Test your intellect and endurance

Previous gap in transmission due to our - by now - mandatory attendance at the twenty-first Hay-on-Wye Festival, described by an earlier speaker, Bill Clinton, as "the Woodstock of the Mind". No technology but plenty of adult grist. Professor Steve Jones on how the theory of evolution will apply in the future, Gore Vidal being silkily provocative (Q: Mr Vidal, what message have you for today's youth? A: Grow up! (long pause) It's inevitable), Christopher Hitchens continuing his jousts with God, and Professor Richard Holmes showing how history should be taught with a masterly address on Marlborough.

I'd urge everyone to attend Hay at least once but, alas, this recommendation comes with a monstrous caveat. Hay, just over the border in Wales, is in the lee of the Black Mountains and enjoys its own micro-climate. Perhaps "enjoys" is not the right word. Last year's Hay was run at the same time as a Test Match (that's cricket for our foreign readers) which experienced the dubious distinction of the coldest day in the history of Test Matches. This year I have only seen rain heavier at RAF Changi on the island of Singapore. Also, Hay is a tented festival and when you're not being frozen and/or drowned you're straining to hear what's being said against the uproar from hurricane-blasted canvas. It can also be warm.

But as Michelin says: Il vaut le voyage.

Bouncing better than being bruised

Long ago when I was less aware of my own mortality I used to go rock-climbing. During that period climbing technology took a giant step forward.

Previously climbers had been linked by hemp rope, a material better suited to public hangings than sport. To achieve the strength required to hold a falling leader, hemp needed to be quite thick. Thus heavy. Since it was absorbent rain made it heavier. Hemp also deteriorated although it was hard to spot the evidence of this. It tangled easily.

Once nylon climbing rope became available in the early fifties I imagine most hemp rope was converted into oakum. Nylon was stronger per millimetre diameter, didn't absorb water, did not deteriorate and was less prone to tangling. And it had one further special quality. A long fall arrested by hemp rope often bruised the climber's waist. But nylon stretched!

Which was kinder when you fell but alarming when you stepped down on to the rock face to begin an abseil (eg, see the indented clipart).

All this and a closer view of Saturn

The most beautiful place in the world (Sorry, San Francisco... Lot Valley... Brecon Beacons... Banff national park... Zermatt... Goat Tarn... etc, etc) is unimaginatively labelled Port Underwood Sound on the east coast of New Zealand's South Island. No competition, I'm afraid. Imagine a fiord defined by tree-covered cliffs, a sea surface broken into a dozen colours, a tendency towards violently pink dawns, huge skies, smooth lichen-covered rocks that predate time and the type of silence that can only be bought from real remoteness.

Access is via 25 km of unsealed roads and a notice discourages those towing caravans. Caravans! How about anything other than four-wheel-drive?

It also proved to be a dream destination for this techie enthusiast. Our B&B hosts were former Americans, now naturalised Kiwis, who'd built their own beautiful - and beautifully functioning - house overlooking the Sound. He now sculpted animals in pewter but before that had designed Formula One and Indy cars for Mario Andretti, Mark Donohoe and others.

Pan-fried terahiki was accompanied by Cloudy Bay sauvignon blanc. Then we stepped on to the balcony and inspected Saturn through his powerful telescope. Gradually the earth's rotation caused the planet's image to ease itself out of the viewfinder. Hmmm.

I wonder what's behind this door?

Does this label mean anything to you: “Track changes”? Or this one: “Online collaboration. (Meet Now. Web discussions)” ?*

If so you’ve delved more deeply than I have into Microsoft Word’s “functionality” (I love the IT business. Never use one syllable when you can use five). But which of us belongs to the majority?

I think there’s an unwritten rule about software development. As version follows version more features are added and they’re used by fewer and fewer people. The aim must surely be to add a feature which no one uses. But it mustn’t be useless. The rule is it must be (a) unexpected, and (b) almost impossible to define under Help. The equivalent of the programmer shouting down a well and hearing echoes of applause from other programmers in recognition of the purity of his achievement.

