What if we all have our own versions of heaven and hell?

This is the weird thought I had just now, while eating some orange Viennetta.

This is utterly yummy squared

This, divine chocolate orange delight, would exist in my heaven. This thought made me wonder what else would be in my heaven. I came up with the following list of things:

  • Velvet furnishings
  • Cheese
  • Red wine (Ian Botham red wine or red wine from the Middle East)
  • Chocolate orange (in many incarnations, not just Viennetta)
  • The sea
  • Christmas
  • A hula hoop
  • An endless supply of art materials
  • Books

I decided, at this point, that we all perhaps have our own versions of heaven. My heaven may not be yours. In fact, my heaven could be your hell. My brother, for example, hates velvet. I don’t expect him to visit me in heaven  too often.

So, as easy as it is  to come up with my heaven, it is to conjure my hell. This is what I expect to find, should I be banished down under for that time when I accidentally poked a monkey at Dudley Zoo with a biro:

  • Balloons
  • Fireworks
  • Vomit
  • Cat diarrhoea
  • Naughty boys from Walton High School circa 1983-5
  • Party poppers
  • People who like to pull down the bits of skin below their eyes to show their eyeballs
  • Intolerant people
  • Sprouts

Eugh!

Let’s hope that St Peter lets me go upwards. I have been fairly good, most of my life, except the odd transgression related to West Midlands animal attractions, so here’s hoping.

 

 

I have fallen in love with spandrels

One of my paid jobs now is to check Very Short Introductions online. Very Short Introductions, or VSIs for short, are books which do just what it says on the tin: they provide a very short introduction to a subject. Oxford University Press has been publishing these books since when I worked there. In fact, I was a colleague of the very clever editor who first came up with the idea and I remember it well. There are hundreds of these books now, over a decade later, providing very short introductions to subjects ranging from the Avant Garde to Number Theory (and many things between the two).

This afternoon I was checking the forthcoming Very Short Introduction to Philosophy of Biology online (due to publish this autumn). Anything with the word ‘philosophy’ in the title is going to fascinate me and it wasn’t long before I became distracted by the content of this book rather than checking that it looks good online. As I was scrolling through the text I came across an image which caught my eye. It was very similar to the one below.

The grey bits are spandrels

The caption read: ‘A spandrel is the triangular space between a curved arch and a rectangular frame or dome.’ This occurred to me as an odd image to find in a biology book. Surely, I reasoned, this concept, of the spandrel, related to art, architecture and perhaps even mathematics.

I decided to ask more of my friend google. I found out that a spandrel is, originally at least, an architectural term to describe the curved triangular shape between an arch and the outer surface, as indicated in the image in the Philosophy of Biology book. How had I never heard this term before? I asked myself. I delved deeper.

I was right to delve deeper, there is more. A spandrel isn’t just this shape, which is amazing in itself. A spandrel has been adapted to mean something more abstract and more interesting. Those biological philosophers discussed in this book I was checking today also use the term. In their eyes, a spandrel refers to a phenotypic (relating to the observable characteristics of an individual resulting from the interaction of its genotype with the environment) characteristic that is a byproduct of the evolution of some other characteristic, rather than a direct product of adaptive selection. This, as dear reader you can tell, has nothing to do with architecture.

Rather, that is a little sciency. So, basically, in more layman’s terms perhaps, a spandrel is something that has evolved biologically which isn’t directly related to survival, but which ends up being useful for survival. It’s a bit like an afterthought that becomes useful. Just as the triangular shape above an arch is almost the ‘cut out’ from the shape, so the afterthought, as is a biological spandrel an afterthought or ‘cut out’.

