October 2003

October 30th, 2003. Celebratory

The other sysadmin at the office persuaded something to work properly, and high-fived me with happiness. I'm trying to persuade myself now that we were doing ironic high-fiving.

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October 29th, 2003. "Morning!"...

...he said to me, as I walked to work today.

It's nice when people stop and say hello in the street. At least, it's nice when people I know do it. I have no idea who this man was, though. I didn't even see what he looked like properly, and didn't have time to respond with more than a smile. All I saw was brown curly hair and a matching-colour coat.

He's going to bug me all day now: I'll be thinking: "where does he know me from? Should I have recognised him? Who the hell was he? Someone from university? A friend of a friend from some long-ago party? Am I supposed to know his name?"

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October 26th, 2003. God is a film critic

This has already been around a few days and you've all probably heard about it already, but I'm slow. The actor playing Jesus in Mel Gibson's forthcoming, allegedly anti-semitic biopic has been hit by lightening. Twice. Some people, I'm sure, would be tempted to interpret this as a Sign from the big beardy man in the sky. If it is, it proves two things. Not only is God a part-time film critic, but He definitely likes to go for the oldest clichés.

Somehow, though, I doubt that Mel will see it as a sign from God. He is, after all, very religious, belonging to a fringe More-Catholic-Than-The-Pope sect who believe that mainstream Catholicism has been going astray for the past 40 years. He takes after his father, who believes that every Pope since the 1960s has been illegitimate.

I can't see into his mind, but he definitely seems to believe that he's Doing The Right Thing, spreading God's word and bringing people into the fold by making this film. Someone who believes that God is behind them will never imagine that He also might be hurling bolts at the actors. I've written before about the paranoia of religious people, and I know what I think Gibson - or anyone else who thinks that making this film is God's work - might be thinking. He'll be thinking that this is proof that he's right, because, obviously, this is the Devil doing his best to stop him.

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October 22nd, 2003. Nastification (part one)

The best pub in the city closed last weekend. Well, closed in its current incarnation. It will be reopening, after a while, but everybody expects its heart to have been ripped out.

I've never had a proper 'local pub' - the one you always go to, the one where everybody always knows you, the one where you have a 'usual' drink. I'm not entirely convinced anyone under the age of fifty does any more, but nevertheless I've always wanted to have one, and ideally it would be a pub like the Holyrood Tavern. It looked like a pub - gloomy, dark wood, ragged sofas. Shelves of mysterious books round the walls of the back room - if you looked closer, they were mostly old university textbooks and 1980s computer manuals. It was warm and friendly and welcoming and all those things you want a pub to be.

Now, though, it's closed. My part of town is being gentrified, filled up with politicians and journalists, so leases for places like the Holyrood have been pushed up and up. Politicians and journalists, the received wisdom goes, don't like traditional pubs, student pubs or alternative pubs. They all want nice, shiny, All Bar One style bars with lots of Ikea pine and polished chrome, full of nice shiny people just like themselves. Whether this is true or not I don't know; I hope it isn't. Whether this is true or not doesn't matter, because everyone willing to invest in pubs or bars in Edinburgh seems to think it is.

(this entry has been in draft for a few days, so I thought I'd post what I've got so far. I have more to say about this, but I have to work out how to phrase it)

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October 21st, 2003. For personal use only

There are all sorts of things I want to say right now, but I don't have the words to say them. In any case, I don't think this is the place to say them, either.

There are all sorts of things I want to say to *you*, too.

Update, a few hours later: The weather is gloomy too today. Grey skies and rain cover the city; when the clouds lift enough for us to see the Pentlands, they are sprinkled with the winter's first snow. It's not a perfect match for my feelings yet, though.

10:25

October 18th, 2003. Telling The Truth

(or, a boring entry about religion and politics. I was a devout Anglican when I was a child, but I'm not any more.)

There's been a lot in the news, recently, about the Anglican Church and its internal divisions, which have come out in the form of a "debate" on homosexuality and the church. The Archbishop of Nigeria thinks that gay male sex is inconceivable; the Archbishop of Cape Town doesn't seem to be too worried about it, and views in the English and American churches are spread throughout the spectrum. The news has been full of opinions on different sides, and various predictions of the death of Anglicanism, or at least a schism of some kind.

Most of the priests quoted or interviewed, especially the conservative ones, seem desperate to avoid schism. If they refuse to recognise other parts of the church, they say, it's not their fault. They were forced into it by the other side's behaviour. It's vital, they say, that they try to remain part of a single church.

Why is it so vital, though? What single church? Anglicans might still recite the Nicene Creed - "we belong to one catholic and apostolic church" - in services, but they certainly don't see themselves as Catholic, and at other times don't try to pretend that there aren't several Churches with differing dogma. In the 'religion' section of the Museum of Scotland, there's a complicated diagram showing the history of the various presbyterian churches that have split from the Church of Scotland over the past three hundred years; a maze of schisms and re-joinings that have left us today with two very different Scottish churches. Schism seems to be a natural process in all religions, not just Christianity; and although unification happens to, it's clearly not as common. Why is it so vital to Anglicans that schism doesn't happen?

