Wildlife network

Naturally, every softball game should begin with a positive mental attitude. Why, we could be set to steamroller through the first seven innings, causing our rivals to plead the mercy rule because their muscles had atrophied from sitting on the bench so long.

It is more difficult to maintain that attitude when you arrive at the pitch to find the other team in matching jerseys. With their names sewn onto the back. Even less promising was the fact they used a portable mesh screen to protect their pitcher from a fast returned ball. (They asked if we wished to use it. We felt able to politely decline). I found this last point particularly concerning when I was placed in short field, worryingly close to the action. I adjusted my fielding glove and wondered if it would noticeably affect my game if I wore it as a face protector.

Shocked as we were by this indication of strength, our defense during the first inning progressed as BP's oil clean-up efforts; slow and ineffectual. Nevertheless when no one died, our confidence picked up and we moved onto a spate of knocking out the first two batters. Sadly, we always followed this by allowing subsequent players a free range of the bases. Perhaps this was because we felt sorry for them. Perhaps it was because we got cocky. Or perhaps it was because we were physicists and there is no exact solution to the motion of more than two gravitationally interacting particles.

Our batting also showed promise. One of our players smacked a strong shot that sent the ball way into the outfield. This was bound to be a home run, no one could catch that. Well .... except maybe that guy.

"Damn you! We have your number!"

We meant that literally. It was sewn on the back of his team jersey along with his name.

Half-way through the game I was put on third base. This was fun for me, but a probable disaster for our score sheet. Still, I gamely walked across the pitch to take my place. Just behind me stood the base coach for the other team. He was a large guy and I felt briefly apprehensive until:

"Peanut?"

"What?!"

I looked back to see a hand extended to me containing a fist full of unshelled peanuts. It was tempting but I had this GIGANTIC HAND with my fielding glove. I didn't think it would do my popularity any good if I was trying to negotiate a snack when the action came my way. One base along, the batter smacked the ball into the earth. It bounced, rolled towards me and I scooped it up in my glove. I had the ball! It hadn't cost me a limb! How exciting.

Or it would be if I I had any kind of contingency plan for this eventuality.

Seriously, I had never expected to catch this. It had never happened before. Either I dawdled long enough or there was nothing new to be done for a shout reached me of 'Keep it!' followed by the pitcher holding out his hand. I lobed it at him. Hot potato!

Since that was quite enough excitement for one day, I retreated in the next innings to the outer right field. Two of my friends took centre and short field. A deer took outer left field. It meandered out of the bushes and started chewing nonchalantly on a tree.

"Someone get that deer a glove!" came the shout from a team mate.

Apparently though, the deer was reluctant to take sides. Either that, or it had seen us bat and deemed there was little need for a catching glove so far out. It snacked on the sidelines, TV dinner style, until we were back to batting. Our matches might not be quite making cable, but it is pleasing to know they are still reaching an audience.

More glass than wall

Hardwick Old Hall was built by Bess of Hardwick, a feisty and incredibly rich (thanks to four marriages) woman in Elizabethan times. "Building Bess" designed the hall herself to replace the original family medieval manor house that sat on the same site in Derbyshire. Once she had eight children (via marriage number two) and become a countess (marriage number four), Bess wanted an abode that would reflect her new station in life and, naturally, one that would live up to those of her friends. An understandable enterprise made fractionally more ambitious by the fact her closest companion was Queen Elizabeth I.

A prophesy was foretold that Bess would not die while she continued building and it was perhaps this that caused her to start work on Hardwick New Hall before the Old Hall was fully complete. England's aristocracy frequency held different residences around the country but the notable fact about the New Hall is that it was built right next door to the Old Hall. This is quite literally so; they are as close as two spaciously detached houses although rather on the larger side. The picture at the top shows the New Hall photographed from the Old Hall.

Unlike the first building, Bess did not design Hardwick New Hall, employing instead the professional architect, Robert Smythson. The defining feature of the new abode is its owner's initials, in large stone letters, scattered liberally about the rooftop and the wide windows, which produced the phrase "Hardwick Hall, more glass than wall" to describe the location for the last 400 years.

Despite this brave attempt to keep the building work continuing, a hard frost in 1608 halted work and Bess died, fulfilling the prophesy. A cynic to such topics might point out that her being over 80 might have also had something to do with it.

Even though the Old Hall and New Hall were built a mere three years apart, they now look vastly different. The New Hall has been completely maintained while the Old Hall has fallen into ruin. The latter came about because descendants of Bess in the 18th Century sold part of the building to raise funds while they lived at their preferred location in Chatsworth. Apparently, declaring that you had not the cash, but your debtors could help themselves to eastern dinning hall wall was completely acceptable ...

The western half of the Old Hall is less ruinous than its eastern side and you can climb up the stairs to gain a stunning view over the Derbyshire countryside. Between the trees, you also catch a view of the M1 motorway, something I am quite sure Bess intended. Everyone, after all, likes to keep an eye on visitors, especially estranged husbands who were cracking until the strain of their indomitable wife.

A stronghold for all seasons

The problem with tourist attractions is that it tends to be only tourists who schedule going to see them. In fact, I didn't think I'd ever been to the Tower of London before until a dim memory of the sparkling crown jewels resurfaced. Since that time, I'd developed a strong obsession with reading Tudor history (and probably learnt to read period; it really had been a while) where the majority of the notable figures seemed to like to hang out in the Tower and, you know, be decapitated.

