Forty Something

When I was much younger I used to read voraciously. Newspapers (proper ones, not tabloids), magazines and books. But times change. I got a computer, then a laptop, and a smart phone. I discovered RSS feeds so I could read what I wanted, rather than what an editor thought was best for me. And books started to get increasingly expensive.

This post was drafted on a three-hour journey. With a similar amount of time to kill on the way home there would have been a time when I’d have bought a paperback at the airport or station. But the selection offered by chain outlets has been going downhill steadily for years while the price has been climbing, often to the wrong side of a tenner. And even if it was pulp fiction I’ve never discarded books, for a reason I’ve never quite been able to put my finger on. I think it’s a trait shared by quite a few people who enjoy words and aren’t so houseproud they fret about shelf after shelf gathering dust.

I joined BookCrossing, thinking that might be answer both to getting back into reading and to recycling some of my volumes that really weren’t worth keeping. Plus I liked the idea of liberating a book and watching its progress around the world. Trouble was, BookCrossing didn’t have many pick-up or drop-off points that were convenient for me, so signing up was as far as I got.

And then I got given a Kindle for Christmas. The person who bought it wasn’t sure what I’d make of it and probably also liked the idea of them being able to use it as well. It was a device that I’d heard of, of course, but hadn’t really considered. I’ve never been a great fan of closed or proprietary technology (that’s caused us more than enough grief at work over the years) and I also thought of the Kindle as just being a book reader that was tied to Amazon.

It didn’t take me long to discover that with the right software it was actually quite a versatile device and content could be sourced from many places. In no small part that was thanks to some of the tech blogs I read. They spotted that Kindles were very popular gifts and ran articles about what to do with your new toy.

Like many people, I guess, I started with free books. Not because I was mean, but because I didn’t want to spend a lot of money on something that might turn out to be a short-lived novelty. And while I was getting to grips with my new gadget I wanted to test it out with files that didn’t matter too much if they got mangled or deleted.

In no time at all, I’d got the reading bug back again. The question about whether I really wanted to pack another device (my carry-on bag for flights is already almost as heavy as my checked-in luggage for a week away) plus cables, plus charger was soon answered. The USB cable’s the same as my phone’s and the Kindle’s been used (granted not really heavily yet) for nearly a month without running short of juice. Then add in the fact that it can also be used as an RSS reader, a web browser (offline too, Instapaper suddenly became much more useful) and a convenient repository of flight, car hire and local information.

Perhaps the most interesting thing, though, is that the Kindle has started me reading at times when I wouldn’t have contemplated it before. I can see why people still like conventional books. But if you are on a train or a plane without one then you don’t have any options. Now though, if I’m standing on a crowded train and getting out the Kindle (never mind the netbook) isn’t really an option I just reach for my phone. I can pick up a book where I last left it, read a few pages, and then come back to it later on the Kindle. And if I’m not in the mood for that writer I can choose something else.

So the next time someone tells you having a Kindle is not the same as owning “real” books then ask them when was the last time they had a library to choose from when they were travelling. I’ve already finished one book and am well into another, and it’s only half way trhough the month. It’s been a long long time since I’ve been able to say that I’ve read two books, if not more, in that space of time. And as I think about other ways that I might use the Kindle (this post by Bobbie Johnson, for example, is an interesting idea) I suspect that’s only the start of something bigger.

I might even be tempted to start a reviews page soon.

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Shamelessly stolen from another blog (which I can’t link to) becasue it made me laugh uproariously:

The reason C is not in the Icelandic alphabet

Iceland: Dear UK here’s the ash your requested for that Icesave claim.

Britain: WTF Iceland?!? Why did you send us volcanic ash ? Our airspace has shut down.

Iceland: What? It´s what you asked for isn´t it?

Britain: NO! Cash! Cash you dyslexic fuck. CASH!

Iceland: whoops…

To the British and Dutch governments: There is no C in the Icelandic alphabet, so when you ask for Cash, all you get is Ash…”

I’m an atheist, and really don’t like tawdry commerciality, so I don’t really do Christmas. The holiday does, though, provide a reason (if one’s needed) to hibernate and eat. If only there was a tick box for food in the religion section of the census. So, without further ado bring on the 12 plates of Christmas.

