Closeted with my Computer

Isn’t contemporary life a rich and wonderful thing? At the weekend there we were lapping up 18^th-century refinement and interior decoration and taking tea with the Tudors, whereas for much of the last three days I have been grappling with that most absorbing of activities: changing internet service provider. Not that I regret this, having now emerged on the other side of the process without too many scars.

As promised, the router (or “Hub) as BT likes to call it arrived in good time on Monday. “Nice one”, said the delivery man as he handed over the plastic-wrapped box, although I am not sure if he was referring to the excellence of the product he had just delivered or to my house (in which case, thanks very much) or to the accomplishment of his mission—perhaps to all three. With any new piece of technology I always feel a mixture of excitement and trepidation and so I decided to have lunch before disconnecting my old kit and setting up the new.

Basic set-up was very easy, so that soon we were connected to the internet, as evidenced by the rather lovely blue lights on the Hub, but we hit some complications when it came to getting email to function, as I could receive messages but not send. The recommendation from customer service was that I try and sort this out with them the next day, as they do not always have all that they need in place to help a customer straight away. I was happy to postpone as my old address was still working.

Yesterday therefore I rang them again and, after downloading a little bit of software, gave the very helpful and patient technician, who was thousands of miles away, control of my computer. It turned out that the automatic set-up of my email with the new provider’s details had made an incorrect entry in one of the relevant boxes and that, once that was amended, everything worked as it should.

The next task was to advise my friends, family, associates and acquaintances of my change of address. The system choked on an email to over 200 addressees and so I had to split the recipients into groups and send five separate emails. So far so good with that. The rest of yesterday was taken up with amending my address on banking and other sites of varying degrees of frivolity and seriousness, a surprisingly time-consuming process, particularly when some organisations send you an email in which you then have to click a link to confirm the change. Facebook was particularly irritating in this regard, as their email kept not arriving. I let them cool their techie heels for a bit and the procedure worked when I tried it a few hours later.

There have been a few loose ends to sort out today, but I think all is now in order. My wife meanwhile is fighting her own battles to alter her address on various websites, not so easy as her computer (an, ahem, Windows PC) is stroppier than mine and keeps flinging pop-ups at her.

Tomorrow I go for my free flu jab. It’s all fun around here, I can tell you.

Here, apropos of nothing, is a dramatic example of what can be achieved with Lego.
Mind you, it could be taken as an illustration of what it feels like to cope with reluctant technology...

The King's Face

Around the walls of the small strongroom the subdued gleam of old silver reflected the modest light: salvers, platters, flagons, an enormous ice dish.

My attention was not however drawn to these trappings of opulent country-house entertaining so much as to the considerably smaller objects displayed in the cases occupying the centre of the room: coins and medallions that spanned just over two millennia, beginning with an ancient British gold (gold!) coin from about 65BC.

My wife and I were back yesterday in Osterley Park, which we visited a few weeks ago but this time we had arrived in time to go around the house, the weather being much more conducive to indoor browsing than the gentle warmth that had marked our previous trip and had been perfect for wandering in the spacious grounds.

We had spent the previous couple of hours in wonderment at the time and effort that Robert Adam had put in over a period of 17 years in remodelling a Tudor mansion into a gracious and refined villa for the Child banking family. Room after room showed borrowings from the decorative and architectural styles of several ancient civilisations, all integrated into harmonious schemes, none more impressive than the three state rooms designed for use by the monarch, should he or she ever be in the vicinity and need a bed for the night. At the time these particular rooms were created the throne was occupied by George III and his persistent ill health prevented his hobnobbing with the gentry. So it was that the rooms were never used for their intended purpose, although the Childs put them to work impressing actual and potential clients of their bank, making sure that their visitors absorbed the bank’s corporate ID by including the family’s emblem of the marigold in the decor at every available opportunity.

Visiting a National Trust property is a much more interactive experience than it was a couple of decades ago, with a choice of guidebook or audio-guide. Alternatively you can wander around with just a floor plan and quiz the volunteers who are to be found in each of the main rooms. This is what I like to do as you often hear facts, anecdotes and even speculations that do not make it into the more formal guides. There is however only so much one can take in on any one visit, so that by the time we reached the “downstairs” areas of the house, we were feeling a bit jaded and craving refreshment in the tea room that occupied the substantial converted stables a short walk from the house.

I am glad though that we lingered in the strongroom and found the coins: the few metres of display spanning so much history; the collection having been assembled by the 9^th Earl of Jersey, the last family occupant of the house before it passed to the National Trust. My attention was drawn to a small gold coin about a third of the way along the cabinet, the monarch’s head on it not shown in profile, as has been usual from ancient times onwards, but rather full face, looking straight out at whoever gazed on the image. There was no mistaking the broad features and the suggestion of obesity: it was Henry VIII, among the most notorious of rulers and one whose life and activities still exert a compelling fascination. He used to scare me as a child as I imagined that no one could last very long in his company without being beheaded or at least imprisoned.