We took advantage of the tour offered by the Beefeaters, the origin of whose name is lost in history but most likely stems from their original payment being of meat; a reasonable fare in a time where most could only afford vegetables. Members of our tour group came from around the world and included Americans, who, the Beefeater cheerfully pointed out, would be able to claim all this history if only they had paid their taxes.

With our guide, we started at the watergate, later renamed 'Traitor's Gate' where prisoners were brought into the tower by boat. One of the most famous entrants through this system would have been Anne Boleyn, second wife of Henry VIII and later her cousin, Henry's fifth wife, Katherine Howard. Neither ever emerged and are buried alongside one another in the Tower's chapel by the place they were executed. Next to them lies Anne's brother, George, Duke of Rochester (beheaded for supposedly frequenting his own sister's bed) and his wife, Jane (beheaded later with Katherine Howard for concealing her ... sharing nature in regard to bedroom partners). When it comes to playing with power, the great Tudor families were not quick learners.

Perhaps more sympathy should be shown to the 16 year old who lies buried at their feet. Lady Jane Grey ruled for nine days, having been coerced onto the thrown in opposition to the Catholic Mary by her father and father-in-law. Her husband, Guilford Dudley, met the same fate and engraved his wife's name twice on the walls of his cell, which can be seen along with the stone etchings of many other unfortunate residents of that room.

The chapel also contains the remains of Charles II's bastard son. The merry king was blessed with 14 (acknowledged) children, but since none of them were from his wife, the throne was due to pass to his brother (an unpopular move, but surprisingly one that did not end in the Tower). His eldest illegitimate off-spring attempted to take the crown himself, resulting in the removal of the necessary body part for said ornament. Upon beheading, however, it was realised that no official portrait existed for the son of this king, which apparently was unacceptable. The head was therefore stitched back onto the body, adorned with a large ruff and an artist called in to capture the likeness within twelve hours, least the corpse start to smell. The painter finished in eight and the image is now in a private collection. Our Beefeater tour guide claims that it does not look life like.

This is of course, only a fraction of the people who met their end in England's greatest stronghold (another one being the inspiration for this entry's title; Sir Thomas More, later canonised for what compensation that is). Close to 1000 bodies are buried under the floor of a chapel that contains no more than ten rows of seats. When the building was restored in Queen Victoria's time, the floor was uneven due to the shallow shuffling of graves.

In the centre of the grounds stands the White Tower. Originally build by William the Conqueror in 1077 as his place of residence, it is the oldest of the buildings and contains a museum of armour. It is also where a chest containing two small skeletons was found, identified as the remains of the "Princes in the Tower". These two boys (12 and 9) were murdered around 1483 by persons unknown, although eyes tend to drift towards their uncle who seized the throne even while they lived.

Opposite the White Tower is the most secure place on the site where the crown jewels are kept. The doors that allow you into that area weigh 2000 kg each. Rather like the Scottish deep fried mars bar, here lies anything that someone thought might look good dipped in gold. Crowns, swords, spurs and a whole load of plate.

Twinkle.

One crown, known at the India crown, was only worn once, during a visit of George V to Delhi in 1911. Since by Old Royal Law the official crown (or, more accurately, the crown jewels) is not allowed to leave the country, another priceless identical one was created for the occasion...

As closing time rolled round, we vetoed the prospect of spending the night in the dungeons in favour of a pub in Charing Cross. This area of London turned out to be full of black phone boxes. Black. WTF, London?

I can hear the bells

"Do you remember the time Al walked in on you handcuffing Steve to a chair?"

I looked across the room at the previously compromised individual, who also happened to be the groom. Initially, my answer was negative and a strong denial was on my lips before a scene floated to the top of my memory of a college room, a chair and .... ah.

"The reason was innocent," another friend helpfully chipped in. "There was a cops and villains theme that night."

I hoped it was innocent. If it hadn't been, the very least I could have done was remember it. Still, it was not so surprising. Steve and I had adjacent rooms the first year at University; who else would I try a pair of handcuffs on? I looked around the table. Seven faces looked back at me and, frankly, they were all perfect candidates for such an occurrence. Pleasingly, my memory had at least given me ammunition of my own:

Did we, per chance, recall the time a member of our table procured a kebab after an inebriated last night of term and, rather than consuming his purchase, packed it in his luggage?

What about the random guy who tried to climb into a (male) friend's bed, having gotten the wrong room?

Or the fact that the same friend mirrored this event himself one drunken night down the line?

Then there was the bucket of tar in the police car park, which had been reached by climbing over a wall (ironically in an effort to get home), the traffic cone that sat in our hallway for a week, the 'mind your head signs' that appeared all around college (ok, that was me again) and the bar crawls. Really, we had enough material for several weddings.

Of course, not everything changes over the years:

"Do you remember when you reached for the mouse in the computer room but grabbed the hand of the girl next to you instead?"

"Oh, I do that all the time!"

Without a doubt, the concept of someone throwing a gigantic party and inviting you and all your friends rocks. It is perhaps a trace stressful for the bride, groom and immediate family but I'm prepared to tolerate their discomfort for the massive benefit to my own. To add to the complete win of this occasion, the ceremony was held in an idyllic village church and the reception was on a farm. When you live abroad, there is really nothing more exciting than a sheep. Except maybe a cow. Seriously, I could have hugged them all, except that might have disturbed the groom's family (the owners of the farm) even if it probably would not have surprised the groom himself.

My restraint was rewarded by the presence of plastic farm animals and a fuzzy-felt build-your-own farm yard on each table. The small toy hare was the same size as the cows which served as a warning to all guests on the perils of non-organic farming. Then there was wine, a hog roast (if you can't hug 'em, eat 'em), more wine, desserts, champagne and a ceilidh.

