50 years ago today I was in the First Year Sixth of the Alun School and used the privilege of being in the Sixth to go into town during a study period to get a set of the first decimal coins in the UK.  It had been a long time coming.  Students of Trollope (and anyone who wants to understand 19th Century politics should be one, he and Thackeray are infinitely preferable to the mawkishness of Dickens) will remember that is was a pet project of Plantagenet Palliser.  Before decimalisation life was interesting.  There were twelve pennies in the shilling, twenty shillings in a Pound, twenty-one in a Guinea.  Then we had the tanner (six old pence much used in Christmas Puddings) the threepence piece and of course the half-crown: always a welcome gift from an elderly relative.  I can still remember farthings (a quarter of a penny) which only ceased to be legal tender in 1961.  Oh and we had florins (two shillings) and a crown (five shillings) but they were rarer and the crown was often called a dollar as back in happier days there were four US dollars to the pound.  I was in the generation that had also grown up with gallons and furlongs and there were multiple confusions in secondary school when science teaching went over to metric.  We were OK but our Physics teacher never got his mind around the new units or vector algebra for that matter.  To this day I walk in miles but cycle in kilometres and order meat in fractions of pounds.

An irony is, that with modern computers the change might not have been necessary but even the US had moved to a decimal currency in the Eighteenth Century.  So it was inevitable.  One consequence though was a loss of ability in mental arithmetic.   I have reproduced one of the arithmetic problems we used to be given in primary school and I think I have got the addition right.  At the time these would be chalked up on the board and we had to do the summation in our heads.  It was called mental arithmetic and I did the sum to my left without using a spreadsheet or a calculator and I really hope I got it right!  One of the things that mental arithmetic taught you is to look for patterns.  If you look in the pence column, for example, the first four numbers and the last two are 7+5 which is 12, the numbers of pennies in a shilling so it’s easy to mentally carry two and leave 1¼.   To this day, given a set of numbers I, and I suspect all members of my generation, look for those patterns:  8+7 was another favorite.  We solved problems by mentally rearranging the numbers to make arithmetic easy and I think that is a skill that moved over to looking through computer code a decade or more later.  As a curiosity the £sd (pronounced LSD which got interested in the 60s) originates in the Roman denominations of librae, solidi, and denarii: one empire paying homage to its predecessor.

Decimalisation made things a lot neater and tidier but I can’t help feeling we lost something in the process.  The banner picture is of the slide rule I used all through school to remove the mechanics of calculation but you still had to figure out the power of ten to get the right answer.  That gave us a sense of rightness or wrongness in a solution that the calculator generation lack.  Of course, if you know how to use an abacus you are in a more privileged position again!  I should also say that any high street trader, regardless of their education level could do sums such as those above in their heads without thinking about it.  I’ve stood watching someone a lot younger than me using a calculator to add up three numbers when I’ve already done the sum in my head, but they hardly ever believe you.  So there is a bit of a metaphor here, maybe a little less order, a little more complication would improve our ability to handle complexity when we are faced with it?

Oh and I always preferred vulgar fractions to decimals and twelve is so much better a number than ten …

Acknowledgements

Aristo Scholar model 0903 student slide rule used in the seventies by Jan1959, CC BY-SA 4.0  via Wikimedia Commons

Too much travel, too little hill walking and only one day between trips. But at least, I thought I can get out on the bike. I picked it up from Sean who had fitted a new chain at midday and then set out for my normal 50km round. The weather was not good and I really should have taken the cycle cross but the Dave Yates Audax bike is just so much more fun to ride. I also spend a whole day with the Bike Whisperer having it and the shoes adjusted to the point where I had about 15% more drive efficiency, so desire won out over sense. It all went well for the first 90 minutes although I hit a few hail and heavy rain showers in the most exposed sections of the ride so I knew this would not be a record time. But then as I approached Etchilhampton I hit a pot hole and the rear tyre was lost. A quick use of the pump and it was obvious it was a puncture but such things happen and I thought I was prepared.

