meish dot org: life, unfolding

I’m on several mailing lists at my company which give details of server maintenance outages and the like. And most of the time, they fly through the inbox and I can happily ignore them.

However, yesterday there were a flurry of mails with priceless subject lines:

I loved the idea that they needed to take all the little green Irish fellas out of service to give them new green trousers, or because the pot of gold was broken or something.

However, I’m sure that our colleagues in the US just thought about it as a server name – because that’s what happens, isn’t it? We give things names and the words – the names – themselves lose meaning as real words, and become forever associated with the thing we have names.

So my cat is called Pickle – but when I think of her name I don’t think of Branston anymore, I think “small brown cat with kittenish tendancies”.

<gratuitous picture of my cat>

</gratuitous picture of my cat>

And when (back in the heady days of the first dotcom boom) we used to have a meeting room at work called “Cyberspace” (I know, I know), we would inevitably end up mystifying visitors and newbies by saying “we’re meeting in Cyberspace” or “Oh no, I think I left my notepad in Cyberspace”. The word became meaningless (well, in that case, more meaningless) and described only the room.

Likewise, people’s names become attached to them, and stop being names after a while, becoming instead individual-descriptors. I’m probably the only Meg most people know, so for them, Meg = me, this individual. However, I know several Iains, Johns, Toms, Matts, Pauls and people called Chris (what’s the plural anyway?) so the relationship between name & person becomes less strong – and inevitably, we end up resorting to nicknames.

Perhaps this is why I’ve never really had a nickname – perhaps Meg is unique enough?

Do you have a nickname? What is it?

More on nicknames.
Big evolving list of nicknames.

I just upgraded my phone, and I’m in the process of transferring all my stored numbers from the old handset to the new one, via the wonders of Bluetooth.

Because this is a fairly laborious process, I don’t want to transfer any numbers over which I don’t think are valid, or haven’t used for a long while, or think I won’t use again. This activity, which I complete every time I change phones – so, once a year or thereabouts – , causes a pruning effect among my contacts, by making me re-evaluate the viability of social and business contacts, which feels a little clinical, but has to be done, nevertheless.

So this year, I’m waving goodbye to a bunch of people who I haven’t been in touch with for ages (mostly business contacts, but some social acquaintences who I think must have moved number by now). My rationale is that if I ever need or want to get in touch with them again, there’ll be a better method to do it than randomly calling out of the blue, and these days I can be fairly confident that people are trackable-down (down-trackable?) via mutual contacts, t’internet and so on.

There are exceptions, of course. There are some names and contacts in particular (mostly social, but some business, too) which I hold on to, despite not having used their numbers for years, or been in touch with the contactee for as long. There’s something about not wanting to throw away the tiny bit of potential contact I have with someone, or in most cases, despite the number being (probably) obsolete, I don’t want to delete the idea of the person from my life. I want to be reminded of them, so that I am reminded to track them down if I do want to get back in touch with them at some point.

This goes beyond reason, and I know how silly it seems. But I bet other people do it, too…

I’m also reminded during this annual ritual, as ever, about how marvellous it would be if I could import the dictionary of all the words I’d taught my old phone, so that I don’t have to go through the process of teaching my new one all over again. I also think that such a word list would be fairly revealing about me, and my social communications….

Any ideas if/how this can be done these days?

Last week, in Tiree, I visited the Hebridean Trust’s museum at Hynish, which contains an exhibition about the building of the Skerryvore lighthouse.

I’ve always liked lighthouses – possibly since reading Flannan Isle (spooky poem based on a true mystery in another isolated lighthouse, off the Isle of Lewis) in the first year of secondary school, or perhaps since visiting my grandparents in the Isle of Man as a child, and being sung to sleep by the foghorn from Chicken Rock, or maybe since taking a boat trip in primary school around the Needles, which involved the boatmaster handing a copy of the day’s paper to the keeper of the lighthouse.