The turkey has been bought. Though it would probably be more traditional, and preferable, to have a goose.

Ditto the ham.

And the beef. So there should be some decent packed lunches to take to work next week.

Not forgetting the venison.

And there’s a couple of kilos of tiger prawns in the freezer. They’re best served a la plancha with plenty of chilli in the oil

There’s also a duck in the freezer, along with some Chinese pancakes.

Or a large jar of confit for making cassoulet.

Though it would have to be done with chorizo (cooking and eating varieties from Galicia) because there isn’t any Toulouse sausage.

But there are wild boar sausages

With Old Spot smoked back bacon for a serious breakfast

Rather than Stilton there’s a wedge of organic Caerphilly

And the Cava is chilling nicely. Cheap stuff from the supermarket for the bucks fizz, and some quality bottles brought back from Spain for dinner.

Here’s hoping you all have a good holiday.

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This is a list best presented without any further comment:

WORLD’S WORST LOVERS:

1. Germany (too smelly)

2. England (too lazy)

3. Sweden (too quick)

4. Holland (too dominating)

5. America (too rough)

6. Greece (too lovey-dovey)

7. Wales (too selfish)

8. Scotland (too loud)

9. Turkey (too sweaty)

10. Russia (too hairy)

WORLD’S BEST LOVERS

1. Spain

2. Brazil

3. Italy

4. France

5. Ireland

6. South Africa

7. Australia

8. New Zealand

9. Denmark

10. Canada

And before you ask. It’s from a survey conducted by OnePoll.com and reported in the Telegraph.

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The supermarket Spam (see previous post) must have gone down like a lead balloon, because it hasn’t been seen on the shelves since. But if you want to reminisce about its myriad delights then you can always take a peep though the hallowed portal of the Spam Museum.

No, I’m not making it up. Such a place really does exist in downtown Austin, Minnesota. There really is nothing I can add to what is written on one of the pages of their site:

It is said that within the hallowed halls of the 16,500 square foot SPAM® Museum lies the sum of all human knowledge. After all, SPAM® is the cradle of civilization. It is the ultimate culinary perfection. Within these walls, all of life’s questions will be deliciously answered.

Every SPAM™ Fan needs to make a pilgrimage to the SPAM® Museum. It is the very center of the SPAM™ universe. It is a necessary journey for anyone who loves canned meat.

Austin is home to 20,000-plus people and the HQ of Hormel Foods, and although it was the birthplace of John Madden it probably doesn’t have a great deal else to commend it. So if you’d rather munch your meat somewhere a little more exotic, then you need to head to Hawaii. For on April 25, 2009 Waikiki beach will host its 7th annual Spam Jam. As the museum site says so eloquently:

Held on one of the most beautiful and famous beaches in the world, SPAM JAM® Waikiki shows the world how much Hawaii loves SPAM®. It draws thousands of SPAM® Fans every year with SPAM™ dishes from the top restaurants in Hawaii and plenty of free entertainment. Best of all, proceeds go to help the Hawaiian Food Bank.

I’m indebted to Sandra Gurvis’s “America’s Strangest Museums”, which claims that: “If all the cans ever eaten were placed end to end they would circle the globe at least 10 times.” I think that’s definitely a contender for the “useless things you never need to know, but will now probably never forget” list.

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No, not the crud that clogs up your inbox. The other type, that’s trademarked and might, for all I know, do horrible things to your innards instead.

I like food. But I’m not a foodie. Spare me all the fads and fripperies of fine dining. And I have nothing against fast food per se. But it’s not a proper chippie unless it has a jar of pickled eggs on the counter (Do they still exist? Or did Edwina Currie kill them off?).

I can also cook. Don’t be too shocked. Some men are remarkably self-sufficient. But I digress (though I’ll return to supermarkets later).

I was browsing the shelves in search of something for supper. I know how the marketing game is played. So when I see a “New” sticker on the shelf it’s a fairly safe bet that I, and everyone else, will check it out.

And this delectable delight was….

Spam Fritters.

So retro chip-shop food is suddenly metro hip? How long before we see a special offer? Buy two packs, get a mini-sized jar of pickled eggs free.

