Recently in Personal Category

Martin has written about the new car, which forms part of our fleet of transport mechanisms. But Turty is mostly intended for the movement of children (plus sundry light haulage). I'd like to spend a little time talking about my commute vehicle.

I've always had blue bikes, for some reason, since the first banana-seat cycle with the coaster brakes. Since the age of 10, I've always had multi-speed bikes with rams-horn handlebars; this is my third and best of the line: a Dawes Horizon bottom of the line touring bike (heavier and stronger than a road bike or racing bike). It's a nervy, responsive thing, though maybe just a little short in the frame for me.

I bought it in Edinburgh, about a year ago, in the hopes that I would be able to ride it during the brief Caledonian summer. I used it about five times before fear of the homicidal Scottish drivers caused me to stop.

It was quirky and bizzare in Scotland, where pseudo moutain bikes are all the rage. It's even more outré here, where the classic Dutch granny bike rules the roads, with its upright riding position and its near-immortal construction.

Unfortunately, it's also a target for theft, since it's what the bike shops here call a "sport bike". And bike theft is a national phenomenon - all my colleagues have stolen bike stories. I've guarded against thieves with a few strategies. First off, those large and ugly silver panniers really do ruin its sleek lines, so it doesn't look so appealing.

(They also hold a rain jacket, trouser clips and a few other useful items.)

Also, I've added a Dutch wheel lock. These things are practically indestructible, and it's positioned so even cutting the cable ties won't allow you to get the back wheel off while it's present.

But most importantly, though I always double lock it (with a cable through the front wheel and frame and through something fixed; the Dutch have bike racks everywhere) or treble-lock it (another wheel lock, loose, through the back spokes and the frame), my main defense is geography. It does not go into high-theft areas such as central Amsterdam. And where possible, I park it among many bikes, because the best place to hide a leaf is in a forest.

Because I ride it in street clothes, I had to change the pedals on the bike. It comes with toe clips, and usually I love toe clips. But I can't use them with all my shoes, so I went for some non-slip pedals instead. I considered a chain guard as well, but the sprocket is too large for most of the aftermarket guards I have seen. So I still use a trouser clip when I wear trousers. (I also cycle in skirts. There is nothing so pleasant as riding in a long, flowing skirt.)

Naturally, I also have reflectors, lights and a bell. I keep a spare inner tube and a set of tyre tools in the bags, and have already done one roadside swap. This weekend, I'm going to buy tyres with reflective stripes around them - both because they are required by Dutch law, and because they really are safer.

I've really enjoyed my commutes by cycle, even in the rain. The endorphins mean that I arrive at my destination glowing a little, no matter how challenging the day. And if I have a little extra time (25 minutes instead of 15), I take the route that runs through the Twiske, the local recreation area.

(It even has its own windmill!)

In short, I love my bike. I love working on it, commuting with it, shopping on it (the panniers can hold a lot of groceries). I might start calling it Vera.

Welcome, anyone who wants to park here while Patrick and Teresa's living room is under tarps. The beer is in the bathtub, the chips are really crisps, and I might bake a cake later.

In the meantime,

Otium, Catulle, tibi molestum est
otium exsultas nimiumque gestis
otium et reges prius et beatas
perdidit urbes

Translate, mangle, scan, discuss, ignore.

Note for my usual readers: the Moveable Type installation on the site where I hang out rather a lot is broken. I've invited the community over here until it's fixed.

Don't let this stop you from commenting - these are great folks.

Probably because I keep them free due to the need to pack for the weekend at home, I seem to be falling into a pattern that includes blogging on a Wednesday. So how has it been, this last week?

Things really divide into separate timeframes, based on the two cities I'm living in at the moment.

Amsterdam

Returning home on Thursday was exhausting. It was the end of a draining week, and I had been with my colleagues at the drinks before a company dinner (I had to leave afterward to get my flight). It meant I got to meet company founder Thijs Chanowski, known to most of my Dutch contemporaries as the producer of the children's show De Fabeltjeskrant (British readers: it would be like meeting Oliver Postgate. American readers: think of one of the early founders of The Children's Television Workshop). He's a perfectly delightful gentleman, with a gift for telling stories, and I was sorry not to be able to stay for the meal (though I wouldn't have understood the speeches anyway).

Edinburgh

Friday was a very pleasant day with the kids. Both had the charm going full blast, and we did a lot of playing while the washing machine repairman came and replaced a couple of parts. Then we went to the Gilmerton crossroads to pick up Alex's friend Murray, and I had a funny moment. We were going into the small supermarket on the corner, and I caught myself mustering my Dutch to deal with the transaction before I remembered that here, I speak the language! It was almost a disappointment, like a challenge balked at.

Martin and I did a lot of packing and arranging on the weekend, and even managed a bit of garden work. I'd like to get the back garden weeded and mulched before we go, because otherwise the dock and the dandelions will eat the place alive.

I got the chance to admire the gap in Alex's teeth, and to have a number of very pleasant conversations with both kids. There was some cuddling, too. And a bit of grunching, toward the end of the weekend, because they are human, and they miss me.

Amsterdam

Coming into Schiphol, taking the train to Amsterdam Centraal, and taking the tram to the flat in the Oud West was almost routine. It was certainly easy - Dutch public transport is well thought out and pleasant to use. And the flat I'm borrowing, which seemed strange and foreign when I first moved in, seemed much more homelike.

Monday morning, I started a different commute. I work north of the river Ij, which used to be the northern border of the city, but has now been surrounded on both banks. There are two ferries that go to the appropriate section of the city, one from Centraal station, one from a less well-known area. And the knowledgeable at the office had pointed out that if I could bike, I could take the lesser known ferry, which would be faster and more fun than the tram.

My landlord was willing to lend me his bike (on the condition that I lock it well - Amsterdam is bike theft central!). It's a classic "omafiets" - a black banger of a bike, with no gears and coaster brakes. These bikes are ubiquitous in the Netherlands, primarily because they are virtually indestructible. They also weigh a ton and are not very fast unless you pedal like a maniac (like the colleague I commute with on occasion.)

So I've been commuting by bike. And it's been wonderful, even on rainy mornings. How can you beat riding along a canal on an omafiets?

The only thing that takes some getting used to about this method of commuting is the other cyclists. They scare me. In the Netherlands, if a car hits a cyclist, no matter what, it's the driver's fault. And in Amsterdam, the cyclists know this, and ride accordingly. Red lights are really for other people. It's unsporting to indicate where you're going next - just veer over and let the other traffic figure it out after the fact. The only thing a cyclist will get out of the way for is a tram.

But it's kind of fun, once you accept that the fiets conveys immortality. It also seems to grant exceptions to any consideration of practicality - I have seen a woman cycling in three inch spike heels and a tight miniskirt*. I have seen children in wee baskets on the fronts of their parents' cycles. I have seen kids with bikes and training wheels being pushed along by an accompanying parent's hand on their backs. I have seen a window cleaner who used a bike to transport the tools of his trade, including the ladder (carried in one hand, parallel to but longer than the bike). I have seen a man riding slowly while his dog trotted along beside him on a leash. And that was just this morning.

And work has improved as well. I got further into the system this week, and got the chance to do some testing (you know, what they hired me for). I've even found an interesting bug or two, though I'm not sure the guys looking at them are as pleased as all that. And I feel more at home around the office, less concerned that I'm going to violate some invisible norm or offend people unwittingly (now I violate visible norms and offend people on purpose. But I am a tester.)

One high point this week was dinner with Dave and Liz, the couple who let me use their flat the first weekend in Amsterdam, and hooked me up with the place I'm in now. Every conversation with them these days is really a set of markers for much longer conversations we want to have over time. It's really something to look forward to.

And the other high point was that Martin flew over today and we signed the lease for the house. Both of us had been worried that something would fall through...the product of the previous experience is a slight nervous twitch. But the paper is signed and things are committed. With luck, we can move on to the other challenges: getting school and childcare places for the kids, getting the move done, changing a lot of addresses and defaults.

All in all, though, we have been lucky. Nice house, nice jobs, and enough resources to see us through the unexpected. I feel much more optimistic than I did this time last week.

(So you can all stop worrying now.)

I'm afraid I've been busy with social things these past few days, which is why I haven't blogged about starting my job. Well, it's one reason, anyway.

It's very funny how I can move into a city where I know so few people (Dave and Liz, and people I met interviewing at MediaLab, and absolutely no one else), and still find myself dining socially two nights in a row. Monday evening was with Dave and Liz, and was a very pleasant chance to get re-acquainted after years of intermittent contact. It was less of a conversation we had than a series of pointers to future conversations - I don't think we actually finished discussing any topics at all.

Last night was much, much stranger. You see, when Dave and Liz came home, I moved out of their flat (the cat prefers them and she owns the place, really). I'm now staying at the flat of one of Dave's friends, Patrice, whom I have yet to meet. And Patrice has friends who needed a place to sleep last night, en route to Schiphol. He'd offered them the flat, and there are beds enough for all, so I threw together something easy for dinner*, and had dinner guests from two degrees of separation. We had a delightful time.

But now that's all done with, and I get an evening alone. There's some sorting through things to do, since I fly home tomorrow evening. (Which is a good thing. I miss my bunnies.) But really, I haven't any excuse to avoid blogging about starting work and how it's going.

Well apart from one. I don't know how I'm doing. I can't tell. The learning curve is very steep - it's a lot of information to take in at once. But more than that, I'm not a standard new joiner. They can't just sit me down in front of an IDE† and tell me to go code. I'm the first tester, and the first QA person, and it's a little unclear what they expect of me. I know what I want to do - some of it - but I don't know how to do a fair bit of that (in terms of what to type into the keyboard to get things to happen, not what I want to have happen), and whether what I want to do will make the company happy.

I just don't know. And not knowing, I'm prone to thinking the worst.

On the other hand, I had been sure I'd failed my driving test.

* Chicken breasts wrapped in Serrano ham, in a passatta and basil sauce, served with pasta and salad. Which sounds like an awful lot more work than it was, particularly when the guests then cleaned up the kitchen!

† Interactive Development Environment, the place where coders write their stuff

I'm in Amsterdam.

Specifically, I'm sitting in the flat I'm borrowing (and cat-feeding) from a couple of friends for the weekend. (They're off in Brussels so Dave can turn 40.) It's a nice place, right in the centre of the city. I've made the acquaintance of their very pleasant neighbour, and their cat Magic (black, naturally). Though Magic is shy, I think we're coming to an understanding. Feeding her helped.

I've also made the acquaintance of their wireless LAN, remarkably easily. Whatever one can say about modern technology, I love the ability to take my computer with me and connect to my virtual world in minutes. I spend so much of my mental time in cyberspace, and that is going to make this move dramatically easier, because wherever I go, there it is. It'll still be there Monday, when I move into the flat I have for the bulk of the month.

I'm going to go out and explore the area this afternoon. I want to get some food for the flat (though all the necessities are here), and generally settle into Amsterdam life. It's going to be an interesting month, living alone here (weekends aside). I suspect, though that it will be largely a wasted opportunity, from the point of view of cultural exploration...I simply do not feel like walking all over the city and having adventures every evening, particularly when I'm doing something challenging during the days (travel and starting a new job both count in this context).

One thing I do find: coming to Amsterdam one day a week, as I did for about three weeks running, has given me a lot of comfort in making this move. The entire transaction up to this point has felt like business as usual. And I've done enough aimless wandering around the centre of Amsterdam itself to feel OK about the next few hours. I suspect that the discomforts will come in the form of little surprises, unexpected moments. But that's better than being overwhelmed by all the changes at once.

...at the edge of the high diving board, toes curled just over the edge, arms extended to their fullest length. I can feel the thrum of the board as I flex my calves a little, just scraping the soles of my feet on the rough surface. This is the moment before the moment, before I bounce down, then up, before I soar and slowly draw my hands together above my head, before the long inevitable plunge to the water.

Tomorrow morning I fly out to Amsterdam. Monday I start my new job. Although I will be back in Edinburgh every weekend in July, tomorrow's trip marks the first stage of moving out of Scotland.

I take a deep breath...

Many people who know me know that I don't drive in the UK, though I have been a US driver for many years. (American licenses can't transfer to Europe, though European licenses are inter-transferrable as a rule. UK and Dutch ones certainly are.)

A smaller and less fortunate group of people have been around me at the time of one or both of my British driving tests (both, coincidentally, in October, which is too close to winter for sanity), and have seen how badly I react to failing them. If this isn't you, dear reader, count your blessings. Seriously.

While we were in California at Easter this year, I did all the driving and really enjoyed it. So when we got back M and I agreed that I should do one more test before we left the UK. It would be like throwing spaghetti at the wall - if it sticks, great. If not, the Dutch test is reputed to be easier, even if all the road signs are in Dutch.

Accordingly, I've been taking lessons from the very patient Gareth of Euan's School of Motoring. My competence as a driver has never been in question, but my nerves were pretty iffy after two failures. Along the way, Gareth and I have discussed the move to the Netherlands, various gems of classical scholarship, the comparative values of swear words between Battlestar Galactica and real life, and of course the odd bit of driving lore. (I talk when I'm nervous.)

I didn't tell anyone about this, apart from two conversations where it was, for specific reasons, relevant. I simply didn't want any expectations, didn't want to tell anyone I'd failed again. It would just sink without a ripple, unnoticed.

And I did everything differently that I could - different test centre (Currie instead of Joppa), had the instructor in the car for the test, every change I could manage. Not to break any "jinx", but to persuade myself to relax.

And still I was still sure I had failed. I was promising myself that entire bag of Hershey's Kisses that's stashed under my bed, with an afternoon of junk TV after the inevitable bad news. I saw the examiner marking minor points against me over and over again (you fail if you get 15 or more, even if all of your major behaviours are acceptable). By the time we pulled into the parking bay at the test centre, I was feeling deeply gloomy.

Well, the fact that you're reading this means that I was wrong to feel glum. I got 11 minor marks (all due to nerves...you try to do 40 minutes' drive perfectly error free while shaking like a leaf!) and no majors. I passed. I am now a licensed British driver.

I can use my UK license to drive in the Netherlands (or exchange it for a Dutch one, or use it to get a Dutch one - not sure). This will make logistics a lot easier, particularly if we don't have childcare in Oostzaan. And I don't have to sit any more tests, or do any driving lessons!

PHEW!

One sunny autumn day in 1989, I was walking through the UC Berkeley campus. I was a sophomore in college, coming from a class in Dwinelle Hall, heading back to my student co-op on the south side of campus. There's a small brick-paved bridge just before Sather Gate, with low concrete parapets. The trees growing in the stream bed by Strawberry Creek created a mass of green behind the sunlit bridge.

Standing on the bridge, bright against this backdrop, was a group of three men. Two were playing hammer dulcimers, one a guitar. They were busking, as musicians so often do on campus. Drifting across the light, warm breeze, I heard a song like sunlight transformed into music. The lead hammer dulcimer led the way through a rhythmic melody, punctuated with sycopated notes in bright counterpoint to the basic tune. The second hammer dulcimer added complexity, the guitar lent depth to the thin brightness of the tune.

I was filled with a senseless joy. I can't explain it; it's not a song that creates this effect for anyone else I know.

The song was called Miranda's Dream, written by Lawrence Huntley and performed by the Whamadiddle Dingbats. It is on their instrumental album, Saturday at the Market.

I bought a couple of tapes by the group (Saturday at the Market and Lucky!), but shed them over time. Once, I wrote to Lawrence Huntley and managed to convince him to send me the sheet music for the melody. That I still have, and I used to be able to do a respectable rendition on the guitar. But the place the song has played, faultlessly, for years, is in my head. It's stuck with me for eighteen years, vivid as the first day I heard it, delightful as sunshine.

Over the last two or three years, I've been putting some time and effort into getting that track again. I tried the direct approach, tracking down two different emails for Lawrence Huntley on the web and emailing him directly. All attempts either bounced or vanished. I found a more recent version with steel drums, but it loses the crispness of the original dulcimer and guitar piece.

So finally, I found it on ebay (purest luck!) and bought it. It arrived last week, and once again I can hear the bright, intricate and glorious piece, just as I heard it that warm fall day in Berkeley.

Why am I posting this? Several reasons.

1. We have some Googlejuice. If the members of the Whamadiddle Dingbats (Lawrence Huntley, Mick Doherty and Keven Shay Johnson) Google themselves, they may find this entry. If you do, guys, thank you for making some lovely, memorable music. Leave a comment, if you like.
2. I'm after another of their albums, Lucky!. Anyone reading this have a copy?
3. It's what's batting around my head right now. This, is, after all, a blog.

It's been some time since I've blogged. Plans have been up in the air, and sometimes I can't bring myself to write about things that aren't yet complete. As Martin wrote in his Going Dutch entry, we are moving to the Netherlands this summer.

This is, naturally, terrifying. It's been particularly scary for me to contemplate, because I had to find two very important things.

A job

Moving country meant moving work, and that's a frightening thing. I joined the Royal Bank in 1997 - October would have marked ten years there, and I was thoroughly institutionalised after all that time. It was intimidating to even contemplate finding something else.

A house

Admittedly, unlike the job thing, househunting is for the benefit of entire family, and in theory I could fob some of the weight off on Martin. But I get emotional about my living situation, so it felt like it was really my worry.

