It's character building!

 

Man, and boy, I have worshipped at the shrine of The Gadget .

What luck is has been that I am someone who has seen the advent of the True Electronic Age with the invention of the transistor and its dissemination through society and useful (and otherwise) machines.

Sitting at my desk and without moving things out of the way, I can see a plethora of machines and gadgets.  Let me confine myself merely to the surface of the desk.

The so-called Old School gadgets: stapler, Sellotape dispenser, stapler remover, pens, pencils, markers, scissors, paperclips, rubbers, etc

Electronic: digital web radio; Mac Computer,  Bluetooth keyboard, ditto mouse, Bose mini Bluetooth speaker, studio microphone, digital led lamp with USB connections, telephone, new smartwatch for a present, electronic flashlight, cables, connectors, batteries, battery charger, power points and plugs galore, printer, removable hard drives and on and on.  And I’ve left some of the things out because such a mass of things becomes rather embarrassing when you list them!

The number of computers that I have owned is little short of astonishing in all their forms from handheld, through portable to desktop.  I have loved them all and have willing accepted the cruel price that dedication to the computer has demanded in terms of lost time in front of an unresponsive screen when programs simply didn’t work or went wrong at exactly the wrong time, in spite of the pleading that all of us have done to the harsh masters of plastic and glass when they decided not to cooperate.

I am not afraid to admit that I have wept tears of pure unalloyed frustration in front of dead computer screens, when I had put all of my digital eggs in one fickle electronic basket.  But I have kept on, keeping on.

And let’s be fair, modern computing is nothing like it was in the Dark Ages of thirty years ago.  Things generally go well.  Delays are minimal.  When you consider that with one of my early computers, the Sinclair QL, I had to wait up to a minute for the machine to save one A4 page of typing – and you could do nothing but wait while it saved – the microseconds that you wait for small documents to save nowadays is little sort of miraculous.  And programs (generally) work and there is a logic behind operations that you are (usually) more than capable of working out.  Life working with computers is (generally) good.

Which brings me to today.

And banks.

I am in the process of buying a new bike and, for reasons too complicated and irritating to go into, I had to pay for the bike by getting my bank to send the money in US dollars to Hong Kong.

The money was sent off.  And eventually the bike makers plaintively asked where it was.  The money had been sent god know where, but my bank did not see fit to let me know that the payment had been unsuccessful. 

When I went to the bank a second time to find out what had gone on, I was informed that the money had been returned and would I like to try again to send the money to the manufacturer.  As the manufacturer had, by this time, sent me a photograph of my bike packed up with my name on it waiting to be shipped, I said that would be a good idea.

So, the money was sent off and successfully reached its destination.

 

But.

 

I was charged 22 Euros for the original sending of the money.

I was then charged 22 Euros for the money to be returned.

I was then charged 22 Euros for the money to be resent.

66 Euros for payment of a printed invoice!

This is an on-going case!

 

However, I had another bill to pay, this time to a firm in Barcelona and I was determined that I would not be caught in the 22 Euro trap of getting a bank teller to do the transfer of funds – I would use the digital aspect of my bank to do it myself.

It took half the morning and a fair part of the afternoon to get things organized.  I could, without too much difficulty, get into my account online.  I even managed to input all the details necessary to pay the debt, it was just the final part of the transaction that let me down.

It was not enough to use all the security to get into the account to make things safe, there was also a mobile phone app that acted as a sort of digital signature.

I am not, for the sake of my sanity, going to itemize the number of times that I went back and fro, from computer to phone, copying and pasting various security numbers (“Only valid for 5 minutes!”) to get some sort of mystical authorization so the bloody money could be paid.

In the course of trying to get things done, I utilized the menu help, the automated digital assistant and anything else that I could click on.  Nothing worked and I found myself in a Circle of Authorization of the Damned, repeating various SMS routines and getting precisely nowhere.

I eventually, through a process of elimination, clicked on a link to a named individual who was apparently my Personal Banker.  I asked for help and nothing happened and so I gave up.

