Simon Says...

Fishy

2012-01-14T15:21:00.000Z

Durrell Wildlife Conservation Trust, Jersey

Tell me a tale

2012-01-06T10:09:00.000Z

THIS MORNING Michael Kiwanuka was announced as the winner of the BBC Sound of 2012, as voted by music industry experts and 'tastemakers'. In October my lab, completely by accident, went to one of his concerts at the Yardbird in Birmingham, expecting instead an Open Mic night. The concert was free and stripped back, most of the acts being one-man-and-his-guitar affairs. Michael performed with only himself and a bass player, mesmerising the audience into revered silence with his soulful and blues-tinged melodies. His bass player seemed to be having a blast too.

I am surprised that he has won this competition, as in previous years it has been awarded to more commercial acts - I don't see Michael playing arenas or main stages at festivals because his sound doesn't suit it - but I am glad that pure talent and skill have won over mass appeal. It would be hypocritical of me to suddenly promote him just because I saw him before he went huge, particularly as it's not really the kind of music I would usually listen to (all in moderation), but I enjoyed that free concert and feel that he deserves the acclaim and success he is now set up to receive this year. Good on him.

Happy New Year

2012-01-01T10:39:00.004Z

Happy New Year from us.

May 2012 be the year in which you grab the reins of your life and find the niche in which you wish to live.

2011... in quotes

2011-12-31T12:15:00.002Z

Son:
There's no such person as Father Christmas!
The Doctor:
Oh yeah? [whips out a photo] Me and Father Christmas, Frank Sinatra's hunting lodge. 1952. See him in the back with the blonde. Albert Einstein, the three of us together. Vroom! Watch out! Okay? Keep the faith. Stay off the naughty list. Oo! Now what's this, then? I love this. Big flashy lighty thing. That's what brought me here. Big flashy lighty things have got me written all over them. Not actually. Give me time and a crayon. Now! This big flashy lighty thing is connected to the spire on your dome, yeah? And it controls the sky. Well, technically it controls the clouds. Which technically aren't clouds at all. Well they're clouds of tiny particles of ice. Ice clouds. Love that. Who's she?
Sardick:
Nobody important.
The Doctor:
"Nobody important". Blimey, that's amazing. D'you know, in 900 years of time and space I've never met anyone who wasn't important before.

Doctor Who Christmas special, *ahem* 2010

Not every royal pre-wedding celebration runs so smoothly. Two nights before the current Queen's wedding in 1947, her parents gave a dance at Buckingham Palace that threatened to get out of hand. King George led a conga through the state rooms, while an Indian rajah got drunk and attacked the Duke of Devonshire.

The Independent, Royal Wedding supplement

A decade ago, when Prince William announced that he was enrolling at the University of St. Andrews, its number of female applicants rose by 85%, reflecting his status at the time as the world's most eligible bachelor. Although few can relate to William's particular challenge of searching for a future bride amidst such an overwhelming number of would-be princesses, his problem was reminiscent of a dilemma that confronts transcription factors, which must scan extraordinarily long stretches of DNA to find appropriate targets at which to initiate gene expression.

Biology journal Cell's brilliant contribution to Royal Wedding fever. Cell, 145, 167 (2011)
doi: 10.1016/j.cell.2011.04.001

Why do they say 'blood is thicker than water'? It's a strange expression. I was thinking about this. 'Blood is thicker than water' means you should be kind to your relatives, but... custard is thicker than blood. Does that mean we should be nice to trifles?

Believe: The Eddie Izzard Story

Octopuses make it notoriously difficult to get recordings from electrodes inserted into the brain, because they can selectively shut off blood supply to an area of their body or brain. That's if they allow the researchers to insert electrodes at all. Jennifer Basil, a cephalopod researcher at the City University of New York tells the story of one colleague who took on that challenge: "He thought the octopus was anaesthetised, so they put the electrode in and the octopus reached up with an arm and pulled it out." That marked the end of his work with octopuses. "He has worked with lots of animals but he said 'that animal knows what I'm thinking. He doesn't want me to do this so I'm not going to'," Basil says.

Eight arms, big brain: What makes cephalopods clever, Caroline Williams, New Scientist 2816, 2011

Do the French like their children?
Susan Ma, The Apprentice

Navigator: a crocodile that knows where it's going

Graeme Garden,
I'm Sorry I Haven't A Clue (Uxbridge English Dictionary), series 55, episode 6

Whenever I feel sad or angry, I just look at Martin Freeman as Bilbo Baggins on the set of The Hobbit and everything is right in the world once again.

Ivan Radford, i-flicks.net

About a month before he died, my grandfather, we covered his back with lard – after that he went downhill very quickly.
Milton Jones

In September, Amanda Knox was acquitted of the murder of Meredith Kercher, but was first found guilty of slander. On hearing the word 'guilty', the Daily Mail accidentally hit 'publish' on a pre-written online article declaring that she was guilty of the murder itself. A few minutes later the alternative, factually correct article announcing her acquittal was also published. The practice of pre-preparing articles is probably widespread so we should not be altogether surprised, but what was shocking was the article's content - fabricated quotes from fictional eyewitnesses and fictional observations of the aftermath of the verdict, which never happened, coloured the piece. In response to this, Twitter users posted stories under the hashtag #MailHistory - an alternative headline history of the world, as might have been made up by the biggest selling newspaper in the UK. Here are some of my favourites:

September 2 1666 - Bakery owner Thomas Farriner needs new oven after putting out small late night fire #mailhistory (@echowilko)

Winston Churchill: "We probably won't fight them anywhere, to be honest." #MailHistory (@simon_varwell)

Births: The Daily Mail would like to congratulate Joseph and Mary of Bethlehem on the birth of their fine daughter, Dorothy. #MailHistory (@publicreviews)

"Acoustic 'til I die", vows defiant Dylan #mailhistory (@a_y_alex)

"Mission not yet accomplished" - humble and cautious President Bush shows admirable restraint #MailHistory (@saramegan)

New craze for 'tea' is dangerous and un-British! #MailHistory (@scattermoon)

Passengers visibly relieved after Titanic's mid-Atlantic 'near miss' with iceberg. #mailhistory (@bloggerheads)

"I simply refuse to wash my hands of this," said Pilate. #MailHistory (@DavidAllenGreen)

McDonald's burger flipper Jamie Oliver, 36, regrets not taking TV show offer #mailhistory (@geekSquared)

Finally my headline of the year, from Ed Yong's Not Exactly Rocket Science blog: Infants prefer a nasty moose if it punishes an unhelpful elephant

-

2011-12-19T22:08:00.003Z

I HAD scheduled a number of 'Things We Like At Christmas' posts to automatically post, one a day, throughout this week. But circumstances have changed - a family member has fallen very sick, very suddenly, and it strikes me as insensitive to allow such frivolous festive observations to appear to be my only focus at this time. Today's post published before I could get to a computer to cancel it.

Things we like at Christmas? Family: safe, happy and well. We continue to pray.

UPDATE 31/12/11: We got the best Christmas present we could ever ask for in the form of a phone call on Christmas morning from the family member referred to above. Things are on the mend but for every few steps forward to recovery there have also been setbacks. Things are still sensitive and upsetting so I therefore won't be talking about it here, but I plan to return to writing as soon as I can - if nothing else because that person is one of the main supporters of my writing and a frequent visitor to these pages. I'd like there to be plenty of nice things for her to read when she next comes by.

Things we like about Christmas #9

2011-12-19T11:24:00.002Z

TRYING to guess who has sent us a Christmas card from the handwriting on the envelope. Matching the postmark to the handwriting can carry a surprising level of intrigue!

Now there you go again, you say

2011-12-16T22:40:00.004Z

THINGS have been eventful at work, keeping me busy and keeping my cortisol levels high. This means that I have neglected this page, despite many ideas, threads and stories rushing around my head. But I have decided that they must wait - there's no point in forcing them out there unfinished, undeveloped, just to keep a consistent and regular output - Christmas is coming, and there will be ample opportunity to regale you with tales of sheep with fluffy feet, vindictive showers and errant semi-colons in the new year.

There's just time to prepare the obligatory end of year post (this year not featuring a rundown of weird Google search terms that have led to this page, as is tradition, nor the unusual locations of my audience - although welcome to the fray, people of French Polynesia!) and to invite you to join me in a singalong at Rowheath Pavilion this Sunday. Our Christmas Carol service starts at 6.30pm, featuring me strumming in the background, followed by some further musical delights in the bar after. We rehearsed our bar set last night - three-part harmonies and banjo strumming included - and it sounded pretty awesome.

It would be great to see you there, even if you come simply to see the facial expressions I pull when attempting to hit deceptively high notes.

Photos, undoubtedly, to follow.

Similes. What are they like?

2011-11-20T16:58:00.001Z

LAST weekend Rachel and I went to see Milton Jones at the New Alexandra Theatre in Birmingham. It was my birthday treat from way back in the year, though I'd bought the tickets myself. I had wanted to see Milton earlier in the year but had never got round to buy tickets, and was therefore pleasantly surprised when the tour was extended. I was very excited - Rachel was less so, having never heard any of his style of comedy. My constant reassurances that "it'll be brilliant" served only to make her more worried that she would hate it.

No need to worry. From the opening mini-set of 'Milton Jones' Grandfather' delivering silly one-liners about Wolfgang, Mozart and Caesar Augustus' first weather report to the main set of quickfire puns, one-liners and quips, Milton had us giggling along. I admired how it was completely clean (a novelty in popular comedy these days) and that very often the punchline was never delivered - because the joke was set up so well that, once the audience were clued up, they could work out the silliness for themselves. Milton showed great skill to keep up the standard throughout. Even his handling of heckles remained fair, clean and yet fully in control. It was a show full of wit and attention to detail, and we enjoyed it immensely. If he tours anywhere near you in the near future, I urge you to go. Especially if you like dad jokes.

Here's a clip of Milton off of the YouTube, not from this tour:

Wanders

2011-11-07T16:25:00.001Z

IN MANY ways this is my favourite time of year. The downsides associated with the start of a new academic term seem to fade to insignificance on days when the sky is clear, the air is crisp, and the trees have turned to varying shades of yellow and red. Leaves are falling to the ground as a reminder that, despite our best efforts to influence the world around us with work and inventions to make our lives more convenient, there is a universal constant that is nature, the true ruler of the surface we live on. Even London Midland have had to issue a revised ‘leaf fall’ train timetable, surprised, once again, that the seasons have changed, just like they do every year.

Sadly the falling leaves mean that my varying explorations of my local area have had to come to an end. And as I sit, now, staring out of the window of our second floor flat through what was the canopy of the trees around us, the squirrels and sentry pigeons having sought refuge elsewhere, I reflect on my first full summer in this new home.

I remember walks along the canals, discovering first the countryside calm of Kings Norton Junction, so close to the bustle of Birmingham but part of an extensive green corridor carving its way from the Lickey Hills, along the River Rea to the Cannon Hill Nature Centre and Midlands Art Centre. Along the route, just minutes from my door and the sprawling development of Birmingham, landmarks as diverse as the world’s oldest precipitated calcium carbonate mineral plant, adjacent to a 200 year-old guillotine lock on the Stratford-upon-Avon Canal; a fishing reservoir hidden from view; and Lifford Hall, once a mill, which dates from 1604 and is situated on the site of a Saxon ecclesiastical building.

I remember the meadows we stumbled across behind Kings Norton Park, home to horses and, at the time of discovery, a grandfather and his two grandchildren, cameras in hand, photographing all the flora and fauna they could find, asking questions as they went.

The tidy, preserved streets of Bournville gave me much pleasure. Tree-lined streets of pristine cottages and gate houses, where on Friday night I saw a family of four — parents and two children no older than 6 — wrapped up warm, huddling in a circle, mesmerized by the sparklers they held between them. There was no need for a full, bombastic firework display; the joy produced by those miniature flecks of light more than sufficed.

In the grounds of Rowheath Pavilion people played, walked and marvelled. People of all ages fed the ducks — or fled the geese — and toddlers invaded the playground, at one stage transforming the climbing frame into an imaginary cafeteria; at Christmas the very same frame will form the structure of a nativity scene, the cafe’s tables now a manger. It was on the roof of said structure that my nephew proudly declared how good he was at climbing – shortly before he fell off.

On one walk, as we sought to investigate the rumour of a long-forgotten running track, we crossed the sporting grounds of Rowheath as one of the local football teams arrived. Eleven burly, proud men passed us, kitted and booted and talking the talk.

“And that was when I found out,” one player declared, “that I look good in burgundy.”

I look forward to the leaves returning to the trees, when I can go out exploring once more. When that happens, I’ll be sure to take my camera.

Love Wins

2011-10-31T21:13:00.005Z

THERE'S an interesting review of the latest book by Rob Bell, Love Wins, on Amazon. It draws a neat analogy for the book with a five hundred-year old piece of artwork - a wooden rhinoceros; this for a review of a book about heaven and hell.

In 1515, Albrecht Dürer produced a woodcut of a rhinoceros based merely on descriptions of the animal, having never seen one himself. He gave it a suit of armour and a small horn on its neck. In subsequent years, despite the increasing ability to paint from life of rhinos at first hand, many artists continued to paint an armoured creature because the armoured rhino of Dürer's woodcut had become the standard, the definitive image. In spite of the evidence - actual rhinos, not wearing armour - the general populace continued to be presented with images of a beast laden with metal plating, a fearsome semi-mechanical creature of war. And that was what many assumed a rhino to look like.

Put Your Waistcoat On

2011-10-20T20:50:00.002+01:00

LAST night Rachel and I went to see the mighty Cat Empire, the Australian funk/jazz/salsa/rock/pop/reggae/anything-else-they-fancy-trying six-piece whose talent, just like when we saw them this time last year, blew me out of the water. This tour is to celebrate their tenth anniversary. Though the setlist was essentially the same as last year it did not matter, for they were quality songs, delivered with style. The crowd had their dancing shoes on and the room bounced and swayed along with passion.