It was somewhat of a miracle that as dusk fell we were still capable of organising the flat-packed set placed into our hands into a lantern. These paper globes were lit at their base and then rose into the air to float gently off into the sky. Or crash and burn, depending. There was probably a profound analogy to be made regarding the fate of paper lanterns and our paths through life, but the only questions on my mind right then was how the bride was still looking beautiful and energised and whether there were any cup cakes left.

It was only when the un-handcuffed, newly wed groom came up to say hello and said how much it meant to have me there that day that I understood why people cried at weddings. I wonder if I could persuade them to do it again next year.

Flaming Flowers

Like any decent Spanish city, dinner in Barcelona doesn't kick off until past 9 pm. Either in an attempt to entertain us or due to some perverted psychological experiment (the latter was claimed in the conference summary) the scheduled talks lasted until this time on two of the five days. Friday night therefore found me, worn and beat, taking a meandering route back to the apartment through Barcelona old town.

I had completely lost two out of my three friends. As unfortunate as this was, I was not concerned. Even as midnight approached, the streets were packed with people and well lit. They and I would be perfectly safe and more to the point, both the map and the only key to the apartment were in my possession.

As I headed past the Cathedral, the sound of live music reached my ears from a nearby courtyard. I almost passed by, but it occurred to me that, like moths to a flame, my friends might have been sucked into this madness. It was a good instinct, since we emerged from adjacent streets at the same moment. On the far side of the plaza, musicians playing instruments including a double base and flute, sat on stone steps while before them, Spain danced.

Perhaps this was a form of Spanish Ceilidh, since the steps to each of the jigs that played seemed to be known to the masses. The first involved grasping hands with anyone you could reach and rushing to the centre like a gigantic hokey-cokey. The next involved dancing with your hands above your head while the third required a partner and, more oddly, a flower. These flowers were no ordinary blooms. Held in the couple's leading hands while in ballroom position, they were made of paper and contained a candle. One might deem this combination worrisome and, indeed, it seemed to be a competition as to whose flower would survive the dance. It was similar to an egg and spoon race, but with the exciting possibility of personal combustion.  Half way through the dance, it appeared that it might be a flat out draw with absolutely no winners but the occasional flower-come-flaming-torch lighting the night sky.

Sellers pushed through the crowd offering cans of beer and one guy who declared his name as "Canada" (complete with a badge of the flag of my country of residence) was claiming to be collecting for the musicians. It seemed a dubious story and indeed, we saw him walk off as we left the scene for the night.

On the way back, we stopped for gelaati. I had a scoop of pistachio and one of bubble gum flavour (due to being sucked in by the bright colours). This resulted in a sugar rush that has me greeting the early hours with an alertness I am liable to regret come daybreak.

Playing God

It's hard to describe my job without sounding like a deity-in-training. This is a shame since the glamor of the genuine situation is somewhat diminished by the stream of profanities I tend to spout at my code (it's quite amazing what you can make "Enzo"¹ rhyme with if you truly dedicate yourself to the task). Explaining this to friends and family is often a disillusioning process and I really must say, putting a supercomputer IN A CHURCH is not helping my cause.

The MareNostrum supercomputer in Barcelona Spain was number four in the world when it first came online in 2005. It regained that status after an upgrade in 2006 and currently sits at number 87. It does, however, still top of the list in terms of beauty.

Installed in the deconsecrated chapel Torre Girona on the Polytechnic University of Catalonia campus, the computer sits in a highly air-conditioned clear box that fills the chapel's centre. The surrounding area is very warm, heated by the 10,240 CPUs contained within this machine. As part of the conference, we were offered a tour of the facility and were able to walk around the chapel and look down on the supercomputer from the balcony area. It is quite attractive and quite quite bizarre. Old stone archways and stained glass depicting Biblical scenes surround a high-tech national facility used for cutting edge research, including astrophysics.

All in all, it's a religion I feel I could get behind.... providing they keep upgrading of course.

[¹ The name of the astrophysical code I insult work with.]

Home territory

Border guard: "Hello!"
Good morning, good morning! Good morning, good morning to you!

I hand over my passport: ".... hi."
Why are you so cheerful?

Border guard: "Thank you."
This passport is so full of stamps and stickers you are probably some form of crazy international spy set on destruction.

I smile politely.
The fact you are so nice is unnerving me.

Border guard, handing back passport: "There you go!"
But you're on our side so whatever.

There's something wonderful about your own border.

Best laid plans

MEOWOWOWOWOW It's so hot! I'm burning! BURNING! My fur is going to fry! MRRRRRRROOOOOWWWWW

Well, it wasn't as if I didn't agree with the sentiment. The temperature was in the 30s (centigrade, I've reverted back to metric and y'all are going to have to roll with that) and the car had become a bug-shaped greenhouse. Nevertheless, my flight was in four hours and the furry Houdini who had already escaped her carrier once to be chased around the basement was going to the cattery.

Five minutes later we were on the road and the carrier on the floor beside me had gone completely silent. This probably had a lot to do with the apartment only being marginally cooler than the car. Ahhhh air conditioning! By the time we reached our destination, however, the memory of the too hot apartment had entirely vanished and we were back onto the topic of the torture I was putting her through by this sadistic car journey from hell. 

Did I mention the cattery I put my cat in is called "Cat Castle"? And that I find this slightly embarrassing? Unfortunately, I am incapable of relaxing on my time away unless I know my cat is in the lap of luxury. Next time, I tell the still protesting kitty, you go to the conference. I'll stay here.

