Dave's Little Bit On the Side: November 2008
27-Nov-08: Tombstone time (Part 2)
A couple of days later and some of the Tombstone ideas are starting to sound good. As expected, a couple are also destined for the scrap heap, which was all part of the plan. Nothing shows up a bad idea as effectively as when it's nested inside a couple of good ideas. Quality rises to the surface. The dross sinks every time.
I'm a bit down at the moment because of the sudden realisation that I didn't get around to releasing a new disc this year. I was just too busy with work to get much else finished but I did get Universal sorted, released a couple of videos plus I started off a whole bunch of other activities too, which is some consolation.
However, next year promises to be something else entirely. Stuff is just starting to happen, falling neatly into place just at the right time. For instance, I spoke to a marketing manager earlier in the week about some events we're planning for the International Year of Astronomy and it turns out that she used to be a DJ for Radio Newcastle. Better still, she actually interviewed Dave and myself in 2001 when we were trying (unsuccessfully) to flog The Fabulous Neutrinos so she's heard of us and was seriously interested in the ideas we're developing. How's that for serendipity?
Next, some really good news. Andy Condon of The Glimmer Room has agreed to remix a number of tracks from the Thinking Metal back catalogue. Andy is one of those musicians who is pretty close to, if not already at the top of his game. I really enjoy his music and respect the guy as a gifted musician so this should be a fantastic adventure. We don't have a release date but we do have a rough track list and an idea for a title. Watch this space. It promises to be something seriously good.
I've done so much web work in recent weeks that the gloss is started to wear off that particular adventure. Blogs included. I need a break.
26-Nov-08: Tombstone time (again)
Back in the studio after a break of around 6 weeks. I need these breaks, especially after the activities of the summer, the Ions adventure and the successful Awakenings gig. They were fun. Stressfull but fun. Then, of course, there was the disaster that was the Dundee-Live shambles. It's activities like this that drain your batteries, leave you tired, pissed off and wondering why you ever started in the first place. It takes a while for the magic to come back.
And so, as a way of getting back into the studio again, it's time to assemble another compilation disc of odds and ends, remainders, stuff that didn't get picked up and used in any of the past projects. Some musicians refer to these discs as WIP's (short for work-in-progress), comps or showreels. I call them Tombstones.
I'm listening to the latest one now, christened "Variations", for no other reason than it was the first word I saw when I opened the folder last night. It's a collection of 12 tracks. Some work. Some do not. Some you will have heard. Some you will hear because they'll become part of a future release. Others, well... you won't hear them because, well, err, they suck. Ideas that went nowhere or spent too long in one place without moving on.
On the other hand, some bits are quite delicious, such as the drone/swooshies that went on to form the introductory sections of the live version of Future Forever. That works, partly because it moves and shifts nicely and it has a couple of gentle, slightly off-key notes that hint at darker things, something not quite right, which was what I wanted to express in the live version.
Other bits.... yak. Old School Drones. I can't even imagine why I added it to the compilation in the first place. What was I thinking? Who knows?
But another compilation disc is completed, another step on the adventure, another variable in the equation. Let's see where this one goes.
I've done so much web work recently that I'm in danger of losing all enthusiasm for that side of the business. I've just taken one site live and I have another three or four to get through before the end of the month and a couple more to sort our before Christmas. Then there are a couple of issues with certain individuals who won't settle their account. Doubtless, they're hit by the so-called credit crunch in much the same way as everyone else but, if they don't pay up then Jules and I will find ourselves in the Poor House for Christmas.
These issues aside, we now have a steadily rising roster of customers who are more than happy with what we've done and that, in itself, makes all of the hard work and the not inconsiderable heartache worthwhile.
Yes, I have changed the header image at the top of the page. The character featured is Brian, the talking dog from the cartoon Family Guy. I like Brian. We have a similar outlook on life.
