The end was so close. Just one story stood between me and the completion of 'The Most of SJ Perelman', but sheer fatigue has defeated me, and the ruminations on the legendary humourist will have to wait for another day. What a marathon it was!
Away from reading, there is also maths in the air. Doing Maths again is odd, as is waiting two days for a calculation to finish. Two days! If only there were a faster computer for casual experimentation. If only. You can't farm off a thousand calculations to a friend, as you experiment with parameter sizes and other such things, after all. It becomes too fiddly. The final intense calculation, on the other hand, can be farmed out with not a worry in the world once the bugs are gone.
It was nice to write the first part of 'Diary of a Laundry Robot'. It's nice to think of ideas for stories. For example, what about a person with a talking native balloon, who rides with it, exploring the new world of Borgia IX? Or the life and times of an apple treesman in a world that loves only oranges? Okay, that second one was a bit of a stretch. There are always the time travelling space gringos, or the pelicans from the zone of unreality. Oh, creativity does not seem to be on my mental menu right now, possibly because of the Potato Curse, the needing the haircut, an overdose of computation, not enough sleep or too much sleep, or even the rapture of an upcoming holiday. Did I just say 'holiday'? It must be a clerical error. Take two amnesia pills and pretend it never happened, before saying "Oh, Max...". Ah, Agent 99, you tolerant lady.
I have students again. It's nice. In Spanish, a private tutor calls his students 'alumnos', which is a cute term. One of the nice things about some foreign languages is the specialist terms you can find in all the nooks and crannies (never mind the crooks and nannies) of the lexicon, and the different emphases strewn about like confetti. It's nice to teach something and see it learnt, instead of just hoping it didn't bounce off all the skulls sitting in front of you. Now, if I could only instruct the population at large in the vital life lessons to be learnt from 'Dharma and Greg'...
Blast it all! Will they never release the remaining years of 'Dharma and Greg' on DVD?? I blame Putin. It's always his fault.
O.
Friday, 31 July 2015
Wednesday, 29 July 2015
Book And Movie: 'The Hot Rock' (1970 and 1972)
I tried to write this one straight, a comparative piece on the Donald E Westlake novel and the Peter Yates film from William Goldman's screenplay. It didn't work. The jinx is still going, that fatal curse that sees the eponymous emerald evading the crooks' grasp after every one of the numerous heists. 'The Hot Rock' is a tough one to trap, even in a brief post.
The movie is a close adaptation of the novel, which only veers away to do some streamlining in characterisation and elimination of one of the heists, the six heists that our crooks, led by John Dortmunder, pull in order to obtain the rock for their untrustworthy buyer. Dortmunder, who is a fascinating character of benign criminal genius, goes on to lead his own series of novels after this, but this is the story that made a cult film and the one that will be remembered. 'The Hot Rock' is a comedic caper classic. It's a shame that the movie didn't do better, but it's not exactly a surprise that a high quality film did badly at the box office. It happens all the time, with depressing regularity, and is probably down to the lack of machine guns ang gigantic explosions.
Westlake was up there with the classic authors who could tell all manner of stories without dropping into the verbal gutter to do it. It's a rare gift. Hammett could do it easily too; bring you right down to ground level without spoiling some of the most elegant prose ever seen on the printed page with unnecessarily gratuitous dialogue. You don't need to go to swearing and smut if you can actually write, and Westlake is there on the same level. Abundantly. While the novel may start slowly, it does grab you and refuse to let you go until you hit the end and wonder how you got from a stolen emerald, to a prison break, then a police station raid, then a lunatic asylum with a theme park locomotive, and finally a totally unexpected hustle right out from a safe deposit box. How does a writer pull that off? Ivan Reitman calls it something like the 'falling dominoes of reality', where you can hold an audience to anything as long as you keep the intervening steps of unreality close enough. Westlake is a master of the falling dominoes, and of humorous dialogue that flows naturally from situation and character without messing up the narrative. He also knows to allow time to elapse well, which is another rare gift.