From the cattery, I was taking a cab to the airport. At least that was the master plan, somewhat scuppered by the fact the taxi company had forgotten my reservation. Half an hour later, a freshly dispatched cab appeared.

"What time is your flight?"

"7:30 pm. I was looking to get there around 5:30."

"Oh, that's not going to happen! Ha ha ha."

I didn't know whether to feel peeved or amused that he didn't even pretend to be apologetic. I regretted not accepting a juice box from the cattery. It would be good to chew on a straw round about now.

"... so we were up north, cleaning out a shed and making a huge bonfire of all the trash when this huge bear lumbered out of the woods...."

Well, the cab ride might have been longer than I was planning, but it had high entertainment value .

".... and he was like RAWWWRRRRR."

My phone slid to the floor and I had to dive for it. Regardless of the situation, it is a trace surprising when your cabbie emits a gut wrenching growl. Evidently though, this enthusiasm was exactly what was needed and we arrived at the airport around 5:40. It transpired the flat-rate on the website was out of date and I had to pay an extra $7 from what I was expecting. I didn't quibble; that story was totally worth it.

"See you kiddo!"

You know what? I'm not even going to go there.

Inside the terminal, I arrived at the desk to check in:

"The flight is delayed, it will now leave at 9:15 pm."

So much for running late. This now meant it was likely I was going to miss my train I'd booked a ticket on the other side of the pond. Ho hum. I sauntered through security.

"You're flying to Manchester? You've been selected for a secondary security inspection."

.... were those two things linked? Well, it wasn't like I didn't have time. I put my hands into my pockets and then allowed a swab to be run over the top of them. Inspecting the result, I could only hope that cat hair wouldn't clog up their machines. Allowed to continue on my way, I mooched through the airport shops and bought a juice box; the desire to bite a straw was still strong. Said straw turned out to be shorter than its juice box and disappeared into its interior never to be seen again.

I frowned and looked around; one of these shops sells aspirin, right?

The future's bright, the future's amythst

I admit I am probably not on a psychic's top 10 favourite people to walk through their door. Not because I am intent on exposing their art as fiction, but because I lack the common neuroses that normally drive individuals into their curtained centre of operation. I am unplagued by relationships past, feel good about my job and positive about the future. Plus, I went with a close friend and comparing your secret and private fortune is hardly to be encouraged. However, it was the combination of all these good vibes that made the prospect of visiting a psychic while in New York City a truly humorous and enticing prospect.

The sign outside the door advertised a reading for $10. Of course, once inside, we were told that this was only for a face reading of your personality and really what we wanted was a palm reading for $25 or, more likely, a tarot card reading for $65 and probably a crystal ball gazing for a couple of hundred. We originally opted for the palm reading but eventually allowed ourselves to be talked into a combined offer for palm + tarot cards.

My palm, I was told, predicted a long life and a happy one. It portrayed me as a cheerful, kind individual who said things to people's face and not to their backs. Well, flattery will get you everywhere and I am blogging; I say things to everyone's face. In the world. I was also told this would get me into trouble and wondered vaguely if this resulting post would cause me to be sued.

We then moved on to the tarot cards. To my disappointment, my psychic did not read the cards per se, rather she placed them face up on the table and claimed to "draw energy" from them to give me my fortune. This was the point when I started seriously disappointing the poor woman.

Attempt #1:
"I see there is a past relationship that you cannot stop thinking about. Who is that man?"

"Um. Well, I don't actually know. My last relationship finished a while ago and I really wasn't that bothered."

Attempt #2:
"You wake up feeling very lethargic and you feel you have made bad decisions in the past."

".... Not really. I'm really pleased with the way my career is going and the changes that have happened.... I woke up slightly hungover this morning?"

The woman's eyes narrowed. No love issues, no career issues. A happy, optimistic customer. This lead to really only one obvious conclusion...

Attempt #3:
"I sense someone is very jealous of you. I see a woman with black hair."

My eyes slid to the right. I couldn't help but notice that the other psychic had black hair. Still, I did know one person who was pretty irritated at me for no decipherable reason. She doesn't have black hair, but you know, it was a good try and I was impressed by the logic: Your life seems to rock. Therefore someone probably hates you. It could be me or my friend over there.

At the end, I was allowed to ask two questions of the cards. I scratched my head:

Q: "I travel a lot. Do you see me ever settling down?"

A: "Yes, I do. But not this year. This year is a good one for travel."

Good line to throw at the girl with the British accent in New York. I had to give her some credit for using her head.

Q: "Do you see me getting married?"

Well, doesn't everyone ask that question?

A: "I see you meeting your life partner in 2 - 3 years from now."

2 - 3 years? Well, there's no point in dating anyone I've met recently then.

A: "You will also have three children and be very happy."

.... Three?!

In the back of the room behind a curtained partition a small boy starting screaming his lungs out. The psychic turned to bellow at him to shut up.

.... Happy?!

I shifted in my seat. As we drew to a close, the woman told me she wanted to give me a stone. By "give" I mean "sell at an exorbitant price". Apparently, I was lacking amethyst in my life and I should keep a stone close by me at all time to give me energy and protect against jealousy. I should also tell no one about it.

.... Oops.

I was sceptical and declined. She dropped the price. This protection, she insisted, was essential. I lifted an eyebrow and turned to my friend who was also just finishing.

"Have you just been offered a stone?"

"Yes. I was thinking no."

Psychic: "How about just $10 for the stone?"

I considered it. "Well it would make a cool souvenir."

