I know it's often hard to get folk to go out and vote in the US but surely this is taking incentives to extremes?No sex unless you vote, darling ...
Thursday, October 21, 2004
Wednesday, October 20, 2004
Morning in St Clair.
This is where I was a month ago today, at about this time. St Clair beach, near Le Lavandou in the South of France.
Weather in Glasgow today - dull, damp, autumnal.
Mmm. Where would I rather be?
Tuesday, October 19, 2004
Ever been flown by a six year-old?
Here is my small nephew, taking the helm of a Piper Cherokee when we went flying over the South coast of England on Saturday afternoon. Okay, he was only in control for a minute or so (felt longer, believe me…) and my brother (ex RAF, currently Boeing pilot) was keeping a very close eye on him but I thought this picture was a bit of a hoot. Note, if you will, the top of his teddy bear’s head in his lap. What pilot do YOU know who flies with a bear called Barnaby?
We took off from Shoreham Airport, the UK’s oldest commercial one, it would appear. It has an amazing thirties feel to it and lots of small aircraft and helicopter activity. We flew out towards the Channel, over Brighton and then inland to the South Downs before heading back. It was a real kick. For me and my niece and nephew. And for someone who generally doesn’t like flying, that’s saying something.
Monday, October 18, 2004
Here's where I'd rather be...
It's cold in London and rain threatens. Here's an option.
Half an hour from Pierrefeu and a ten-minute ferry ride. Hire a bike, cycle through the sandy tracks amongst the pine forest and you're here.
On the map it's the Ile de Porquerolles. I call it heaven.
Sunday, October 17, 2004
Sloe Gin recipe
It's that time of year. Here's my brother's patented sloe gin recipe.
Gather the berries before the first frost from lovely English hedgerows - ideally before everyone else gets there.
Wash them and put them in the freezer for one night. This simulates the first frost of the year and makes them juicier and makes them more permeable to the gin (you can tell he's a scientist...).
Take one empty gin bottle. Fill two thirds with berries, add a generous handful of sugar (getting less scientific now) and same again of sliced almonds.
Top up with gin. Shake daily over the course of one week. Leave for three months. Sieve out all solids and filter into another bottle.
Store until the next Christmas at which point you can delight your friends with this delicious beverage. (If you've not had had this before, it's best drunk as a digestif or liqueur.) Slainte!
Gather the berries before the first frost from lovely English hedgerows - ideally before everyone else gets there.
Wash them and put them in the freezer for one night. This simulates the first frost of the year and makes them juicier and makes them more permeable to the gin (you can tell he's a scientist...).
Take one empty gin bottle. Fill two thirds with berries, add a generous handful of sugar (getting less scientific now) and same again of sliced almonds.
Top up with gin. Shake daily over the course of one week. Leave for three months. Sieve out all solids and filter into another bottle.
Store until the next Christmas at which point you can delight your friends with this delicious beverage. (If you've not had had this before, it's best drunk as a digestif or liqueur.) Slainte!
Thursday, October 14, 2004
World on Fire
Courtesy of Stupid Simple Blog, I bring you the new Sarah McLachlan video. Now I like Sarah M but this video really sticks with you. And, as my company enters a soul-searching look at value for money, the captions about the kind of things Hollywood pays for as standard in any of its productions, compared to what that money could buy in the real world are pretty thought-provoking. Oh, and it's a good tune too. Check it out.
Wednesday, October 13, 2004
Soups I have Loved
The easiest - and tastiest - Minestrone Soup you'll ever make. And from an authentic Italian, my Mum's friend, Gemma.
Gemma's Minestrone Soup
Fry 3 cloves of chopped garlic and 2 onions in olive oil for about 2 mins. Add a tin of chopped tomatoes and cook, covered, for a further five mins. Add 4 carrots, , broccoli, cabbage, parsnip, mushrooms (any veg really), leek, peppers or whatever and a tin of baked beans. Add a chicken stockcube. Simmer for 3/4 of an hour and add a handful of pasta (small conchiglie or macaroni) towards the end.