21-Nov-08: IT Guys (and why I hate them) Part 1
I gave another lecture to Newcastle Astronomical Society last night. The title of the talk was A Universe in your PC? and the object was to give the audience some idea of how all those lovely astronomical fly-throughs and visualisations are put together, the maths and physics required to make objects move as they do in the real world, and the graphical techniques required to make them look convincing.
I knew it was going to be a fairly demanding lecture - 2 computers, one running PowerPoint for the presentation, another running the applications I wanted to demo. More so, the latter required an internet connection so that I could hook up to a server and demo the programs in real time.
You might think that this isn't particularly difficult in this day and age but you'd be wrong. Why? Because, to get an internet connection working, we have to deal with The Resident IT Guy.
I'm sure you're all familiar with the concept of The Resident IT Guy. If you're not, well, here's a brief precis. Your typical Resident IT Guy is usually in his mid-30's, overweight, knows everything there is to know about PC's and PC networks but actually knows sod-all about other platforms such as Macintosh and/or Unix boxes. He also has a profound and detailed knowledge of either Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Xenia - The Warrior Princess or The X-Men Comics, something that he lets you know at the first available opportunity. Yes, this is a rather crude stereotype but one that, by and large, holds true. The Resident IT Guy also boasts a number of social problems - again, another well-worn stereotype but one that is sadly also fairly accurate. Socialising and, in particular, the opposite sex are a huge mystery. Chances are, he's still a virgin.
It's taken several months to organise the internet access for this lecture. It's taken several months just to get this guy's phone number. He doesn't talk to you. You talk to him. He is God and he knows it. He is the root user, Herr Administrator and, just like Eric Cartman says you must "Respect ma authoriteeeeeeey!!!!"
Now, Dear Constant Reader, if you sense that I am actually quiet angry then you'd be correct. I usually come to these pages calm and mellow and ready to be reasonable but, well, this guy has actually gotten me quite ticked off.
As I said above, it's taken months for the secretary of the astronomical society to get an answer out of this guy. "Does the main lecture room have internet access?". "Yes!" says His Holiness. "It does! We can run a cable in there for you...".
But that isn't true and he knows it. You can't run a cable that long through a main thoroughfare. Health and Safety would go bugshit.
Time marches on. Eventually, I reach this guy and arrange a meeting. I drive into Newcastle with my handy-dandy Macintosh under my arm, arriving 10 minutes early so that I can be fresh and de-stressed for the meeting. However, upon arrival, I find that he's not there. "He had to work last night." says the lady behind the desk. "An emergency call out."
"Oh." says me. "That's a bit of a shame. Couldn't somebody have called me before I set off?".
"We didn't know until about 20 minutes ago." said the girl.
I pack my gear up and leave, annoyed, but stuff like this happens. That's life.
Back home, there's a message on my answerphone. Straight away, I recognise the voice - it's from the girl behind the counter. She apologises that Mr. Ellis won't be available and can I call him later? Out of curiousity, I check the time of the message. 12:15. That's 3 hours ago, so the whole line about not knowing that Ellis was off-site was a lie.
I mailed the club secretary, outlining the problem. Nothing happens. I start to look for other options. What can I use? The best solution seems to be a mobile broadband connection.
Friday comes around. Friday, five to five to be specific - so it must be time for CrackerJack!!!. (Only adults of a certain age will get that joke). An e-mail drops into my In-Box from the club secretary. He's spoken to Ellis and I have to call him now. Not in 20 minutes. Not in an hour. Now.
However, hand on heart, I have to admit that the fuck you factor has entered the equation. I officially cannot be arsed with this. I have dinner to prepare. I have spent all day with an equally difficult IT Guy, taking a web site live (see above). Jules will be home in an hour and I have housework to get through. Plus, I don't like Jules walking home alone in the dark. I'm not going to risk her safety at all.
Ten minutes later and my conscience is bugging me. I decide to call Ellis. I really don't want to let my audience down and I don't like being defeated by a faceless monkey. I call the number.
"Hello. Yes, I can let you have access to broadband. Yes, no problem. See you in 20 minutes." says the IT Guy.
