One day
At a time
One day
Like this
One day
Your prince will come
One day
This will all be yours
One day
I will understand
One day
Is just like another
One day
This will all be over
One day
Soon
Thursday 25 October 2012
Number One
Don’t forget you are amazing
The haze of problems may fog your vision
Or responsibility bow your shoulders
And a mother’s care furrow your brow
But just remember - you are amazing
Honest to speak your mind
Friendly to chat to a stranger
Open, engaging, bright and attractive
And not chained by old wounds
That is amazing
A blonde cocktail – probably made from Stolichnaya
(A large one, please barman...)
Or a bright meteor – that appears too briefly
But lights up the world and makes us go ‘ahh!’
Don’t forget you are amazing
Never forget - you are number one.
Wednesday 25 July 2012
PID – a formula for life [1]
From all that we do sense
We now can start to
see
The point to reach,
just hence
Where we might want
to be
Keep things in
proportion
And we have much to
gain
Integrate past action
Correct how we
should aim
Look at where we’re
going
To make a
difference
Though it might mean slowing
You know that it
makes sense
So take control
just now
Because we plainly
see
That point to reach
- and how
And where we want
to be.
[1]
PID (Proportional, Integral, Differential) is a 3-element formula used with
controllers to move a sensing system from any start point to a target
set-point, speedily and with minimum overshoot, ringing or susceptibility to
‘noise’. Or is it more…?
Tuesday 19 June 2012
The Fall
“The grass needs cutting” said Eva, over breakfast.
“But I have some esoterica to listen to, on Radio 3” explained Adamson. “ ‘Ursula’s Horn-Rimmed Glasses’, an unknown opera by the unknown composer Vladek Hodget. Anyway – where are my muffins? It’s Thursday.”
As a boy, Adamson’s grandmother had always given him muffins on Thursdays, while his mother practised Northumbrian folk songs, like ‘What Fettle, Geordie, Hinny?’ and ‘Divvint Drop Yer Dottle On The Proggie Mat, Pet’ - and while his father hid in the cupboard.
In lieu of demanded muffins, Eva went off to dust. Eva always rated the practical over the esoteric, but Adamson was more poetic.
“That man you’re going to marry” her father had warned her, “will listen to unknown operas over breakfast. I know his type.”
“And I might have to write some poems later.” Adamson called out. Having been married for 40 years, Adamson at least recognised the significance of a sudden need to dust.
You wrote me a poem once, thought Eva ruefully. That was 40 years ago.
Distracted, she knocked ‘The Monarch Of The Glen’ off its wobbly nail and it crashed to the landing floor.
Recognising this further sign, Adamson called out “Er - I’m just taking the cat for a walk”.
“Cats don’t need taking for walks, they’re perfectly capable of walking themselves!” replied Eva, but in this she was quite wrong. In fact the cat was quite amenable to being taken for a walk, especially if it went past the fish and chip shop.
The cat’s name was Rover, because Adamson had really wanted a Mynah bird, which was flatly refused. So in one of those convoluted domestic compromises, he agreed to settle for a cat, but insisted it be named Rover. Rover was commendably stoic about the choice, though he studiously ignored Adamson if he shouted the name in public.
“That man you’re going to marry” Eva's father had said, “will end up taking cats for walks. You see if I’m wrong.”
Eva entered the dining room with a broken picture frame, raised eyebrows and duster stowed regimentally under the armpit. Rover could also recognise signs and, quickly reasoning that he was perfectly capable of walking himself, he left.
Adamson regarded the shattered monarch, and attempted levity. “Oh how the mighty have fallen...”
The eyebrows failed to fall. Recognising the moment for another domestic compromise, Adamson said “I’ll get the lawnmower out”.
For 20 minutes Adamson mowed competently, accompanied on earphones by Ursula’s Horn-Rimmed Glasses and supervised from the fence by a returned Rover. Moved by the aria where Ursula is finally reunited with her spectacles, he carelessly ran over some fallen apples, jamming the mower blades.
