The law of Sod

I am taking a break from writing a presentation to write about the law of Sod. I spent about 4 hours yesterday afternoon stuck alone in my office as the summer sun baked the outside revellers to contentment. I was going through some graphs and putting asterisks and small font letters next to error bars to indicate which blocks of colour were ‘significantly’ different from others. I’d done the stats wrongly, of course, I don’t think you can ever do stats 100% correctly, but ive realised this morning that id done them badly enough to mean that I have to do them all again this morning. Oh great.

The presentation is for a conference im going to in Glasgow in a few weeks which is where the law of sod comes in. Back in the depths of winter, 5 friends convinced to come on a sailing holiday with them this summer. None of us really sail, but two of the six had recently been awarded their ‘day skipper’ or something licences, and so wanted to be skipper for a few days. We booked to go to Greece this coming Saturday for a week. All good. Then a few months ago my boss mentions a conference she wants us to talk at, and mentions the week after the holiday booking. All good again I think, a week in the sun, then a week up in Glasgow to continue the not working. A few weeks later the details start to emerge, and it becomes apparent that the conference actually starts on the Sunday. Really? I think, that’s a bit silly isn’t it? Still, the chances of my talk being put on the Sunday are quite small, especially with my boss’s influence on the organising panel. I check the flight times back from Greece and we arrive late Saturday night. Then I get my talk date through and its not only on the Sunday, but Sunday morning. This strikes me with a little bit of panic. I check the flight times to Glasgow. The latest flight out is 9.20pm. Not enough time. I check the morning flights, and again, not enough time. I check the night trains, and while one exists, you have to get off the train at Birmingham for 6 hours, so it isn’t really much of a night train and more of an evening and then morning train. My last hope before contemplating driving up through the night is the good old night bus. Great stuff, I think, as I book a £34 single from Heathrow to Glasgow. The best conference talk preparation I can imagine is sitting next to some Glaswegian Trainspotting impersonator for 9 hours as i try to sleep with one eye open. Then ive got 3 hours to get showered and changed and answer difficult questions on a difficult subject I don’t fully understand. Can’t wait.

But I don’t really care too much, as its holiday time next week.

Back to the graphs.

Blockbusters begin

The sun, and summer blockbuster season has begun in anger. I sat watching Terminator Salvation last night with the warmth of some mild sunburn combating the over eager air-conditioning in screen nine of Vue Plymouth. That’s the biggest screen, which makes the films far more impressive if they’re the blowing things up after a chase or fight type of affair. The new Startrek was good in there, Terminator similar, Transformers Revenge of the Fallen hopefully too, but they’re all a bit too predictable - heavy on the effects and light on the subtleties. And it’s the little things that matter right? The Hollywood bods are trying to cater for everyone at 70%, which is great, but comes at the expense that no one is ever going to love it at a hundred. But it’s probably not as simple as that. Terminator suffered from the plot ‘twist’ being obvious from the first scene – the ‘Cyberdyne systems’ headed paper that Marcus signs makes it clear what his fate is if you’re any sort of a fan of the franchise. And with that removed, there’s not much of a story to get attached to. There was also some really annoying dialog where people stated what was happening on screen just to make it doubly clear what was happening on screen, which I had already got because I was in the cinema watching what was happening on screen. I also struggled with Bale’s voice, much like in Batman, which he seemed to over gruff to the point of sounding like a 40-a-day granddad in some scenes. It was good fun overall though. I enjoyed the nods to the previous films – ‘come with me if you want to live’ ‘ill be back’ and a really eighties looking Arnie were all thrown in, though why Arnie didn’t just crush John Connor’s head instead of throwing him around for five minutes was a bit troubling. There were a suite of new terminators to feast your eyes on, and the action scenes certainly made the most of the big screen. The packed out cinema too, was a testament to the quality of the previous films (T3 excluded, obviously) and luckily enough for the fans, the films seems to have the same traits as the terminators that they depict; just when you thought they were dead, they unexpectedly rise up and come back to get you again.

Dolphins

More friends are leaving.

