washing-up

Freddie The Bastard

2009-10-11T03:14:00.002+01:00

"You might think I'm a dreamer," sang John Lennon, "But I'm not the only one." He was right of course. Remember 60's pop combo Freddie and the Dreamers? They were dreamers. Except Freddie of course. He was a bastard. Freddie the Bastard they used to call him. The right people could call him that to his face because he liked it. If you weren't the right person, or he was just in a bad mood that night, you could find yourself with your lips stapled to the back of a horse. That's what happened to Nigel Beckenstand, the Dreamers' original bass player. Back then they were called "Bastard and the Dreamers", but you couldn't say "bastard" on the radio back then, so the name had to change.

When you watch archive footage of the Dreamers today, they look pretty happy. But they weren't. They were terrified of Freddie the Bastard, but they had to maintain the pretense. They were too scared to look scared. None of them could even play an instrument before Freddie made them join his band. They all learned overnight. They had hit after hit since they were too scared not to. He had a cannon in his front garden, and if any of the band made a mistake on stage, they would get fired out of it into the wall of the pub next door.

Freddie hit the headlines after eating the then Minister of Transport. In fact, he retains a place in the Guinness book of world records for most members of the British cabinet eaten by one man after polishing off the Education Secretary two years later. They didn't dare arrest him for it. Even the police were terrified of him.

Then one day the hits just stopped coming. For a while people kept buying his records anyway, in case he found out and stabbed them in the elbow like he did that nun one time, but it soon became clear that he had vanished, and a collective, if nervous, sigh of relief was heard around the country.

And where is he now? Nobody knows. Some say he's dead. Some say he fled the country. But others talk in half-whispers about strange doings in holiday camps and pubs around the UK, where rumours of a Freddie and the Dreamers reunion abound.

What a bastard.

Silencio

2009-08-06T15:34:00.005+01:00

One of the reasons for the waning of this blog is that Twitter and Facebook are much more suited to collecting my trivial everyday thoughts.

But today they are both down at the same time. What are the odds of that? Is someone carrying out a DOS attack on social networking sites? (Myspace seems to still be up, but who still uses that?) Is the world coming to an end resulting in thousands of users Tweeting about it at once? Or has my ISP messed up somehow?

Update: Well, it's not my ISP, since the Twitter status blog confirms that it's down. Facebook came back up for a minute, but seems to be knackered again. Overrun by refugees from Twitter, perhaps?

Update 2: Confirmed to be a Denial Of Service attack on Twitter.

Dusty Old Blog

2009-07-01T03:15:00.003+01:00

No, I have not died, nor been so assimilated by America that I can no longer communicate with the outside world. I can't say my life has been that interesting lately, however. You'd think that I'd have more to write about, having moved abroad and all, but it's only America. It's just like Britain really, except it's hotter where we are, and they drive on the other side of the road and stuff. Working from home, and having a small child to look after, means that I don't get out much. I can feel what few social skills I ever had slowly atrophying. Hopefully I can do something about that before too much time passes and I become a weird shut-in.

I think I might start blogging again though. All I seem to do at the moment, other that work and change nappies (they call them "diapers" here - weird!) is consume movies and music and video games, so I might as well write about those.

Tomorrow.

You May Think It's Funny, But It's Snot

2009-03-24T04:36:00.001Z

Aidan has been unwell this past week or so. He's picked up an ear infection and a nasty cold, causing him to produce surprisingly vast quantities of mucus and bogies so sticky they give previous world-record holder Toxteth O'Grady a run for his money. The gunk in his lungs also causes him to cough, often to the point where he is sick. I'm not talking about a wee dribble on the carpet either, but vast fountains of milky vomit, more often than not aimed directly at his dear old dad. Still, he's a Glaswegian lad, and so not one to let a little tactical chunder spoil his evening, normally grinning widely a few moments later as his father drips his way to the bedroom to change his clothes for the third time that day.

Babies that age tend to get these little infections quite frequently, we are assured, while their immune systems build up a database of common bugs and how to tackle them. Despite being regularly showered in infantile secretions, I felt certain that my highly-trained 33-year-old white blood cells would keep me safe and healthy. But of course, I am also in a new environment, surrounded by many variations of the common cold not often encountered in Glasgow, and am now paying the price for my immunological hubris.

In short, I feel like shite.

I Play This Game Several Times a Night

2009-03-23T02:28:00.000Z

The rules are as follows ...