One of the many things I loved was that this is a live band whose reputation alone had filled the Birmingham Academy. We're bombarded daily with music we're told to like, so it's reassuring that other bands, whose talent and reputation alone can maintain a tide of word of mouth promotion, can still survive. It's all about the music, and that's how it should be :)

Read more »

The cruelty of a PhD

2011-10-10T18:16:00.008+01:00

TEN months of failed experiments later... (click image for larger version)

Last Thursday Evening

2011-09-19T23:38:00.002+01:00

THERE it was, sitting at the end of the street: my old house. The gravel-covered concrete driveway with Dean’s car, parked at an angle as it always was to avoid driving into the street sign in front; the white-fronted semi-detached house, as ever with musical sounds coming from the lower left window and a halogen glow from the top right. From that window too: Darren, who was expecting me. I descended the stairs to the front door, no longer under threat from the creeping brambles we had tamed in my time. Indoors, the sounds of a guitar lesson came from the downstairs bedroom, a recording studio by day. To the right, the living room: the same old sofa, the same grey carpet, the same old pile of exercise equipment and assorted detritus in the far corner though with notable new additions – metallic reflector panels and lighting stands, remnants of the day, I’m told, the living room became a photography studio. The kitchen next, our old debating ground, still with its work surface of fajita kits and ketchup; a fruit bowl filled, as ever, with fruits of surprising sophistication, none of them eaten; the tops of the cupboards still lined with barrels of protein and carbohydrate powders. On the stove a pan was frying fish, destined for the same, square bowl with leaves on that the same meal had been so often been served while I had been there. The garden, with its weeds just about under control - the best we could ever achieve – was the same. The pond remained drained, its audience of crumbling stone animal figurines rescued from beneath the once chaotic flora wishing, as ever, for the fish to come back. The barbecue had moved, the pile of tyres had grown, evidence of attempts to grow vegetables remained, the old shed had been emptied and a crime-scene tent had appeared at the bottom of the garden (where once we had excavated an old patio, believing it to be a Roman fort), but in all other ways it was precisely how I had left it. But now, who is this? Here comes ,a cat, the newest housemate: Lily, only 1, still adventurous and extremely affectionate, chasing moths in the failing light of dusk. Pets had not been allowed in my time: I was jealous. Back in the kitchen Dean, Darren and I reminisced; the dream team back together again. We spoke of PhDs and cheesecakes, the discussions instantaneously in-depth and impenetrable to outsiders, including the third housemate, my replacement’s replacement, who hid upstairs in my old room, now off limits but probably the same as before. Waving farewell, Darren and I drove on up the road, past the sports field I used to enjoy crossing, past the end of the tube line and the church where I used to play, unaware at the time of the opportunities I was being afforded. To the pub: the Cock & Dragon, our old favourite, an old man’s pub with stuffed fish and moose heads on the wall and bitter on tap, but beneath the facade a good old-fashioned Thai restaurant at heart. We chatted away, talking weddings and work; cats, holidays and being uncles, all of the things that had changed since I had left, since I had moved on to happier times.

It was nice to be reminded of all of the things I had once called home, to be reminded that there were indeed nice things to remember. For so long I had looked back on the house as where I had lived during a difficult time: the failed London experiment; where I had lived when I wasn’t happy, when I had felt trapped. But now I could see that the house should be exempt from the bad memories. It was in the kitchen I had received an email that led to me being where I am today, offering me a place at Birmingham. It was in the living room where late night housemate rivalry on the Wii Fit bubble game had defined new levels of competitiveness. It was in that downstairs bedroom/studio where I had my first singing lesson. It was in that bedroom upstairs, the window on the left, where I had lived among my own mess on the floor, desperately looking for a way out, my emotions as tormented as the mess itself. It was that mess on the floor that my girlfriend, now wife, came unannounced to sort, to put me back on my feet. A lot happened in that house at the end of the street.

duplo and little shoes

2011-08-31T22:59:00.003+01:00

duplo and little shoes
Originally uploaded by SBishop

Shooba!

2011-08-22T12:39:00.005+01:00

WORK is not going so well at the moment. But I shall not rant, I shall tell you about my weekend instead.

I do not handle stress well. I also struggle to relax, and am awful at managing my time. This means that any observations I make are likely to be of things that surround me all of the time, I just fail, through my worry and busyness, to notice them. I wish I could appreciate the world around me more often, and I must strive to do so. So there I was, frustrated and angry about events at work on Friday last week.

And then I went to Devon.

Read more »

60% Banana

2011-07-30T00:42:00.003+01:00

THIS is me, many years ago, making a fool of myself in the centre of Birmingham. I've made a fool of myself in a similar manner several times since, including in a student newspaper that is also archived in the British Library.

Now, inspired in part by these deeds and in honour of my birthday*, my friend Phil has created some rather splendid t-shirts over at his Evilflea SpreadShirt shop. All profits go to The Hoja Project, an educational charity working in Tanzania. If you can, it would be great if you could support him and the charity by buying one of these marvellous garments, or as Phil puts it:

We puny humans share 60% of all our DNA with the mighty banana. I think this needs to be more widely known.

*this is not at all a coincidence

This woman is a bit more than 60% banana (organic, too):

Seahorses

2011-07-25T09:27:00.000+01:00

WHEN we were driving back down the Western Australia coast in 2009, we spent a night in Kalbarri, a town that felt like an oasis in the middle of a jungle. Turning off from the North West Coastal Highway, we drove for several hours through the Kalbarri National Park, thunderstorms threatening to erupt around us. After a day of solid driving, the road took us for several hours even further away from nowhere along a flat and uninspiring landscape. Driving became a mission to simply arrive, eat and rest, and consequently we missed the moment the road dropped away, revealing sudden and unexpectedly dramatic vistas looking down to the Murchison River far below. Rich bush coated the river basin; steep ravines and adventurous terrain replaced the flat monotony. It was a jungle among scrubland. Through this landscape we slowly descended to the riverside town of Kalbarri, at the mouth of the Murchison into the Indian Ocean, arriving late in the afternoon. The town was a welcome sight, an outpost existing beyond the known world, serviced by a giant road loop that serves Kalbarri and Kalbarri alone. It was a small town, not especially glamorous, but its location and geography made up for it all. A spit covered the harbour entrance, with waves breaking even further out on submerged rocks, sending spray and swell towards the sand bar that stood as lord and protector over a gentle community that basked in the calm of the estuary and the town’s prime location in the recesses of the wild west coast.

This was a town for all kinds. Syrup’s Health and Gourmet Shop provided our first gluten-free experience in quite some time, where a slightly frizzled lady sold us rolls and spoke to us with more authority about coeliac disease than any shop here or at home has done since. The bar and hotel was a true outback ramshackle affair – plastic chairs, beer and lotto. Caravan and trailer parks nestled alongside luxury hotels. Our own campsite felt like somebody’s back garden. A gossip of galahs pecked at food on a roadside lawn, jumping with fright as each car passed. People loitered by the bottle shop, while others sipped coffee outside cafes. In the evening we ate at a world-famous establishment known as Finlays Fish BBQ, a fine dining establishment set inside an old fish factory that offers ‘no service, no corkage, no glasses and no frills’, all inside a tin shed. It was brilliant. We devoured our plate of fish and meat with glee, and the resident cat chewed our leftover prawn shells with even greater enjoyment.

Startled galahs

Sadly our time in Kalbarri came to an end far too quickly, and as we set out the following morning to complete our loop back to the north-south highway, we rued our chance to explore further. But there was one last treat, for Kalbarri was home to a seahorse sanctuary.

Millions of seahorses are taken from the wild each year to be sold as pets, depleting coral reef ecosystems and harming already endangered wild populations. Buying such creatures is not only harmful but a false economy, for wild seahorses tend not to survive in the artificial conditions of a tank and do not naturally eat dead fish food sold by aquaria. The Seahorse Sanctuary in Kalbarri existed not only to breed seahorses, thereby preventing further damage to wild populations, but to wean them on to frozen fish food, increasing their chances of survival as pets and thereby their value for money. Where wild seahorses typically die in captivity after 5-6 weeks, sanctuary seahorses can survive for up to 6 years. The sanctuary was a pet industry business that provided both a better solution for customers and a tenable conservation objective.

As an attraction it was pretty good too. For its size (one room) there was a lot to see and do, taking you through the process from breeding through seahorse school and on to graduation. Mixed with pipefish and older seahorses, young seahorses were taught by demonstration to eat frozen shrimp, to become big and strong and to make their parents proud. The creatures were colourful, flamboyant and rather lovely to watch, and we spent a good hour making friends and chilling out with the seahorses. Brilliantly, the venture was sponsored by Guylian.

Then off we drove, on to Dongara-Port Denison, Cervantes and then Perth, and this story was forgotten.

Then on Friday I discovered that the Seahorse Sanctuary in Kalbarri has closed. This makes me really sad and I can offer no additional information as to what has happened. I can only hope that the good work of the sanctuary is being continued by others elsewhere. I would be grateful that if anybody knows anything more about the sanctuary’s closure they would share it, as this is truly a loss. In the meanwhile, may I salute the efforts of Michael and Wendy Payne over the past 10 years towards the protection of wild seahorse populations.

We can grow beards (if we want to)

2011-07-18T10:16:00.007+01:00

ROWHEATH Pavilion, in the heart of Bournville, is a sports pavilion and function complex, built in 1924 by the Cadbury family as a clubhouse for the recreational facilities they made available to their workers. In the 1970s, ever stricter health and safety regulations saw the demise of its lido, and over time the building fell into disrepair. Successive attempts to manage the building failed and it was eventually closed down. It was re-opened in 1985 by a local management group, who struggled to keep it afloat. One of their building users was the Trinity Church, which had previously met in a house in Selly Oak. With financial troubles at Rowheath continuing, Bournville Village Trust asked Trinity to operate the Pavilion under a management agreement. Trinity would later sign the lease on the building, and over time Trinity became the Pavilion Christian Community, which would assume full day to day running of Rowheath Pavilion. Trinity’s ambitions for the building differed to all previous management groups of the building for it sought not to run the building for profit but for the local population, to restore Rowheath to its central role in Bournville as clubhouse, venue and community centre. Little did they know at the time that in 2011 it would be invaded by 17 strange, voluntarily hairy Australians with a penchant for harmonising.

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I gol' darn gone and done it

2011-07-12T20:05:00.002+01:00

FORGIVE my recent lack of posts - I have been striving to write a report for my PhD, which I have found surprisingly difficult. I enjoy writing, and have, to some extent, enjoyed writing reports before. But this report was to be presented as if it were a paper, which meant doing just as much work as if I could waffle on forever, then stripping it to the barest nub of the project without losing the narrative. Furthermore I decided not to devote all of my time to it, as I have with previous reports, but to fit it in around my true work, which meant the affair became drawn out; this affected my focus and I don't really have a grasp of how well it reads. I do, however, have a grasp of what is missing from my project, and how much I really need to do between now and The End.

Never mind, it is printed and sat beside me as I write, and tomorrow morning shall be handed in with not so much of a fanfare but a sigh of relief.

This means that I can now get on with all of the other things I had planned to do - I've some things I'd like to write (I haven't forgotten my New Year's Resolution), a venture I'd like to develop, a spare bedroom buried in unsorted paperwork that needs tidying and a car that still has bits of Christmas tree in it that needs a bit of a clean. The spare bedroom in particular needs some attention. It was going to be a study for use during my report write-up, but I couldn't find a spare inch of desk to put my laptop, with the surface covered in bank statements, card-making stationery, shaving foam and 17 loose nails from our latest IKEA purchase. Many exciting things should be making their way to a screen near you... eventually.

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Space is cool

2011-07-08T14:39:00.003+01:00

EDIT: You can continue the geek experience by tracking the shuttle through Google Earth. It makes for remarkable viewing (if you like maps and other cool things). Download the Google Earth plug-in here.

Chasety downity, whackety backety

2011-06-29T18:32:00.001+01:00

THE thing is, I was only supporting Sabine Lisicki because she played with a smile at the AEGON semi-finals in Birmingham, seemed to be a good player and, generally, seemed a nice person. I had no idea she'd reach the Wimbledon semi-finals on a wildcard. She has defeated number 4 in the world Li Na and number 9 Marion Bartoli, who herself defeated Serena Williams. I stopped blogging about it because I couldn't really believe it, and if you could hear me commentating on the tennis you'd probably stop reading for good anyway. In fact, I had to restrain myself on Twitter, waffling on and screaming triumph at every point won against Na. I was probably very annoying. That said, in response to this and whatever else I was spouting on about that day, Nelly kindly told me later: "I love how excited you get about, well, everything".

Tomorrow Lisicki faces Maria Sharapova in what will undoubtedly be a very tough match. No ladies singles player has ever won the Wimbledon Championships, but given that some people think she serves like a bloke, perhaps she can pull off a Becker or an Ivanišević? Be it on a big screen or on my laptop, hiding in a corner of the laboratory, I shall be watching and cheering along. This is going to be good!

Normal service will be resumed once the tennis has come to an end.

Post title from Thwok! by Matt Harvey.

Wack, thwok, thwack, pok

2011-06-23T21:02:00.005+01:00

SABINE Lisicki, unseeded, beats world number 4 Li Na in a thrilling three sets: 3-6 6-4 8-6. At one stage she was two match points down.

Seriously... wow. Incredible match.

Post title from Thwok! by Matt Harvey.

Hittety backety pingety zang!

2011-06-22T21:48:00.001+01:00

HURRAH! Sabine Lisicki today absolutely slaughtered Anastasija Sevastova 6-1 6-1 to progress through to the second round of Wimbledon. The match, delayed by rain, was already one rescheduled after play progressed too slowly yesterday on Court 8. Lisicki and Sevastova were the fourth match due on that court on Tuesday, but play began with Daniela Hantuchova who, as previously mentioned, plays really slowly... it can't be coincidence that all other courts completed four or five matches when Court 8 barely started its third...!

Never mind, play got going late this afternoon and the victory came quickly - the first set lasted 19 minutes, the second 26 minutes. Comfortable stuff.

Tomorrow she gets to play on Centre Court where she faces Li Na, who is seeded third for the entire tournament. Eep. So, er, fingers crossed then...

If you are intrigued by the titles of my previous two posts, they are from the poem Thwok! by Matt Harvey, poet in residence at last year's Wimbledon Championships.

Thwackety wackety zingety ping

2011-06-21T09:07:00.009+01:00

LAST Saturday we went to watch the semi-finals of the AEGON Classic at the Priory Club in Edgbaston, Birmingham. I'd not been to see professional tennis before, but being just down the road, it seemed silly not to go. Armed with picnics, sun cream and umbrellas, we had a pleasant day that has made me very excited for Wimbledon.

First to play were Daniela Hantuchova and Ana Ivanovic, in matching shocking pink dresses. It was a bad start for Ivanovic, probably embarrassed at having come to the match wearing the same outfit as her opponent, as she was broken in the very first game. She regained dominance, but she was consistently sloppy. Meanwhile, Hantuchova played mind games with Ivanovic, and it was Hantuchova who eventually took the victory, despite her lower seeding. It was a bit of a slow game - even Martina Navratilova, present to celebrate the tournament's thirtieth anniversary, got bored and went home before its completion. I supported Hantuchova from the beginning as the underdog, but I wasn't happy with her play, which seemed unsportsmanlike and lacking grace.

Next to play were Shaui Peng, seeded third and the highest seeded player remaining in the competition, and Sabine Lisicki - unseeded, unheard of, headphones in her ears as she came on court. Now this was a match: faster, much more exciting and fair play from both sides of the court. Both seemed nice players, not ones to mess with each other or challenge umpire decisions, but it was Lisicki who caught our attention. She played with a smile... indeed, she played very, very well with a smile. At each missed shot she would squeal in anguish, followed by an embarrassed giggle. She won convincingly, and was ecstatic.