The short and long term problem was that I had got a new emergency gas cylinder (pumps are for masochists on the road) and had thrown that along with a spare inner tube into the saddle bag. Unfortunately the old cylinder had tyre levers in the same bag and I forgot that so I was stranded in the rain with dusk approaching and no tyre levers. OK I improvised using a multi-tool and a couple of twigs (stress creates innovation) and got the new inner tube in but by now I couldn’t feel my fingers and threading the valve was difficult. The new cylinder was brilliant, full pressure in two seconds, too high as it happened but I didn’t have my pressure gage and was reluctant to risk lowering the pressure as given frozen fingers I met have let all the air out with a depleted gas cylinder. So I rode on with a light bump from the rear wheel that was worrying but would probably be OK.

That was foolish, I managed the hill that leads into Coate and turned for home at the Barge Inn. But entering Allington the rear brake started to engage unasked and just as I pulled over to check it a loud bang indicated an exploding inner tube and I was stranded. I suspect the wheel was slightly buckled by the pothole and it all compounded to a disaster. But now it became farcical. I phoned home, but then realised that the new car was parked in front of my wife’s and she has yet to drive it. Given its an automatic with more electronics that I care to think about she ended up (after multiple phone calls that almost made my prediction of divorce in yesterday’s post an inevitability) getting a neighbour to move the car off the drive so she could come out and rescue me; I then drove back to rescue the bike and finally got a bath at around 2100. It was dark, I was freezing, the phone battery way dying, next time the right bike and two inner tubes plus a proper gear check.

And now the bike is back with Sean, and a bottle of good wine has gone to the neighbour.

They have a deep hobbit obsession at Wellington Airport as you can see from the picture. Landing here is always interesting, never smooth but it is one of my favourite places. I remember the first time I came here and got a cap from the airport to find a rainy city with small houses climbing up steep hills and rugby grounds in profusion – it felt like being back in South Wales. Today was eventful in that it took the pilot three attempts to land. Now abortive take offs are not unusual, I’ve been through many. But there are unusual after the undercarriage has struck the runway. On the third round we came in very fast which meant I was pretty confident we would make it down, less confident that reverse thrust would stop us before the end of the runway. But we made it, just ….

It got me thinking about near misses in aircraft and I’ve had a few. The landing in an ice storm at White Planes, the emergency landing in Philly with fire engines landing the runway and more recently the loss of an engine on take off from Heathrow. If you travel a lot you build a library of war stories. One windy day in the lounge at New York a group of us were swapping stories of crashes we had almost been in. Given we were all very frequent flyers there was a competitive element as to who had the most dangerous experience. I thought I was winning that with the ice storm story that also involves the pilot and a bottle of rye whisky, but before I could finish the tale the hostess moved us into a meeting room so that we wouldn’t disturb the other passengers. Apparently a couple had already cancelled their flights!

Either way, I’m here so after three days of travel blogs tomorrow I will get onto something more serious.

Having got home in the early hours of the morning following wonderful production of the rarely performed Adriana Lecouvreur at the Royal Opera House (one of those kill for a ticket events) I couldn’t have found a more apposite Gaping Void cartoon to illustrate this post. There is a lovely ambiguity too the cartoon and its message is far from clear. I remember at University writing whole essays in coffee fueled all night sessions to hit a deadline, something that carried on during IBM days where producing an article every month was part of the thought leadership targets we had within the Institute for Knowledge Management. Some of my best work was written when I got into a grove. In my days writing code for decision support systems there were a few nights in Smithfield where I don’t remember the period between midnight and the early hours. I wrote a lot of high quality code that I would spend days deciphering so I know it was productive. If you have done an all nighter there are worse places that what was then a meat market to seek revival in the early hours. Mulled Ale and a full English being a terrible temptation.

Of recent years I have been less of an owl, more of a lark. Getting up before dawn seems to produce the best writing and thinking, but I’ve also run some creative sessions of long distance flights. On one notable occasion spending the day in Cardiff, getting on a 2200 flight to Singapore and working on a report/presentation that I delivered to a large audience some ninety minutes after landing.

Human creativity cannot be timetabled: lark, owl or the odd Zombie trance are all part of the rich tapestry of thought.

Most readers will have seen this 1937 picture before. It is used to illustrate the pernicious nature of the English class system, It was taken outside Lord’s Cricket Ground during a match between the two elite education institutes of Eton and Harrow. It came to mind as a result of an extended stay in the first class lounge at Heathrow Terminal Five earlier today. The alarm went off this morning at 0415 to allow me time to walk to Milan Central to get the bus out to the airport. OK I could have had another hour in bed but (i) I like using public transport and (ii) it was the only chance for exercise. I ended up in Heathrow at 0900 with five hours to kill before the flight to New York, economy in and economy out but a high status loyalty card and you can mix it with the first class passengers.