Eva sighed a sigh that had matured for 40 years. “I’ll make some muffins”, she conceded.
“Come on, Rover” said Adamson, brightly, and after first checking quickly that no one else seemed to have heard, Rover followed.
And so it came to pass, that Adamson and Eva had to leave the garden – because of an apple.
(Apologies to Leonard Barras for nicking his style and characters - try to find the original if you can, the man was a genius)
“But I have some esoterica to listen to, on Radio 3” explained Adamson. “ ‘Ursula’s Horn-Rimmed Glasses’, an unknown opera by the unknown composer Vladek Hodget. Anyway – where are my muffins? It’s Thursday.”
As a boy, Adamson’s grandmother had always given him muffins on Thursdays, while his mother practised Northumbrian folk songs, like ‘What Fettle, Geordie, Hinny?’ and ‘Divvint Drop Yer Dottle On The Proggie Mat, Pet’ - and while his father hid in the cupboard.
In lieu of demanded muffins, Eva went off to dust. Eva always rated the practical over the esoteric, but Adamson was more poetic.
“That man you’re going to marry” her father had warned her, “will listen to unknown operas over breakfast. I know his type.”
“And I might have to write some poems later.” Adamson called out. Having been married for 40 years, Adamson at least recognised the significance of a sudden need to dust.
You wrote me a poem once, thought Eva ruefully. That was 40 years ago.
Distracted, she knocked ‘The Monarch Of The Glen’ off its wobbly nail and it crashed to the landing floor.
Recognising this further sign, Adamson called out “Er - I’m just taking the cat for a walk”.
“Cats don’t need taking for walks, they’re perfectly capable of walking themselves!” replied Eva, but in this she was quite wrong. In fact the cat was quite amenable to being taken for a walk, especially if it went past the fish and chip shop.
The cat’s name was Rover, because Adamson had really wanted a Mynah bird, which was flatly refused. So in one of those convoluted domestic compromises, he agreed to settle for a cat, but insisted it be named Rover. Rover was commendably stoic about the choice, though he studiously ignored Adamson if he shouted the name in public.
“That man you’re going to marry” Eva's father had said, “will end up taking cats for walks. You see if I’m wrong.”
Eva entered the dining room with a broken picture frame, raised eyebrows and duster stowed regimentally under the armpit. Rover could also recognise signs and, quickly reasoning that he was perfectly capable of walking himself, he left.
Adamson regarded the shattered monarch, and attempted levity. “Oh how the mighty have fallen...”
The eyebrows failed to fall. Recognising the moment for another domestic compromise, Adamson said “I’ll get the lawnmower out”.
For 20 minutes Adamson mowed competently, accompanied on earphones by Ursula’s Horn-Rimmed Glasses and supervised from the fence by a returned Rover. Moved by the aria where Ursula is finally reunited with her spectacles, he carelessly ran over some fallen apples, jamming the mower blades.
Eva sighed a sigh that had matured for 40 years. “I’ll make some muffins”, she conceded.
“Come on, Rover” said Adamson, brightly, and after first checking quickly that no one else seemed to have heard, Rover followed.
And so it came to pass, that Adamson and Eva had to leave the garden – because of an apple.
(Apologies to Leonard Barras for nicking his style and characters - try to find the original if you can, the man was a genius)
Tuesday 17 April 2012
Ocean's 60
Senior crime, now - it's the future. Know what I mean, my Saga chums? Lock, stock and two mugs of steaming cocoa. See - the way I sees it is this. First off, right, well, we don't exactly need so much anyway, do we? I mean - it ain't gotta last us a bleedin' lifetime, has it? Ha, ha! So - second, if you thinks about it, yeh can't really go wrong, can yeh? Either yeh succeed - knock over a bank , say - and it's all sweet - Spain, sangria and Sky Sports. Or - you get caught, but then you're gonna end up with her maj. paying yer rent, doing yer laundry, cooking yer meals, looking after yer teeth... and you get a bit of company thrown in... bleedin hell, you can even do an open University course an all. I tells yeh - it's better than living on your own in your 60s with no heating, innit? (You even get a new sex life...of sorts). There just ain't a down side, is there?