Two days later (the final was delayed by one day because of rain), she repeated this performance and beat Hantuchova to the trophy, only her second ever singles title. I gather it was equally as effortless. It qualified her for Wimbledon, raised her WTA ranking by 38 places to 62 and earnt her four new fans - Rachel and myself and my parents.

Today she takes on Latvia's Anastasija Sevastova in the first round of Wimbledon, where she reached the quarter finals in 2009 before falling into two years of injury and comparative obscurity. I hope you will join me in cheering her on.

Four red cars in a super good red line

2011-06-19T18:53:00.005+01:00

IT was supposed to be a relaxing holiday, a week in which to unwind, to switch off, count to ten and reboot ourselves in the midst of a busy few months at work. But it felt strange; my mind could not switch off. It did not want to read nor watch the world go by. The plan to have a quiet week simply wouldn’t agree with me. Here I was, confined within a hotel, desperate to see what lay outside of its (admittedly very lovely) walls. We were a 30 minute walk from the UNESCO World Heritage city centre of Split, Croatia, and yet, rules being rules (albeit self-enforced), we weren’t out exploring. I wanted to see everything there was to see, to know all that there is to know about Split and Croatia generally; and yet, at the same time, I did not, for I could remember how exhausted we have been on all previous holidays because we’ve tried to do too much. It was peaceful and tranquil: I was distracted.

I hid behind my book, but I was watching the clientele.

A couple just ahead of me were having some drinks delivered. What a place I’m in, I thought, to have waiter service by the pool. The couple gestured at the waitress to shoo, her job done, her purpose fulfilled. How rude, I thought.

A lady turned over, the first time in an hour, to allow her back to tan. I wondered how red she would be that evening.

Five beer-bellied, overly tanned Englishmen were drinking beer at the opposite corner of the pool complex. As the beers kept coming, their volume increased. They would hail the waitress and keep her talking as they ogled her: a young, fit, Mediterranean twentysomething in the presence of five balding men in the midst of mid-life crises. I tried hard not to watch their pack behaviour, attempting once more to delve into my book. But a thought crept into my mind. Had I found a corner of Croatia that is forever Benidorm?

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Q

2011-06-05T18:58:00.001+01:00

WE went to a really lovely wedding yesterday in Buckinghamshire, full of enthusiastic singing, happiness all round and... a reception at Pinewood Studios! Wandering around the expansive gardens of Heatherden Hall, we came across a memorial to Desmond Llewelyn, Q from the Bond films. The gardens were lovely, with well crafted lawns and secret gardens nestled behind well-tended borders. As the sun descended, the rabbits came out to say hello. It was such a tranquil spot, so close to where cinematic history is made yet a world away from the glamour of the film world, a fitting location for the legacy of Bond's old fatherly quartermaster to rest.

But not a real green dress, that's cruel

2011-05-21T11:25:00.002+01:00

LAST night, for the first time in 4 years, Nelly and I performed at an Open Mic Night in Bournville. We were a bit rusty to start with but it was great fun. We tackled only songs we had learnt all those years ago, only realising afterwards that two of them we had never actually performed to anybody else before...

There were lots of other great acts too. Here are some pictures!

The Lady Under the Floor

2011-05-08T21:56:00.001+01:00

OVER Easter, Rachel's sister, brother in law and their three-year old came to stay with us. For the purpose of anonymity I shall call them S, R and J, respectively. Here's a few stories from their stay.

On Friday we all met at Hatton Country World, a farm-based attraction for younger visitors and a shopping village for adults. J was scared of the pigs, but was taken greatly by the guinea pigs. This was appreciated by the adults, as the guinea pigs lived inside, away from the unexpectedly strong sunshine outside. The guinea pigs lived next door to an indoor playground, containing table football, mini tractors, a giant playhouse and a sandpit, complete with diggers. J delighted in running around the playhouse, trying to escape from his daddy outside, the giant to his Jack.

"FEE, FI, FO, FUM!" shouted R.
"Can't get me!" J would reply.

It was all going swimmingly until R scared the wrong child.
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Business at the front, party at the back

2011-05-03T22:29:00.005+01:00

FROM politics to another first: a book review.

Through various connections online I know quite a few people. I've not necessarily met them all, but we have conversed and followed each other's online contributions, sometimes over a number of years. Simon Varwell is one such online acquaintance, a man who I know through a collective called Join Me but whom I have not met. Nonetheless, we read each other's blogs (his is here) and chat via Twitter. The Internet is strange that way, allowing social contact, without the contact, or a need to be sociable. So I thought I'd lend my support to Simon's burgeoning literary career and give his first book, Up The Creek Without A Mullet, a go. And here is a review, written somewhat nervously with the knowledge that Simon will undoubtedly read every word...
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Would you like to go to the pub? Tough.

2011-04-28T17:24:00.009+01:00

I'LL keep this as brief as I can.

I don't like to write about politics and I wholeheartedly believe that somebody's political allegiances are their business alone. But on May 5th we have an opportunity to have a say about the long-term future of how this country is run in a referendum on the voting system for parliamentary elections. I wish that everybody would take this seriously, so I'm making an exception and going to talk about what I think.

The question is, should we keep first past the post (FPTP), or switch to the alternative vote (AV), which is currently used in countries such as Australia, by our own political parties (for deciding leadership) and in our own House of Lords?
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Dee dee na na na

2011-04-27T13:56:00.003+01:00

COULD there be a better place for contemplation and learning than Cambridge?

I didn’t want to believe it. I never applied to either of the Oxbridge institutions, even though academically I might have gotten in, in part because I didn’t want to go to such places. All that pomp and circumstance, the attitude of certain alumni and the air of pretentiousness – all detracted and put me off for good. Yet all were misguided and prejudiced preconceptions. I’ve seen Cambridge in an unfair light for years, stemming from before going to university myself. I judged it, unreasonably. I was the snob. Though I do not regret not applying, as I am very happy with the niche I have carved out in Birmingham, I do regret my prejudice back then toward both Oxford and Cambridge.

My foolish reasons are now years old, forgotten and out of date. Since then I have visited Oxford several times and always enjoyed it, but I had not visited Cambridge until last Wednesday.
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You can't mistake my biology

2011-04-26T10:15:00.002+01:00

SOMETIMES time goes by slowly and unremarkably, then suddenly picks up and gives you immense fulfilment in the blink of an eye. In the last two weeks I've had both such experiences: a week in which my only highlight was the realisation that there is a part of my work building in which I have never set foot (and oh the possibilities that might be contained therein!), followed by a week in which every day produced a story to tell. After a period of hard slog on assignments, leading to a dearth of stories and posts, forgive me for the forthcoming explosion of anecdotes, thoughts and nonsense that is about to follow. We begin with day one.
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A mango tree in my backyard

2011-04-01T11:03:00.010+01:00

My friends do cool things. Here's a trio of artsy goings on...

The lovely Vixie has an art store under the guise of Matin Lapin, and is in the process of folding 1,000 origami cranes for the Red Cross Japan appeal. It is believed in Japan that anyone who makes 1,000 origami cranes will have a wish granted. Read her scribbles here, see her doodles here, and consider supporting her efforts here. Others, too, have taken up this idea to send a little hope that way.

Hannah Davis, or Canvas Hannah as I like to think of her, has gone off to Argentina to work for Generadores de Cambio in Monte Grande province of Buenos Aires, doing arty things and support work in a kindergarten. You can follow her travels on her blog, learn all about her exhibition of art and poetry called tears and sprout peelings (heavily inspired by previous trips in Latin America and also available as a book) at this dedicated blog, and have a gander at the art she has for sale on her Society6 profile. Quite the tumblr fan, she has another blog, a general art blog and musings site, to be found here.

My former colleague Ben comes from a highly artistic dynasty, with skills from glass blowing to collography. This in no way explains why he is a neuroscientist. However, his sister Rosie has stuck with family tradition and now has a new blog showing off her really pretty artwork, which I encourage you to take a look at.
It's called Rosie Sutcliffe: Prints and Things

DND

2011-03-29T23:18:00.002+01:00

IF you've had a hard day, with stresses and pressure, here's something to calm you down. Take yourself off to somewhere private, have a listen to this version of Agnus Dei (Barber) performed by Ex Cathedra, then follow it up with a few minutes of contemplation in silence. It should reset you nicely.

Wash off the 151

2011-03-26T23:58:00.005Z

A SCIENCE news article on the BBC Earth News site published in February about macaques 'knowing what they know' caught my eye recently. The phenomenon of metacognition, whereby an individual is aware of its own knowledge and can therefore express doubt or certainty when confronted with a challenge, is an attribute frequently thought to be exclusively human. However, as the article points out, macaques also express self doubt. I was drawn to this article not only because it is profoundly interesting but also because I knew full well that I myself had written about the very same topic, and a highly similar (arguably more advanced) study, several years ago.

I knew that I had stored my own article online somewhere, but could not remember where. I eventually found it, and plan to expand on it soon, but in searching I found some very interesting references to myself spread across the Internet, notably with my photographs. I have a Flickr account, on which all of my photographs are public. I allow my images to be used under a Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike Creative Commons license, which means that anybody is welcome to share or remix my images, on the condition that they attribute me as the owner of the photo, do not use it for commercial purposes and they make no claim that I endorse their use of the image in the context they have chosen. If they change the picture, the same rules apply. I like to do this because I make no financial gain from the pictures, its just a bit of fun, and I'm proud that others might want to use my pictures. And oh, it turns out they do in some unexpected ways.

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Footprints on the other side

2011-03-21T20:34:00.002Z

SEVERAL events in the past few weeks have helped me reassess myself and my priorities and, as a result, I am pleased to announce that I have decided that I am happy.

Obviously I have had much to be happy about for a long time but, as is always the way, I got distracted by the stresses of work and commitments and completely failed to focus on how lucky I am. I have a beautiful wife, a lovely home of our own and a loving community. I have stability, a family who are always there for me and anything I need to sustain all of these is readily available to me. I’ve just had a really nice weekend where I had nothing to worry about and the sun came out. I’m starting to feel like I fit in at work, the pressure has dropped and, by virtue of the fact that people now sometimes come to me for help (it was always exclusively the other way around before), I feel that I have garnered some respect there too. And, I’m delighted to say, I have a new niece.
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Since the early caveman in his fur took a trip to Gretna Green

2011-03-13T17:45:00.004Z

liberty monument, gellért-hegy, budapest, hungary
Originally uploaded by SBishop

THE other day I had a bit of a spring clean of my computer, knowing I had a few old photos to sort through. To my shock the unsorted photos went back several years, covering several family events, holidays and all sorts of shenanigans. Because of this I aim, over the next few weeks, to add many of these photos to my Flickr account, this blog and/or Facebook or Picasa, depending on suitability, so that relevant photos can be seen by you lot - family and friends and, selectively, the wider Internet. Watch this space.

Western Australia VI: Thing! THINGTHINGTHING! Thud.

2011-03-09T22:25:00.002Z

HALF way back to Perth, between two distant towns a day's drive apart, is a lonely junction. Taking you away from the north-south coastal highway, the adjoining road heads west for a few hours into a landscape of red earth, hypersaline shimmering waters, sweeping bays and hundreds of acres of thriving biodiversity. This is the Shark Bay World Heritage Area, the area encompassing two north-westerly projecting, long and narrow peninsulas, creating two immense coves that harbour all manner of surprises: salt mines; sand bars; more tiger sharks than anywhere else in the world; beaches made of billions of only one kind of tiny shell; shell quarries; 4,000 km² of sea grass; dolphins, turtles and 10,000 dugongs and, in a far recess of one of the bays, a population of living fossils — the towers of stromatolites, ancient microbe populations responsible for our oxygen-rich atmosphere. On land the earth is coated in low-lying shrub vegetation, hiding among it threatened species covering the diverse animal kingdom. Signs warn drivers of the ground-dwelling Mallee fowl, for example, a vulnerable species that builds giant self-insulating nests, coated in sand layers of up to 1 metre in depth and heated by organic decay, in which they bury their eggs.

Shark Bay is a rugged, remote and rather splendid place worth cherishing. Very few live here – most occupying the town of Denham on the central peninsula, separated from the mainland by the isthmus of Eagle Bluff. This is where we stayed, parking on a precarious perch in the campsite and caravan park, our van Ben teetering on the edge of a lookout over Denham Sound. Denham played host to a number of anecdotes, not least a dreadful restaurant that forgot our food, an horrific exhibition on the Sandakan prisoner of war camp in Borneo, a stock car parade and race, and a puddle that took Rachel entirely by surprise, but for us it was mostly a base for our whistle-stop visit. Indeed, our first full day there (after Rachel had dried off from the puddle) was in fact spent on the other side of the Peron Peninsula at the delightful sounding Monkey Mia. Though Monkey Mia has an airport, is in every guide book and is on every sign for hundreds of miles, it is in fact not a town but a car park, with a hotel and a jetty where every morning some tame dolphins come to say hello. We spent the day at sea, looking for dugongs and dolphins, but wet weather in the preceding days had worked against us: the dugongs had left.

Our rental company, Ben’s parents, had handed over his keys to us on two conditions, the same two conditions we would later break with our scarlet rental Hyundai Getz — our good friend Philippa — in Tasmania: do not drive on unsealed roads, and do not drive at night. The rules are sensible. Wildlife in Australia tends to come out at night and tends to be quite big: collide with a kangaroo and, chances are, you will come off worst. The rules were particularly pertinent for us in WA, with wide open spaces and a vehicle that, lovely though he was, wasn’t adept at stopping quickly or handling well on gravel tracks. Just two days before we had escorted a lone traveller between Exmouth and Carnarvon after a kangaroo had crossed her path in broad daylight, smashing the bonnet, crushing the bumper and exposing the radiator of her blue saloon. Fearing that hidden damage would prevent the car from reaching a garage for repairs I drove ahead, keeping the lady in our mirrors, on standby should her car give up. Carnarvon, the nearest town, was at least four hours away. With this and with days of driving for hundreds of miles through the desert behind us, we were highly cautious. We had not the slightest desire of driving down unsealed tracks or driving at night, no matter how tempting particular remote landmarks might be.

However, that night in Monkey Mia there was a public seminar on sharks. Sharks are cool.

We arrived at dusk, watching the sun go down over the bay. We then found the seminar room and took our seats. There were eight people in the room, including the speakers and one very excited little boy.

The talk was largely a screening of a decade-old National Geographic film following a research team who have been creating a census of the tiger shark population in the bay. Meticulously they have caught these aggressive beasts, recording vital information and tagging each before quickly unhooking and releasing it into the bay. Sharks suffocate if kept still for too long, so the time between placing the bait and recording an individual must be quick – the film showed some remarkable footage of the lead researcher diving in to resuscitate unconscious sharks, caught on the hook for too long. Tiger sharks, I should point out, have been known to eat humans.

After the video there was a chance to question the researchers before us.