The movie is a great adaptation of a novel, and one that features one of my two all time favourite actors in Robert Redford (the other one is of course Jimmy Stewart), with his frequent screenwriter William Goldman at the peak of his powers. Goldman was a fantastic and thoughtful screenwriter at the time, and Redford one of the actors with the most intelligent and thoughtful screen presences. Combined, they could really do no wrong, whether in this or in 'Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid', 'All The President's Men', or 'The Great Waldo Pepper'. Goldman was designed to put words in Redford's mouth, and Redford was designed to read them. Is this getting a bit gushy? Well, it deserves, in both forms. The movie is a very subtle film, except for the bits that feature Zero Mostel, and a great watch. The book is a little gem I had never heard of, with witty dialogue and a great pulse.
Which is the better experience of the book and the film? It's a close call, really it is. They're essentially just different sides of the same coin, as a good adaptation should be. A bad adaptation is usually either the same side of the same coin, or a totally different currency. Is that enough coin analogy? Personally, and with great anticipation for the other Dortmunder books in the series, I would say that the book is the better version, if only because the plot is less neat. Movies tend to make things far too tidy, and that is the only real disadvantage of the movie, but is that disadvantage smoothed out by a Quincy Jones soundtrack? Oh, it's just too close to call. Even now, Zero's crazy eyes are twisting into mental view...
How about this: If you try one of the book or the movie, and like it, then you'll love the other version for being just different enough to be worthwhile. If you don't like the one then don't try the other. That's a deal.
O.
The movie is a close adaptation of the novel, which only veers away to do some streamlining in characterisation and elimination of one of the heists, the six heists that our crooks, led by John Dortmunder, pull in order to obtain the rock for their untrustworthy buyer. Dortmunder, who is a fascinating character of benign criminal genius, goes on to lead his own series of novels after this, but this is the story that made a cult film and the one that will be remembered. 'The Hot Rock' is a comedic caper classic. It's a shame that the movie didn't do better, but it's not exactly a surprise that a high quality film did badly at the box office. It happens all the time, with depressing regularity, and is probably down to the lack of machine guns ang gigantic explosions.
Westlake was up there with the classic authors who could tell all manner of stories without dropping into the verbal gutter to do it. It's a rare gift. Hammett could do it easily too; bring you right down to ground level without spoiling some of the most elegant prose ever seen on the printed page with unnecessarily gratuitous dialogue. You don't need to go to swearing and smut if you can actually write, and Westlake is there on the same level. Abundantly. While the novel may start slowly, it does grab you and refuse to let you go until you hit the end and wonder how you got from a stolen emerald, to a prison break, then a police station raid, then a lunatic asylum with a theme park locomotive, and finally a totally unexpected hustle right out from a safe deposit box. How does a writer pull that off? Ivan Reitman calls it something like the 'falling dominoes of reality', where you can hold an audience to anything as long as you keep the intervening steps of unreality close enough. Westlake is a master of the falling dominoes, and of humorous dialogue that flows naturally from situation and character without messing up the narrative. He also knows to allow time to elapse well, which is another rare gift.
The movie is a great adaptation of a novel, and one that features one of my two all time favourite actors in Robert Redford (the other one is of course Jimmy Stewart), with his frequent screenwriter William Goldman at the peak of his powers. Goldman was a fantastic and thoughtful screenwriter at the time, and Redford one of the actors with the most intelligent and thoughtful screen presences. Combined, they could really do no wrong, whether in this or in 'Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid', 'All The President's Men', or 'The Great Waldo Pepper'. Goldman was designed to put words in Redford's mouth, and Redford was designed to read them. Is this getting a bit gushy? Well, it deserves, in both forms. The movie is a very subtle film, except for the bits that feature Zero Mostel, and a great watch. The book is a little gem I had never heard of, with witty dialogue and a great pulse.
Which is the better experience of the book and the film? It's a close call, really it is. They're essentially just different sides of the same coin, as a good adaptation should be. A bad adaptation is usually either the same side of the same coin, or a totally different currency. Is that enough coin analogy? Personally, and with great anticipation for the other Dortmunder books in the series, I would say that the book is the better version, if only because the plot is less neat. Movies tend to make things far too tidy, and that is the only real disadvantage of the movie, but is that disadvantage smoothed out by a Quincy Jones soundtrack? Oh, it's just too close to call. Even now, Zero's crazy eyes are twisting into mental view...
How about this: If you try one of the book or the movie, and like it, then you'll love the other version for being just different enough to be worthwhile. If you don't like the one then don't try the other. That's a deal.