There's something else, though, that the Anglican evangelicals deny. They say there have never been any gay bishops before, that the liberal wing is taking unprecedented steps about this, and so on. Well, there's one thing that I'm positive must be true. The Church has always had gay priests, and it's always had gay bishops. In the past, though - and clearly still now, if they want a quiet life - they have lied, hidden their natures, pretended to be different. Why is it worse for someone to be open and truthful?

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October 16th, 2003. Wildlife

I've lived in my current not-at-the-top-of-the-stairs-any-more flat for four years now, and for most of that time I didn't see much wildlife around the neighbourhood. The only animals about were the local dogs and cats, a few wild birds, and the ubiquitous city squirrels. Just in the past few months, though, I've noticed the foxes moving in.

Maybe they haven't just moved in at all; maybe they were there all along. I have to admit, it's only in recent months that I've started spotting foxes elsewhere in the city too: prowling around the Meadows at night, or dashing off into the undergrowth as I blunder past. Since August, though, I've regularly seen a fox on my estate when I return home late at night; and I seem to be spotting it more frequently over time, too. Now it feels like I see a fox whenever I walk through my neighbourhood at night, and last night I saw two, together, on the rough slope along the side of Viewcraig Gardens. I stopped and looked at them both for a few moments, and they stopped and stared back at me.

Maybe I'm becoming more observant. The other morning, walking to work, I realised a dry leaf blowing across the George Square cobbles wasn't a leaf at all but a mouse running frantically for safety. I watched it scamper up the steps of the University Library, before disappearing into a hole in the paving slabs which make up the roof of the library café. All this wildlife suddenly around me makes a pleasant change from dogs, cats and squirrels.

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October 14th, 2003. Openness

Having said "I'm not going to write about work any more," I suddenly want to write a big, long rant about work. The reason I'm not going to, though, is that last week we were all given big, heavy NDAs to sign, threatening dire penalties if we do so much as [deleted for legal reasons - I shouldn't even explain that the NDA covers the contents of the NDA itself]. Maybe some time I'll just write a big anonymous rant about management culture, post it up somewhere and link to it.

My parents phoned at the weekend. My parents phone me every weekend, my mum telling me who she bumped into in the street, and my dad telling me what she cooked him for his tea. This week, my mother was mostly concerned with the impossibility of ordering a cup of lemon tea in Wem, Shropshire. Or, indeed, the impossibility of finding a café with staff who understood the concept of lemon tea in Wem, Shropshire. "I said: 'Have you got any lemons? Just put a slice of lemon in it.' 'In the pot?' he said."

She always asks me what I've been doing lately, and my answer is always the same: "um, not much really, just been to work." A while ago this would have been the truth, but now it isn't any more. I want to tell her more about what's happened: "we went to a party but the host kept getting my name wrong," or "we walked round Holyrood Park but I couldn't keep up." That's what I want to tell her, but it would lead to all sorts of questions that I don't want to have to answer. Because I don't want her to have to face up to the answers.

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October 11th, 2003. Press review

Reading The Guardian yesterday lunch time, I spotted this interview with Stuart Murdoch of Belle and Sebastian, about the music he likes and the music that's influenced him. Although they weren't mentioned in the final article, I spotted a subtle plug for his girlfriend's band, Camera Obscura. The portrait of Stuart shows him sat up in bed, with Camera Obscura's latest album propped up on the pillow next to him. The picture on the website version of the article is cropped slightly, but you can still recognise the record sleeve.

(I might get around to writing a review of the new Belle and Sebastian album eventually, having rushed to a record shop on Monday morning to buy it as soon as it was released. In the meantime, my five-word review of it is "different, but still rather good".)

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October 10th, 2003. New photos!

Thanks to Gareth and his internet connection, I've managed to put some more photos online. They were all taken several years ago, but the colours ones are from slides which have only just been scanned (again, thanks to Gareth, and the University computer labs), and I'm fairly sure I haven't published any of these black and white ones before.

Most of the colour ones were taken in the Outer Hebrides in 1999, and the black and white ones were all taken in Lincolnshire in 1996. A couple are here because they're relevant to an entry I wrote last month - I'll get round to updating the entry in question eventually.

Update, the following day: The entry I was talking about was this item about the stone circles at Callanish, on Lewis. I've now updated that entry with the appropriate thumbnails, together with better descriptions of the relevant pictures.

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October 8th, 2003. Cruising

An awful lot of the buses in Edinburgh, the ones going down to Leith, say "OCEAN TERMINAL" in big letters on the front. Several go down Morningside Road as I'm on my way to work in the mornings, and the destination sounds awfully tempting.

In reality, of course, it isn't tempting at all. Leith Ocean Terminal is just a big shopping centre-cum-Entertainment Complex down by the docks. Inside, just your average high street chain stores. The MTV Awards are going to be there soon, but I've no idea why. In short, not a very inspiring place.