“Do sharks eat people?” asked the little boy.
“They have been known to,” one researcher replied, “but it isn’t normal behaviour.”
“What else do they eat?” he added.
“They eat all sorts of fish and crustaceans, even birds.”
“Do they eat turtles?”
“They can do.”

A pause. The boy’s hand rose into the air once more.

“What about dolphins?”
“Sometimes. Do you want to know anything other than what sharks eat?”

The boy thought carefully.

“Who would win in a fight, a shark or a dinosaur?”
“Er...”
“Have you ever seen a great white shark?”

Relief. A question about their surveys.

“Just once. We approached one of our buoys and quickly realised we had caught something a bit bigger than usual. We’ve seen several species of shark in the bay, but it’s the tiger sharks we are interested in. We let the great white go and got well away.”
“How big was it?”
“Pretty big.”
“How many teeth did it have?”
“Lots.”

I tried to imagine the scenario – the world’s most feared shark angrily snared on a hook on a research buoy. I’m glad I wasn’t the one to cut it loose.

“Does anybody else have any questions?”

A pause. The boy’s hand was still firmly in the air. The researchers desperately searched the room for anybody else to ask a question, hoping to raise the intellectual tone. But nobody had anything to ask, there was just one very excited little boy in a room full of people who knew stuff about sharks. Eventually, they relented.

“Can a shark eat a car?”

The 26 kilometre journey back to Denham was horrific. I drove slowly in the middle of the empty road, eyes darting to evaluate every direction, fully expecting something to run, walk or – this being Australia – hop across the road in front of us. Rachel, as co-pilot, was doing the same.

We didn’t see anything for a long time and my confidence rose: with it my speed rose also. This was a mistake.

Rachel was the first to see it.

“Thing!”

I began to brake.

“Thing! ... Thing!”

I did not dare to brake any harder, but I was still going too fast.

“Thingthingthing! THINGTHINGTHING!”

Thud.

The rabbit population of Shark Bay had been reduced by one. This was not such a bad thing, in fact, as conservationists have been attempting to eradicate rabbits and other introduced pests from the region for years. But it put us on additional guard. I slowed to almost a crawl. Every now and then the reflection of our headlights in the eyes of some kind of creature would evoke fear in our hearts. We had been lucky that it had only been a rabbit. Animals would be waiting on the side of the road, peering curiously at us as we approached. We drove in constant fear that they would decide to cross in front of us just as we reached them. One wallaby left it to the very last second to decide to head in the opposite direction, probably sniggering to himself at having put us through such an ordeal. This was his world, one that we should not have been sharing.

We parked up in the campsite, teetering on the edge of our escarpment, plugged Ben in for the night and counted our blessings. Nothing endangered had been harmed.

We would not break the rules again.

And so our adventures continued. We drove for 2,000 miles. We saw features remarkable to the field of geology. We visited a seahorse sanctuary and ate fish and chips at the world’s strangest barbecue restaurant, home to a very cute cat who only loved you if you gave him prawns. We saw six dead cows, two dead foxes, four dead sheep, one dead emu and one hundred and ten dead kangaroos in one direction along the coast. And, in one campsite, we had our table and chairs stolen, only to find them later arranged with two additional baby chairs placed on the other side, making a happy chair family. When the perpetrators weren’t looking, we stole them back.

We thanked the stromatolites for making our atmosphere. We walked the length of Perth’s Kings Park, the largest inner city park in the world, but came home annoyed at Bill Bryson for suggesting we might see an echidna there. We marvelled at a megamouth shark and were saddened by tales of untold extinctions of magnificent marsupials at the Western Australian Museum. In West Leederville, the friendliest cat in the world was waiting for us, just where we had left her before our road trip.

Our return to the UK after days on the road with no other people and no other vehicles to the horizon was a shock. Two years later, the number of cars on our road continues to horrify me. Civilization still sits a little uncomfortably with me. The wilderness has firmly set itself in my heart.

So too, you might have guessed, has Australia. But, for fear of sounding like a broken record, it is time to end these stories. Stories from our stay in Sydney will have to wait - some of them are highly personal: one of them belongs only in my wedding speech. I will have other stories to tell from other parts of the world and, though I have no doubt that we will return to Australia before too long, it is time to explore somewhere else. Whether that is closer to home or a far flung destination remains to be seen, but move on I shall.

Western Australia V: Ain't it the life?

2011-02-24T12:57:00.003Z

A few stories remain to tell from my Australia series, put on pause from last year. You rejoin us at the most northerly point of our road trip along the Western Australia coast, a mile out to sea, where I am having a few difficulties. The rest of the series, which covers topics as diverse as landslides, sheep, epic railway journeys, mutiny and the difficulties of finding breakfast, can be found on my travel page.

THE problem with small boats is the plumbing.

The presence of twenty tourists gleefully sunbathing, drinking and helping themselves to the bountiful buffet, ravenous after several bouts of vigorous exercise swimming in the open ocean, ultimately puts a strain on the ablution facilities of such a vessel. Eventually, they can no longer cope and flatly refuse to flush any longer, creating a moment of panic for whoever might be standing nearby at the time.

I mention this not to put you off your dinner, but to help you understand. We had spent the entire day about the Indian Ocean just off Ningaloo Reef, swimming first with manta ray and turtles at a fish cleaning station and then, throughout the day, three whale sharks. These immense creatures, around 12 metres in length, are the largest fish in the ocean, mysterious filter feeders with distinct and unique spotted patterning. To give an idea of scale, the mouth of the whale shark can reach 1.5 metres in width, and the largest ever rumoured to have been caught, at 18 metres in length, was holding up to 1,000 baby whale sharks inside. The fish had been our hosts, allowing us a privileged 30 minutes or so of their company at a time before diving beyond reach as they migrate along the coast. We would chug up and down the North West Cape coastline, awaiting the call from a spotter plane above. When a whale shark was spotted and the call came through, dozens of boats would race to be the first to reach the animal, sometimes running rings around one another in a bid to block their rivals from reaching the quoted coordinates first. One boat per shark, those were the rules.

The ocean was cold, and I had foolishly opted out of using a wet suit (I was the only one to do so), but only a few minutes of swimming alongside the shark was enough to get the blood pumping and to keep warm. For the whale shark, effortlessly gliding through the water, this was a mere amble. Indeed, a true shark would have scythed through the water at a far greater rate, but for the humans eagerly following alongside this was more than fast enough. The rules were to stay at least 3 metres from the body or 4 metres from the tail and never to swim in front of the fish, but in reality it was difficult to ever get this close: the fish was just too fast. Not that the fish cared of course, as it happily pottered along, eating, pondering and peering curiously at these human things, so clumsy in their locomotion.

Between swims we would dry in the sun, breathe the salty air and spot dolphins and humpback whales in the distance. The buffet was a fine, healthy spread. The day, all in all, was relaxing, healthy and a once in a lifetime – really – experience: to swim with such a creature was an honour. To swim with three, well, you get the idea.

You can see then, why problems involving narrow plumbing might ruin the mood. True enough, it was I who was the bearer of the final insult and, not to be too graphic, the timing of such a catastrophic disposal refusal could not have been worse.

So I exited the cubicle and found a staff member to report the problem. Janelle, in khaki military cap and sunglasses, was having a quiet moment to herself at the back of the boat. I had wanted to talk to her all day, and now was my chance. So we sat in the sun and discussed life. Life out here seemed effortlessly simple, and I was keen to know more about what she had seen and done. Furthermore, I wanted to know how you became a guide on a whale shark tour, your principal responsibility to swim at the front, alongside the largest fish in the ocean, with one arm up, so that us stragglers knew where to aim for should we fall behind.

Janelle, surprisingly, started out as a lab assistant, analysing blood samples and biopsies in a hospital. Working alone in a lab, on dry land, she could not possibly have seen herself leading tour groups on the Ningaloo Reef – handling the general public while at sea, particularly as, even today, she gets sea sick and can only lead groups once a month. Janne, our other guide and on-board marine biologist, was the leader of the two for our voyage.

But life in the lab was not for Janelle either, a difficult and thankless job she was happy to have moved on from. In what sounded like an inspiring quest for adventure, she had left her job in the laboratory and gone to work for a holiday camp near Kalbarri on the Mid West coast. Starting with menial tasks behind the scenes, she began to lead kayaking groups, slowly realising that she could handle groups of people. Furthermore, she quite liked it. Now she was based in Exmouth, working for Ningaloo Whaleshark-n-Dive, and she loved it.

In 3 years, she told me, she had never had as long a swim with a whale shark as we had had on this trip.

She showed me some of the photographs she had taken today, pointing out the spotty patterns so unique to each individual that star cluster algorithms are being used to form a census of whale shark numbers. She told me of the beaches nearby where she had witnessed turtles laying their eggs. She told me of her love for the outdoors, for the wonders her homeland could offer and how she was lucky to be able to work in such an environment. She had moved alone to Exmouth, so isolated from the rest of Australia (790 miles from Perth, itself isolated), but was happy. How could she not be, alongside such bountiful shores? Exmouth lies on the border between Ningaloo Reef and the haven of Exmouth Gulf, home to the highest density of humpback whales of anywhere in the world, a site of pilgrimage where the whales come to give birth.

It was a wonderful conversation of which I wish I had written more down.

It was such a wonderful conversation, and so engrossing, that we had completely forgotten to do anything about why I had struck it up in the first place. And as Janelle spoke of her encounters with species, including scientists, a number of fellow passengers had innocently entered the toilet facilities, unaware of the hazard that awaited. As we chatted, sharing a blissful reverie in the afternoon sun in the middle of the sea, dreaming of gentle giants, turtles and a trouble-free existence, we failed to register the background chaos that I had caused – panicked tourists, racing from the cubicle, in desperation trying to find a member of staff who could help; panicked staff then assembling to strategise and resolve the offending issue, drawing up plans and back-up plans before picking straws to decide who might go in first. It was a messy business, happening in plain view of Janelle and I, but we were too busy being content with our lot to notice.

Only after did I feel guilty, by which time the problem had been resolved, and only a few people had been offended. I never did own up.

Sources:
Image from http://www.mundoplayadelcarmen.com/squalibalena_eng, stuff I was told on the day, New Scientist, ECOCEAN, Ningaloo Whaleshark-n-Dive

And when they were only halfway up they were neither up nor down

2011-02-19T22:10:00.002Z

IT is Saturday evening, some four weeks since much went wrong. I can announce, at last, that I have gotten on top of the chaos that ensued at work. The problem remains, but the back up plan (which didn't exist four weeks ago) is now in action, my experiments safely tucked up in the incubator, under control.

It has meant that much of this week has been spent simply sorting and counting fruit flies. With 150 crosses to count, separate progeny by gender and phenotype and then cross to form a stable line, it has certainly kept me busy. I've broken all sorts of personal records, in many cases by a factor of ten, going in early and coming home late most days this week. Rachel was very supportive but it must have been difficult for her. Now, I am exhausted. After a quick visit to the lab this morning I came home and had a little lie down. Rachel, too, was tired after a very busy and responsible week at work, so also had a lie down after coming home early from volunteering at the Pavilion cafe. Suddenly, three hours had gone by, and we had slept through much of Saturday. I had missed a Join Me event in Birmingham, so key to me in the past that I came up with its official name, but happy that I might be able to relax properly for the first time in a month. I might even be good for conversation soon.

While performing said emergency genetics, I filled the fly room with hundreds of vials, arranged by gene and gender. With so many, it seemed as though I had my very own empire, clustered by continent. As the days went by the artillery became cavalry, then mere infantry, the strongholds of Australia and South America slowly retreating from the frontlines of progress. First to go was Kamchatka and Yakutsk, the roll of the dice reducing the number of crosses remaining quickly and efficiently. A few sickly troops remain at the linchpin territory of Iceland, but I need only males to complete my set. These should be easy to collect (and I won't need to revisit over the weekend) and my genetics game of Risk will be over, allowing me to concentrate on all of the other experiments fallen by the wayside. I'm not too far behind as a result of endeavours to keep several experiments afloat, but I will need to take stock on Monday, have a cup of tea and a sit down, then carry on as normal once more.

Seeds of other, non-work-related projects are slowly being sown. I have felt that it is important for me to become more involved at the Pavilion, without taking on too much, and on Thursday I pitched some ideas for activities that may take place throughout the year. Exciting times, but much to plan.

Hot like wasabi when I bust rhymes

2011-02-08T21:34:00.002Z

A paper!

Trophic neuron-glia interactions and cell number adjustments in the fruit fly
Alicia Hidalgo, Kentaro Kato, Ben Sutcliffe, Graham McIlroy, Simon Bishop, Samaher Alahmed.
Glia, epub 1 Dec 2010, doi: 10.1002/glia.21092

If you'd like to know a bit more, I recommend starting from the very beginning, with the 1986 Nobel lecture of Rita Levi-Montalcini, describing the discovery of nerve growth factor (NGF). It makes for an interesting story of how science used to be done.

Image from the work of Levi-Montalcini, not us

Babe, it must be art

2011-01-31T21:33:00.002Z

I FEEL, perhaps, that I blogged too soon. No sooner had I said that I was half way out of the dark than my experiment bluntly refused to work again. All conclusions drawn up by that point had to be disregarded and I had to go back to the drawing board, though with genetics on the go, the time pressure was suddenly a lot greater. So, after 471 PCRs, copious gels and a lot of panicking I had nothing, and now my samples were dying. This explains why I spent the entire weekend in the lab, performing emergency genetics in two days on more specimens than the total number I have handled in a year of working on this project. Then I had to catch up with two weeks of work that had become sidelined by all of this chaos. Today, though, I am relaxed, for my endeavours over the weekend have bought me time to find a solution and crack on with my original plan.

Read more »

'Cos love's such an old fashioned word

2011-01-26T21:32:00.001Z

AND then... things got crazy.
Read more »

I was hiding under your porch because I love you

2011-01-12T22:32:00.001Z

TODAY I gave a lab meeting on my PhD progress to date, or at least since my last meeting. This in itself isn't remarkable, except that it also happened to be my 15 month formal meeting, attended by my internal assessor, to examine my progress and assess my achievements and enthusiasm. Needless to say I've been extremely stressed, prone to error and subjecting myself to perhaps more than I can handle since returning from the holidays. Last Friday, for example, I was juggling two separate experiments, each a day's work in themselves, all while trying to prepare for new experiments this week, using techniques entirely new to us all.

The meeting went well, and in fact I was the most relaxed in any lab meeting I have ever given, perhaps because I think - though I stress that it is only that I think - that I finally know a little about what I'm talking about.

This meant that the rest of the day whooshed by in a daze, as I swanned around humming to myself and feeling content. I haven't achieved all that I had wanted to by this stage in my project, but my supervisor and internal assessor seem to be happy with my progress. When I left for home my spirits were high, not dampened by the drizzle falling from the heavens. A gentleman passed me on the way to the train station, clearly also having had a good day. He was walking faster than me and, just after overtaking me, he began to skip, heading straight - sploosh - into a puddle. At this he let out a "weee-heee-HEEE!" and then returned to his walking pace, undoubtedly rather pleased with himself.

