Water

Most of my trips to British Columbia had one thing in common apart from work, and that was rain. Joni must not have been at home in BC when she wrote "Sunny Sunday".

Probably further down the Western seaboard than that.

".....California, California I'm comin' home".

Western Canada is called Nothern Temperate Rain Forest for a reason. It rains!

As I sat in another Starbucks on another wet Sunday in Vancouver, I got to musing about water, that thing that seems to be both a curse and a lifeline.

Too little of it and you die of thirst, too much of it and you drown.

While my distant relatives in Selby and York were mopping up the brown sludge from what was left of their carpets and filling in the forms for the insurance, the cattle herdsmen of the Masai Mara in Kenya watched as the the source of their livelihoods fell, starving and dehydrated in to the dust when the rains failed again.

On that Sunday, the forests of BC, the lungs of Western Canada, dripped with the rain of late November. That same rain at some time in past millennia had deluged the vale of York and singularly avoided the Masai.

The forest browns and greens are more vivid when it rains in BC. Not the brown of the Selby sludge, the red-browns of an Autumn turning to Winter on the lower slopes of Mt Seymour. While further up the mountain, we see water in its other forms. Above 500m, the low cloud, the mist, envelopes your car, leaving you peering ahead in to the gloom. Above 650m you hit the snow line. More water. Just a few patches by the roadside at first where the snowploughs piled it up, then slowly, inexorably the landscape becomes arctic, until eventually you lose the road markings and discretion becomes the better part of valour and you retreat down to water in a less hazardous form.

Humans have a fascination with water. Maybe there's some folk memory that tells us we have to worship it. We swim in it, we sail on it, we hurtle down mountains while sliding over it, and some even give birth in it. Canadians freeze it and use it to play hockey on, while the more sedentary of us just go and stare at it. It's far more interesting if it's under the influence of gravity. BC has lots of examples of water and gravity interacting. It has waterfalls that cascade from dizzying heights, two serious ones at least, just on the road from Vancouver to Whistler. Numerous rushing torrents of rivers, and many examples of water and gravity in uneasy equilibrium. The Capillano dam that holds back a reservoir and provides the drinking water for Vancouver, and the sea defenses that stop Richmond being inundated both testify to man's need to control this vital resource. Water uncontrolled floods houses, and drowns children, water controlled provides drinks and electrical power.

We have an uneasy relationship with this most elemental of elements. Divert it and use to much of it and we get the fishing boats of the Aral sea, 20 miles from the coast. Water is in danger of becoming the oil of the 21st century. As we demand more of it, we will need to protect it from our neighbors. Already, territorial disputes are breaking out over access to water. Unlike oil, absolutely no life is possible without it, so the disputes over it will be much more serious.

BC seems to have more than its fair share so maybe Canadians should be grateful for it.

I like to go rambling at Christmas

Every year, I leave it to the last minute to send Christmas cards.

This year is no exception.

Many people have actually come to the conclusion that they are a dying institution in these days of email, internet chat rooms and all that stuff. But for at least for this year I will persist! Perhaps it’s easier for me to send cards because I’ve got fewer to send these days. Whether it’s due to parents, aunts and uncles going “the way of all flesh” or just that with all these massive advances in communications and the decline of Christmas as a “religious duty” we communicate in different ways.

The postal rush could well be consigned, in a few years from now, to the same fate as the Telegram or the Pony Express, with people not needing to have to communicate all in one go, in one mad rush of bonhomie a few days before Christmas. There is frankly, something in the view that a card with “From John” written on the bottom and stuffed in to an envelope once a year is a poor replacement for a regular email, letter, Skype call or phone call.

But I disagree, even if so far my favourite card - replacement greeting this year was from my Aussie mate in Tasmania, who sent me an email with a graphic in red of the words “Merry Christmas” which after five seconds rotated and morphed in to a row of Santas flashing their backsides.

Said Aussie wrote a the bottom “I'm all class, aren't I?”

Beats the whatsit out of reindeers and snowy cottages and just so Australian!