Serve with lashings of freshly-grated parmesan and a light red wine (a Beaujolais or Gamay de Touraine).
A chum at work has blagged a recipe from his super-talented girlfried for Beetroot soup which I might regale you with another time. Any other suggestions from the Soup Massive?
Gemma's Minestrone Soup
Fry 3 cloves of chopped garlic and 2 onions in olive oil for about 2 mins. Add a tin of chopped tomatoes and cook, covered, for a further five mins. Add 4 carrots, , broccoli, cabbage, parsnip, mushrooms (any veg really), leek, peppers or whatever and a tin of baked beans. Add a chicken stockcube. Simmer for 3/4 of an hour and add a handful of pasta (small conchiglie or macaroni) towards the end.
Serve with lashings of freshly-grated parmesan and a light red wine (a Beaujolais or Gamay de Touraine).
A chum at work has blagged a recipe from his super-talented girlfried for Beetroot soup which I might regale you with another time. Any other suggestions from the Soup Massive?
Thursday, October 07, 2004
Quite literally...
People say the funniest things (copyright: Reader's Digest (c) 1972). Consider these:
- I quite literally laughed my head off
- I quite literally jumped out of my skin
- Quite literally, you could have knocked me down with a feather
What does this MEAN? Answer: nothing.
But it's quite literally one of the most amusing things you hear folk say. Keeps me giggling anyway...
Wednesday, October 06, 2004
The 60th Anniversary of the Liberation of Pierrefeu
D Day – in Provence
The siren went off at exactly 6 o’clock in Pierrefeu. In this little Provençal village, the prompt timekeeping was impressive in itself. But the crowd flocking towards the centre of the village was also something I hadn’t seen before – young and old, teenagers, grandmothers and tots in pushchairs.
Monday, the 16th of August was sixty years to the day since Pierrefeu was liberated in World War 2. The previous day had seen the pomp and ceremony of medal-giving by President Chirac, fly-pasts by the French equivalent of the Red Arrows and re-enactments of the landings on the beaches along the Var coastline. These had been led by sections of the American and French armies (made up, mainly, of African troops from France’s colonies), almost ten weeks after D Day in Normandy. The fanfare over, it was now time for this village of five thousand souls to commemorate its own little piece of history.
I managed to get a prime spot by the main road at a little table in the Bar Central (aka Chez Michelle) and ordered a glass of chilled rosé as I prepared my camera and notebook to capture the events of the evening.
It was the older folk I was watching. The old lady who sits, knitting, at the narrow house at the foot of the old village had just walked by. She’s the one who’s kind of the village grandmother. Everyone talks to her and she has a faltering, rather fractured french as if she has trouble talking. I wondered what she made of it all.
A few minutes after the siren, a motley selection of jeeps, ambulances and troop carriers drove through town, manned by locals in period dress and sometimes carrying rather unlikely-looking passengers, like the small boy wielding a rifle and a lady of a ‘certain age’ whose costume suggested she might have been more at home at the Moulin Rouge…
After some waving and cheering, it appeared we were liberated! Michelle who runs the bar told me that, actually, it took almost as long sixty years ago. There were a few shots from the bank opposite the café and a cannon was fired at – or from, she wasn’t sure - Chateau Something-or-Other. And that was it, really. Funny, as my elderly neighbour, Simone, had a different tale, speaking of bombings that made everyone scurry for their wine cellars and attempted sabotage of bridges. And a builder I’ve met talked of only hearing distant gunfire from miles away towards the coast.
But, having done my Liberation homework, these diverging accounts sort of sum up the war in Occupied France for those who lived through it. No one has quite the same story or the same recollections.