Lighthouses have always been somewhere on my periphery, blinking away on the horizon, or honking into the fog. In other lifetimes, I lived near Dubh Hartach and Race Rocks. I’ve even got a friend who starred in a film about one.

But back to the museum.

In the display, there was obviously a lot of mention of the Stevensons. What a family. If you’re interested in the family which was responsible for building most of the offshore lighthouses in Scotland, then you’ll enjoy Bella Bathurst’sThe Lighthouse Stevensons.

Anyway, in the middle of the display, among the engineer’s drawings and the geological samples from the rocks, there was a description of Alan Stevenson as “a man of many parts.”

I love that phrase. I love the idea that it’s OK – no, actually preferable – to be part engineer, part artist, part visionary, part politician. I love the way that, for example, it was actually seen as beneficial for a scientist to also be a musician, or artist – the two don’t fight each other, they complement, and make you into a more effective, rounded person.

I’ve always been uncomfortable with the phrase “Jack of all trades” because of its unspoken “(and master of none)” that follows. I’ve always thought there should be a way to express being good at many things – Polymath, perhaps, but it’s something more than that. You don’t have to just have a single job title, I think – you can be a person of many parts, and that can be a very positive thing indeed. At least, I hope so.

In the early days, we jumped when journalists came near. We salivated at the chance for a quote, a link, a soundbite: official recognition by the real world. This blogging lark, covered by real media. We had arrived.

We longed for the frisson of excitement caused by seeing our name (or URL) in the paper, hearing our voice on the airwaves, seeing our site design screengrabbed for an illustration. I’m X, as referenced on these sites, this radio programme and that broadsheet article. I exist and am real. Here is proof.

These days, we’re more likely to turn down offers to appear on radio talking about this odd hobby; write politely back to journalists suggesting they contact relevant friends instead. Not for me; I don’t think so; have you contacted…?

Not bored of it, or above it, but uncomfortable with the attention. Don’t need publicity. Don’t need attention or recognition. Don’t need the cachet of publication. Skittish. Anxious. Cautious.

Need privacy. Need things on our terms. Need to be respected as specialists in our own fields – not necessarily this Next Big Thing, this blogging lark, this hobby.

And so when a long-time dream opportunity comes around – print, regular, credit, money – we opt to use a pseudonym.

Isn’t life funny, sometimes?

On the bus yesterday, from a seat somewhere behind me, though I was unable to see the conversants.

Him: “Can we play charades?”
Her: “No”
Him: “Why not?”
Her: “I don’t want to”

[beat]

Him: “Why not?”
Her: “Because I want to look out of the window at what’s going on.”
Him: “OK”

[One minute passes]

Him: “There’s nothing going on. Can we play charades now?”
Her: “No”
Him: “Oh WHY not?”
Her: “Look, just BECAUSE, OK?”

[Another minute passes]

Him: “Oh, go on”
Her: “No”
Him: “But WHY?”
Her: “Stop acting like a fucking five year old, Mark. Look, you’re 28 years old, and this is getting boring. ”

[beat]

Him: “I only wanted to play fucking charades.”

“I want my pocket money
I want my pocket money
I want my pocket money
I WANT MY POCKET MONEY
I…WANT…MY….POCKET…MONEY
[sniff]
I want my pocket money
I want my pocket money
I want my pocket money
I want my pocket money
I want my pocket money
I want my pocket money
I WANT MY POCKET MONEY
I want my pocket money NOW
Give me my pocket money
Give me my pocket money
Give me my pocket money
GIVE ME MY POCKET MONEY NOW
I want my pocket money
[sniff]
I want my pocket money
I want my pocket money
I want my pocket money
I want my pocket money
I…. WANT….. MY…. POCKET….. MONEY
I want my pocket money
[sniff, howl]
I want my pocket money
I WANT MY POCKET MONEY
I…. WANT…. my…. POCKET MONEY!!!!”

This half hour performance (by a snot-streaming, red-faced eight year old boy) was experienced while wandering around the Earth From The Air exhibition outside the Natural History Museum in the chilly dusk.