And then the phone rang and, to cut a long story short, after a confusing conversation I was given Another Way to try and it worked.

 

My point is that things were difficult when they should have been easy.  In spite of my dedication to things gadgetful, I was still left hanging.  And re-living the frustration of years ago.

If I think about it, years ago I would have written a cheque and put it in the post.  Job done.  When is the last time you wrote a cheque?  You are not given a cheque book in Spain.  If you need a cheque you have to get the bank manager to sign one and they cost a fortune!

So, although on my digital account I can see every payment and get details of when and how much has been taken from my account; I can see pretty graphs of my expenditure; I can sort and search, it is just all there to compensate me for the fact that some things were easy and are now complicated.

But, and this is the real lesson that one takes from the digital experiences that bloody one; the next time it will be easier and I will be able to take advantage of the glorious possibilities that digital banking offers.

Such self-delusion is the way that we keep sane.

By his gadgets shall ye know him!

 

Do not judge a man by the number of leads he has.  

If you counted up the power supplies, connectors and assorted leads that I have acquired then there should be literally no area in the house in which to live as all available space should be taken up with electrical devices that presumably came with the leads.  And, while there are vast numbers of ‘things’ that need power (I hesitate to count the number of them that I can see from where I am typing) there is still, just, space to live which is not occupied by a shining metallic carapace or something with a keyboard or grille or screen or . . . but I am already beginning to count the machines that I can see and that way lies madness.

Or is it rather a sort of madness that allows you to get rid of (or put away somewhere) defunct machines that are too expensive to throw away, and yet still keep to hand the power cord or connector as a sort of precious souvenir?

I willingly admit that gadgets, especially electronic gadgets, manage to occupy my attention with an ease that astonishes even myself.  All Aldi and Lidl have to do on their Central Aisles of Interesting Stuff is offer a brush or mop or any other sort of domestic appliance with the addition of a battery and a sensor and I’m sold.

I once bought a kitchen washing up brush that looked like a gigantic electric toothbrush and thought to myself, “Now, this is ideal for all that washing up that I do when I don’t place the cups and dishes in the dishwasher.”  And there you have the central paradox of my obsession.  Because I do place the cups and dishes in the dishwasher, and I don’t and will not wash up when I have a dishwasher specifically for that job.  Nevertheless, I bought the thing, and I have used it once.  Ineffectively.  The dishwasher does a better job.  And, frankly, for those burnt in gungy bits, it will take more than a giant’s Oral-b toothbrush to dislodge them.

Does this example of self-knowledge discourage me?  No, it doesn’t even deflect me.  Gadget freaks like myself, live in fear of what we know as “The Passing By” – in other words, not buying something that looks sort-of plausible, and finding out that it was absolutely essential to genteel living when you hadn’t got it.  It all amounts to a variant on the Catch-22 situation where you have to buy things that you don’t want in case they might have turned out to be really very good and an obvious buy.  And yes, I do realize that the verb tenses in that last sentence do not make strict chronological sense, but that, I fear, is part of the point.  The backward blame that gadget freaks are known to indulge in when they have ignored something that Freakdom acclaims as indispensable.

The leads though are a hangover from a different and more distant period in our national psyche before planned obsolescence became the True Path of unfeeling capitalism.

During the Second World War the Ministry of Information (or something equally Orwellian) issued slogans, catchphrases, concentrated wisdom, call them what you will, like “Keep Calm and Carry On!”  A phrase, by the way, that was intended originally for use inside a ministry and not for general consumption, but now the phrase has become more widely known that it ever was at the time of its conception.

“Dig for Victory!” was another one; “Careless talk costs lives”; “Loose lips cost ships”; “We can do it!” and so on.  My personal favourite is one of a voluptuous blond lounging in a chair, sheathed in sex, apparently merely eye-candy, but actually listening to the military men by whom she is surrounded with the tag line, “Keep mum, she’s not so dumb!”  Deconstructing the levels of meaning and social comment in that one must keep students of such things awake at nights, probably with delight!  I’m not sure if “Make do and mend” was a war slogan, but it was a definite piece of ready philosophy during my childhood.

