Snow Days!

A few weeks ago I woke to find the world had turned white overnight.  Much of the South of England was covered with the deepest snow I could remember since my childhood.

Quickly phoning the girls school, I discovered that the headmaster, Mr Pipe, had already been up, and left a new message on the school's answer phone, telling us that the school was closed for the day.  It took me a bit longer to find out from my boss that our school was also closed for the day, but then the girls and I got into the serious business of enjoying our day.

We walked over to King George V playing field, because it's the nearest public area with a good slope, and tobogganed for an hour or so.  Since I didn't want to drive in the snow, we walked everywhere that day, and fell into bed, exhausted, in the evening.

Only to discover, upon waking, that another Snow Day had been declared!

After 2 glorious Snow Days, it was quite a disappointment to return to school, and see the, once pristine, snow melting, greyly in the carpark.  However, I was cheered and amused to read in my free computer magazine, later that week, that many people had been able to work from home due to the advances of modern technology.

Do you know, not once during my 2 enjoyable days out of the office did it even begin to cross my mind to occur to me to log in from home and even take a peek at the server!

Prince Caspian

My neighbours, enticed by the promise of a roaring fire and chocolate, came over the other night, with a film from their DVD rental place.  They've given up on Blockbuster because of the surfeit of scratched and damaged DVD's, and have started renting from Tesco.  The DVD's come by post, and they can rent as many during each month as they want, on condition that they have no more than 3 out at any one time.

Which is why, just a couple of weeks ago, we settled down in front of the afforementioned fire, to watch Prince Caspian.

And now I'll tell you just why Disney decided to drop the Narnia series like a hot brick.  Their official reasons contain the words "budgetary and logistical reasons", but that's complete horsefeathers!

When I was young, I loved the Narnia Chronicles.  I didn't actually get into them until I was into two figures, but once there I stayed, reading and re-reading the books for years.  I remember the sense of wonder I would get with each new book, which would remain with me for many of those re-reads.  I haven't forgotten the feeling of despair I experienced when I read the last page of The Last Battle, knowing there would never be any more, and all I could do to recapture the magic was to read the chronicles again.  I remember my intense conviction that if I could only find the right door/wardrobe, I, too, could visit Narnia.  The enchantment of the books has never left me, even though, when I try to read them to my children, I find that, in comparison to modern children's literature, they're are, in some places, quite stodgy and slow moving.  

Take, for example, the begining of Prince Caspian.  The story starts, quite well, with a chapter about the Prince and his upbringing.  The cousin is born, and Caspian's life is suddenly in danger, and there's a midnight escape.  So far, so good.  We cut to the children in England, returning, rather downheartedly, to school, about to take separate trains from a small station in the country, when they are suddenly "pulled" back into Narnia.  While it takes them little time to realise that they are, once again, in the land they ruled over for so many years, it's quite some time later that they begin to suspect that they've arrived back in Narnia a very long time after they left, and that things have changed a lot in that time.  This confirmed, they set out to find out why they were drawn into the land, while also trying to find some civilistation and proper food!  Again, excellent story telling.  And then it gets rather awkward.  Having rescued a dwarf from the Telmarines, he proceeds to tell them the story of Prince C, and how he was given, and blew, Susan's trumpet in order to summon help in his time of Greatest Need.  So the exciting story of how Caspian came to blow the trumpet is reduced to a second hand tale.  Despite that, it's still a very good story.

So will someone tell me how Disney managed to make it into an unnecessarily long pile of poop?  I'll let them get away with making Caspian a dark haired man, because the Telmarines were mostly dark haired in the book, and it wasn't illogical.  But why on earth did they have to insert a completely unwritten section about an attack on King Miraz's castle?  There's quite enough material in the book for it to have been an utterly charming, if somewhat shorter, film.

And there's the crux of the matter.  The film is 150 minutes long.  And to translate that, it's just 10 minutes shy of 3 hours.  I complain about my girls' inability to sit still for a whole film, but because the flow of the movie was so turgid, I felt myself becoming restless, as looks lengthened needlessly.  Certain scenes were drawn out far too long, telegraphing the plot just in case we blinked.  Remember the part where the river raises up and breaks the bridge?  Just how many "meaningful" looks can we exchange with Lucy?  All that build up would have given the Telmarines plenty of time to evacuate the bridge before it became match-stick soup.