What really shocked me, though, wasn’t the idea. But the price. £1.98 for four slices that looked like they could have been cut from one of those small cans (people of a certain age will know what size tins luncheon meat used to be sold in) with something to spare. Is Spam really that expensive these days? Or will metro hip folk really pay through the nose for anything (The packaging was miserable, without even the slightest reference to its retro roots)?

Were it not for the fact that I’m off to the provinces this weekend I might be watching the “reduced to clear” shelves to try to get a measure of how many people did succumb to the other Spam.

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I like dogs. If circumstances allowed, I’d like to have a dog again. But since that isn’t practical I have to limit myself to admiring them from afar.

The route to work passes through a park (one of the few things the local council does well) which is understandably popular with two- and four-legged walkers.

An owner stands, tossing a well-chewed tennis ball from hand to hand. A black labrador watches, tail wagging expectantly. It’s obvious what’s going to happen next. Or is it?

The ball is hurled off into the distance. The tail wags a little faster. The labrador’s head moves slightly, following the ball’s arc through the air, looking for the exact spot it will land.

The ball bounces. Once, twice. Still the dog does not set off in pursuit. The ball trickles to a halt and at last the labrador moves. By all of a couple of steps to settle itself in the sun, stretching out to gnaw on the stick it had been carrying.

The owner looks bemused and then trudges off to retrieve the ball. This time it’s their turn to fetch.

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If I walk to work it takes about 15 minutes longer than getting the train. It’s time well spent. Not only do I avoid the charms of commuting in a crowd, it also helps to keep me reasonably fit.

The only slight drawback is when, like last night, a sudden shower catches you mid-journey. It was fierce enough to force me to take shelter for a while. But the delay brought its own reward. Sighting a double rainbow made getting a little damp around the edges more than worthwhile.

And as the squall cleared as fast as it had arrived, the sunset was quite impressive as well. What’s that cliché about every cloud…

The pictures were taken on my phone, so aren’t brilliant. But they’re a pleasant reminder that I must get into the habit of keeping my little digital camera in my jacket pocket.

   

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Do people insist on Stilton being part of the festive feast?

Isn’t that just soooo predictable?

But then I do have this rather wonderful piece of Caerphilly that I’m not going to be able to keep my hands off much longer…

Any connection between this post and Borough Market is purely co-incidental.

(Best wishes to [almost] all. And humbugs to the [few] others)

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The Best of the Flying Pickets is on the CD player. Now I’m really showing my age (or my taste)

Not quite as good as “Live at the Deptford Albany” which I might still have on vinyl somewhere.

But great memories.

Which reminds me. I’ve still got unfinished business to deal with. Waves to h, who’s undoubtedly still lurking out there somewhere.

Until then, the rest of the Greenwich and Docklands International Festival beckons.

Now I’m not really into dance and ballet and stuff. But if you do make it to the “O2 Dome that was” on Sunday then look out for Les Ballets Grooms, who are really rather good.

And you don’t need any excuse to watch night fall over the gardens of the old naval college at Greenwich.

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The number of photos I’ve taken since arriving in Venice a shade under a week ago.

A few can be seen here.

But, more importantly, since I’m not returning home until the end of the week.

Does anyone know the Italian for: “What’s your best price on an external 250Mb hard drive mate?”

Because of Ryanair‘s stinginess with their baggage allowance, I left the big Lacie at home.

Steve (somewhere near San Marcuola)

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I’ve just discovered that I’m one of the runners-up in the Urban Living photography competition.

See here.

It’s not a picture that I’ve got on here, but if you know me then you should be able to work out which one is mine.

I recognise the name of one of the other runners-up as a professional heavyweight who contributes to Getty, so I’m in pretty hallowed company.

I’m a happy snapper!

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I went to Canvey Island of my own free will.

Worse than that, I have to admit that I really rather enjoyed it. Is that twisted or what?

In the right light, the place does have a certain je ne sais quoi. Quite what, though, is another matter.

Or as the natives would say: “Pretty. Innit.”

Now that IS shocking!

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Or do you need a little help from those bronzed surfer bois Down Under???