This evening, in celebration, I watched a DVD I have been coveting for a while that, following a documentary on the BBC recently, I purchased in a fit of temptation. It was Pixar's Up.

If you haven't seen it, it's not possible to explain the plot with justice: it just sounds silly and odd. It is about a man who ties balloons to his house and flies to South America. But it is the reasons why he does this, the interplay between him and an eight-year old accidentally caught on his doorstep as the house takes off, and the ever present touch of sadness throughout the film that make it something absolutely special. This is not your standard silly animation, although for sure, its plot is preposterous and never tries to be anything besides. But when I saw Up at the cinema I am quite happy to admit that it made me cry - in sadness and delight in equal measure. The first ten minutes particularly are heartwrenching. Yet I think I probably cried even more tonight on viewing it once more. This is a film about adventure, love, appreciation and memories, tangled up with the cords of those balloons. I know such a review sounds clichéd and ridiculous, and sure, I'm a sucker for an ounce of celluloid silliness lovingly sprinkled in Pixar dust, but I honestly think Up is one of the greatest films of the last decade. It never ceases to affect me in a deeply personal way.

As I reviewed it upon leaving the cinema when it was first released, I consider Up to be pure joy in film form.

And now I retire after a triumphant day, ready for the adventures tomorrow will bring. Furthermore, they will be adventures with my wife by my side. Adventures are what makes life fun, and without them, I would be lost.

Mississippi moon, won't you keep on shining on me?

2011-01-05T21:40:00.001Z

HAPPY New Year all.

You join me, as I slump on the sofa having just watched Oz and Hugh Raise The Bar, absolutely exhausted. I've been back at work only two and a bit days but, boy, they've been busy. I've had to dive straight in with a large volume of work as I didn't quite get to where I wanted to be before Christmas, and on top of this I'm attempting to get my head around new techniques as my project progresses into what is unknown territory for both myself and my laboratory as a whole. These are exciting new experiences and ones I'm enjoying, but they are in equal measure scary - my foray into this new world of cell work is based on hints and suggestions and an awfully high prevalence of a scientist's least favourite word: if. If it works it will be tremendous and perhaps groundbreaking but, here's the crunch, it may not work. It may be a massive waste of time. I cling to that 'if' like a barnacle to the shores of a new land of hope and, hopefully, glory.

For now though I shall collapse on our comfortable bed and immerse myself in the fictional world of the Earldom of Groan - it's hugely satisfying to be reading a work of fiction for the first time in a very long while, even if it is the austere world of Gormenghast - and prepare myself for another novel day in the world of science. Speaking of which, in my spare time I am currently looking into the history of the science known to us as chemistry, formerly alchemy, in search of an answer to a fundamental question that has intrigued me for some time. How do we know what we know now? What intellect was required to disentangle observations of what we can see to elucidate the underlying fabric that we cannot see, in a world without sterile laboratories - without laboratories at all - and massive computing power? This may take some time, as I need to first find out the answer myself and then find a way to make it interesting to the rest of you, but expect it to appear over on my other blog at some point in the future, nestled between musings on poverty, Central Asia and theses on cute little fuzzy things.

For here I have plans, first some house keeping and hopefully a few stories to tell as well.

Now then Steerpike, what are you up to?

Fuchsia's Attic

2010-12-20T22:10:00.002Z

An emergency meeting had been called. The lake was shrinking, and now the geese were having to share their quarters with the ducks, dozens on top of one another just to stay in the water. This suited nobody. Something had to be done about this cold weather, they insisted. We all look silly huddled here in the middle.

It was decided that scouts should be sent out to ascertain the severity of the situation and report back. Several eager ducks promptly jumped on the ice and started sliding around, having the time of their lives while attempting to maintain a strict military posture, although simultaneously adopting the expression of one who is not quite sure about it all. Where had the lake gone, pondered the ducks?

AH, my walk to the Pavilion was great fun on Sunday. I love the snow. Granted, it’s a nightmare for all and sundry and is likely to separate people this Christmas, which is horrible, but it can look so beautiful when the sun shines on it, and it highlights so much about our lives that we wouldn’t normally notice. Forced to get out and walk or stay indoors, our patterns change. Our reliances change. And all across the nation, silence falls. The silence of each morning since the snow began to fall has been mesmerising.

It also means we can see who else shares our world. Not only have I seen paw prints (very cute) of domestic cats and dogs but also foxes, birds and possibly other animals. We catch an insight into how they behave and where they tend to tread. At Kings Norton train station yesterday, awaiting a delayed train, I followed some animal steps as they wandered off into pristine snow, wobbling along the upper reaches of the platform. They passed beyond the line over which passengers cannot cross, so I followed them from the fence behind the platform instead. That is, until they just vanished. I was baffled. Where had my furry friend gone? I never did find out: people were watching me suspiciously, so I went back to the platform to wait for my train and behaved.

Of course, the cold weather has down sides, including seasonal flu, of which I suffered the last few days of last week. It was my reward for a successful visit to Warwickshire College to talk to students about life in science and in the laboratory. Exhausted, we returned triumphant of having interested a few students and entertained (but not necessarily for the right reasons) some others. However, the following morning I was not a well bunny.

I’m back to work now and the rush is on to finish for Christmas and New Year, which means this is probably my final post of the year. It has not been a prolific year for writing here, for which there are many plausible reasons and excuses. But don’t be thinking nothing has happened – so, so much has happened instead. Principally, I got married, and it was, and still is, fantastic.

The year ends with pure contentedness. I often struggle to know what I would like for Christmas, but this year I really would be content with nothing, because where my life is right now, what I have with and around me already is all that I want. I’m genuinely grateful for my lot.

I have, however, lost my writing voice of late, and I do want that back. Telling stories here and elsewhere is how I hold on to memories – I used to hoard things, but don’t so much any more, favouring the tales I can share instead – but this has fallen by the wayside. Early next year I am going to work on finding my voice again, finding a time and a place to allocate to thinking and writing. The search for my very own Fuchsia’s Attic is on.

Merry Christmas to you all. I hope that you have a relaxing holiday, and that 2011 brings hope and joy to you in delightfully unexpected ways.

Friendship

2010-11-12T16:48:00.005Z

IN the past 48 hours I have been struck by the power of friendship.

On Thursday morning I logged in to Twitter to see a number of friends and friends-of-friends whom I know through the whimsical (but marvellous) collective called Join Me posting some concerning messages. (Join Me is a story entirely unto itself, but it is a group of people connected through friendship, kindness and a lot of silliness to boot.) Around midnight on Wednesday night/Thursday morning, a press release had been distributed from the Road to Hope convoy, a non-activist convoy of aid workers hoping to get food to Gaza. The Egyptian government had denied them permission to enter the country, so they were attempting to reach Gaza by sea by hiring a boat from Libya. After fundraising to pay for the ship Strofades IV, and while waiting for permission to head towards Gaza, the Greek owner appeared to have an argument with an Egyptian broker and pulled out of harbour – the ship still moored, a number of the aid workers still on board and one of the convoy lorries in the ships doorway, which was half open. The aid workers were now hostages.

My friends were very concerned because they had reason to believe that one of their friends was one of those hostages. As somebody who has not been part of Join Me for a while, I assumed I wouldn’t know who it was. But I did. The person in question was a man named Kieran Turner, who, though I am not as close as many of my friends to him, I know to be a lovely bloke. The first time I met him he made a point of coming to speak to me, knowing who I was and wanting to know more about me. This news was highly alarming. Nobody knew what was going on, other than that a violent man had torn out of harbour – damaging the docks in the process – taking captive a number of aid workers on a vessel that would be liable to sink if the weather turned bad. Sailing with the back door open is highly dangerous.

Then the owner left the boat mid-voyage but the ship continued to sail. We now did not know who was sailing it or where it was going.

What followed was astounding. There had been only one piece of news coverage to date. No major news network knew of the story, so friends and joinees began a campaign to increase media coverage, thereby increasing awareness and maximizing the chances of people being able to help. People bombarded Twitter using the hashtag #GazaConvoyHostages, including asking celebrities to help spread the word, so that it would start to trend. Once it would trend attention to it would perpetuate, allowing people to be able to become both aware and up-to-date of the situation as it unfolded. Slowly news networks picked it up, first the Scottish Daily Record, then the Independent, the Guardian, the Sun, the Daily Mail and, eventually, 18 hours after it had started and 7 hours after they had first been tipped off about it, the BBC. It really was disappointing that the BBC had refused to cover the story for so long, especially when it involved British hostages.

Last night, however, we received word from Kieran that he was unharmed. Everybody was very relieved. Websites tracking the boat suggested they had docked and disembarked on Crete.

This morning, this turned out not to be the case. They were still sailing, still hostages. They were bound for Piraeus near Athens and, upon approach, became surrounded by Greek military, who boarded the ship. It could not be ascertained whether this was a good thing or not. Some reports suggested the hostages were being held by the commandos at gunpoint. Other reports suggested they weren’t in Piraeus at all. Others still thought they were in Crete.

As I write the latest is that the ship has been towed into Keratsini, the Greek commandos peacefully ensuring the passengers are passed over to the waiting British Embassy staff. But even now reports are conflicting, and the ship’s owner is attempting to claim that the captives came along voluntarily - though obviously, he is highly likely to say that, perhaps to save face. The reasons for the whole scenario have yet to be explained. What appears to be an argument over money (the Gaza element being unrelated) may have had political elements to it, we just don’t know.

Things are looking hopeful for Kieran and the convoy. Over the past two days I have been supremely impressed by the camaraderie of people affected by the events. Out of love for Kieran and the others, people have used the tools available to them – principally Twitter, Facebook and MarineTraffic – to spread the word, spread support and rally people behind them. It has been truly inspiring.

Update: Kieran and the other hostages have finally been released and the captain of the Strofades IV arrested. It is uncertain how the convoy will now proceed split over two continents and lorries and personnel in different countries, with passports not necessarily in the same place. But the hostages are free and well, and that's the best news.

F.A.S.T.

2010-10-20T15:56:00.003+01:00

A COUPLE of weeks ago, my granddad had a stroke. It was a complete shock, as to me my grandfather has always been the strong one of the family, nothing could ever happen to him. He is recovering well (he could walk and talk immediately after) but not completely healed, but was in high spirits and good shape at a celebration for his and my gran’s Diamond wedding anniversary only a week after the stroke. He even gave a speech.

On Sunday, in the middle of church, a lady in the congregation had a TIA (a mini-stroke). She had plenty of people around her to help, many of whom had been with her during her recovery from a full stroke just a week before, and she was talking and joking very soon afterwards. The congregation, luckily, included several nurses and a doctor. I’m very glad she was OK, but it shocked me, reminding me of my granddad but also alerting me to the fact that I have no idea how to recognise a stroke or have any idea what you need to do in such a situation. This despite the fact that I’ve seen adverts explaining what to do everywhere.

To my shame I’ve never really read them. I know they say “Act F.A.S.T.”, but I had no idea what F.A.S.T. stood for. So, because you can never repeat something important often enough, I went away and found out, and decided to post it below. The acronym was chosen because the faster a patient experiencing a stroke is seen to, the higher the change of recovery. The letters stand for things to look for to recognise a stroke, and then act immediately.

F. Facial weakness – can the person smile? Has their mouth or eye drooped?
A. Arm weakness – can the person raise both arms?
S. Speech problems – can the person speak clearly and understand what you say?

If a person fails any of these tests…

T. Time to call 999.

Plenty more information at the Stroke Association website (www.stroke.org.uk)
The NHS have an Act F.A.S.T test here.

Music is the language of us all

2010-10-15T16:10:00.003+01:00

IT has been a stressful week in many ways. ~~said something silly here originally, edited 19/10/10~~ [Note to self: Don't put things on the Internet you'll later regret. In essence, last week involved lots of hard work, stress, and an argument of which I was not the subject but I was indirectly affected by it. I feel very sorry for the person who was affected by it, and I wish them well in future endeavours.]

So I need a fun weekend. Luckily, the Australian funk/jazz/salsa/rock/pop/reggae/anything-else-they-fancy-trying six-piece The Cat Empire are coming to Birmingham tomorrow, so we're off to see them. I cannot wait. Their album Two Shoes is one of my favourite albums, and new offering Cinema is pretty good too. They defy classification, but they make you dance. Their weapons are their instruments, made from timber and steel. Here's a few of their songs:

Wedding

2010-10-13T13:24:00.005+01:00

Rachel's sister Diana has taken to creative writing of late, writing some excellent poems. I hope she doesn't mind me using this style (modified where I feel the urge to ramble) to attempt to describe the wedding of Rachel and I in September. She's much better at it than I am, I just wanted to give it a go.

A STODGY breakfast; wandering barefoot and trouble-free.
A shower, a shave. Another shave. Another shower.
Putting on my suit. Getting too hot and taking it off again. Several hours still to wait.
Walking around in my fancy suit, slip-sliding in my grip-free shoes.
One last cup of tea.
Another shave; another look in the mirror, checking that everything is in order. My hair looks fine, stop playing with it.
More pacing, more packing.
Bradley off to collect button-holes and Rachel’s suitcase: the day according to schedule, so far.
A run through of the speech, to nobody, yet anybody. Another rewrite of that pesky sentence.
A quick freshen up; the suit on for good. Time to go.

Getting lost in Burnham but arriving in good time, alongside my ushers. Wandering around the grounds, enjoying the atmosphere. Slip-sliding in my shoes some more. Buttonholes ready. My team looking dapper. The choir rehearsing.
This is gonna be good.
My family arrive, all really excited. I’m not nervous: this feels right.
Guests start to arrive, the photographer zooming in on instant reactions, often based on blurry eyesight.
A lot of hugging, a lot of excitement.
A lot of make-up now on my shoulder.
Perhaps I should go with the formal peck on the cheek or handshake, suggests the vicar.
I try.
More make-up on my shoulder... some people are just too friendly.
Quick! Inside! Rachel has arrived!
Sitting at the front, hubbub around me. Anticipation builds; adrenaline kicks in. Am I nervous? Not about being married, but what if I stumble, trip on my words or Rachel’s train? No time to think this thought all the way through... she is here.
Standing, facing the front. Everybody else can see her. I await my cue to turn.
Harry smiles at me. This is it.

There she is.
Wow.
The smiling begins.
There she is: my fiancée, my Rachel, looking stunning. Look how beautiful she is. And...
...yep, she’s crying.
We face Harry; the ceremony begins - all according to plan, except perhaps the emergency hunt for tissues. She’s crying: I’m smiling. I can’t stop smiling.
Excellent hymns, excellent readings. The choir are magnificent, the service truly uplifting, a feeling shared by all. Our vows said, heartfelt and honest, but we are the centre of this event – no time to sit back and savour. So up we get, for further blessings – prayers from Helen, another hymn, the signing of the register. Much amusement and congratulating, next it is time to walk through the congregation. We thought this bit would be nerve wracking, but now we’re having too much fun.
Let the photos begin.
Time to stop smiling? Nah.