Waz’s exit of a few weeks ago was neutralised, if only fleetingly, by his unexpected return to the lunch group last Tuesday – his Japan start date was put back a week enabling him a brief return to the homeland and a chance to exchange some real life smiles. Not to mention another chance to beat him at Pitch and Putt. I have thought about giving him the blog address when he is away; he can be trusted.

To even further away.

Thoughts also echo from the first year after Uni. Everyone was working in jobs they hated wondering why their degrees seemed worthless. My two best friends at the time decided, for different reasons, to move to Hong Kong. It was tough. I’ve kept in touch, of course, but it’s not the same. I see them less often than the seasons. They’ve both married and had kids, our lives seem so different now, but I can’t talk to them to find out if it’s true.

A’s and Jen are emigrating to Tasmania. The final link in their chain to Australia is being forged as I type, but they will leave in September irrespective of their visas stating ‘Skilled Migration’ or ‘Tourist’. Their minds are made up, the legalities will follow. They said they want a change; they’re going to seek out their dream and try it on for size. I joke that they’ll be back but for now at least there is certainty in their eyes. They have come down to Plymouth to consolidate their Uni memories of the place, to tick things off their ‘To do’ list before they leave. We sit up on the Hoe and talk while my head gets an unhealthy dose of April UV. Then Jen sees the dolphins. A pod at least 50 strong, adults and young, are swimming through The Sound. I can’t quite believe my eyes. It’s a beautiful spectacle that gets missed by most of the land dwellers, they’re too busy to notice. Whatever their conversations include, it is not worth missing this moment. Their futures will be starved of this memory, their minds forever oblivious. Silently we gaze in amazement as the dolphins swim through in front of us, the occasional breach betraying their location; individuals seemingly moving faster than the group. They swim to the west, their dorsals soon smaller than flecks of the reflecting sun.

They are gone.

But not forgotten.

To my friends and the dolphins. Good luck.

Spring? (Goodbye)

The final light of the day lingers behind the city. I look back across the water to Plymouth and marvel at the sight, both of the skyline back lit in orange, and of the promise of spring, delivered earlier in the day by the clear blue sky. The shorts and vest tops were out around campus. There was clean, crisp, morning air as I walked into work. Summer songs on my iPod unlocked previous memories of barbeques, sunburn and smiles. It a wonderful time of year; so much promise. So much to look forward to. But first I have to say goodbye.

It is the nature of studying, or working at a university. Friendships are strong; the randoms that you meet on your first day have similar interests to you. Your nerd factors match, you’re destined to get on. You share ideas on life, thoughts and fears of the future. You go on to share similar highs and lows.

But the turnover is great. Contracts are short; a year, possibly two. The overlap is all too often less than this. Waz is off to Japan at the end of the month for two years. He has been down here too long, and while I wish him the best, it is still a huge shame to say goodbye. He has been the main catalyst for me settling so well into Plymouth after a shaky start. Who is going to organise the next bowling league? Who will I beat at pitch and putt? Who will replace him in our office? Time will no doubt deliver a replacement, things will move on and we will all act like its OK. But we’ll all miss you mate.

Sayōnara.

Sir Prawn a lot and a missing mullet

Back in the days of summer, when I was still in my twenties, we went to catch some prawns. My office mate needed some to use in his project looking at ocean acidification, so we waited for a sunny-ish afternoon and headed for the beach. We needed both species of prawn commonly found in this area, Palaemon serratus and elegans, and the bigger the better. We arrived, eat some ice cream and headed off into the rockpools. I began sweeping through the seaweed with my net willy nilly – occasionally getting a fairly large one, or something else interesting, but it quickly became unrewarding work. After a while we discovered it was more fun, and a lot more productive, to stalk the prawns (and no, im not talking about Facebook). Carefully moving a rock would uncover a whole gang of elegans which, by using the nets in a finely-tuned strike of upsettingly accurate co-ordination could be swept up for the bucket. Soon we had over a hundred and set off back for a sun burnt pint in the pub. Oh how I miss you summer days.

Soon afterwards we heard of a new prawn catching technique. We went to the harbour and tried it out – throwing a net on a rope into the deep water and suspending it at somewhere near middle depth. In the net was a mesh bag containing cat food which oozed out - like the shark-attracting ‘shit’ that Chief Brody shovelled over the side of The Orca in Jaws - attracting prawns from far around. The cat food did its job. Pulling in the net 20 mins later, we had caught some serratus that were approaching Jaws proportions.