Outside the back door of my grandparent’s house in Maesteg was a sort of shed built into the neighbour’s wall that was referred to as The Morgue.  My grandfather was a retired accountant and was painstaking in everything he did: from gardening to impeccable copperplate handwriting; from fire lighting to dressing; from politics to cigarette rolling.  He did nothing hasty and everything had its place.  And The Morgue was where everything that didn’t fit (in size or use) inside the house was housed.

Used tobacco tins were part of the filing system of The Morgue.  Pins, screws, nails, washers, bits, pieces, things – all found their place inside a neatly labelled box and placed on a shelf.  String was not thrown away, it was kept wound around equally cut sticks for the different types of binding that were recovered.  Nothing that had the possibility of a future use was thrown away, the philosophy was, “That might come in useful some time.”

Although I knew the word ‘morgue’ from an early age, I had no conception that it meant anything other than the shed next to the outside toilet against the neighbour’s wall that contained the things that were (temporarily) not wanted.  It was only much later that I learned of the more gruesome meaning of the word, and by that time I was able to appreciate the use of metaphor.

So, if anyone (other than my good self) is to blame for the writhing masses of cables that snake through the rooms of our house, it is my maternal grandfather.  Cables are, self-evidently, of use.  And, to be frank, their number reflects the galloping use of planned obsolescence that leaves poor consumers floundering in their increasingly desperate attempts to stay abreast of the latest fad of standardization.  It is as if the titanic battle between VHS and Betamax never took place, and certainly little was learnt from that fight to the death for a format!

I have recently (while looking for something else) revived my Kindle, iPad, Bose speaker and computer: all of which need different leads and connectors, or in the case of my mobile phone, a converter connector!  It is hardly a surprise to see my chair covered in various wires and cables like some sort of unimaginative foliage!  And don’t get me started on Bluetooth, where the cable-less needs of that system necessitate a whole range of unique powering solutions for the various pieces of audio equipment that I use!

It is with something approaching relief that I turn from the electronic zoo of slinky excess to the more stark delights of Catalan where, in the next month or so we might progress from the first, second and third person singular of the limited number of verbs to which we have been introduced to the delights of the plural!

Meanwhile there is vocabulary to be learned.

Small pleasures

Family wisdom

For reasons best known to my unconscious, I have, this morning, been thinking of the advice which has been handed down to me by family members.

Great-grandfather: “Never refuse a good offer!”

            This piece of double-edged advice (it has been used against me by people with whom I have shared it!) has been handed down like a precious heirloom.  Of all the words of wisdom this has been the most used, as it often does provide a short cut to a clear decision and, when this is reached, it is so much more satisfying when you can append a saying to justify what often appears to be pure selfishness!

Grandfather: “Fair play’s bonny play.”

            This is a flexible saying which can be used to justify past action, to allow an element of wriggle-room in a difficult situation and to claim space to exercise your rights.

Father: “Anything is better than nothing.”

            Rather like the famous inscription in the ring demanded by the emperor who said he wanted to see something which, if he was sad would make him happy and if he were happy would make him thoughtful – this saying is something which can push you forward when everything seems against you and can make you think a little when things are going well.  It is also plain wrong some of the time.  Oh, “This too will pass” was the inscription that made it to the circle of gold.

Mother: “You can never have too many tea-towels”

            This is also true for teaspoons.  And is true.  And I have expanded this saying to include watches and cameras.  And books.  And gadgets.  And more books.

Possibly I have not been very fair to my relatives here, there was a lot else that they told me that has sunk into my bones, but, goodness knows I have fallen back on these sayings more times than I can conveniently remember.

            As I have been writing I have been remembering other things that they said, but some wisdom is best kept close and not shared too widely especially that sort of knowledge that shows up too much of your character!