I know, since The Lord of The Rings was made into 3 superb 3-hour films, that longer movies have become somehow de-rigeur.  But there's a reason the Harry Potter and LOTR films have reached such lengths - the source material is incredibly long to start with.  There's a lot to be said for a tight little 90 minute film.  Especially if you're going to aim it at children.

I'm quite prepared to have a numb bum if the material demands, but with the best will in the world, none of the Narnia Chronicles can scrape together enough raw source to feed such a lengthy film.  People thought it was boring (Caspian notwithstanding) at the cinema, so they're not going to bother buying the DVD - after all, many films go on to become so called "cult" classics after a poor showing at the box office (remember Serenity?), but word on the interwebz isn't going to help Prince Caspian.  Thus a really expensive film (apparently it cost in the region of $225 million!!) is just not going to make back the costs, causing the studio to back out on the deal to make further films.

So THAT'S why Disney aren't going to make the rest of the Narnia Chronicles.

Mmmm - Bacon

Yesterday, as I was stumbling round the internet, I came across a gorgeous looking recipe on the Jamie Oliver web site, of red cabbage braised with apple, bacon and balsamic vinegar. It looked so delicious that I resolved at once to try it in the evening.

With that in mind, I persuaded the girls to go with me to the big Tesco in order to buy a red cabbage, in the sincere belief that I had a packet of bacon in the freezer.

When, on returning home and opening the freezer, I discovered the sad truth, I said, with some frustration, "Oh, I've got no bacon."

To which Lizzy replied, "Why don't you just use fish fingers?"

Racism in the workplace

Yesterday was my first day back in school after the Christmas holidays. This isn't as horrible as it sounds, because I really enjoy my job. I have even discovered, recently, that I quite like a little bit of teaching. I've long noted that someone with such an abhorrence of children should, under no circumstances, ever be placed in charge of a classroom full of students. My boss, on the other hand, thinks it's character-building. Why, only last term I actually wrote a lesson plan, and delivered the lesson. OK - the results were mixed. I aimed my little seminar at year 5, who had been playing a game called The Wizard's Apprentice, an educational piece of software from Sherston, in which the children learned to use the "Magic Tablet" to perform calculations. In case you can't guess, the "magic tablet" is, in fact, a spreadsheet. But perhaps this is a story for another day. The crux of the matter is that teachers were back in school yesterday for the traditional "Training Day".

Usually, as the IT person in the school, there is no specific training for me, and even if the training is general enough to expand beyond teachers, I can usually wriggle my way out of it - if only they'd provide serious computing training at the beginning of term - I'd be there with knobs on then! Sadly for my wriggling skills, yesterday's training was obligatory for ALL staff, so I wended my way over to our Studio, a cold building, smelling slightly of damp, for my session. It was fire safety training.

Remembering my last fire safety training session, many years ago shortly after I'd joined the Institute of Aviation Medicine, I was nervous and slightly apprehensive, when the trainer announced that he'd be showing us some scary videos. My mind flashed back to that earlier training session, when I was shown an extremely scary video of a fire in a high-rise building in Brazil (someone suggested that this was a 1974 fire), the footage showing people leaping out of the building. I'm sure it showed something else - like how fast a fire spreads - but I don't remember that. I'm sure you can imagine the nightmares which followed for quite a few weeks. In actual fact, the videos our trainer showed yesterday were nothing like as traumatic. The main one was the Bradford football stadium fire in 1985, used to show how fast fire can get going. While I gather over 50 people lost their lives in this horrific fire, I was grateful that we weren't shown that.

But there I go, digressing again.

Our trainer, as he pointed out to us, has been in firefighting for many years. As such, I imagine that much of the humour has been squeezed out of him, due to dealing with the aftermath of many fires, and the apparent idiocy of the human race. So while he tried to lighten the training session with a few jokes, these fell slightly flat, leaving us with a feeling of mild irritation. My moment of intense irritaition arrived when the morning tea/coffee arrived from the kitchen, and having poked her head round the door, the person bringing the tea backed out, concerned that she'd interrupted our training session (she had, I was grateful!). At this point, our instructor, in another attempt to lighten the mood, leapt for the door, flung it open, and stepped back quickly, muttering to us all - "Oh dear, I was about to yell "Kato!"" It turned out that the person who'd brought the tea was Asian. If possible, this little aside to us was more racist than actually yelling "Kato!" as he'd intended. I'm sure she'd have no idea what he was talking about, and it might actually have been funny for the rest of us (well, those of us old enough to understand the reference).