"Sorry. I live in Sunderland. There's no way I can get into Newcastle in 20 minutes. Not on a Friday night in November during the first week of Christmas shopping."
He pauses to think. "I have to leave here in 20 minutes. Can you get to our Durham office?"
"Where is it?".
"Durham."
"I'd kinda deduced that." I replied. "Where in Durham?"
He gives me the address, which I recognise. It's about 5 miles away. Easy. I tell him that I have stuff to do and I'll be there at 7pm. He doesn't like this but he agrees.
I pick Jules up from the bus stop, stick a load of petrol in the car and head off down to Carville. We find the office and buzz the intercom. No answer. Ignoring security, I just walk in and knock on the first door I see.
Presently, Mr. Eliis shows his face. I offer my hand and it is accepted, reluctantly, though it's like shaking hands with a lump of dead fish.
I unpack the Mac, and Ellis gives us the sacred 26-character access code to their wireless network. The Mac connects immediately and the small airport icon goes black. So far, so good.
However, every application we try either fails to connect or requires his assistance to start up. We have to go through their proxy server and I know for a fact that a lot of applications have real trouble going through proxy servers. Critically, both Second Life and Eve won't connect. Why? IT Guy's network classifies these applications as Games and operates a strict no Games policy. Whichever way I turn, I am screwed. Royally.
Then it dawns on me that he MUST already know about these issues. He must. If he doesn't then he's an idiot. Or he's not telling the truth. So is this actually just a box ticking exercise?
I ask about alternative options. He says that he has a mobile broadband 3G card that he knows will work and he promises, faithfully, to bring it along on Thursday.
I then ask about his availability next week. He can't help. He's away on training. He'll be back in Thursday night but can't guarantee he'll be on site by 6 pm. Huh?
It's 7:40pm on a Friday night, Jules and I have been up since 6 am and neither of us has had anything to eat. I am, clearly, dealing with a freakin' moron here and I am getting somewhat crabby. I think my patience is about to snap. However, I hold my temper in check, pack up the Mac and leave. In the car, Jules can tell I am boiling mad. I think we've just been taken for a ride. This guy had no intention of helping us out and this was just a complete waste of time so that he could tick some boxes, perhaps stay in someone's good books, show willing. Maybe even stick in a small, insignificant overtime request.
Back home, we eat dinner and I start looking for another solution. I simply don't believe this guy when he says he'll bring along their 3G card. I don't believe he'll be back in Newcastle by 6pm on Thursday. I don't believe he'll keep his promises. Why should I? Frankly, I don't believe a bloody word he says.
On Sunday morning, Jules and I went into Durham, walked into the 3 Shop and bought our own 3G card. It works. It's installed in the back of my Mac right now.
Thursday night comes around. We arrive at the venue in good time and get set up. I test the network connection and it's fine. I can load both Second Life and Eve and they work really well. Does Ellis turn up with his 3G card? No, he does not. Good job I wasn't relying on him.
Later on, there was a problem with the network and the 3G card dropped the call every time we tried to load an application. It did this in front of a room full of people and so I was obliged to waffle on for a few minutes using a few extra slides I'd left in, just in case something like this happened. It just goes to show that as good as modern technology is, it's still not ready for mainstream use. It's still not good enough to be considered reliable.
The whole Ellis situation has got me boiling mad. Normally, I wouldn't name an individual if they'd been stupid, lazy or inconsiderate but this guy has let me down on three different occasions. That's three. If someone screws up once, you just forgive and forget. A second time and you might just begin to suspect that they're perhaps a little inexperienced and maybe in need of some additional training. Three times and you have to wonder if they, like, belong in that freaking job. It makes me wonder what he's like with his proper customers and not just some lamer from the local astronomical society? Sheesh.
What really bugs me about this whole situation is this... I used to be an IT Guy just like him. I used to stalk the corridors of Caterpillar, gun for hire, wielding my adminstrator's password and hefty bunch of keys to demonstrate to all and sundry that I was Superuser. Don't mess with me. My system, my rules. I am The Law. Just believe it, Sister, or get out of town.