Take a look at http://news.yahoo.com/s/nm/20061102/od_nm/australia_underwear_dc_1

Don’t all rush at once. I want first dibs on the UK franchise.

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Last year I was besieged by trick or treaters. A never-ending procession of them trooping up the path to the front door. Not that I really minded, but it would have been good to be able to put my feet up for an hour and chill. At one stage it was so busy that it seemed that they were working in relays. I’m sure I saw the same masks and costumes more than once. Were they popping round the corner and swapping outfits with their mates so they could work in relays?

So this year I was prepared. The fruit bowl was full of sweets (candies to our linguistically-challenged friends from across the pond who were, I believe, responsible for the trick or treat palaver in the first place) and strategically placed. And what happened? Almost nothing. One visit from two very sheepish looking ghouls, who seemed surprised when I told them to take another handful if they wanted.

So the chocolate supply was barely touched. Quality Street anyone? And what happened to Penny for the Guy?

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And it’s official.

According to someone who knows about these things, when one has a night on the Toon, one should go out or come home with a partner who has two legs. Whether the former or the latter or both seems to depend on the copious consumption of strange beverages of mysterious colours.

Me? My companion had three legs. And I went to bed alone, having drunk a mere two pints of lager.

Which seemed to cause much mirth at the strange things us southerners get up to.

But a tripod does help keep the camera steady, and I did come home with these and these. And there are more!

I may be sad but I don’t care

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While clearing out my inbox I came across this. It dates back to last year, if not before and I think it may have originated (in part at least) from the Washington Post‘s Style Invitational. I thought it was good enough to save somewhere:

1. Cashtration (n.): The act of buying a house, which renders the subject financially impotent for an indefinite period.

2. Ignoranus: A person who’s both stupid and an asshole.

3. Intaxication: Euphoria at getting a tax refund, which lasts until you realize it was your money to start with.

4. Reintarnation: Coming back to life as a hillbilly.

5. Bozone (n.): The substance surrounding stupid people that stops bright ideas from penetrating. The bozone layer, unfortunately, shows little sign of breaking down in the near future.

6. Foreploy: Any misrepresentation about yourself for the purpose of getting laid.

7. Giraffiti: Vandalism spray-painted very, very high.

8. Sarchasm: The gulf between the author of sarcastic wit and the person who doesn’t get it.

9. Inoculatte: To take coffee intravenously when you are running late.

10. Hipatitis: Terminal coolness.

11. Osteopornosis: A degenerate disease.

12. Karmageddon: Its like, when everybody is sending off all these really bad vibes, right? And then, like, the Earth explodes and it’s like, a serious bummer man.

13. Decafalon (n.): The grueling event of getting through the day consuming only things that are good for you.

14. Glibido: All talk and no action.

15. Dopeler effect: The tendency of stupid ideas to seem smarter when they come at you rapidly.

16. Arachnoleptic fit (n.): The frantic dance performed just after you’ve accidentally walked through a spider web.

17. Beelzebug (n.): Satan in the form of a mosquito, that gets into your bedroom at three in the morning and cannot be cast out.

18. Caterpallor (n.): The color you turn after finding half a worm in the fruit you’re eating.

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I suspect this has already done the rounds of people’s inboxes, but even though I’m not religious it made me smile…

In the year 2006, the Lord came unto Noah, who was now living in England and said, “Once again, the earth has become wicked and over-populated, and I see the end of all flesh before me.

“Build another Ark and save two of every living thing along with a few good humans.”

He gave Noah the CAD drawings, saying, “You have 6 months to build the Ark before I will start the unending rain for 40 days and 40 nights.”

Six months later, the Lord looked down and saw Noah weeping in his yard but no Ark.

“Noah!” he roared, “I’m about to start the rain! Where is the Ark?”

“Forgive me, Lord,” begged Noah, “but things have changed. I needed building regulations approval. I’ve been arguing with the fire brigade about the need for a sprinkler system. My neighbours claim that I should have obtained planning permission for building the Ark in my garden because it is development of the site even though in my view it is a temporary structure. We had to go to appeal to the Secretary of State for a decision.

“Then the Department of Transport demanded a bond be posted for the future costs of moving power lines and other overhead obstructions, to clear the passage for the Ark’s move to the sea. I told them that the sea would be coming to us, but they would hear nothing of it.