An example can be seen with the human brain. Many secondary processes and actions have evolved over time, which come in addition to the main functions of the human brain. These secondary processes and thoughts can eventually turn into an adaptation of some sort, or even provide a fitness advantage to humans. Just because something is a secondary trait or byproduct of an adaptation does not mean it has no use. So we are full of such spandrels! A good example is music. We have learnt to make music. It has no obvious use at first, but it can be used to our advantage: as a language, as a skill and as a form of entertainment or distraction. A better example might be human culture.  We created it to counter-act the anxiety we feel about death. If we feel that we are individuals of importance then we don’t worry so much about death. We have caused ourselves to feel that life has a meaning so therefore preventing ourselves from existing in a constant state of existential crisis (or, perhaps not all of us feel this way).

Again, I feel energised and excited about something I have just learnt at this age I am. How on earth have I managed to avoid spandrels thus far? They are brilliant!

I need to find other examples, perhaps this geeky passion of mine which leads me to investigate something for hours on end is a spandrel. It isn’t obviously necessary for my survival in the big wide world but it is certainly acting as a distraction to life’s anxieties.

I will end here with perhaps my favourite spandrel: a man’s nipples. Why are men’s nipples spandrels? I will leave that to you to work out.

A random man’s hairy nipple – a spandrel

My little number friends

Last night, I started a discussion on Facebook questioning whether the number 1 was a prime number or not and this inspired  the previous blog post which I wrote earlier today. As I was falling asleep last night, I considered numbers further (I have a busy brain). I started to feel sorry for 1 for not being allowed to be a prime number anymore. The number 1 is a pre-teen boy and he wants to be liked. He doesn’t like being alone all the time. He is white (as in colour, not ethnic origin). I then moved on to think about the number 2. She is a slim and elegant young lady, she is bright yellow and always cheerful. I would love to be more like her. She is smooth, symmetrical and even. She is always right.

My little friends

Then I thought to myself: am I bonkers? Do numbers really have personalities? It seems that to me they do. I asked myself: is this normal? I had no idea. So I decided to go through the other numbers and their personalities came readily and vividly to me. Here are the rest:

  • 3 is male, early twenties, ambitious, good-looking and a deep green.
  • 4 is also male, a bit more serious and geeky. He likes maths. He probably works in IT. He’s a lovely deep navy blue.
  • 5 is a middle-aged man, laid back, probably has a manual job and enjoys a pint in the pub with his friends. He’s sky blue.
  • 6 is a curvaceous lady, she is orange, jolly, cheerful. She is homely and motherly.
  • 7 is a lady too, but a bit spiky. She’s in her forties (not me, honest). She’s a deep orange. She probably works in a library.
  • 8 is an older lady, she’s in her sixties, also motherly and homely, like 6. She’s a luscious dark red. She has a bosom you just want to sink into.
  • 9 is a man, he’s very serious and very dark. He has no sense of humour at all. He’s tall and solitary.  His black, of course. He’s very intelligent though. He deserves respect.
  • 10 is a man too, he’s cream coloured with a hint of beige. That’s all I know about him. He’s good with his hands, he likes DIY.

I could go on, but I won’t, not yet. Should I start on the alphabet next?

I’ve just googled this ‘thing’ I have. It seems this is a real ‘thing’. It is called OLP or ordinal-linguistic personification. I have a new ‘thing’ and I’m not crazy (or, perhaps I am a little) after all. Whoopee. I’m quite excited. I want to learn more.

Is Number 1 God, or is it just a lost soul?

Two days ago I discovered, much to my horror, that a few years ago (I’m not sure how many but sometime after the mid-1980s) it was decided, by someone, that the number 1 is not a prime number. I was very shocked at this discovery as I had been taught that it was the first prime number, being divisible by 1 and itself.

The god of all numbers

The argument goes that you cannot divide yourself by yourself twice, you can divide yourself by yourself only once (were you to be the number 1 that is). So, if you are the number 2, you can divide yourself by yourself and you can divide yourself by the number next to you, in other words, 1. And if you are the number 3, then again, you can divide yourself by yourself. If you try to divide yourself by the number next to you, 2, you get a fraction, and then so that leaves 1. Of course the next number, 4, is a lucky so-and-so for he can divide himself by himself, and not by poor old 3, but he can by the lovely 2, and he can by the lucky number 1.

