January to mid September stunk. October, I landed a new job, then quit the old one, and December should hopefully pick up. The lack of content here is in part due to the fact that I’d lost my way, and had little artistic inclination over the last year; something I hope to look at over the next twelve months, and tackle in whatever way I possibly can. Sure, I won’t force the process, but I certainly won’t repress it as I have done of late. There’s far too much bubbling around inside to do that for much longer. And as for the current content, I’m not even sure if this database will make out out the other end of the refit.

As always, we’ll see. As for the rest, there’s a story there somewhere. One day, it might make it out. The man from 41C is not yet dead.

The man from seat 41C tugged on the laces of his shoes, and straightened up. He draped his overcoat on the handle of the luggage trolly, loaded his bags, and wondered off down the corridor towards Passport Control. A smile from the lady at the AA desk welcomed him back to the UK, and he half smiled back. The girl with brown boots was somewhere behind, pulling along a little case on wheels, and the couple from row 24 fiddled with the wife’s bag, looking for the stubs of their tickets.

Mister 41C rounded the corner, and padded through the security at the other end. He stepped out into the bleak and cold afternoon of Heathrow, and looked about him. Nothing shone anymore. All he could see was cold, wet, miserable people, and a dark cloud looming overhead. He wondered how much of this weather would stay, and how much was just hanging about from the New Year. Great, he thought. Just what the doctor ordered; rain.

A half hour later, he was asleep in the passenger seat of a car, being carried back into London. He dreamed about the flight, about waking up late and having been sent back to the States, as if he’d bounced back the way he came, as he often did on the District Line in the summer on the way back from Sloane Square. His feigned panic for the people at Immigration, and then joy at the prospect of seeing his sweetie again. One merge onto the A308 later and he woke with a jolt. He looks out the window, peering over his glasses, and sees nothing but the grey sky, rain pouring from the clouds hung in it. He settles back into his seat, and frowns to himself. His friend in the driver’s seat asks him what’s up, but 41C just replies he’s tired. It’ll pass, he says.

“It’ll pass. “

The man in seat 41C grimaced as the light above him blinked on in a rather obnoxious shade of dirty orange. The man with the Sox cap in 42B had pushed the little “Attention” button to summon a stewardess because he couldn’t find his pillow. Take this, the stewardess coo’d at him, and passed an unused one from a seat three down, next to the girl the the brown boots.

The girl shifted in her seat and adjusted her blanket, buckling the belt over it as the captain had said to do before the flight hit the night somewhere over Newfoundland. The remnants of the lackluster in-flight meal, a small pack of grapes, sat half-eaten on the armrest beside her, but for one which had escaped the plastic confines of the cup and rolled off down the aisle to be trodden on by a heavy-set gentleman in his socks on the way to the lavatory. He sighed and shuffled along, glancing over the sleeping occupants of Economy. Somewhere in the middle of the cabin, a man with a now spent video game sprawled, all six-feet-six of him, across five seats. Everything from 38B to 38F, and half an aisle were taken up with his frame and bags, which bumped the front of the brown boot girl’s seat, which had caused the grape to roll into the path of the man in his socks from 24F.

His wife in 24G curled up as best she could in the seat, and pulled down her mask to drown out the blinking of the video game from the man in 38B-F. It wasn’t until an hour later that a steward pulled the batteries and shut the blasted thing up.

From 22A to 45A, all had been looking out their windows on take off. The pounding rain had delayed the flight by almost two hours, and as the rain turned to slush and snow, the show became all the more entrancing. Of course, as they’d fallen asleep, the windows had remained open.

Only the man in 36A had the sense to close it; a seasoned traveler, he’d sat down, pulled out his own pillow, earplugs and blanket, pulled down the window, and dozed off within a matter of minutes. He’d missed the entire show. He’d made the Chicago-London run enough times to know it by now; he didn’t care to watch.

Across and down from him, the man in 38B-F shifted, and woke groggily. He lumbered up, and sat down in 40C, reclining the chair as far as it would go, leaving his bags, and shoes, sprawled over 38B-F. Only the satisfying tinkle of metal and glass gave away the fact that he’d just sat on his own glasses that he’d stuffed into his back pocket before falling asleep across the seats. Of course, he wouldn’t notice until landing the crumbs of glass pouring from the tear in his jeans back pocket, into the shoes of the man in 41C.

The man in 41C tutted, and moved his shoes to the right of the crack in the seat, and turned onto his side, as best to avoid the crushing of the seat of the oaf in-front of him. He sighed heavily, and closed his notebook, stuffing the pencil into the spine of the binding, and putting the whole thing in his bag next to him on 42D.

He buckled his belt, and fished into an inside pocket of his bag, and pulled out a simple wooden bead Rosary. Wrapping the beads around his fingers, he pressed it all to his forehead, and said a silent prayer for the ones he’d left behind in Chicago, and wondered when he’d see them again.

The AA98 flight banked over the Eastern coast of Greenland and made for Reykjavik, though and down towards London. Daylight broke as the plane turned port-side facing the sun, and shafts of light burst through the cabin, illuminating the passengers in red and yellow tones.

The man with the Rosary tucked his legs up under his seat, and turned to face the sun and the windows. He shut his eyes and dreamed of his lover.

That is the clock that I use to set myelf. I wake up in the morning, hit f12, check the weather, and the time, and ger ready for the day. I’ll hit f12 a few more times here and there, stopping for lunch, and later, counting out the seconds until I can pack up, shut down the VPN, and relax. And right now, instead of defining my wake up and bedtime by it, I’m looking at it, and waiting for my email to “ping” at me. Quite why, I’m not sure, but I’ve this feeling I’m expecting a message.