What is not in dispute, though, is the impact on the village of having its menfolk deported to snowy labour camps in Germany or the tragedy of losing those who died at the start of the war or in the resistance fighting around the area in 1944. Down by the Mairie a little exhibition about the Liberation contained various archive letters, documents and newspapers of the time as well as authentic accounts from surviving ‘resistants’ who were present. I was gratified to read that, on the day the village was liberated on the 16th August, it was the Quartier Sainte Croix (where my house is!) which took the lead in the revelries, initiating a rousing, acapella version of La Marseillaise ‘au milieu d’applaudissements frénétiques’. The crowd then processed down to the market square and partied on until the small hours.
Which was exactly what appeared to be on the cards sixty years on. A Glenn Miller Tribute band wowed the clientele of the Café de Commerce while several villagers gave an energetic – and impromptu - jiving demonstration around the now-parked jeeps. Later, after a firework display, which would have given Edinburgh at Hogmanay a run for its money, the crowds partied on in the market square and the sounds of Europop boomed around the village hillside.
What I remember from the evening, though, was not the sound and fury of the disco or the fireworks. It was the old folk of the village quietly walking around the exhibition at the Town Hall, pointing out old friends in the blurry black and white pictures and recalling those who didn’t come back. And the story told by the elderly resistance fighter who, as the eldest son, was more or less sent off to join the Maquis by his father. He tearfully remembered his father’s parting words to him. ‘You were born in this country, you will free this country. Don’t be rash but be brave. And come home again.’
The siren went off at exactly 6 o’clock in Pierrefeu. In this little Provençal village, the prompt timekeeping was impressive in itself. But the crowd flocking towards the centre of the village was also something I hadn’t seen before – young and old, teenagers, grandmothers and tots in pushchairs.
Monday, the 16th of August was sixty years to the day since Pierrefeu was liberated in World War 2. The previous day had seen the pomp and ceremony of medal-giving by President Chirac, fly-pasts by the French equivalent of the Red Arrows and re-enactments of the landings on the beaches along the Var coastline. These had been led by sections of the American and French armies (made up, mainly, of African troops from France’s colonies), almost ten weeks after D Day in Normandy. The fanfare over, it was now time for this village of five thousand souls to commemorate its own little piece of history.
I managed to get a prime spot by the main road at a little table in the Bar Central (aka Chez Michelle) and ordered a glass of chilled rosé as I prepared my camera and notebook to capture the events of the evening.
It was the older folk I was watching. The old lady who sits, knitting, at the narrow house at the foot of the old village had just walked by. She’s the one who’s kind of the village grandmother. Everyone talks to her and she has a faltering, rather fractured french as if she has trouble talking. I wondered what she made of it all.
A few minutes after the siren, a motley selection of jeeps, ambulances and troop carriers drove through town, manned by locals in period dress and sometimes carrying rather unlikely-looking passengers, like the small boy wielding a rifle and a lady of a ‘certain age’ whose costume suggested she might have been more at home at the Moulin Rouge…
After some waving and cheering, it appeared we were liberated! Michelle who runs the bar told me that, actually, it took almost as long sixty years ago. There were a few shots from the bank opposite the café and a cannon was fired at – or from, she wasn’t sure - Chateau Something-or-Other. And that was it, really. Funny, as my elderly neighbour, Simone, had a different tale, speaking of bombings that made everyone scurry for their wine cellars and attempted sabotage of bridges. And a builder I’ve met talked of only hearing distant gunfire from miles away towards the coast.
But, having done my Liberation homework, these diverging accounts sort of sum up the war in Occupied France for those who lived through it. No one has quite the same story or the same recollections.
What is not in dispute, though, is the impact on the village of having its menfolk deported to snowy labour camps in Germany or the tragedy of losing those who died at the start of the war or in the resistance fighting around the area in 1944. Down by the Mairie a little exhibition about the Liberation contained various archive letters, documents and newspapers of the time as well as authentic accounts from surviving ‘resistants’ who were present. I was gratified to read that, on the day the village was liberated on the 16th August, it was the Quartier Sainte Croix (where my house is!) which took the lead in the revelries, initiating a rousing, acapella version of La Marseillaise ‘au milieu d’applaudissements frénétiques’. The crowd then processed down to the market square and partied on until the small hours.