O.
Monday, 27 July 2015
My Favourite Sherlock Holmes Stories
Life is gloomy, so why share it with the masses? I'm sure you all have enough issues to be getting on with. Instead, this is going to be about my two favourite Holmes stories, which I stumbled across in totally different ways.
The first Sherlock story I ever read was 'The Speckled Band', and was it was devoured in a rapid manner at primary school from the upper class's bookshelves. Along with 'The Magician's Nephew', some Enid Blyton, Willard Price, and the 'Hardy Boys', it formed a fantastic introduction to the world of the written word as was. 'The Speckled Band' is a magnificent little story, featuring one of the old classic mystery tropes of the locked room, and the touches of the exotic that marked Conan Doyle out from the very beginning. The band itself, the great and misleading eponymous serpent, still haunts me from time to time in my phobia of all things snake-like and head scarves in general. It was a magnificent mind that could link so many disparate story elements, including a poker-bending maniacal doctor! Magnificent!
The second story is 'The Musgrave Ritual', which introduced me to the BBC Radio 4 Merrison/Williams adaptations. It was mesmerising, and ironic in that it is for the most part a 'sans Watson' story. The winds of fate can not, however be interfered with, and 'The Musgrave Ritual' is still the pre-eminent prequel story to the Watson era that exists. Yes, the butler did it, or most of it, but this was before the great rash of criminal butlers in the latter Golden Age of Detective Stories. This is long before. As with most of the great Sherlock stories, its strengths lie in Doyle's willingness to jump off into other types of stories, and in this case we have a treasure hunt, but for what treasure? Nothing less than the long lost and ancient crown last worn by the Stuart Kings! What amazing turns are concealed in the first two sets of short stories, and to a slightly lesser extent in the rest. What amazing creativity!
It would be a shame - or perhaps a crime! - not to mention 'The Sign Of The Four', which is my favourite novella length Holmes narrative. It's probably one of the best stories ever told, beginning and ending as it does in such a tremendous manner, which I shall not spoil. A mention also goes to 'A Study In Scarlet', which would be awesome except for the dreary-ish historical flashback/interlude in the centre of the story. The Sherlock portion is excellent, though, and packed with all the quality we would see later in the detective's prime. In fact, that Sherlock portion is prime material to me personally. 'A Study In Scarlet' is the origin story, but why go on so long in Utah, Doyle? Why?
That's one set of gloominess averted, and it surely was a far more enjoyable writing exercise than might have been.
O.
The first Sherlock story I ever read was 'The Speckled Band', and was it was devoured in a rapid manner at primary school from the upper class's bookshelves. Along with 'The Magician's Nephew', some Enid Blyton, Willard Price, and the 'Hardy Boys', it formed a fantastic introduction to the world of the written word as was. 'The Speckled Band' is a magnificent little story, featuring one of the old classic mystery tropes of the locked room, and the touches of the exotic that marked Conan Doyle out from the very beginning. The band itself, the great and misleading eponymous serpent, still haunts me from time to time in my phobia of all things snake-like and head scarves in general. It was a magnificent mind that could link so many disparate story elements, including a poker-bending maniacal doctor! Magnificent!
The second story is 'The Musgrave Ritual', which introduced me to the BBC Radio 4 Merrison/Williams adaptations. It was mesmerising, and ironic in that it is for the most part a 'sans Watson' story. The winds of fate can not, however be interfered with, and 'The Musgrave Ritual' is still the pre-eminent prequel story to the Watson era that exists. Yes, the butler did it, or most of it, but this was before the great rash of criminal butlers in the latter Golden Age of Detective Stories. This is long before. As with most of the great Sherlock stories, its strengths lie in Doyle's willingness to jump off into other types of stories, and in this case we have a treasure hunt, but for what treasure? Nothing less than the long lost and ancient crown last worn by the Stuart Kings! What amazing turns are concealed in the first two sets of short stories, and to a slightly lesser extent in the rest. What amazing creativity!