Family, friends, happiness spread among them all. This is a good day, though something funny has happened to my hair.
Lavender: once in cones, now down my back. The photos will look spectacular though.
The car. That horn. We’re off!
Time to calm down, time to say hello to each other. Time to cuddle and let it sink in: we’re married at last. How brilliant is that?
We made a child’s day by waving as we waited at the lights. A bride and groom in a fancy car alongside a family saloon beneath junction 6 of the M4.
Pootling to the reception, a tranquil haven amidst the commuter belt. Posing, celebrating, then boarding the ferry. Welcome, says Fraser, to Queen’s Eyot.
Meeting and greeting, posing and smiling, guava and Cava.
Surprise music, surprise coincidences, surprise guests (but welcome).
Ladies and Gentlemen, please stand for the arrival of the bride and groom.
That, we momentarily have to process, is us.

Food. Conversation. People meeting and befriending, unlikely duos and teams building: fun all round.
The challenge of guessing latin species table names falls to the curse of Internet phones.
The challenge of making balloon animals of latin species table names falls to the curse of having chosen complex species. Instead, silliness prevails. Yet somehow, iPhone-less, the grandparents guess Sarcophilus harrissii.
Speeches of impeccably high standard, unexpectedly poetic and personal. Such sentiment highly appreciated.
My turn.
The results of the balloon competition announced, it is time to get soppy.
No really, she didn’t believe I was proposing. Numerous times I had to ask!
Speech over and lavender removed from pockets, I’m still smiling, and it’s time to party.
The first dance; twirling with that train. Twirling to Train. We should have practised this.
Oh well!
Soon come the rest of the wedding party, jiving and twisting to the sounds of Jam Hot. We chat with newcomers and see off others, so glad they could come. Some people dance, others eat cake, others escape to the lawns on this mild September evening.
Another postcard, with chimpanzees.
The band are back, let’s dance some more. Look at me in my suit of balloons!
Then the conga heads for the door. Quick! Time to change, everybody is waiting! Time to leave the island, not even time to say thank you or good bye – it is off to Gatwick for us, and Italy beyond.
No time to reflect, just time to smile.
Me and my wonderful wife.

A day in the lab

2010-08-10T10:45:00.004+01:00

THE big assignment of day two of the Creative Writing Course was to describe a typical day of our research. There’s no such thing, but here’s what I wrote (slightly edited to remove details that shouldn’t be published at this stage of my project).

There is no such thing as a normal day in my research group, rather many things that happen often, all of them with unimaginable effects, masked by mundane and repetitive tasks. From one point of view, the day starts with some counting, continues on to mixing volumes of colourless liquids and ends with some more counting. But from another point of view, the day starts with the segregation of living organisms according to the manifestation of different visible, heritable character traits, the genetic combinations of which you have carefully created; continues on to the creation of specific fragments of DNA and all manner of invisible yet complex constructs, which you rely on surrogate bacteria to grow and copy for you; and ends with the day’s round up of new fly progeny, which you will use to show the effect of combining two faulty genes, one step closer to finding what you are looking for.

Every day at 9am and 5pm the geneticists in our laboratory – myself included – pour into the fly room, a self-contained unit with microscopes. With a model organism of about 2-3 mm in length, high magnification is a necessity. Fruit flies have been used for years as a genetic model, pioneered by the work of Thomas Hunt Morgan in the early 1900s, as it is very easy to trace heritable, viewable characteristics over generations. For example, if one parent has curly wings and the other spotty eyes, the laws of genetics can tell us what their offspring will look like and in what ratio. Morgan did it with eye colour, and we still use this marker today, tracing red, white and orange eyes through the generations in predictable ways until you reach the combination you desire. It’s not the eye colour or wing shape or hair type that you’re really interested in, but such markers can be associated with mutations invisible to the eye, thereby providing a way to trace a mutation of choice. These laws of genetics have never been disproven (though often elaborated), which we’re rather happy about.

And 9am? Well, this is to collect them immediately after hatching, before they get busy with the ladies! In genetics control is key: you cannot afford for true love to blossom among your young ones – not usually anyway. So, to the soothing sounds of Melvyn Bragg, Jenny Murray or whoever else is educating the world from BBC Radio 4 that morning, we sit, count and matchmake.

Then: to the lab! At the moment I am often making RNA probes and DNA constructs, trying to take a gene, of which nobody knows anything, isolating it and making copies. I use enzymes and salts and, despite the fact that I am simply mixing chemicals and occasionally heating them up, if I were to zoom in I would see the units of life sticking together in often novel sequences, proteins acting as robots on an assembly line, and antibodies scoping out a particular protein like sniffer dogs at an airport. Inside that tube is another universe, operating entirely by itself, with this scientist trying to peer in. I know what is going on only by working through established logic, hoping that I got the recipe right. All I see is one tiny bit of liquid mixing with another, but I hope for the best: I dream of magical things happening.

Sometimes, magical things do happen. After two days of hoping, my RNA probe might start glowing – for complicated reasons – inside a tiny fly embryo, revealing a distinct pattern that nobody has seen before. I can see, quite literally, what parts of the body use that gene and, reassuringly, they are exactly where I want them to be. So then I’ll spend a few days in a dark room, looking at the embryo at 63 times the size it actually is, photographing it and trying to work out what my gene does.

But I must be back in the fly room at 5pm (just in time to listen to Eddie Mair delving into the day’s news) to collect more new-born flies and separate them ready for matchmaking – which invariably happens on Friday, 3 pm, during Gardener’s Question Time. The hour of genetics has come.

One room: thirty realities

2010-08-05T10:08:00.001+01:00

A MONTH or so ago, just days after handing in my 9-month report, I went on a creative writing course. My report had turned into a monster, far exceeding the suggested word and page count, and I was keen to do something different (and far less stressful) for a few days. Though the course was supposed to be linked to my PhD – which is in Biology – I hoped it would give me a break from thinking in a scientific way and provide some light relief. It did, but not without its own intensities.

Designed to help us talk about our research to a non-scientific audience, it was pitched as an invaluable training tool for communication skills. In the end, there wasn’t much science included at all, but I enjoyed it nonetheless, which is peculiar, because when I was at school I could not stand pure creative writing. I thought it was pointless. I no longer think it is pointless, but I never choose to do it. The writing I do here may sometimes be a little creative, a form of fictionalised truth, but it is always based on something that has actually happened, or something I am thinking based on actual events. But for a change, I wanted to try.

The course was run by two local writers, one an author of novels, and one a scriptwriter for The Archers. Neither knew anything about science, and that was the point.

We began with a simple challenge to describe something about ourselves in exactly six words. The bar was set with an example from Ernest Hemmingway: “For sale: Baby clothes. Never used.”

There were some excellent examples, including “I fear boredom so have friends.” Mine came to me immediately and, though not creative, I could say nothing else:

“I am getting married in September.”

After another such exercise, things began to get trickier. We were tasked with getting to know our neighbour, discovering the tale of a pivotal event in their lives and telling the group that person’s story as if we had lived it ourselves. This was quite a skill, and I relished the opportunity to tell my story as a Bulgarian–Israeli girl torn between conscription and a life of science, meeting boys and finding my identity. It was difficult to portray the emotions of another, but what I hadn’t anticipated was how much I would learn about how I myself come across – my story was subsequently retold entirely differently to how I might have told it to the group, and indeed how I thought of it myself. The topics covered were surprisingly personal and open, and set the mood for the rest of the course.

After this came the big assignment of Day One, to write and then tell the story of either the best or worst day of our lives. The day suddenly turned from empathetic storytelling to disconcerting psychotherapy. The stories were incredible, often perfectly pitched for a film script, but always raw, honest and revealing of a great deal of private anguish. It didn’t sit right with the appraisal mechanism at hand. Take, for example, the young Chinese lady who had suffered at the hands of an abusive partner for four years, only just mustering the energy to say “hello” to him every morning. Enough was enough, and on the last day of a holiday, with their flights home separate and on different days, she stayed behind and missed her journey home to finally say how she felt. Things didn’t go well, and she was left alone and broken in an unknown place, free but feeling anything but. She passed the time until the next flight home by going to the cinema — it was showing Love Actually — amusing to all around except to her. It was only mocking to her. Two years later, he came to apologise. It was unexpected, long yearned-for and appreciated but anything but cathartic. It dragged the feelings up once more, but it was done. It was over. She went back into her apartment, letting the happiness slowly seep through the shock, and then sat and turned on the television. The first thing to come on screen was Love Actually.

The group sat in shock: the course leaders were in ecstasy. They applauded the tension, the structure and devices of the story: the film-like coincidence of Love Actually and the emotions of fear then isolation in an unknown city. But such appraisal felt wrong given that what had been told was true. The girl was almost in tears as she read it. I applaud her honesty and brevity for being able to tell the tale, but I question whether she should have been encouraged to say it at all. This was being creative, but not with a hypothetical scene or event but with the harshest or most jubilant personal emotions of the people actually in the room.

Other stories told included an escape from a car crash, the perils of the number 11 bus route, resistance against a foreign government, being stranded in the middle of the Sahara for three hours without water, finding love, the death of a mother, and my personal favourite of the academic lecturer who is a scientist and laboratory head at the university for half the year, and a shepherd on the Mongolian steppe for the remainder. As he described the sensation of waking up in the wilderness I felt a pang of yearning to escape the bustle of civilization, although I have no intention of tending to livestock. If nothing else the day was absolutely fascinating, with thirty people sharing their lives. We all live in the same place, but the stories and memories that make us who we are are all so different, influenced by so many disparate and telling experiences from all over the world. Nearly 7 billion people in the world, all of them unique, all with an adventure to tell that you would never expect.

The story I told was personal but, in the manner you may have become accustomed to if you come here regularly, I tried to find the light-hearted side of it. This wasn’t difficult, because it was about the best day of my life, so far. You might get to hear it if you’re coming to my wedding.

Cupboard

2010-07-19T18:27:00.002+01:00

IMGP9539

Originally uploaded by SBishop

Moving house. Provisions required.

Play

2010-07-17T15:14:00.002+01:00

NORMAL service will be resumed shortly, but for now, some music videos of bands I've seen this year. It's turning out to be quite a year for concerts, as I have three very exciting shows to see in the coming months as well as the acts below. I saw Mumford & Sons packing the Wulfrun Hall in Wolverhampton to the rafters with their foot-stomping folksy, bluegrassy acoustic pop songs, and recently saw Powderfinger play their final ever European concert in Birmingham.

Powderfinger are huge in their homeland of Australia, selling out stadia (and indeed their final shows of their farewell tour in hometown Brisbane sold out in 60 seconds). Over here, they are much less well known, playing their final concert to a few hundred people in the tiny Academy 2. It meant it was intimate, heartfelt, and every Australian in the country packed in the room to sing their hearts out in allegiance. We were just a few metres from lead singer Bernard Fanning's face. It was a rare occasion in which I genuinely did not want them to stop playing: it was superb. And very hot and sweaty.

Next up is Xavier Rudd, finally touring the UK in locations other than London and Falmouth.

Pause

2010-06-03T11:30:00.001+01:00

I AM taking a break from posting here and at Longhand & Scribblings. You will have noticed posts have become increasingly rare - I had intended the Tasmania and Western Australia series to be finished within two months, yet 5 months in and I'm still going - and this is simply because I have struggled to find time to commit to writing them.

I like to invest time into posts and write them properly. I don't really see this as a blog, more a column, if anything, and at present I just can't achieve the standard I want without having a ridiculously slow output. I'd rather clear the decks and get my writing voice back than publish waffle that I will later regret.

I have lots of things I need to get on top of over the next month, principally a hefty report for my PhD and urgent wedding preparations. So I am going to invest my time in those and return here in perhaps a month, with a clear mind and fresh ideas. I have a few stories left to tell from Western Australia and from recent events, such as a fantastic wedding of a school friend in Scotland, but they will have to wait. I've also pulled out of cycling Coast to Coast. For the next month it is just me, some graphs, some planning and a lot of ribbon. See you on the other side.

Western Australia IV: Quilts, satellites and old farm machinery

2010-05-24T23:35:00.003+01:00

FROM the rolling hills and farmland around Northampton we drove north, confusingly for us Brits, to Carnarvon. The landscape changed progressively but dramatically, from fields to forest to safari-style bush and dry scrub, towards desert. The drive took the best part of the day, with no settlements between the two towns and only two roadhouses; fellow drivers were so rare that we instinctively gave one another a cursory nod (or extravagant toot, flash and wave, depending on your state of sanity). We were starting to feel the distance we had put between us and civilization. Perth was three days drive away, and Perth was a long way from anywhere itself. Curiously, after sweating our way through the desert, Carnarvon turned out to be a fertile oasis, the fruit-growing and fishing capital of the west.

Our stay in Northampton had been short and sweet. The entire town was classed as a Historic Town by the National Trust in 1993, and it retains a clean, quaint and traditional charm. At the heart of the town is Our Lady in Ara Coeli, a sandstone church (one of three churches in town) with Gothic and Byzantine features, and the neighbouring Sacred Heart Convent, now a hostel. Shop fronts and old miner's cottages retain their half-century-old charm, petrol stations have pump attendants, and just down the road is a museum of old farming machinery. The town holds an annual Airing of the Quilts, where buildings are draped in colourful, handmade patchwork quilts. It seemed, in the warm dusk, to be an ideal place to settle for the night and rest ahead of the beastly drive we were facing the following day.

We pulled in to the Northampton Caravan Park, unfairly described by Lonely Planet as 'rudimentary', to find it full. But though not as glamorous and kempt as other sites we had visited, it had everything it needed plus a certain element other campsites lacked - friendly owners. They came to meet us as we pulled up and began to create space for us, clearing a corner by the office and stringing together extension leads to charge our van. They then invited us to a sausage sizzle that evening - to be held five metres from Ben - in support of the Returned & Services League (RSL), the Australian defence services veterans' organisation. It is a charity event they hold once a month and a good excuse for park visitors - many of them regulars - to get to know one another. To our shame we didn't go, although it was unlikely any of the food would have suited our dietary requirements. Instead, we rustled up something in the van and went out for a drink at the local tavern.

Image source: Gemma at Yukiba

The tavern is a long white building with a red roof sporting the word 'TAVERN' in enormous letters across its length. It was hard to miss. Inside it was precisely what an outback tavern should be expected to be: unglamorous, basic, the bar stools not particularly comfortable and not a hint of gastro-pub to be found. It sold beer, wine and peanuts, and that was about it; there was a TV showing Australian news, none of it relevant for hundreds of miles; bingo was the game of choice; and there were certain locals, a bit crusty round the edges, perving over pictures of naked ladies on the wall. I prefer the pubs of home, with their warmth, home comforts and drunk-but-harmless bearded old men, but it was a memorable experience nonetheless. We stayed for just the one drink, Rachel not enjoying her chemical lemon, lime and bitters, then returned to the campsite trying not to be noticed by the sausage sizzle crowd...