So how has it gone, in the month and a half since I quit the Bank and started these searches?

Job

Martin pointed a job ad out to me in late March, before I was even officially out of work. It was for a small company, MediaLab, which makes search software mostly used in libraries. It's a tiny company, and a deeply cool one, writing interesting software and having fun doing it.

At his urging, I sent them a CV. When we got back from California, I had a phone interview, and made a strong connection with the people I talked to. They invited me over for a second interview in person in their offices in Amsterdam.

That went even better. I enjoyed the conversations and liked the people, and it was mutual. More importantly, from a business perspective, it was clear that my area of expertise and my approach to work will fill a need in their company.

So I got the job.

I start at the beginning of July, which sometimes seems a long way off. I find myself thinking about the work, and about sitting in that bright and friendly office while I do it. It's been a long time since I looked forward to work.

House

We wanted to rent a house for a year, to give us a chance to try out the Dutch lifestyle before committing a lot of capital to it. But there aren't a lot of spacious, affordable houses in commute radius of Amsterdam.

It's also difficult to search for houses at a remove. (My friend who just moved to New Zealand can testify to this.) After poring over hundreds of advertisements on the internet, we finally identified one that looked nice, in a promising town. So Martin and I went across one rainy Monday to look at it.

It was awful. Cramped, grimy and grim, in the shabbiest neighbourhood. It was also not available for a year's rental; the owners wanted to keep the option open to sell it (an endeavour in which I wish them luck). We straggled home after a discouraging day, ready to abandon the whole damned effort.

I tried to take a fresh tack on the matter the next few days, looking again at places we had eliminated, sending out emails to emails to estate agents. Then the phone rang.

It was an estate agent, calling based on a profile Martin logged on their website. He had a four-bedroom property, he said, just coming on the market for a year's rental. In Wormerveer, a town in commute distance from my office. Large workroom as well, was I interested? I made interested noises, and he sent me pictures.

Then I was really interested. It's a light, spacious place, converted from a schoolhouse. The owner, a painter, is taking his family to the Canary Islands for a year. I flew over on Tuesday to view it and the neighbourhood.

It was fantastic. The town charmed me, and the location of the house was particularly good (it's right near the market plaza, two schools, shops, and some pleasant areas to walk through.) And the house itself was better than the photos conveyed, with an essential unity of light and design.

It didn't hurt that I got on very well with the owner, the painter, who showed me round. We talked about aesthetics and the philosophy of art, bookbinding and lithography, history and philosophy (boring the estate agent senseless until he recalled another appointment). Practical matters will go easier with this channel of communication, but more importantly, I'm looking forward to future conversations.

So now I have a job and a house, and frankly, they're both fantastic. What a good set of prospects to take into a challenging year!

After nine and a half years, it's nearly over. One more week together, and that's it. It's an emotional moment.

I remember how it was in the beginning. After a whirlwind courtship (that aptitude test, the first interview, an overnight at the Apex Hotel in the Grassmarket, so little time to get to know one another!) there I was with pen in hand, signing myself into the relationship. I didn't know how long it would last, but I went into it thinking of permanence.

I, Abi Sutherland, take thee, The Royal Bank of Scotland...

We've been through a lot since then. Better and worse, of course, as always in a job. I've wept with the stress of it, thrown a phone headset at the wall, but the Bank also allowed me to do things I did not believe I could.

Sickness and health...we've done that too. The Bank put up with me through the worst days of undiagnosed Seasonal Affective Disorder, but also benefitted from my manic hyper-efficient summertimes. Supported me during maternity leave, yet took my sleepless nights on projects for granted.

And richer or poorer? Well, it is a bank. We've had record profits, and I've benefitted from profit share, membership in the pension plan, and fairly good salaries. I can't really complain.

The Bank's gained a few pounds since we got together - bought NatWest, growing fivefold in one transaction. But it stayed attractive to me. There are benefits to a big partner. Lately, though, the strains have started to show, in ways I won't discuss here. Still, something in me keeps thinking if I stuck it out things would get better. It's what I do.

You see, I'm a permie girl. My contractor friends, who sign up for six-month knee-tremblers or year-long commitments, extol the virtues of their brief liaisons. But I like the stability, the deep familiarity, that comes of long association. That's great, but now comes the cost: breaking up is so much harder to do.

And we're almost to it now, to the division of property into mine and thine, to taking off the security pass like a ring no longer needed, to saying goodbye to a building that once was a home. We're starting to be careful around each other, aware that things started now can't necessarily be finished.

And I look at the meat market, look at putting myself back out there to see if someone else will want me the way the Bank wanted me, and it's frightening. I primp and poke at my covering letters and wonder if this CV makes me look unattractive.

If Martin and I weren't moving to the Netherlands, if this partnership were not about to be geographically impossible, would I be able to break it off? And yet, moving aside, I think that now is a good time to make the move. We were getting stale, and I don't see things changing.

So goodbye, Royal Bank. I will miss you when I leave, and I hope we can still be friends, but it's time for me to go.

I think I'm going to need some chocolate.

Someone on a website I frequent mentioned that she often gets the urge to cross The Lady of Shallot with the story of Gandalf battling the Balrog in the Mines of Moria.

I confess, I had never found myself prone to that urge. Until she mentioned it, at which point it ate my brain.

The result:

For my next trick, I will harness the twin engines of Tolkien and Tennyson spinning in their graves and provide unlimited power for the world.

When the going gets tough at work (as it is now), I often wonder why I do what I do. This is one of the little stories that remind me why I am a software tester.

Martin works for SkyScanner, a flight pricing site. He was testing out some code one evening, a couple of months ago, and ran into the sort of frozen-brain feeling you get after too long at the keyboard. So he pushed his wheely chair back from his desk, into my line of sight.

"Bun," he said, "Name me two destinations. Just any cities."

"Düsseldorf," I replied, "and Akron, Ohio."

"Thanks," he said, and wheeled back to his desk to fiddle with the new test data. taptaptap. "[insert curse word]." taptaptap. "[insert worse curse word]." taptaptap.

I looked up as he rolled back into my line of sight, looking exasperated. "How do you do that?"

Turns out that Akron, Ohio, USA, is served by two airports, Akron and Akron Canton. And some clever soul, somewhere in the ancestry of the data they were working with, had remapped Akron Canton to Guangzhou Province in China. That was giving him some...funny results.

So they had to go clean up their data. And I remembered why I'm a software tester.

Sometimes a line, or a paragraph, in a book will leap out at you. It was innocuous enough when the author wrote it, but now it's dated the book for good. I was leafing through Accounting For Murder, by Emma Lathen (1961), and came across this paragraph.

Stanley was delighted. He would no more have questioned the authority of Clarence Fortinbras to press him into service than he would have questioned the summons of his local draft board.

Within five years, that line was an anachronism.

Martin tagged me with this meme, after I took the pictures for his entry. No photos in mine, I'm afraid, but here are five things you probably didn't know about me.

1. The bass line
   I have a real affinity for the bass line in music. I love the way a well-written piece will use it to buoy up the melody. I first learned to appreciate it in high school, when I played the bass clarinet (ordinary clarinet didn't suit my snobbish elitism). Now, although I am technically a soprano, I prefer to sing alto.
2. Black? Not so much
   Although you can't tell it by looking at me, black is not actually my favourite colour. I like wearing it, but I prefer looking at shades of green (not too bright) and purple.
3. Not long all along
   Although I am known for my long hair, I haven't always worn it this way. When I was 13, I had it cut in a Princess Di style. That lasted less than a year, before I decided I did prefer having it long.
4. Feats of toughness
   When I was a teenager, I almost never wore shoes in the summer ("summer" being defined as April to October in California). Inevitably, I developed some amazing calluses on my feet. I used to be able to pirouette barefoot on concrete without pain. I gave it up when I moved to Scotland, mostly because we lived in a couple of areas where the dog owners have no manners.
5. Fabric Fussiness
   I learned to sew when I was 13 or 14, and have been making clothes on and off since then (it's handy when you don't match the dominant body shape, or the current taste in styling). This means I've handled a lot of different fabrics, and learned a lot about their different properties. Each type of material has its own hand. Over time, I have come to prefer - strongly - the hands of natural fibres such as wool, cotton, linen and silk over synthetic ones. Synthetics have a perceptible greasiness that repels me. I rarely buy anything of artificial fibre now, particularly to wear against my skin.

Dear readers, now it is your turn. Surprise me.

• Mark
• EJ
• Liza
• Serge
• Fragano

This is a dark one. It came out of a conversation in mid-December, which strayed into a conflation between the three wise monkeys (see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil) and the three Wise Men. Everyone else was very lighthearted, but I have never found the monkeys joyous. That kind of denial of the world around them always saddens me.

Technically, I am not very satisfied with this poem. The language is strained - I should have rewritten it a few times before posting it, but I doubt I will ever go back and do so. It's a rare example of a sonnet where I haven't used an octave and sestet structure, but rather three balanced quatrains summarised by a couplet. It fits the three-part structures of both of the stories that converge in this sonnet.

In content terms, I found it very easy to map the three kings to the three monkeys. Caspar, in particular, works well as the wise man foreshadowing the death of the infant receiving his gift, struck mute by the horror of what he has to convey. The others hide out of fear, but he does so out of pity. The point of the poem, of course, is that none of them have the full picture, which is deeper and more frightening than they can possibly imagine.

I do think, before I start doing these in my Christmas cards, that I will have to choose more cheery themes.

Written today, for a picture taken yesterday.

Taken 9 January 2007

The only technical point I would make is that the transition between the octave and the sestet is, in this case, the transition from setting the scene to my entry onto the scene.

Some of my sonnets are not written rationally. It was not an easy autumn.

Technically, this sonnet uses the transition from octave to sestet to move from the dream, the longed-for forest (and this is a specific forest, with a specific cabin) back to the city where I live. Thus the pessimism - swap the order and make it present first, then dream, and the poem becomes much more imaginative, less dark.

I am a bit bothered by the false rhyme of "trees/peace", but I'll live with it.

Emotionally, the content is what it is. I love Edinburgh deeply, but sometimes I do get homesick.

This was written on Bonfire Night, 2006. I watched the fireworks with the children, then came inside to warm up and read some of the history of Guy Fawkes and his plot.

History can be as comforting as it is unsettling.

In technical terms, this is an okay sonnet. There is very little "turn" in this one, between the octave and the sestet. The only real transition is from the scene at the start to the message in the conclusion. The couplet does sum things up nicely. But the language is never clever, or particularly powerful.

In terms of content, this is a sonnet I believe in very deeply indeed. I think we exist in a historical context, and that it is important for us to remember that in the choices we make. I think (looking backward) civilisation has faced worse challenges than we face now, and (looking forward) that we owe it to the future not to overreact, or sell out our principles.

As noted previously, I have been writing rather a lot of sonnets lately. I can name 27 that I've written since I started in October, though if I shake my archives out I may find another one or two lurking.

Why did you start? Why are you doing this?

On September 25, 2006, science fiction and fantasy author John "Mike" Ford was found dead in his house. Although I didn't know him personally, he was a frequent commenter on a website that I read. He was particularly prone to extemporaneous sonnets, a trait which amused and amazed us all.

I used to write sonnets, years ago, but I stopped sometime after university. I certainly wasn't of a calibre to match John Ford's work. But when he died, I realised that I would like to become good at them, and that the only way to do so was to start writing them.

I look at it this way: one day, the inspiration and motivation to write the perfect sonnet may strike. But if I haven't the skills and experience, the thing won't get written.

So now I write sonnets. Since they're for practice, I write them on whatever topics come to mind. I've even written one on my organisation's new system for the recording of project risks. I've been described as an "occasional" poet, in the sense that I write for a given occasion rather than writing in the abstract. I often think of my occasional sonnets as "speed sonnets", because, since I'm writing them for discussions that move on while I compose, I have to write fast. My record is 13 minutes, but most of mine take over half an hour.

I am doing some non-occasional work, however. I'm sending three narrative sonnets off to a science fiction magazine to see if they're saleable. Each of them is essentially a 14-line short story, and took some 3 or 4 hours to work through.

So what, in your terms, is a sonnet?

Definitions of the sonnet vary more than I originally thought. For me, a sonnet has fourteen lines, divided into an eight-line octave and a six-line sestet. The octave, made up of two quatrains, tends to pose a problem or set up a situation, which the sestet then resolves. The sestet generally uses the first four lines to walk thorough the resolution, followed by a two-line couplet that sums the entire situation up.

(The problem/solution or situation/twist division between the octave and the sestet is not something I follow all the time. But it's a useful way to structure the poem.)

I use very traditional rhyming patterns, either:

I know sonnetrists who use efgefg for their sestets, but I do enjoy finishing a sonnet off in a couplet, so I don't tend to.

My favourite sonnet is by Shakespeare, but it's not one of his stand-alone verses. It's actually embedded in Romeo and Juliet - the couple's first words to one another. It ends with a kiss.

How hard is the rhyming?

Not as difficult as one would think. The important thing is not to sound surprised when you find yourself at the end of the second line in a rhymed pair, suddenly reaching for some bizarre word to match your sounds up. (This can be funny, used correctly, but after a while it just sounds amateurish). This means planning ahead, and having some idea of the areas you're going to cover. It also means having some alternative phrasings up your sleeve, if you simply can't wind up at the right sound at the right time.

The important thing is that it has to sound natural. The writer must be the master of the language. A reader that senses that the language is pushing the writer around, dictating the content of the poem will lose trust in the narrative voice.

I'm averse to false rhymes and near rhymes, but I do cheat a bit on accents. There are words that rhyme neatly in one of my dialects, or in extreme cases, my idiolect, and I'll happily pair them up. Like the following sonnet, which manages to rhyme "on" and "shone" (I sometimes pronounce it to rhyme with "Shawn").

(Context note: this came out of a conversation about how Scotland could take over the world, combined with my memory of a line from a James Crawford poem about Scotland as a "boundless chip of a nation". I'm rather fond of it, though it's one of the ones where I used feminine endings - see below - on the ninth and twelfth lines.)

What about meter?

I write almost exclusively in iambic pentameter (the link is a very good article, but if you want to skip it, just remember that an iamb goes daDUM and that pentameter means you use five of them in a line). I'm very fussy about this. I'll occasionally use a "feminine" ending, with an additional unstressed syllable at the end of a line, but only in rhymed pairs.

Most good sonnet writers are less timid about varying their meter, cheerfully swapping spondees trochees (DAdum) for iambs and using unmatched feminine endings. But, just as I used to train with a men's shot put to make it easier when I competed with the lighter women's one, I'm taking a strict approach to meter just now. The meter is the engine that moves a sonnet; its pace walks the reader through the meaning. Too loose an approach to meter leaves the reader stumbling, rushing here and lost there.

A few small rules, while talking meter:

• Iambic pentameter is really just a habit of thought, and of speech. Once you get the "ear" for it, you can write it with surprisingly little effort.
• When we all wrote sonnets in high school, my best friend pointed out that you can't start a line with a gerund ("building"), because they're pretty much all spondees trochees. This was a great rule of thumb, but it falls down with two-syllable verbs ("constructing").
• You can use a dactyl (DAdumdum) by sticking an unstressed syllable after it; most dactylic words have a secondary stress on the final syllable. You cannot use a double dactyl in strict iambic pentameter, as I found out when trying to get "paleontologist" into one poem. It just sounds wrong.
• Try saying your lines aloud, without tapping out the meter. You'd be amazed where the natural stresses fall in groups of one syllable words, and at how bad a poem that tries to ignore that can sound.

The thing about meter is that it matters to spoken language as well. We have words that differ only in their stresses, which can really make a sonnet work - but only if the reader trusts the meter. This one, about paid shills on blogs, uses that in the last line, drawing a distinction between "conTENT" (happy) and "CONtent" (what's inside).

Speaking of content...

Content in verse is a lot like content in prose. Sometimes I have something to say, and sometimes I just want to burble. I've done both in fourteen line stretches, and I don't know which I enjoy more. I've rewritten prose comments on threads to turn them into sonnets, I've written over the top laudatory verse, I've written cautionary poetry about war and drawn analogies between September 11 and Guy Fawkes. I'll post more of them over the next few days, if anyone is interested (or, frankly, even if they're not).

What content I have, I tend to organise before I start writing. I don't so much outline my sonnets as budget them, deciding I'll spend a line on this bit and two on that. I may not stick to the budget, but it keeps me moving through the things I want to say.

The thing with content is this: I am never certain that I have anything, in the abstract, worth proclaiming to the world. This is why I like to write to suit the occasion, in a context that I don't frame. Even so, I am increasingly conscious that my words have more weight because of the rhyme and meter. I try not to think about that too much.

And what is left to work on?

Apart, of course, from mastering all of the above, there are a number of areas I'd like to improve.

First off, there's a lot more in the sound of language than simple rhyme. I tend to be slightly dead to the ways that I can use the sounds of words to set the tone of a line, or of the poem as a whole.

I am also conscious of the number of sonnet traditions I haven't touched on - Spenserian, Oneidin, etc, etc. I need a wider grounding in them so that I can consciously reference different antecedents.