So, I have found out that the ‘one-is-not-a-prime-number’-ers argue that to be a prime number, a number needs to have two separate divisors.  Therefore, the number 2, interesting in itself for being the only even prime number, is the first prime number and number 1 is just, a, erm, lonely old soul that sits sadly without significance.

My counter-argument is (I do love to stick my fingers up to science sometimes despite being an artist) to ask: what if there are two number 1s hanging around? If that is the case, then one of those number 1s is divisible by itself and the other number 1. Who is to say that number 1 is unique? Ha, got you there, you sciencey types. I’m sure they will disagree but there is always that teeny tiny possibility that I might be right.

I’ve been doing a bit of digging on the Internet about this, and I have learnt that apparently, the ancient Greeks, didn’t even consider number 1 as a number, so it was therefore not considered as a prime number. I am starting to feel sorry for number 1. Not only is it quite lonely on its own, but it is being excluded from one of the most beautiful mathematical theories just because it is itself. How would you feel if you were excluded just for being you?

And, I have more to say on the matter, what about minus numbers? Is -2 a prime, is -1 a prime? I’m not enough of a mathematician to work this out and argue the case but I suspect they should be. I love that mathematics, which might by some be considered by many to be a system of logic and common sense, isn’t actually as clear cut as it might first appear.

Whatever the answer to the prime thing is, number 1 is very important and should not be forgotten. After all, none of the other numbers would exist without the number 1 to start them off. Does that make number 1 a god? The god of all numbers?

Why I want to write a book called ‘#funwithhashtags’

My most recent obsession is a TV programme on Channel 4 called The Circle. There are many reasons why I like this programme: it’s entertaining, it has a psychological depth that isn’t immediately apparent, it speaks volumes about the loneliness (or, ironically, otherwise) of online engagement, and it is all about having fun with hashtags.

The Circle

I haven’t really used hashtags much before. I have only just about got to grips with the point of them on the likes of Twitter and Instagram. And I have only used them sparingly and with much consideration of how useful they will be. That is, until recently. They have been using them on The Circle without their proper purpose in mind and this fact I find fascinating.

Hashtags, just in case the reader of this blog doesn’t know, are joined up words fronted by a hash symbol (#) which then become searchable on social media and the Internet in general. If you type in, for example, #thecircle into the search box in Twitter you will see a whole stream of tweets that have recently been posted with #theccircle in them.

In The Circle, however, the messages passed between the contestants are not searchable. Their online engagement is fake. It isn’t linked to the Internet. Yet they use hashtag language at the end of most of their messages.

So, this weird habit of not using hashtags properly is catching, and I have started to use them with my WhatsApp messages to my two sons. It is driving them bonkers. Result. They don’t understand why I am doing it, as my hashtag phrases are not searchable. I have acknowledged that. But it is still fun #windingchildrenupisfun. I just love finishing sentences with a hashtag #smallpleasures.

Some of our messages

So what do you think? #sheisnuts #herblogsareweird

Where are they now and why do I suddenly care?

I know I have written about nostalgia here before, but the nostalgia bug has bitten me again recently. I’ve been thinking about the past a lot over the last few weeks. Perhaps it is my age. I am (reluctantly) approaching 50 (28 months to go and counting). I am in denial. Even typing that, seems absurd. Fifty? Me? No way! I’ve always been ‘the youngest’ (of three). I’ve always been the childish one. I’ve always been the fun one. I’m the one who doesn’t like adulting. This ‘child’ me is part of me and hasn’t yet gone anywhere. How on earth can I be approaching 50? That is just bonkers. That is old.