Turn off the lights. Hold the baby firmly but gently, his head on your shoulder. Start walking, adopting a steady, regular pace, and a slight bounce. If your grip on the baby is correct he should jiggle slightly. Eventually he will fall asleep, but if you put him down now he will wake instantly. Instead, start counting to yourself, at a rate of one per step, where a step involves moving both legs. If he makes a sound or a voluntary movement, start counting again from the beginning. When you reach 120 you can put him down, and start counting to 30. If he wakes up in that time you may be able to get him back to sleep by rubbing his tummy and sushing. If not, pick him up and start again from the beginning. If you make it to 30, congratulations! The baby is asleep. You may now creep out very quietly and enjoy what remains of your evening, but keep the monitor handy since you may be called upon to play the game again.

Who knew sleep was so difficult?

Settling

2009-03-23T02:03:00.000Z

I suppose I'm coping ok in my new environment, though I have only been here for a month, and so am still in that 'holiday' period. The novelty is keeping homesickness at bay, though I do wish that Google Street View hadn't chosen this week to launch in the UK, resulting in a slighly tipsy and maudlin hour spent clicking through my old hood.

Working from home hasn't been the minimum-productivity skivefest I feared it might, though I've had a few unpleasant episodes of cabin fever, and I do miss the peace of my morning train journey, cold and rain notwithstanding. For someone used to being able to nip across the road to Tesco at a moments notice, living in a place where driving is not optional is hard going.

So yeah, I'm here. Now what?

Moved

2009-02-24T16:28:00.001Z

Well, would you look at that? I appear to have emigrated, and am now a resident of them there United States! Goodness, how did that happen? I am a legal alien, which is quite cool and makes me feel like I'm David Bowie's character in The Man Who Fell To Earth, but then remember that song by Sting, which is substantially less cool, even though I'm not an Englishman. Nor am I in New York, but Allen, Texas.

I could bore you with the messy details of the move, but shant. It's probably much as you imagine, anyway. I've already blogged about the visa process, which is the most complicated part of the whole affair. The rest was just a matter of sorting out what to send off on a slow boat (clothes, DVDs, music, books), what to pack for the period until the slow boat arrives (five suitcases worth), and what to get rid of (everything else, either sold or given to charity). Oh, and saying goodbye to family and friends. That was no fun at all.

For now it feels like we are just visiting, and it hasn't quite sunk in that we can NEVER GO HOME AGAIN!

A Day In The Life

2009-01-16T12:21:00.002Z

Recent travels and travails have left my Google Reader account straining at the gills with unglanced-at posts. Catching up on my lunch break, I see that Moosh has nominated today as a day-in-the-life day. I haven't done one of those in ages, so let's have a crack. I may end up not bothering to publish this if the rest of the day is deeply dull.

6.30am - The alarm goes off. Yesterday I received notification that my passport and visa would arrive today by courier some time between 8am and 6pm, so I set my alarm super early so I could get into work for 8. Fumbling to silence it before it woke the baby, I almost allowed myself to sink back into sleep, but managed to force myself out of bed for 6.45.

I fed and watered the cat, brushed my teeth, had a shower, got dressed and took the bin out, all without waking Rebecca and Aidan, woke R up briefly to say bye, and got out the door in time to see the 7.26 pull into the station. Tantalisingly close, I knew there was no chance of getting it, but thought there might be a 7.38, so sauntered over to look at the timetable and discover that there was, in fact, not such train. Rather than wait until 8 o'clock, I chose to take the bus. There was one already at the stop, and I had change, so I hopped on and asked for a "one-thirty" from the driver who looked at me like I was from Mars.

I hadn't had time to make lunch, and was paranoid about leaving the office in case the courier came while I was away, so after getting off the bus I popped into Marks and Sparks to buy a sandwich. I've been feeling a bit "meat-off" these past few days, so bought a cheapo egg mayonnaise sarnie before going into work. I was the first person in and got to turn on all the lights. I quite enjoy that, and the quiet of the place when I'm the only one in. Not enough to make me get up early unless I have to, though. I got myself some cereal from my stash in the kitchen, and went to my machine. I'd left a lengthy defrag and shrink process running on a VMWare image when I left the night before, and it had failed due to lack of disk space, so I deleted an old, unneeded image and kicked it off again while reading email and news, and started unreportably dull worky stuff once it had finished.

At about 9.30 a colleague brought over a large, black, plastic envelope and said that there was a guy at reception who needed to see my ID. Once authenticated, I tore it open, and as expected it contained my passport, containing a new visa sticker, and a large, heavy brown envelope, with instructions printed on it in large black letters indicating that it should not be opened or tampered with under any circumstances, and must be presented to the immigration officer when I enter the US. This attracted a bit of attention from various workmates who didn't know of my moving plans, so the cat is very definitely out of the bag now, even though it wasn't really a secret any more.

At about 11.00 the Friday cakes arrived, though as usual there were a fair number of savoury items from Greggs, and I consumed a sausage roll, thus making a mockery of my earlier advances towards vegetarianism. In my defense I suspect its actual meat content to have been pretty low. Now lunchtime is here, I am regretting having bothered to buy a sandwich, such, along with my usual monster bowl of Alpen, I'm really not hungry. I shall save it for later.