Not that I’m complaining about Word. I wouldn’t be without it. In fact I have a sneaking suspicion I couldn’t be without it. What I don’t need is its next – and here’s another one of those written blurs – iteration.

* If you’re curious, they’re under Tools.

Blazing inferno a source of joy

The electric stove in our rented house in Pittsburgh was quite old. One day ceramic insulation broke away from a hob coil, exposing the bare wire. A multi-amp arc leaped from the wire and punched a hole in the base of the frying pan. Oil in the pan ignited and set alight the wooden kitchen cabinets.

My wife told our two daughters to leave the house, closed the door on the inferno, retrieved the cat who - awkward as ever – was basking somewhere unexpected and left the house to await eventualities.

I was elsewhere at the time and had chance to reflect. Yes, I’d have attended to our daughters, yes I’d have closed the kitchen door… but the cat? Upstairs I had a half-written novel in MS. Happily we’ll never know.

The fire was confined to the kitchen and the landlord had us cooking again within twenty-four hours. When he installed new cabinets he paid for us to eat out. US landlords were like that.

The wrecked pyromaniacal stove was put at the end of the driveway and my older daughter had the inexpressible delight of seeing it slung into the back of the garbage truck and crushed as flat as a pizza by the truck’s powerful jaws. She told me this with shining eyes that evening. I was glad. The tiny publishing company I was working for was “going down the toobs” and we were short of money for things like family entertainment. Ah the benefits of technology!

A journey to the middle of the patient

These days hospitals explain but do not show. The Comfortingly Maternal nurse told me my throat would be anaesthetised "with a lemon-flavoured spray". The guy who was going to do the work, and who seemed younger than the average 125 cc racing motorcyclist, said the anaesthetic "would taste of lemons". When the spray nozzle was inches away the Comfortingly Maternal nurse reminded me to expect "lemons".

Informational overkill on the local which tasted like aloes. But not a sight of the endoscope. A shame. Hospital equipment is always superbly fit-for-purpose and comes in authoritative stainless steel. Also an endoscope has a neat little joystick so that the viewing head can be rotated... well, deep down.

I submitted to a procedure which could be likened to a course on sword-swallowing but without the theatricals. The joystick manipulator chatted to an aide, mercifully not about soccer, and I imagined myself stripped to the waist, wearing ballooning red silk trousers, standing on the stage and raising a World War One bayonet high above my head. Shaved armpits! Yes, they would be a must.

The endoscope appeared to print out results automatically. Mine said, in effect, that if terra australis incognita existed it remained incognita. I resented not seeing proof of the trip the endoscope had made. Hadn't I provided the venue? Pregnant women get to view their babies courtesy of ultrasound. Why not a DVD for endoscopees?

TECHNO-ART For a perfect example of technology metamorphosing into art, go to Marja-Leena's website (http://marja-leena-rathje.info/). Under Photoworks click on Found Objects. There, on a beach, is the remains of a car over which a thousand tides have washed. The photos give new meaning to the word bio-degradable. In another twenty years the car will be gone but in the interim there is a tug-of-war between the forces of corrosion and the engineered details of this most typical of man-made structures. Aesthetics is winning. The straight-line members of the chassis are softening into irregular shapes. The gearbox has become a blob, parts of which seem to be carved from soft stone. Only the steering mechanism still proclaims its earlier function but its defiance is clearly doomed. Compared with the slam-bang speed with which the car was put together its decay is much more long-term and therefore strangely poignant. The sea wins.

TECHNO-ART Easily my favourite TV viewing in the sixties was a fictional series called "The Plane Makers". Just that, a British company engaged in manufacturing passenger - later military - planes and a perfect vehicle for the chunky, pugnacious actor, Patrick Wymark, who played the MD. I left Britain for the USA in 1965 and the series continued for a year or two after. When I returned I paid a tourist visit to Highgate Cemetery and came upon Patrick Wymark's grave. I was sorry he had died but pleased he had passed into this particular version of Valhalla.

On reflection, "The Plane Makers" was less about manufacturing and more about the business of manufacturing. But that doesn't really matter. It's closer to real life. A plane that is manufactured but not sold can hardly be said to have existed.