Kids and other humans

The curse of the retired classes has returned: holidays.  Children openly stalk the streets and Barcelona has decamped to Castelldefels.

In spite of knowing the date of Easter for once, I was still surprised by the arrival of Palm Sunday and newly shocked (again) by the ostentatious showiness of the ‘palms’ that kids were waving around for seconds before they were discarded and dropped into the ever-accommodating hands of their parents. 

Surprised I might have been, but with notebook to the forefront, I was able to jot down some observations and they were able to prompt a poem, POEMS IN HOLY WEEK  i. A girl skips by, which can now be seen at http://smrnewpoems.blogspot.com.es/ 

I have, rather grandly, set myself the task of writing a poem a day for the rest of this week.

            Apart from Good Friday and Easter Sunday there is no obvious daily focus, so finding a connecting subject matter (without resorting to the book of daily prayer and the gospel readings) is going to be testing.

            What I produce may be a sequence or there may be individual poems worth salvaging.  Or it might not happen, of course.  But I think that it will be a good discipline for me, and I am hoping that there will be a knock on effect of studiousness prompting me to get a move on with the next essay for the OU course.

Competition

Toni’s blog on restaurants in Castelldefels http://catalunyaplacetoeat.blogspot.com.es/ is rapidly gaining a steady readership and the pageviews are, even more rapidly gaining parity with the sophisticates that patronize http://smrnewpoems.blogspot.com.es/  

I am relying on my Holy Week Poetic Effort to redress some of the balance – though why I should think that I am competing for the same viewers is difficult to understand!

We are told that if you have something to sell then capturing an almost infinitesimal percentage of the Chinese market will make your fortune several times over.  The digital on-line ‘market’ is much, much larger so, I tell myself, there is an audience for my poetry out there, it is simply a matter of reaching it!

United Nations Day 2015

EasyJet flights are now open for this momentous day and beyond and so travel arrangements for the occasion are able to be finalised.

            I am looking forward to The Day itself and also to the publication of Flesh Can Be Bright with which it coincides!

            I have been fairly strict with myself and have not started the final editing as I do have one or two other academic preoccupations to fill up my time before I can turn my attention to the fiddly bits before publication.

            I am still waiting on the efforts of others and I am hoping that they are working away to keep to the deadlines.  I think it might be politic to send gentle emails to find out exactly what is or is not going on.

            I am running out of letters of the alphabet to cope with the various ‘plans’ I have had to accommodate the final shape of the book, but this is one time where my ability to speculate endlessly comes in useful!

            Whatever happens there will be, there is at the moment, a final version of what I originally planned.  If any of the collaborations come off then the book will be able to gain from whatever I get.  My grandiose vision may not be able to be realised, but I am sure that shreds of it will make it between the covers.

Barcelona bound

That sub-heading is more appropriate than I meant, but this afternoon will see me battling the kamikaze scooters to get to the centre of Barcelona for a medical test.

            Interestingly, this test has been outsourced by my medical centre to a private organization in the city.  Our local hospital is a few kilometres away, but no, I have to go into the centre and, horror or horrors, find a parking space.

            I think this approach is one which our present criminal government (I use the adjective fairly I think as most of the government and the ruling party has been accused of multiple abuses of power) seems keen to privatize the health service, diverting vast sums of public money into the private hands of their backers.  Sound familiar?  Plus ça change!  Doesn’t matter what country you are in, the Conservatives always try the same tactics!

Canine Chorus

Other people wake up to the sound of birds singing – not us.  We have dogs in the same way that medieval Britain had rats – they are everywhere.  At least the rats were quieter.

            I speak as a dog person (at least as long as they are yellow Labrador bitches) but I can’t help feeling if I was given a flame thrower and allowed free rein at dawn then there would be a smell of burning dog flesh in our neighbourhood!

And now the long day’s fast begins as my test has demanded that eating ends six hours before.  At least I am allowed water.  Cheers!