...which we failed, as Ben (our van) was so excited to see us return that his security alarm blared out a celebratory holler.

The following morning we arose before sunrise with three objectives: to fill our empty clean water tank (a necessity for the desert drive), to fill up with diesel and to make it to Carnarvon before sunset. However, having been given a makeshift pitch, we had no access to a tap, and only a metre of hosepipe. So began a lesson in applied physics as, under torchlight, we attempted to siphon buckets of water from a rainwater butt into a narrow inlet on Ben's side. The hole was tiny and inconveniently painted black; the buckets heavy for Rachel, who had opted for the job of manual lifting over that of sucking on a dirty hosepipe. Try as we might, most of the water ended up on the floor. Although our efforts improved with practice, it quickly became clear we were going to be doing this for some time, until another early-rising camper came to our aid by allowing us to park alongside their pitch to use their tap. Refreshed and refuelled, Ben was raring to go, and so were we.

It is from Northampton that you finally leave behind the world. Though the drive had been sparsely populated until that point, you were never far from a town of some size. Traffic was never heavy but sufficiently busy to warrant occasional overtaking lanes. After Northampton, landmarks stopped being towns but changes in the landscape - the fertile zone around the Murchison river and then the features of the ever-drying bush. Two tin sheds serve as roadhouses along the way, lifelines on the highway and at the junction to Shark Bay, and they evoke the usual service station emotions, but otherwise it is just you, nature and the possessions that you tow that occupy this vast expanse of nothing. That and a very, very long straight road.

This is the land of red earth, land of the kangaroo at dusk. Cars shimmer in the sun and heat haze; the Tropics are looming. We crossed vermin-proof fence no. 3, twice (we think). Miles and miles rolled by. It was a dry, dry world. For long distances we were the only vehicle. We were the only people.

And then came Carnarvon, a town of 5,000 people based on fruit farming, rich fishing and mining further inland. It is a holiday hub, and it was packed. What we hadn't realised was that while we had been racing North, invisible scores of families and their caravans had been doing the same. Quite where they had been on the roads we could never fathom, but there they were, filling up campsites. The school holidays had begun, and our plan to drive to wherever we pleased, whenever we pleased, was over. Booking pitches prior to arrival was now a necessity: settlements and their accommodation options were already limited, now very likely full, and hopping over to a neighbouring town as a backup simply wasn't an option. Neighbouring towns didn't exist.

For now, we were in. We raided the fish shops by the port, full of trawlers, nets and opportunist seagulls, settling on a fine selection of shrimp from The Crab Shack. We walked the One Mile Jetty (now only half a mile long after an arson attempt), watching mudskippers in the mangroves and trying not to get run over by the Coffee Pot tourist train. We met a man from Colchester.

And then the day drew to a close, with pancakes and mango puree on the dinner table. We could see the sun setting behind Carnarvon's dominating landmark - the OTC Satellite Earth Station Carnarvon, a companion satellite dish to a NASA tracking station that was once just down the road. The tracking station was built for the Gemini missions, and the setup was invaluable during the Apollo moon landings as it was the only dish able to communicate with the missions during re-entry. It was also crucial for tests of COMSAT's Intelsat satellites and for NASA's Skylab. Though the tracking station has since been razed, the OTC dish remains. Officially decommissioned in 1987, it has continued to prove vital in ongoing scientific research coordinated from - I have since discovered - the University of Birmingham, where I work.

On our road trip through WA, we had felt blissfully far from the trappings of the world. But here, in the middle of the desert, surrounded by hundreds of miles of nothing, there is an automated satellite dish controlled by computers only five minutes from my office. I wonder if they were watching me on CCTV as I climbed it?

Further reading: Birmingham Solar Oscillations Network (BiSON) at the University of Birmingham

Western Australia III: Shark Bay Days

2010-05-05T19:10:00.002+01:00

AS we drove north into bush we passed several place names on the map - isolated and tiny communities tucked away and unsighted from the highway - that contain only a handful of people. Some of these communities were abandoned, others apparently only in existence because of long-distance haulage railways. Some communities were aboriginal and as such, secretive to this English outsider. I began to wonder what kind of people lived out here, what characters could survive - both now and in the past. Where do they get their food from? How do they endure such isolation? And how or why were these settlements founded?

The following excerpt from Shark Bay Days, by a local author, provides no answers whatsoever to the above questions, but it did make me laugh. Though my query refers mainly to inland settlements, the Shark Bay area, now a World Heritage Site, is far from major towns and facilities, and in the 1950s would have been a remote and self-contained pocket of people. Pearling, fishing and mining of solidified blocks of cockle shells were the primary trades of a hard-working and hardy population; the area also contained an important landing point for cargo vessels collecting wool from nearby stations to be transported back to Perth. Today only 1,000 people live in the Shark Bay area, taking up only 1% of an area of coastline 1,500 km. The land and seas are unforgiving, though a beautiful location to visit. The population was inevitably much smaller at the time in which the book is set, and indeed in 1919, when the author arrived there, only 20 students attended the tiny school. With no roads, only sailing boats and horse carts, one can scarcely imagine how they survived out there. But survive they did.

"During the 1950's John Woodward bought a little boat from a chap in Denham and went off fishing on his own. We didn't expect him to come back from his first trip. He was one of those happy chaps, always full of fun, who would always say "she'll be right" and never worried about anything. He used to go down to the lighthouse on Dirk Hartog Island, where all the big boats worked. He made a lot of trips and always seemed to get a few fish and get them safely back to Denham. He was fishing there on one of his trips and was anchored off the Island lighthouse. He turned in to sleep after dark and when he woke in the morning he was about five miles out on the west side of Dirk Hartog Island, and still drifting. The anchor had come off the bottom. He went to start his motor but the battery was flat, so he drifted all day, further and further out to sea and the land of no return. He thought that was the end for him as he had no way of getting back to land. When he had just about given up hope he looked around in case there might be a ship coming from north or south, thinking he might be able to put something up for them to see, when he spotted something sticking out of the water. It looked like a big shark fin and gave him quite a fright. All of a sudden it came to the surface. It was an American submarine going from Singapore to Freemantle. It came alongside him and wanted to know what he was doing so far out in a small boat. They gave him a new battery, food and cigarettes, and towed him to dirk Hartog Island. In return he gave them the fish in his ice box, about 100 lbs. of good big schnapper. He wouldn't forget that trip. When he offerd me a Lucky Strike, I couldn't believe it when he said they'd come from a Yank submarine. We couldn't really believe him, as he always had a story to tell, until we saw a photo of his boat alongside the submarine. Pommie John didn't take much notice of what had happened. Later on he shifted to Geraldton, taking his little boat with him. I think he was fishing at the islands off Geraldton when his boat was caught and sunk in a breaker and he swam ashore. I met his parents at the Victoria Hotel in Geraldton when they came out from England and persuaded him to go back with them."

Pommie John & The Submarine from Shark Bay Days by G.W. Fry, Hesperian Press, Carlisle, WA/L. Price, Moonyoonooka, WA; 1988/1995

Rachel and I went to Shark Bay, its main town Denham as well as Monkey Mia and Hamelin Pool, on our way back down the coast. There is much to tell about it - but for now, we shall keep heading north.

Western Australia II: Postcards of the outback

2010-05-02T10:19:00.004+01:00

IT SEEMS a funny thing to say, but I have always wanted to see the Outback. It's a funny thing to say because, before I went to Australia in 2007, I had never really considered going to Australia at all. Many people have lists of the places they most want to go - I still do - but mine had places like Peru and, because of a Primary School project I remain fond of to this day, Mongolia. But as I travelled down the East Coast from Cairns to Melbourne over two months in 2007, I started to yearn not only to see more of this tremendous country, but to see the real country, away from the densely populated thin strip of land east of the Great Dividing Range. I wanted to see it all, but more than that I wanted to see the lesser-known west, where people are few and far between and the earth turns red. Given the privilege of returning to the land Down Under, it was always the plan to go to Western Australia and travel into the bush.

So here we were, Rachel, Ben and I, driving north into the countryside. First along the dual carriageways around Perth - initially getting lost and driving into the airport - into smaller suburban towns, repeatedly over the ever-diminishing Swan River and into the farmland beyond. The land was surprisingly fertile; I had had preconceived ideas that the area around Perth would be stripped of moisture, exacerbating the city's reputation as the most remote in the world, but the vineyards and pasture blanketed the landscape in two shades of green - that of grass and gum trees. It wasn't long before we turned off the Great Northern Highway and on to the Brand Highway, the split between the only two roads that cross the state to the north. The Brand Highway follows the coast, whereas the Great Northern Highway, a drive of stamina and strong engines, cuts north-east as far as Port Hedland, 1,635km away, with little in between. Missing the turning was non-negotiable.

I had not driven any vehicle for a very long time, and I had never driven anything as big as Ben. High-sided and heavy (and more importantly, subject to a $1,300 deposit), driving him was a daunting task. We could take no chances, nor could we attempt speed or sudden changes of direction or velocity. Road trains overtook us. We knew we would have to get faster and endure longer distances in the days to come, but for now we were taking modest steps. Our official final destination was Shark Bay, 833km away, but in our minds we really wanted to go further - to Coral Bay and Ningaloo Reef, a further 500km away. We knew that some days driving we would see few people and even fewer settlements; we knew there would be days when driving between neighbouring towns would take the entire day, with no services in between. So day one would be to orientate ourselves - our target became Jurien Bay, 267km up the coast. By nightfall we were exhausted: we had taken frequent breaks and switched drivers often. Less than two weeks later I would drive the same distance in one stint with absolute ease.

Over the course of our journey I became an irritating bundle of excitement.

"Wow! Look at THAT!" I would repeatedly shout. I was unendingly enthusiastic about everything, usually utterly mundane things or a cluster of particularly fascinating trees. Mostly it was the dirt: I was ecstatic all the way because the earth was red. The roads went on to the horizon, and the earth was red: simple features but, in my mind, captivating. I am enchanted by wilderness - for me it equates to solitude. My enthusiasm was undoubtedly irritating but I couldn't help it. I see the world in postcard photographs, and everywhere I looked I wanted to capture what I saw - trails breaking through the forest or the scrub, criss-crossing the world in lines of red dust; unfailing sunshine and outback; the continuum from fertile land to desert and back again.

"Wow! Look at THAT!"

I think Rachel wanted to hit me.

For a sparsely populated coastline, WA contains a surprising number of landmarks, so much so that it was not possible to stop at them all. First along our route was the Moore River National Park, a forest to the left of the road: desert lay to the right. Upstream on the Moore River was once the Moore River Native Settlement, a relic of Australia's shameful history. Moore River was a centre for the relocation of Aboriginal mixed-race children, removed from their parents for 'their own good' to be converted to the ways of the whitefella - and often then into slavery. It was from Moore River that in 1931, Molly Craig, Daisy Craig and Molly Fields, three Aboriginal children aged between 8 and 14, escaped and, without roads, maps or compasses, walked 1,600km to their home of Jigalong along the Rabbit-Proof Fence. Their story has been immortalized in Doris Pilkington Garimara's book Follow the Rabbit-Proof Fence, subsequently turned into a feature film by Phillip Noyce. It is an inspiring tale but telling of a dark place in history - it was not until 2008 that Australian Prime Minister Kevin Rudd apologised to the Aboriginal community for the Stolen Generations, 39 years after resettlement policies ended and 139 years after they began. We couldn't stop at Moore River because it was too far out of the way and, besides, the settlement no longer remains. It was enough to know that it once did, but I found it a curious notion that this empty landscape not so long ago had such a key role in history. I wondered what other secrets innocent landscapes hold both here and elsewhere around the world. The Aboriginal Land Trust took over the Moore River site in 1974 and it is now known as Budjarra - "mother earth".

Jurien Bay is a coastal town on the Indian Ocean. As the sun set on day one, tourists and fishermen alike stood at the end of the pier in silent contentedness. The sun scorched the horizon a deep orange as it disappeared into the dark blue sea, and a sea lion popped his head out of the water, coming to see what all the fuss was about - and steal the fishermen's catch while he was at it.

I can't be sure, but I probably said "Wow! Look at THAT!". Entirely by accident you understand.

Prime Minsterial Debates come to the University of Birmingham

2010-04-29T14:11:00.002+01:00

I WORK at the University of Birmingham. Today is the Third Prime Ministerial Debate ahead of the 2010 General Election on May 6th. This debate is being held in the Great Hall on campus here at this university. I can see police swarming below my office window*. I am doing my best to provide updates from the world as I see it (tiger costumes and synchronised Noddy cars included), and I am doing it throughout the day... here.

And to think I wasn't going to write anything about the election!

*Though this may not be to do with the debate....!

Western Australia I: Ronny

2010-04-26T09:18:00.001+01:00

IN June 2009, Simon and Rachel flew to Australia on the Big Plane. They stayed with Rachel’s sister Julia and brother-in-law Alex in Sydney for two weeks, where they saw the sights, ate too much Thai food and bought a ring. They then took a longer-than-expected flight to Perth in Western Australia, hired a bigger-than-expected camper van and drove a further-than-planned 2,000 miles. With two weeks left and no plan, they quickly revisited Sydney before taking a further flight to Hobart, Tasmania. Here they drove around mountains and through rainforest, they befriended a wombat and Simon climbed a very big hill. This is their story.

WHEN Julia and Alex got married in 2008, one of their groomsmen was a man named Ronny. He came to Sydney while we were there, and we all - Julia, Alex, Rachel and I, along with Ronny, his girlfriend Emma and a selection of Alex's friends - went out for a meal one evening. I'd not met Ronny before, as I had been unable to go to the wedding, but Rachel had, and he seemed quite the character. He had many stories to tell and his giggling was infectious.

Ronny lives in Perth, and on discovering we were about to fly there he invited us to stay. We were surprised by such an invitation, though were very grateful. We didn't really know him nor did he know us, so we took his invitation as a matter of politeness and felt guilty for potentially pushing him in to making such an offer. We were very wrong.

We landed in Perth on a stormy afternoon. The flight and landing had made me feel quite unwell, which is unusual for me, so I was extremely grateful that Rachel did the legwork to get us into the city proper. This was no mean feat, as Perth's buses are deployed seemingly randomly, with the numbers on the timetables not matching the numbers of buses to which they apply. (We would later find that the trains are equally as unclear - tickets are sold by zone or section, with nowhere telling you what this means or which zone or section each destination is in. Our advice to new travellers is to use the CAT buses as much as they can instead, because they are free, are colour-coded and go in circles.) Rachel was struggling to find any food she could eat (Sydney airport's domestic terminal is impossible for gluten-free and Perth's Esplanade bus station was almost as useless) and we were both a little ratty when - one walk with all our luggage across the city centre (up a hill) and one lesson in Transperth train networks later - we finally reached Fremantle, where we had booked a hotel for a couple of nights.

