nevertheless, I resisted the temptation to reply "Well, if Sky jumped off a bridge would you follow?", since I suspect they very well might, and instead argued, quite reasonably I thought, that Sky is a well enough known brand that they succeed in spite of such foibles rather than because of them. Still it did no good.
Times passes, and the day comes when the new sign-on is presented to our MD. The first thing he does is to try to click on the thing that shouldn't be clicked on. The marketing department looks at Mark. Mark smiles and says nothing, yet loudly radiates unmistakable "I told you so" vibes.
I think in future I need to take a new approach with the marketing department - something along the lines of "please listen to me, I actually know what I'm talking about."
May 05, 2004
Contact
I made eye contact with someone today. Probably by accident, since I tend not to court glances from strangers - usually I don't even realise they're there. Of course, in this instance, it wasn't with a complete stranger, only a near one - the misplaced gentleman I mentioned a couple of weeks ago. I still don't know where I recognised him from. And I suspect he's equally uncertain about me. But our eyes met, and he smiled at me. And come to think of it, I may even have smiled back. I might have considered stopping to talk, but given that we were traversing a busy road in opposite directions at the time there's a good chance stopping would have proved fatal.
But he smiled at me. I wonder what it all means. This whole eye-contact and smiling business is entirely too ambiguous for my liking...
May 04, 2004
A connection too far
My flatmate Kim, who also happens to own the flat, decided to install a second bathroom some time ago. The fruits of her labour (or at least the labourer she hired) have finally come to pass and the new bathroom was unveiled last week with only a minimum of hooplah. It was converted from a large cupboard which used to house, amongst other items, a laser printer connected to the network which runs throughout the flat (every home should have one). I didn't notice at first, but despite the fact the printer has gone (come to think of it, I wonder to where - it's an elephantine beast and rather hard to conceal) it turns out that the ethernet ports have been retained. Yes, that's right, our new bathroom has ethernet.
It's made slightly redundant by our wi-fi network, but I can't shake the feeling that I should be doing something with it...
Oops - Updated
I broke the comments earlier in an attempt to reduce spam. Silly me. I've swapped things around to enable the comments again, but I've no idea if this will still prevent the spam.
Time will tell...
Updated: Well, it looks as though there was a bit of a flaw in the spam reduction tool I'd installed and things still weren't working correctly. I had to hack around with some perl to fix it (my first ever perl - I feel so proud), but I believe I've got it working again. Honest. Mail me if there are any more problems...
May 03, 2004
Day three, a Canterbury tale
Well, the title rather spoils the surprise of where my grand day out of London took me, as the last part of my triumvirate of tasks for this holiday weekend. But I can never resist a good title. Why Canterbury? I'd been soliciting for ideas at work and someone suggested Canterbury. It's a name that's mentioned with fair frequency, if only because of it's most famous... hmm, I was about to say resident, but if I recall correctly his official residence is Lambeth Palace. Regardless, because of this association I'd already built up a strong mental image of what Canterbury should look like, all rolling hills and churches and cloisters, despite the fact it was a complete mystery to me. Well not a complete mystery - I knew there was a cathedral after all. As I discovered, my mental image wasn't too far from the truth - save for the rolling hills at least.
It's a picturesque little town. I'm often slightly biased when it comes to assessing the appearance of other towns and cities, since my judgement is clouded by my lifelong fondness for Edinburgh which I still regard as one of the most beautiful cities I've have the good fortune to encounter. Still, my traversals across England, few though they may, have shown me that this peculiar country is prettier than some of it's major cities might otherwise suggest. Places like Chester and Norwich, for example, are remarkably well preserved and seemed to have escaped the mass of sixties concrete architecture which plague larger cities like London and Manchester (although my bias against Manchester stems from the large chunk of it that was blown to smithereens whilst I was visiting for the first time. It went bang, loudly) and even my beloved Edinburgh. Canterbury is also reasonably unscathed. Like Chester, the center of the town is built inside of a Roman fort, the walls of which still surround it. It's a small enough town that it doesn't take long to circle the center, and it's a pleasant walk, some of which runs atop the fortress walls. You can't wander far before you notice the catherdral which dominates the skyline. Whatever my thoughts might be on religion, I still love old churches and catherdrals. Perhaps it's the reverance people show in them, tip-toeing around, speaking in hushed voices, but I suspect sheer granduer plays a large part. It's a truely imposing structure, vast in scale and ambition with the oldest part of it dating back some 900 years. It's almost impossible to imagine such a construction being undertaken today. It's a marvellous old building.
After yesterdays educational experience at the National Portrait Gallery, I was in two minds as to whether or not to sign up for the audio tour of the Catherdral. I was curious about the history of the building, but in this age of the internet such information is easily found, and I found myself enjoying simply walking around gawping. Plus it also meant that I could listen to the sepulcharal voice which periodically emanated from a tannoy . More fitting in Disneyland's Haunted Mansion than in such an ancient setting, the voice gravely intoned that it hoped everyone was enjoying themselves. The effect was rather like Eeyore morosely wishing you a good day. It also went on to recite the Lords prayer which caught me unawares and I found myself mentally repeating the lines along with it until I stopped myself. There's only a thin division between education and indoctrination, isn't there?