Thank fuck I grew up.
21-Nov-08: IT Guys (and why I hate them) Part 2
Last week, I released a new web site. The initial brief was simply to revamp an existing site, give it a bit of a facelift, make it look modern and fashionable. However, as is fairly typical of customer requirements in this day and age, the job spec quickly grew and grew, a bit like Topsy, and, in the end, it was no longer a cosmetic makeover. Rather, it became a full start-to-finish, top-to-bottom re-write. Still, it was an interesting job with some interesting challenges. One issue that didn't altogether thrill me was that the customers did not want to work to any fixed timetable. They didn't want the pressure or the committment. They didn't want to be distracted from their day-to-day job. They were quite happy to let the project just drift along, subject to their whims and fancies. Do a little bit here, add a little bit there, try this, try that. They would still provide the content and, at first my role was reduced to that of a tame and obedient typesetter. In time, they began to see some logic and wisdom in what I was saying and, gradually, they began to trust my judgement and design skills. However, the project was still allowed to drift hopelessly away from any kind of realistic timetable. This meant that yours truly was stuck in a kind of never-ending designer's limbo, unsure of where the project was heading, unsure of the final specification and, critically, unsure of when (or if) we would be paid for our efforts.
And so this site took a long, long time to put together. Over a year in fact. However, we completed the whole nip and tuck operation last week and it was finally ready for release. I was also reasonably pleased with the results, which is rare, and certainly the customer was absolutely delighted, which is the most important issue.
Now, I'd taken over the project from another designer, who had put together the original site and supported the pages since their inception 10 years ago. I'm not one to stand on someone else's toes but I guess it's kind of inevitable when working in this type of environment. There were some outstanding issues with the hosting and I couldn't resolve these issues because I needed some help from the other guy, the original designer. However, he wasn't returning any of my calls and wouldn't reply to any of my e-mails. I figured that he just didn't want to give up control of the site and wasn't interested in helping the new guy. This happens. Human nature, I suppose.
Eventually, after 4 phone messages and many, many e-mails requesting help, he called me back. Yes, no trouble. He could help me. All I had to do was package up the web site on a CDr and mail it to him. He would upload it to their server. "But what if the customer wants to change something?" I asked. "Do I have to send you a new CDr?" No, I don't. All I have to do is give him access to our company web server and he'll do the rest. Yeah, like I'm going to give access to all of our company data to a complete stranger and trust him not to go poking around and/or deleting stuff. He obviously assumes I am not particularly bright.
I point out that we operate a private server and only company employees can access the FTP area. He doesn't like this. I ask about the hosting issue. Can I have the FTP user name and password of the file server? He can't remember these details. He insists that he doesn't know what they are. He blames the ISP. They've lost the details. If that's the case then... where was he going to upload the contents of the CDr? I call the ISP. They have all of the billing information and confirm that it's just a forwarding account. Strangely, all of the forwarding links have been reset and there's no sign of where they were actually forwarded to. Huh?
What's going on here? Well, it's obvious, isn't it? Mr. Helpful wants me to give up control of the web pages. He regards this particular customer as his customer and feels that I'm standing on his toes and, to make life just a little bit more of a challenge, he's trying to play dumb and intends to drop a couple of small obstacles in my way in the hope that I'll give up.
So, my customer is stuck in limbo. Their site is running off our server for the moment and I'll have to sort out a hosting account for them in a couple of days. It's no biggie but I was disapointed that this guy decided to adopt this childish, unprofessional attitude. But then this kind of childish, unprofessional attitude isn't entirely unknown in the UK workforce, is it?
Later... the customer has seen through the bullshit and gone with us. They've changed their hosting deal and we'll continue to maintain the site. Commonsense prevails.
14-Nov-08: Strange
The meeting began badly. Every aspect of this customer's body language was hostile. His stance, the angle of his head, the shape of his shoulders, the lack of a handshake - they all spoke volumes. This was going to be tough.