But hey, we live in hectic times, some of you have families and businesses to run, or are just too busy being retired, so you won’t find me complaining if I receive a card with “From Uncle Lionel and Spotty the dog” on it every year, at least I’ll know a couple of things:

You’re still alive

You’ve still got all your marbles

You still think of me at least once a year.

So have a great Christmas whatever you’re up to and do something you've always wanted to but never had the time...

Finding out how things work

I just had a comment by email that only bloggers or Googlers could comment on "Microwaving my Cat" This is all just part of learning the art of Blogging I guess 'cos I didn't realise I had the settings such.


Well I've fixed that now, so feel free to add comments, even anonymous ones.


On the subject of cats, Florence, my wandering soul still continues to do her own thing and disappear for days on end. Fortunately we've found her second home, the local restaurant pub. She must smell the food 'cos inevitably, she pitches up after a few days and is taken in by a nice Polish girl, who, bless her heart, takes her in and looks after her until the owner gets chance to call me, and I duly pitch up with the cat basket.


She seems such a nice girl and doesn't seem to mind looking after Flo, I had to insist she took some money to pay for the cat food she'd gone out and bought.

I feel tempted to give Flo away, but as (like many of the "new Poles" in England,) where her benefactor appears to live, in a tiny room at the back of the pub kitchen, is not really conducive to keeping pets. Not really conducive to keeping anything actually but I guess the working conditions of Eastern European immigrants in the UK is is a reflection for another day.

Fish

Every now and then, a travel story comes around that is:

a) someone elses

b) so much funnier than yours that you wish it was yours,

c) you just have to tell it.

A Few years back our Beloved Company upgraded the Hong Kong Fire and Ambulance Mobile Data system. We sent out our resident radio expert, Simon, a PhD with wicked sense of humour delivered in broad Lancastrian. Amongst the good doctor's myriad useful talents he could do Morse code in Russian, a skill learned during a research career that took him from Sierra Leone to the Russian Arctic. (I'll leave it a an exercise to the reader to work our where he developed his bilingual telegraphic skills, and why this is relevant to the story.) He was accompanied by a fellow North Westerner, a soccer - mad Cumbrian with a penchant for finding amiusement in all things foreign. Apart from collecting the most naff national dolls from every country he visited, foreign languages were a constant source of amusement. I well remember him being in in hysterics in Holland after seeing a series of signs saying "Shlicten zu Lichten". Chris found this funny despite the fact that it means "dip your headlights" (Almost as funny as the Tourist in Spain who after following the signs for 4 hours stopped and asked a policeman when they would be getting to "Cedo El Paso".)

Anyway, returning swiftly from Andalucia to Hong Kong, our intrepid brace of Engineers (What is the collective noun for engineers?) decided to spend a day on the Chinese Mainland. Relaxing from the stress of the colony, and taking in some real Chinese culture. They duly took the ferry, Chris's amusement somewhat blunted by his absolute inability to decipher a single road or shop sign. (For the non - English reader, Cumbrian dialect is rooted Old Norse not Old Mandarin, but for most of the rest of us English it might as well be, but that's another story)

After a few hours of walking round being the only Westerners in town, they decided that it might be a good idea to find lunch. Being good Northern lads, brought up in multicultural Manchester and Wigtown respectively they considered the options for a while, and "decided on a Chinese",

Well, the first problem was to find a restaurant. Unlike Hong Kong, the mainlanders did not like to encourage Westerners by putting "Restaurant" (in English) on the sign outside. After walking in to two private houses and a bank, they noticed two girls standing giggling outside another building, decorated only with indecipherable Chinese characters. They beckoned the boys over, and, still giggling, led them in to a restaurant. Now clearly the girls were having a slow day, and thought that two Western travelers would be good sport. They were led to a table, sat down and handed each a sheet of laminated paper, covered on both sides with a solid block of Chinese Characters. After some thought they decided that this, admittedly ornate, but completely indecipherable sheet must be the menu.