A university friend of mine and I have recently been playing a game we have named ‘cyber stalking’. This is a game where we try to find out what has happened to people we both knew at university (25 years ago) who have somehow disappeared off the face of the earth, not even appearing on that omnipresent social media forum known as Facebook. We have found a few old names / faces each and shared our findings. Paul Blew – looks a very young 47. Gideon White – has no hair now. Nick Johnson-Hill – looks very good for his age. There is no escape, it seems, even if you manage to avoid Facebook. These distant names and personalities we remember are there, if you google their names and / or locations, perhaps with less hair and more wrinkles and life experience than we remember than at 18. I find I am fascinated with finding these lost people. I need to know where they are and how they are, without actually getting in touch and screaming ‘remember me?’ at them. (No doubt they’d say ‘oh, yes, I remember you, the weird one who shared a room with Sara Jenkins and Caroline Whatserface’ And, while we are on the subject, where are Sara without an ‘h’ and Caroline now? I haven’t yet managed to find them. We slept in the same room for a whole year and they are now lost to me.)

I wonder if this need for nostalgia is normal at this age and if it is a sign of the approaching end decade. It probably is. That fact alone, makes me want to yawn, as someone who has always sought not to fit type. How boring, to be predictable! Perhaps I just need to admit that I have become that ‘middle aged’ (shudder) person and embrace this time of my life. So what did ever happen to Pete Butler from the top floor? Where is he now? Every time I hear ‘There She Goes’ by the Las I think of him, but I can’t for the life of me remember why.

This song reminds me of Pete Butler, but where is he now?

The joy of being pricked with little pins

I haven’t had a weird thought for a very long time it feels, and this isn’t so much a ‘weird thought’ as a desire to tell the world about a new, profound, yet completely unexpected experience that I’ve just had. I write this now, sat in a charming little bar in the small market town of Stone, sipping an Americano, just after the experience in question. Sipping coffee here isn’t the profound experience in question, lovely though it is.

My coffee

That experience I’m referring to is acupuncture.

I didn’t wake up this morning with the knowledge that I was going to not just allow, but actively encourage someone to stick a load of pins into me. I had no idea that this was going to happen. I did wake up, however, with the knowledge that I was finally going to see a physiotherapist about a niggling arm pain that I’ve had for two years.

I thought today would entail a load of forms, a few pokes and prods, a lot of ‘hmmms’, ‘oh dear that is bad’s, and some ‘go away and do this over and over again’s, I didn’t expect to leave an hour after arriving feeling not only simultaneously energised and relaxed, and in much less pain (not completely cured, don’t get too excited), and as if I were floating on the cloud of mental well being. It was just one of the most wonderful experiences I have ever had, second to hypnotherapy and interestingly very similar.

I didn’t quite have this many pins stuck in me

I have had this niggling arm pain for so long that it has become the norm. I assumed it was old age. It wasn’t, it was ‘tenderness of the rough cuff’ or something like that. It is a real thing, not just old age. That’s not the exact wording of the diagnosis but anyone in the know reading this will be able to work out what I mean. It is treatable. It isn’t something I have to live with. I should have done something sooner. I am a bit of an idiot for not.

The treatment  today (after the predicted forms, prods and ‘hmmm’s) involved acupressure (and that was also bizarrely painful yet pleasurable) and then acupuncture (no pain, no discomfort, but a sensation of enormous well being). The acupuncture involved me lying on my stomach, with pins placed at various points, my head poking through a strange hole, staring at the carpet, and being left with Ken Bruce for company for 20 minutes. I did quite well at Pop Master today (no Captain Sensible did not sing ‘Spread A Little Happiness’, it was Sting of course).

Ken and cat

I also have to do some exercises, as I predicted, but I didn’t expect to feel this much changed in my mind and body. I will happily trot off home to do my homework.

I’m not sure what the point of this blog is except to say: don’t ever put things off, it’s not worth it, and if you ever get the chance to have someone stick pins in you – go for it. It feels better than a double gin and tonic and without the hangover!