Now I know this lounge well, I enjoy it. There is good food, good wine, acceptable gin and tonic and fast internet access. So I found a comfortable air chair, plugged in three apple devices and after a good breakfast (black pudding, eggs etc) settled in to clear email and write an article. The first hour was uneventful but then it got interesting. Someone larger (and shorter) than my past obese self settled into the opposite chair with a smart phone and proceeded to play computer games with the volume on full. Several people attempted the standard British response of looking at him with various subtle expressions of contempt but I knew that wouldn’t work, you have to grow up in Britain for that to work and he had obviously spent most of his time over the pond and was wearing a Trump T shirt. I really needed to work, so I politely asked if he could use headphones. That didn’t go down well and I got a long lecture on how others were doing the same thing (a complete lie, but there again the T shirt indicated that truth was not a major motivator. I persisted, staff hovered and he agreed. For the next half hour he sat there sulking playing silently but as that had zero effect on me, or others he eventually slumped off to another area of the lounge.

Then it got worse in a way. A young, fit, well groomed man arrived with an infirm mother in a wheel chair in a state of fury. I think he had spent his whole life with servants as he called over one of the staff and demanded two glasses of water. Then he issued orders for material that was laid out in the buffet round and corner and demanded the instant presence of a superior. By now to be honest I was pretending to work but curiosity meant my focus was on the emerging drama. It turned out that he had not booked disabled assistance and when he had checked in the staff had assumed he was happy to wheel his month through security. He ranted on about the refusal of two security guards and one policeman to take over from him as he arrived, the absence of volunteers to take over at all stages through the process. He then demanded an upgrade to first from club class and so it went on. I really hope the BA manager who was trying to be reasonable didn’t grant that but I suspect he did.

Entitlement attitudes like that really piss me off and I regret that people feel the need to comply, but then the class system is pervasive …..

I’m really not sure how I survived today and luck played its part. I got to Austin yesterday in plenty of time to be told that my flight to Dallas was delayed and I might not make the connection, but not to worry I was booked on the next flight that got into the UK just after 1300. Now I had to get a flight to South Africa at 1800 which meant getting a bus at 1437 from Swindon to make the airport on time. I couldn’t drive back for complex reasons relating to the need to hire a car for the return from South Africa next Saturday to manage the trekking holiday in Nepal for which my flight leaves same day. I also had a podiatrist appointment at 1300 which is necessary when you expect to spend 15 days trekking and have issues with your feet. So a nightmare but I had TSA Pre and got through fast and negotiated myself onto an earlier flight so hopefully no issue.

An on time landing at Heathrow would have given me half an hour at home before the podiatrist, and I would then have twenty more minutes before my wife would give me a lift to Swindon. Of course it was late and I had to go direct to the podiatrist, so frantic emails managed remote selection and folding of clothes. So I made it back with twenty minutes to shower, print the bus ticket, pack and then get off. I made it and got to the lay-by outside Swindon where the Heathrow bus leaves just in time – I saw it approaching in the rear view mirror as we drew in. That beats my previous repacking record of forty minutes for a six week trip to Australia where I had the dates confused and the taxi called at the house a day earlier than I expected. If anyone has seen the George Clooney film Up in the Air on frequent travellers you know what is involved, and by the way I have a similar intolerance to people who do not prepare for security.

I’m pleased to say that my heart rate stayed under 80 for the whole of the process, which is not bad going (the Apple Watch is a hard task master). The essence of frequent travel is to sort of assume everything will work out and it normally does.

A little bit of trivia today, but an interesting illustration of culture and comfort (in many senses of the word). I flew in yesterday from Dallas landing early in the morning. American Airlines upgraded me to business so I got some sleep, although it was the older configuration so 2-3-2 rather than the 1-2-1 herringbone that we had on the way out to New York. As usual I got an aisle seat as I like to be able to get up when I want to with disturbing anyone. Not only for the comfort breaks (which increase with frequency as you get older) but also to swap between book and computer and so on using the overhead bins. The downside of this is that I was disturbed several times in the night by the person in the middle seat who’s prostrate was obviously considerably enlarged.