Now in most foreign countries anyone with even a smattering of another language can decipher enough to point vaguely at a menu and not get served donkey's testicles. Even in Finland, it's possible to separate the courses and not accidentally order two portions of "VAT is charged at 18%" and a side dish of "Service is included". Not in mainland China. Its a solid block of Chinese text, no numbers, no separation of the courses.

Donkey's testicles were beginning to look a distinct possibility.

By this time, the two girls we rolling about on the floor with amusement, the grinning now overtaken by laughter, loud enough to bring out the Head Chef, who, after appearing to argue with the girls, also began to laugh loudly.

Well by this time, Northern Man and hunger were taking over. The boys weren't going to be giggled at by two girls, or a chef, Head or otherwise, nor were they going to suffer an ignominious and hungry exit. Suddenly Simon's PhD kicked in, and he walked over to one of the tanks around the walls and pointed animatedly to a fish. Quickly the message was put over, "we'd like fish" and they returned to their table with anticipation.

Well they were pretty pleased with themselves, they'd made contact with another culture, and were going to get a fish supper as well

They continued to chat until an old lady sidled up to Chris with a plastic supermarket carrier bag, and held it out. Chris, lost in animated conversation and thinking it was some type of Chinese lucky dip plunged his hand in to the bag, only to make contact with a cold, wet slimy object that moved when he touched it.

"There's a fucking fish in here!"

He cried (in old Norse) pulling his hand out so rapidly he nearly knocked the old lady off her feet. At this point the old lady looked mortally offended, and thinking the fish she'd brought for them to approve was not good enough, scuttled back to the kitchen, only to return two minutes later with another plastic bag. At this point Simon slid under the table and joined the girls in uncontrollable laughter.

Chris this time smiled gracefully, nodded his head and the old lady smiled, bowed and headed to the kitchen again. They did eat that evening, and I'm sure the two girls tell the story just as often as Simon and Chris.

In Memorium - Ray F Angel 1929 - 2007

On the announcement of Ray’s passing, former colleagues and friends emailed their thoughts and comments about their time working with him. Here are just a few.

“Dreadfully sad. I really loved Ray and thought he was quite the sweetest man.”

“I remember Ray best for his unwavering enthusiasm in filching out the right OS maps for me when I used to do my mammoth bicycle jaunts.”

“I haven’t met any one else quite like Ray …. So “young”

“I truly thought he would outlive his 90 year old cousins and still be climbing towers well into his 100s.”

Ray Angel arrived at SMS in early 1990 to join the team that planned the AA mobile data network and stayed through the changes to MDSI and DDS, still calling in to see his old colleagues on a regular basis up until a few weeks ago.

Back in 1990 he was two times retired already, but was happy to work “as and when required.” It turned out that he was invaluable; to quote a former colleague, “he could do a coverage prediction faster than any PC with just about the same accuracy!” Most of us had not realised that Ray was that much older than the rest us, but that did not stop him becoming an absolutely crucial member of David Almond’s “collection of refugees from big companies” that made the project team such a success. His youthful enthusiasm mixed with mature experience and advice given with humility made him instantly popular. He was one of life’s true gentlemen, one of the old school.

Planning a radio network involved a lot of driving around surveying sites, and checking coverage. His female assistant in the early days tells that despite only working with him for a year that she’ll always remember him fondly and told of the day when he sneaked her into the gentlemen's club in Connaught Square when they’d parked illegally and their car got towed. Ray, I’m sure would have found this most amusing.

He wasn’t all work and wireless, Ray had a lifelong interest in aircraft, born out of his RAF days as a National Service technician, supporting the Berlin airlift. He would “talk for Britain” about all things aeronautical and his gardening advice was legendary.

He had a gentle, old fashioned sense of humour and no time for “political correctness”. After accidentally breaking a colleague’s mug at work he bought him a new one from one of his many visits to Duxford Air Show. On the mug was a picture of a half-undressed woman and the inscription “Get them down safely with air traffic control.” That particular colleague still treasures the mug after some 15 years, and will always serve as a reminder of Ray.

To conclude, here are a few more extracts from emails received from friends and colleagues.


“I am so sad to hear of Ray’s passing. He was like a father figure to me when I was at SMS.”