Maybe it’s someone telling me to write more; maybe telling me just to write anything, so long as it’s there, on the screen, not a vauge mess inside my head. Either way, I’ve lots to say, little time to do it in, and I owe people updates.

Anyway. To be done before December 26th;

1. Write more
2. Squish more bugs
3. Document the GSX
4. Decide on what kind of beard is best for Wisconsin. (The reason for this is a story in it’s own right. Coming soon.)
5. Work on kGTD and OmniOutliner workflows. (This list should /so/ be in kGTD…)
6. Try to break an Intel Xserve.

56. Paperwork. I hate paperwork.

Cocoa, 80% dark chocolate chips, 60% milk chocolate chips, and two shots of espresso. It all makes for excellent muffins. Makes about 18

The last time I actually baked anything in this kitchen other than bread or pizza, I was no more than twelve years old; a decade ago. For some reason, I’d never felt confident enough in my mother’s kitchen to really experiment. She, The Chef, would watch me working, and while she never once criticized me, I could tell she did not approve of a number of my methods.

At University, I became known as a bit of a cook; I’d be called on by friends, with requests ranging from “how do I make a white sauce? (can I use margarine?)” to “what do I do with romanescu cauliflower?” and “how do I boil eggs properly?” – I was pretty hot shit; easily the most accomplished and confident in the kitchen of all my friends. I remember, too, the very last time I made muffins. I was in Sussex, with my friend Amiee. It was three in the morning, and we made pistachio and white chocoalte muffins, and they were excellent. Perfectly shaped, and a moist little cap on top. The taste was to die for. We’d eaten most of them by the next night.

And that was two years ago. Since then, the muffin tins sat unloved in the back of a counter cupboard. And today, I pulled them out, dusted them off, and found the Mokka. I made muffins for the first time in two years, just throwing what I found into the mix until it all looked right and felt right. And I still coldn’t bring mself to lick the bowl after dishing out the muffin mix into the little greased pots; it’s never felt quite right. Same for cookie dough; I can’t do it. I’ll eat raw fish happily, even undercooked eggs pose no issue, but give me raw dough and I gag. Anyway, in all, it produced 18 healthy sized muffins, of which five have already been eaten by various people. I think they’ve come out okay, but could do with more careful time in the oven.

I only wish I knew where Amiee was. I’d send her some.

He tore the wrapper, and wound down the window. The paper fluttered from his hand, and was sucked out into the cold air as the truck thundered along Interstate 8. One hand on the wheel, he wiped the other on his jeans.

(more…)

Nutella is a spread created in post war Italy, which used a combination of hazelnut paste after excessive taxes on cocoa beans hindered the early development and production of conventional chocolate. While the economics of the situation produced a cheaper product, it is in no way inferior, and is in-fact regarded as one of the premier chocolate spreads.

Being Italian, Nutella has always featured in my home and my life. It’s a childhood comfort food; the same way some might consider Kraft Macaroni and Cheese a comfort food, it’s something that ties you to happier times when the only worries you had were what you were going to do when you ran out of 4*8 grey LEGO plates on your latest creation.

It is for this reason, I sit here at the screen with a spoon and a jar of Nutella. I’m wishing for a time where LEGO is my main concern, and when I thought staying up to 10pm was a major deal.

Anyway, please, do excuse me. I have a jar of Nutella to finish.

As I type this entry, happily eating what must be said, a very tasty slice of Ham and Pineapple pizza, one thing springs to mind; I have greasy fingers. Usually, I’d be having kittens at this point, but not now. My fingertips dart over the keys, and I have one over-riding thought in my mind. This computer is no longer mine.

It’s happened; two days ago, I was contacted by Executive Relations at Apple UK. My 12″ PowerBook has had it’s warrant signed, by me, and by a Higher Up at Apple. My MacBook has finally been ordered. A Core Duo 2GHz and a Gb of RAM, and a light up keyboard. I’m as happy as anything. They’ve even decided to throw in a new case for me. Really, the speed boost should be the most exciting thing for me, but no. It’s a light-up keyboard. Something I could have had two years ago, in fact, were it available on the 12″ PowerBook range. Never was, and really, never will be. Jacqui has a review up at Ars on the 1.83 Core Duo, and it’s excellent; despite the utter bullshite Slashdot and the News thread generated, it’s well rounded and an actual review of the hardware by a real user, not a regurgitation of the press release.
Either way, I’ve now got to wait until I get a fucking tracking number, and then the agonising weeks until it goes from Pending, Packing, Shipping, Shipped, and then all aboard the Mystery Bus to the middle of the fucking airport, a plane ride to the Netherlands, then to the UK, and handing it over to TNT for lord only knows how long until some under-paid driver hands over my Precious.

I’m in for one fuck of a long wait.

I feel horrid today. For the last week or so, I’ve been waking up feeling drained. I’ve been sleeping well barring the odd moments of waking up, but getting up has been a chore. My head has been spinning, my throat raw, mouth dry, and my chest is rattling. It conspires to make me feel horrid for my birthday. I somehow doubt I’ll be doing anything for it either, now. Bah.

I crave chicken soup, and oddly, red wine. The soup would be a good idea, the red wine, less so. The soup however means I need to get moving and cook as I cannot stand the thought of soup from a can. The wine means I just have to open the bottle, pour, and enjoy.

I’ve got one of these in the post, thanks to Ms. Rennie at Apple Customer Relations. She’s terribly nice. Needless to say, she was more than pleased to get it all organised after she saw the mess of notes in the AppleCare PeopleSoft DB had on my name.

Of course, I’ll put up my reactions to it, and field the usual questions. And no, I won’t send it to you. So don’t ask.

I’m sure I’ll love it. Other than the name. It has a name only a mother could love.