With images such as these he made sure his face was known to his subjects, although I imagine it would have been the more exalted of them that got to handle this particular coin. Alongside was  a piece of baser metal, the image stamped on it similarly unmistakable. I found myself wondering how many hands these now rare items had passed through and by what circumstances they had come to rest here in a cellar in West London within a stone’s throw of one of the busiest airports in the world, the thrum of traffic on the nearby M4 motorway constant just beyond the trees that shielded the house from wider view.

We made it to the stables in time for a much needed cup of tea and, in my case, extraordinarily good lemon drizzle cake; my wife had a scone and jam, always a favourite with her. Earlier we had learned that tea was originally the preserve of the rich, kept under lock and key and controlled by the lady of the house. It would typically cost £10 a pound, which by my very rough estimate would place it on a par with truffle or caviar today. It was said to have extraordinary life-enhancing, even life-prolonging powers. Come to think of it, we are still debating that.

Today we have had a good day with my son and his wife, taking advantage of the milder weather to walk by the river after lunch. They have been devouring The Sopranos several episodes at a time and have completed the first two seasons, which I only lent them as many weeks ago. As I have only just started the third season, they will have a bit of a wait before they can progress with the story of everyone’s favourite mobsters. I have therefore sought to distract them with the first five series of The West Wing. That should keep them quiet for a bit.

Revival of the Full English

If you have been reading this blog for a while, you will know that I am an enthusiast for the full English breakfast as well as for Apple techie devices. Well, this morning my friend D kindly invited me to join him for such a treat bright and early in the morning: sausage, egg, fried bread, baked beans and bacon, washed down with excellent coffee and seasoned with lively conversation. You’re only young once, eh?

This set me up well for a quick (actually I don’t quite do quick yet) trip into town to arrange for further work on my laptop, which is finally showing signs of hard drive failure. It will perform tasks happily for about ten minutes and then start loitering around like a shiftless schoolboy smoking behind the bikesheds; it will get lively again for a while, only to slope off again in due course to light up another gasper.

A friend goaded me by email today, saying that he thought Apple devices never broke down, fnaar, fnaar! Not so, they wear out like any other piece of kit, although their durability is better than many other machines. His gentle jibe did however prompt me to think about just what it is I like about Apple kit: excellence of design and functioning, that extends to the packaging and the retail experience. I have worked with PCs often enough to know that I just prefer the stuff bearing the fruity logo: PCs are a means to an end that is very often at variance with your own plans, while Apples have soul. No one is perfect, though…

There is something further of a medical nature that I have been meaning to share with you for a while, which is that the recent chemo has cleared up my psoriasis. This is what I expected to happen, since that dismal disease (much much commoner than Waldenström’s) is based on abnormally quick turnover of skin cells, just the sort of activity that will be curtailed by the cell-slaying (cytotoxic) action of chemotherapy drugs. Skin cells normally develop and die over 28 days, whereas the process is accelerated to four days in psoriasis. The significant metabolic increase leads to a proliferation of blood vessels and therefore to redness and inflammation, in addition to scaling as the abnormally developed cells are shed. The whole thing is an utter bore, requiring time-consuming applications of ointment in order to try and maintain a reasonable appearance and flexibility of the skin and minimise soreness and discomfort.

At the moment I am pretty bald, although I have managed to keep the sparse hair that did not fall out in hospital. I half expect the psoriasis to reassert itself once my hair makes its comeback, but these moments of freedom are very welcome.

Farewell

The airwaves and cyberspace have of course been full today of the news that Steve Jobs has died. Regular readers of this blog will know that I am a signed-up, paid-up Apple user and fan. I got an iPhone shortly before my diagnosis last year and there is no doubt that it has made dealing with life considerably easier and more pleasurable than it would otherwise have been over the time that has passed since. Exaggeration? Absolutely not. It is too late now to write to the man, as I meant to do, and thank him for the difference that his visionary approach to technology design and manufacture has made to me, but I want to record my gratitude for his life and work all the same. 

It is worth seeing the wise and inspiring address Jobs gave to students at Stanford University in 2005. He delivered this after the initial diagnosis of the cancer that has now taken him from our midst. In it he had this to say about the recognition of one’s own mortality:

"Remembering that you are going to die is the best way I know to avoid the trap of thinking you have something to lose. You are already naked. There is no reason not to follow your heart."