We sat down at his desk and he began... "This is too slow. It isn't good enough. It needs changing."
I picked up on his mood and made a real effort not be to confrontational. We went through each of his points and worked out where the implementation did not match the specification. And, slowly, his mood began to change.
Then, just as I thought there was going to be a meeting of minds, he said "This awful. Really amateurish." I wasn't surprised at this comment. I replied "Yes, I know. It's crap.... but it was the specification I was given and I wasn't allowed to change that specification."
I continued. "This is absolutely not how we do things. This is our normal standard of work." I called up another customer's site and walked him through it. I pulled up another site, one that we've just started, and showed him the before and after implementations. His mood changed. Completely.
I said "Frankly, hand on heart, I wouldn't want to be associated with your site. It's rubbish. Like I said, I wasn't allowed to deviate from the specification." I handed him the five or six pages of A4, which defined what the pages should look like and what they should contain. We'd been reduced to the level of a typesetter, not a designer.
"This is ****'s work. Not mine." I said.
He picked up a brochure, something that **** had produced before she mysteriously moved on.
"I wouldn't wipe my arse on this." said my customer.
Neither would I. The combination of colours made no sense. The layout didn't look balanced or simple. It was obviously the work of someone who was hopelessly out of their depth.
"This is one I had made up last week, by a pro-designer" said my customer. And it was good. The work of a real pro, someone who did know what they were doing.
I then detailed some of my problems with the site - the mix of colours (blue and green in the same heading FFS), the clumsy, inelegant design, the random mixture of fonts - compared with the sleek efficiency and near minimalism of our other sites. "We wouldn't even link to that one from our site. We want to remove our photos from the promo section." I said.
Then we both realised that we were, indeed, singing from the same hymn sheet. We could do business. I could solve his problems and he would pay me for my efforts. Each of us would get a good deal.
The moral of the tale? Most of the time, your customers are right. They know their business better than anyone else. But, equally, you know your trade, how it works, what makes it tick, what will sell, what will tank. The customer is NOT always right. Sometimes, the customer is WRONG, sometimes spectacularly wrong, and you have to stand up and say so, or be prepared to get reamed out.
The meeting came to an end. We had agreed a plan, a timescale and a rough specification. My customer turned, shook my hand and smiled. "I don't want to tie your hands. The design is yours. Let me know how you're getting on and, if you need anything, just call." It was that easy. We both came away happy.
This was a very valuable lesson. Trust is earned.
12-Nov-08: Typical
It's typical! We go away for three $%^&*%^&*%^&! days and what happens while we're living it up in Ambleside? Only my favourite band of the last 30 years announces that they've reformed and are touring next year.
Whilst the news that Ultravox are back together isn't exactly a surprise because rumours have been circulating for months that something was in the air, it is, none-the-less, very welcome indeed. Some industry insiders with more gob than sense let it slip out that Messers Currie, Cross, Cann and Ure had been able to overcome their difficulties and, with those issues removed, or at least swept neatly under the carpet, then the reunion was a cert. There's just too much money to be made these days for the guys to ignore the chance to pick up a nice little earner.
This is terrific news. I'd be even more elated if they announced that a new album was on its way. That would be something very special indeed. Those guys wrote intelligent, art house music that was thought-provoking and mentally stimulating and whilst few of us were ever 100% clear on what those lyrics meant, they were at least, not up their own pretentiousness arse.
Anyway, I have our tickets for the Newcastle gig. I paid more than I liked but then this is a special occasion. Maybe I'm just a tired old fart these days. I think the last gig I saw at the City Hall in Newcastle was the comedian Bill Bailey in 2005. Times change. I paid £5 to see Ultravox in 1982 and I thought that this was a huge amount of money.
The list of Ion gigs continues to grow, as do my lecturing commitments. There's a possibility of doing something special with respect to the International Year of Astronomy though I think I already said that somewhere below. Major publicity, major backing, a chance to get one's ugly boatrace on the telly. I've been mailing lots of the local astronomical societies to see if they want to get involved with our plans though few have responded thus far. Still, it's early days.