***

Around 3.20pm R phoned. She had been in town meeting some of the other mums from our NCT class earlier in the year, and was now heading over to Mono. Since I'd gotten into work early, I said I would come and meet her just after 4. At Mono I found her with Aidan sitting on her lap, looking quite happy. We split a veggie curry and strange carbonated elderflower drink. In the toilet I noticed a bit of graffiti that made me smile. Someone had written "This place would be better if... it wasn't so shite," but a second person had scored out the last part and replaced it with "it had a bouncy castle and the girl behind the bar with no smiles would kiss me." I'll miss that sweet, silly, and, yes, twee side of Glasgow, I think. It's not all neds and jakies. Just mostly.

I read for a bit while R took Aidan into Monorail to show our friend Russell who works in there, and then we bundled up and went back out into the damp evening. We had waited a bit too long, however, and rush-hour was in full swing, so on the way to the station we went into Tinderbox for coffee and Portuguese custard tarts. A, by now, was sound asleep, as is normal for him if he's outside and moving. When we were done we finished walking to Central Station, but it was still packed and the next train was not for another half hour. I was a bit nervous about A waking up and being pissed off, since he hadn't been fed in a while, and the taxi queue wasn't too bad, so we took one of those instead of struggling to get his stroller on a busy commuter train.

Back home, R folded up the stroller while I took Aidan upstairs. When I got in I sat down on the sofa to take his jacket off, but as I did so I felt a bolt of pain in my right knee, sufficient to make me yelp and use some choice language. I've been having trouble with that knee for a while now. It's ok while standing or walking, but if I sit with it bent for too long it stiffens up and gets sore, at which point it emits a loud "click" when straightened. Putting weight on it when bending down or getting up also hurts a fair bit. My doctor diagnosed inflammation behind the kneecap, though was at a loss to explain why I should be experiencing such a thing, and prescribed anti-inflammatories. They ease the symptoms a bit, but can't quite knock them out. In any case, it's never hurt as much as it did at that point, and for a while I wasn't sure if I was going to be able to walk on it. I handed Aidan off to Rebecca when she came in, and sat for a little while. The pain faded after about five minutes and I was able to get up without difficulty, but it definitely doesn't feel quite right, and putting weight on it hurts more than it ever did. If it still feels this way by Monday I am definitely going back to my doctor, even though I am convinced he fills himself full of Valium at the start of the working day, such is his distant, laissez-faire attitude to his patients.

I messed around on the internets for a while, and played with Aidan on the floor (getting down gingerly, but I was ok once I was there). At about eight-ish I took him into the bedroom and put his pyjamas on him. Then R came in, and gave him a feed in the dark in an effort to get him off to sleep. Sated, he dozed off in her lap. We didn't want to move him into his cot straight away, hoping that he would ultimately fall into a deep sleep that would see him through the night, or at least a few hours. His sleep patterns have been chaotic ever since we got back from the US. This is partly jet-lag, and partly because we allowed him to sleep in the bed with us while we were away. We knew we were fostering a bad habit, but when you're so tired you want to die and you know it will help him sleep through, it seems worth it. I crept out and fetched my laptop, and we had a look at flights for our move. We found a good deal on KLM, but are loathe to actually book anything until the missives are concluded on the flat and we can definitely put a date on it.

After a short time we put Aidan down in his cot and tip-toed away. In the living room I played with my DS for about half an hour, before I heard Aidan wake up and start crying over the baby monitor. Normally it takes several attempts to get him into a proper sleep. He will doze off for a while, then wake and start crying, or at least making a fuss. I can usually send him back off by picking him up and rocking him for a few minutes, as in this case.

Once back down, I went into the spare room/office and started writing the second part of this post, but I was interrupted by half-a-dozen restless-baby moments, and reading about the forthcoming remake of The Prisoner. I'm a massive fan of the original show, and was saddened to hear of Patrick McGoohan's death the other day. From first appearances, I fear that this remake will be... how can I put this?... a load of arse. I do like Ian McKellan (Though it appears that he will be Number 2 for the duration of the show, unlike the 1960's series where a different actor took the role each week.) but casting James Caviezel - Hollywood's most generic looking actor - as Number 6, a character who is supposed to represent personal individuality , is surely a mistake. I'll try to watch it with an open mind when it comes on, however.

Now, to bed. Hopefully that'll be Aidan down for a while. Or not. Every day is different.

Look at that - no posts for months, then three 1000-worders in a row. I suppose I've been keeping mum on certain things and it's caused a bit of a backlog that's now overflowing. Sorry about that. I expect the torrent will slow soon enough.