In other news: the car failed its MOT, one reason being that it had a second worn tire that Kwik Fit had not spotted and another being that the new tyre they replaced yesterday was incorrectly fitted. Mercifully the MOT garage did not charge for its labour to out these things right and we now have the certificate that will keep us legally on the road for another year.

While the car was in the shop, I called on my friend P and we talked about a variety of things over very good coffee. A fair slice of time was given over to discussing my intentions to write historical fiction and it was encouraging to find certain lines of thought I had been having independently echoed in my friend’s thinking. Just now I feel as if my mind is a sponge, absorbing facts about my central character (a real person) and facets of his times. Sooner or later, greater form and shape will have to be given to these elements, but for now the collection process feels good.

Steve Jobs (1955-2011)
This poignant take on the Apple logo, the work of a Hong Kong designer called Jonathan Mak, was in fact produced some time ago, but has apparently been causing quite a stir in cyberspace today.

Letting in Light

OK, so I a getting a bit ahead of myself with the title of this entry, but where’s the harm?

My brother and I got together today to begin working through the intricacies of the application for planning permission to put a modest window in the rather stark north wall of our Brittany bolt hole. The window will be in plain wood and measure roughly one square metre but it still requires official approval from the local mairie. Mercifully most of the form can be ignored as the questions relate to rather grander projects than ours, but we will still need to submit it in triplicate with numerous illustrations.

My brother has gone away with a copy of the official plan of the land to work out the overall area in square metres and we will get together again in a couple of days with a view to tying up loose ends and sending our documents winging over the Channel.

Other fun today has included getting a new tyre fitted to the car in the hope that it will now squeeze through its MOT tomorrow. The local Kwik Fit is right next door to my GP’s surgery, so while the mechanic was at work I ambled across to arrange a blood test in a couple of weeks’ time as well as a flu jab, for which I am eligible, marching as I do in the ranks of the immunosuppressed.

Harvest and Disappointment

This morning my brother came by, freshly back from Brittany and bearing gifts: windfalls of walnuts, chestnuts, hazelnuts and apples; organic beer from the Lancelot brewery; cider; chocolate.

We looked at photos he had taken of the recent trip and discussed things achieved and things needing to be done at the house, including the installation of a window. We will get together again tomorrow to compile our application for planning permission.

Come the afternoon and it was time for another first since my recent treatment: a trip up to London on public transport. Journeys there and back passed off smoothly and without incident, although at the moment bounding up escalators is beyond me. The purpose in hand was my regular follow-up appointment at the hospital, preceded inevitably by a blood test.

To an accompaniment of Robbie Williams proclaiming in song for the umpteenth time that an unspecified female offers him protection the phlebotomist inserted a needle in the soft inside of my left elbow and drew off two vials of the red stuff. Within five minutes a printout of the basic blood counts was in my hand to take with me when I saw the doctor one floor down.

I was sorry to note that my haemoglobin was low, at 9.2 (around about the level it had been when I was diagnosed just over a year ago). That explains why I am not ascending stairs or walking anywhere with any great gusto at the moment: my system is shorter of oxygen than is ideal. Until the time came to see the doctor I defused my anxiety by burying myself in my current read, in which Cicero has just secured incontrovertible evidence of the conspiracy by the psychopathic Catilina to overthrow the Roman republic (which would have spilled lots of the red stuff).

The doctor was reassuring about the low haemoglobin, saying that levels of this vital substance can “bump around a bit” in the aftermath of a stem cell transplant and associated ghastly chemo. Nevertheless he has arranged for a further blood test to be carried out by my GP in a couple of weeks and for me to return to the hospital in a month.

Back on the train and in a subdued mood I rejoined Cicero and his chums.

Not an explosion in a Curly-Wurly factory but a representation of the haemoglobin molecule.
Iron is needed to synthesise this. Nuts (see above) are a good source of iron, so the nutcrackers could be getting red hot over the coming weeks.

How I Spent Summer's End

I drove a car today for the first time since my recent treatment. The car in question has to have its MOT in a matter of days and one of the tyres has reached the end of its legal life. The vehicle is a bit ancient and it turns out that the tyre needed is an unusual size not usually stocked by Kwik Fit. They have ordered one that will be fitted the day before the MOT. Brinkmanship or what?

The third phone call in a week to my current internet provider finally yielded the MAC code I needed to migrate to a new provider. A very dismal performance by Pipex, who were a day over the limit of five days set by Ofcom for the supply of this information, but I will not be complaining (they will just never get my business again). Next week all should be up and running with BT, so I have started to organise informing my email contacts of the forthcoming change of address. Then there will be the fun of entering my new address in the various websites I am registered on, not least this one.

I also acquired a rhyming dictionary and discovered there is only one one word that rhymes with hoity-toity. Answers on a postcard, please...