It would be a shame - or perhaps a crime! - not to mention 'The Sign Of The Four', which is my favourite novella length Holmes narrative. It's probably one of the best stories ever told, beginning and ending as it does in such a tremendous manner, which I shall not spoil. A mention also goes to 'A Study In Scarlet', which would be awesome except for the dreary-ish historical flashback/interlude in the centre of the story. The Sherlock portion is excellent, though, and packed with all the quality we would see later in the detective's prime. In fact, that Sherlock portion is prime material to me personally. 'A Study In Scarlet' is the origin story, but why go on so long in Utah, Doyle? Why?
That's one set of gloominess averted, and it surely was a far more enjoyable writing exercise than might have been.
O.
Saturday, 25 July 2015
Story: 'Diary of a Laundry Robot', Week I
( Week II )
Monday
My servos are so tired. I never thought today would end. Mrs Wilberforce came in unexpectedly, with a whole slew of handkerchiefs from General Automation's grand 'Cheese of the Month' extravaganza. It was diabolical. Even now the rollers in my mind see only handkerchiefs and the initials GA. I curse the day that General hired that lady to fulfil the minimum staffing regulations. Curse you, global statutes. If only my positrons could allow excitement.
Tuesday
Mrs Wilberforce now seems like a pleasure in retrospect as today we had a surprise inspection by the LaundryMaster 3000. This is always vexing as the 3000 has been programmed to think that she is funny, but has all the humour of a bath towel from the National Palace. You may think this to be a joke, but in the July edition of 'Literal Robots Update', the towels from the National Palace ranked as second to least funny of all the towels surveyed, losing only to those deployed at the Eastern Rock Quarry Museum Hotel. There was also a good comic strip about a French window and the King of Sweden, but I digress from duties. The 3000 gave me a demerit for incorrect handkerchief folding, while my colleague Fred was commended for his ability to iron shirts. This vexes me, and drained my battery due to my internal mutterings.
Wednesday
The working week is almost halfway done, and finally we see a break in the bad luck. The handkerchief debacle has been forgotten as the prison warden chose our humble laundry to clean all his best suits. Such plaudits were handed out for the crispness of his crinoline and the colours of his hat plume. What wondrous and marvellous uniforms the Wardens have had since the disintegration of crime in the last few centuries. Indeed, our hereditary Warden has only had to speak to one prisoner in his whole life, and that was the winner of the grand prize of last decade, the honorary Prisoner. Who would have thought that prisons would have become prestige hotels in the future? In any case, we have but to perform our tasks well to secure grand futures in higher grade robotic laundry services. My lenses will have to be polished before work tomorrow.
Thursday
Gloom. Fred has been promoted to level five laundry robot and granted the prestige duty of tie dabbing. The fink adjusted my activation time by twenty minutes and secured the prize clothes of the day from the Warden and my duties consisted of a new shipment of wash cloths and a stuffed hippo apparently called Fritz. Oh, Fred, how could you have been so mean? Why should any of us be surprised, though, after his usurpation of the sainted Clara, his predecessor? The good luck was just a mirage, although with Fred upgraded, and receiving fine duty equipment, who will be our new partner? My other colleague Celia and I wait with quavering circuits.
Friday
The manager, RockTop Beta, has just delivered some startling news. Apparently Fritz was the prized property of noted billionaire and recluse Bonzo Meredith, and the laundry is now in his ownership due to my efforts. I didn't even try. What will befall us all now? Even now I dread an avalanche of Fritz's friends, and with us one robot down. No, correction, RockTop Beta has informed us that the new robot will arrive tomorrow, during my maintenance time at the weekend. So much uncertainty, and I can hear the voice of Mrs Wilberforce talking about penwipes.
To be continued...
Monday
My servos are so tired. I never thought today would end. Mrs Wilberforce came in unexpectedly, with a whole slew of handkerchiefs from General Automation's grand 'Cheese of the Month' extravaganza. It was diabolical. Even now the rollers in my mind see only handkerchiefs and the initials GA. I curse the day that General hired that lady to fulfil the minimum staffing regulations. Curse you, global statutes. If only my positrons could allow excitement.
Tuesday
Mrs Wilberforce now seems like a pleasure in retrospect as today we had a surprise inspection by the LaundryMaster 3000. This is always vexing as the 3000 has been programmed to think that she is funny, but has all the humour of a bath towel from the National Palace. You may think this to be a joke, but in the July edition of 'Literal Robots Update', the towels from the National Palace ranked as second to least funny of all the towels surveyed, losing only to those deployed at the Eastern Rock Quarry Museum Hotel. There was also a good comic strip about a French window and the King of Sweden, but I digress from duties. The 3000 gave me a demerit for incorrect handkerchief folding, while my colleague Fred was commended for his ability to iron shirts. This vexes me, and drained my battery due to my internal mutterings.
