No more biscuits or free fruit.

Bless me Father because I have sinned, it has been 3 months since my last blog, and quite a lot has happened to keep me away! I seem to have been round the world at least twice but despite my best efforts, I now work for a company in administration! Despite trips to the US (twice) Taiwan, and Korea our financial benefactors have pulled out the last promised tranche of their loan and I found myself this morning saying goodbye to a number of colleagues and hello to administrators.
Particularly frustrating considering how close we are to delivering product. Well we’ll see how the next two weeks go.

A second major casualty seems to have been the free fruit and biscuits; we will all be suffering from scurvy before the week is out mark my words.

I’m pleased to say that now (unless a thousand others are lurking passively in the background), I seem to have three readers of this blog, and the latest one is most welcome and knows who he is. Welcome JRM, it’s been a while, this is for you!


"They paved paradise, put up a parking lot.
With a Pink Hotel, a boutique and a swinging hot spot......."

The Uncertainty Principle of Physics states that if you know the mass of an object you cannot determine its velocity, and vice versa. In the first half of the 20th century, Werner Heisenberg postulated that simple-sounding principle, which implied that the mere action of measuring something changes it, such that you can never measure anything absolutely.

Another way of looking at it implies that, being there changes where you are.

This principle can be applied I'm sure, to much of what surrounds us in this new millennium. The mere presence of mankind in this world changes it. It's particularly noticeable with regard to beauty spots, as holidaymakers strive for more and more distant and unspoilt places to drop Coke cans as developers put up concrete. I note the Western European Monocuture that seems to be developing everywhere I go.

Joni Mitchell's song "Big Yellow Taxi" observed this trend at the end of the 60's in a few carefully crafted lines. Predictably, the "Love Generation", post - war baby- boomers with too much disposable income, who went to Goa to escape their apparent tribulations, found that the "end of the hippie trail", their "paradise" inevitably sprouted the "Pink Hotels" that had been so eloquently used to epitomise 1960s California.

The question to be asked is "is this type of change inevitable?"

How many times have you re-visited a favourite place to find it changed? It can change in obvious ways. Try following a "Favourite Walks" section from Spanish or Greek tourist guide book more than a few years old, and you'll see what I mean.

"Follow the river for a mile until you get to the small well, here the path diverges from the river......"

has become.

"If you look carefully you can see the culvert where the stream used to be, follow the pavement past the souvenir shop......."

You get the picture.

Places also seem to change in far more subtle ways. The physical changes may be small, but they are very different. A place is also people and memories.
The people you met the first time are not there this time. You realise then that the holiday was more than just the place. You change and the people you go with change. These things always combine to make the place different.

But does the Uncertainty Principle apply to life? The simple fact of living life changes life? Life changes people for sure. They change shape, get wrinkles and bunions, but this is just an example of Entropy, another physical principle that states that all things go from a state of order to disorder.
Return to the honeymoon isle and it's not the same. Even though the rocks are in the same place, the cafe is still there, the tide still goes in and out, and the tired Greek still drops fag-ash in the keftedes. It's different, you are different, and you changed it by the mere fact that you went there the first time. The first time you saw it with a different pair of eyes, but who's to say that the place hasn't changed? The teenager who raced snails in the rain has responsibilities now.
You have changed life with the smallest of decisions.

Heisenberg strikes!

You live life therefore you change it. Having that child, getting that job, not taking that flight, made life different from what it could have been.
Each small decision in life causes a fork in your reality, and opens up an alternative one, but unlike the cheap science fiction, there's no going back to the junction and living the alternative reality that would have been just as real if you'd turned right not left.

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.