Visa

2009-01-15T22:24:00.001Z

So yesterday I was at the American embassy in London for the final stage of the torturous visa application process - the interview. Here's my description of the day, as written for the excellent Dive Into America forum, without which making sense of the whole horrible mess of forms and regulations would have been far, far harder ...

I turned up at the Embassy in plenty of time, carrying just my paperwork folder, having left my phone and other items with a friend I was staying with. I was on my own, my wife staying at home in Glasgow, since we have a six-month old son and didn't want to have to drag him down to London. The embassy building itself was a little underwhelming, being a grey 1960's concrete slab on one side of an otherwise picturesque square. I had imagined something far grander, but I digress. The day was cold but dry, and there was a very short queue to see the first security guard. She checked my passport and appointment letter, asked if I had any electronic items (to which I said no), and sent me on to the security checkpoint.

In the little security building I was asked to remove all metal objects from my pockets, this I did, and the guard spotted my car keys. I thought I had left all electronic items at home, but had forgotten about the remote for the car and was sent back out. I nipped along to Gould's pharmacy, which is just a couple of minutes walk along the road, and had to pay £5 for pleasure of having them look after my keys. (Actually £6, for storage and a packet of Smints, since I didn't have enough cash and they don't take cards for purchases under £6.)

Back at the embassy I went through security, round to the door for visa appointments, and into the building proper. At the front desk I was given number 5023 and shown into the waiting room, which was uncomfortably warm and pretty crowded. My heart sank when I saw the screen indicating that they were currently serving number 1021, but thankfully realised that there were two queues - one for non immigrant visas with numbers beginning at 1000, and another for immigrant visas starting at 5000. According to the screen, there were seven people ahead of me in that queue.

I sat and waited, wishing I had brought a book, but probably too nervous to concentrate on it if I had. At one point an alarm went off and a recorded voice announced "Blast Warning! Move away from windows! Duck and cover!" which was somewhat disconcerting until a rather sheepish voice came over the tannoy and said "Er... please ignore that last message."

After about an hour I was called up to a window and asked for my identification. He then told me to wait while he fetched my file, returning with a folder and the large brown envelope containing my chest x-ray. He asked when I was planning to move, and I replied "mid February", and he pointed out that I would only have until April to make use of my visa, since my medical had taken place in April last year, and the chest x-ray is only valid for a year. (We had originally received an appointment last year, and rescheduled, but I went for my medical at that time anyway. I knew that the results of the medical were only valid for a year, but though that was fine so long as you had your visa appointment in that time. It turns out that you have to TRAVEL in that year - something to be aware of.) He then asked for each piece of my documentation and copies thereof and took my fingerprints before sending me to the cashier's desk, where I paid my $400 and brought him back the receipt. I was given a form to fill out for the courier, specifying the address to which my passport would be returned, and asked me to sit down again.

Another hour of waiting passed uneventfully before I was called up again for the interview. This time it was a very pleasant American lady, who returned the original copies of my documents. She took my fingerprints again and asked where my wife was, the year in which we were married, pointed out that because my wife had not earned enough to file taxes that she was invalid as a sponsor, but that my joint sponsor was acceptable, and asked why we were moving to the states. She also wanted to know if my wife had a home in the US. I answered "no", but was about to show her the rental agreement on the apartment we had found when we were last over as proof of intent to domicile, when she asked about my home here. I told her that our flat was under offer. She asked how much we were selling it for, and seemed happy with that. I had brought along the offer letter, but she didn't ask for any proof. Finally, she asked about employment, and I explained that I was transferring to the US division of the company I worked for now, and told her how much my US salary would be.

With that she said that she "couldn't tell me that my visa was authorised" because they still had to run a fingerprint check, but that as far as she was concerned everything was in order. She told me to take the courier form to the desk by the entrance to the waiting room, and that I should expect my passport, and the legendary sealed brown envelope of mystery, in 3-5 working days, wished me luck with the move and told me to have a nice day. Elated, I paid the courier and headed back to my friend's flat (via Gould's) to phone the missus with the good news.

A pretty standard tale for these parts, I suppose, but if I have any advice it's to make sure that your pockets are emptied of ANY electronic device whatsoever (Would they have knocked me back for a digital watch, for example? What about an analogue one?) and bring a pen so that you don't have to borrow one to fill out the courier form, and a book to fend off boredom.

(Incidentally, I receive a text today to say that the courier should be delivering my passport and visa tomorrow. Not bad - they quoted me 3-5 working days but got it to me in 2.)

Washing Up

2009-01-12T01:09:00.001Z

Some years ago, I registered my real name as a .com domain, under which I wrote a personal blog. Nowadays this would be considered a spectacularly silly thing to do. Unless you are a celeb, or at least someone who is using a site to promote themselves and their ideas, it's always better to blog at least semi-anonymously. It's ok to point friends and family to it, but you never know when a prospective boss, say, might search for your name and find a foaming-mouthed rant about your current workplace, or even just evidence that your personal tastes or politics are at odds with their own.