His mother was ignoring him. The rest of us weren’t so lucky.

Update:
Some people have interpreted the above as scorn or disgust at the mother’s/boy’s behaviour. Let me clarify:

I wasn’t riled by the child. I’ll admit that the constant screaming was sort of offputting, but I wasn’t particularly bothered by its behaviour – I know that kids are kids and will behave like kids, even in a supposedly adult setting. Kids screaming in restaurants are less tolerable than kids screaming in museums, but kids scream and turn red and have tantrums. That’s what they do. It’s not reasonable or considerate, but they’re *kids*, for Pete’s sake, so they can hardly be expected to act with cquiet consideration, especially when 90% of adults don’t bother.

What some interpreted as my disgust was actually amazement at how the mother could seemingly ignore her bawling son – not disgust, not outrage, not scorn, none of that.

Having lived with and cared for small children for a living, I’m well aware that sometimes, parents or caregivers need to remain rigid against a tantrum, even though their innate feeling is to solve or fix it. If a child is set to scream until it gets its own way, the gut response is to give in to stop it screaming. I know that, and I’ve dealt with it many many times.

The mother at the museum was somehow able to calmly ignore the child’s screaming, and continue to point out interesting parts of the pictures, trying to engage the child’s attention rather than respond to the tantrum with words or a smack.

Maybe she was embarrassed and humiliated, but she didn’t show it – she dealt with the situation with quiet calm, as if she’d been through it a hundred times before.

The reason this situation acts as a contraceptive is because that’s something I don’t think I could do. I don’t think I’m ready to ignore a screaming child. I don’t know if I’d be able to deal with the situation as calmly and confidently as the mother at the museum. I’d want to give in, to make the screaming go away, to avoid the humiliation. Short term solutions R us.

I hate waiting. I’m really bad at it.

See, I’m impatient at the best of times, and P frequently accuses me of wanting everything at once. It’s true. Despite my previous assertion that I measure out life in doses of delayed gratification, the truth is that that’s fine as long as I’m the one delaying it. Making myself wait, fine. Other people making me wait, very unfine indeed.

If someone says they’ll pop over this afternoon sometime, I’m completely stuck. Since they might arrive and interrupt me at any time, it’s difficult to start anything properly – you can’t embark on a movie or a project or anything which requires concentration , because at any moment, just when you’re engrossed in whatever you’re soing, the doorbell will go. Or you’ll be watching the movie with half an ear on the street outside, listening for the tell-tale sound of brakes or doors slamming.

Waiting in for engineers who cannot commit to a specific time period is hell, especially as you have to take a day off to do it, then wake up disgustingly early, in case they magically arrive at the earliest time, which they will never do, except on the occasion that you sleep in.

If, on the other hand, they say they’ll be over at five, I’m ok, because i can structure my afternoon around the appointment.

Unless they are late – and they almost always are.

In a way, waiting around because of lateness for a specific appointment is more tortuous than waiting for a visit which could occur at any time at all, because you are aware that you are most definitely waitinq rather than possibly waiting.

If you are definitely waiting, you can’t qo to the loo, because you just know that that will be the precise moment the engineer will choose to ring the doorbell.

Waiting elsewhere, however, is a total pain in the arse. Appointments, collecting things, flights, anything which causes you to have to hang around interminably causes me immense frustration – especially when i’m tired and on the verqe of falling asleep.

And so i wait for my prescription, in the bowels of the hospital. An hour and counting.

A blonde woman tells the harrassed receptionist about the terrible plague of mosquitos down by the river at Chiswick. The woman behind the counter interposes her astonished reaction and responses with instructions to other patients approaching the hatch to collect their medicines and treatments:

“Number eighty nine? Dovonex? Number ninety? Nasonex? Number eighty seven? Apply this to the affected area, but only when it hurts… Eight tablets every morning for five mornings…this cream expires on christmas day, but you’ll be ok for a few days after that… number ninety one?”

I am number fourteen. There is a long time left to wait.

I think I’ve got the wrong attitude about going to the gym.