“Ray was one of the really good guys.”

“He was very kind and considerate and a real gentleman.”

“Why is it that the decent folk seem to be the first to depart?”


Before we say our very last farewells to “the RF Angel” there is one burning question that I think all of us need an answer to.

Did he EVER finish that kitchen?

More Canadian Ramblings

Cross the Lion's Gate Bridge, that monument to permanent roadworks that crosses the Burrard inlet and links Stanley Park to North Vancouver, and you meet Marine Drive. You follow it West in to West Vancouver, through the forested coastal suburbs of Hollyburn, Wadsley and Sherman. This winding road parallels inland, the BC railway of Pacific Starlight Dinner Train fame. Just after Sherman, you cross the railway and it's just houses between you and the inlet. South are Vancouver and University Hill, West is Queen Charlotte sound and Vancouver island, and North is Cypress Provincial Park. Almost unnoticeable on your left is a sign for Lighthouse Park, named after the Point Atkinson Lighthouse that guards the rocks off the promontory.
This was the place where the first non-native resident of West Vancouver was born to the then lighthouse keeper's wife just a couple of hundred years ago. Lighthouse Park is crossed with Forest trails leading past rocky outcrops and towering Douglas Firs. Cool under the canopy you can escape the noonday sun, or the worst of the BC rain showers. The trails lead you down to coves where you can watch the pleasure boats in the summer or just the waves in the winter.
A few minutes further west, and you reach the Ferry Port of Horseshoe bay. Here the BC Ferries run over the Queen Charlotte channel to Vancouver Island. I stopped for the inevitable Cappuccino and cake here, and chatted for a long time with a "New Canadian"; an Indian Dentist called Neeta. She seemed fascinated by all things British, while her companion, a stony- faced bearded man of uncertain central European origin pretended to be uninterested, soaking up the sun without saying a word. I think Neeta was just happy to have an intelligent conversation for a change, a contrast to her daily life of staring at the world down the throat of her patients. There's just so much of a conversation you can have with someone with your surgical gloves in their mouth.
Neeta told me of her experiences of moving as a very young child from Braintree in Essex first to the East Coast, and finally to the Pacific West of Canada. I contemplated the contrast between her arrival and the arrival and life of the lighthousekeeper's wife. Neeta confided that she had a fascination with the British Royal Family, and that she had helped her son to study them in History.
"What did I think of the Queen Mother?" "Did I think Prince William would make a good King". I gave her my view that most of them were descended from 15th century robber barons but she seemed unfazed if a little surprised. I think I may have shaken her "All British people wear bowler hats" syndrome. Clearly, some Indians of my generation in Canada still have that peculiarly mixed view of their former colonial masters. Maybe it's a class thing. Undoubtedly Neeta was educated and probably fairly wealthy. A descendant maybe of the hugely successful middle class that developed during the Raj, a system which matched the ancient caste system so well. This rosy view of the British was painfully accurately observed by the "Goodness Gracious Me" TV team. The wonderful monologue to a slightly out of focus camera where and elderly upper class Indian woman speaks wistfully and happily about "the old days" while recounting stories of her abuse by British Officers.
Neeta had not been abused though. We chatted about immigrants, ethnicity and the importance of multiculturalism in the modern world. She enthused about how bright and intelligent the children of mixed race families were, probably based on her observations of her own. We wondered whether it was purely a matter of biology, the mixing of widely different genetic backgrounds, the opposite effect of the problems of inter-breeding, or whether it was just the stimulating environment that is available to children today if they just can be shown it and have the common sense to see it. I become more convinced, the more I travel that multiculturalism is the only hope for humanity. We have to throw away our petty nationalism our monoculture "ours is the only way" and realise that the world is a very small place these days. We've had enough warnings, Auchwitz, South African apartheid, Bosnia and Rwanda to name but a few of last century, and Fiji has the potential to be this century's example.
I know it's a cliché, but the 21st Century has seen the final arrival of the much-vaunted "Global Village". I pondered on the fact that just 24 hours ago, I was literally on the other side of the world, and I could get this essay with illustrated photographs to anywhere on the planet in seconds from my hotel room or my mobile phone.