I enjoy referencing other forms of verse in my sonnets - I've echoed (and rewritten) both Eliot and Frost in sonnets, but there are some skills in that that I should like to master. Rewrites that change the rhyme structure, I find, sound wrong, while those that merely muck with the meter still work. There's more subtlety in there.

Speaking of subtlety, I find that there's a hierarchy within the stresses in connected English prose - not all stressed syllables are created equal. I'd like to work with that consciously, sometime, maybe by creating a pattern in the secondary stresses.

I have some funky structural ideas I want to play with, such as a linked sonnet, where the sestet of the first sonnet is most of the octave of a second, which then has its own sestet, etc. I think that would be fun. I'd also love to do a backward sonnet, preferably about time travel.

So, to sum up?

I'm enjoying writing these things, but for goodness' sake, don't take them too seriously. I am but an apprentice.

For a number of reasons, I've been writing a lot of sonnets lately. Most of them are heavily context-dependent, and I'm not going to get into the context here. But there was one, just dashed off, that I thought would be good to post.

Bedtime

Soppy, I know, but that's what I get to do half the evenings of the week.

A couple of months ago, I took a somewhat less than fun exam on software testing.

So last week I got the results.

84%. A pass, with distinction.

So, dear people, what do you think my reaction was?

Answers on a postcard, please.

Darn it, what am I going to do about this huge three-cornered tear in my purple linen trousers?

(I didn't photograph the original tear, because I didn't have the heart.) I didn't want to patch them, and I didn't want to make a new pair. So I learned to darn.

Darning is using spare threads from a scrap of the same fabric to recreate missing cloth. So first you work a bunch of threads in one way, then reweave the cloth by going the other way. It's time-consuming, detailed work - I would have been faster making a whole new pair of trousers (not as smug, though!)

In theory, a darn should be invisible. In practice, this darn suffers from the amount of thread added to the texture of the cloth in the area outlining the tear. I don't know what to do about it. Note that I melted some Wondaweb onto the loose threads at the back because I was afraid of it ravelling. It hasn't changed the texture more than the basic darn itself did.

One of the painkillers I'm taking for my sore shoulder contains coedine, which makes me mildly spacy. Since I'm not the most graceful person at the best of times, I've decided to hold off on any sharp-knives areas of bookbinding unless I go off the medication for an evening.

Unfortunately, that leaves me with idle hands, which drives me nuts.

I've been flirting with the idea of taking up spinning for some time. Drop spindles aren't that expesive, and I'd love to get good enough at it to spin my own headbanding silks. My friend EJ sent me some handspun silk that I've enjoyed working with.

But I like instant gratification, and ordering a drop spindle from ebay or the local spinning place has a time delay that has kept me off of it. Of course, there were those instructions on how to make one from a dowel and a CD...

So I did. My bad.

An old hair stick + a mini driver CD + a hook from some beading wire + leather to wrap the hair stick so the CD fits on it = 15g spindle. It's perfect for spinning thick thread/thin yarn from cotton balls.

(Of course, it's all wrong. One shouldn't start with a lightweight spindle, because they're too difficult to control. One shouldn't start with cotton, which doesn't draft and spin as well as wool. But then, one shouldn't start binding with leather either...)

I don't think this is going to be the obsession binding is, but it's an interesting piece of skill acquisition. I may even order some proper fibres today. If that's not too orthodox.

Last Friday, I woke up at 5 am with pain shooting down my left arm from the shoulder to the elbow. It felt like connective tissue that had become inflamed, and left me gasping and unable to get back to sleep. I had the day to myself around the house, and I was glad to see that the pain faded away over the space of the day.

M suggested I go to the doctor's, but I was fairly sure it was just the result of sleeping on it wrong.

Then, last night, I woke at 3:15 with the same shooting pains. Ibuprofen failed to make any dent in the pain at all, and a hot water bottle didn't do any good either. I finally found some paracetomal with coedine, which took enough edge off of the pain to allow me a bit more sleep. It wasn't much - a couple of 45-minute dozes - but it stopped me whimpering in self pity.

The morning was a challenge - it was my day to get the kids up and get them to nursery. Alex was deeply sympathetic and protective of me (he's a good guy when the going gets tough). Fiona, though oblivious, was charming and co-operative. But I usually lift them over a tall iron fence near our house, which was clearly impossible. We had to take a longer route, with Fionaberry on my shoulders (she doesn't walk very fast yet).

I don't know whether it was the medication or Fiona's habit of holding onto my throat, but I was intensely dizzy and nauseated by the time I got the kids to Goose.

Just when I was sinking into self-pity again, though, I got a good dose of proportion. Three or four doors down from the nursery, I came across one of the neighbourhood lasses lying down on the pavement, attended by three other women. She appeared to have had some sort of siezure, and one of the others was clearly onto the emergency services. A couple of doctors from the local surgery strode up as the three women declined my help, and an ambulance drove screaming up just afterward. For a while, my shoulder didn't hurt a bit.

It was a tough day, between the pain, the dizziness, the nausea and the tiredness. In retrospect, I should have stayed home and called the doctor, but I was sure the pain would go away as it did last Friday. My colleagues were both sympathetic and truthful, saying things like, "You look terrible." (They meant well.)

By 3:00, I had lost all strength of will and went home. I nearly fell asleep on the bus, and did collapse on the bed as soon as I got to the house. Not even the new flatscreen TV could keep me awake. A couple of hours' nap helped reduce the nausea and exhaustion, but the shoulder still hurt.

As a matter of fact, it still does hurt. If it doesn't go away tonight, I'm calling the doctor first thing tomorrow.

Martin has been absent because he's been redesigning his side of the site. (Go check it out. It's cool.) I've been absent for much less interesting* reasons.

Basically, I've been studying for a test. About testing. The Information Systems Examination Board (ISEB) Practitioner Certificate in Software Testing, or, as I think of it, How To Break Things Real Good.

After eight days of classroom instruction spread over two weeks, I had less than a month to cram the syllabus in between my ears (Only click on the link if you have persistent insomnia. Not suitable for reading whilst operating heavy machinery*). I did it - I can now go on at great length about the relative strengths of boundary value analysis and state transition testing in the design of functional tests, name 18 types of automated test tool, and describe three software development lifecycle models and how they relate to testing.

I wasn't a very good classmate, I'm afraid. I got massively insecure early on in the instruction section, when I came in on the second week to find that someone extra had turned up and taken my seat and my course materials. The instructor was mortified, but I felt deeply unwelcome, and turned to the same obnoxious behaviour I used to get through high school. When I feel out of place, I become the most annoyingly, articulately intelligent pain in the posterior ever...trying to prove that separate does not equal inferior, I guess.

I did this throughout the second week of classes, and only got worse in the revision session. I even straightened the instructor out on his understanding of one area of the syllabus. Yes, I was right and he was wrong. But that doesn't make it less obnoxious**. I hope I made up for it a little with some of the tutoring I did on the side.

The exam was a pig, but I knew it would be. I think I did OK, on balance, though I won't know for a couple of months. The pass mark is 60%, and if I get over 80% I get a distinction. (Which is, in a small community, considered rather cool.) I'll be content to pass.***

I promise, now that I'm done with that, I'll post to the blog again. I'll even go back and pick out the best photos I took over that time, tell you about the time Fionaberry did a face plant at full speed running downhill, and even update my cinnamon roll recipe. Promise.

* I don't think it's boring. But I know everyone else does.

** Peter, if you're reading this, I am sorry.

*** This is a lie. I would be marginally content to hear that I got 100%. I'll gnash my teeth over every missed point. I know I missed at least 7 marks, and it's driving me nuts.

Today was my birthday, and a very good one it was, too. From the flowers the kids gave me first thing, to the cards and the presents that started my day so well, to the very good day with my colleagues at work, it was both ordinary and magical. Even got my usual walk through the Botanics, taking the odd picture along the way, seemed a little special, though I don't know if that shows in these phiotos.

Something sprouting through the rocks

Taken 15 February 2006

Something about this drystane wall spoke to me too.

Taken 15 February 2006

Then, on the walk home, I was struck by the beauty of these balustrades in the raking sunlight.

Taken 15 February 2006

But that was nothing to the sky over Calton Hill! (Photo cropped to remove a crane)

Taken 15 February 2006

The best moments came at the end of the day - playing tag with the kids on the walk home in the last of the sunlight. Noticing that Alex has finally figured out how to moderate his pace so Fiona can catch him. Chocolate cake. Silly kids in their bubble bath. A chance to talk to Martiin in the evening (and to thank him - I am aware that the flowers, the presents, and the cake only seemed to appear magically at the right moments!)

In some ways, having such an ordinary working-day birthday was better than having an all special day, because it made me look at my everyday life afresh and see it sparkle. I hope I can hold onto that for a while yet!

I have lived in the United Kingdom for 12 1/2 years now, nearly all of my adult life. I have, however, always held myself a little apart from the people around me, partly because I am an American and they are British. And I am distinctly American - my accent betrays me every time I speak, and I have a very American political philosophy. (This is in reference to the idea that sovereignity derives from the consent of the governed, for instance, and the idea that liberties rest with the citizens unless those citizens consent to surrender them for the greater good. It does not mean I think that politics should be spiteful, mean and rude.)

I have lost a little of that separation today. I have become a British citizen.

Why?

The whole process started with an immigration official in Stansted Airport when we were coming back from France last summer. After querying me about the terms of my residency here, he suggested I look into naturalisation and handed me a leaflet with the Home Office URL. I was a bit staggered - wasn't his job to keep people out?

An EU passport would be handy, though, because we are talking about a move to the Netherlands in 2007. Right of abode throughout Europe is not to be lightly set aside.

Why Not?

My major concern was with my American citizenship, because I am not keen to lose that. But a little research, including the US consular site, revealed that the American government does not deem the taking up of a non-exclusive foreign citizenship as the renunciation of one's American citizenship. (It's different if one's new citizenship requires one to renounce all previous allegiances, like the Japanese - and the Americans themselves - do. But the Brits do not require that.) They don't like it, but they allow it.

A minor, but still persistent, point was the requirement to swear allegiance to the Queen. The full text of the things I had to say today is:

I (name) swear by Almighty God that on becoming a British citizen, I will be faithful and bear true allegiance to Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth the Second, her Heirs and Successors, according to law.

I will give my loyalty to the United Kingdom and respect its rights and freedoms. I will uphold its democratic values. I will observe its laws faithfully and fulfil my duties and obligations as a British citizen.

The second paragraph is fine. Absolutely. The first took some thought, both because of a profound discomfort with the notion of personal loyalty to the sovereign, and because I am not naturally a monarchist.

But the way I parse the oath (there is an alternative "affirmation" version for those who do not wish to swear, or do not wish to mention Almighty God, but it parses the same) is that the last clause ("according to law") modifies the entire sentence. That's why there's a comma before it. So my true and faithful allegiance is limited by, and defined by, the law. The Queen is an office-holder, even if she is born into it rather than elected into it.

But what of the office itself? Americans are as wholeheartedly monarchist as, say, ancient Romans. But remember what happened to them - they ended up with Augustus "restoring the republic" by turning it into an Imperium. And, watching the current Executive Branch grab at primacy in the US system, I'm not sure we Americans don't yearn for some sort of monarch to tell us what to do as well.

As monarchies go, the British one is remarkably powerless. In theory, the sovereign can dismiss a prime minister or dissolve Parliament. In practice, she can do that once, and the next day the UK will be a republic. But while Queen Elizabeth is on the throne, no one else can be. She is an effective blocker of any claim to absolute (political) power, while simultaneously excercising none herself. (Thanks to my university friend James for pointing this one out.)

Practical Considerations and Tests Evaded

So, having assuaged my moral qualms, I sent in my application for citizenship in October. My timing was close - had I sent it in in November, I would have had to sit a test on British life. I was one of many, too - 57,000 others wanted to avoid the test as well. Despite reports of slow processing, with some responses expected to take till June, I got my reply back within the 4-month pre-rush average.

Then I booked my "citizenship ceremony" by ringing up the City Council offices. As an American, I was bemused by the reaction, or lack thereof, of the staff. Had I called an American local government office to book the US equivalent ceremony, someone, somewhere along the line, would have said "congratulations." Here, it's like booking your car in for a service.

Martin, in deference to my American-style emotional engagement in this whole process, took the day off and took me out to lunch before the ceremony. We showed up in good time and sat in the city chambers till about 10 minutes after the hour, when Edinburgh's Lord Provost (a woman, as it happens, but the title does not change) came in. She gave a wee speech, the chief registrar gave a wee speech, and then we all stood up and mumbled through the oath and pledge. We were each then called up to shake hands with the Lord Provost, get our certificates, and get our pictures taken. Then we all had tea and biscuits.

But What Does it All Mean?

The British government introduced these ceremonies to try to give a stronger sense of identity to the new citizens. I think it does that, a little, but I am not convinced that the Brits are really interested in an American-style citizenship model. I encounter a lot of bemusement among my British friends about the test of British life, for instance - no one is sure what would go on such a test, or whether they themselves would agree with the "right" answers. And this lack of enthusiasm, which I first really noted in booking the ceremony, pervaded the whole event. The oath and affirmation were murmured rather than proclaimed, and the Lord Provost had to prompt people to applaud each new citizen as she presented the certificates.

Basically, the Brits aren't entirely sure what citizenship means to them. For instance, the Lord Provost's speech made no reference whatsoever to anything expressed in that oath I agonised about it. She spoke almost exclusively to the Pledge about upholding the UK's traditions of rights and freedoms. The Registrar was a little more forthcoming, managing to mention the "sovereign" twice, and there was a picture of the Queen looking benevolent in the room. But the monarchy was clearly not the heart of the ceremony. The ideas of respect and inclusiveness, both much mentioned in the speeches, didn't ring true either (they are neologisms in the political discourse), though the very ethnically and religiously mixed crowd needed to hear them.

In the end, I don't know what being British means to me, or to anyone there. I thought it would sum up something of these last 12 years for me, give me a label for that half of me that is not American, but it doesn't. There is no summary, no single easy definition, apart from that gentle, mild unease with the pretense of certainty that an easy definition would give.

Picture here. I would also like to express my gratitude to Jules and Fiona, who told the Home Office I was a good person despite the evidence to the contrary.

I've been thinking further about some of the issues I touched on in Degrees of Feminism. In particular, what do I think should be private and what public about women's monthy cycles.

The current status, in my workplace, is that it is all private, but that some people feel that it is an acceptable topic for speculation. By that, I mean that I do not announce where I am in my cycle, and simply ensure that there is a pocket somewhere about me as I go to the ladies' room when I have something to carry there. But my colleagues often say things about other women - even to me - like "Maybe she's stroppy because it's that time of the month."

These comments are unanswerable without being marked down as a humourless bitch. I try to dismiss them by asking what a given bloke's excuse is then, but often get "Maybe it's his wife." It goes without saying that none of this raises the speaker in my esteem. I am also fairly sure that several of my colleagues could make a shrewd guess about where I am in my cycle, and that they probably say similar things about me behind my back that they do about other women in front of me. It's a humiliating thought.

The problem is that there is no reciprocity. Men are as prone to hormone-driven irrationality as women, but the consequences are very different. A man who gets aggressive because of testosterone poisoning is seen as competitive and strong, and gets promotions, company cars, and a seat in the executive dining room. A woman who gets aggressive because of oestrogen poisoning is seen as stroppy and unreliable and gets a glass ceiling and sneers behind her back.

But the masculine flavour of hormone poisoning is just as destructive as the feminine variety. The (overwhelmingly male) management team of the company I work for seems to spend all its time and energy in an endless struggle for position. Important decisions are chronically deferred, priority calls are made poorly and later reversed, and status is counted more than quality. The few women who make it to that level are as vicious as the men (that's how they make it there). It's a waste, and an infuriating one, to the people whose work lives it affects. I often suspect that that's half-deliberate, that these men's feelings of power are enhanced by their ability to waste so many people's time. It's a form of conspicuous consumption.

So if that's the problem, what is the desired solution?

Well, to horribly misquote Martin Luthor King, I have a dream that my children will one day live in a world where they will not be judged by the shape of their genitals but by the content of their character. I want Alex and Fiona to work in an environment where women's PMT and men's overcompetitiveness are both grounds for apology. It should be acknowledged that these things occur, but that they are not the norm, not rewarded behaviour.

Chances? Low, since the power structures are populated by people who have got where they are by using their testosterone-fuelled aggression. But men elected to office ended up sharing the vote, so perhaps it is not impossible.

Martin posted a blog entry from our hotel room, in the middle of our attendance at Worldcon. I agree with everything he said. The con was exhausting, busy, and an intense family experience. Both kids wigged out from time to time, but also had some really good moments. I saw people from work, from our St Andrews days, and from previous social groups here in Edinburgh. And like Martin, I only made it to one event - in my case, an informal discussion on the future of the book, both as a concept and as a physical object. It was a great discussion, with plenty of debate and no actual conclusions. I wonder whether I would have enjoyed all the programme events I marked out and subsequently missed as much (I doubt it).

But I wasn't just at the con as an attendee and a parent. I was also there as a bookbinder, and it was the culmination of three very intense weeks in that world for me.

As I noted in a previous entry, I spent a fortnight doing the binds for the Guests of Honour. This was more difficult than I expected. Not only did it take longer (of course - everything always takes longer than you expect it will), but it was also more emotionally challenging than anticipated. Unlike at work, I had no human contact to speak of. I found myself intensely lonely at times. I also found that when things went wrong, I was less able to keep a positive outlook and to develop alternative solutions to problems that arose.