The Internet was younger and more innocent back then, of course. Something of a niche hobby. Even mentioning that you had an email address would be enough for most people to scoff and call you a geek. But as time went on everyone and their granny got on the net, and having my name plastered all over an online journal, no matter how innocent its content, began to seem less and less like a good idea. In addition to which, the blog at myrealname.com had attracted a number of trolls who liked to hang out in the comments and post abuse. A change of domain was therefore required.

I didn't really spend an awful lot of time coming up with washing-up.co.uk. I could probably have thought of something better, but my criteria were less than exacting. It was semi-abstract, available, and didn't contain my real name. In addition to which, it was a sly dig at my other half, who steadfastly refuses to take a turn at a particular household chore.

There was another reason for choosing it. We were also thinking, at the time, of moving to another country, and I thought that if anyone asked me what the domain meant, I could explain that it was because I didn't know where I would "wash up", and feel very smug and clever.

Except nobody did. And I never blogged about moving.

Part of the reason for not blogging about it was because, for all of my best intentions, this blog was never really anonymous. Oh, I was careful to scrub every mention of my real name from it, but Google pagerank is too smart for that, and washing-up.co.uk is now the #1 hit for my name. At least I shook off the trolls for a while. But in any case, I didn't much want to accidentally tip-off work that I was planning on upping-sticks and leaving, nor go into detail about something that looked from time-to-time that it wouldn't happen at all.

But now, it looks like it really is. The three of us are planning on hopping the pond and setting up home in Texas. And soon. Scarily soon.

We began the process of applying for my visa about two years ago. This is never rapid, but it was hindered by a combination of laziness and uncertainty on our part, and plain old bad timing. The final task that has to be performed in order for me to get a visa to live and work in the US, is for me to attend an interview at the US Embassy in London, accompanied only by a thick bundle of complex paperwork. I was initially given an appointment for last April, but the visa, once issued, has to be used within six months, and with R heavily pregnant we really didn't think we could orchestrate a move in that time. After informing the embassy of this, we were told that we would receive an alternative appointment. When it finally arrived, it was for a date on which we would be in the States for Christmas. Appointment number three came, and is on Wednesday.

Our original plan was to sell our flat before R had the baby, and move to rented accommodation that we could drop as soon as my visa was ready. Thanks to the knackered economy and dead housing market, this never happened. However, just before Christmas we were made an offer on the flat, approximately the same time as my visa appointment letter arrived. Ahead of us, then, is a mad scramble to move out of the country at the same time as moving out of our home. Providing the god of bureaucracy smiles upon me and grants my visa, of course. (Which is, worryingly, not guaranteed. Although I think we have everything in order, I have heard horror stories.) Even though we started planning this two years ago, it seems like it's all happening very quickly, as though we've been on that first part of a roller-coaster where you are winched slowly to the top of a steep hill before being nudged over the edge.

There is much I will miss about Glasgow, and Scotland in general (including many friends), and the pros and cons of moving have been chewed over again and again. The clincher is, simply, that I have lived here for 33 years and I have the opportunity to have a go at living in a foreign country - and easy as it is to forget, America really is a foreign country - so why the hell not? If I don't, I'll always wonder "what if?" Fortunately the nature of the work I do means that I can do it anywhere there's an internet connection, so I will be keeping my job when we move and working from home. I think this scares me more than anything - will I go completely batshit insane without all those other faces around every day and a commute to ensure that I get out of the house? Fortunately, the interwebs really do make the world a smaller place and there's no longer any good excuse to lose contact with a friend no matter where you live. In addition to which, I may well be back in Glasgow on business once in a while. (Or with my tail between my legs if I cannae hack it.)

Progress will be blogged and Twittered of course. Wish us luck!

New Year

2009-01-06T13:59:00.001Z

It's cold. We're sitting on the sofa under blankets with mugs of hot coffee, and the heating is on full blast, but it's still two-pairs-of-socks cold, since the flat's been unoccupied for three weeks. Presumably there's a lot of residual warmth that sticks around for a while even when the heating is turned off, allowing it to quickly warm up most mornings. Still, it seems appropriate that we have to fire-up the house at the start of the new year.

I shant bother with a retrospective of 2008, since it's it's all been about the lead up and aftermath of a single life-changing event that everyone who might read this is sick of hearing about by now. I certainly didn't bother making any resolutions, knowing that just staying afloat and dealing with the new arrival would be occupation enough. Nor shall I make any for 2009, since I expect this year to be just as mental as the last. But I shall write more on that at a later date.