A Weekend in the MUD

I'm back from Philly with Sam and Dave after an excellent “Microwave Update” (MUD) conference. We flew from Gatwick to Philly on the Thursday, arriving at 4pm US time, and picked up our hire car – appropriately, but not very green, a Jeep. After a missed turn and despite the GPS, Sam got us to the hotel and we settled in and registered for the conference.

Hospitality was excellent, with sponsored drinks and snacks from Down East Microwave. We were presented with our conference proceedings and a goody bag including CDs of Microwave design software, strips of MMIC amplifiers and (bizarrely) a sponsored back scratcher!

After a fitful jet-lagged night, the first day dawned and we were treated to a series of excellent speakers. Steve N2CEI from Down East Microwave took us on an amusing tour of the available high power surplus 13cm PAs becoming available nowadays, entertaining us with scary stories of almost flattening both his 60 Amp power supplies with a particular beast capable of half a kilowatt! The European “end” was kept up by Dave G4HUP’s versatile synthesiser design and Grant G8UBN who produced the highlight of the day during his talk on microwave SDR by explaining the difference between TCP/IP and UDP/IP by running up and down the stage pretending to be a data packet! I just hope someone captured this on video, as it was the stuff of future Amateur Radio club annual dinners!

Breaks throughout the day enabled us to partake of coffee and buns, cruise round the flea market, and drool over the array of Rohde and Schwarz test equipment that was available for anyone to use and test their kit. The afternoon break had an auction to support the organisers and the day really flew as we were entertained, educated, and slowly gathered more “microwave ballast” to fill our half empty suitcases!

One speaker told us that when explaining his passion for radio to his wife as “eccentric” got the ultimate put-down from her,

“You’re not eccentric, you’re just weird!”

Probably sums up a lot of us….

In the evening there was more free beer and another flea market, this time consisting of parts and equipment brought in by the conference delegates.

Day two was more of the same with topics ranging from the bands above 300GHz to “Rover operation” and the legendary Al Ward W5LUA talking about preamplifiers. Al has spent most of his professional life in the field, so no–one is more qualified to talk on this subject than him.

The conference closed with an evening banquet. The keynote speech was given by Nobel prize-winning Physicist Joe Taylor K1JT, of WSJT fame. Joe told us about his early life and his ground-breaking research at the giant Areceibo radio telescope in Puerto Rico, where apparently, when it is pointing at the moon, you can stand in the dish feed room at the focus with a 70cm handie radio and hear your own reflections!

Hand portable moonbounce, the next big challenge for amateurs?

Joe’s fascinating talk culminated in him handing round his Nobel medal to the auditorium for everyone to “touch and feel”

The final part of the evening was the raffle and in the tradition of MUD, everyone got a prize and went home happy with an invite to Minneapolis for next year’s event.

The conference over, on Sunday we spent a relaxing morning looking round Valley Forge Park, where, over the harsh winter of 1777 to 1778, George Washington moulded the Continental Army of the newly formed United States of America into a viable fighting force. No battle was fought here, but the army struggled against the elements and low morale to eventually be ready to overcome the British.

"Naked and starving as they are, we cannot enough admire the incomparable patience and fidelity of the soldiery." - George Washington at Valley Forge, February 16, 1778.

Lunch in a sidewalk café in downtown Philadelphia and a look at the famous Liberty Bell finished off a most enjoyable long weekend.

Thanks to the organisers the Packrats, to Sam for convincing me to spend the money to travel, and to Sam, Shirley and Dave for being such good travelling companions.

Icons and Punks, two days in Tampere.

From September 2000

To judge by the purple haired spotty youths lounging by the river and urinating under the trees there's obviously not much to do in Tampere on a Saturday evening. I mean, once you've done the Chain and Handcuffs exhibition, "The most extensive of its sort in Europe", The Coffee Cup Museum "more than 1200 cups made by the Arabia company", you just have to relieve yourself and save the "Finnish Refrigeration Museum” for the last day.

