XVIII

I've already established that I cry when we go to the movies. I cry when we watch movies at home. My personal record is the afternoon we watched 'Up' and 'Toy Story 3' back-to-back.

I LIVE the film, the novel, the rolling saga, the trilogy in seven parts, I live ALL of it; it's the only way I know to approach storytelling.

Well, it seems that there's a second medium to add to my waterworks-provoking repertoire: the novel, spoken out loud.

I've been reading J.R.R. Tolkien's 'The Hobbit' to my daughters for a while now; this evening we reached the chapter of this blog post's title.

Boy, is this good stuff! I'm there within the cosseting gloom of bedtime, doing all the voices and then… I simply could not continue. The emotions of the tragic scene unfolding before us, after LIVING the preceding tale spilled over and…

After a few false starts, and Just as I'd managed to compose myself, my youngest daughter, oh-so-nearly 7, wondered aloud if maybe I didn't know how to pronounce the words on the page, and offered to read on my behalf.

And yes, that kindness again stopped the story reading in its tracks; I had to excuse myself, promising to restart the chapter following evening.

And so I shall.

Patch: a sequel

Earlier this year I wrote about my favourite film, 'Armageddon'. If you scroll back through the archive of my posts 'Patch' is easy to find. Now might be a good time to scroll; I think it is about time I explained why that ragged, singed, bit of cloth – the patch – means so much to me. And why I cried at the end of the film.

Vanishingly-small numbers of people have ventured into space, more have helped make their passage safe by testing, retesting, and doing it over and over again so the chance of failure is reduced.

One thing to remember though, the ability to send stuff off our planet isn't easy. In fact, though essentially we're still relying on explosives developed from Chinese firecrackers, to propel the aforementioned stuff out there is extraordinarily difficult!

Let's face facts; whether or not you believe the somewhat facetious comment made about a typical US spacecraft – amongst the most complex mechanical devices ever assembled and machines in which generations of astronauts have trusted their very lives – is built by the lowest bidder, the word 'difficult' doesn't even come close to how, er… difficult, remote, intransigent, space is.

Unless one sits and thinks about the unforgiving nature of the vacuum, cold, radiation, and sheer unpredictability of space, it's all a bit esoteric, remote, almost-science-fictionish isn't it. White-coared experts and gung-ho spacemen, right?

The thing is, I've been very lucky to travel to the USA, to both the Houston Space Center* and The New Mexico Museum of Space History. The Houston site is awesome, but an exhibit at the NM museum – one past which most will walk without paying much heed – grabbed my attention immediately. Mission patches.

I don't have a thing for patches, no.

One in particular stood out. Or didn't. The Challenger patch, there symbolising a small part from the rich history of human endeavour, but nevertheless an extraordinarily poignant moment within it. Failure doesn't come easily to those in space programmes the world over, and especially not from an overlooked, almost-insignificant part of a much larger whole. The tragedy of loss of life is deeply felt, especially when the hopes of mankind rest on the success of the many facets of space exploration and utilisation.

Now, the bottom line here is this: without the constant evolution** of the spacecraft, the dedication of those designing the hardware and systems, and those preserving the history of the… Ok, ok, there's something both symbolic and very real about the struggle to not kill people in space.

A typical space programme is at the pinnacle of human achievement. It's the culmination of hundreds of years of experimentation and research, layers of improvement built on top of each other and of records faithfully retained against the day someone should attempt the actually-impossible.

Remembering what others have tried though should be no bar to trying to make a better space widget. As the saying goes, the impossible sometimes takes a little longer.

You might have expected at this point that I'd inject something political here, referring to 2016's apparent forgetfulness in the area of human evolution… Yeah, down the snake towards the worst excesses of human against human we go. And to think I cry at mere films.

*Intentional spelling.

**This.

Toblerone

A Toblerone bar has the enviable position of being a luxury product for a lot of people; velvety-smooth with chewy sweetness on the tongue, idiosyncratic in design, and with a long, long history.

There's the expectation that, once one figures out how to open the box, breaking off a piece of nougat-speckled chocolate will be difficult. The ever-present fear of broken teeth, the danger inherent in inexpertly wielded knives whilst attempting block separation; it's all part of a process distinct from eating any other chocolate.