 

Why do spiders seem to prefer old houses?

For the last year now, I have been living in a house in the country. I haven’t been living here alone. I’m not referring to my fellow humans. I’m not even referring to the four-legged furry creature who seems to want to hang around with us, especially when she’s hungry. I’m not even talking about the rabbits, mice, shrews and squirrels we see in the garden. Nor am I referring to the odd duck or pheasant. I’m talking about creatures with more than four legs, mainly, those with eight legs. The spiders.

The furry thing lives here and is rubbish at spider pest control

I have never before lived somewhere so beset by spiders. They are everywhere. There isn’t just the odd one in each room. There are tens of them in each room. There are big ones, and little ones, but mostly big ones. And they weave their homes all over the ceiling, the beams, between pieces of furniture, and sometimes against things that get moved quite often such as the box of cat food or a can of deodorant in the bathroom. They work quickly. If you stand still for long enough, they will weave their home using you as a post. These spiders are mostly big. There aren’t many tiny scurrying ones. They are mostly the sort that have legs that go up before they go down.

One of our many house guests

My weird thought is: do these creatures naturally like old houses? Or is it because the house is in the countryside? Is it the presence of beams that attracts them – natural building blocks for their webs? Or do they, on some level, just enjoy making an old house appear spooky? It is an old house, a 17th-century farmhouse I believe, so it needs to look spooky. It comes with the image.

I’ve lived in old houses before though, in towns and in the country. I’ve also lived in modern houses. But this is definitely the most spidery house I’ve ever lived in.

The beautiful knitting of spiders

I don’t mind the spiders. Is it strange that they don’t scare me, not even remotely? If I had a phobia, I could not live here. My equivalent would be living in a house with balloons on the walls in every room. I couldn’t live in that house. So I understand why someone with a phobia of spiders would struggle to live here.

I could not live in this house

Every so often, I go around with my trusty hand-held dyson or a feather duster to ‘de-cobweb’ the house. However, I really don’t enjoy this. I read Chalotte’s Webb as a child and I still feel as if I am destroying homes and hours of work, as well as destroying objects of beauty. Not only that, the spiders help keep the fly population at bay here and we are as beset with flies as we are with spiders having lots of cattle and water buffalo nearby. So by my destroying the cobwebs just in order to make the house look ‘tidy’ and ‘clean’ I am destroying the delicate balance of its natural eco-system and causing myself to be more annoyed by flies? I only do it for appearances sake and to stop the children moaning about the creepy crawlies. I don’t mind the floaty, spooky netting that hangs above me as I sleep. I like it. But, I do it anyway. I don’t move the spiders themselves. I guess they just keep building new homes after I’ve left with my dyson.

Examples of dinner, saved for later

Perhaps our next house should be a new build and I wouldn’t then have the guilt. I’m not sure I can do that though. I am too much in love with old houses, spooky or not. I think I want to live with my eight-legged friends. They keep me company.

Why I like mornings

This morning I woke up early, annoyingly at 5am. I hadn’t fallen asleep until midnight so I wasn’t hugely happy to be awake and bright so early. At 5.20am I decided to give up on sleep, my brain was too busy. So, for the two hours since, I have been sitting on my own working solidly on my MA thesis. It is now 7.43am as I write this.  I have probably done my most productive work of the day. That’s not to say, I won’t do any more work. I will. I have lots of ‘paid’ work to do too today. But I won’t have that level of awakeness, concentration and neuron firing again today and that length of time without distraction and disturbance (even Facebook and Twitter are quiet).

Why am I a morning person and not a night person? This is my weird thought. Why can’t I write creative and interesting stuff at 10pm? Why is 6am better for me? And is my productivity really better at 6am?

In my mind, it feels rather dull to be a morning person. Night people have more fun: they go clubbing until 3am. They do things they regret. They drink shots. They are witty and shiny at midnight. I am not. I’m grumpy and drowsy at midnight, usually wrapped in a blanket, sipping milk and eating Terry’s Chocolate Orange.