In Tesco they would have been sold as King Tiger serratus. I’ve rarely been so happy.

During the first trip we had also brought back a few tiny fish fry that had been swimming in the rock pools. We put two of these into a tank in the aquarium and fed them a variety of the smallest things we could find. They soon began to grow and after some false hope that they might have been bass, we became fairly sure that they were baby mullet. Other things began to appear in the tank as well – starfish, limpets, anemones, prawns, a crab. They must have been tiny larvae in the water with the mullet, but we hadn’t noticed them until they had grown to eye-recognisable size. 6 months later, I was taking in some artemia to feed the now thriving mini ecosystem, but something was not right. Only one fish swam towards me in the search of food. The mullets were only one. I looked around the tank, then outside the tank, then the floor, but there was no sign. I emailed the technician who had spent the most time looking after them:

Will,
Bad news.
We are a mullet down.
No evidence of escape.
No body.
Not sure what to do.

Will had noticed the day before but didn’t want to tell me. I started to think about what might have happened and jumped to the conclusion that the crab was to blame. He had been getting bigger and bigger, and was now the size of a 1p piece. I thought if he could have got hold of the mullet, he probably could have eaten it. I checked the tank again for signs of the body but still nothing.

Dam that crab, he’s been getting too big for his boots for ages.

Before he could eat the other one I made the decision to take him out and put him in a tank on his own with some stock mussels.

Ha. You’re not smiling now are you? Mullet murderer!

Then this morning I was talking with Will about what to do with the remaining mullet and we suddenly saw the body. At the other end of the rack, a level below, the dried out shape of the missing mullet was suddenly all too obvious. Our eyes followed the path he must have taken; jumped up through the gap between the tank and the lid, flapped his way along the rack for a bit, then fallen through into the tank below.



I apologised to the crab as I returned him to his home tank.

Nothing compares to Shamu

Things are changing so quickly I am finding it hard to keep up. I'm not sure I recognise myself completely anymore (Or maybe that's just the alcohol talking..). Even now, as I sit down in the dark peace of 1.35am to clear out my thoughts, the fire alarm has suddenly just sounded a harsh warning that the roof is leaking again and there is a stream of water running into the spare and Doug’s bedrooms.

Today at 3.30 pm I sat up in a strange bed and said,

‘I really should get going, It’s not fair on you to hang round here all day’

She says its fine and makes me tea and toast. I say ill call you and we’ll sort something out. I borrow a coat and get going. I walk up the road shivering, for many reasons, most not involving the cold, but I still cant help but smile. I can’t see anything – my contacts were lost somewhere last night and I didn’t bring spares – and my eyes are now only useful for showing me blurry shapes through their uncorrected –5.00. My t-shirt has the biggest tea stain on it you’ve ever seen. I smell rank. I realise that ive either lost my keys, or I left them at home last night, but in either case I am locked out. I call AnnE and DPsyc. Both go straight to answer phone. I laugh at the absurdity of the situation and try to call JP to talk about it. Straight to answer phone. I call El capitano, as I might have to go straight round his before the gig, but again, straight to answer phone. I think this is silly and call James, Dpsyc again and Marie. All go to answer phone. I feel like im involved in some sort of Truman show conspiracy.

The previous evening was tremendous. I went out dressed up as Shamu, the Killer Whale for the ‘under the sea’ themed fancy dress party. I bought an inflatable whale off Ebay and cut some holes in it, put it on in some sort of Silence of the Lambs-esque whale skin fetish and the stuffed it back to inflation with balloons. In fairness, it was a really good outfit for £10.