We came home to two piles of Christmas cards. One from various friends, many of whom we've hardly seen this year. Having a baby does that to you - you don't get out like you used to, and your conversation becomes somewhat limited. The other, an unopened box that we meant to write and send before going away, but never got around to. Having a baby does that to you also. Alternatively, maybe we just suck. Sorry guys. If you sent us a card and didn't get one back, then it's nothing personal. Even our own mothers went cardless this year.

I fear tonight. I've been awake and travelling for an unreasonable number of hours, but don't feel too bad just now. Aidan has, however, slept a great deal this morning. It's hard to explain the concept of jet-lag to a six-month-old, you know? I'm only too glad that I don't have to go back to work until Monday.

Recovery of Faculties

2008-10-21T12:07:00.002+01:00

Oh dear. Over a month since my last post, and my development blog which I had such plans for hasn't really gotten off the ground either. (Though I do have a post or two in draft for that one.) Of course, being a relatively new dad means that time is at a premium, but also to blame is that my development build of Poster has acquired a nasty crashing bug that I must get around to killing. As a result, I don't really trust it since it lost a rather large post the other week. It's not good when you don't want to use your own software because of defects in it. Once that issue is beaten I should be able to get another release out, which would be nice, even though nobody actually uses it.

I did find time to pick up a guitar for the first time in many months. R was at choir, and I was able to get A off to sleep by about 9.15, so had a wee bit of free time. I've never been a very good guitar player, but my skills have atrophied shockingly, and even a fairly simple song sounded dreadful as my wayward fingers struggled to find their places. An hour and a half later and my fingertips, having lost the protective calluses that all guitar players develop, were in agony, but I felt the practice had been worthwhile and I'm encouraged enough to try and play a bit more often when I can.

A is doing grand, and growing so fast you can actually see it if you stare at him long enough. Every day his personality develops a little bit more, and he's turning into a really delightful wee fella. I never thought of myself as being particularly paternal, but, sleepless nights, nasty nappies and lack of free time aside, we're really enjoying being parents, especially now that those difficult first couple of months are over and he is aware of us and can interact somewhat. In addition to this, he's mostly sleeping through the night now (though usually waking up earlier than we'd chose to), and we're getting into something of a routine.

For that period immediately after the birth of a child you feel rather like someone who is recovering from a nasty head injury. You are effectively housebound, dizzy, forgetful and prone to falling asleep in the middle of conversations. It feels like you will never lead any kind of "normal" life again. Thankfully this feeling eventually fades, and though you might experience permanent changes in personality, a full recovery is, indeed, possible, as your brain re-wires itself to cope with its new circumstances.

I could still be doing with a bit more kip, though. For Christmas this year I would like either more hours in the day, or a large "never have to work again" lottery win, please. Thanks.

Blogsplit

2008-09-15T16:01:00.001+01:00

As someone who writes computer software both professionally and, to pile geekery upon geekery, in my spare time, my thoughts often turn to subjects that anyone with a healthy, well-balanced relationship with technology might find tedious at best. Whenever write a post on a techy subject I always picture most of my friends skipping right past it, and anyone who stumbles upon it through searching for the specific topic being put off from returning by posts about babies and what I had for dinner.

To this end, I've set up a separate development blog to which I'll restrict all posts of a technical bent from now on. I'll probably post more as well, without worrying about boring non-nerds.

Of course, I'm basing this on the assumption that I know any non-nerds. I'm not entirely convinced by that.

Ubiquity

2008-08-28T20:25:00.001+01:00

Mozilla Labs released version 0.1 of Ubiquity the other day. It's a Firefox extension that's somewhat akin to the Quicksilver app that many Mac owners will swear by. By invoking a hot-key and typing natural-language commands you can do all sorts of useful mashup-type things - really its easier to watch the video on that page than to explain.

It's still a very early version, but it's already pretty awesome, and I particularly like how easy it is to extend. So much so, that in my lunch break today I was able to knock together a quick script to allow posting to similarly-awesome multi-service posting site Ping.fm. If you have Ubiquity installed, you can add the "Ping" command by clicking here.

Update: Now supports different post types and titles for blog posts.

Update 2: Now split into multiple commands, to work around Ubiquity's parameter-parsing problems. Further updates will be posted to my new development blog instead of here.

Washing Up In Film

2008-08-25T10:26:00.001+01:00

Someone recently found this blog after searching for the above phrase.

For my money, Pedro Almodovar's Volver contains the best shot of someone doing the washing up in cinematic history.

This has nothing to do with the fact that it's Penelope Cruz performing the domestic chore in question, honest.

