The floor should be mopped!

Well here we are in the Emirates lounge all ready to depart. There is food and drink and The G has already got herself outside of a Duck and Pea Pie. I am drinking a sparkling water. I am abstemious and self-righteous. If there were chips then it might be a different story.

The Emirates lounge in Sydney: tastefully appointed
and well-stocked with food and drink

We left home at 14:01 which was one minute after the scheduled departure. I would like to say that I was the one who delayed us but I cannot. The G had been on a tight schedule all morning and she tells me that the only thing she failed to do was mop the floor. I had to pause awhile to process this piece of information. I looked at it every way I could but I could not see this as a failure in anyway at all. My schedule consisted of a final bash on the piano and disconnected the TVR's battery. Both these tasks were completed on time and to budget.

Robbo has been briefed on care-taking duties: he is a fine fellow and will discharge his duties splendidly. Of course the raspberries are coming and he has been instructed how to freeze these properly. This I know he will do as on our return The G will whip up some raspberry-based confection of which Robbo will be the beneficiary. He easy to please.

The drive to Sydney was uneventful. We remarked that to the best of our joint recollection we have never done the drive from home to Sydney without there being rain. The weather did not disappoint this time though there was not much precipitation. We parked at Car Park 7 at the International Terminal. The G had organised this: it’s only a couple of hundred bucks for the three weeks we are away and, even with petrol and so on to go up and back, it’s cheaper than the flight from the Moruya Intergalactic Space Station. And anyway as I discovered last time Rex Airlines doesn’t guarantee that any bag over 15kg will travel with you.

The G’s bag was packed to the gunwhales – so full that it would not properly balance on its wheels, wanting to topple over but in fact remaining in astable equilibrium. I was feeling pretty good about my bag and its weight as I could have fitted tons more stuff in it. I was stunned when my bag weighed in at 19kg and The G’s at 18.9kg. I cannot think how this could be.

I will weary you no longer, gentle reader, with this drivel.

The post-modern male

I am pleased to see that
Monty Python and the Holy Grail
is described as a post-modern movie.

I have never really understood the term “post-modern”. I see, for example, that the mighty, indisputable and irrefutable Wikipedia that the term was first used in 1939. Another definition says “subsequent to or coming later than that which is modern”. So that really means that nothing is post-modern but that everything will be.

You may wonder why this nonsense has been flowing through my mind. It is because The G this morning detailed me off to do the vacuuming (or in English, the hoovering). I am a post-modern male, I thought. That is why I can do the vacuuming. Furthermore, I thought, I am a reconstructed male but when I asked Dr Google about reconstructed males I decided that I probably wasn’t one and probably didn’t really want to be one.

As it happens I have my own vacuum cleaner called
Dicky the Dyson. There is one plumbed into the
house but I prefer my own. Now that is a
post-modern man for you!!

This all arises because The G has a clear pre-holiday departure preparation process. I have remarked in a previous blog post (the UK 2014 trip) that “I cannot say why a house needs to be cleaned before one goes on holiday”. I still cannot say this and I cannot say why every necessarily need to be tidy while one is away. I am told that “it is nicer when you get back”. Be that as it may the pre-holiday departure preparation process is in full swing.

To be fair I too have a pre-holiday departure preparation process. Part of this relates to the cars (no, not part of it - all of it). The TVR’s rego renewal conveniently falls due while we are away so this morning I took it to Brad (who does the cars) for its pink slip (like an MOT for our UK readers). This was all OK: as I said to him if there’s anything wrong with it then it’s down to you! But we did find that the rear fog-light was on. I need to investigate why this is so as I have no idea where the switch is!

The TVR is called Ted and he will need his battery disconnecting otherwise the alarm system will drain the battery. The Rover, known and Ronnie, will sit there quite happily as, at 51 years old, he pre-dates any of this new-fangled electronic nonsense. I think it will be wise to disconnect the battery of the Maserati as well. This completes my pre-holiday departure preparation process. Pretty simple really!

Some things matter and some things don’t. Cars matter. Vacuum cleaners don’t.

Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, I am swept up in The G’s pre-holiday departure preparation process. This is because she regards her job (and I am conscious as I say this that I am, as you know, a post-modern male) as looking after me. This means that I am booked this afternoon to see Alex the Acupuncturist (who plays in a local band called The Somedays so we have plenty to talk about) and also Claire the Masseuse (who is really funny and always holds a towel in front of her eyes when I strip off which always makes me pass an inappropriate comment). After this much attention I shall be fit for almost anything.