I mean, I enjoy it, and I make an effort to go regularly, and I do feel like it’s worthwhile, but there’s a fundamental problem with the way I think about it.

See, most of my gym-going friends say things like:

“Oh no, I shouldn’t have a biscuit because I’ve done all that work at the gym”

…meaning that it’ll undo all their hard work. I, on the other hand, find myself saying things like:

“I can have a biscuit because I’ve done all that hard work at the gym”

They’re goal-based – everything counts towards an eventual prize; while I’m reward-based – everything is relative, and unpleasant tasks deserve compensation.

Perhaps it’s because I don’t have a goal in mind – no race to train for, or target weight to reach – I can consider a biscuit as a reward for being good. Put simply, if the gym is a positive action (+1) and a biscuit is a negative action (-1) they cancel each other out: I can only have a biscuit if I’ve been to the gym, or, it’s ok to have this biccie, because I spent two hours in the gym (=0).

It’s a fine balancing act, and one I’ve been infuriatingly consistent with ever since I can remember. When writing essays or studying for exams at school, college and university, I would eke out potential pleasures as rewards to be attained. I’ll make a cup of tea when I finish this chapter. I’ll watch ER only if I finish another thousand words by nine. I’ll have another chunk of chocolate when I’ve memorised all the radical-changing verbs.

It made studying easier, and distractions less, well, distracting. It didn’t matter that I was taking a break, or watching telly, or having another biscuit, as long as I’d worked hard for it. Perhaps this is a sign of a latent protestant work ethic, somewhere deep within.

As a child, my sister used to be infuriated that I could make my penny sweets last all afternoon on a Saturday after we’d been around the corner clutching our 10p pocket money (!!) to pick up the Beano and some flying saucers. Rather than jamming the lot in my mouth at once, as we were all was sorely tempted to do, I would ration the sweets out, to make the pleasure last longer. This was much to the irritation of Anna, who would scoff hers and then have nothing left an hour later, when I was still savouring the midway point of my stash. Every week, she would without fail ask me to give her a sweet from my selection, and I would naturally refuse, explaining in a big-sisterly way that if she’d not gorged hers all at once she’d still have some left, too. We had the same amount, only I’d made mine last longer, and that was perfectly fair. Inevitably, a fight would break out – I remember a particularly viscious one about a Curly-Wurly which I’d eaten half of, and then in full view of my hungry sister, carefully folded the other half back into its wrapper, to return to later. She accused me of taunting her, but that wasn’t the case. It wasn’t about demonstrating to anyone else that I had what they didn’t; it was all about making the pleasure last that little bit longer. Little and often, rather than all at once.

I find myself doing the same thing on long journeys even now – spreading out treats and activities across the hours which stretch off towards the destination, in order to have something to look forward to, and not run out of pleasures too quickly. I’ll get on a train at, say, half one in the afternoon, with three hours ahead of me, and a couple of sandwiches, a magazine, and a flapjack in my bag. Despite being hungry, I’ll make myself wait until two for the first sarnie, and half past for the second. Then there’ll be some magazine reading, and then, somewhere around half three, a bit of flapjack, and so on. The idea is not to run out of pleasures too soon, and be faced with an empty sandwich wrapper, a read magazine and dead walkman batteries with two hours yet to travel. This habit was born of long flights from London to Vancouver in the early nineties, and then to South America, years later. Got to have something to look forward to, otherwise you’ll get stuck watching some godawful Kenneth Branagh movie and talking to the family next to you. For nine hours.

I do it in cinemas, too. I’ve never understood how people can buy popcorn and then scoff the lot before the lights have even dimmed. I’ll sit there, in the plush seats, with the lights down, resisting the temptation to plunge my hand into the salty bucket until the trailers have begun, at least. For me, that’s part of the whole cinema experience – watching a movie while scoffing popcorn, rather than watching a movie having previously scoffed a bucket of popcorn the size of your own head, and now wondering my your lips feel as if they have been flayed, and gasping for a drink.