“Getting the wood was another problem. All the decent trees have tree preservation orders on them and we live in a Site Of Special Scientific Interest set up in order to protect the spotted owl. I tried to convince the environmentalists that I needed the wood to save the owls – but no go!

“When I started gathering the animals, the RSPCA sued me. They insisted that I was confining wild animals against their will. They argued the accommodation was too restrictive, and it was cruel and inhumane to put so many animals in a confined space.

“Then the county council, the Environment Agency and the Rivers Authority ruled that I couldn’t build the Ark until they’d conducted an environmental impact study on your proposed flood.

“I’m still trying to resolve a complaint with the Equal Opportunities Commission on how many BMEs I’m supposed to mire for my building team. The trades unions say I can’t use my sons. They insist I have to hire only CSCS accredited workers with Ark-building experience.

“To make matters worse, Customs and Excise seized all my assets, claiming I’m trying to leave the country illegally with endangered species.

“So, forgive me, Lord, but it would take at least 10 years for me to finish this Ark.”

Suddenly the skies cleared, the sun began to shine, and a rainbow stretched across the sky. Noah looked up in wonder and asked: “You mean you’re not going to destroy the world?”

“No,” said the Lord. “The government beat me to it.”

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Beaulieu, Buckler’s Hard, Boldre, Hatchet Pond, Frame Heath Inclosure, Brockenhurst.

Two deer (a pleasant surprise since I expected them to be deep in the thickets in this weather), a swan fussing over her brood of six (growing nicely but still in the fluffy cotton-wool ball stage) while her mate gave a dog that dared to paddle in the shallows very short shrift (wonders idly if swans and geese were the originators of hissy fits?). A pony with a still spindly foal at heel. Assorted wabbits…

And did you know that Hythe Pier (a novel way to arrive in the New Forest) is the seventh longest in Britain? No nor did I before today. Which makes me think that there must be a lot of piddling piers dotted around the country.

I was going to use part of this weekend to catch up on the backlog of mails and replies I owe people. But you’ll have to forgive me if your mailbox remains empty. Because if I don’t get too stiff overnight (no sniggering at the back please) I’m tempted by more of the same tomorrow. Exbury Gardens then along the coast to Lepe and Calshot perhaps.

A wise old bird (she’ll probably hate me for the “old” bit but it scans better that way) said something this week that made me think. It was actually in connection with something else, but the key thought was: it’s important to make the time and the space to discover what you want and need.

That, and a subsequent conversation down the pub, set me thinking. And, as I think I’ve said before, I always seem to do my best thinking when I go walking. Which sounds like rather a good reason (if any were needed) to go walking again tomorrow.

And what did I think about while walking today? Apart from the above, bugger all! It was too nice a day to do anything other than kick back and enjoy. There’s a lot to be said for chilling in the sun.

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An acquaintance remarked: “Walking in the rain holds little appeal apart from the coffee stops in some sheltered area.”

Nor for me as a rule (and I prefer tea to coffee). If it had been raining when I got up I wouldn’t have bothered. I’m not inclined to be a masochist.

The rain didn’t start until I got to the seafront in Eastbourne. It was no more than a few drops in the wind at that stage so it seemed a good excuse to put the new ultra-lightweight anorak to the test. I’d bought it for exactly that sort of situation; to be stuffed in a corner of the rucksack in case of unexpected summer showers.

By the time I’d gone the length of the beach the weather wasn’t getting any worse, so I thought: “Sod it, I’ve come all this way. I might as well at least do Beachy Head. If it gets seriously worse I can always get the bus back from there.”

And by the time I got there my mood had changed. Not only because I’d left Eastbourne behind (there was something more than faintly depressing about the place) but also becasue although the weather wasn’t wonderful I was enjoying myself.

If you don’t go walking it’s hard to explain. But there’s something wonderfully elemental about standing in the wind under a glowering sky. The turf had that soft spring in it, the jacket was holding up (I didn’t get much more than a bit damp around the edges all day) and it just seemed too good an opportunity to waste.

The sun is shining and my legs don’t feel too bad, so I think another stretch of the Thames beckons.

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