I know I'm probably making a fuss over nothing, but I'm starting to dislike this chuckle-behind-your-hand-while-offering-a-bit-of-a slur type of humour. I'm beginning to find it way more offensive than I should. This, to my mind, is real racism. The perpetrator is bringing attention to the race of the person, while pretending to be being sensitive about it.

I'll never forget, many years ago, being told I was being a bit racist. I'd been asked, by a colleague where they would find a certain person. I'd spent some time trying to describe exactly where, in the faceless, open-plan office on the floor above, this person was located, all the while my colleague was clearly trying to mentally navigate the area. In the end, in order to shorten this process (and avoid having to walk up stairs and physically point), I rounded off with "He's the only black person up there - you can't miss him." At which point another colleague said "Isn't that a bit racist?"

Well, is it? I was using a physical attribute in order to locate someone. As I pointed out to the second colleague, I'd locate him by telling someone that he was the grouchy red-head in the computing department. Calling him white would have been redundant, as the only people in the computing department were white. But drawing attention to his hair colour is perfectly valid, because he was the only person with red hair. I might have been located by someone suggesting they look for the only girl in the computing department, although it's possible that this might have been regarded as sexist!

I think that the difference was that I was calling attention to a person's race in order to point someone in the right direction. The trainer yesterday was calling attention to a person's race to gain a laugh.

D'you think I'm being over sensitive?

Topping up on Christmas Day

This morning I received a text from my elder girl, a crie de couer, if you will, from the slopes of the Alps, where she is currently skiing with her sister and father.

This is the longest time my girls have spent away from me since they were born, and I was prepared to be absolutely miserable, missing them with a passion akin to that of Romeo and Juliet! However, I've had no chance to miss them, as they've both texted me frequently throughout the holiday. In the first two days alone, I received 17 texts from them. I say "them", but the texts were, in fact, from Lottie, who seems to have the necessary ability. Lizzy confessed on the phone last night that she doesn't really know how to text, as the predictive text confuses her. I think it's rather sweet that she doesn't yet know this arcane art.

This mornings texts were full of cheer, as my girls delved through their stockings (yes, I sent them with stockings!) and told me how much they were enjoying their presents. And then came the request. "Can u top me up please? Im running out of credit". Ah, the joys of the English language, in all it's many forms...

Returning to the point, after an abortive attempt to top up online, I decided to go to a local cashpoint machine and top up from there. Within the last year or so I've started noticing that this option is now available at many cashpoint machines. What a boon to the traveller who has insufficient credit to actually perform the top up from their place of vacation. As, indeed, I found it last year, when I sent out similar text requests to various friends and family to try to find a way of topping me up.

I pushed my card into the machine, Lottie's number at the ready, and the machine swallowed my card. After not so much as a gentle burp, the next victim was exhorted to "Please insert your card." It would appear that my luck this morning seems to be all bad. Perhaps I would be better going back to bed and waiting for Boxing Day? Perhaps not. I will thank technology for the wondrous invention of the mobile phone. I called my bank, while standing at the offending machine, and immediately spun my tale of woe. The card is cancelled, a new one winging it's way to me. Well, perhaps winging is not the right word. The voice to whom I spoke warned that they usually expect replacement cards to arrive within 7 days, but this is 7 working days... I suspect I'll see my new card next year, at that rate.

The point of this blog, though, is to question why on earth is SO DAMN DIFFICULT to top up someone else's phone. To do it through the vodafone web site, you have to register your debit/credit card against the phone. Which is all fine and dandy if it's your own phone, because they insist on sending the phone a code, which you have to type into the registration process to prove the phone is yours. Not only is the phone not mine, it's not ruddy well here. Why do they need to do that?

I can understand having your card registered, because there's the whole "you might have stolen that card" issue. This is fine, but I have no idea if I've got an account with Vodafone, and there's still the whole code-sent-to-the-phone issue mentioned above. I remember registering my debit card with the phone when we put in the new sim card, but, again, can I stress how the phone is not with me, it's in France. I can buy an e-voucher, but Lottie has to phone 2345 and type in the 12-digit number. Which means I have to text it to her (or Lizzy or her dad) and make sure I put the right number in.

