José, can you see....!

Didn’t post yesterday for reasons that become apparent if you click on:

http://bestofnow.blogspot.com/2008/11/portrait-election-celebration.html

So, late in the day, what can technology contribute to the emotions running through the blogs I’m most familiar with? We could imagine a Linn hi-fi chain (Expensive but the best) playing a familiar piece of Beethoven and blasting out those childish but heart-breaking words Diesen Kuss der ganzen Welt although I always thought it was fur rather than der.

Fireworks? They’d be good, except I’m ignorant about their creation. I do know the constituents of gunpowder (charcoal, sulphur, saltpetre) but not the amounts. Now there’s a future post: an attack on those oh-so-blasé culinary experts with their esoteric “handfuls”, “pinches” and “soupcons.

Booze (by which I mean anything alcoholic). The obvious grape for toasting Obama is, of course, pinot noir. Its peculiarities previously limited it to the vineyards of Burgundy but now everyone’s at it. California (If you haven’t seen Sideways try, try and rectify that emission), Chile and – especially – New Zealand have all done marvellously and, alas, proved that no one can do burgundy like Burgundy can.

Physiology. When I first managed half a mile of continuous crawl several years ago I left the pool feeling as if my arteries were pumping Alka-Seltzer. “It’s the endorphins,” explained my wife. Dunno what they are but endorphins and Obama go together.

Most watch but who remembers?

Each day my eyes observe two minutes of minor theatricals which, once over, are instantly forgotten. Given my druthers (splendid Pittsburgh idiom) I’d resume my book but my wife insists. Then she too forgets what has been disclosed. I am talking about the weather forecast which follows the late TV news.

It should interest me. It’s based on technology, measurements and science. I assume those frequently mentioned isobars are notional lines linking points of equal barometric pressure and they allow somebody, not me, to analyse what’s going on in The Great Invisible. When isobars are close together it’s going to blow. But why? And do I care?

The French TV weather forecasts are similarly choreographed but the announcers do it at 400 words a minute. With one other difference: they tell you what saint’s day it is.

Britain, whatever the moaners say, is a temperate country and as Robert Robinson of Stop the week fame said: tomorrow’s weather will be like today’s but slightly different. When I first got to the USA in early January I heard a forecast with two salient points: there’d been 103 in. of snow in Oswego, NY, and the temperature in International Falls, Minnesota, was minus 47 deg. Now that’s weather!

However there are circumstances when my meteorological atheism becomes faith-based and that’s at sea. The super-condensed information (with its evocative regions) takes on a liturgical tone with implications of life and death. For light relief I’ve been known to listen to it a second time, in French, just to hear peu perturbé repeated over and over.

Maltreating Mozart is a capital offence

Richard Dawkins (Professor Satan as creationists would have him) has retired from the Chair of Public Understanding of Science at Oxford and will be succeeded by Marcus du Sautoy. Mathematician follows biologist.

As if making his CV public de Sautoy has just completed a four-part series The History of Maths on BBC4 which left me with mixed feelings. Television has popularised “dumbing down” but here was a rare example of “clevering up”. And I’m not talking about such brain-crackers as the Riemann Hypothesis.

Earlier du Sautoy paid tribute to work done in the Arab world, China and India (plus Greece of course) on the basics of geometry and algebra. The trouble is he was just too damned quick. There was something about base number systems which he illustrated with pebbles and you’d have thought he was doing the three-card confidence trick. With fifteen seconds on the subject I might have grasped it; given only ten I was lost.

Will du Sautoy be less controversial than his predecessor? I’m not too sure. Parts of the maths series were backed by classical music which isn’t a crime in itself. But it’s one thing to accompany Newton’s fluxions with Bach counterpoint (there’s plenty of it to go around) but it’s quite another to use the initial duet from Figaro as musical wallpaper. Yes I know Figaro was measuring up (Geddit?) his bed but with music like that you’re inclined to attend to the background not the foreground. Next time, Marcus, use some forgettable rock.

Living in the future's an advantage

Does this theory grab you?

Imagine the day computers were introduced to the public and what a struggle it was learning how to use them. Fast forward a year or two. A different set of people are using computers for the first time yet with far less of a struggle. Another fast forward. Now even liberal arts people are finding computers aren’t as difficult as they feared.

Forget technological improvements. This apparent transfer of experience is part of a theory called morphic resonance which received an airing in no less a publication than New Scientist nearly thirty years ago. Its origins lay in the growth of crystals (ie, a new crystal shape took years to appear; thereafter this same shape re-appeared faster and faster). The theory was then widened to include human behaviour.

Sounds a bit New Age, doesn’t it? But it was posited by a scientist called Sheldrake with impeccable academic credentials and although interest has now died down it’s the sort of idea that nestles in your cranium for years after. Especially when watching your grandson coming to terms with a £10 electronic keyboard.

Since it was a genuine double octave job with black and white keys was Zach’s growing familiarity with its potential in line with old Muss es sein? Es muss sein! LvB all those years ago? Nah. I’m clearly not watching enough reality TV.