Wednesday
The working week is almost halfway done, and finally we see a break in the bad luck. The handkerchief debacle has been forgotten as the prison warden chose our humble laundry to clean all his best suits. Such plaudits were handed out for the crispness of his crinoline and the colours of his hat plume. What wondrous and marvellous uniforms the Wardens have had since the disintegration of crime in the last few centuries. Indeed, our hereditary Warden has only had to speak to one prisoner in his whole life, and that was the winner of the grand prize of last decade, the honorary Prisoner. Who would have thought that prisons would have become prestige hotels in the future? In any case, we have but to perform our tasks well to secure grand futures in higher grade robotic laundry services. My lenses will have to be polished before work tomorrow.
Thursday
Gloom. Fred has been promoted to level five laundry robot and granted the prestige duty of tie dabbing. The fink adjusted my activation time by twenty minutes and secured the prize clothes of the day from the Warden and my duties consisted of a new shipment of wash cloths and a stuffed hippo apparently called Fritz. Oh, Fred, how could you have been so mean? Why should any of us be surprised, though, after his usurpation of the sainted Clara, his predecessor? The good luck was just a mirage, although with Fred upgraded, and receiving fine duty equipment, who will be our new partner? My other colleague Celia and I wait with quavering circuits.
Friday
The manager, RockTop Beta, has just delivered some startling news. Apparently Fritz was the prized property of noted billionaire and recluse Bonzo Meredith, and the laundry is now in his ownership due to my efforts. I didn't even try. What will befall us all now? Even now I dread an avalanche of Fritz's friends, and with us one robot down. No, correction, RockTop Beta has informed us that the new robot will arrive tomorrow, during my maintenance time at the weekend. So much uncertainty, and I can hear the voice of Mrs Wilberforce talking about penwipes.
To be continued...
Thursday, 23 July 2015
Time In Hand
As computations whir, and the evening settles in, a sad mood might perhaps be attributed to being at the end of so many things. The very last episode of 'The Addams Family' is playing, the last half season of 'Mork And Mindy' is upon me, as are the last seasons of 'The Mentalist' and 'Parks And Recreation'. Yes, life isn't all about television, but so many endings coming all at once is a trifle upsetting. If 'Community' had released its presumably final season on DVD punctually it would be on the list too. So many finales! Where are the succeeding shows?
It really shouldn't be a gloomy time right now, not with two students for the summer, some cash to save, and an actually decent research plan to pursue in the spare time. Why be gloomy, then? Why? Is it the subconscious effect of the evenings becoming slowly shorter? Is variant SAD kicking in already? Is it maybe all those shows coming to an end, and not being compensated for by the upcoming archive watches of 'The Adventures of Superman' and 'The Muppet Show'? No, those are just more symptoms of being just a little too alone. Not even the words on the page, nor the correspondences kept up with friends far away, can salve the emptiness of the extra person without a place in the world. Fortunately, there are ways to combat the gloom, if you are aware of it. It's the awareness that is the hard part...
Hmmm... 'The Muppet Show'... Did you know that they never released the last two seasons of 'The Muppet Show' on DVD? Apparently the sales weren't high enough on the first three seasons to offset the heavy music licencing costs, and the chaps over at Disney just didn't bother to continue. It's so sad. If there were ever a show which deserved a full DVD release despite making losses it would be 'The Muppet Show', which is legendary. Maybe it will come out in line with 'Star Wars: Episode VII', to exploit the 'Star Wars' episode? We can hope, right? How on Earth can people not have been buying Muppets DVDs, though? What kind of world is this? Humans are such strange people.
Gloom, gloom, cast thy shadow elsewhere. 'Tis not a night for you. Maybe it's just 'long hair syndrome', curable only by the customary trip to the barber? Maybe it's an odd reaction to 'The Fifth Element'? Maybe it's too many DVDs and not enough reading? Yes, back to the books! Clear the landing ramp in the reading area, and pull the screens, for it's reading time!
