Poor old Steve Martin; he was a friend of mine. Common name leading to misunderstanding, I bet he had that all his adult life. Died at 50 at a birthday party, died in the arms of his wife before she could resuscitate him. Died before he had a chance to sort out the things he was meant to finish, meant to say, meant to start; steam coming off tea cups, half-eaten biscuits and crosswords with the ink still wet.
Funny thing, the word 'friend'. I knew Steve and liked him, he was honest and friendly and entusiastic about those things that mattered to him. But I didn't know his family or background; my opinions formed solely on the meetings I had with him and the things he helped me with. Was he my friend? He was someone I regarded, someone I am sorry to have to mourn. Someone too young and too nice to have that happen.
I do think about mortality, but there's no point in dwelling and scaring myself. If fate exists, which it doesn't, then we're all just milling round the meat counter waiting for our ticket number to pop up on the screen. If fate exists, it's Winner Stays On. Rock paper scissors being played in a dark room over the phone, with no participant knowing the rules. In essence - rubbish.
True, we may make our own luck, but really we just make our own opportunities and the more there are, the more chances for good luck. We may as well just make ourselves happy while we're here, do right by those we love, like and regard.
So here's to you, Steve Martin. Dead at 50, missed and well regarded. A legacy in itself.
Friday, 18 June 2010
Tuesday, 8 June 2010
Random pictures #2
Garden at sunset, 2045 8/6/10
Sausage, mash and onion gravy. 2030 9/6/10
The fair arrives in town. 1600 10/6/10
Dog n ball. 1950 11/6/10
World Cup night. 2130 12/6/10
Some randy pigeon mating action on the lawn. 1945 14/6/10
Worrying name for a men's product? 2245 15/6/10
Was lucky enough to see this today - a terrific piece of art by Stephen Walter called 'the London Island'. Entirely drawn by pencil, it's six feet across and has unbelievable detail. I saw the original in a building I was working in. 1430 16/6/10
St Pauls from Friday St. 1400 16/6/10
Big ugly traffic jam, M2. 1800 17/6/10
BT Tower from Goodge St. 1330 18/6/10
Makeshift office... At least it's childproof. 1700 21/6/10
Being a good boss, we rigged up the internal tv network to show the football. 1458 23/6/10
Messy garden, badly behaved dog and paddling pool. 1945 25/6/10
Way to relax. 2030 26/6/10
Mimi had enough of the party and the heat. 1600 27/6/10
Bacon, sausage and cheese baguette. Anti- health food. 1030 30/6/10
A picture a day
I have decided that I am going to try and take a single photo every day for a year, and upload them as I go. There is no particular reason for this, other than I think it would be a nice detailed record of a year ‘in the life of’. Not that I consider that a year in the life of me would be remotely interesting to anyone other than me; and even I struggle with it sometimes. However, I’m sure the addition of technicolour wobbly phone pictures will turn it into award-winning literary excellence.
My general remit is just to take a picture of something, anything, which I encounter on that day. I will try not to repeat myself, try not to try too hard and try not to get all up in my own importance and become a dick. Each picture may or may not have an explanation or a title. I’m sure it’s neither original nor particularly exciting, but it’s something I haven’t tried and so I’ll kick it off and see how far I get.
Knowing me as I do, I give it a month.
A FORTNIGHT! I l LASTED TWO WEEKS. I AM SHIT AT WILLPOWER.
My general remit is just to take a picture of something, anything, which I encounter on that day. I will try not to repeat myself, try not to try too hard and try not to get all up in my own importance and become a dick. Each picture may or may not have an explanation or a title. I’m sure it’s neither original nor particularly exciting, but it’s something I haven’t tried and so I’ll kick it off and see how far I get.
Knowing me as I do, I give it a month.
A FORTNIGHT! I l LASTED TWO WEEKS. I AM SHIT AT WILLPOWER.
My i-less iPad
I ordered a new notebook today. Not a shiny, whirring Windows machine with too many acronyms and numbers in its name, but an actual pile of paper with some tape and glue holding the leaves together. Original, eh?
Years ago, I tried the abomination of the Filofax, an organization system that took more organizing than the disorganized areas of my life it claimed to be able to actually organise. Ironically, I used more pages writing things like “buy more Filofax pages” than anything else. It was the paper-based equivalent of an abusive relationship; a self-perpetuating reminder to fuel the Filofax’s own greed and narcissism. Recently, I tried to make full use of the functions on my iPhone, by introducing my busy social life to its calendar. A quick review (it is now June) shows my last activity of note to be in late April – a football match – and prior to that, March. Can that be right? Is there an ethereal Steve Jobs clone somewhere hacking into my Apple calendar and drawing the conclusion that I am socially retarded and incapable of planning even the merest of objectives? No ‘do shopping’ or ‘get laundry’ (although that last one would mainly consist of asking the wife nicely), not even a ‘birthday’ or ‘anniversary’? Not so much an indictment on my social life as it is on my data entry skills -that makes me feel so much better.