Even if I am less exciting than those night owls, perhaps I am better off. As Benjamin Franklin famously declared: “early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.” Is this really true?

Benjamin working at 6am with his cat for company.

I’m generally pretty healthy so perhaps that part is true. I’m still waiting on the wealth and wisdom, as I sit here at 7.53am writing this. I’ll let you know when I get my final mark for my MA if the wisdom part is forthcoming. As for wealth? I don’t think that will come in a hurry and it certainly won’t come just because I like mornings and it isn’t likely to come this morning.

According to the Internet, serious scientists have actually studied ‘larks’ vs ‘owls’ to see who ends up heather, wealthier, and wiser. The conclusion seems to be either owls have bigger cars and more posh clothes (boo!) or it makes no difference.

However, my conclusion is that it actually isn’t worth spending time thinking about or worrying about it. After all, worrying isn’t productive and that isn’t going to bring wisdom or wealth. I should just go with the flow. If I am more creative at 7am, then it be so. If I do ever feel like having a flourish at 10pm, then why not? The important thing is that things get done, it doesn’t really matter when they get done. And if wealth and happiness come my way, yay, even better. And anyway, I like to do outrageous things and drink shots at midnight when the mood takes me. I will still be up at 6am the next day though.

Why I like courtesy cars

Last Friday, my car had a service. While it was being serviced, I was loaned a courtesy car. Driving back home in this car I pondered why I like getting courtesy cars so much. I’m sure I’m not alone in this. But I really, really like getting courtesy cars. (I had better add at this point that this was only the second time I had ever had a courtesy car and that the first time was only a month or so ago.) However, on both occasions, I have felt extremely happy. And here is the list of why:

  • Getting a courtesy car feels like getting a new car. I haven’t had many cars in my life, so this feeling is quite alien to me. I like it. I like it a lot.
  • It feels as if you are finally being treated like an adult. They wouldn’t loan a car to a child, after all, would they?
  • The car will invariably be newer than mine. Yes, this was true of both cars I have been lent. Both had those screen things that tell you what song is playing on the radio or where to go, or whether you are about to hit someone or something. I love those screens. I don’t have one.
  • The car will most definitely be cleaner than mine. That isn’t too difficult. And I mean, inside, rather than outside (although outside applies too). Who doesn’t love a clean interior?
  • The car will give me a sense of confidence. After the initial nerves have dissipated, yes, I feel more grown-up and confident in a courtesy car than I do in my own car.
  • The car makes me feel noticed. I think this is just an illusion. But somehow I feel that people notice me in a courtesy car and notice me with jealousy.
  • It feels as if I am committing a crime if I drive anywhere for pleasure in a courtesy car. I feel as if I should only be allowed to go home and back to the garage, so going somewhere else on the way is very, very naughty. I do rather love this feeling. If I stop off at M&S Simply Food for a quick sausage bap I feel as if I am bunking off school if I am in a courtesy car. I’m not sure what this is all about. But doing something off piste in a courtesy car feels very dangerous and rebellious. I love that!
  • It’s fun to confuse the neighbours with a different car. Who doesn’t love doing that?
  • Having a borrowed car, albeit a better one, makes me miss my old car. When I return to the car I am familiar with, I feel a sort of love for it that I had perhaps lost. Maybe we should try this with our lovers too? We could regularly borrow a newer, cleaner, shinier model so that when we will return to the familiar we will return with renewed vigour. I’m not sure this is the best idea I’ve ever had.

My car survived its service on Friday and I had to return the car but a few hours after I had driven it gleefully off the garage forecourt. It cost me £200 for the pleasure. Actually, no, it cost me £203.50 (that’s £3.50p for the sausage bap and coffee at M&S Simply Food).

They make very good sausage baps.

 

 

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