A check of the Tampere guidebook will tell you that none of the above is a flight of literary or humorous fantasy. These are some of the suggested activities from the guidebook. The refrigeration museum boasts "an extensive collection of refrigeration machinery" and a cafe and guided tours. I'll resist the temptation to say that its a cool experience (OK so I couldn't) but if your idea of fun is finding out how the Carnot cycle contributed to the culture of a country who's average winter temperature is well below zero, its for you.

This small Finnish city with such fascinating distractions is about 200 km North of Helsinki. It is dominated by a beautiful Finnish Orthodox Church, a mini St Basil’s, with domes and spires that look as if they should overlook Red Square. It dominates the town, standing, as it does, on a low hill overlooking the centre. Inside, the green and gold - robed priest was uttering the incantations and genuflecting, while the choir sang in beautiful Orthodox style. Down the left hand side stand the women, a mix of the modern and ancient, some in casuals and Nikes, and others in head scarves, praying intently like something out of a novel by Pasternak.

I confess to little or no knowledge of the Finns and their culture, my only contact being via a very unrepresentative and well travelled salesman, and the music of Sibelius. Jouni, the salesman was loud brash and humorous. He took great pleasure in greeting you with an enthusiastic "MOI!" and shaking you firmly by the hand. Moi by the way means "Hi" in his native (and by the way completely incomprehensible) tongue and was always carefully mispronounced to amuse other Scandinavians especially the Danes, to whom it means "Shit". I am reliably informed that Finnish shares absolutely no connection with any other World language apart from five words in common with Hungarian.

I digress, the separation of the genders in Tampere cathedral, women to the left and men to the right came as a bit of a surprise. I'm not sure its compulsory like in the Synagogue, as no one gave me a second look when I gravitated to the wrong side, but clearly that segregation said something about how ancient this religion is. The Finnish Orthodox Church lacks the heavy incense and beards of their Greek and Russian cousins. They are more akin to the Roman school, but the choral work has the same spine-tingling Eastern feel with the deep profound, almost inhuman, bass lines that are heard in St Petersburg or Thessaloniki.

The Mass seemed over-long, each section embellished and extended, as if to prepare the congregation for the experience to come. I watched a tiny child, a miniature version of her mother, in a red dress and the same head scarf being taken round, candle snuffer in hand, carefully extinguishing candles, while the calming music washed over the whole event like fog on a Baltic morning. My mind wandered from the mass as I thought what she must have made of all this, a child raised in a country with the largest penetration of mobile phones in the world, a country of early adopters of technology, and home to Nokia, the former pulp mill that now leads the high-tech, wireless connected world. What did she think to this quiet almost mediaeval ritual of bell, book and candle? Were these same people, at Mass on this Sunday morning, during the week pushing the frontiers of Information Technology, and if so how do they reconcile the two? Was I just seeing before the altar, those who preferred not to know the how, but just used the technology to talk, meet and carry out their Christian witness? Or were these the members of the "Information poor", those members of the emerging "underclass" to whom its just too much, and have opted for a simpler life where the faith that Jesus died for them is all the information they need.

My mind snapped back to the Mass, as the congregation rose again for the highlight, and moved forward, this time without segregation, to take the communion. Being a Protestant (can you be a lapsed Protestant?) I stayed back and watched, wondering if these people really believed in the literal transubstantiation or whether they crossed their fingers surreptitiously and went for the symbolic way out we Protestants (lapsed and otherwise) practice.

I felt strangely spiritually uplifted when I finally left the Mass, maybe it was God, or maybe it was just the fact that I passed an hour in beautiful peaceful surroundings and had spent it thinking about something other than work. I wonder if I'd chosen the Refrigeration Museum or Chain and Handcuffs exhibition that I would have been similarly uplifted? I very much doubt it.

Oh the Power and the Glory!

Just when you're getting the taste for it, they're bringing out the hammers and the boards and the nails.... (Joni Mitchell)

I listened to these song lyrics for what must have been the thousandth time and got to thinking about arrogance and power.