And I said the other day “almost anything” is what I am told I need to be fit for.

Hierarchy is a funny thing

Hierarchy is a funny thing. I remember years ago my elder son, now 35, saying to me “Dad, when you’re at work does someone tell you what to do and then do you tell other people what to do?” He had this wonderful idea that the operation of an enterprise happens by the passing of orders down a chain. It’s a quaint notion which ignores certain practicalities but is at least in line with The Siphonaptera (which I always thought was due to a fellow called Augustus de Morgan who I believe to have been Secretary of the Royal Astronomical Society in the mid 19^th Century) which says:

Big fleas have little fleas,
Upon their backs to bite 'em,
And little fleas have lesser fleas,
and so, ad infinitum.

And it goes on:

And the great fleas, themselves, in turn
Have greater fleas to go on;
While these again have greater still,
And greater still, and so on.

Anyway, I was reminded of this just the other day. I am working on a couple of projects for an organisation that suffers from the hierarchy disease. It’s true it’s trying to change itself but change comes from the top and if the top won’t change then nothing else will. A meeting of the great and the good took place to discuss some work I had done but because as a humble contractor I am way down the pecking order I was not permitted to speak to the work. This pleasure I passed – by way of a 10-minute conversation – to my client who discharged himself with credit.

I am too old now to give a shit about exposure to senior executives, none of whom is any more or less flawed than I am. But I do wonder about how, in an organisation of a hierarchical mindset, the senior executive finds out what is going on. Of course they don’t. They are flying by instruments but the instruments are not really quite visible because the glass is fogged up. The particular project I am working on is not insignificant and its failure would not go unnoticed by swathes of the public and press. Yet its senior responsible executive has never once visited the team doing the work.

I suppose this is top of mind in some way because we are off to India at the end of the week and one of the few things I know about India is that it has or had a thing called the caste system.

This system had two concepts. The first is “varna” which classifies people into classes. There were or are four: the Brahmins (priestly people), the Kshatriyas (also called Rajanyas, who were rulers, administrators and warriors), the Vaishyas (artisans, merchants, tradesmen and farmers), and Shudras (labouring classes). There was implicitly a fifth class, who were those people deemed to be entirely outside its scope, such as tribal people and the untouchables. The second concept is “jāti” which means birth. The names of jātis are usually derived from occupations. From a sociological standpoint this is fascinating but far too hard for me to cope with though I should put it all on my reading bucket list (which is already almost infinite).

Everyone I talk to who has been to India tells me that my mind will be opened. I cannot say whether I am ready to have my mind opened or not. I will find out. I find with some idle research that India has 1,650 languages, 30 of which are spoken by more than a million speakers and 122 of which are spoken by more than 10,000. I am sure there are more amazing facts to be uncovered. 

The Big Trip 16 is imminent

The cover of a Alberto y Lost Trios Paranoias'
 album from 1976. It hasn't really stood
the test of time!

Because I know we are about to go to India on The Big Trip 16 I could not get out of my mind a line from a song by a band called Alberto y Lost Trios Paranoias. The line is “Here come the Rupees” and the reference, of course, is obvious. I rescued the album (the sleeve is pictured here: it dates from 1976) and played it to see if I could find the reference. It’s on a track called “Lost Gurus” which also contains the somewhat memorable line “Deutschland Deutschland über Vanessa Redgrave” which put me in mind of the song by Half Man Half Biscuit which (from memory and without retrieving that particular album) was called “Fuckin' 'Ell It's Fred Titmus” (apparently the funniest song ever written about an England and Middlesex cricketer).

Alberto y Lost Trios Paranoias are not represented on Spotify and neither can you download their stuff from iTunes. Wikipedia contains a brief reference which describes them as a “a comedy rock band” and says the name is a corruption of the Latin American band Alberto y Los Trios Paraguayos. Be that as it may I smelt a whiff of influence by Frank Zappa particularly “We’re only in it for the money”.

Vedic Mathematics refers to a technique of mental calculation based
on a set of 16 Sutras, or word-formulae and its 13 derivatives
with which any mathematical problems can be solved rapidly.
It teaches pattern-observation using the Sutras, and therefore
leads to speedy calculations. Now you know!!