All things in moderation, including pleasure and popcorn and penny sweets – but only if they’re ever so well deserved.

More images…

When I was a kid, in bed and unable to sleep at night, I would look up at the ceiling and imagine what it would be like if the world was turned on its head, studying the shape of the room from the perspective of the empty expanse of the ceiling.

If I lived on the ceiling, how would I get through the door? I’d need to clamber up to the doorway, suspended a couple of feet from the floor (ceiling) surface. The windows would be low the walls. The lightswitch high up. I’d need to avoid the light fitting, standing bolt-upright in the middle of the floor (ceiling). The shape of the room would be the same – but feel completely different.

In other places, strange guestrooms and relatives’ homes, I’d try to find faces in the floral wallpaper, or figures in the curtains. Contemporary Habitat tulips housed a dutch girl with pouting lips. Geometric Laura Ashley diamonds could be squinted at until they overlapped and the wall became three-dimensional. The plaster ridges on the bathroom wall became a ragged coastline, with harbours and islets. Mum lost her temper when I drew on a couple of boats, looking for a port.

Looking at common shapes and forms and environments in a different way became a relaxing habit – the shapes are pleasing, light falls in ways which make you question perspective. I like that.

At one point, a few years ago, my friends used to poke gentle fun at me for always drawing maps using the objects on the table:

“So imagine that this salt cellar is me, and that ashtray is the corner of the road…hand on, can you pass that fork? Ok, that fork is the zebra crossing, and the mug, I mean the bus was going along here like this…”

My listening friends would start to chip in usefully:

“What’s this pepper pot?” “How about my lasagne?” “Can this glass be a bus stop?” and so on. Smart arses.

But I can’t help it: I’m a very visual person. I tend to wave my hands around a lot when talking, and frequently end up sketching things on napkins, bus-tickets, notebooks, whatever comes to hand, to explain myself better. I remember things visually and spatially and in relationship to each other, and I explain them better that way, too.

I have a visual memory. When I was studying for my finals in uni, I realised that the best way for me to remember key things like dates, quotes, definitions and key translations was to remember them visually. I would draw up elaborate A3 sheets in coloured pen, with words and paragraphs and numbers written in different colours, or underlined, or at a weird angle, or next to a doodle of a tree. Sometimes I would get other people to write things for me – my flatmate, boyfriend, neighbour. My landlord even wrote something once when he came around to collect the rent: in brown pen on the top right hand corner of a sheet – Banisteriopsis, the latin name of the most widely-used hallucinogen in the Amazon. I still remember it now. I remember because after writing the sheets, I would tape them over my windows, and then sit at my desk and stare at them. I would memorise the relationships of the objects, the way they were written, and then later, in the exam, I would be able to re-draw them in my mind.

That’s the way my mind works – I learnt that early on, and I figured out how to work around it: if I write your phone number on a bit of paper, I probably won’t remember it. If you write it down, I probably will. But I’m completely porked when it comes to type – now I use a PDA, I don’t tend to remember phone numbers any more. But I had to get a scribble pad for the device, in order to help me think. I think visually, with a pen in my hand.

I surprised Tom earlier. I was trying to explain how something worked, and he wasn’t getting it, despite my hands drawing elaborate shapes in the air, and so I suddenly whipped out a whiteboard from under the bed, and drew him a quick flow diagram.

“I cannot believe you own a whiteboard, Meg,” he said “and you keep it under your bed.*”

No wonder I’m single. Sigh.

* At which point, I must point out, Tom launched into a long postulation about exactly why I might keep a whiteboard under my bed. He conjectured that it was for precise diagramatic and businesslike explanation and review of sexual expectation and performance, including (in his own words), the projected orgasm requirement curve, and, most amusingly, graphs of expected performance figures: “If we look at the chart we can see that I am not required to perform any oral services until June, although there is reciprocal servicing required from late April.” Thank you, Tom. That’s not why I keep a whiteboard under the bed, boringly enough. Sorry to disappoint.