At work my Outlook calendar holds mysterious, colourful banners bearing the legends ‘management meeting’ or ‘monthly update call’, all coded into rows in nice colours dictated by a notional Microsoft-defined category that we all conform to. Is the Christmas break really classed as a ‘birthday’ to an atheist? In my Outlook-land it is, and to hell with the consequences. D’you see what I did there?
My guilty secret is that, much as I am proud of my coloured tiles and precise timings, I actually only do it that nicely because I know other people look at it. No, I’m afraid that my life depends on my notebook (the wood pulp kind) and the very disorganized scribblings therein. They are sometimes cryptic, with a half-life measured in days before they become irrelevant even to me. I am tempted to ring some of the numbers just to find out who is on the other end – speed dating for contractors and managers.
In my current book, I have planned a house move, new kitchen, new garage, a child, a racing car, one Lithuanian Navy destroyer and a Lifeboat. Quite apart from the work meeting notes, actions and ringed email addresses, there are scattered references to train times, resistors, disciplinary hearings, puff pastry, funerals, spice racks and a fish tank. A tidy mind is a healthy mind, apparently; if the same is true of notebooks, will someone please page Doctor Legg?
Years ago, I tried the abomination of the Filofax, an organization system that took more organizing than the disorganized areas of my life it claimed to be able to actually organise. Ironically, I used more pages writing things like “buy more Filofax pages” than anything else. It was the paper-based equivalent of an abusive relationship; a self-perpetuating reminder to fuel the Filofax’s own greed and narcissism. Recently, I tried to make full use of the functions on my iPhone, by introducing my busy social life to its calendar. A quick review (it is now June) shows my last activity of note to be in late April – a football match – and prior to that, March. Can that be right? Is there an ethereal Steve Jobs clone somewhere hacking into my Apple calendar and drawing the conclusion that I am socially retarded and incapable of planning even the merest of objectives? No ‘do shopping’ or ‘get laundry’ (although that last one would mainly consist of asking the wife nicely), not even a ‘birthday’ or ‘anniversary’? Not so much an indictment on my social life as it is on my data entry skills -that makes me feel so much better.
At work my Outlook calendar holds mysterious, colourful banners bearing the legends ‘management meeting’ or ‘monthly update call’, all coded into rows in nice colours dictated by a notional Microsoft-defined category that we all conform to. Is the Christmas break really classed as a ‘birthday’ to an atheist? In my Outlook-land it is, and to hell with the consequences. D’you see what I did there?
My guilty secret is that, much as I am proud of my coloured tiles and precise timings, I actually only do it that nicely because I know other people look at it. No, I’m afraid that my life depends on my notebook (the wood pulp kind) and the very disorganized scribblings therein. They are sometimes cryptic, with a half-life measured in days before they become irrelevant even to me. I am tempted to ring some of the numbers just to find out who is on the other end – speed dating for contractors and managers.
In my current book, I have planned a house move, new kitchen, new garage, a child, a racing car, one Lithuanian Navy destroyer and a Lifeboat. Quite apart from the work meeting notes, actions and ringed email addresses, there are scattered references to train times, resistors, disciplinary hearings, puff pastry, funerals, spice racks and a fish tank. A tidy mind is a healthy mind, apparently; if the same is true of notebooks, will someone please page Doctor Legg?
Monte Carlo and bust...
In project and financial management, there exists a set of sums called the Monte Carlo Simulation. This is an Excel spreadsheet that takes a set of expected minimum and maximum figures for a project, applies a sort of ’randomiser’ and produces a figure where the variables have been taken into account. Neat trick – a fruit machine or a magic 8-ball to work out how much money we are going to spend. Forget surveyors, estimators, management techniques; use a random number generator to come up with a number, and bill the client that. Easy.
In fact, why not tape lots of footage of the Lottery and simply come up with a number based on Lotto balls, where the first number is somewhere within your ‘scientifically devised’ parameters? Alternatively, feed teeny tiny numbered balls the size of corn to pigeons and come up with a number by wiping guano from the pavement of Trafalgar Square. Or a system of tattooed piglets being chased by a particularly hungry and vicious gypsy mob. Or a giant numbered dart board in the shape of Jack Tweed’s face that various strangers get to sneeze or gob on. Closest to the rapist’s mouth wins a prize. It could be a new fairground attraction, or a Channel 5 game show.