What about Paypal, I hear you cry. You'd have thought Paypal, with it's registering of cards, would be willing to make topping up phones a bit easier. You'd be wrong there. I have googled until my fingers have blisters, but I can find no way to top up the damn phone from here without having a whole new account with vodafone, or going to a cashpoint machine. You can understand my reluctance to shove my remaining card into the next cashpoint machine, worrying that I'll have no way to support myself until the New Year brings my replacement card.

Friends and laughter on Christmas Eve - It doesn't get any better than that.

Last week I allowed myself to go on a Blind Date. Not, you understand, the Cilla Black variety, which would probably have turned out hideously ghastly, but the kind where a well meaning friend thinks to himself - "Hmm... She's way too geeky for me, but I've got this geeky friend..." And he can hear wedding bells already. I agreed for various reasons, not least of which was that I had nothing else planned for that evening, and I'd hate to let a potential Johnny Depp pass by without a look in!

So there I was, in the pub, chatting away with this chap. He's nice. Although I'm not sure that nice is quite sufficient for me - I think I'll have to add witty and urbane to my list of requirements. I had a moment of chuckliness when I found that he's from up North, and plays the trombone in a brass band. But I controlled myself - with effort. There was a moment of embarrassment when I realised that in their chat of restoring a Spitfire to it's former glory, my "Date" and my "friend" were, in fact, talking of the one made by Triumph, not the one made by Supermarine in the second world war. In my attempt to cover my confusion (having asked the question "Did you manage to make it fly?"), I blurted out that I had, in my youth, had sex in a Spitfire. After establishing that one had to be considerably younger and bendier than we all were now, the conversation righted itself, and continued, in a reasonably cheerful way until my "Date" let loose the information that he is the proud owner of not one, but two, Caravans! OK - I lost it. Unable to contain my mirth, every laugh line on my face crinkled, and guffaws ensued.

So what, you query, bewildered, has this to do with laughter on Christmas Eve? OK - I'm getting to it.

Last night I was attending the annual Christmas Eve bash hosted by my brother and his wonderful wife, an event peopled by the kind of friends you've kept with you over the years because, with them, you feel comfortable and happy. While my sister-in-law attempts to integrate new people into the happy core, that cheerful bunch arrive year after year and sit round chatting merrily. Last night I was compelled to mention to one of the ladies about the aforementioned Blind Date, detailing it in much the same manner as above. Her husband, a man of wit and humour (!), chuckled away with the rest of the crowd, until I told them that it was very likely that I'd meet this "Date" at the beer festival next year, he being a bit of a fan of the fest. At which point JD exploded with laughter, saying "I'm going to have to come up to you at the beer festival and remind you that I still have that Spitfire, if you want to try it out again!"

Now I'm not saying that beer fest is in anyway boring, but this would definitely be a way of making the evening more fun. I think I would have trouble keeping a straight face!

Merry Christmas to all my Readers!

God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen

You know, I'm always finding something to grumble about with regard to Christmas - if it isn't the shops with Christmas stock and decorations up as the children head back to school for the new academic year, it's the spotty oiks trying to get money out of me by turning up at the doorstep and launching into a half-hearted "We Wish You a Merry Christmas" so pathetic and out of tune that you'd almost be inclined to pay them just to leave!

In fact, in the past I've promised to put up a sign on my door, to compliment the one stating that we don't buy or sell on the doorstep (a sign which afforded me much amusement on the occasion I asked, rather facetiously, of a doorstep salesman, if he'd read the sign, only to have him back away apologetically when he did), clarifying that unless you're prepared to give me at least 2 verses of "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen", you're not going to see a penny of my money. For while the spotty oiks are annoying in a feeble way, what's really getting me started are the Rotary people - you know the ones, they turn up in your street with a carnival float pumping out Christmas carols through speakers which have heard better days, and this is supposed to encourage me to give generously?

So this very evening, sitting with my girls, chatting, watching the telly, I was horrified to hear what sounded like the idiot from the house behind us (who really does have some VERY good car speakers!) sitting in the road at the front, playing some kind of rap while waiting for his friend to come out. Only when I opened the door to deliver a lecture (at least the idiot listens to me when I ask him to turn down the music) what did I discover? Yup - you've got it - the ruddy Rotary Club, and their "updated" Christmas CD and carnival float.

While I can't remember exactly what I snorted in disgust as I slammed the door, it was clearly sufficient for the collector attempting to open the garden gate, who gave up at this point, and so I was never exhorted to give.

All I have to contend with now are the spotty oiks. Perhaps I should write that sign after all. I could probably get it laminated...