General Pinochet, the Marcoses, Mussolini and countless others all stand as 20th century testament to the transience of arrogance. Fame and Glory are short -lived in the big scheme of things, passing in a short lifetime, while the rocks and the trees go on. Some of us leave a lasting legacy like poetry or music or just memories of themselves; timeless and destined to give pleasure to generations to come, while others, often the most successfully arrogant ones, warrant little more than a footnote to the century.

Remember this, even those that appealed to the ultimate baseness of human nature, greed and bigotry lasted barely a decade, leaving in their wake the 6 million striped-shirted, hollow-eyed, lost souls.

Going to Phily with Sam and Dave

Only three days to go to "Microwave Update 2007" in Philadelphia, and yes I AM going with Sam and Dave, but not the ones you might imagine from the Stax label in the '70s. This is no convention for lazy chefs, nor kitchen appliance salesmen, but my first experience of a North American Amateur Radio convention and a first trip to Philly. My Aussie mate described it today as "three days with a bunch of guys with big antennas"....rather unfair, but from a man who refers to Americans as "Seppoes" (Septic tanks, Yanks, geddit?) hardly surprising.

Not my first trip to the USA, having been there 3 times this year already on business, but my first as a tourist since 1990. Hopefully it will not confirm my worst fears about American culture ("Land of snap decisions, Land of short attention spans") and I will be pleasantly surprised. I was not encouraged when I read the reviews of the hotel, but it really can't be as bad as some reviewers wrote can it? The US is supposed to be the homeland of customer service so if it is bad, I intend to act very non-British and actually complain, in the hope that I might get something done about it!

Readers of this and the last blog entry might now be getting some hint as to the blog's strange title. I never intend to actually cook any of my my three moggies, but I suppose I should introduce them. Maxwell the blind ginger tom you have already met, overfed and undersighted, the "grumpy old man" of the cat world. Faraday is a black lap-cat, and Florence (his sister) comes home every now and again when we can extract her from the local sailing club which she seems to prefer to our house. Florence is basically a psycopath. She is the "loveable little black cat" to the children at the sailing club, but actually survives by raiding rabbit warrens in a blood lust.

I fear she might get her come-uppance she stays away throughout the winter.

Like a Virgin, hey! - blogs for the very first time!

I suppose in the early part of the 21st Century, such a tech guru like me should have had a Blog since when Maxwell was a boy. Well I didn't, Maxwell is a very old and blind ginger tomcat now, and this is my first time, so be gentle with me. Putting ideas and thoughts down on the web seems all too public, but if I'm going to be famous, I guess it's time to start. My week has been a mixture of highs and lows, prototyping an electronic application that no one's ever done before has got to be a high. (I'm sorry I'd have to kill you if I told you what it was, but it did involve wireless, like most of my life does.) The low consisted zapping a piece of expensive electronics and adding to my list of test equipment repairs that I've not got round to.

As a sample of what's to come, and creative in a totally non-wireless related way, here's a little taster of my creative ramblings from my time in Canada.