O.
It really shouldn't be a gloomy time right now, not with two students for the summer, some cash to save, and an actually decent research plan to pursue in the spare time. Why be gloomy, then? Why? Is it the subconscious effect of the evenings becoming slowly shorter? Is variant SAD kicking in already? Is it maybe all those shows coming to an end, and not being compensated for by the upcoming archive watches of 'The Adventures of Superman' and 'The Muppet Show'? No, those are just more symptoms of being just a little too alone. Not even the words on the page, nor the correspondences kept up with friends far away, can salve the emptiness of the extra person without a place in the world. Fortunately, there are ways to combat the gloom, if you are aware of it. It's the awareness that is the hard part...
Hmmm... 'The Muppet Show'... Did you know that they never released the last two seasons of 'The Muppet Show' on DVD? Apparently the sales weren't high enough on the first three seasons to offset the heavy music licencing costs, and the chaps over at Disney just didn't bother to continue. It's so sad. If there were ever a show which deserved a full DVD release despite making losses it would be 'The Muppet Show', which is legendary. Maybe it will come out in line with 'Star Wars: Episode VII', to exploit the 'Star Wars' episode? We can hope, right? How on Earth can people not have been buying Muppets DVDs, though? What kind of world is this? Humans are such strange people.
Gloom, gloom, cast thy shadow elsewhere. 'Tis not a night for you. Maybe it's just 'long hair syndrome', curable only by the customary trip to the barber? Maybe it's an odd reaction to 'The Fifth Element'? Maybe it's too many DVDs and not enough reading? Yes, back to the books! Clear the landing ramp in the reading area, and pull the screens, for it's reading time!
O.
Monday, 20 July 2015
Story: The Ninja of Health, III
( Part II , IV )
The Toddlingham Street Allotments were in chaos, acting as a staging area for the disaster unfolding around them. Fire engines were parked next to the closest hydrants, and their crew members hosing down the burning fronts of the facing houses. Ambulance people were handling burns cases, abrasions and panic-caused injuries, while the Army stood by on alert. The Army? Something terrible had truly happened.
The Man and Woman looked separated and moved quickly towards the triage area, expertly and effortlessly evading the police cordon by simply being elsewhere than the lines of gaze. The picked up a helmet and merged into the throng, while the Woman became so graceful as to be one with the chaos. Wherever they went, the injured people they passed looked just that bit more relieved and relaxed, and the panic eased away under their inner calmness.
While circulating, they also picked up the details of the incident that had caused the houses to catch fire and now implode. More fire crews were coming in from Smootles and Lakefield, but whether they would be in time to stop flames sweeping outward was an open question. They certainly wouldn't stop the devastation to the allotment plots, not muddied up beyond repair. A projectile of some kind had flared down from the sky, and ignited the mighty blaze. The Man and the Woman were powerless in the face of such a disaster, and contrived to help as many people as they could. Many people lived who might not have in other circumstances.
Finally, their eyes interlocking, they left the triage area and examined the impact area. The building seemed to have imploded, sending out a heat wave around it. Several sheds on the allotment had just collapsed instantly. The crater, which they looked at hurriedly as the specialists were beginning to get interested themselves, was small and deep and at the bottom was what looked like a grand giant marble, the sort that giants might have played with. The marble began to wobble in the crater.
The Man and the Woman backed away just as the wobbling of the marble grew greater and greater, and then they heard a resounding crack.
There shall be more...
The Toddlingham Street Allotments were in chaos, acting as a staging area for the disaster unfolding around them. Fire engines were parked next to the closest hydrants, and their crew members hosing down the burning fronts of the facing houses. Ambulance people were handling burns cases, abrasions and panic-caused injuries, while the Army stood by on alert. The Army? Something terrible had truly happened.
The Man and Woman looked separated and moved quickly towards the triage area, expertly and effortlessly evading the police cordon by simply being elsewhere than the lines of gaze. The picked up a helmet and merged into the throng, while the Woman became so graceful as to be one with the chaos. Wherever they went, the injured people they passed looked just that bit more relieved and relaxed, and the panic eased away under their inner calmness.