Seeing OCEAN TERMINAL on the front of the buses, though, I wish we really did have something like that on the shore. A quayside where huge liners come in and dock, ferrying people off across the Atlantic or over to Norway. I could go down there and watch people boarding, or see lines of new arrivals dragging their giant wicker cases down the gangplank, changing onto some steam-puffing express train to take them into the country. I know it sounds a bit like something from an Agatha Christie novel, but anything that makes travel feel more romantic has to be a good thing.

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October 7th, 2003. Extract

"When you start going out with a man, it's vitally important that you remember the date that something first happened. Whatever it is, as soon as the something that makes you think 'Yes! There's something going on here!' happens, make a note. Make sure you remember the date.

"Then, one month later, you have an excuse to sulk. It's your One Month Anniversary. Make sure you don't do anything to remind him about it yourself - just wait until the day comes round. All day, sulk about the fact that he hasn't remembered. He definitely won't have remembered, so start sulking whenever you like - even before breakfast is fine. As soon as he asks you what's wrong, say: 'But, darling! It's our One Month Anniversary! How could you forget!' He will be in your pocket for the whole day, if not the rest of the week."

- from The How To Be A Girly Girl Handbook, by Annabel Potter-Hanworth (not available in any good bookshops).

</joke>

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October 3rd, 2003. Grrrr

Work is being bad at the moment. Very bad. I've been talking about work less and less over the past few months, because there's more and more chance that either people from work already read this site, or they will discover it. The company seems to be growing exponentially at the moment, so it gets more and more likely. I'm worried that exponential growth might lead to doom, but The Boss and his marketing guru seem confident about the situation.

So, anyway, I've also been warned that I shouldn't read my personal email at work any more, and should just concentrate on working as there's going to be plenty of stuff for me to do. Hum. Getting back online at home is going to be a priority then, because I'll rapidly get bored if I have to get to a cafe or someone else's house to post updates.

I don't think you were finding posts about my work interesting anyway. Sorry to everyone I know in real life who I'll have to aim my anti-work rants at when down the pub. You already know who you are, I think.

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October 1st, 2003. Fetch me the holy pinking shears!

Or, the Panacea Society, the final part (follow links for parts 1 and 2).

Lots of religions promise eternal life, but few claim to cure all ailments you might suffer in this world. If you're a Catholic you can go to Lourdes or pray for a saint to intercede, but there's no guarantee it will work. The Panaceans, though - as you can probably guess from their name - have discovered the ultimate cure, the panacea that gave them their name.

The procedure for making the panacea is relatively simple, but there is one vital ingrediant: holy linen. When the cult's founder, Octavia, was still alive, she blessed several large rolls of linen cloth, by breathing on it. Her devotees used pinking shears to cut the holy linen up into thousands of small squares with zig-zag edges. I assume the pinked edges are important. The society still have a big stock of the vital holy linen, and they will give pieces out to anybody who writes in asking for instructions to make the holy cure.

The instructions themselves seem fairly straightforward: put a piece of linen in a jug, and pour water onto it whilst praying. Leave it to stand for a few minutes, with the holy linen dancing around the bottom of the jug, and there you hae it: the ultimate cure. It's very powerful, so you can dilute it quite a bit, and add a dash of it to your drinks. You can use it for pretty much anything you use ordinary water for, in fact, although putting it in your toilet might be a bit of a waste.

The Society know the panacea works, because they keep records. Everyone who writes in and is sent supplies of holy linen is asked to reply, and let the Society know how it improves their health. In return, they are sent further supplies. The Panaceans keep all the responses, and carefully record the process of all their patients over time. They know all about everything their panacea has cured, from colds to cancers. Their records are as detailed as any doctor's, and with fewer mysterious acronyms.

If you keep drinking it, the panacea can cure everything. Even death. Members of the society, taking the panacea every day, become immortal. This sounds slightly unlikely given that most of the society's members have definitely died; but it's very clear to the society what is actually going on. Their temporarily-lost members are currently living in a colony on Uranus. They are not alive bodily - that would be silly, nobody could survive on Uranus - but the spirits of the Panaceans are living happily there. At the apocalypse, which probably won't be very long coming, their bodies will be resurrected and they will live forever, in the same street as Jesus, in the paradise that is now called Bedford.

I'm wondering what will happen when the panacea runs out. The society might have a lot available, but it doesn't have an infinite supply. They can't produce more without an Extra Holy person to create it. What will happen to the Society as the linen stocks start to dwindle? No doubt members of the society would tell me my fears are pointless. Any day now, it will be the end of the world. Jesus will come down from heaven and live happily ever after in a nicely-furnished Victorian semi. He'll take over the running of the Society, and its current rather elderly administrators will be able to retire. As the only people left on earth will be the immortal Panaceans, further supplies of the panacea will be unnecessary - and even if it was, you can always ask Jesus to get some for you. What if the Society's apocalypse doesn't happen, though? What will survive longer, the last society member or the final piece of Octavia's holy linen? Will the last member be left, with nothing to cure their ills, thinking: any day now! Any day now! Or maybe the apocalypse will come as they have predicted, and heaven will be middle England for ever and ever. Amen.

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