Then we had a houseguest. Liza Groen Trombi, to whom I hadn't even spoken for nearly fifteen years, came to stay with us for a weekend. We had been close in middle and high school, but gone our separate ways after that - me to Scotland, her to singing in a band, managing restaurants, and finally working as an editor for Locus. My instinct, when we got back in touch, was that I would like her again, and I invited her to stay when she was coming over for Worldcon. I think that was one of the best decisions I've made this year. We spent the entire weekend chatting, and I could easily have spent a week or two more listening to her stories and telling a few of my own. She was patient about the fact that I was still binding (and gave very balanced feedback when things went badly). We rode bikes out to Craigmillar Castle, visited Mary King's Close, drank whisky, and laughed a lot.

And, finally, the Sutherlands went to Worldcon. I was doing two things at once, as a binder. First off, I was co-ordinating the bindings to go to the Guests of Honour. Most of this involved being ready to meet the Publications manager, Steve Cooper, when he had gaps in his schedule and bindings needed signatures put in, or needed to be delivered to recipients. I got to see a lot of the Secure Storage area at the convention during this phase of things. At the same time, I was entered in the Art Show, hoping to sell some of my bindings.

I had four items entered: Dr Jekyll & Mr Hyde, The Hobbit, Frankenstein, and a copy of the Worldcon Souvenir Book. And throughout the convention, I fretted. I went back and back to the art show, checking to see if anyone bid. I worried every time someone had moved a binding. I fussed at Martin (who has the patience of a saint for not throttling me!), at Liza (ditto), and at the boyfriend of the Art Show director, Pat (see previous comments). Two items got bids - the Hobbit and Frankenstein.

In the meantime, on of the Guests of Honour - Jane Yolen - had to go home early for family medical reasons. We arranged a swift presentation to her, and I got a chance to see her reaction to my book. She seemed to like it. (I will post photos of the presentation when I get them).

Thus matters stood this morning. Due to some significant sleep disruptions (thanks, Fi!), my memories of today are best summarised in list form.

1. Alex and I, along with much of the Young Adult Fan Activities group, dressed up in masks and goggles and assaulted a panel on the Future of Fandom with inflatable weapons. The point was to remind attendees what the future of fandom really looks like, and perhaps to have a bit of fun on the side. Don't pity the panel too much - they were forewarned, and forearmed with water pistols.
   
2. Neither unsold binding sold during the after-auction sales. I collected them and left the Art Show. Then I rang Steve, the Publications manager, who immediately offered to buy the Souvenir Book binding. I was delighted, not only because I wanted to sell it, but because I wanted him to have it. After all the work he'd done on the book, I reckoned he would like something special. I understand he has all editions of Splitting Infinity now.
3. The person who bought the Hobbit binding - Pat, who had been a friendly face throughout the con - asked me to sign it as the bookbinder. He then tracked down Alan Lee, the illustrator of that edition (and the designer who created the look for Peter Jackson's Lord of the Rings films), and got him to sign the book while I was there. So I got to meet Alan Lee, an artist whom I respect greatly, not just because he does beautiful work, but also because he is so single-minded about doing it. We talked a bit about the binding, and exchanged email addresses. I even got a photo, with Fi in as well:
   
4. During the closing ceremony for the convention, the co-chairs not only showed the entire audience one of my bindings, they incited them to a round of applause (mostly puzzled, admittedly) for me for doing them.
5. I said goodbye to Liza - the only relatively down moment of the day. I miss her already.

Now I get to go back to real life. It's been a good time, rather like being tossed up and down in a blanket while slightly drunk. In other words, I've been to Worldcon.

Do you think Superman ever took a holiday by just pretending to be Clark Kent all the time?

I'm on holiday for a fortnight, and I'm not going anywhere. (That is not strictly true. I may ride my new bike around, and I have to go to the tannery. But I'm not off to the Azores to sun myself senseless.)

Instead, I'm spending a fortnight pretending to be a bookbinder. Necessity is the mother of this particular intention, because I need to have eight books bound for Worldcon and I only got the sheets on Friday.

I need the break. Work is great - I love my job and the people I work with, but I've been getting stressed too easily. I'm fresh out of patience, optimism and gentle tolerance, and have been running on waspish comments and sarcasm.

Time for some solitude, some creativity, and some peace. Time to be the mild-mannered reporter and leave the battles with Lex Luthor for someone else.

I'm not going to get into the ins and outs of it, but I'm enmeshed in a neighbourhood dispute about the hole in the fence near our house. It may be closed for a time in the near future, between the contracting company's visit and the vandals' revenge.

Before I built a wall I'd ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offense.
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That wants it down.

It's a major inconvenience, and the means by which it may be done a source of deep anger. But I will remember my Frost and try to take the long view.

He moves in darkness as it seems to me,
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.

And I must remember to be charitable to my opponents. ;-)

Like most bloggers, I find the events of September 11 an almost irresistible topic. I'd like to write about some of them now: the factors that led up to the events of the day, some of its consequences. I'm going to touch on people, religion, life and death. It's a story that spans continents and decades.

But it's not about bin Laden. No, nor is it about Allende. This predates both of those events.

One day, the Catholic society at Stanford University needed some paperwork collated and stapled. The committee members roped in everyone they could ethically coerce: roommates, friends, acquaintances. Among them was a tall lanky guy from San Jose, with thick brown hair that showed red when the sun shone on it and clear blue eyes. Another of the staplers was a vivacious girl from Southern California, with rich brown eyes and dark hair. The students talked while they worked, and these two hit it off. The Palo Alto sunshine seemed a little brighter, the campus a little more beautiful, by the time the work was over.

Then he vanished.

But a letter came before the plot of their story could be diverted from its course, before she forgot him, before he became a might-have-been. He had been an alternate for a course of study in France, and one of the students had a medical ban on travel. She read the airmail letter (the texture and sound of the thin, crackly airmail paper held a nostalgic quality for her for years afterward), and all the ones that followed it. But their relationship was new, and contact dropped off.

He came back just before she herself was scheduled to go abroad, studying in Germany, so they had a little time to re-establish their connection. Then she went away. And this time the correspondence didn't drop off. The letters got longer, and deeper, the two opened their hearts to one another and discovered, as fortunate souls do, that the more they gave of themselves, the more they had to give. They must have suspected, early on, that they were engaged in something serious. By the time she returned, they knew.

So on September 11, 1966, they married. It was a date that was significant only to them and their families, passing unnoticed in the headlines of the day.

They joined the counterculture and grew their hair. She got pregnant in time to keep him from being drafted. They loved being parents, loved their son. Soon they had another baby, which may have eased her grief at her mother's untimely death from breast cancer. They bought some land and built a cabin on it, though they never ended up living there. They moved around a lot, working at various jobs, raising their kids and enjoying the glory of youth. They lived in a commune for a time. He bought a printing press; she painted. They worked on cars and raised their kids. Her father passed away.

Eventually, they both ended up in law school. For each of them, in their own ways, the practice of law was a vocation. And their other vocation grew as well - they had two more children when their first set was reaching adolescence. He lost his father to prostate cancer. The older kids went to college just as the younger ones were starting school. Their second child, a daughter, even went to Europe during university, studying for a year in Scotland. They visited her when they returned to the Continent for their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary.

Their elder children each married, and have since had kids of their own. His mother died suddenly, of a stroke, earlier this year. The younger children are both in their twenties, one currently studying in Prague, the other living in the Bay Area. The consequences of that September day flow on, in the lives of us their seven descendants, our spouses, our friends. For us, in the family, this is still the real September 11.

Happy anniversary, Mom and Dad.

Appropos of nothing, honest!

Staying in someone's house is not the same as living in your own place. The entire process is governed by a set of conventions and rules to try and cushion the inherent intrusiveness of bringing a new and temporary factor into a settled household.

As a guest, you should have two overriding goals. First, you must demonstrate in all of your actions that you know the difference between your host's household and a hotel. And second, you must strive to make a net contribution to the quality of life in the household. You may not succeed - it is very difficult to counterbalance the amount of work your stay imposes on your host - but a combination of helpfulness and good cheer will show that you are trying.

If anything, these rules apply even more when you are staying in a household run by family or friends than when you are visiting comparative strangers. The intimacy of your relationship makes your presence more emotionally complex, and it is important for continued harmony that you do as little damage as possible to that relationship.

If for some reason these customs are to onerous, one can always put up in a hotel, where there are no such expectations and where, as customer, you are always right.

Planning and Arrival

The process of being a houseguest begins long before you step through the door. When you are planning a trip that will involve staying at someone's house (either because you have been invited or because your relationship with your host means that you can ask to stay), ensure that you are welcome on the planned dates before you purchase any tickets. Do this yourself, even if someone else is booking the actual travel. Be sure to express your gratitude.

In the time leading up to your stay, keep in touch with your hosts. This will both ensure that they don't feel like hotel keepers and give you a continued thread of relationship to draw on for conversational purposes when you arrive. It will also allow you to update them on any changes to your plans, and accept or decline subsidiary invitations (parties, expeditions of pleasure) and requests for favours (babysitting).

If your transport is under your control, be timely, communicative, or both. Everyone understands that people set out later than they plan, but leaving your hosts awaiting you over a cooling meal is not a good way to start your visit.

If your transport is not under your control, do not automatically assume you will be collected from the station or airport. If your hosts don't offer to pick you up, plan another way to get to their house.

When you arrive, you will probably be shown around the house. Take note of the condition it is in - your hosts will probably have spent some time getting it clean and tidy. Your goal is to keep it that way, particularly the room you'll be staying in. A compliment on the decor or the house itself would not go amiss. Unless the guest room is actually crawling with cockroaches, assure your host that it's an ideal space and you look forward to being comfortable there.

At your earliest convenience (possibly after some conversation or food, if your hosts offer either), retire to your room and unpack. Find someplace to stow your possessions where they will be as out of the way as possible. By preference, things should not be behind doors, piled in untidy heaps, on the bed, or on the floor. This is particularly important if the room is multifunctional and will be used by your hosts during your stay. Remember at all times that this is your hosts' room, and that they may be feeling somewhat possessive and territorial despite their best efforts to the contrary.

If you have had the forethought to bring a small gift (often an edible one is suitable), bring it down when you've finished unpacking.

During your Stay

Ascertain all household rules and follow them. Areas to learn about include where food and drink are and are not allowed, whether shoes are allowed inside the house, where to smoke if you do so, toilet seat policies, swearing, doors open vs doors closed, and whether you have your own towel.

Eat what is put in front of you, compliment it, and be convincing.

It goes without saying that the guest room should be maintained in a state of tidiness.

Your goal as a guest is to have a light footprint, which means sharing the work of the household. Your hosts may very well put a lot of effort into making you comfortable, and may feel obliged to decline any offers of assistance you make. This can lead to some genteel argument. Remember to be neither a pest nor a parasite. It is often useful to find some periodic task and quietly take it over entirely - dishwashing is ideal in a household without a dishwasher.

Your hosts may lie to you while you are staying in their house. Common lies include, "You don't have to do that," "Oh, no, that wasn't in my way," and pretty much every usage of "That's all right." (Barring accidents, a handy rule of thumb is that anything worth apologising for is worth correcting, no matter what your hosts say to the contrary.) Smile and ignore their lies.

If your hosts feel it necessary to speak to you directly about something you are doing wrong, be aware that you have committed a major solecism and put them in an uncomfortable and unpleasant situation. (Any minor problem woul merely cause them to count the days till your departure.) Apologise and correct the problem immediately.

If your hosts have children and you are so inclined, you can offer to care for them. If you're not so inclined, don't worry. Most parents can distinguish between "kid people" and non-kid people, and if you're in the latter group, they won't be offended if you don't offer to look after the children.

It is often a good idea to take the burden of feeding the household off of your hosts at least once during your stay. This can either take the form of offering to cook a meal, bringing something in from a local takeaway, or taking them out to dinner.

It is important to contribute not just to the work of the household but to its ambience as well. Be pleasant and friendly to your hosts. If they enjoy a good discussion over dinner, feel free to express and argue your opinions against theirs then. Otherwise, if it isn't nice, don't say it. If you do stray into an argument and your host prefers not to continue it, agree to disagree and calmly turn the subject to something innocuous.

There may be brief times in a visit when a guest finds it difficult to maintain a cheerful demeanour. Fine judgement of the household mood is required here. If the hosts have the energy, and your relationship with them is sufficient, then of course you may rely on them for emotional support. Otherwise, the accepted practice is to retire to the guest room to express your feelings in private. The guest room is also a suitable retreat if the hosts have an argument with one another (although if the weather is good, a walk round the neighbourhood is better, requiring as it does no pretence of deafness).

Extended bad moods are best dealt with alone; better to be a quiet guest than drag the entire household into your depression.

Remember that, no matter how graceful and pleasant a guest you are, your presence will eventually tire your hosts. This is particularly true in a small house. It is a good idea to spend some part of every day out of the household, to give the hosts some breathing room. You could go on sightseeing or shopping expeditions, find a pleasant walk in the area, or adopt a local cafe. Smoking breaks, if they only lead to sitting just outside the house, are often insufficient.

Leaving

When your visit draws to a close, express regret, even if you don't feel it. Your hosts will do the same.

On your last day, buy a small (usually consumable or temporary) present to express your gratitude. Flowers are a good choice, as is wine or food. If you give the gift to your hosts in person, you still owe them a thank you note. If you leave the gift in your room, you may leave a note with it.

Leave the guest room tidy. This will also reduce the chances you've left something behind.

If your hosts don't offer to get you to your onward transport, make arrangements well in advance.

When you arrive at your next destination, contact your hosts. You should both inform them of your safe arrival and thank them for their hospitality (even if you did so in writing when you left).

Never disclose private information you learned during your stay. Never even reveal that you learned it in the first place. In fact, forget that you read this paragraph.

Alex wanted to go to our local play park today. Usually, we take the bus to play parks further in town, where there's rather less broken glass and rather more takeaway coffee.

And rather less grafitti. Our local playpark is a hangout for teenagers after the little kids go away. I have some sympathy - there really isn't a lot else to do in Gilmerton - but I do wish they'd leave the permanent markers at home. (Not to mention not wrapping the swings over the top bar of the swing set .)

As Alex was playing, I was idly reading the grafitti. There was a lot of "love" stuff (RM + KS 4EVR and its ilk), and some "fan" writing (EMINEM, HFC). The third class of inscription, the "insult" inscription, was also well represented. (name obscured) is a fat geek who muckz around wi an even bigger geek and Jonathan is a fat pie eater, for instance.

But among what I presume to be insults was REECE IS TIDY. There was also, just to be confusing, REECE IS UNTIDY. Two or three other people were also labeled as "tidy", though only Reece seems to be untidy.

Tidy?

I was mowing the lawn this morning when a survey-taker came by. He caught me at a good moment - just finished in front, but disappointed that the sun wasn't well out in the back garden yet. Fiona was asleep in her Happy Chair in the porch, while Alex was zooming around and poking the gardening fork into the ground in random places. And I have sympathy for survey-takers who come by in person, having collected signatures for a political cause one summer long ago.

So the long and the short of it was that I was willing to have my brain picked for a quarter of an hour on telephone companies. The survey taker didn't know by whom he was employed, but the nature of the questions causes me to think it was TalkTalk.

My favourite question: If telephone companies were people, how willing would you be to be friends with (insert phone company name from a list of five or six he was asking about)?

My answers were disappointing, I think - I wouldn't particularly want to be friends with any of them. Not even the company we get our service from. But it made me wonder, in this era of corporate persons, whether we will ever be pals with companies rather than people? Then what? Could you marry a corporation?

So I woke up yesterday morning feeling a bit warm. Pleasantly warm, like my old "heat vampire" days when I used to snuggle under the duvet until I was red-hot. And I was feeling a bit sore, (I thought) because I had been putting shelves up in our new shed the day before. I was maybe a bit tired, but you can't really tell that until you're up, and of course I often wake with a headache.

It wasn't until Alex touched me and said "Ow!" that I realised that I was maybe a bit on the excessively warm side. And it wasn't until I got up and started shivering uncontrollably that I realised that I was sick.

Great, I thought. Just great.. Martin's been doing so much for me and for the household since Fiona was born. So when I'm finally getting over all the various aftereffects of the birth, from hospitalisation to anaemia to the baby blues, I suddenly fall ill.

My in-laws were over to see Fi and Alex. I came downstairs for their visit, but I can't swear to the coherence of my conversation. Apart from that, I spent the day in fevered reverie, drifting in and out of sleep. Martin did everything, from hoovering to cooking a magnificent Sunday roast to keeping Alex going, while I lay upstairs in some alternate universe.

Fortunately, the symptoms only lasted a day or so. I'm still feeing pretty weak, and Fi seems to have caught some snuffliness from me, but it seems to have been a brief illness. Dramatic, but brief.

Now can I get back to feeling normal?

I was waiting for the lift on the ground floor of Jenners, one of Edinburgh's oldest department stores. With me were four little old ladies, all with white hair in that "set and styled" look that seems to be the fashion in the over-70 demographic. The "up" button was already lit, and one lady was pressing the "down" button over and over again while talking about lift journeys. She, apparently, wanted to go to the third floor.