My psychic looked askance, but the other one smiled and agreed. In the end we gave in and I purchased a small lump of amethyst, my friend a rose stone. We then took them over to a jewellery making shop in Brooklyn and turned them into pendants. Were we ripped off? Of course! These stones cost about a $1 on the street. Do we have the most awesome memento of our crazy psychic trip? Yes. Yes we do.

Psychic reading: $45
Protective stone: $10
Memento of crazy psychic trip with childhood friend: Priceless

As we wound wire around our rocks, my friend and I compared our futures. They were incredibly similar. Clearly we were really twins separated at birth.

In conclusion, my friend declared: "This trip has saved me so much money!"

I stopped winding wire and looked up. "Saved?!"

"Yeah. She said I was to have two boys. I only want a girl, so there's no point in having kids at all. They would have cost me loads!"

JFK airport when I finally ended my trip was in carnage. I collected my boarding pass to discover yet again, I still didn't have a seat. But this time, THIS TIME, I had an amythst power necklace. What could possibly go wrong?

Arts life

"So, the cast are all on stage, but they haven't got their lead role; apparently, she's left with her boyfriend. The director turns to the audience and says, 'We're sorry, the play is canceled; you can get a refund at the door'. But then, a girl puts up her hand and cries, 'Wait! I've seen this play ten times because I have the same name as the star! I can totally do her part!'. The cast discuss it and ask, 'What if she can't act?' but then they point out the other girl couldn't act either, so what's the harm? The kid is pulled on stage and, with the help of stage prompts, she gets through the whole part. Everyone is delighted, especially since her father is a baker and the actors all want pies."

And so went my lunchtime conversation at the American Academy of Arts & Letters. This 250 member organisation supports the creators of the arts, for example, writers, composers and visual graphic producers but not performers. With the size of the establishment fixed and every appointment being for life, the only way a new member can be appointed is in the wake of a death which, as also came up at lunch, should probably result in a homicide investigation surrounding each new face.

In case it was not entirely obvious, I was there to cheer on a friend who was receiving an award for her composition, rather than for recognition of the great American novel which I'd been keeping numb about. Prior to lunch, we started the event with delicate h'orderves and I eyed the crowd over a wine glass, comparing it to my more usual haunt at astrophysics conferences. In place of jeans with the occasional button down shirt, I was surrounded by smart suits and dresses. If that was disconcerting, it was totally overlooked by the guys on mutant segways. Well, at first they were normal wheelchairs, but to bring their occupant up to eye level, these robotic transporters rose up on their back wheels in a way that looked frankly dangerous. They could even roam about like that. To me, it seemed one step away from a Gundam suit.

Moving onto lunch, I sat next to a writer who had recently converted the children's book "Gina Farina and the Prince of Mintz" to a stage production. I still have no idea if what he was telling me was part of the plot or a real event. Despite its different clientèle, there were decided similarities in the stories circulating the table with my own discipline. There was the eminent composer, for instance, who placed a CD on an LP record player and complained in disgust at the screeching noise it produced as the needle carved up the disk. This was only marginally worse than a nameless professor scanning overheads to use them in powerpoint presentations. Except, well no; the latter does actually work.

The fellowship my friend was awarded was created by Charles Ives, the inventor of life insurance who made his fortune and then turned his hand to composing. Perhaps the awards were funded out of his own policy upon his death; it is unknown. What is known is that he never attended one of his own premieres. Allegedly, he couldn't stand them and refused to listen to a first performance of his work even on his death bed where the likelihood of him hearing a later version was rather low.

At the ceremony itself, I clapped, cheered and freaked out the person next to me by admitting what I did for a living. Oh, and I introduced myself to Meryl Streep and shook her hand. Just thought I'd throw that in there.

A love story

USA border control. I'm going to come right out and say I don't like 'em.

We have a relationship that goes back some five and a half years (with one casual encounter prior to this). Some might even consider it semi-serious, especially if you view my move to Canada as a way of spending more time with them. They, however, have denial issues. No matter the frequency of my visits, they refuse to acknowledge that I have ever passed this way before and behave as a jilted lover with a vengeance fetish.

This time, our date took place at the Niagara border on the way to Buffalo airport. I had driven that way twice previously but, out of caution, had allowed an extra hour for bad traffic or a queue at the gate. However, once I had skirted the school buses piled up outside my house, neither of these concerns manifested themselves. The drive was easy and the bridge over to the USA entirely empty. Well, we had been winning the hockey; why would anyone go that way?

What I had not allowed for was the time required to get a visitor visa. The I-94 slip is valid for three months and the last two times I had driven over the border, I had one that was in date. But come on; it's a one page slip that they deal with in five minutes at the airport. How long could this seriously take at the much quieter land crossing?

The answer, it transpires, is 45 minutes.

It also costs $6 USD. I guess the cost is including in your plane ticket when you fly. While not exactly a substantial sum, the problem with requesting USD from people who are in Canada is .... Yeah. I had plenty of CAD but no USD. Well, OK, I had $1. It seems to me that it would make more sense to accept Canadian dollars at the Canadian border but no, apparently not. Fortunately, they do accept credit cards. I waved VISA then I left, now eying the clock.

Almost directly after the border is another bridge. It's a toll one. Did I mention I had no USD? It was possible that the amount they wanted was only $1, but there was no sign before the one and only turn-off before the toll booth, so I couldn't risk it. I pulled into a small gas station and ran my debit card through their ATM. Then I put my foot on the gas, staying slightly behind the guy who obviously was speeding and looking decidedly less innocent than a bright yellow VW beetle.

The bridge toll, incidentally, was $1.