I digress. Do we really need to rely on Bill Gates farting random numbers to work out how much our buildings will cost? Is our construction industry forever indebted to Microsoft or controlled by its unerring accuracy? Instead, I suggest a new system. Each project is given a specific figure to work to (let’s call it a ‘budget’) and makes it happen for that. Special personnel are employed to manage that ‘budget’ and make it work – if they don’t, they are sacked. Innovative, eh? On the other hand, we could input all our project figures into Excel and it randomly produce where the bill gets sent. That could prove interesting, and no more scientific or reliable than guesstimating the numbers.
In fact, why not tape lots of footage of the Lottery and simply come up with a number based on Lotto balls, where the first number is somewhere within your ‘scientifically devised’ parameters? Alternatively, feed teeny tiny numbered balls the size of corn to pigeons and come up with a number by wiping guano from the pavement of Trafalgar Square. Or a system of tattooed piglets being chased by a particularly hungry and vicious gypsy mob. Or a giant numbered dart board in the shape of Jack Tweed’s face that various strangers get to sneeze or gob on. Closest to the rapist’s mouth wins a prize. It could be a new fairground attraction, or a Channel 5 game show.
I digress. Do we really need to rely on Bill Gates farting random numbers to work out how much our buildings will cost? Is our construction industry forever indebted to Microsoft or controlled by its unerring accuracy? Instead, I suggest a new system. Each project is given a specific figure to work to (let’s call it a ‘budget’) and makes it happen for that. Special personnel are employed to manage that ‘budget’ and make it work – if they don’t, they are sacked. Innovative, eh? On the other hand, we could input all our project figures into Excel and it randomly produce where the bill gets sent. That could prove interesting, and no more scientific or reliable than guesstimating the numbers.
I have a cannonball...
I have a cannonball in my garage; a huge, rusted, iron ball the size of a football. I acquired it when Claire was gardening, she took it as a gift "so long as you carry it". It's a very odd thing to own, a cannonball, and I don't suppose it is something many people today have got.
It does beg the question "why is it in your garage?" when it is absolutely the most cumbersome and useless thing one could have for a trinket; well, I am fascinated by it. It's a cannonball, for goodness sake!
It was apparently dredged up from the Thames estuary some years ago and ended up as a curio in a pensioner's garden, from whence it was liberated and cleaned up by yours truly. It is devoid of markings (do weapons of mass destruction carry logos - 'this dirty bomb is brought to you by B&Q'?) so I can only speculate how old it might be and where it was made. Indeed, is it friendly? Is it a piece of foreign ordnance used for nefarious and violent purposes against the Empire?
I don't think I've ever had anything with the history and mystery surrounding it that this has; if it is genuine (and I don't believe you can buy modern fake cannonballs on eBay) then it is at least 175 years old and possibly very much more. It was obviously fired from somewhere to somewhere either in test, jest or anger, but from where and by whom we will never know. Did some French powder monkey with a life expectancy measured in weeks load it into a huge weapon designed and intended to kill jolly Jack Tars with hearts of Oak? Did a drunken sailor lob it over the side or drop it? Was it cast by Royal Ordnance to test a new device?
It is the most purposeful and obvious object, in that it was only ever made for one thing - firing from a BFO gun. But it is absolutely pointless now, could not and would not be used in any modern context. Made in an age where it was ubiquitous, surviving in an age where it is utterly pointless. It tells us so little in it's physical form.
It does beg the question "why is it in your garage?" when it is absolutely the most cumbersome and useless thing one could have for a trinket; well, I am fascinated by it. It's a cannonball, for goodness sake!
It was apparently dredged up from the Thames estuary some years ago and ended up as a curio in a pensioner's garden, from whence it was liberated and cleaned up by yours truly. It is devoid of markings (do weapons of mass destruction carry logos - 'this dirty bomb is brought to you by B&Q'?) so I can only speculate how old it might be and where it was made. Indeed, is it friendly? Is it a piece of foreign ordnance used for nefarious and violent purposes against the Empire?
I don't think I've ever had anything with the history and mystery surrounding it that this has; if it is genuine (and I don't believe you can buy modern fake cannonballs on eBay) then it is at least 175 years old and possibly very much more. It was obviously fired from somewhere to somewhere either in test, jest or anger, but from where and by whom we will never know. Did some French powder monkey with a life expectancy measured in weeks load it into a huge weapon designed and intended to kill jolly Jack Tars with hearts of Oak? Did a drunken sailor lob it over the side or drop it? Was it cast by Royal Ordnance to test a new device?
It is the most purposeful and obvious object, in that it was only ever made for one thing - firing from a BFO gun. But it is absolutely pointless now, could not and would not be used in any modern context. Made in an age where it was ubiquitous, surviving in an age where it is utterly pointless. It tells us so little in it's physical form.
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