So why the down button? She explained as she stabbed away.

"Most folks think you're supposed to tell the lift where you want to go. But that's daft, you see, because the lift doesn't know how to take you there. It'll be on the third floor - like this one - and know you want to go up. But it doesn't know that it has to go down to fetch you first. How could it? It's like driving a car - you tell the lift where you want it to go. We're on the ground floor, and it's on the third floor. So we want it to come down to fetch us. We'll tell it which floors to go to when we get on. Like a car," she nodded again, clinching the argument.

Listening to her, I experienced a sudden, seismic burst of cognitive dissonance. I suddenly doubted whether I had been using lifts correctly all my life. How did I know how to use a lift? My parents taught me, and I'd watched colleagues and strangers. In essence, lift usage is an oral tradition, and like many oral traditions, may be wrong. Maybe this woman was right? Who was to know?

The lift came, and the "down" arrow went dark. The "up" arrow was still lit, but we all got on. I would have stayed back, suspecting it was en route to the lower ground floor, but I didn't want to offend the woman by doubting her thesis with my actions. (Or was I simply insecure, unsure the lift would stop at the ground floor again on its way back up? The cognitive dissonance was pretty strong.)

We both got off at the third floor, and I left her energetically explaining something to a saleswoman. I went on my way, still a little dazed.

Even after leaving Jenners, I couldn't quite shake the underlying doubt. Had I been using lifts wrong all this time? I mentioned it to my father, who provided the clinching evidence. Most lifts have only one button at the extreme ends of their runs. If you're on the bottom floor of a building, the only lift control instruction you can give is up, please. If the lady was right, then you could never summon the lift to the ground floor, because you could never give it the instruction to go down.

I should be convinced. I should be sure. But last night, in the middle of the night, I woke up certain that I lived in a world where lifts were like cars, and we were all doing it wrong.

Well, if Martin's recent sufferings weren't enough, I appear to have developed the capacity for migraines. Imagine my delight.

It is apparently not uncommon for women's migraine status to change in pregnancy - sufferers may experience some relief, and non-sufferers may start getting them. This ties into the theories that migraines are hormonally based.

I don't know if the two killer headaches I've experienced in the last month are true migraines. In both cases, my head was throbbing so badly it felt like it would explode, particularly behind the eyes. Any light caused stabbing pains in my eyes and temples, adding to the pain even more. Eventually, it hurt so much that I got nauseated, sometimes uncontrollably.

Yesterday's headache was preceded by an unpleasant series of sensations as well. I went up into town at lunchtime, and while on my way back, I began to feel somewhat faint. (Since I have low blood pressure, I am familiar with the symptoms that lead up to fainting, though I have only once passed out. Specifically, I sometimes experience dizziness, ringing in the ears, sweating palms, nausea and a trailing off of extreme weakness. Yesterday I had three of the five, but managed to avoid the nausea and sweating palms by sitting down for a few minutes.) Then I got back to the office, and began to feel an incipient headache.

That feeling of faintness matches some of the symptoms of an aura, such as often precedes a "proper" migraine. Not being a doctor, I don't know if my guess that this was an aura before a migraine is accurate (though as far as I can tell, the medical profession sometimes uses "migraine" to mean "bad headache we can't otherwise explain". It's been the default diagnosis for Martin a couple of times.)

My head hurt all evening, meaning my poor Martin had to put Alex to bed. (I couldn't bathe him, because the bathroom light was too bright. I took my shower later by candlelight.) I was better in the morning, but still too light-sensitive to take Alex to nursery; Martin had to do that too. Work was right out of the question.

Finally, about 24 hours after the first faintness, I'm feeling better. The light sensitivity has gone, the headache has vanished, and apart from a dragging tiredness, I'm back to normal.

The bad news is that, being pregnant, I dare not take painkillers. The worse news is that some pregnancy-onset tendencies to migraine don't go away after the birth...

The good news is that Martin is wonderful. Thank you, Bun.

A decade ago yesterday, I woke up in my parents' house. It was my last morning as a Foley.

The house was full of college-aged guests, too impecunious to stay elsewhere. Then there was the family: two parents, two small children, and me (Mick lived elsewhere by then). And guests and relatives were wandering in and out from time to time. It was a zoo, but a delightful zoo, with someone unexpected in every room.

I laid out my beautiful wedding dress, handmade of silk by my mother, and the shoes I'd chosen to go with it. Then I realised that I didn't have tights! A quick drive to Payless solved that, though all they had were "control top" tights. I shrugged and figured they would make me look even better in the dress.

By the time I came home, everyone was getting ready. I managed to get some mirror time, just enough to brush my hair and put a little makeup on. I never wear much, and that day was no exception. I took the least time to get ready of anyone in that house, with plenty of time to help Kathleen with her hair.

I remember very little after driving to the church in the van. Martin and I had memorised our lines, and were word-perfect through the ceremony, but I don't recall much of it. We drove to the reception in Jeeps, with white streamers tied to the roll bars. We ate, drank, and were merry, but again, I remember very little of it.

I was just too happy.

I'm still happy now, a decade later. Not in the same euphoric, memory-destroying way, of course, or they'd have to lock me up as a danger to myself and others. But my marriage to Martin has been even better than the wedding.

There have been bad times, of course, and no doubt there will be again. But the greatest joy of our marriage is that we can overcome adversity better as a couple (even adversity within the couple) better than we could individually.

It is far from time to rest on our laurels - with a toddler running rampant and a baby on the way, we certainly have some challenging times ahead. But we have made a good start.

I love you, Martin, even more than I did on the day I cannot remember.

A few weeks ago, Martin was musing on what these blogs are, really, and why we maintain them. He, like the blogger who prompted his article, used a number of real-world analogies to make his points.

I'm not so sure how far analogies can take me in describing why I do what I do on the web. (Come to that, I'm not sure I know why I do all that I do on the web.)

First things first, though.

Who are you on the Web, Abi?

My main Net identities are:

• evilrooster on Everything2
• evilrooster on Geocaching.com (and, less actively, other geocaching sites)
• this blog
• the evilrooster Bookweb
• jade_ring on ebay (evilrooster was taken)

Naturally, I have several "spoof" and temporary identities about as well, which I would rather were not linked to my "core" identity. Nor am I alone in this. I suspect that the vast majority of E2 users, for instance, have secondary accounts for various reasons. But these are the ones that I identify as "myself".

These identities are not all linked up (or weren't, until I posted this!), but together, they present a multi-faceted image that I am willing to make available to absolute strangers, friends, and family.

Why do you spend all this time on these identities?

For a long time, I didn't have a web presence. I didn't feel that I had anything that important to say. Further reading convinced me, however, that most of the other people on the web don't either. One of my teachers at Napier advised me make a site of all the things I would want to find on the web (and I have, both in my factual work on E2 and in the Bookweb).

This blog came about partly by imitation (because Martin had one), and partly to communicate with my family in California. But its usage has evolved. It's now part of my "shop window" on the world, an expression of who I am right now and what I'm thinking.

But (to ask a basic writer's question), who is my audience? Martin and I have received a number of comments and emails lately that have clarified this for me.

• One of Martin's high school friends Googled her name and found a reference to herself in Martin's blog. This led her to get in touch, as part of the re-consolidation of that set of friends from his youth.
• I got a comment on my blog from someone whom I have never met, who Googled his way onto the Bookweb and followed the trail here. Reading my blog convinced him that I might be worth chatting to, and we exchange the occasional email now as a result.
• Another email was from someone I knew at St Andrews, who found the site (don't know how) and sent me a "remember me?" email. Again, contact is being re-established.

Enough verbage. Who is your audience?

My audience is those people on the web who were, are, or might become, friends. As friendship extends into the virtual realm, so will the art of meeting people. My web presence is a shop window, an entry in a Personals column, an extended hand.

So?

So if you think you might want to know me further, click on the rooster at the top of the page and send me an email. Alternatively, add a comment here.

Because it's a big, scary world out there, I'm not going to fall all over myself to be friends with everyone who drops me a line. I've made my pitch, described myself. But friendship is a two-way street. Tell me about yourself, make me care.

And in the spirit of Martin's friend getting back in touch, I'm going to list a few people I would love to hear from again, even just a brief note. This page is indexed by Google, so if they search on their names they'll find themselves here. If this is you, click on the rooster at the top of the page and get in touch. Tell me what you've been doing!

From Piedmont High School:

• Liza Groen
• Lisa Wright
• Alta Swinford
• Paul Casey

From Skyline High School:

• Jason Camara

From Richmond High School:

• Jetsun Eddy (Or are you spelling it Jetsün Eddy?)

From UC Berkeley:

• David Corcoran
• David Beckerman
• Eleanor (El) Casella
• Charlton Horne
• Keith Gordon

From St Andrews:

• Andrea Kagan
• William Grant

I went through a pretty bad patch at work last month. I was feeling annoyed at the people I work with, stressed out by a developing problem that I couldn't seem to solve, and frustrated with myself for getting into the situation at all. I was even having work stress dreams (coming into the office naked from the waist up, that sort of thing).

A lot of this was based on fear. I am performing a role pioneered by someone with vastly more experience and knowledge than I have. Even after a year, I am still scrambling to catch up, learning on the fly. But I feel like by now I should know everything I need to do my job. This made it hard to ask questions, and consequently made me defensive and unadventurous. I found myself backing away from challenges because I was afraid they'd turn into cans of worms, that people would ask me things I couldn't answer. Easier to say no than to find a way to say yes.

But I was rereading A Degree of Mastery, one of my bookbinding books. The author, Annie Tremmel Wilcox, writes about the time that she was an apprentice bookbinder. She spends a lot of time thinking about the idea of craftsmanship, particularly as embodied by the master bookbinder she is studying with. And, reading that, I understood my real problem. The lack of knowledge, the feeling of looming intimidation, was only a symptom.

I had stopped approaching my job as a craftsman. I was no longer taking pride in the innate quality of the work I was doing, but had got tied up in the politics of it all. It's easy to do in my role, where there is a lot of political give and take.

To a politician, the quality of your work is one of many negotiable items. You take shortcuts to do favours, until taking the time to do something right is seen as an imposition. A craftsman abhors this approach, and would rather do something less fancy but do it right than do more in some half-assed way.

As a craftsman, with the priority on the quality of my work, I find the barriers to asking for help have diminished. If the quality of my work is my primary concern, then the desire to save face by not appearing ignorant cannot be. That's the primary concern of a polician.

Going into work is a lot easier now. I even keep a bone folder on my keyboard (above the F keys). It's sort of a personal emblem of craftsmanship.

                              - o0o -

Grammar notes: Although I am a woman, I use the terms "craftsman" and "craftsmanship". My alternatives appear to be "crafter" / "craftership" and "craftswoman" / "craftswomanship". Now, "crafter" sounds like "crofter" to me, and I have nothing whatever to do with sheep. And while "craftswoman" is fine, "craftswomanship" is just too awkward. (Don't even get me started on "craftspersonship"...) Besides, I am confident enough in my femininity to be able to use a masculine term about myself.

I'm finally over my early, extremely negative reaction to the Atkins book. It took a few days, but I'm now able to view it with the sense of humour that it requires (not to say invites).

<rant>

Because, taken literally, Atkins isn't a diet. Nor is it a "Nutritional Approach". What it really is, if you take it seriously, is a cult.

The book is written in the style of a tent revival, complete with inspiring little stories of people who have lost tremendous amounts of weight and gained astonishing degrees of self-confidence on the program. There are buzzwords ("ketosis", "OWL") and medical diagnoses ("hyperinsulism") which are applied to practically everyone in the population. Some of the ideas that got my goat were:

• Low fat diets are BAD because cavemen didn't eat that way.
• The entire medical establishment is either stupid or actively evil not to recognise the greatness of Atkins
• So's the FDA
• The Atkins diet cures diabetes, and Dr. Atkins would be doing a disservice to mankind not to promote it.
• You are intolerant of the foods you gain weight on. Many Italians are intolerant of pasta, for instance. (Surely you gain weight on foods you digest efficiently? What a strange definition of intolerance!)

There's even a chapter on evangelism, called "Spreading the Word". It advises Atkinsites on how to save their poor deluded low-fat dieting friends from the endless trap of hyperinsulism and high-carb diets.

I find the idea that Atkins is a return to the pre-agrarian diet particularly bizzare. Cavemen probably did eat a lot of meat, vegetables, nuts and fruit rather than starches. However, they also must have had wild weight fluctuations depending on the season (the weight gain associated with SAD is a legacy of this). Are we proposing to return to that, too? Atkins wants us to eat like cavemen in summer all year round, but that is no more natural than eating like Medieval peasants, or modern day Westerners.

</rant>

There was a study done a few years ago where they compared weight loss among a variety of diets, from Weight Watchers to Atkins. What the study revealed is that if you use up more calories than you take in, you lose weight. No magic formula, no fad, no revival tent literature can change that basic physiological fact. We diet to change the ratio of input to output, and a successful diet is one that allows us to change the ratio for the long term.

What Atkins is, really, is a diet. It's a way to do all kinds of thinking about food, to spend lots of intellectual and emotional energy on food, without eating so much of it. Furthermore, it's a fad diet. Every time you turn around, you bump into an Atkinsite.

Like all diets, Atkins is a psychological tool. Golfers who find their putting going wrong buy new putters to solve the problem. The new putters may be no better than the old ones, but the change breaks bad habits and gives the golfer something external to blame for the problem. Martin and I have gone a bit wrong in our relationship to food. This diet is just a different putter.

Martin has got me involved in the Prisoner Problem. As a software tester by vocation as well as profession, I've been his gadfly, pointing out the flaw in his solution.

Continuing the gadfly/software tester/push the limits theme, I would like to propose a solution.

In addition to randomly flipping switches, each prisoner writes his name on the wall of the room when he visits it. Since the warden promised not to let anyone in the room except when the prisoners are there, the names won't be erased or added to without the prisoners' knowledge. When all the names are there, then they've all visited the room.

Illegal? Nope. The warden says nothing about doing anything else when visiting the room, as long as they flip one and only one switch.

Wrong? Of course. But what are a bunch of dumb lags to do?

Rich, I tell you!

No, no, I didn't win the lottery.

Last night (Sunday, December 29) was the annual Almost New Year's party of one of our dearest friends from our university days. And after living so long in a country that doesn't celebrate Thanksgiving, I find I have moved the date of my annual stock-taking, the day that I count my blessings and review the past year. Now I do it at Paul's party. This has the added advantage of moving the stocktake after the solstice, when the balance of the year has shifted toward the light, when I know [Seasonal Affective Disorder|my mood] will get better now before it gets worse again.

Here's this year's tally:

· We are all healthy, sound in body and mind.

Oh, yes, we all three of us get ill from time to time. I have a cold as I type, Alex has been coughing nights, and Martin isn't doing too hot either. But these are passing things.

· We have a nice house

It's pleasant, on a good street, with good neighbours. The mortgage is affordable, and will remain affordable even if interest rates go up.

· We have secure, well-paid jobs in these times of redundancy.

I hope I'm not tempting fate by saying this. But we've both survived one round of redundancies in our workplaces. We're even paid enough to be able to work part-time and still have enough money for our needs and our desires. We are, to use the phrase of one of my former colleagues, hardcover book rich.

· We have time

Working part-time means we each spend entire days with Alex. I get two days a week with him, Martin one.
We even have time to spend on our hobbies. Martin does web-type stuff and plays the drums, and I bind books.

· We have love

Martin and I are heading for our tenth anniversary. The years have not always been easy - no long-term relationship is universally smooth. But even in the worst times, we have never stopped loving each other.
Now we have Alex, not yet two, and we love him more than we can express. He loves us too, though he does not yet understand the concept.
We have loving families - brothers, sisters, parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, a whole network of relatives. We may disagree from time to time, but that never gets in the way of the love that ties us together by marriage and blood.
And we have dear, dear friends, some we see often and some we see less than once a year. (A fair number of them came to Paul's party.) I have friends I have never met in the flesh, but still am enriched by (and ones that, I hope, I enrich).

And so many things that we have, that so much of the world lacks, don't even make it on the list. Our water is safe to drink, we have plentiful food (more than plentiful - I need to lose weight). Our home is safe from confiscation and our health from epidemic disease. We have a voice in our governance, and the right to say what we please in public. Realistically, we fear no violence in our daily lives. We even have access to cheap public transport and good quality health care.

What can I say? We are rich.

Alex has been watching Monsters, Inc., and I perforce have been watching it with him. And it got me thinking. Here's what I came up with.

Long after the toys are gone from the shops, long after the shameless [Rampant mass consumerism is so evil. Hey, can I have a sip of that Frappucino?|commercialism] of the Disney empire has moved on to another film, I think Monsters, Inc. will be considered one of their best. In addition to the amazing animation, the in-jokes, and the humour, it has a strong (and surprisingly subversive) moral and social message.

On the surface, Monsters, Inc is a cutesy buddy movie. But it actually goes much deeper than that. It's about one just monster and his struggles against a corrupt system, about the value of personal loyalty and the triumph of principle over practicality.