Frankenbaby

2008-08-20T09:50:00.001+01:00

Babies skulls aren't one piece of bone but consist of a number of plates that can slide and shift, primarily to allow them to squeeze through a particularly narrow exit on day one. Unfortunately, since babies tend to lie on their backs a lot, this can cause the rear of their heads to go a little bit... flat. Aidan's been going that way, and while it does normally go away on its own, but we thought we'd try one of those special cot pillows that are specially shaped to the curvature of the skull, in the hope that it would make him a bit more comfortable in his cot. Lo and behold, he went down with much less fussing last night, and we actually got a bit of sleep. He's still in growth-spurt mode, and he needed feeding twice in the night, but being able to put him back in his cot afterwards without half an hour of rocking is a godsend.

This morning he was keeping eye contact with me as I moved from side to side, and smiling when I pulled faces, so his wee brain's developing right enough. Getting a bit of feedback from him makes it all worthwhile.

ZOMG

2008-08-19T12:02:00.001+01:00

Exceptionally tired today. The wee man's going through a growth spurt, and has been since Friday. This is, apparently, normal at six weeks, and involves him demanding to be fed continually. He eats, falls asleep, wakes up, and screams to be fed again. It should only last for a few days, but it's exceptionally stressful, especially for his mum who has to actually feed him. Once fed he sleeps on her lap, but using these periods of respite to catch up on our own sleep is problematic since any attempt to move him into his cot wakes him up and the crying starts again.

Allegedly this happens just before a major phase in his development, and is him fuelling up for a few days where he will sleep a lot more while his body and brain make use of all the nutrients he's stuffed himself with. I. Can't. Wait.

The Holy Trinity

2008-08-09T22:51:00.001+01:00

As a new father there are many experiences and landmark moments in my son's life that I look forward to sharing. One of these is watching Star Wars for the first time. However, George Lucas' recent crimes against his own creation mean that, when the time comes, I will face certain uncomfortable choices. Obviously we'll be watching the original trilogy, but how does one approach the topic of the sub-par prequels with a small child? Do I simply not mention them, and deny all knowledge when he inevitably wonders about the "Episode IV" subtitle on A New Hope? He'll find out for himself sooner or later, though. Perhaps one should take a strictly prohibitive standpoint, but then there's the risk of him rebelling once he's a teenager and sneaking out to watch "The Phantom Menace" at a friend's house. I suppose I should just show them to him myself, after watching the originals, of course, but then I worry that, having been spoiled by the CGI-heavy kids movies of the early 21st century, he'll find stop-motion AT-AT walkers as hokey and unconvincing as my generation finds CGI Gungans. Even forgetting about the prequels for a moment, there's the question of which version of the classics to watch - the original cinema releases or the late-90's "special editions?" And what of the other spinoff media, including the new Clone Wars movie and whatever other cash-ins that Lucasfilm farts out in the coming years?

I dunno, it's a can of worms. Maybe it's better just to spare him the pain and confusion.

Now don't get me started on Indiana Jones. At least the Back To The Future movies are safe. But for how long?

The Normality Illusion

2008-07-20T15:11:00.001+01:00

So, day 11 of parenthood, and while we can't be described as feeling "normal", there is the sense that we're beginning to adapt to our new life-with-child and that we can cope after all. Today has, in fact, been much like any other Sunday, plus nappies. We popped the wee fella into his pram and went down the street for a massive fry-up, and then round to Tchai-Ovna for tea and chat. I was concerned that at this stage we wouldn't want to leave the house due to the hassle of moving him around, but it's really not so bad, and he's quite relaxed once secured in his pram.

It's really only getting up in the morning after too little sleep that I'm finding hard, and going back to work will be an effort, but so far things are going fairly well. I had a couple of nappy disasters early in the week, but I'm getting better at those, as well as learning how to get him calmed down when he's screaming bloody murder. Thankfully, this isn't too often, and in general he's a pretty chilled out kid. At least, for the time being. He's still at the stage of sleeping most of the day, and only has short periods of open-eyed alertness. In the first couple of weeks there's not a whole lot of interaction you can have with a baby, but their brains are sooking in information from the world around them the whole time and building the foundations of language and motor skills, even if it seems like all they are doing is stare into space. I am looking forward to being able to play with him a bit more though.

At Home

2008-07-17T11:45:00.001+01:00

I don't want to give the impression that anyone is still in the hospital, so I'd just like to note that mum & baby were released from jail on Sunday. Thus, we're in that sleepless new parent stage that must be a bit like recovering from a head injury, I would imagine. Everything is a bit fuzzy, and we're not sure what day it is, but we are enjoying having him, even though he doesn't do much yet.

We are very gradually getting into a routine, so hopefully we'll be feeling a bit more human soon.

Baby Jail

2008-07-12T21:04:00.001+01:00

So another day has passed without a release from the Southern General. Aidan was finally allowed to go back upstairs to be with his mum, but they want him to spend 24 continuous hours with her to ensure that everything is ok before they will let them go. Hopefully this time tomorrow they should be home. And not a minute too soon.