Romantically sweaty

The cod history, 1066 and all that, first published in 1930 is still in print. It is famous for its definitions. “History,” the authors say, “is all you can remember.” History is also divided into “good things and bad things”.

And that there were two sides in our civil war: “Roundheads (‘right but revolting’) and Cavaliers (‘wrong but romantic’)”. Even as an impressionable young Tyke I was proud to belong to the former. And I’m pleased now to salute the authors’ prescience. Modern Cavaliers no longer cleave to the monarchy but persist with romantically wrong opinions.

A friend suffered from the heat while driving in France. I pointed out that the car had air conditioning. “Oh, I have to have the windows open. I can’t do with breathing that artificial air.”

Once (I don’t make a habit of it) I drove, stresslessly, from the Channel ferry port of Caen to Castelnaudary, 45 miles from the Mediterranean. Some 600 miles made possible by switching on the A/C and closing the windows. No sweat and no exhausting wind roar, just 80 miles hour after hour. Mind you, my car was a Lexus, preferred transport of the US criminal classes.

Artificial air? Well, my air had been shriven of pollen (I’m a hay feverist) and of unnecessary moisture. And like most A/C systems mine offered two options: treatment of self-contained air or of incoming air. Being revolting I chose the latter. Besides, I believe the Cavaliers over-dressed.

Simple's best. And it's nice to hold

Looking for modernity in simple hand tools is usually a chimera. It’s not coincidental that 100-year-old shapes have lasted. I once bought a claw hammer moulded from a single piece of silvery metal. Just two faults: the face of the hammer head was too small, and because the claw wasn’t up to the task of extracting nails one of the tines(?) broke off. Pincers are better for small/medium nails, a crowbar for the bigger ones.

This I believe is a ball peen hammer but how many of us ever use the ball peen bit? As far as I know its primary function is for hammering out dints in sheet metal, a job which is beyond anyone who has not trained as a panel beater. I met a professional panel beater in the RAF and in talking about his craft he mentioned another of his tools as a planishing hammer. I found that adjective mysteriously engaging.

My first landlord in the USA was a great DIY man and he gave me a short-handled ball peen hammer which accompanied me back to the UK and which I used for many years. In an incredible double coincidence I met my ex-landlord on a press trip to Venezuela and discovered he was a journalist. He remembered the hammer.

I’ve never entirely mastered the technique of ensuring 100 per cent security when attaching the hammer head to a new shaft but this one has stayed on for some time now. Perhaps because my hammering days are mainly in the past. I love the subtly shaped shaft and the smoothness of the wood.

With the Remington, it's personal

I mentioned how changing from typewriter to word processor (May 20) benefited most people who write for a living. But I was dismissive about the earlier technology and the benefits it too conferred.

In 1952 I began journalism proper at the Bingley office of Bradford’s The Telegraph & Argus. Owning this 17 lb portable I avoided sharing the office’s ramshackle Underwood with two other reporters and/or writing my stuff with a fountain-pen as my boss did. On National Service I typed letters home during a year’s RAF training in the UK but left it behind when stationed in Singapore.

The Remington accompanied me to work in the USA. On my return it suffered a grievous blow when the New York Hilton insisted on piling it high on a trolley whence it fell. It was repaired and, home-based (as in America), pounded out three-and-half unsuccessful novels plus rewrites.

Other than the above repair it wore out one roller and nothing more. The evidence that millions of words have clattered through its works appears on the northern periphery of the E-key, eroded by an unremitting assault from the nail of my left index finger. I have used it to apply for jobs, to write to my fiancée who became my wife (sparing her the ambiguities of my handwriting), to maintain exchange correspondence lasting several years and to complain about service from various national bodies. It is as intimate with me and my life as any mechanical device could be. I have said I’d give it to a worthy cause but I’d rather not.

When I mentioned I was doing this blog my wife said why not put the Remington on a side table in our dining room. A noble suggestion which I will accept.

It's good to live in a golden era

Last night the landing light popped, cutting off all the other upstairs lights on that circuit. OK, it was a pain going down into the garage and pushing past my cold, cold car in my jim-jams to flip the switch, but not too big a pain. Because I can remember what the job entailed in Neanderthal times.

In those days fuses really blew. And since there were fewer of them much of the house would be in darkness. First you had to find the torch and the fuse wire. Then (holding the torch in your mouth) pull out the ceramic holder, slacken off two screws, attach a new length of wire and re-insert the holder.

As a result I am in love with my consumer unit (stupid phrase; fuse box was better). First, it’s so damn sensitive, able to throw the switch when a mere bulb filament parts. Second, rectification couldn’t be easier.

If my consumer unit were a poem it would be written by Ogden Nash:

Candy
Is dandy,
But liquor
Is quicker.

If it were prose it would be an extract from Thurber’s Agony Aunt column for animal problems:

Question: We have cats like most people have mice.
Answer: So I see from the photo but I can’t tell whether you need help or are just boasting.