But tradition is a powerful thing.

As the cost of production and ingredients inevitably increases, and the pack size reduction is touted, spurious, as bringing health benefits, companies invent ways to cut corners, mainly by decreasing pack size whilst maintaining the amount the customer pays. In reducing the manufacturing costs the logical choice would have been to reduce the length of the bars. Competing 'staple' bars have already set a precedent.

But no. The company looks to have removed every other peak from the bars. The result is frankly ridiculous.

Its obvious whoever signed off on it had no idea of the repercussions. Premium products surely mandate price increases?

If, for instance, the Coca-Cola company decided to alter the recipe there'd be uproar. Ok, that's a bad example; whilst the Toblerone recipe may not have been touched, generations of gift-givers and receivers have expectations of CONTINUITY.

Tradition, continuity, expectation; killed at a stroke.

I'm not impressed. I'll be interested to see whether there's an embarrassed climb-down in the near future, or whether the brand'll simply disappear – rationalised out of existence by the parent company as a product of a bygone age.

Toblerone: 1908-?

Halloween

On Monday evening I participated in my first Trick-Or-Treat outing. Important: that's Trick-Or-Treat, not Hallowe'en.

I'm over forty-ten years old and have a young family, so it might be appropriate to mention I'm English, living in a country that borrows the very best from the cultures of the world. Well, it makes a change from attempting to take stuff by force, right?

So I took the girls and Ruby dog and we walked the streets, the girls knocking on doors or ringing doorbells in the hope of getting sweeties. ok, candy! They did really well; I'm proud of the way they conducted themselves.

Knock/ring once, wait a respectable length of time, leave the eggs at home in the fridge, you know?

Our neighbourhood did the modern tradition proud. Loads of homes decorated with pumpkins, ghoulish apparitions swaying at doors, even a smoke machine to add, yes, authenticity to the proceedings. There were people of all ages dressed in suitably scary attire and make-up (though my costume and features on the night would win competitions anywhere!)

This year (hopefully the foundation for next) my girls got dressed, applied make-up to appear even scarier than normal, and we went out in what turned out to be the perfect evening, spending that very enjoyable hour-and-a-half going from door to door.

I'm sure my two brought genuine pleasure to at least 2 households others had passed by, it was really great to see.

And to think this curmudgeon didn't want to go out, to be sociable. Indeed I'd been dreading it all day.

Eeeee, when I were a lad we never had owt worth mentioning. We got wood once a year and…

… we collected bonfire wood for weeks before Bonfire Night and secreted it away, hopefully out of sight of our rivals. We'd ask for a "Penny for the guy" – a vaguely-humanoid shape supposedly representing Guy Fawkes, but in reality a pile of rags and stuffing to be tossed on top of the woodpile and burnt with as much ceremony as young lads could.

To be honest though, I can't remember if we ever burnt a guy. I recall us burning wood but the predominant memory is the disappointment of having our stash robbed from under outer noses.

Happy days!

The post title is necessarily apostrophe-short, I can't remember how to add one in the post header.

Trolls

After breakfast today the girls and I again went to the cinema; we watched 'Trolls' and, for a refreshing change, I didn't cry at the end.

I cried NEAR to the end.

As with most, ok ALL films we go to, I got involved with the characters, had my sense of disbelief well-and-truly suspended, so yes, of course I cried. I cry at every children's movie we go to see.

Thus, the movie 'Trolls' easily gains Baz's Seal of Approval.

There's just one thing, and I HAVE to SAY this. One thing, aside, that is, from letting you know how eerily similar most of this post is to 'Storks'…

I have a problem with 'Trolls'. Sure they live underground. Or in a tree. Or a forest, well away from things that would disturb their way of life. And yes, they come out into the sunlight too. Yeah, emphatically NOT my view of a classical Troll, not the stuff of myths and legends, not the dull-witted lumpen beings that eat Dwarves and Hobbitses…

(We're currently over 69% of the way through Tolkien's 'The Hobbit', me reading to my girls at bedtime, so this sort of stuff resonates deeply at the moment. Or is at odds with the stuff in my hindbrain?)

But anyway, this film, it's a delightful story of hope and redemption and therefore earns…

Ah, but I did that bit.