The Society

We only see glimpses of Monstropolis life in the film, but it's clearly a peaceful, prosperous city. Its citizens have plenty of material possessions - cars, TVs with little monster horns, apartments with nice views. They have enough extra to go out to sushi restaraunts. A fruit seller is doing well enough to give his wares away to his friends. It's a safe city, where children play on the sidewalks. It's a clean, pleasant place - no one even jaywalks.

The shortage of power presents a crisis, admittedly, but it has only a minor impact on the city. And no one really thinks about how their energy is derived from the screams of little children. They've been taught that human children are toxic creatures, something to be feared. No monster would think of a child the way they think of their dear little bundles of tentacles, nor pity a human tot crying in the night as they comfort their own wee critter. Children are dangerous, and the monsters who go into their world to extract Scream are brave indeed, saving Monstropolis from rolling blackouts.

Monsters, Inc. is a company of heroes, keeping Monstropolis safe and comfortable in a time of crisis.

The Principal Conflict

Henry J. Waternoose III: [The Banality of Evil]

Although Randall is the visible antagonist in the film, Waternoose is the true villain. He is a paternal, jovial monster, who has earned the trust and loyalty of his staff. He runs the sort of company that does "[bring your daughters to work day|bring your obscure relative to work day]" (though he must have missed the memo on that particular one). He has a bunch of big softies on the scare floor, but he can still inspire them to go into what they believe to be mortal danger.

Like most important, powerful people, Waternoose knows the world is more complex than his underlings suspect. He knows, for instance, that children are not poisonous. He may tell trainees that "There's nothing more toxic than a human child. A single touch could kill you," but he picks Boo up himself before sending Sulley and Mike to exile.

Waternoose is driven by the desire to keep his company going, both because it has been his family for three generations, and because it is all that keeps the energy crisis in Monstropolis from becoming acute. As he himself says, "I'll kidnap a THOUSAND children before I let this company die, and I'll silence anyone who gets in my way!"

He probably sees himself as a good monster, driven to [the ends justify the means|difficult measures by difficult times]. No doubt he tells himself that [you can't make an omelet without breaking eggs|you can't make an omelet without breaking a few eggs], and that his cause is worth a few sacrifices (though not notably sacrifices he has to make himself). He is an ordinary monster doing terrible things - the perfect illustration of [the banality of evil].

James P. Sullivan: [Fiat justitia et ruat coelum|Though the Heavens Fall, Let Justice be Done]

James P. Sullivan is an unlikely David to combat Waternoose's Goliath. He is not a revolutionary, just an normal Joe doing a normal days's work. He's the sort of guy who knows everyone by name and a pleasant word for them all. He's a people person, or rather a monsters' monster. What matters most to him is the web of relationships he has with his friends, his peers, and his boss.

Sulley combines this capacity for intense personal loyalty with real courage. He is capable of overcoming his fear of a human child enough to bond with Boo, to comfort her when she's frightened and to try to get her home. And he is brave enough to risk everything - his job, his friendship with Mike, even the company itself - to see her safely back into her own room. He refuses to send her back to the wrong place when Mike gets a door to somewhere with yodeling in the background. He won't even send her through the right door when he suspects that Randall is still a threat to her.

Partway through the film, Sulley has an uncomfortable experience when the monitor in the simulation room records him scaring a dummy. No doubt he has seen recordings of his roaring face before, and even been proud of how frightening he looks. But this time he [to a Louse|sees himself through Boo's eyes], and realises that the children he scares are as upset as she is. This shift in attitude, again the product of empathy and courage, isn't really explored in the film. He does cheer Boo on when she attacks Randall and conquers her fear of him, despite the loss of scream this represents. But I don't know that Sulley would have been happy again on the scare floor, had things turned out differently.

Although the plot is [deus ex machina|rigged] to create a happy ending, Sulley's doesn't realise that things will work out. He isn't thinking about whether Monsters, Inc. will stand or fall. He is simply and stubbornly determined to do what is right, to protect one innocent and helpless child from harm. He looks unhappy when Mike points out, "Sure we put the factory in the toilet, hundreds of people will be out of work now, not to mention the angry mob that'll come after us when there's no power." But he does't look like he regrets his choices, and he's clearly not so consumed by guilt that he can't think of a way out of the situation.

The Minor Characters

[Mike Wazowski]: [Everyman]

Very few people (or monsters) have Sulley's courage against the pressure of conformity. Most of us are more like Mike, just trying to get along in life. We want our creature comforts (like Mike's car), a chance at true love (like Celia), and a few laughs to get through the day.

Mike probably uses his humour to cover up a feeling of insecurity. Like everyone else, he admires Sulley. He relishes being the friend of Monsters, Inc.'s top scarer, telling off the two janitors who get too friendly ("You're making him lose his focus!"). He basks in reflected glory, getting Sulley to make reservations for him in a booked-up restaurant. Mike is not extraordinarily courageous or principled. He sees Boo as a threat to his normal life, and to his friendship with Sulley. So he leaps at whatever chance he can to get her out of their way, whether it be through [the wrong door], or through the right one under Randall's aegis.

But when Sulley seems to choose Boo over him in Nepal, Mike shows real greatness of character. He returns to the monster world, apologises to Sulley for making him choose at all, and helps his friend get Boo back home. He is not brave monster on his own, but he is [a friend in need is a friend indeed|a good friend in a crisis]. He does the right thing in the end.

Randall Boggs: [Paper Tiger|The Overt Villain]

Randall the pseudo-chameleon is the most disappointing character in the film. He is openly evil, willing to "[terminate with extreme prejudice|dispose of]" anyone who gets in his way. He ruthlessly abuses his sidekick Fungus, and his plans for world (or Monsters, Inc.) domination are gloriously unformed.

In short, he is a cardboard characterisation, only suited to draw attention away from the true villain of the piece. I shall waste no more prose on him.

I think I'll find this film very helpful when answering [question]s about twentieth-century history from Alex when he's older. It can be hard to convey to a child how an ordinary society, for instance [Nazi|Germany] in the 30's, could be founded on cruelty, or how [blood libel|fear] was used to dehumanise [Jews|a people] they wanted to exploit. I would like to teach him to recognise the [absolute power corrupts absolutely|pitfalls of power] that Waternoose exemplifies, and raise him to have the courage of his own convictions like Sulley.

I know that the scriptwriters didn't write all this into the film, at least not deliberately. But the plot rings true because these characteristics, and these forces, are part of human nature.

The days are growing perceptibly shorter now, for all that the temperature has stayed relatively warm. And the quality of the day is changing - the sunlight seems paler, dimmer, weaker. Colours do not shine so brightly in it. I can feel myself growing paler along with the sun.

Last weekend, the leaden feeling in my limbs and the pit of my stomach grew too strong to ignore. I had to get out the light box. I resented it bitterly, even as the light lifted my depression. September is too soon to feel this way. And in the back of my head is an uncomfortable calculation. If I need the light three months before the year end, I'll probably need it three months after the year end as well. That's half the year chained to the light box, prisoner of my [Seasonal Affective Disorder|SAD].

I have just received a light visor, which should reduce the "chained down" feeling by allowing me to go about my daily life. And I've just bought a desk lamp for work, where the illumination is too dim to keep me awake. The last three winters, I was working (when I was working) in a building where desk lamps were available, and they made a world of difference to me. The building I'm in, though much better located, doesn't have desk lamps. I could have requested one from my line manager and played the disability card to bolster my argument. But it seemed simpler to buy my own, and the cost (�10, including a spare bulb) was not exactly prohibitive.

But starting light therapy has its own price. My body was just settling down for a nice winter's hibernation. I'd even gained a couple of kilos to feed off of during the long sleep. Then, suddenly, the bright lights came on, and my brain was jerked rudely awake. My metabolism is struggling to cope. Symptoms of that struggle include:

• rampant insomnia
  It's taking me a long time to fall asleep at night, and I'm waking more easily. It's true that I've been staying up to finish the bookbinding stuff I wanted to put onto sunpig. What's different now is that when I go to bed, no matter how tired I am, I can't get to sleep. Even sleeping pills are having very little effect.
• exhaustion
  Insomnia and staying up late contribute to this, of course. But the tiredness is deeper-seated than that. I simply have no energy, and struggle to get through the tasks of the day.
• headaches
  The first week of light therapy is always accompanied by a dull headache. It's never blinding or throbbing, which is fortunate, because it's also resistant to painkillers.
• body temperature fluctuations
  I've only just realised that this is probably related to the light therapy. It strikes mostly at night, when I'm trying to sleep. I start overheating, which contributes to the insomnia.

So why do I keep up with the lights? Because all of these symptoms are much, much better than the mortal depression I suffer without light therapy. Most of the effects will go away or diminish after the first week. I may struggle to get through the transition, I may bitterly resent the restrictions my [Seasonal Affective Disorder|SAD] places on my life in winter, but the alternative is worse.

Don't believe me? Ask Martin.

In the days immediately after September 11, 2001, the US appealed to the world to side with it against terrorism, both on the basis that combating terrorism is the right thing to do, and because America had just suffered such a terrible attack. The world responded, at least for a time.

Now, let's be clear. Combating terrorism is the right thing to do, though very little of it can be done effectively with guns and bombs. Most of it requires diplomacy, tact, mediation, and a passion for justice. But I digress. I want to talk about the second reason the world responded to the US's appeal: suffering.

Many people all around the world had mixed feelings about the attacks on the World Trade Center. On the one hand, they were horrified and grieved. On the other, deep down, they were hopeful. I saw an interview with a Palestinian the other day, talking about those first weeks. "We thought Americans finally understood what we have been suffering," he said. "We thought that at last they would help us." An Israeli would have said the same thing, no doubt.

There was a time, fortunately a brief one, when the American government seemed to use its people's suffering as a justification for any action it chose to take. (Using the justification that the US has the military, political and economic might to enforce its will on the rest of the world, which is the current policy, is just as mistaken and much more dangerous. It is no wonder that most other countries are no longer "on side" with the US. But that too is a digression.) The fact that America has suffered is important, but not for that reason.

Flashback to the days before September 2001.

For decades, the United States had been fortunate enough to escape the fate of so many countries all over the world. American civilians (and military personnel, for the most part) were safe. As in any society, they feared crime, but they did not fear atrocity, unlike the people of Spain, India, Pakistan, the former Yugoslavia, Algeria, Indonesia, Sri Lanka, Israel, the Palestinian Occupied Territory, etc, etc. And in their safety, Americans became increasingly inward-looking, more and more self-centered, less and less concerned about the impact of their actions on the rest of the world. Extremism feeds on that kind of insularity, and uses the simplistic worldview it fosters to generate sympathy and funds.

Over the decades, individual Americans and the American government had supported various terrorist and pseudo-terrorist causes. The IRA, when it was bombing Britain's cities, killing its innocent civilians, and attempting to assassinate its leaders, received substantial funding from Americans via NORAID. The CIA's support of organisations and institutions now considered terrorist is also well documented. I cannot believe my people would have supported, or permitted, such things if the devastation they caused had been as real to them as the attack on the Twin Towers came to be.

Flash forward again to the present.

The anniversary last week allowed people to get back in touch with their grief - and their anger. Now, anger is like fire: it's a good tool, but a poor master. In the aftermath of any terrible event, it is anger that gets us back on our feet. But it also clouds our judgement, and makes us heedless of the consequences of our actions. In their fury, my fellow countrymen have been tempted to use their grief as a lever, or an excuse. "We've suffered," was the argument, "so we're entitled to do whatever we have to to feel safe again." Phrases like "acceptable losses" and "collateral damage" came up, people nodded wisely and looked stern. But two wrongs don't make a right, and making other people suffer will not make us feel better in the end. Pursuing a course of justice, where suspects are tried and the guilty are punished is part of the answer, but only part.

To really heal, we need our grief as well as our anger. Grief drives us to make something good come out of devastation. It unites us across ethnic, cultural, and national boundaries, and renews our empathy. Knowing what it is to suffer ourselves, we can imagine how other sufferers feel, and be touched by the desire to help them. And in helping others, we heal ourselves. More than that: we grow. We become stronger than we were before. We are more than whole, and live in a better world than we did before. This is the great gift of any suffering, the silver lining in the blackest cloud.

This is the challenge facing the United States, and indeed all of the West: to wake up to the shared suffering of the world, and build out of it a better place for our children. That would be a fitting memorial to honor those affected by September 11.

I am an American, and proud of that fact. My nation was founded on a set of philisophical principles which I share. They were revolutionary at the time. Actually, they're pretty controversial now, if you take them seriously.

I believe that all men - and women - are created equal.

Note that I didn't say all Americans there. People in the Third World, who don't speak English and aren't as wealthy as I am, are my equals. Their suffering matters, and their lives matter.

I believe that we are endowed by our Creator with certain unalienable rights, including the rights to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.

Again, that means all of us, including people who will use those rights in a way I don't approve of, and people who will voluntarily relinquish said rights. I will address the issue of liberty, and the missing link to responsibility, another time.

This does not mean that the United States has the right to, for instance, protect these rights for citizens of other countries. But it does mean that any American foreign policy that takes these rights away is a bad idea.

I believe that sovereignity derives from the consent of the governed, and that governments are accountable as a consequence.

This is the one I want to talk about right now, in the light of some reactions to my comments on September 11.

If sovereignity derives from the consent of the governed, then any ruler - monarch, parliament, dictator or president - who is not in power because the people want it that way is a tyrant. This applies whether they are in place because of a coup or are installed by a foreign power. And any society that advocates the displacement of a legitimate ruler, uses its funds to influence foreign elections or civil wars, or directs its efforts to the overthrow of another country's rulers is participating in tyranny. This is true no matter how much we dislike the ruler in question or his politics. (Note that assisting in making peace, arbitrating between disputants, and keeping the peace with the consent of the people affected are not tyranny.)

This also means that my government is my employee, answerable to me. I have the right to question and even criticise it if I think it is doing the wrong thing. Actually, I have a responsibility to do so. Historically, of course, this right and responsibility have been more honored in the breach than in the observance. Governments don't like criticism, and when the national mood is particularly fervent, neither do ordinary citizens. That does not dilute the responsibility.

On a more pragmatic note, criticising bad government policy is the only way to get good government policy. No one's ideas are universally correct; good ideas are developed by discussion and concensus, and bad ones killed by the same process. Writers know this - submitting your work to criticism is the only way to hone and improve it. Government is no different, and it is the duty of responsible citizens to participate in public debate to help improve policy. The most pernicious trend in US public life today is the stifling of this debate, the denial of this responsibilty, and the relentless kowtowing to the government.

But surely, comes the answer, in the national interest, we have to do things that are incompatible with our Constitution? They are unpleasant, but they are necessary.

I believe we cannot write straight with crooked lines. The ends do not justify the means.

Not even desperate times. This is when we need to cling to our principles more tightly than ever.

...and we have failed.

The world is not a safer place, as our politicians promised at the time. It's, if anything, a worse place for most people.

Before I go on, let me say something to those who will be offended and stop reading halfway. Just because someone is critical of, say, your nation, does not mean they're wrong, or biased. It could mean your nation is on the wrong track. Getting in a huff won't solve the problem.

Back to the facts.

Palestine, the goad that drives the Islamic world to terrorism, is in a worse state than ever. Israel, driven by the same fears that drive the US, has not taken the terrifying, courageous and necessary leap toward co-operation, and after some brief gestures in that direction, their strongest backers have not pressured them to do so. America, by the way, should take a good look at how dreadful everyday life is for Israeli civilians. This is where the US's current foreign policy is taking our nation.

The impetus toward war in Iraq continues. Americans seem to want it, and George Bush wants it (to finish what Daddy started, maybe?). Tony Blair, perhaps trying to be more "presidential", is trying to persuade a skeptical British public that such a war is a good idea. I don't think he'll succeed. Will he commit the UK anyway?

Climate change continues, unabated, because the worst polluter has yet another reason not to care. Yesterday it was floods in France and the drought in Africa continues unreported while the richest nation in the world drives its SUVs with the flag at half-mast.

And (lower on the list, since it kills no-one directly) my native land, blinded by fury, has lost hold of its guiding principles. Where is the liberty and justice for all? I await the trials of the people in Camp X-Ray, currently in a most unpleasant legal limbo. I await the restoration of genuine freedom of speech, where the right to say what you like even if it is unpopular is protected. I await the return of the mindset that made America a true beacon of liberty to the world, before she became obsessed, before she discovered that she could do so many things and forgot to ask if she should.

I am filled with sadness for the thousands who died a year ago. But I am also filled with sadness for the thousands who died offscreen, getting up not in comfortable, secure homes but in refugee camps and sun-scorched farms. These people mattered too, and were beloved of their families too. They were innocent, and they were heartbreakingly brave in the face of terrible adversity, but where are their parades and their memorials?

Lindsay (one of my colleagues) and I went off to do some cache maintenance at lunchtime. We wanted to find out who had logged The Other Leith Walk, put a travel bug in it then come back within our lunch hour. A chance to have a nice walk, a pleasant chat, nothing much.

On our way, we passed a little girl sitting on a bench with her mother kneeling in front of her. I only noticed them because the mother was being very affectionate, stroking the girl's hair. Their bikes were beside them.