After the cathedral I wandered around the town for a little while, up and down cobbled streets and squares admiring the compact nature of the place. I'm far too used to the vastness of London and I can't help but think of smaller towns as being quaintly provincial. Canterbury confounded my expectations by seeming remarkably complete. It looked like a pleasant place to live, and I could picture myself merrily eeking out my days in such a setting. However, one negative thing that did occur to me in my wanderings was just how homogenised British high streets have become. This seemed highlighted in Canterbury by virtue of it's population of wonderful old gabled buildings which seem unfamiliar with the concept of right angles. They're marvelous constructions which sit wholly at odds with the high street names which infest them. They're precisely the same arrangement of shops you'd see on any high street in any part of the country. It's true that Canterbury isn't devoid of smaller shops selling more whimsical fare, but these seem to have been pushed down small alleys, further and further away from the center which is dominated by too familiar names like McDonalds, Gap and Starbucks, the latter of which incongruously borders the entrance to the cathedral. I suppose it's the nature of the beast, but I can't help but wonder what the streets would have looked like even just twenty years ago. Come to think of it, I wonder what they'll look like twenty years from now...
Anyway, enough prattle. I've had a most enjoyable weekend and I'm glad I broke out from my usual routine - I don't think I was aware just how restrictive it had become until now. It's remarkable the things we can take for granted. There's another bank holiday coming up at the end of May now. I think I can feel a trip to Paris coming on...
May 02, 2004
Day two, in which I see dead people
I bought my copy of Timeout today and discovered that it's only of limited value unless you begin with an idea of what you actually want to do. Which I didn't. I quickly discarded it and the began to wander the streets of London trying to determine what entertainments were on offer. That I'd be interested in at least - some of the entertainments are of a strictly dubious worth. An answer was quickly stumbled upon: The National Portrait Gallery. Unlikely, perhaps, to provide me with an afternoon of thrills and spills, but on the other hand it was one of the few major galleries I'd yet to visit. Plus it's free, which is always a... erm plus. I'd put off attending it following a rather negative review from my younger brother after a field trip once. If memory serves, he declared it full of paintings of dead people. Naturally that fails to do it justice. It's full of paintings of fat dead people. The heft of those sitting in many of the portraits came as something of a surprise to me. I've always imagined dead people to be, well, thinner.
That said, it was far from a waste of time. Whilst the artistic styles of many of the portraits did little for me, the small history lessons that accompanied each were more compelling. History was a subject that failed to captivate me at school. I put it down to my lack of interest in the subject, rather than the way it was taught, but I saw enough today to make me question that. Somehow simply being able to put the faces to the names made the stories behind them all the more memorable. I believe I likely learned more today about the succession of English royalty than I managed in all my years at school. But even with my new found respect for antiquity, I couldn't maintain my concentration past the late Jabobean period and I decided to make my way back to the twentieth century, pausing only to gaze upon some portraits of the current Royal family. It's may seem a strange for those of you reared outside of the UK to discover that there was a time, not so long ago, when the unveiling of a new portrait of any member of the Windsor family was something of an event, which would commandeer a seemingly disproportiate amount media coverage. Various media pundits could be guaranteed to crawl out of the woodwork to weigh in with their opinions as the artistic merits (if any, and it frequently seemed as though there weren't) of the latest works. It's been a while since this I've witnessed this happen, so I assume it's another quaint tradition that has started to slowly fade from the collective consciousness. Of course, it was also a slightly silly tradition, so I can't say I much regret it's passing. Anyway, I do recall there was a particular fuss raised over one portrait of the Queen Mother a goodly many years ago and it was this I found myself pondering. It seemed eerily familiar despite my viewing it for the first time and I couldn't help but be reminded of a portrait of my own Gran that still hangs in her old house. I think I'm fond of it for that reason if not others.
Back in the 20th century I discovered, hidden behind the Opie's and a series of Testino's, a sleeping David Beckham. Funnily enough, I'd read about this particular installation only a few days ago when it was taking up a significant number of column inches, but it had quickly passed from my mind. I can't say David Beckham is someone I'd be desperate to converse with, but he is undeniably a very beautiful man and there effect produced by being able to watch his sleeping form is both charming and intimate (if ruined slightly by a small hoard of teenaged girls...).
I wouldn't recommended NPG without reservation, since there are many other museums and galleries that I'd rate far above it, but I can't imagine where else I could have gone to discover that Ben Johnson, one of Shakespeares... um peers, bears an uncanny resemblance to a younger Tom Baker and the poet Philip Larkin could easily be mistaken for Eric Morcambe (or at least I did - promise you won't tell on me). Or to sadly note the new biography next to a photograph of Peter Ustinov, now bearing the date of his death.
But I would recommend it.