Audi

A recent study concluded you're more likely to meet your premature end run over by a driver of an expensive car than despatched by someone driving a shed.*

The driver of a posh car will have reached a station in life at which they've forgotten simple things like not roaring through red lights, not blocking pavements, not emerging from behind parked vehicles and forcing others to take evasive measures.

In short the average Audi driver is a selfish arse, believing themselves entitled by their financial outlay or company lease arrangement to impose their presence on other road and pavement/sidewalk users.

This of course applies to owners of other posh marques, but it's Audi's turn in the actinic glare from the spotlight of my disapproval right now.

I'm not going to catalogue every incident, let's just say that I'm confirming Audi have taken over from BMW in my little black Book of Bastards.

This morning the very best incident though was a car in queuing, inching, traffic; its driver obviously not paying attention as the car weaved over the line I was attempting to avoid crossing. I thought 'phone' but I was wrong. By the time I drew level with the blonde airhead I could see her rummaging in her make-up bag, presumably looking for just the right grade of brush. The temptation to wind my window down, to ask that she get up 20 minutes earlier to complete her task as she obviously needed the extra time… well, the urge subsided quickly.

Driving a black Vauxhall executive thing though. Ah, perhaps I need to start another book?

*A British term for a motor vehicle which has seen better days.

Storks

After breakfast today the girls and I went to the cinema; we watched 'Storks' and I cried at the end.

I got involved with the characters, had my sense of disbelief well-and-truly suspended, so yes, of course I cried. I cry at every children's movie we go to see. Whilst I can't remember crying at 'Cars' there's every possibility I did.

Thus, the movie 'Storks' easily gains Baz's Seal of Approval.

Skipping

My oldest daughter skipped into Brownies this evening. Most encouraging, if you know her.

Chatting briefly with one of the mothers I came to the realisation something is missing from my life. Now, I can ride a bike; I can, I'd presume, fall off a log (and sleep like one.)

Skipping. I tried to, briefly, but it wasn't pretty… I have completely forgotten how to skip.

I need to practise. At work during lunchtime, perhaps? Along the road I live on? No.

Taking the girls into school, across the playground? At my age?

Mass debate

The Internet is aghast at the news that during the US Presidential debates the moderator will not be allowed to fact-check the candidates in real time.

Given the power, scope, breadth, whatever, of the resources available to today's media, surely its not beyond the programme makers to create some flashy graphics to indicate the truthfulness of each speaker's assertions? In real time.

Facing facts, if they know it's going to happen, it'll keep the speakers honest, that's honest in a very real sense.

But would it be POPULAR television; will viewers tune in expecting a gladiatorial contest of epic proportions – or a showman muzzled by a need to stick to just the facts?

What would YOU rather watch?

There's a more important issue at stake here than flashy, exciting TV: if the debates are to be held at all, allowing the participants to say whatever they like, without any form of independent scrutiny, I have to ask what's the point?

Yes I do believe Donald Trump is an arse, a serial repeater of things so ridiculous that would ordinarily be laughed down, but which in this instance will be allowed to stand.

History will judge these things, but it's a shame they'll be allowed to shape it.

Boobies

We've all done it; had that momentary lapse of judgment with the inherent possibility of instant doom.

Mine, yesterday, was easy.

Presented, I was, with a chance conversation, within it a single word, and well, sat in front of a computer connected to the Internet the opportunity seemed too good to be true.

So I typed a word into the search engine. The only picture I SAW in the initial results page was a rather odd-looking bird. It's what I EXPECTED to see, see?

Clicking 'Images' brought home to me the inherently unpredictable nature of The Internet. Or maybe my naivete. Not a single feathered bird photo appeared. Not one.

A page of boobies. Luckily my work PC has only a 24 inch monitor. I can't imagine the effect were it to be splashed across, oh, say a 34 inch wide-screen curved thing of beauty. Thankfully no-one who saw it was offended. And it was off my screen in a flash, and the browser history manually edited. Maybe insufficient for my psychological well-being but it's done. In my past.

But now I know there's a log file somewhere with the search result. Maybe 3 'somewheres'; maybe Google, maybe my company's ISP, maybe my company's data centre. Maybe the NSA, GCHQ too are interested in a part-time idiot's browsing habits.

Don't Panic BAZ!