I had, earlier in the week, partially cleared the air with AnnE after a difficult, sober chat about what had happened between us. I was comfortable with how my feelings had developed, and happy with my arguments and sense. Overall though, I was hugely disappointed to have like her so much with the current hindsight in such clarity. I half expected, and was ready for another chat of the drunk variety last night but it didn’t emerge. Her, Dpsyc and DPsyc’s current love interest all went home early. That left me to get on the Gin and pull. I found myself having some good banter with K, a northern lass dressed as a pirate who, at 6’3’’ was taller than me. We went to a club and danced. I took of the whale and we jumped up and down on the balloons. Shamu’s limp lifeless body now littered a nightclub enclave and we giggled as we watched as the revellers walk past, double take, then pick it up in confusion. We get kicked out of the club at 5ish but there is a bar open across the road. We head over and she buys even more vodka. I lean in and we kiss, but the spirits have numbed my senses and memory. She takes me home and I spill the tea all over my white t-shirt. I take out my contacts and we go to bed but she says there is to be no sex. Fair enough. Then I find myself walking around her flat looking for the toilet. It’s late, or early, nothing is making sense. The Gin has ruined my logic. I find myself outside, and bursting, I take a piss down a drain next to her house. I’m only wearing my pants and its freezing. I walk back inside and don’t have the faintest idea which bedroom is hers. Think. I can’t even remember her name. I laugh but shake my head. I make it back to her room.

The next day we have some good hug time and laughs. She’s nice. I leave and make the calls that go to answer phones. AnnE eventually calls back and drives back to let me in. She says she’s been at the rugby with some of her work lot, but drives straight off again. Weird. I eventually walk over to El capitanos and we get the taxi to watch another Metal Fatigue gig. He tells me he also went to see the rubgy and that they bumped into AnnE who was there with Steve. Just the two of them. Steve is a mid forties guy who’s AnnE’s boss. El capitano says he thinks theyre an item. I cant quite, but also completely believe it. The thoughts of the past month have been making a solid Tetris block on one side of the screen, but something hasnt quite fitted. The Captains info finally delivered the missing piece, the long thin one, that moved over to the side and slotted perfectly down into the gap. The block of memorys flash for a second:

Oh my god.

Really?

He was part of the original crowd present when we had our first row. And she had had the nerve to tell me I was being jealous for no reason.

And then they dissapear.

My thoughts turn to the dark side for a few minutes.

At the gig I get drunk again and text K. She replies and says that her housemate apparently saw me having a piss in the back garden. Oh great. I tell her I’m sorry and will explain. She says its funny and not to worry. I say the gig is good but that nothing compares to Shamu. I hope she gets it, it’s the best text pun ive come up with in ages.

We sing in the taxi on the way home and play a game when you have to say a famous person, but substitute in a type of fish. I manage a few; Martin Luther Ling, Blenny Henry, Eel Morrisey, Jonathan Wrasse, but El capitano wins easily with Angelina Coley

There is a lot to think about...

Songs / Psychology

I’m still in a sad, reflective mood. Its been harder to get over AnnE than I first hoped. We've still not spoken and she’s acting like nothing happened. I’m more upset now with myself for getting her so wrong.

There was an interesting, timely article on New Scientist this week that asked the question is it really bad to be sad? (it’s here, but I think you might need subscription, and seems to be based on this book). I’ve had a fairly sad few weeks, and I agreed with the guy that it’s not necessarily a bad thing. He suggests that people (not me, I hastily point out) are too quickly turning to antidepressants as a quick fix for a bout of sadness, and that in doing so we are depriving ourselves a valuable period of reflection;

"They fear that the increasing tendency to treat normal sadness as if it were a disease is playing fast and loose with a crucial part of our biology. Sadness, they argue, serves an evolutionary purpose - and if we lose it, we lose out."

But where do you draw the line? When does your sadness reach a level that is dangerous? Who decides? How do they decide? I guess it’s a question I could ask DPsyc about if he wasn’t going to bore my tits off with his answer.

I have, like last time, turned to music and running – my ankle, thank fuck, has been feeling slowly better and I'm going to try my 13 mile coast run this weekend. I’ve got a new Camelbak to try out and a new 2 Gb Shuffle, which seems to have a never ending stream of songs compared to my previous 256 Mb mp3 player. It’s nice to have some new songs to run to after 4 years of the same 40 or so, but I’ve kept most of the originals on the playlist as they’re absolute killers. I find it interesting how a change in mood can make you find different meaning in a song lyric – I've noticed a lot more songs that I like are obviously written after getting dumped, or through a break up, and have lines in them that id previously not understood, or just didnt hear.

Or maybe you just interpret things how you want to.

Who knows.