I arrived at Buffalo airport exactly an hour before my flight. In theory, I was fine but I still had to park and I'd been caught out before by over zealous airport attendants. Not waiting for the shuttle bus, I cut across the grass to the terminal, rushing in to find it ... complete deserted. Like really, it was quite eerie. The check-in desk was devoid of human life, but I talked to a machine that printed me a boarding pass but refused to assign me a seat number. Ominous. Was departures empty because everyone was in fact flying to NYC and my flight was packed? I took my ticket and hurried to security.

.... it was also empty.

Seriously people, what do you know that I don't? Feeling like the lead in "28 days later", I pushed my bag through the x-ray machine (this was at least manned) and went and got a sandwich from the food court. Everyone smiled, everyone was nice and everyone was not a passenger. Hmm.

Arriving at my gate, I found three other people there. Somewhat reassuring. I passed my unassigned seat boarding pass to the airline steward at the desk. He frowned and went to his computer to print off a new one. It also had me on the reserve list. The steward raised his eyebrows and tried again. Same result. It appeared that despite this flight being seemingly empty, the computer was determined that I would stay behind. Perhaps it found an empty plane aesthetically pleasing. Perhaps it was in a love affair with the US border control too.

Two phone calls later and I do now have a seat. We will see if it's on the wing.

Roll to me

I have always found feet a disappointment. I mean, they work and everything but life is so much more exciting when you have alternative transportation as footwear. It seems I am not alone in this desire and with the snow and ice gone, many Canadians have switched blades for wheels. Skaters pass me on the way to the University, around town and along the tracks surrounding the lake. Since I possess a pair of roller blades (two actually, for various reasons) I am totally up for joining them ... except for the fact I haven't the foggiest how to stop.

On ice, the sharp sideways pivot hockey stop can bring you to a direct halt almost instantly. On wheels, such a maneuver would result in full body contact with the ground which, while technically fulfilling the intended purpose, lacks a certain something. This restriction is reflected in the rules of roller hockey where the game is played four-on-four, rather than five-on-five, and with no off-side rule. Recreational skates have a back break, but how do you use this without falling on your arse?

This issue is exasperated still more by the difference in intended skating location. In the rink, if I didn't stop I ended up crashing into the barrier or a member of (hopefully) the opposite team (did I take out your ringer? My bad). Here, I would likely end up sprawled in the middle of the highway. Not cool, free health care or not.

There was really only one thing for it and I signed up with a competitive roller blading guy who was offering lessons in Toronto. The class I joined was for beginners and he did warn me over email that they might not get onto stopping in the first lesson. But, he said (and I quote):

"I can make you more confident and stable so stopping won't seem quite as important."

Yeah! If I'm confident I can just go play chicken with those cars! Bring it on! .... I dug out my helmet and pads from the basement.

There were five of us in the class ranging from raw beginners to people lacking in confidence and needing a bit of advanced instruction. It was actually very good and I learnt a bunch of techniques for stability over rough surfaces. I also found that I could stop slowly; when approaching a wall, I stepped inwards to slow myself down. One of the other girls in the class noticed and commented:

"You stopped. How did you do that?"

".... I don't know."

"I think you know more than you realise."

Possibly she was right and it's probably likely that a few years ice skating plus a few more on quad skates helps with the learning process if not technique. I am still, however, going back next week. Life is full of surprises, but I'd rather mine didn't involve a dog's leash (horror story from our instructor), a small child armed with a bicycle (horror story #2) or a large truck (what I'm trying to ensure isn't horror story #3).

Mudball

Canadians, it transpires, have a similar stiff-upper-lip attitude to weather as their British counterparts. Given their notorious winters, this perhaps isn't surprising and the upshot of this truism found me in ankle deep wet grass, weighing up whether it was really needful to remove my hands from my jacket sleeves as the other team came up to bat. I would have been feeling less hard done by if every day when I wasn't outside, it hadn't been gorgeous sunshine. For the last four weeks, mind. Still, I could hardly complain; I am British after all. I was also keeping a wary eye on a flock of geese that seemed to have taken over the right outfield. I found this somewhat unnerving since rumour had it that, should these fowl be involved in play, there would probably be two loosing teams.

By the time we had reached the forth innings, I had concluded there must be a more civilized way to settle our differences. A coin flip perhaps? I was even prepared to weight the coin to allow for their indecently competent first baseman. A friend suggested we put in an offer of 12 to 14 and call it a day. Admittedly, it would have been rather generous to us but then it was our suggestion. Instead though, I was left to peer through the netting and wonder why the umpire had not invoked the mercy rule as the other team went on a batting spree. The answer to this turned out to be because the man in question had a second game after this one and wanted company while he waited. As a result, we played all nine innings although our sodden score sheet is only testimony to about the first six. After that, it was home runs from everyone all the way....

..... >_> ..... <_< .....

There is nothing water resistant to prove otherwise.

Thwack

First softball game of the season after, uh, two practices one of which I didn't make. But I was unperturbed; I had all that extensive rounders experience under my belt and well, I promised nuffin' when I was conscripted for this team. I felt I fulfilled this obligation when I showed up with a glove stolen from my office. It was a great start.

The team we played were from material engineering. This, someone suggested, surely meant they were unlikely to be any better than us. That cheerful, brash assumption transpired to be entirely false. The game is governed by basic projectiles and as physicists we could all calculate the ball's trajectory to within three decimal places. Unfortunately, as engineers, our rival team could actually hit it to within 1.  It was revealed somewhere around the fifth innings that the other team has actually won the league last year. The person with that knowledge had kept numb on the subject until he thought it might sooth our lack-of-home-run pride.