Which was exactly what appeared to be on the cards sixty years on. A Glenn Miller Tribute band wowed the clientele of the Café de Commerce while several villagers gave an energetic – and impromptu - jiving demonstration around the now-parked jeeps. Later, after a firework display, which would have given Edinburgh at Hogmanay a run for its money, the crowds partied on in the market square and the sounds of Europop boomed around the village hillside.
What I remember from the evening, though, was not the sound and fury of the disco or the fireworks. It was the old folk of the village quietly walking around the exhibition at the Town Hall, pointing out old friends in the blurry black and white pictures and recalling those who didn’t come back. And the story told by the elderly resistance fighter who, as the eldest son, was more or less sent off to join the Maquis by his father. He tearfully remembered his father’s parting words to him. ‘You were born in this country, you will free this country. Don’t be rash but be brave. And come home again.’
Things I've noticed about blogs and bloggers
I've been doing my research since I had my blog epiphany last Friday. First off, I can reliably report that most folk's reaction to the creation of these web wanderings are variously:
- Don't put your photo up there, for God's sake! Anyone could see it!
- Okaaaay. That's a bit geeky, isn't it?
- What on earth do you write about? (Still trying to figure that one out myself...)
- Why don't you just send an email to people if you want to tell them what you're up to?
Mock posts from cynics include:
Dear Blog
Today I went to work. Talked to some people and did some emails. Had lunch. Planned my hotel and flights to California and bragged about foreign travel to sceptical colleagues. Anyway, that's all for now.
The folk who DO get it have been great and very supportive. (And my huge thanks go to my two expert advisors, Martin and Tom who answer my ridiculously stupid questions and make me feel as I've joined a good club and not a collection of saddos)
But in looking around at what's out there, here are my first impressions of Blogland -
- The ones I pass straight over are the ones which are a bit techie or 'under the bonnet' (that's 'hood' to any US readers) and leave me cross-eyed. Feeds, patches, code - I'll stick to words, thanks.
- The ones I find gripping are the political blogs - although I am yet to find one that supports Bush not Kerry. Not that that's who I back in this Election, but the overwhelming trend in the blogs I've read to date is liberal.
- Also, voyeuristically, I DO enjoy the blogs which just detail the day-to-day of someone's life and links they've found. One I came across today had a great story about Haddock (herring?) farting and how boffins seem to think that this is how they communicate. Hysterical.
- Finally, the real gems are the ones which are totally off the wall or slightly specialist. Try One Million Footnotes ,for example. Posts are simply short, cunningly-crafted sentences which paint amazing pictures in your head and somehow stay with you long after you've logged off.
Blogging. Dontcha love it?
- Don't put your photo up there, for God's sake! Anyone could see it!
- Okaaaay. That's a bit geeky, isn't it?
- What on earth do you write about? (Still trying to figure that one out myself...)
- Why don't you just send an email to people if you want to tell them what you're up to?
Mock posts from cynics include:
Dear Blog
Today I went to work. Talked to some people and did some emails. Had lunch. Planned my hotel and flights to California and bragged about foreign travel to sceptical colleagues. Anyway, that's all for now.
Bye, Blog.
PS Is anybody out there???
The folk who DO get it have been great and very supportive. (And my huge thanks go to my two expert advisors, Martin and Tom who answer my ridiculously stupid questions and make me feel as I've joined a good club and not a collection of saddos)
But in looking around at what's out there, here are my first impressions of Blogland -
- The ones I pass straight over are the ones which are a bit techie or 'under the bonnet' (that's 'hood' to any US readers) and leave me cross-eyed. Feeds, patches, code - I'll stick to words, thanks.
- The ones I find gripping are the political blogs - although I am yet to find one that supports Bush not Kerry. Not that that's who I back in this Election, but the overwhelming trend in the blogs I've read to date is liberal.