Then...and yer gonna like this, I tell yeh... there's the film rights. I mean - it don't matter if you pull it off or get collared - the story of 'Ocean's 60' will make a stonking film. Miramax are weeing themselves already and I ain't just gone and met that Ray Winstone down the dogs - Raymundo is well up for the lead. Sweet.
So. You in or what, eh?
Then...and yer gonna like this, I tell yeh... there's the film rights. I mean - it don't matter if you pull it off or get collared - the story of 'Ocean's 60' will make a stonking film. Miramax are weeing themselves already and I ain't just gone and met that Ray Winstone down the dogs - Raymundo is well up for the lead. Sweet.
So. You in or what, eh?
Tuesday 10 April 2012
More Tales From The Dun Cow
It was during the seething industrial unrest of the 1959 strike by the Saggar Makers Bottom Knockers (and affiliated trades) that the Dun Cow played the Bottom Knockers in a charity football match at Floodplain Fields.
The Dun Cow eleven were short of eight men. PC Jack Townsend, the insecure policeman, recruited seven of the local constabulary, and hypothetical vegetarian and neo-Wordsworthian poet Herbert Mangle persuaded former rounders champion and current off-licence proprietor, Mrs Proudfoot, to make up the numbers, after first helping her to suitably prepare.
"Ah didn't know you had to wear chest protectors in football.” She said.
"Trust me...” said Herbert Mangle, "...I've played this game many times before.”
The last of the founding trio was formidable centre half Hu Wang Tardelli. The product of an Italian father and a Chinese mother, he would launch into a tackle like a gladiator, and then walk away, looking perfectly inscrutable.
As the rain continued to deluge and the bursting river began to invade the pitch, Inspector Birkett (master of disguises) splashed off for the Dun Cow side, masquerading as Sir Tom Finney.
In the crowd, Granny Smith went off to the refreshment tent to get some pies, and a bottle of stout for Uncle Hal's bad memory. Falling under the ever-projecting charm of Dun Cow stalwart and amateur dramatics leading player, Peregrine Walthamstow, she returned with cucumber sandwiches instead of pies, as he had said they suited her complexion better.
"Why did you want this bottle of stout?” she asked Uncle Hal.
"I forget” he said.
The Dun Cow were a goal down by half-time, but had the advantage in the second half of playing with the tide, and soon Inspector Birkett, transformed now as Nat Lofthouse, managed to deftly skim the ball three times over the water to pull a goal back. However the Dun Cow were soon depleted as Herbert Mangle took Mrs Proudfoot away to 'help her into some dry clothes' and the thin blue back line collapsed, conceding four more times. So it was that the Dun Cow finished with nine men, one goal and three trout.
The victorious Bottom Knockers charitably bought all drinks at the Dun Cow afterwards, Inspector Birkett metamorphosed into a passable Frank Sinatra and Hu Wang Tardelli provided a warming meal of sweet and sour spaghetti.
Herbert Mangle later immortalised the day in his poem in The Wallsend Weekly Buffoon.
Oh happy was that time, on sodden field of play
We played with bottom knockers to win the day
And swam with the fishes, and ate with the bobbies
And sweet kind ladies did help us with our hobbies.
The Dun Cow eleven were short of eight men. PC Jack Townsend, the insecure policeman, recruited seven of the local constabulary, and hypothetical vegetarian and neo-Wordsworthian poet Herbert Mangle persuaded former rounders champion and current off-licence proprietor, Mrs Proudfoot, to make up the numbers, after first helping her to suitably prepare.
"Ah didn't know you had to wear chest protectors in football.” She said.
"Trust me...” said Herbert Mangle, "...I've played this game many times before.”