Now the staff at the Southern Gen have, on the whole, been wonderful, being full of good advice and caring magnificently for the new mum and her boy. However, if there's one complaint to be had about the place, it is the food. Now, NHS food is legendarily bad, and I'm sure there's nothing original in bemoaning the fact, but honestly... you know what R was given for her first proper meal after giving birth (tea and toast in the delivery room notwithstanding?

A cheese sandwich.

Now, I quite like a cheese sandwich now and then. My favourite is to grate the cheese and mix it with mayonnaise and chopped up Pimento peppers. Yum. Onion is also good - the celebrated "cheese savoury" of many a Glasgow sandwich shop. Hell, even just cheese and a blob of Branston Pickle makes for a fine snack. I'm not a snob about the humble cheese sandwich, but the one served to R that morning consisted of cheese, bread and... well... cheese and bread, basically. The archetypal cheese sandwich, perhaps, but not what you want to see after a day-and-a-half of pushing a baby out of you.

The staff are endlessly apologetic about the quality of the fare, and it's really not their fault. They just don't have the funding to provide anything better. We are, of course, immensely grateful that the NHS exists, it's just a shame that it has to struggle in so many areas.

Aidan Update

2008-07-11T22:48:00.001+01:00

Aidan and his mum are spending another night in the hospital. Yesterday evening he started puking up green goo. Newborn babies are generally a bit pukey anyway, but for it to be green is not good, since this could potentially indicate the presence of an intestinal blockage. He was taken out of the postnatal recovery ward and brought downstairs to the neonatal unit where he can be continually observed. This has been quite hard on R, since until then he had not left her side, and I must admit the sight of an empty cot beside her bed wasn't especially pleasant for me when I arrived at the hospital this morning, either. She can, however, go down and see him at any time, and if he awakens and cries a midwife will fetch her at any time. It's still hard for her to have to go back upstairs afterwards, however.

Fortunately, other than a tiny blob this morning, he has been mostly free of green vom and is feeding and pooping like a star. Providing he can hold off on the Exorcist act for 24 hours he should be released into the wild tomorrow. Fingers are crossed.

Thanks everyone who has sent messages of congratulations in the last few days. Sorry I haven't been too good at getting back to folk, but things have been a bit hectic, as I'm sure you can imagine, and most of my time has been spent at the hospital.

Waiting Over

2008-07-09T23:29:00.001+01:00

Introducing Aidan Allen McChesney.

Born today at about 1840 (so much for expecting him in the early hours), he weighed 9lbs 11oz and is doing well.

I know I'm a cynical, moany old bugger at times, but nothing can turn a man into a blubbering mess like seeing his son being born.

The Waiting Game: Part Deux

2008-07-08T22:47:00.001+01:00

You know the scene. It's been in a million movies and television shows. The parents-to-be are sitting at home, when the woman clutches her tummy, turns to the man and goes "honey, it's time." Cue panic, running around the house to gather everything they need for the hospital, before a red-light jumping race to the hospital while she lies in the back seat moaning in agony.

This is bollocks.

R's been in labour since about 12.30 am this morning. It's now about 10.30pm and we're at home watching telly. Which is not to say that labour is a breeze, just that it's not the sudden cataclysmic event one tends to imagine. Early labour is a very gradual process that can, potentially, last for days, and consists of contractions with ever-decreasing periods of calm in between. The prevailing philosophy in this country is that the mum-to-be should spend as much time at home as possible. Really, there's not much that they can do until close to the end, and it's infinitely preferable to wait in the comfort of your own home than in an NHS hospital ward. Apart from the contractions, which are painful, you could be forgiven for mistaking it for any other Tuesday night. During the quiet periods we've time to watch telly, put our feet up and write blog posts. Sleep, however, is out of the question.

We have been over to the hospital twice already today, in order for them to keep an eye on things, and the best guess is that this baby's going to make an appearance some time tomorrow morning.

That's when the panicking begins.

The Waiting Game

2008-07-03T11:16:00.001+01:00

Blogging is a bit like exercising for me. I'm always glad when I do it, and if I get into the habit I find it easy to do so fairly regularly, but one little blip and I lost momentum, making it awful hard to start up again. See that last little run of posts which suddenly fizzled out.

We've been in something of a pre-baby limbo of late. R is getting mighty sick of being pregnant and I cannot say that I blame her. Late pregnancy is a pretty miserable time full of indignities that nobody really mentions until you bring them up yourself, when they go "oh yeah, I had that." The good news is that her passenger is in the correct position and "engaged", meaning that he's ready to go as soon as the time is right, which could be any minute now.

I expect to have loads to write about in the near future, then. I also expect to be too knackered to bother, but you never know.