07-Nov-08: Comedy
We took a trip into Newcastle last night to see our friends The Morris Quinland Experience, who were playing a gig at The Northern Stage organised by Monkfish productions. We weren't sure what to expect since the evening had been billed as a mix of poetry, spoken word, stand up comedy and live music, and that heady mixture usually rings alarm bells because similar events in the past have been dire. And I mean that most sincerely.
Despite some problems gaining admission, courtesy of the usual ill-informed door monkey, we made ourselves comfortable and settled down to enjoy the performance.
We caught the tail end of the first act, which didn't look too promising so I wasn't all that phased. The poetry reading, being a little on the ernest side, didn't immediately appeal but did leave one or two lasting impressions, which I guess is the important point.
However, the comedy routines that followed were superb. Only one spot made a resounding clunk. I won't say who because that would be monumentally uncharitable and the rest of the performance was spot on. I loved the hateful couple getting married and the dreamy-eyed priest wishing for another life. I also loved the Book Club and Death though the highlight, for me, was the venomous, screaming, unbalanced ranting of the poetry reader. This performance couldn't really be described as over-the-top because it felt so damned honest and so obviously born out of experience that you couldn't help but get carried away by the whole experience.
MQE took to the stage and were excellent, with James' voice cutting through the power chords and heaving bass lines like a hot knife through a foisty fadge. Very enjoyable indeed.
It was a surprise and a delight to discover that this sort of performance is still going on in this part of the world. I thought it had died out back in the 80's when the likes of Ben Elton and the rest of those cultural Stalinists made stand-up satire old and tired before it even got going.
07-Nov-08: Ambleside
We're just back from a much-needed short break in Ambleside, in the Lake District.
Taking the dogs to the kennels was the most difficult aspect of the trip. I hate to see any animal distressed and all of them found it hard to accept that we'd abandoned them. I could hear Reo screaming as we drove away, even with the windows up, and so we had a difficult few minutes trying to figure out if we'd done the right thing.
Back at home, we were ready and packed inside an hour. I prefer to travel light. Jules does not. I take a clean pair of socks, underwear and a toothbrush. Jules takes the kitchen sink, or would, if it wasn't bolted down. (Jules, I'm only teasing, okay?) I guess this whole travelling-light ethos is a guy thing. Always on the move, eh?
I'd planned our route fairly carefully but neglected to take all of the required maps and hence, some busking was required. We would be travelling along the A66, which I don't know at all well and has a reputation for trapping ill-prepared and/or inattentive drivers who become overwhelmed by such magnificent desolation. I've never seen a stretch of landscape look so utterly bleak and forbidding. We passed several weather-worn, rain-battered houses and a lot of sheep. They must be hardy creatures to survive up here.
However, before long we were over the summit and heading west, towards clear, blue skies and picture-postcard scenery.
We paused, briefly, at Rheged, a shopping-centre/cinema-complex out in the middle of nowhere. I'm still not sure what to make of it - it felt like just another collection of bland, faceless, corporate retail outlets and that's a sentiment that persists today.
Keswick lay ahead, though we had to turn left, down the A591, to get to our destination, Ambleside. This was a fantastic drive, down the side of Thirlmere, along roads lined with trees in all of their autumnal glory. Vivid reds, golden browns and mellow yellows scream at you through the low autumn sunshine with all of the subtley of an impressionist painter on Viagra.
One sight I will never forget were the two RAF Hercules' doing their whole Dambuster-thing, flying at low level down the lake. You never really get used to the sound of propeller-driven aircraft, your whole body singing in resonance with these huge engines.
We arrived at Ambleside at a few minutes before 3pm and quickly found the hotel, The Salutation Inn. Check-in was painless though, at first, I wasn't particularly thrilled with the accommodation - a 'lodge' set away from the main hotel building and above a gift shop. I wondered what we'd done to deserve this but then I saw the room and decided that it wasn't half bad, having been recently refurbished to a very high standard. This view was confirmed later when I overheard a couple of guests complaining about the 80's-style decor in their rooms and the amount of noise in the corridors after 11pm.