The last of the founding trio was formidable centre half Hu Wang Tardelli. The product of an Italian father and a Chinese mother, he would launch into a tackle like a gladiator, and then walk away, looking perfectly inscrutable.
As the rain continued to deluge and the bursting river began to invade the pitch, Inspector Birkett (master of disguises) splashed off for the Dun Cow side, masquerading as Sir Tom Finney.
In the crowd, Granny Smith went off to the refreshment tent to get some pies, and a bottle of stout for Uncle Hal's bad memory. Falling under the ever-projecting charm of Dun Cow stalwart and amateur dramatics leading player, Peregrine Walthamstow, she returned with cucumber sandwiches instead of pies, as he had said they suited her complexion better.
"Why did you want this bottle of stout?” she asked Uncle Hal.
"I forget” he said.
The Dun Cow were a goal down by half-time, but had the advantage in the second half of playing with the tide, and soon Inspector Birkett, transformed now as Nat Lofthouse, managed to deftly skim the ball three times over the water to pull a goal back. However the Dun Cow were soon depleted as Herbert Mangle took Mrs Proudfoot away to 'help her into some dry clothes' and the thin blue back line collapsed, conceding four more times. So it was that the Dun Cow finished with nine men, one goal and three trout.
The victorious Bottom Knockers charitably bought all drinks at the Dun Cow afterwards, Inspector Birkett metamorphosed into a passable Frank Sinatra and Hu Wang Tardelli provided a warming meal of sweet and sour spaghetti.
Herbert Mangle later immortalised the day in his poem in The Wallsend Weekly Buffoon.
Oh happy was that time, on sodden field of play
We played with bottom knockers to win the day
And swam with the fishes, and ate with the bobbies
And sweet kind ladies did help us with our hobbies.
Tuesday 13 March 2012
The search for the Satan Particle begins
Did anyone read the excellent article in The Times 'Eureka' science supplement last week? In case you missed it, here is a quick summary.
As scientists at CERN hope to finally have enough statistical evidence to prove the existence of the God Particle by Summer this year, the thoughts of one group have started to move on to the next quest, for the anti-particle of the God Particle - the so-called ‘Satan Particle’ – otherwise known as the sintrino.
Whilst the God Particle gave us Mass, it’s the sintrino that actually weighs us down. One problem for researchers is the difficulty in actually stopping a sintrino – once started it often seems quite unstoppable.
CERN’s sintrino researchers (or ‘sinners’ for short) hope to devote much of the latter half of the year to the quest for the Satan Particle, and to prove its existence before the end of the year – there could even be major news around about the 21st December this year. Such a short timescale is possible because of everything that was learned along the ‘long hard road’ looking for the God Particle. This time, the ‘sinners’ happily predict that the search should be a lot more fun (although, of course, the devil is in the detail).
Finally, just as there were initial fears that the LHC research might produce some catastrophe, some are also doubting the wisdom of this new research, even warning that if ever a God Particle should collide with a Satan Particle, the resultant reaction would produce such incredible energy it could even be ‘...like a new Big Bang...’, but there is little science to predict such an event - just a belief.
As scientists at CERN hope to finally have enough statistical evidence to prove the existence of the God Particle by Summer this year, the thoughts of one group have started to move on to the next quest, for the anti-particle of the God Particle - the so-called ‘Satan Particle’ – otherwise known as the sintrino.
Whilst the God Particle gave us Mass, it’s the sintrino that actually weighs us down. One problem for researchers is the difficulty in actually stopping a sintrino – once started it often seems quite unstoppable.
CERN’s sintrino researchers (or ‘sinners’ for short) hope to devote much of the latter half of the year to the quest for the Satan Particle, and to prove its existence before the end of the year – there could even be major news around about the 21st December this year. Such a short timescale is possible because of everything that was learned along the ‘long hard road’ looking for the God Particle. This time, the ‘sinners’ happily predict that the search should be a lot more fun (although, of course, the devil is in the detail).