Today I was on Air Canada to White Horse via Vancouver and was booked in economy. I had paid extra for an exit row aisle seat which would have been OK, but limited elbow room and I needed to work. When I went to check in there was an offer to upgrade to premium economy for less than £100 so I took it. Downside, no aisle seats left on a 2-4-2 configuration (economy was 3-5-3) so I had people to my left and right. That meant I had to unpack everything I needed and stow it in the seat. but also on the one occasion in a nine and a half hour flight where I had to head for the rest room I had to disturb my neighbour. I put that off for as long as possible hoping that she would go and I could nip out at the same time, but she sneaked out just before the trolly came down with drinks so I was blocked in and my the time it was clear she was back.

Now all this sounds absurd, but I have a British upbringing and the last thing you want to do is make a fuss. We never send wine back even if it corked, over done steak will receive an everything is great if you are asked but the waiter even if you have mentally resolved not to return. The American habit of asking for a doggy bag I find chronically embarrassing and I try and make it clear through my body language that I am deeply sorry to be a part of this.

So overall my view is that it is better to be disturbed, than to disturb (a new line for the famous sayings of St Francis if you haven’t got the reference). In social situations anything to avoid embarrassment. In the situation pictured I would endure rather than make a fuss. In complete contrast if you put me on a stage and give me a target and the parliamentary debating tradition clicks in and a different persona comes to the fore.

Odd things cultural constraints, even when you are aware of them, you are bound by them.

The saga of Christmas for the last couple of decades has involved getting into town by 0600 to collect the turkey from the Butcher before plunging into Waitrose when it opens at 0700 to fill a trolley with all the necessaries for multiple meals over the next few days.  This year I also had to clear the kitchen of the debris of an overrunning kitchen development.   Never trust someone who says they have a reputation for finishing on time.   I should know by now that what people tell you they are good at, is generally the inadequacy for which they are most frequently criticised.  So something that was meant to be complete in November is still incomplete and it will be late January at the earliest before it is finished.

Relationships came to a head when an accidental reply all on an internal email within the Snowden household resulted in a parting of the ways as the supplier now knows what we really think!  That means that while we are operational in the sense of having a functioning Aga, multiple cupboards and built in freezer and dish washer everything else is a little up the air.  So on return I had to clear rubble and coverings, move the fridge back from the lobby, level it and generally clear up.  Temporary shelves in the larder and three hours of solid work later the fridge was stocked and the table and cooking areas clear.   I could then indulge myself stocking the wine cooler, itself an indulgence with two temperature zones.  Critically it has a lock ….

So its now coming to the end of the day and I am still in yesterday’s clothes and the study is a mess but the kitchen is workable.   Daughter having been dispatched to help out the restaurant that provided her with employment for several years while she was at school, its now time to cook the partridge I bought on impulse this morning.  One of my favourite dishes and I going to serve it new potatoes, braised fennel, green beans and chard.  After that it will be time to work out schedule for tomorrow; that normally means me staying up to 0200 or getting up at 0400 depending on the weight of the turkey, but its all part of the tradition.

On Boxing Day I will start the curmudgeon series but tomorrow I going to take off from this blog and email etc..   I worked and travelled right up to yesterday so Christmas Cards and the like have not been actioned for which apologies.   I’ll do something more elaborate in the new year.

In some ways this post does not really exist as I crossed the date line in a westerly direction and thus the 3rd of August is missing from my life.   Ok around a week ago I lived the 28th of July twice, arriving in Houston around the same time (and date) I left Wellington.  Now I know the logic of this, but time is important to humans and this never seems right no matter how often I do it.

Now had this been 1031 I would have missed the canonisation of Olaf II by Grimketel Bishop of Selsey in England.  In 1860 I would have missed the start of the first Maori War and in 1914 the declaration of war on France by Germany.  The first martyr of the Church, St Stephen, had his body found this day and shares the celebration with St Lydia (pictured) who was Paul's first convert and sold dyes, hence her name The Woman of Purple.  She is the first recorded convert, if we ignore Paul himself and was a dealer in luxury goods.  So its probably the first establishment saint, but by no means the last.