- Also, voyeuristically, I DO enjoy the blogs which just detail the day-to-day of someone's life and links they've found. One I came across today had a great story about Haddock (herring?) farting and how boffins seem to think that this is how they communicate. Hysterical.
- Finally, the real gems are the ones which are totally off the wall or slightly specialist. Try One Million Footnotes ,for example. Posts are simply short, cunningly-crafted sentences which paint amazing pictures in your head and somehow stay with you long after you've logged off.
Blogging. Dontcha love it?
Monday, October 04, 2004
This blogging thing has taken hold
How obsessive am I now becoming? Reading Rebecca Blood's (two) books on how and why to blog, checking out the suggested links and - as of today - sorting out flights, hotels etc to head from cold, rainy Glasgow to sunny Palo Alto, CA for BloggerCon in early November.
I'm fascinated by the political dimension which Dave Winer mentions in his intro to the conference and the timing of the event - just after the US Presidential Election - will make it all the more interesting. Which means, though, that I need to do a bit of background research on the kind of political blogs which are out there. All suggestions gratefully received...
That's one area of interest. The other is my team's experiment with user-generated blogging via Island Blogging. This came about when the islands of North Argyll in Scotland were all given a pc and internet connection by local government. Once they'd worked out how to use the kit, we moved in and suggested they create blogs of their daily lives. While the interface is a bit quick and dirty, the community element of linking island to island, island to mainland Scotland and island to the World has been amazing to watch. It's not until you read comments about wind farms, beached whales or meteor showers from Florida or Australia that you realise how compelling the minutiae of folks' daily lives can be when written down.
I'm fascinated by the political dimension which Dave Winer mentions in his intro to the conference and the timing of the event - just after the US Presidential Election - will make it all the more interesting. Which means, though, that I need to do a bit of background research on the kind of political blogs which are out there. All suggestions gratefully received...
That's one area of interest. The other is my team's experiment with user-generated blogging via Island Blogging. This came about when the islands of North Argyll in Scotland were all given a pc and internet connection by local government. Once they'd worked out how to use the kit, we moved in and suggested they create blogs of their daily lives. While the interface is a bit quick and dirty, the community element of linking island to island, island to mainland Scotland and island to the World has been amazing to watch. It's not until you read comments about wind farms, beached whales or meteor showers from Florida or Australia that you realise how compelling the minutiae of folks' daily lives can be when written down.
Friday, October 01, 2004
And tonight, Matthew...
So, in the space of just over twenty-four hours, a blog is born, pictures are added and it's renamed. Yes, already Pierrefeu has become Scrinson. Anyone rash enough to have bookmarked this little collection of online ramblings (yeah, right...) will be well and truly lost.
But I care not! I simply thought that, although France, Pierrefeu, the wee village house etc will still be writ large in this blog, I might want to widen my musings out beyond all that. And so voila! Scrinson appears.
Scrinson - for those not in my immediate family - is a word which emanated from one of my (two) brothers and is used to define a doodad, thingummy, whatdyacallit etc
And, as this blog is likely to equally ill-defined in what it will become, Scrinson it is...
But I care not! I simply thought that, although France, Pierrefeu, the wee village house etc will still be writ large in this blog, I might want to widen my musings out beyond all that. And so voila! Scrinson appears.
Scrinson - for those not in my immediate family - is a word which emanated from one of my (two) brothers and is used to define a doodad, thingummy, whatdyacallit etc
And, as this blog is likely to equally ill-defined in what it will become, Scrinson it is...
Julie outside the French House
Shutters, washing hanging out the front, a copy of the local paper after an expresso in the village cafe. And warm enough for shorts at nine o'clock in the morning. Hurrah!
Background note - the house is 250 years-old and in the oldest part of the village which is entirely car-free. Pierrefeu itself is perched on a rocky outcrop, overlooking vineyards on one side and hills on the other. It's a working village so you won't get a Peter Mayle Experience here!
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