Whatever the arcane rock reference the rupees are indeed coming (or perhaps The G and I are coming to the Rupees). In a week’s time we depart for the Indian sub-continent. I learn that nobody knows very much about Indian history because the early Indians wrote nothing down – or at least very little. But this does not prevent the publication of mighty tomes about Indian history. A trip to Wikipedia (always advisable) finds an article called “History of India” which contains a chronology of shit that happened. My rapid assessment is that things hotted up in the subcontinent in about 1750BC with what’s called the Early, Middle and Late Vedic periods that ended in about 600BC. Apparently Sanskrit originated at the time of these Vedic dudes. There are claims of texts from the middle second millennium BC but they're lost so I guess they don't count. I have tried to read Vedic mathematics (even to the extent of starting to read Kim Plofker's "Mathematics in India) but I have given up.

Anyway we are flying to Dehli (North India) and will be there on 9 and 10 February and then we go to Agra for 11 and 12 (which is where the Taj Mahal is) and finally Jaipur on 13 and 14 February. We leave to go to the UK on 15 February. We’re only in the UK for 10 days or so and then we come home. I will say more about the UK leg of the Big Trip 16 in due course but its prime purpose is to drop in on The Parents.

No doubt I will get into the holiday groove!

I should like to be able to say that I am looking forward to all this. I would like to but I cannot quite. I will of course enjoy myself hugely when I get there but the idea of the flight is off-putting. There was a day when I would hop on and off planes with gay abandon; but not any more. But I know I will get over the flight.

There is another thing that I have noticed about work and holidays. Why is it that things start to get interesting or that deadlines loom immediately before I go on holiday? They always say that the only person who needs a holiday is one who has just come back for one. I think this is true. I’m working on a couple of projects at present and both of them will get really interesting just at the tie I an away. I don’t want to miss anything. Of course, I’ll get over it and those things that seemed so important won’t be that important when O look back in a few years! Nonetheless it’s frustrating.

But be all that as it may we shall be flying out next Saturday and The G is already busy preparing me for this. As ever she has a solid program of activity lined up and all of will be enjoyable. I expect to learn something and to see stuff I have not seen before. We will see.

New Year's Day: load of old nonsense

I have always regarded New Year’s Eve with a sceptical eye. It’s possible that this is just a “bah humbug” sort of response but I don’t think so. The G and I were in bed last night (New Year’s Eve) by 2230 and I was asleep by just after 2300 so whatever strange change in the universe’s mystical lines occurred was unknown to me. This morning I awoke and the world looked pretty much the same. Here is the view as I ate my breakfast. It’s not a bad view as views go; at this time of the morning and at this time of the year it’s too hot to sit out with the view of the lake.

The view from the back deck complete with weird totem pole thing

But back to New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day. Why is it that a single tick of the clock in a single location (the one you are in) is such a cause for celebration? After all that particular tick of that particular clock holds no particular significance for someone in another time zone. So it’s all arbitrary really.

I saw a post of Facebook yesterday that said something like “I am not planning to make any resolutions for the New Year. I was fabulous in 2015 and I will continue to be fabulous in 2016”. I wish I had thought of that.

I had a quick look at the history of the New Year celebration. The Babylonians, about 3,000 years ago, appear to have celebrated their New Year at the time of the vernal equinox which, as we all know, is on 20 or 21 March (it depends on the position of the sun and the earth). In the southern hemisphere it’s called the autumnal equinox. You will immediately be on to the fact that there must be a September equinox to match up with the March equinox. And you would be right.

If the Babylonians were celebrating the start of a New Year with the onset of Spring then, by rights, an antipodean New Year would be celebrated in September. In fact, that is just how the French Republican Calendar saw things. They kicked things off on 22 September which, if the Babylonians were right, is about when everything starts dying off in the northern hemisphere. There never was any logic to the French and their ways.

The Romans celebrated the New Year on 1 January 153 BCE but it wasn’t until Julius Caesar came along in 46 BCE and introduced a new solar-based calendar that the whole thing got regularised. At least it got regularised in the Western canon. The Chinese did something different at least in part because the Chinese calendar is different from the Julian (and later the Gregorian) calendars. We won’t go there but I think the message is that, because the sun goes round the earth every 365 days, 6 hours, 45 minutes and 48 seconds, we’re all hanging around until it comes back again.

I knew, of course, that when I awoke the headline news on abc.net.au would be trumpeting a Sydney firework display like no other. I expected that the report would tell me that revellers thronged every available space and saw the New Year in with whoops and shrieks. I was not disappointed; this is pretty much what the headline said.

And, as it happened, the day passed pretty much like any other.