We set off to do a bit of exploring, pausing briefly at a coffee room for some tea and cake. After that, we wandered the streets, enjoying what was left of the late afternoon sun.
Ahead of us, I could see the crescent moon sliding slowly into the west in crystal-clear skies, and so I was thrilled with the prospect of doing a spot of midnight star-gazing away from all of the city lights. Alas, 30 minutes later, we were enveloped in a bank of swirling, grey cloud that obscured all but the brightest of stars and, an hour later, they too were gone. Bugger.
We ate in the hotel that night, simply because we were both tired and neither of us much felt like eating out in a noisey pub. The food was fantastic and the service, pleasant and friendly, keen and attentive, which makes a nice change. Then again, I can't remember the last time we ate out.
After dinner, we took a walk down to the head of the lake, Waterhead, to check on the ferry boats and then back to the hotel for a nightcap and a chance to doss in the hotel's library. The library appeared interesting from a distance but, alas, all of those aged and dusty tomes lining the mahogany bookshelves turned out to be fakes. Humpf! Never-the-less, it was a great place to snooze before bedtime.
I had promised, faithfully, to get up at the crack of dawn and head down to the hotel's pool but, alas, that didn't happen because I found that I was stuck to the matress and only the prospect of a full English breakfast was sufficient incentive to get me out of bed.
We scarfed down breakfast and then made our way back down to Waterhead. The plan had been to catch the ferry down to Wray Castle and then hike down the side of Lake Windemere to Hawkshead, catch the car ferry back to Bowness and then back to Waterhead. However, as we were to discovere, the service to Wray Castle had been suspended and our only options were a ferry trip to either Bowness or Lakeside. We were assured by the ticket collector that there was plenty to see and do in Bowness and, because we're trusting individuals, we believed him.
However, this was a lie. Bowness is, in one word, horrid. It's billed as the heart of the Lake District but, sadly, another part of the human anatomy kept coming to mind over and over again. Bowness represents everything that I think is wrong with tourism and the whole bastardisation of the travelling experience. Put yourself in the position of the Victorians who first discovered the astounding beauty of this part of the world. Think about those pioneers who developed the whole concept of The Grand Tour around Europe. The idea was that you got on a coach or a ship and went to see other cultures in their natural state, the various peoples of the world going about their daily lives, on a day-to-day basis. Bowness has none of this.
Bowness seems to be filled with shops owned by a mixture of mild-mannered hippies going through a mid-life crisis and/or locals who have found a quick way to make an easy buck. There appears to be absolutely nothing left of the original Lake District culture that I was there when I first visited the place 35 years ago. Instead, it's just one, huge, dull, bland featureless series of identikit retail outlets all selling exactly the same junk. The customers are all dull, bland featureless, identikit ramblers in fashion-statement hiking gear. imho, they are less about exploring a wilderness and more about looking-the-part.
We decided to take it easy, and walked down the edge of the lake to the car ferry station and then decided to get the ferry back to Waterhead as quickly as possible. The heady aroma of autumnal leaves fused with a crisp, north-westerly breeze was lost in a pungent mix of diesel fumes and stale chip fat and, besides, the weather was beginning to turn.
Back at Waterhead, we found a quieter route back to base, away from the main road. Bowness was a crashing disappointment but it didn't spoil our day because the day wasn't really about exploring. It was about spending some quality time together.
With a few hours to kill before the evening meal, I hit the hotel pool whilst Jules wrote up the obligatory postcards. This was terrific fun and just what I needed to relax. I managed to swim a fair number of lengths without sinking though I was aware that my swimming trunks were a good deal tighter than they had been when I last put them on. In fact, they pretty much cut off the circulation to my legs so this was confirmation that a diet is very much in order.