Finally, just as there were initial fears that the LHC research might produce some catastrophe, some are also doubting the wisdom of this new research, even warning that if ever a God Particle should collide with a Satan Particle, the resultant reaction would produce such incredible energy it could even be ‘...like a new Big Bang...’, but there is little science to predict such an event - just a belief.
Tuesday 28 February 2012
Atonement
There is no majesty in truth
No grandeur in simple reality
For these we need have fiction
Make-believe our love
And lies to be our joy
Without, the sky is grey
And pock-marked skin
Mirrors harshly back
So it was I died
Unseen - some years ago
But in my head I live
And watch the waves come in
And the moon cool light the trees
And rainbows arc the hill
And dream I may find love
Just one time, one time
No grandeur in simple reality
For these we need have fiction
Make-believe our love
And lies to be our joy
Without, the sky is grey
And pock-marked skin
Mirrors harshly back
So it was I died
Unseen - some years ago
But in my head I live
And watch the waves come in
And the moon cool light the trees
And rainbows arc the hill
And dream I may find love
Just one time, one time
Wednesday 15 February 2012
You choose.
The past is still-born
And tomorrow is dead
All time is a fake
It lives in your head
Just choices to make
Turn left or turn right
A head or a tail -
Nothing’s wrong nor right
See – life doesn't care
If you’re here or not
Rich man or beggar
You’ll soon be forgot
It’s all ‘quantum soup’
No reason or rhyme
And nothing left after
Because - there’s no time.
Monday 16 January 2012
Contradictions And Tensions
We are often in conflict, often in tension. Balancing one force against another. Action straining against reaction. The humdrum need to gather coin to pay bills and creditors versus the personal human quest for understanding, beauty, fulfilment or pleasure. The laughter and immediacy of inconsequential fun versus the deep and lasting commitment to care, love and commit. We balance our personal needs with the needs of our partner or family. On one side the logic and detailed technical understanding of how things work and how the universe ticks – and yet simultaneously our wild leaps of faith to believe in a particular God who can never be revealed, or a partner we have known for only a few months or weeks, yet we swear ‘is the one’. How is that possible? How do we ever square one side of us with the other? A few don’t and forever decide to show just side of their mask to the world, but most stay in some sort of balance of tension and contradiction. Or perhaps in some part of your life you follow – or have to follow – a particular path where you may show just one side for some time – become single-minded, dedicated, a zealot. Then at some time – a death perhaps, or a change of fortune - it reverses, and the engineer suddenly becomes more of an artist, or a doubter stumbles on a revelation, or a believer sees the light of reason and science.
I watched a programme on Edwin Lutyens a while ago. I have seen some of his country homes near here in Surrey and I love the style of them – somehow organically and sympathetically interwoven with the Surrey countryside, especially with Jekyll’s gardens. They can seem almost timeless, part of the soil, the landscape. Yet they were built – and paid for – by the privileged few. His great friend (and owner of one of the houses) was the founder of ‘Country Life’ – you just couldn’t get more Surrey than that. So here I am – a working class lad from a terrace in the North East admiring country houses in Surrey. The pubs of my youth had strippers and talk of ‘The Lads’ – now it might be guys in green wellies who have to go to pick up Pippa from the stables. Tension and contradiction.
I revelled in the richness of the Hollywood, Keira Knightley version of Pride & Prejudice on TV. A long way from the book of course, but hugely enjoyable, as are the original stories – landmarks in fiction, and yet… and yet… very much about privilege and idle, rich, spoilt young men with fortunes to live off and grand estates – and highly articulate, but sometimes rather silly young women chasing determinedly after them. The richness of English language, of theatre, of art and music often owed a great debt to rich patrons, backers and buyers. Poor artists and rich buyers. Art and Commerce. Is one devalued by the other? Is one enriched or excused by the other?