So we get there, but there are pedestrians. We're standing by the tree, looking up at it & trying to figure out what species it is to kill the time, when a lady stops. "Excuse me," she says, "but is there something going on up in that tree?" She's peering into the branches. "Some kind of rare bird nest or something? I'm sure I saw people here yesterday too, and one of them had a camera. Or maybe it was further along."

Uh, oh, I thought. One set of cachers, who found it yesterday, had a camera. Were they indiscreet? Does she suspect?

We said that we were just trying to figure out what kind of tree it was, and that we didn't know anything about any rare birds round there. She seemed convinced that it was just coincidence, and went on. Then I inspected the cache, found out that Silver Fox and crustyloafer found it, and left the travel bug in. Reading the log, seeing how enthusiastic the other cachers (crustyloafer and his brother), I was encouraged. Maybe we'll get another active cacher in Edinburgh.

I'm not really that worried that the cache will be plundered. It is very well hidden, actually, despite how close it is to the path. Still, I think I shall do another visit fairly soon just to be sure.

Then we were walking back when we come across an elderly gentleman trying to hold two bikes (an adult's and a child's) upright while leaning on his cane, looking anxiously up and down the path. He was just past the spot where we'd seen the mother and daughter, and he stopped us and asked for help. Apparently, the daughter had fallen quite badly off her bike, and the mother had called an ambulance. He had been passing by, and had offered to take their bikes to his house for safekeeping, but his offer had been more chivalrous than practical. He would have struggled to get one home, let alone the two.

So we walked the bikes back to his house nearby, and carried them up the stairs and into the common hallway where they would be safe. We all nodded smugly at each other, conscious of how good of citizens we were, and Lindsay and I rushed off, coming toward being late back to our desks.

But there must have been something about us - some indefineable Batman-and-Robinishness. We were walking up the hill past Canonmills, debating where to get food, when a Spanish woman stopped us because she couldn't get her key to turn in her front lock. Neither could we, though we both tried (I think she was at the wrong house).

Good things come in threes, they say. We managed to avoid that. We were just about back to work when a confused-looking Japanese woman tried to cach our eyes. But then another woman passed her, and got ensnared instead. We passed them as the local was explaining that there wasn't a Texaco anywhere nearby, but that Tesco's was right over there...

After all that, we were only 5 minutes late back.

Originally entered as a daylog on E2 on July 18, 2002.

He left me today.

We were hanging out the laundry in the back garden. Or rather, I was hanging out the laundry while he explored the principles of clothespegs. At fifteen months, such things are very interesting.

Then, quite calmly, he closed the clothespeg bag, picked it up, and stood up. He slung his burden over one shoulder (it still nearly dragged on the ground), then turned and gave me a solemn wave. "Bye," he said, exhausting his vocabulary. He waved again and turned, still clutching the clothespeg bag. Then he walked to the back door.

Sadly, he was too short to reach the handle, so I never saw how far he was determined to go.

It was a cute game, however abortive. He's exploring the ideas of separation and departure in his own way. His ability to control his movements, to leave at will, gives him the power to flirt with these difficult, dangerous notions.

Watching him, I saw the shadows of future departures - off to school, leaving for college perhaps. Driving away with all his things in the trunk of his car. Walking up to the altar with his true love.

A cloud seemed to cross the sun as I thought of another departure, me from him or him from me, more final than any of those bright futures. That's the leave-taking he dreads, looking back so anxiously as he goes, just to be sure that I'm still there. He doesn't know about death, of course, but he fears loss nevertheless.

The sun came out again as he came toddling back. He threw his arms around me and gave me a soggy, open-mouthed kiss. The shadows of future departures, both good and bad, vanished in the delight of the present.

I love you, Bobo

Originally entered as a daylog on everything2 for July 8, 2002

Spent lunchtime today double checking the GPS co-ordinates for my second geocache. I am mildly hooked on caching (insofar as I can be in this city, avec toddler & sans car). Cachers tend to be drivers, and even those caches in a town are almost completely devoid of public transport information. So my caching activities are pretty much restricted to Edinburgh, which has three caches in town (by next week, there will be four). I�ve visited one, and will be looking for another on the 11th.

I constructed the third one myself over the last four months. I�m actually quite proud of it. It maps out a six-stage walk through Edinburgh�s Old Town in the footsteps of Burke and Hare. As the searchers go from place to place, they have to look for numbers carven on gravestones, into buildings, and on plaques. The numbers then assemble to make up the GPS co-ordinates for a final location where there�s a grim historical relic. The cache has an E2 connection as well. One fellow noder, nine9, helped me pick some of the locations, and two others (fuzzy_and_blue and Jongleur helped Mom test it. Only one other person has hunted it thus far (Silver Fox, Edinburgh�s only other geocacher), but I�m hoping people will come up for the Edinburgh Festival and spend an afternoon on it.

This second cache is less public � it�s on a footpath that is not at all obvious from the streets nearby. I think non-locals will have trouble finding their way onto the path. Martin and I didn�t realise it was there when we first moved to a flat three blocks from it. Once we found it, I used to walk home from work that way in the summers. It was a secret place, hidden from the main flow of Edinburgh traffic, and I was sorry to abandon it when we moved again. It�s also the gateway to other secret places, such as Warriston Cemetery, with its population of, erm, romantically inclined men.

While I was out scouting for the cache location, I saw my first warchalking mark. Martin told me where it was. I�d walked right by it on July 6, and would have done again if I didn�t know what it meant.

It all makes me wonder what other things are stashed along the path, in holes in the walls and under rocks. What else is hidden around Edinburgh? What of all the graffiti and scribbling on walls is more than it seems? It�s the fascination of spying, of tradecraft but there�s something deeper.

I partake, to some extent, of those family characteristics that get diagnosed as Asperger's syndrome when they occur in full measure. Some of that is an inability to read the signs, to find the secrets of other people. After all the trouble I have with social interactions, I�ve come to like secrets I can unravel. I wish I could find the GPS location of a hidden agenda, or a glossary of the markings that advertise the truth.

I'm aware that I don't blog enough. Martin's always got something new up, and my last log is from March. Sheesh.

The thing is, when it's winter, I'm struggling to cope with the ordinary demands of life. Commenting on the way things are going, or even standing back far enough to observe how they're doing, is low on the list. I'm just too tired.

Then summer comes, and I'm doing all the things I couldn't do during the dark time. And somehow, I get so absorbed in all the things that are going on that once again I can't step back and describe them. I seem to be too busy.

Now is a good example. My mother's over for a fortnight, getting her Alex time in. As with my Dad's visit in January, Martin and I aren't taking any time off. But we've taken Alex out of his nursery for the time she's over. So I'm being a working Mom, a daughter, and a hostess all at once.

Plus I'm binding her a blank book as a birthday present. We've already been to the tannery to pick out the leather for the covers, and I'm most of the way through the bind.

But even when we don't have visitors, we're pretty busy. Not that I'm complaining - I only "work" (for pay) 3 days a week. Martin works 4. We both get to spend a lot of time and energy on Alex. On the one hand, it can be hard work - he's well into toddlerhood, walking all over the place, demanding things to play with, and throwing the odd (brief, mercifully) tantrum when he is denied. On the other hand, time with Alex is tremendously rewarding, whether he's sitting at his little table typing on a spare keyboard (just like Mom!), or sorting pebbles in the front garden. And he socialises well, riding in the backpack as I go around town or do lunch with family and friends. He's even helped me with a geocache I'll be posting soon. There's a lot of hard work in there, but when he turns to me and gives me a huge kiss, I can't seem to mind.

The days I spend at work are rewarding as well. I'm in a department I like, working with people I enjoy dealing with, on a steep learning curve. I can even wear black - unlike my previous department, where I felt too gothic, I'm rarely the only one all in black now. There are stressful times, but all in all, I find the work days flying by.

My current hobby - bookbinding - takes up a good deal of time as well. I'm entirely self-taught so far, and after six months I'm finally producing things that I'm willing to give away without apology. They're still not perfect, but I no longer feel my recipients are being charitable by taking the books I bind. I bind for the pleasure of making things, of creating something beautiful. Being able to give them away is a bonus, and keeps me from drowning in blank and rebound books.

And somewhere in there, in hugs at the sink and long chats after the lights are out at night, I still have time to be amazed at the man I married. We spend a lot more time as comrades in nappies rather than smitten lovers now, but watching the way he delights in Alex is just another way of falling in love with him.

So this is a busy time, but every aspect of it holds some reward. And I have to get my joy in quick, like a grasshopper, before the winter pares me back to the bare minimum.

It's the beginning of March, and life looks so different than it did in December.

Not the politics. Don't even get me started on politics. No, it's the rest of life that has changed.

First of all, it's getting lighter. The weather may still be wintry, but the days are longer. The difference in my energy levels is dramatic; it's like the difference in a coffee addict between waking and finishing the first cup. My brain no longer feels wrapped in cotton wool, and I can think again. The payoff is all around me, in my relationships with Martin and Alex, in the way I run the house, in my work.

Work. There's another area of change. I've been back at work since the new year, but I haven't truly settled in. I'm doing a three-month stint in my old department. After Easter, I'll be changing divisions within the Bank, moving to a team I worked with during Y2K. It promises to be a challenging time, with a steep learning curve. I should be intimidated, but every time I think about the work, and the people, I smile. I feel like a runner at the starting gate.

Going back to work has changed the shape of my life enormously. I'm only working three days a week, Monday - Wednesday. But those days are really tightly scheduled. My focus has to be on getting everything done that needs doing, getting enough light to stay sane, then going to bed early enough to get the sleep I need. It's like being a hamster on a wheel. How do full-time working mothers do it?

Still, the working time has its rewards. Martin has Wednesdays off, so Alex is in day care for the first two days each week. He is has settled in well, but he does miss us while we're away. So every day he's at nursery, I pick him up (Martin does the dropoffs, I do the pickups) and take him home, and all he wants to do for the first half hour is cuddle me, flirt with me, and play with my earrings. It's an enormously rewarding time, like having a whole day's attention in a short spell.

One of the real pleasures of the last two months has been the learning curve with my bookbinding. Martin got me a couple of books on the topic for Christmas (at my request), and since then, I've been binding non-stop. (See the sidebar entry for a list of what I've done) In addition to the books themselves, I've made a lot of the hardware I need, including two different types of book press.

I can hardly wait to see what spring will bring.

Sheesh. It's been over a month since I've written anything. A busy month.

We've been to the Marott AGM in the north of England, just of Hadrian's wall, and we've been back to California for a fortnight. Then we had the delights of dealing with an 8-month old with jet lag (a highly recommended experience for all masochists). Now we're going on the separation anxiety rollercoaster, introducing Alex to the nursery where he'll be spending 2 days a week.

The trip to the US was the strangest, and the most stressful, of all these things. Living abroad has really changed my perspective on my native country and its role in the world. I am becoming an expatriate not simply by location but by conviction as well.

This is not a result of September 11, although those events highlighted, and are a result of, the things that make me feel so much less at home in the States. America is a nation founded by idealists, on ideals such as individual liberty, justice, and freedom. Sadly, though, the dominant culture seems to think that simply believing in these things is enough; they are not a basis for action. Certainly, they are not principles informing American foreign policy, and have not been for some time. To most of the world, America is the emblem of selfishness, might makes right politics, and economic exploitation.

I have brought these topics up to Americans, and seen others bring them up. The usual response is to deny that America should be answerable to the rest of the world...Son of Star Wars and the abandonment of Kyoto, for instance, are just the US looking out for its own interests. The basis of that argument is that the US is too powerful, and too self-sufficient, to have to take the consequences of its actions, which would be irresponsible even if it were true.

What worries me most is that most Americans don't really want to know why anyone would think the US was not the best country on the planet. They don't want to hear that America is feared and hated, or that it is looked upon as arrogant and self-centered. Why would anyone hate us?, they ask, wanting only insanity as the answer. They never ask why the terrorists chose the World Trade Center, not the Statue of Liberty. They still see America as a beacon of hope and liberty to the world.

And America could be a beacon of hope and liberty. But it would require hard work and sacrifice for the principles that the nation was founded on. It would mean valuing the thousands who will starve in Afghanistan because food aid didn't get in while the bombing went on as highly as the thousands who died in the World Trade Center. It would mean that we couldn't all have a car, because our grandchildren will want a climate they can live in. It would mean the US Army couldn't block landmine treaties because they want to use landmines, and that US chemical weapons facilities would be as open to inspection as Iraq's. It would mean enforcing justice in areas where it has historically taken sides (the Middle East), and acknowledging its own past of supporting terror (the refusal of San Francisco courts to extradite convicted IRA terrorists comes to mind).

Of course, in the land of free speech, saying things like this will get you lynched, conversationally at least. That's the worst of it...the US is straying from its principles in order to defend them. Fair trials? How will any member of Al Quaeda fare? Any other trial where elected officials had publicly proclaimed a defendant's guilt and the press had systematically biassed all potential jurors would get a change of venue. Bin Laden won't even get to hear the evidence against him, since its revelation would compromise classified material and agents.

But if the US would wake up and listen to its allies, act in accordance with its principles, and become the good global neighbor it thinks it already is, what could it not achieve? America could build a world where no one was so robbed of opportunity that he wants to blow himself up for a cause, where terrorists have no network of supporters and are reduced to carrying sandwich boards to spread their views, where peace was the norm. That would be a place worth living with, and in.

I'm not holding my breath. Maybe, in time, the US will sink back into apathy. Until then, I don't think I'll move back. It's a nice place to visit, but I wouldn't want to live there.

• On Saturday, we arrived at Stanstead and made our way to London. To my astonishment and amusement, the hotel we're staying in (Jury's in Kensington) is right opposite the hotel where I once had a course (the Regency in Kensington). To B's astonishment and amusement, the elevator has mirrors on all sides, producing an infinity of B's to flirt with.
  Jules arrived just as we were settled into the hotel room. After some dithering, we all went out to the Science Museum, just up the road from our hotel. It was disappointing in places - it could have done with more interacitvity. But B loved the working steam engine, big as the ground floor of our house, red, hissing and clacking!
  
• On Sunday, B and I met up with James (M was at the first day of his conference). At my suggestion, we went to the Victoria and Albert Museum, "the attic of the Empire" (James' term). Amazing place. They have full-sized plaster casts of the fronts of cathedrals. There's a plaster cast of Hadrian's Column, in two pieces (upper and lower). The plaster casts take up only two rooms; the rest of the museum is full of equally grand, disassociated things.
  I was worried about how James would react to B. He's not automatically charmed by babies and children, from what I hear. But B took one look at him and gave him a huge grin, after which James was his devoted slave.
  M joined us for dinner, as did Guy (after some dithering). We had a wonderful time in the pizza restaurant, talking about the good old days (and telling Guy all the embarassing stories on James) for ages.
  
• Yesterday, Monday, B and I went to Highgate to meet up with Gritchka, a friend from my online community Everything2. The three of us had a great time: we wandered around Highgate cemetery, where Gritch pointed out the graves of obscure but interesting people. Then we went on to Hampstead Heath, peering at an 18th century house on the way. The weather was bright and crisp, the scenery good, and the company excellent.
  We had planned to go visit Jules in the evening, down where he lives in Guildford. But it became clear that B was overstimulated, after 3 days of constant interaction with half of London. So we stayed at home and let him roll around on the hotel room rug.
  
• Today, B and I took advantage of the fine Tuesday weather to go to Hyde Park. I had noticed that there was a horseriding trail marked on the map, and I thought the bunny might like to see some horses. We were most of the way there when M called; he was on an extended lunch break, and could he meet us? We got sandwiches and went to the park.
  B saw a whole menagerie's worth of animals today:
  
  1. Ducks, gannets, seagulls and pigeons, when I distributed the bread from my sandwich by the Serpentine
  2. A parrot, two rabbits, and three rats in the pets department at Harrod's
  3. A horse, from a distance
  4. Numerous dogs
  Of all of them, the horse made the least impact.

The days have been great. Good weather, Bunny a comforting weight in the backpack, a virtuous soreness in my legs and feet form all the exercise. The nights, on the other hand, have been difficult. He isn't sleeping well. I don't know if its the hotel cot (rickety; if he could stand in it it would be unsafe), the room (occasionally too hot), or the overstimulation, but he wakes up crying loudly in the middle of the night. Repeatedly. Last night wasn't too bad; the deliberate choice to spend an evening in seems to have had a good effect.

It worries me, because the trip to California is going to be a series of day-long meetings of the Alexander Beowulf Fan Club, what with all the residents of the Piedmont house. He may very well wig out under the excitement; we shall have to allow decompression times to compensate.

Night out last night, without B for once. We took Scott and Angela up on their standing offer to babysit and went out to AI. Having a night out was pleasant, but the movie itself was disappointing. I suppose it was inevitable. A life-like, live action science fiction film where characters go searching for Pinoccio's Blue Fairy so she can turn an android into a real boy cannot end with success. As the characters chased the dream further and further, the plot felt like it was too far out in front of itself. There was no possibility of a satisfactory resolution.

Since it was a Spielberg movie, though, AI made up for what it lacked in plot with emotional drama. We were pulled through visions of uncondional love between parent and child, loss, and abandonment. Emotionally, it was powerful. Intellectually, sadly, it was not. Of course, it didn't help that my mood was already somewhat precarious before we went into the cinema. Martin has a colleague who was 20 weeks pregnant; she just lost the baby. He told me in the takeout Mexican restaurant before the film.