Dinner was pleasant though expensive and, afterwards, we explored the last few sections of the town before heading back to the hotel for a nightcap and bed.
We checked out the following morning, after a brief but enjoyable stay. We were missing the dogs terribly and felt sure that they were missing us (we were right). The return trip along Thirlmere was broken up by a couple of photo-opportunities and a picnic stop a few miles south of Keswick, just simply to take in the surroundings one more time.
We paused again to visit The Castlerigg Stone Circle, a site that I've been meaning to visit for 30+ years and it didn't disappoint. I only wish I'd taken more photographs.
Home was 70+ miles away and we made good time, despite some heavy roadworks at Brough. The house was still standing when we pulled into the driveway - why it is that you always suspect that it won't - though there was a pile of mail stuck behind the front door. We emptied the car as quickly as we could and then made our way down to the kennels to pick up the dogs.
Needless to say, they were delighted to see us but they'd all apparently lost their voices. Pooh was giving off a kind of feeble Yip! and both Charlie and Dodie tried but failed to make any real noise. Reo was the most upset, screaming with joy to see us again.
Getting them into the car was as difficult as it was undignified. Pooh and Dodie have a fractous relationship at best and the cramped confines of the back of the car are apt to trigger a nasty fight, which is why we've learned to anticipate and diffuse any possible flash points.
Back at home, we unpacked and our short trip away began to slide into memory. I sat down at the computer and began to read through the mountain of e-mails that had been piling up since Monday and then began work on a presentation for the astronomical society in two weeks time. Jules retired to her room for a bit of peace and quiet though as I was to discover, this wasn't a good sign.
It was about this time that I discovered how much I have wasn't enjoying this particular job. Indeed, I found that I was actually pretty sick of sitting down in front of the computer and that my break from work hadn't been anything like as long as it could or should have been. In truth, Jules was quietly seething that I'd gone straight back into e-mail more or less as soon as I got through the front door. This is a sure sign that I need to redress the whole work/life balance and re-evaluate my priorities. I feel utterly exhausted. I'm spending far too much time at the computer, either working, socialising or, indeed, blogging and this clearly has to change.
As further confirmation, the phone rang at 09.01am on Thursaday morning - a customer chasing progress on his web page. I explained that we'd been away for a couple of days and that kept him happy but, alas, I found that I had no enthusiasm for returning to work and fixing his pages. Instead, I shut the computer down and we went out for the morning.
Lots of blokes tell you that they're tired and in need of a break, and many wear their exhaustion like some badge of honour, an outward sign that they are 100% the company man and fully dedicated to their work at the expense of their health. These blokes are, of course, complete fuckwits. They're also liars. A true workaholic won't admit that they're pushing their envelope because, like their alcoholic bretheren, accepting that they have a problem is difficult, if not impossible until some kind of crunch event happens. If you're lucky then this might be a family intervention, where you're made to confront your problem head on. If you're unlucky, then the crunch often comes in the form of a divorce petition or, God-forbid, a health problem - cancer, a heart attack or a mental breakdown. Since none of these options are acceptable, I've decided to back off on the computer habit for a couple of weeks.
In short, my batteries are still flat and I need more time to recharge, which is why this entry in the blog will be delayed until next week or the week after when my energy levels should be back to normal. Until then, I'll be checking e-mail but not working on anything except rebuilding the work room and sorting out some space in the studio.
On the plus side, we did receive an interesting invitation to a gig to watch The Morris Quinlan Experience and their unique brand of alt-prog poetry. The evening had been organised by the Monkfish Productions as a comedy/spoken word showcase for local artists, and it was hugely enjoyable. I hd no idea that there was anything like this going on in Newcastle these days. Neither of us were fully prepared for what we were about to see and that, I think, was why this event worked - a heady mix of poetry, visuals, comedy and music.
Today will be spent catching up on some small jobs, maybe a walk up to the shops and a trip to the Meadows with the dogs but it won't feature much in the way of computer time. I'll make my apologies on the various boards I'm part of and we'll see what happens next.