Maybe tension is good – it could drive us, give an extra edge, an extra dimension to us and to what others see in us? A rubber band, wound up inside to give us some energy. As a kid I made many a balsa plane powered by a well-wound rubber-band. I enjoyed them and they flew pretty well too. Well – that is - they did until the rubber band snapped, or the plane crashed. That’s made me feel quite tense now...
I watched a programme on Edwin Lutyens a while ago. I have seen some of his country homes near here in Surrey and I love the style of them – somehow organically and sympathetically interwoven with the Surrey countryside, especially with Jekyll’s gardens. They can seem almost timeless, part of the soil, the landscape. Yet they were built – and paid for – by the privileged few. His great friend (and owner of one of the houses) was the founder of ‘Country Life’ – you just couldn’t get more Surrey than that. So here I am – a working class lad from a terrace in the North East admiring country houses in Surrey. The pubs of my youth had strippers and talk of ‘The Lads’ – now it might be guys in green wellies who have to go to pick up Pippa from the stables. Tension and contradiction.
I revelled in the richness of the Hollywood, Keira Knightley version of Pride & Prejudice on TV. A long way from the book of course, but hugely enjoyable, as are the original stories – landmarks in fiction, and yet… and yet… very much about privilege and idle, rich, spoilt young men with fortunes to live off and grand estates – and highly articulate, but sometimes rather silly young women chasing determinedly after them. The richness of English language, of theatre, of art and music often owed a great debt to rich patrons, backers and buyers. Poor artists and rich buyers. Art and Commerce. Is one devalued by the other? Is one enriched or excused by the other?
Maybe tension is good – it could drive us, give an extra edge, an extra dimension to us and to what others see in us? A rubber band, wound up inside to give us some energy. As a kid I made many a balsa plane powered by a well-wound rubber-band. I enjoyed them and they flew pretty well too. Well – that is - they did until the rubber band snapped, or the plane crashed. That’s made me feel quite tense now...
Thursday 5 January 2012
Time Machines
All the talk about OPERA and time travel made me interested again in Time Machines - is there some real physics that gives some hope that one could be developed some day?
Prof Ronald Mallett at Connecticut University is working on a technique. Mallett published a paper describing how a circulating beam of laser light would create a vortex in space within its circle (Physics Letters A, vol 269, p 214).
Then he had a eureka moment. "I realised that time, as well as space, might be twisted by circulating light beams," Mallett says.
To twist time into a loop, Mallett worked out that he would have to add a second light beam, circulating in the opposite direction. Then if you increase the intensity of the light enough, space and time swap roles: inside the circulating light beam, time runs round and round, while what to an outsider looks like time becomes like an ordinary dimension of space.
A person walking along in the right direction could actually be walking backwards in time -- as measured outside the circle. So after walking for a while, you could leave the circle and meet yourself before you have entered it.
Link: Mallett
Kip Thorne of CalTech has a nice discussion of the possibilities here: Thorne
In it he postulates that perhaps the Casimir Effect, by providing a source of negative energy, may be used to prevent space-time wormholes from collapsing. It just needs rather a lot of energy...
Prof Ronald Mallett at Connecticut University is working on a technique. Mallett published a paper describing how a circulating beam of laser light would create a vortex in space within its circle (Physics Letters A, vol 269, p 214).
Then he had a eureka moment. "I realised that time, as well as space, might be twisted by circulating light beams," Mallett says.
To twist time into a loop, Mallett worked out that he would have to add a second light beam, circulating in the opposite direction. Then if you increase the intensity of the light enough, space and time swap roles: inside the circulating light beam, time runs round and round, while what to an outsider looks like time becomes like an ordinary dimension of space.
A person walking along in the right direction could actually be walking backwards in time -- as measured outside the circle. So after walking for a while, you could leave the circle and meet yourself before you have entered it.
Link: Mallett
Kip Thorne of CalTech has a nice discussion of the possibilities here: Thorne
In it he postulates that perhaps the Casimir Effect, by providing a source of negative energy, may be used to prevent space-time wormholes from collapsing. It just needs rather a lot of energy...
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