While circulating, they also picked up the details of the incident that had caused the houses to catch fire and now implode. More fire crews were coming in from Smootles and Lakefield, but whether they would be in time to stop flames sweeping outward was an open question. They certainly wouldn't stop the devastation to the allotment plots, not muddied up beyond repair. A projectile of some kind had flared down from the sky, and ignited the mighty blaze. The Man and the Woman were powerless in the face of such a disaster, and contrived to help as many people as they could. Many people lived who might not have in other circumstances.
Finally, their eyes interlocking, they left the triage area and examined the impact area. The building seemed to have imploded, sending out a heat wave around it. Several sheds on the allotment had just collapsed instantly. The crater, which they looked at hurriedly as the specialists were beginning to get interested themselves, was small and deep and at the bottom was what looked like a grand giant marble, the sort that giants might have played with. The marble began to wobble in the crater.
The Man and the Woman backed away just as the wobbling of the marble grew greater and greater, and then they heard a resounding crack.
There shall be more...
Saturday, 18 July 2015
Process
I haven't done a story in a while, which is quite the oversight. It will happen in due course. There are quite a few things in process right now, a few too many things in fact, and it's hard to juggle them all without dropping a few balls on to the floors of the padded room. Too many things. An actual student, for one, and a meeting on Tuesday for another. All we need now is an interview to complete the hat trick! It would be nice to get back to the 'Ninja of Health', or even kick off 'Diaries of a Laundry Robot' before it all evaporates out of my mind!
It's a challenge to prepare tuition content for an eight year old. There is literature available from the buildup to the PGCE tryouts, some of it good. I never thought I would get to use it! What a marvelous thing it is to get another chance! Preparation is key, and in a student going from year three to year four at primary school, the first task is to assess where they are individually. This is the good form of 'assessment', not the ritualised sacrifice of school children at the altar of measurement. Tutoring is probably the only instance where you get to actually teach. You would not believe how arbitrary the systems of assessment are in establishing 'measures' of a child's progress. Did you ever stop to wonder just how you put a number on how well someone is reading? It's a nonsense, and one that only becomes clear when you do the reading. No wonder they all seem to fall apart upon leaving the security of primary schools, the poor souls. All I know is that I learnt to read well because I had really interesting books available, and devoured them readily.
Perhaps this should have been entitled 'Stream of Consciousness, Part Fifty-One'. There are many, many posts in the Quirky Muffin which eventually transform into strings of words tapped out continuously, erratically and rapidly. It's amazing what you can do when you have fingers on the move and solitude to burn.
Preparing for a meeting can be difficult too, especially when you're just going to report a somewhat ancient status quo. The foam problem is forestalled due to technical problems and my reluctance for heavy programming, and the three-dimensional crushing problem? Well, that has the legendary 'not a number' cropping up relentlessly. Oh, square roots and negative numbers, why plague us so relentlessly? Some actual work is going to have to be done. Does anyone remember how?
O.
It's a challenge to prepare tuition content for an eight year old. There is literature available from the buildup to the PGCE tryouts, some of it good. I never thought I would get to use it! What a marvelous thing it is to get another chance! Preparation is key, and in a student going from year three to year four at primary school, the first task is to assess where they are individually. This is the good form of 'assessment', not the ritualised sacrifice of school children at the altar of measurement. Tutoring is probably the only instance where you get to actually teach. You would not believe how arbitrary the systems of assessment are in establishing 'measures' of a child's progress. Did you ever stop to wonder just how you put a number on how well someone is reading? It's a nonsense, and one that only becomes clear when you do the reading. No wonder they all seem to fall apart upon leaving the security of primary schools, the poor souls. All I know is that I learnt to read well because I had really interesting books available, and devoured them readily.
Perhaps this should have been entitled 'Stream of Consciousness, Part Fifty-One'. There are many, many posts in the Quirky Muffin which eventually transform into strings of words tapped out continuously, erratically and rapidly. It's amazing what you can do when you have fingers on the move and solitude to burn.
Preparing for a meeting can be difficult too, especially when you're just going to report a somewhat ancient status quo. The foam problem is forestalled due to technical problems and my reluctance for heavy programming, and the three-dimensional crushing problem? Well, that has the legendary 'not a number' cropping up relentlessly. Oh, square roots and negative numbers, why plague us so relentlessly? Some actual work is going to have to be done. Does anyone remember how?
O.
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