Nevertheless, the weather was warm and it was great to be outside. I discovered that catching with a GIANT HAND is not easy. For a start, I really had no idea where the extent of this mutant appendage was, so getting the ball to hit the glove centre was hard going. It was also difficult to bend the glove, so the ball tended to drop from it rather like a marshmallow from the mouth of a stunned spectator. After determining this, I was put to be a rover (woof!) which involved standing between the diamond and out field where most balls that come your way will be rolling.

About half way through the game, someone asked if us on the bench wanted to know the score. We all cheerfully declined. I did hit the ball when I batted though. That was almost useful and I felt cool baseballer on TV.

I need a cap.

Free food

So phdcomics.com? All true, in case anyone was in doubt. My group meeting today can be summed up by the reoccurring theme presented in this strip:

We had gone down to our usual location of the second floor coffee room in the science building to find the scant remains of a pre-Chemistry lecture snacks. Evidently, the speaker had been someone important since the nibbles had consisted of prawns, olives, good cheese and a variety of raw vegetables with dips. We concluded from this two things:

1. Firstly, the Chemistry department had too much money and Physics should either raid it or grass them up to the Dean.
2. We had to devour the remains before they were cleared away.

A couple of the grad students went to work filling their plates but had to up the pace when a guy appeared pushing a trolley to wheel the dishes away. A basket of crackers, plate of cheese and a pot of olives was swiftly secured for our group meeting table which we had safely surrounded. The rest of the discussion then went like this:

Student 1: "I need to calculate the full width half maximum of this graph."

Student 2: "Hmm, crunchy."

Student 1: "..... I have crumbs on my graph."

When people stopped eating, our adviser declared the meeting over.

Hot bubble

Montreal (East) has snow. Alberta (West) has seen a sudden severe spring blizzard sweep over it. Us, in Toronto? Hot bubble.

The only thing wrong with this image is that's it's taken from inside the Physics department at the University of Toronto, rather than outside on the lawn balanced precariously on an ice cream cone.

*Steams*

Rounders for boys

Spring has sprung and in the wake of the shock that followed the melting of snow and ice, the Physics department has formed a softball team. Softball, fellow Brits, is exactly like rounders except not socially confined to small school girls in gym skirts. The ball, also, IS NOT SOFT. This horrifically inaccurate misnomer is doubtless there to lure innocent postdocs away from their desks with the thought 'Eh, what's the worst that can happen?'[*]. On a plus side, I did get to wear a mit so I had one GIGANTIC hand. It was ace.

Despite being reassured that it was fine to play with only one day spectating the Tampa Bay Rays baseball team as way of recent experience, I was mildly apprehensive about batting. I mean, my memories of outer fielding told me that, positioned carefully, I could probably play solitaire on my iPhone inbetween pitches (except I had this GIGANTIC hand, did I mention?). Batting, on the other (smaller) hand, puts you front stage. There's even a diamond to emphasise this. Fortunately, I didn't turn out to be as big a failure as I anticipated. Metal hit ball frequently. Sometimes the ball even went somewhere. This was almost certainly due to our skilled pitcher, but hey! If he plays with us in the games who's to know? The bat, incidentally, is way heavier than the little wooden rounders bats I used to swing. My wrists got quite sore after a few.

Returning to fielding, I discovered a clash with my game play in other sports. I had an unpleasant habit of stopping the ball with my shin or shoe. I do this with the puck in hockey all the time; stopping it on the side of my ... padded ... skate or, um ... shin pad. Ah yes. That would be why it didn't hurt then. A friend commented I 'took one for the team'. I grimaced and tried to pretend that I was just hard like that.

Next practice, I'm going to stop staring at my GIGANTIC hand and catch a ball in the glove. Small goals. It's going to be great. 

[*] The answer to that quandary will doubtless be covered in future posts.

"Yes, I see wonderful things" -- Howard Carter

In 1922, a British archaeologist found what he was searching for; the untouched tomb of the boy Pharaoh, Tutankhamun. The result was 5,000 catalogued artefacts and a cold (or rather mummified) case of the unexplained death of a 19 year old king, some 3,500 years ago. In keeping with the traditions of the day, this haul was evacuated, divided up and now part of it is a visiting museum exhibit at the AGO in Toronto.

Since the Ancient Egyptians were ahead of their time when it came to Astronomy, I was confident that I could skip off work to see this exhibit and maybe offer it up at journal club without anyone clocking this research's publication date. Besides, how often do you get to see golden toes that sat over the actual mummified digits for a few millennia? Not often.

The exhibit starts not with Tutankhamun, but with a collection of other finds from digs connected to his relatives. It is interesting, but lacks a clear time line for those viewers whose ancient history is not entirely up to speed. Terms such as 'New Kingdom' are dropped without any indication of what defined this period or even when exactly it was. That said, who couldn't enjoy the tale of Hatshepsut, the female Pharaoh married to her half brother who seized power from her step-son to rule for about twenty years? Her gender did not prevent her bust from sporting a fine oblong beard. Marriage to your sibling was a practice reserved only for royalty in Ancient Egypt. The rest of the masses had to resist the urge.

There was also a large statue of Akhenaten, father of Tutankhamun, who was famous for denying the traditional religious picture of many gods and introducing instead a monotheistic view of a single sun god, Aten. Whether he denied his own destiny as a god-to-be (Pharaohs were considered to become deities upon death) is less clear. The religious move was deeply unpopular and Tutankhamun started the process of revoking it in his short reign. It is possible his close connection with his unpopular father triggered the erasing of his name from statues and records after his death. Ironically, as the exhibit points out, this attempt to delete all memory of Tutankhamun from history was to rather backfire.