I remember being 20 weeks pregnant. We were in California, and B was already kicking. The 12-week danger zone was past, and I felt much safer. The anticipation was wonderful - I was looking forward to days like today so much. To lose that would have been devastating. Harder even that the miscarriage at 8 weeks last January, and that one nearly broke my heart.

We got home to find B awake but exhausted. He had behaved beautifully for Scott and Ange, but that didn't extend to actually going to sleep. He went into hysterics within minutes of us coming home, hysterics so strong that he wouldn't nurse at first. He sounded overtired and overstimulated. And between his stress-out and ours, we decided that this was a night to share the bed with B.

It was a sweet idea, and it started well. I fed him lying down, and he dropped into a deep and reassured sleep. We positioned ourselves carefully, so our pillows were nowhere near his head and the duvet was safely low, then prepared for a shallow but satisfying night of family sleep.

Alas, it was not to be. M had a nightmare and woke up screaming. B slept on, but I was awake. And then the niggling back muscle that had been paining me all day exploded into agony. I couldn't move without gasping and whining, couldn't turn, and certainly wasn't getting any more sleep straight away.

M was a star, rubbing my back, helping me move to the guest room, then rubbing again so that I could sleep. He put B back in his own crib. Family sleep had lasted about one hour; then we were spread across three beds. I was somewhat better in the morning, but still had to be careful about picking B up (he is over 17 pounds now, after all). M came home early to help, proving once again what a wonderful guy he is.

Developmentally, B continues to charge ahead. He crossed from the living room to the kitchen on Monday, overcoming a psychological barrier that had baulked him for a week or two. I don't know why it mattered so much to him; perhaps he had not realised the two spaces were truly connected?

He is still not crawling; his tummy stays on the ground as he moves. He uses a swimming motion, like a man breasting his way through molasses, and gets the most amazing amounts of lint on himself in the process. I vacuum and dust mop almost constantly, but he keeps finding more dust to pick up.

He has also discovered peekaboo. I started doing a large "bye bye" production when I left the room about a week ago, in response to his increased fretfulness upon finding himself alone. And the corollary to "bye bye" when you leave is, of course, "hello" when you return. Peekaboo is just a tiny step beyond that. He loves it, even though I am not sure he has really grasped the idea that I still exist when I'm out of sight. Maybe he percieves it as a game of destruction and creation, not hiding and return?

The odd thing about it is, he seems to like controlling the game as well. Twice today, he was the one moving in and out of sight, once with the hem of my skirt and once with the kitchen doorway. Maybe it was unintentional...but if so, the fun he had doing it will probably get him to try it again.

Daylog on Everything2:

My great-uncle /msged me last night...part of the exercise of contacting all the family (an exercise I know well from my days of living in an earthquake zone). Possibly in reference to my daylog yesterday, he said:

I can't.

Everyone in the situation, the airline passengers, the people in the buildings and on the ground, even the terrorists, was some mother's baby. So are the civillians the warmongers are advocating bombing. Everyone was once as innocent, and as trusting, as the five month old curently creeping across my living room floor. Somewhere deep inside them all, before they died, that core of gentleness remained.

Loving one baby, I cannot help loving them all. Take care, beloved sons and daughters of your mothers.

And a thought strikes me. How much is all of this going to cost, in monetary terms? Billions?

I wish the US had spent those billions before this happened, bringing economic prosperity and justice to more of the world. Writing off third world debt. Feeding the hungry, helping the poor. Thinking beyond its own borders. Being good global citizens.

Would this terrible loss of life have happened then? Maybe, but maybe not. And even if it did, we'd have a much better moral position, even with people who don't like the US.

Can we start paying the next large sum now, spending the money to create a world with greater justice and honor? Please?

Death and more death. Destruction. Despair.

When I woke up this morning, I thought, "My mom and dad have been married for 35 years as of today. Today my son is 5 months old." I looked forward to lunch with my husband, and to maybe hearing from my great-uncle, newly on my web community, E2.

Now it's all shattered. Looking down at my sleeping baby boy now, I wonder what sort of a world he will inherit, because of today. It makes me want to slap the hawks who are howling for blood on every channel. Revenge won't bring back the dead, just deepen the hatred that the assailants already clearly feel. Then they'll strike back, then we will...I don't want to live like that. I dont want him to live like that.

I bury my nose in his soft, fragrant skin, and wish for this morning again.

The above was my daylog on Everything2. The only other thing I would say is that we, as Americans, must insist that our officials pursue a course of justice, not revenge. The relatives of the people killed will be howling for everyone who might possibly be involved to be bombed to slag, in chorus with a fair slice of the American political spectrum.

This is a bad idea because:

• Revenge breeds revenge. The allies and relatives of the people we unjustly avenge ourselves on will be out for our blood. I've seen enough of that in the news on the Middle East and Northern Ireland.
• Most US politicians, and many US voters, identify themselves as Christians. Now is the time to put your beliefs in action, guys. Vote to turn the other cheek. Yes, it's hard. If it were easy, it wouldn't be a test of our committment, would it?
• Now is our chance to set an example of civilisation for the world to follow. If the US is to have any credibility but that of the neighborhood bully, we must act responsibly, even in the face of violent provocation.

I don't hold out much hope that we will pursue such a mature, responsible course.

I got this email from the US Consulate General in Edinburgh:

I do not consider myself at much risk.

Breastfeeding thoughts at 6:30am: musing on my mother's visit...

She's a really good houseguest. Eats what's served, even if it's a "funny food" (we served something which contained eggplant, and she ate it without a murmur). Doesn't clutter up the common space more than she can avoid it (apart from the banana peel on the sofa - but she quit that when I asked). Helps with whatever needs another pair of hands, from changing the baby to vacuuming the house. Flows with it, enjoys what's going on. She even came with a present: the most beautiful portrait of me. (click on the picture to see a bigger version)

We talked about being "junior Mom", a role we have both held as teenaged elder sisters, vs being "senior Mom". In a curious role reversal, she was being junior Mom to my senior Mom. This is the true Way of the Grandparent, though few practice it.

What does being junior Mom mean? It means pitching in without trying to run the show. Making the no-brainer decisions that keep the scene running (the baby needs changing, let me just get these dishes out of the way, how about the blue overalls?), but keeping out of the controlling ones (when shall we feed him? is this trip going to interrupt his nap?). You have to do this even when you think the senior Mom is getting it wrong. As Mom pointed out, this is a lot easier if the junior Mom thinks the senior Mom is doing a good job.

I am fortunate in all of my son's grandparents, who are good at the role of junior Mom. I hope they think he is fortunate in having me as the senior Mom.

Written as a daylog in Everything2, my on-line community:

Sigh

Feeling pretty flat right now. My mother, who has been over for a fortnight, has just left. M, B and I drove her to the airport this morning. M dropped us off - he had to get to work - but B and I lingered with her until the very last minute.

It was a great visit. Our relationship has changed since I got pregnant. At last, after 31 years, I am a real adult in her eyes. She didn't mean to treat me as less than an equal before B came along; she didn't even realise that a closer relationship was possible. Since her own mother died shortly after my elder brother's birth, she had never seen how it could be.

Of course, it was also hard having someone around for two weeks while we do the baby work. She helped out, but as a guest, she had a certain claim on our time and energy. We even took her - and B - on a day trip to Amsterdam (EasyJet flies there cheaply and often). All I want to do now is stay at home and pull the drawbridge up.

Still, it was hard to see her go. We bummed around the airport for the maximum possible time, sitting in the cafe, buying presents for the family back in California, chatting to the shop assistants about B, and finally sitting down on a bench by departures and talking quietly. Then waving her off at the "Passengers Only" sign and the long bus ride back home.

A further disappointment awaited me, like a sting in the tail. I've been in touch with H, a woman living nearby, first to reassure her about getting a C-section, then trying to support her in breastfeeding. Scottish culture is profoundly ambivalent about breastfeeding babies - the health service promotes it, but very few new mothers make it work. H is a case in point - she was determined to breastfeed her baby. Then, deep in the baby blues, she started doubting that the baby was getting enough milk. So when I called her today to ask how things were going, she admitted she'd changed to formula feeding. I was nice - she's made her decision, and there's no point kicking her about it.

Even as a Californian, from a culture where breastfeeding is ingrained, I was vaguely worried in the first weeks. Bottle-feeding mothers can see how much their babies are eating. And since a newborn's stomach is the size of a walnut, there's very little perceptible difference between the breast before and after feeding. The contrast between even a full breast and an empty one pales in comparison to the huge engorgement that happens when the milk comes in. I got through that time on faith in the natural system, based on having seen it work. H had no such basis for confidence. She didn't want to starve her baby out of a stubborn desire to breastfeed.

Now I'm sitting here, B fussing on my lap (he has mild colic), my mother's forgotten hat visible on the coat rack by the door.

Sigh

For the last day of the visit, we went to Craigmillar Castle, one of Edinburgh's undiscovered treasures. And a good site for portraiture. (click on the picture to see a bigger version)

Click on the pictures below for larger versions.

One dad, one son, one airport - arriving in Holland.

Mom, Martin and B crossing a canal.

Look! a tourist!
Quick, take a photo.

Mom, Abi and B at the end of a long and Dutch day.

Thank you, Mick and Sarah, for the loan of the baby pack. I can't picture doing this any other way...

New parenting...hmmm. Half the days I'm on top of the world. The other half, I feel like I've been run over by a steamroller.

Yesterday was a top of the world day. M kicked me out of the house in the afternoon. With 120 ml (1 1/2 feedings worth) of expressed milk in the fridge, we felt it was time to try B on the bottle. The standard condition for introducing a bottle is that "breastfeeding is well established", to avoid nipple confusion. With B, breastfeeding has been established since Day 1.

So I went out shopping. We're going to a wedding in 3 weeks or so, and I haven't a thing to wear at this size (I've lost about 15 pounds since the birth, but there's at least twice that to go). I didn't want to spend too much, since I do not intend the clothing to fit for long. The additional complication, of course, is that whatever I wear has to be suitable for breastfeeding. So it either needs to be a 2-piece garment so the shirt can be raised, or it must button up the front.

Didn't find anything. Some of it is that I don't like my current size, so everything I tried on looked awful. But I went to the tanning salon, which gave me the sort of lift that only bright light can.

Came home to find B doing just fine. I knew M would have called if the Source of All Milk was needed at home, but it was good to see the baby sleepy and well-fed. When he woke up and nursed without any objection, I was even more delighted. Now if I can persuade M to do the late night feeding, I can sleep through the night sometime! Wow.

Today was a steamroller day. Not enough sleep last night, plus the exertions of shopping to recover from. When B didn't settle again after food at 6am, I apparently got really grumpy (I have no memory of this - I was talking in my sleep). M took him into the guest room to fuss, and I got a few more hours' rest.

Still felt shattered today. But the weather was so nice that we went out for a walk. There were errands to run - posting the Child Benefit claim form, registering B with the local doctor's surgery, getting some food. In addition, we went by the two nurseries nearest the house, to scout them out for when I go back to work.

The first one, Mother Goose, is in a fairly small house right next to the surgery. There are 3 rooms, one for babies, one for toddlers, and one for pre-school age kids, plus a back garden for good days. We were by right at midday, when the half day kids are coming and going, so there was lots of tiny traffic (plus parents). The place felt...happy. All of the kids were bright and active, the carers were friendly and cheerful...we just liked it. In some ways, it reminded me of Louise's, the place we used to take my younger brother and sister, though (unlike Louise), all the carers were sighted.

The other one, The Little Drummer, was larger but more...austere. I didn't feel comfortable talking to the staff (though they were as attentive to B as I could wish). The kids were more solemn. The vibe wasn't bad - it just wasn't as warm and delightful as Mother Goose. I think our choice is made.

Then an added bonus - at the supermarket, we ran into a woman I wanted to look up. She came to the breastfeeding workshop in my antenatal class, and lives around the corner from us. Her son is 4 months old. Useful to know another new parent nearby (but amazing how much babies grow in 4 months!).

Tomorrow...who knows?

9:30 am, Wednesday April 18, 2001

What a week. I'm just waiting for 10:11 today to give B a happy one week birthday kiss. He's sitting on my lap right now, replete with milk and kicking idly about. He has is own distinctive personal smell, like nuts and roasted grain, which drifts up at me from time to time.

A week ago now, I was being prepped for surgery. I was very nervous - they were going to cut into me! - but the anaesthetists, theatre assistants, and midwife in the pre-surgery preparation were so matter of fact, so humourous, and so calm that by the time I was numb enough to be taken in to theatre I was no longer frightened at all. This despite the fact that I needed 2 doses of spinal anaesthetic to go numb, had a dramatic drop in blood pressure, and could still wiggle my toes when it was time for the C-section. (The anaesthetist, an Glaswegian Indian named Bob, was agog at this last. The spinal was supposed to give me complete numbness and immobility from mid-chest downward. He sat around theorising about physiological differences and wishing he had an excuse to do an MRI scan.)

The birth...how can one describe the birth? So strange to see the source of all those prenatal kicks, to meet the heart of all our hopes and the goal of all our efforts for nearly two years. It was too much to assimilate. I went into the emotional version of shock, I think, and am only now coming out of it.

I am astonished to discover how quickly one recovers from abdominal surgery. By Thursday, I was on my feet and able to go for a shower. By Saturday, I was ready to leave the hospital. My stitches got taken out Monday. I am still weak, and in occasional pain, but over the counter painkillers are adequate to control it.

B is being breastfed, which is apparently a slightly wild and crazy idea here. Only half of Scottish mothers choose to breastfeed at the start, and many give up on it within the first few weeks. This is alien to me, coming from the Californian culture, where bottle feeding is rare. The NHS is desperate to improve breastfeeding rates, for all kinds of health reasons. I'm fully in favour of this, but I found the midwives a bit...overbearing on the issue. B turns out to be a strong feeder, with really good instincts. No tuition was required. Still, the midwives all insist on giving me the same lecture on how to get him to "latch on", even seizing breast and baby to show me the "orthodox" position if I am foolish enough to nurse in front of them. I just ignore them - we're doing fine, and it's good practice for them, so that they have their lines down pat for mothers that need help.

It is impossible to describe the impact B has had on our lives. It's not just the late nights (for Martin) and early mornings (for me), nor the actual work involved in keeping him going (soothing, diaper changes, endless laundry, and - for me - a round the clock feeding schedule). There's the same vertigo, the same exhaustion, the same lack of confidence that we'll cope that accompanies every dramatic stage in personal growth.

And B? Well, he is the ultimately selfish creature - he literally has no idea of the existence of other people. On the other hand, he isn't that clear on his own existence either. He's got the hang of "I need", but is very far from any concept of "I want." When he gets difficult (crying in the middle of the night, for instance), it's hard not to think it's deliberate. But ascribing volition to a kid that small is a serious mistake, one we have avoided making. Irrationally enough, however, we tend to give him credit for his seriously cute and charming moments.

And the name? Alexander, from his great-grandfather in the paternal line. Still not sure which variation of the name we'll use - Alex, Alec, Xander, Sandy, Lex, Leck...His aunt and uncle Sutherland have tended to use Alex. Beowulf from the great epic poem, which we have read in the Heaney translation. Based on this, my mother refers to him as the Monster Slayer.

We still call him B.

The baby's birtday will be April 11, 2001. How strange to know it already.

We just went into the doctor's surgery to speak to the consultant. The scan last week showed that the baby is oblique breech, meaning it's diagonal in the uterus, with its bottom and feet down. (This is not normal - babies at this stage should be head down). The appointment was to discuss what we should do about it.

The consultant poked around my enormous belly and stated that it was now breech, meaning that its bottom had settled into position to come out first. This change is a good thing, since if it were still transverse, they would want me to come into the hospital and wait for it to be born. With a due date 2 weeks away, that just sounds horrible.

As things stand, there are a number of options.

1. Try to turn the baby by external manipulation. This has about a 60% chance of success, but there's also the chance of foetal distress and an emergency ¹ Caesarian section right then. Although the doctor didn't discuss pain, I have looked into it, and the procedure is uncomfortable at the very least. If the baby went head down, and stayed that way (some do shift back), we could have a normal birth.
   Further web research by M has just revealed that in cases of Rh incompatibility, exernal manipulation is not recommended. There's too much chance of foetal bleeding, which is A VERY BAD THING INDEED.
2. Since the doctor thinks it's breech (I'm not sure, based on where the kicking comes from), just wait on things and try a standard delivery. Now, I know from talking it over with mothers of breech babies that this is not fun, not even by the standards of childbirth in general.
3. Book us in for an elective ² section.

Option 1 really didn't grab me. If it were that or go through a breech birth, then I would have jumped at it. But it failed the Guilt Test...if something went wrong, and we found ourself rushing for an emergency section, and (God forbid) the baby was in distress, I would blame myself terribly.

Option 2 was right out.

So we're scheduled for a C-section on Wednesday, April 11, 2001. The first choice date, medically speaking (Friday April 13) was ruled out because it's Good Friday, a bank holiday, and the hospital will be (relatively) lightly staffed (can't say I mind skipping surgery on Friday the 13th). The second choice, Thursday April 12, was booked solid already.

So in a week, I have a baby. Wish me luck.