"Mountains come out of the sky and they stand there"
I don't know if Jon Anderson of the '70s rock band "Yes" had visited BC when he wrote the above words 30 years ago for the song "Roundabout". But they seemed particularly appropriate on a sunny Sunday in April 2000. I nearly drove off the road, the "sea to sky highway" when Blackcomb mountain loomed out of the mid morning sky. It hovered above the clouds with no visible means of support like one of Roger Dean's fantasy floating islands in the sky from the 1970's Yes album covers. I'd just revisited Porteau cove on Howe sound on the Pacific North West Coast of British Columbia, and was heading North for the ski resort of Whistler.
Nothing really prepared me for the grandeur of the mountain; me used to the wide open skies of East Anglia, or the rolling hills and dales of my native Yorkshire. In fact the mountain was my second buzz of the day having just watched an eagle soaring over Porteau cove, again not a sight I was accustomed to.
Squamish is a small town along the "sea to sky". It's dominated by a huge rock, The Squamish Chief, the size of a respectable Cumbrian Fell, and the distant Blackcomb Mountain. This Sunday it was quiet, and late- season skiers, looking cool and fit frequented the Starbucks, if slightly grubby as they discussed snowmobiles, ski techniques and climbing. This peculiarly 80s/90s phenomenon of well-educated 30-somethings with disposable incomes and no kids, seem attracted to the ski life. Not the European, wealthy ski life of the 50's and 60's, these guys (and girls) are more hard- edged thrill- seekers than poseurs wanting to be seen with royalty and wearing the right gear for the ski season. They're sporty, adrenaline junkies looking to find thrills to replace the spiritual and make their secular lives worth living. By day, they work in the high - tech salt mines of Vancouver and Seattle. Web -aware Software Engineers and Marketing Executives, the engine-room of the Internet Economy. Hunched over their computers and lattes mid week, at the weekend they hit the slopes to party all day.
Whistler Resort is ski, ski and ski. Modern Hotels jostle for real estate with huge "housing estates" of ski chalets. No peace or quiet or time for reflection upon the beauty of nature here, only on the runs do you find the solace. There you can escape from rock music, bars and coffee shops. True, at 7000ft, you can buy Pizza, pasta, fish and chips and designer coffees, but then you can appreciate why Isaac Newton got so excited as you as you hurtle down powered only by the Great Man's gravity and braked only by the strength in your thighs.
All shapes, sizes and ages seem to ski, from tiny tots barely able to toddle on dry land through to large Americans, soon to be retired baby- boomers and long since retired 60-somethings. Only one thing is common, an unusual urge to wear baggy Michelin man clothes in colours they wouldn't be seen dead in at home, and to hobble about in tight rigid boots that make them walk like Robby the Robot... "Warning... Aliens approaching!"
This cynicism is undoubtedly rooted in jealousy, because as a non- skier I can't join in. My only experience of skiing was 12 months earlier at Cypress Bowl, a 20 minute drive from Downtown Vancouver, where, dressed like Captain Birdseye in borrowed waterproofs in bright yellow, and too big for me, I spent an adrenalin-pumping, nerve jangling afternoon hanging on to the rope tow with the kiddies and dithering down the nursery slopes in the few blissful moments I wasn't sitting on my ass in the snow.
Who needs skis anyway? This time I went up to the top of Whistler without them. I plucked up the courage to beat a probably-imagined phobia of ski lifts, eat the Fish and Chips at 7000ft, smiled at the Michelin men, got sunburned, and just marvelled at the views over the mountains and the Whistler Glacier.
These weekends in "Beautiful BC" make the nine and a half-hour flight from Heathrow worthwhile. I can work a "normal" week from our Canadian office, in demand and unable to escape, and then for two days, be a tourist and see some of the West Pacific coast for free. Of course when I return I talk about the busy stressful time had, working long hours at the office, business lunches and evenings with colleagues, but the time I spend at the weekends is mine, my fragmented "holiday" spent with my mind a million miles away from work.

It can be tough travelling. Long hours sitting staring at the back of an economy class seat, next to a retired Hairdresser from Portsmouth, struggling to hear the soundtrack of a movie with a soundtrack that sounds like it's been strained through a sock and passed through a Jimi Hendrix fuzz box. When you manage to attune your ears, you find that "to protect the children", Gene Hackman the tough New York cop is using words like "Jings" and phrases like "Go Fool Yourself", and Bruce Willis regularly says " Shut the Funk Up".
The Hairdresser usually ends up starting to tell you her life story, just when the distortion on the sound abates enough for you to pick up the plot again, so you give in, stow the headphones and listen. Feigning interest in the advances in colouring technology, the advantages of “fraudulin” and pro-vitamin henna implants at 35,000 feet with your Sinuses screaming surrender and your body telling you its 3am is not easy. The technique is a combination of the "Management Stare" so favoured by Dilbert's pointy-haired boss, and the nodding of a Hasidic Jew at the Wailing Wall. The nodding must be vigorous, as it keeps the blood moving in your head, and stops the somnolent nodding that always precedes sleep.
….. and they say travel broadens the mind!