Tutankhamun artefacts consist of many smaller pieces. None of the four consecutive coffins that held his mummy were on display, although the casket that held canopic jars in which his organs were placed was there, as was one of the jars itself; a beautiful peice in the form of the god of the underworld, Osiris, that once contained Tutankhamun's intestines. The official guardian of this delightful slice of Pharaoh is the jackal Duamutef, whose name was engraved on its base. There were also jars that held two foetuses, thought to be Tutankhamun's daughters by an unknown woman. Other items included countless pieces of jewelery, his bed and many servant statues that were buried with the deceased to perform the menial labour that would be asked of them in the afterlife.

The end of the exhibition leaves the cause of death of Tutankhamun largely unaddressed. However, boards outside show results from the latest research. Once thought to be murder by his successors, the boy king's demise is now considered less violent. The cracks in his skull are thought to have occurred after death, since body scans revealed the presence of the dislodged pieces. The very latest concept seems to be that of malaria. Not quite as exciting as homicide perhaps, but he might have preferred it.

The tour naturally ended in a gift shop. Tempted as I was by a cloth headdress in the shape of King Tut's burial mask, I really would have liked an overview of the history to read on the bus back. Unfortunately, the only tomes of the right length were clearly aimed at ten year olds with the implication that anyone with a more advanced grasp of literature should clearly be wanting the full detailed itemized list of the 5,000 items on the tomb's inventory. The headdress started to look more promising.

Myyy PRECIOUSSS

I asked you all about smart phones. You almost all had BlackBerrys and loved them. I therefore ignored you all and got an iPhone... >_>

In my defence they are shiny! I mean, um, good tools. The web browsing in particular seems to be really fast and easy, which is a feature I especially wanted for role playing reading journals. Yes. It was really this that swung it for the iPhone.

Anyway, since I had only recently joined my network provider in Canada, I couldn't get an iPhone through them without buying it outright at some exorbitant price. So I hunted through online ads to find someone selling the model I wanted (3GS 16 GB). Some of the posts were more suspicious than others. I contacted one guy to ask if he still had the phone he was selling and he replied no, but he could get another by the end of the week. One can only assume he was planning to go out and steal one for me. I was touched by his dedication. I also declined. The person I did buy it from had recently been giving a BlackBerry from work and seemed to have only one handset to sell. Always a good sign.

The hardest part of the purchase turned out to be putting on the protective screen guard. They come in packs of 3 for $20 which was somewhat outrageous and even more so when you consider I managed to screw up applying the first two. These failed attempts made it appear my screen was totally scratched up when in fact it was just the sticker. Not cool. Kinda defies the point of having an undamaged screen too.

Did I mention this phone was shiny?

I did make one mistake, and that was telling my cell phone company I'd switched my sim card to an iPhone. Previously, I had a little LG phone that could do a bit (read: painful and frustrating) mobile browsing. It transpired that during the last few months my plan had changed unbestknown to me (ok, they probably sent me a letter but I never read such missives) and my data pack had morphed to include unlimited browsing. Prior to that, as soon as I stepped away from my network's own pages, they charged me. They don't allow such things for the smart phones (bah! To Canada's cell phone plans) so once I'd confessed they moved me onto a plan with a 500 MB limit. I'm consoling myself that not fessing up would have led to other problems with voice mail and the like ... probably.

So any recommendations for Apps? Shiny shiny apps .... myyyy precioussss.

Trains and boats and planes

In an original bid to cut down carbon emissions, Ontario seems to have opted to make the major airport in Toronto almost impossible to reach. The first hint of this scheme came as I attempted to catch my flight on Good Friday. Since it was a public holiday in Canada, I checked the bus times and concluded they appeared to be running on a Sunday schedule. Fair enough and really no problem, since Hamilton is a decent sized city (~ 0.5 million) and Toronto is close, so the network of transport is frequent even at weekends.

It transpired that travelling on Good Friday is actually an unforgivable sin. As such, it is not enough to cancel all public transport to prevent you from trying, rather half of all buses and trains are removed from service (hence the confusion when I glanced innocently at the timetables), so you may begin your trip but must end it stranded in the middle of nowhere. This is Canada. Most of it is empty space and they therefore do "nowhere" rather well. It took me one bus, one train and a panicked phone call to a friend (thank you Mubdhi!) to enlist his skills as chauffeur to make this epic 35 mile journey.

On my return, I was more confident. After all, the difficulty was just because it was a public holiday, surely. First off, I miss my flight. I confess I probably cannot entirely blame this on Canadian transport and a more honest spectator would point out the merit of rising half an hour earlier. However, no matter. I was put on the flight one hour later and reached my change-over point in Atlanta only a small amount of time behind schedule. We boarded ... there was a fault ... we disembarked ... waited ... changed gates ... waited some more ... got on a new plane and sat on the tarmac to show this off for a bit. Again, not really linked with Toronto. Still damn annoying. On a plus side it made it worth paying for the wifi connection in the airport lounge.

I finally arrive at Toronto at around 7:30 pm. Early enough, I thought, to safely take the bus back to Hamilton seeing as it's JUST DOWN THE ROAD. I find a public bus stop, but discover it's the wrong one and I have to go over to terminal 1. Upon arriving there (tired and weary by this stage), I find a shiny GO bus stop, complete with timetable, bench and a sign saying as of the 3rd April, they are not running buses there anymore. They recommended using a local bus service that doesn't run in the evenings.

I took a shuttle service back and billed it to my research grant. Enough was enough.

I have just booked my next flight which will be to New York. From Buffalo.