We checked into the Norfolk Hotel. It had looked lovely on its website, so I booked it as a treat for Rachel, knowing we were about to spend two weeks in a tiny campervan. But great as the restaurant below might be (though it served nothing gluten-free, so we wouldn't know), the upstairs accommodation was basic and not as glamorous as I had presumed. It wasn't our worst accommodation experience - that honour goes to the Pickled Frog in Hobart - but it was certainly below par. So was Fremantle, which we had thought would be chock-full of arts and crafts and folksy music. Asides from an Aboriginal art shop, there really didn't seem to be anything of the sort. It was windy, cold and rainy - it was winter after all - and there was barely anything suitable to eat. It wasn't a good start and I think we were both genuinely disappointed. So it came as a complete revelation when Ronny rang us that evening. His offer had been genuine.

The following morning we checked out a day early in far better spirits. Suddenly, as a result, Fremantle grew on us. We found a cafe called Ginos that made the most amazing cooked breakfasts that could easily be made gluten-free. We walked around the docks and esplanade of Fremantle, where a pack of galahs were pecking at the ground. Behind them was the Little Creatures brewery where, at 10 in the morning, we sampled alcoholic goodness - beer for me, cider for Rachel. We went on to the Shipwrecks Gallery of the Western Australian Museum, which was very good and contained the remains of the Batavia - the subject of murder, mutiny and execution. As a final farewell we caught the orange CAT bus in a loop around Fremantle, of which there was much else to explore (and which I am sure is a fine spot in the summer), and caught the train to West Leederville where Ronny and Emma met us.

Ronny and Emma had been together for six months. They had moved in to this new home, their first together, only eight days before our arrival. And here we were with mountains of luggage, taking over their house. Their hospitality was an immense gesture to say the least.

Ronny's idiosyncrasies never failed to amuse me. He'd spend his spare time honing his skills at Wii bowling while watching the Tour de France (on the same TV), uttering a high-pitched wail every time he missed a pin or heard something amusing. His manner was completely spontaneous and his attitude at all times based on a principle of pure fun. You'd be reading or talking to Emma and suddenly: "Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!", followed by a giggle. Then he'd receive a phone call and, with all seriousness, he'd rush off to work at the hospital and save somebody's life.

The next morning we awoke to an empty house, both Emma and Ronny at work. Ronny had left us a note, welcoming us, inviting us to make ourselves at home and permitting us - nay, encouraging us - to take his car for a spin and explore Perth. We didn't. We didn't have insurance.

"I knew you'd be too chicken" he said to us later.

One evening we were watching a fly-on-the-wall documentary following the lifeguards at Surfers Paradise. It featured a particularly dramatic rescue of a man; unconscious, the crew performed CPR on him for a very long time. This prompted the revelation that, though medically trained, Ronny didn't know CPR (much to Emma's horror), and the further revelation that that day he had answered an alarm from the neighbouring neonatal unit from his own radiology unit, only to be confronted with a very ill little person that he had no idea how to treat. Luckily, somebody who knew what to do was right behind him.

Four days after leaving Sydney we were on the road again. Ronny took us to collect our van early on his way to work, getting so excited about where we were going that on several occasions he forgot to put his hands on the steering wheel: at one stage he started to map read. He left us his spare keys for when we returned so that we could use his home as a base once more and then, after thanking him, he was gone. Alone on the Great Eastern Highway, we found our rental outlet, sat outside until there were signs of life, went inside, paid a lot of money, were unexpectedly upgraded, took a practice drive alongside the Swan River, loaded up on groceries and left the city.

Perth is the most isolated city in the world. Although on the Australian mainland, it is closer to Singapore than it is to Sydney. Given this, to head into the country from here says a lot. We were off in search of the real Australia, the red dust of the Outback, a very long way from home and from Australia as we had known it until now. Rachel and I, at the wheel of Benedict Cummerbund the Ford Transit (extended in every dimension to suit your every need), were off on a real adventure.

Meanwhile...

2010-04-15T21:57:00.002+01:00

... I cycled to Kings Norton Junction yesterday after work, eager to burn off some energy after having been sat down all afternoon dissecting fly embryos (which is rather difficult). I was in explorer mode, wondering what lay beyond the well trodden Bournville-Selly Oak-University stretch of the canal. It felt good having some exercise in the evening fresh air. It was also in aid of training, for I have tentatively agreed to cycle Coast to Coast from Whitehaven to Tynemouth in June. This would be exciting if it weren't so daunting: the furthest I've ever cycled was yesterday's trip to Kings Norton Junction, which was about 7 miles in total and completely flat. I'm not entirely sure how to use my gears and I can't indicate to the right (I'm OK with left). Yesterday's trip was also scary, having to give way (without falling in to the canal) every so often to joggers, other cyclists and Canada Geese, which insist on standing in your way and have a tendency to attack you on passing. I got away with a sinister hiss, but I was terrified of every goose I saw. The sun set over the Cadbury factory in Bournville, it was a crisp auburn, highly idyllic - but I couldn't enjoy it because I had to get home before the light faded and because there were geese around. I returned home to a feast of my own making and watched Herbie: Fully Loaded on BBC Three.

... said feast included an experiment involving paprika.

... Rachel and I had a lovely Easter at her parent's house, with my parents visiting for dinner on Easter Sunday. I've been wanting both sets of parents to spend more time together for some time and was really glad everything went well. Rachel's grandparents were also there and on particularly good form.

... a boat crashed into the Great Barrier Reef. This deserved to be front page news, as it had the potential to be utterly catastrophic, but it took two days for the British press to care about it. The grounding of the Chinese coal carrier Shen Nang 1, which was taking an illegal shortcut through the reef, scraped a 1 km-long wound into the world's largest living organism; the ship then beached and started to leak oil. To say it didn't leak much (2 tonnes) is irrelevant: any leak is very bad news. What peeved me most was BBC's Sydney correspondent Nick Bryant's description of the reef simply as "one of Australia's main tourist attractions". Rightly, the Australian government has arrested the crew and will press charges.

... Simon Reeve's Tropic of Cancer BBC2 programme continues to be brilliant and I continue to be highly jealous, not only of this trip but also because I discovered on his website that he once travelled around the 'Stans (way before the country had to work out how to pronounce Kyrgyzstan). As a writer for Redbrick I was offered the chance to interview Simon, although this was obviously a hot ticket and I was beaten to it. The lucky interviewer was Stephanie Jenner, and her interview can be read here.

... in the lab I have been playing with PCR sequencing, RNA probes and am handling hundreds of vials of happy flies. Importantly, I haven't done a 12 hour day in over a month, so I'm still sane. I had a good meeting with my supervisor today, even though my latest experiment failed on the first attempt, using up our only supply of a few things. I feel like I am being allowed to take the reins on my project a little more now - or maybe I'm just getting more confident. I'm happy about how things are going, as I'm handling the work/life balance better than I have historically, although I slowed down a little bit too much after a manic period a month or so back.

... I don't have coeliac disease, says my doctor.

... Powderfinger are coming to town in less than two weeks. I am very excited.

... the Wellcome Trust were very polite about my Tasmanian devil article

... I am indebted to Jack Brewer for playing with the templates of this page (making it wider) and introducing me to Firebug, so I can tinker with it further. Jack is working on a further website template for our wedding, and we owe him a lot for it - much appreciated, thank you!

... probably lots else, but it's time to move on...

Now, back to the travel stories!

Tasmania VI: Pushing it

2010-04-09T12:49:00.002+01:00

THE first time I went to Tasmania I arrived - after two months of constant movement - tired, hungry and underweight. I didn't feel very well. But, determined to see Hobart of a Friday night, I got myself up and out and wandered towards the city centre, a little delirious, first finding a park overlooking the expansive estuary of the River Derwent, where sailing boats pirouetted like dogs chasing their tails.

From here I wandered down through Battery Point and discovered Salamanca Place, a waterfront area of renovated old sandstone warehouses, now smart apartments, restaurants, pubs and art galleries. I really liked it - it was smart and stylish but not so pretentious as to scare away the average punter. The art galleries were full of people, sipping champagne and admiring the exhibitions. The restaurants were buzzing, the area thriving on this warm Friday evening. There were buskers, the pubs had live performances, and people were having fun. Just wandering around was making me feel better.

I walked through some of the alleyways between warehouses, at first not sure if I was allowed, where I found craft shops and cafes. I was following my ears, as I could hear some kind of commotion coming from within the complex, set back from the harbour. I soon came upon a courtyard behind the warehouses where, at the base of a dominating rock face, a band were performing. To one side there was a barbecue and a makeshift bar. I no longer remember the music was being played but I remember that it was making people dance. I had stumbled across a public party.

I stood at the back feeling highly self-conscious, not knowing anyone or if I could join in. For all I knew I could have walked in on a private party, so I tried to stay out of sight and was about to leave when a lady started chatting to me. She told me that there is a gathering and live music there every Friday. It's the place to be in Hobart, where most people start their evenings before going off elsewhere, only to return the next day for the "famous Salamanca market". I had never heard of it. I made a mental note to come back.

The lady's friends were dancing, but she was at the back holding a baby. We chatted for a while, getting on well, and she invited me out with her friends to sample the Hobart evening scene once the Salamanca party had ended. Tasmanians are very friendly and hospitable people, but this was thoroughly unexpected.

In preparing this story some three years after the event in question, I have only just remembered that she made this invitation, for what happened next had rather replaced that memory. Amongst the mêlée of the craic, midway through a sentence, she rather unsubtly and unexpectedly manoeuvred her clothing and started breastfeeding. Naturally, there is nothing wrong with breastfeeding, it is a perfectly normal thing. But being British and male I panicked. I hadn’t expected this turn of events. Where should I look? At her face, yes. Or the floor. No, not the floor, her face. Keep talking, just keep the conversation going; she’s only breastfeeding. But does she have to? Of course she does, the baby needs it. Keep calm and carry on. What were we talking about? Oh yes, she just invited me out, I remember. Where? Help.

Once I had managed to control myself I quickly realised that her attention was now, understandably, permanently elsewhere. That was the end of my wild Friday night in Hobart.

The following morning I returned to the famous Salamanca Market, a very fine street market. I sampled passion fruit fudge, mixed and matched pewter animal casts, bought a fluffy kangaroo and the most delicious apricot jam. The standard of produce, artwork and entertainment was very high, although inevitably there was still a group playing panpipes along to a recording, as you'll find in most markets around the world. I loved Salamanca. I loved Tasmania. I never thought I would go back.

So when, in July 2009, our plan to drive across New South Wales and South Australia via Wagga Wagga and Lake Mungo was abandoned and instead we flew to Hobart in time for Friday night, I became very excited indeed. We sipped wine and beer to a soul, rock and roll and ska band under that rock face at Salamanca Place, then on Saturday we returned for the market, where I bought some Australian Breakfast Tea, some passion fruit fudge and the most delicious apricot jam.

Salamanca Place is a hub of activity in an otherwise sleepy city, nestled in the corner of Sullivans Cove, where statues of explorers and penguins hint at the port’s importance in the initial exploration of Antarctica. Tasmania is so far south that to sail due West would take you to Argentina, missing South Africa completely, and to the South there is nothing between Sullivans Cove and Antarctica. New Zealand is closer – present day flights to McMurdo Sound and the South Pole disembark from Christchurch on New Zealand’s south island – but Hobart remains an important port for the southern continent. Indeed, as we walked around the market, we were in the shadow of the Aurora Australis (Southern Lights), a cruise ship, painted bright orange to be spotted in the ice fields as it takes tourists to Terra Incognita itself. I looked on the ship with envy.

In this shadow, we spotted something remarkable. Of the many fast food vendors in the market, not one appeared to sell anything free of gluten (Rachel had recently been diagnosed with coeliac disease). Then we saw a crêpe stall, which I wrote off immediately. But Rachel persevered, and discovered that they had a separate batter mix suitable for coeliacs. She was, very simply, delighted.

We ordered one savoury and one sweet crêpe, and while they were being cooked, the German cook explained about the batter and how it was proving popular. But we seemed to be distracting her, and she very nearly used the wrong mixture. Rachel pointed this out, and the cook apologised.

She was then distracted once more, and nearly used the wrong utensils. Rachel pointed this out. The cook corrected her error. She stopped chatting with us and instead made conversation with her assistant.

Then she went to put cream on the sweet, raspberry jam crêpe, despite our prior request not to do so. Rachel pointed this out. The cook started to talk in German, presuming we would not understand. But she made a critical error.

“Es ist ein bißchen pushing it!”

An unfortunate lapse into English, if ever I heard one.

Tasmania remains a very special place for me, and there are so many other stories I could tell. But, so as to not push my luck any further, and to keep some memories just for ourselves, it is time we moved on. Before all of these Tasmanian shenanigans - before Beaumaris Zoo, the landslide, Curringa Farm, Ormiston House, the West Coast Wilderness Railway and those five happy Tasmanian devils bounding around their enclosure at Something Wild, near Westerway - we drove for 2,000 miles along the Western Australia coast into the desert in a mad race to see the largest fish in the world.

Who needs package tours?

Tasmania V: Beaumaris Zoo

2010-03-27T19:12:00.002Z

IN Hobart, in the Queens Domain, there is a steep, overgrown hill that overlooks the River Derwent. Next to the Royal Tasmanian Botanical Gardens and Government House, it doesn't look particularly significant, but it was to be the most important thing that we would see all day.

As we walked through the gates we were touched with sadness. It was neglected, forgotten. A tourist bus approached, but it didn't stop. In fact, it barely slowed down on passing.

This field, used in the past 70 years first as a naval depot and now by the council, has a very important place in history. As the commemorative gates proclaim, it used to house a private business known as Beaumaris Zoo, or Hobart Zoo, and it was here that the world last saw something very special. In 1936, in a small, concrete enclosure at the bottom of the hill, the last ever thylacine, or Tasmanian tiger, died.

The thylacine was a marsupial carnivore, the largest in modern times, like a dog with stripes on its back. By the time of European settlement of Australia it had become restricted to the island of Tasmania, having previously been found all across the Australian mainland. It quickly ran into trouble: perceived as a pest to farming (a culture that had arrived along with the Europeans), a bounty was placed on the head of every thylacine. Even the government offered £1 per scalp in an age when £2 was a reasonable weekly wage. Numbers dwindled disturbingly rapidly.

The last known wild thylacine in Tasmania was shot by farmer Wilf Batty in 1930, a legacy I am sure his family would rather forget.

But was the thylacine really a pest?

Some sources say that the animal was in fact shy and unlikely to have been the savage hunter it is portrayed as. One photo, allegedly showing a thylacine stealing a chicken, was widely distributed and probably cemented the creature's image as a menace to agriculture. You may well have seen this picture, as it has become quite famous. But it is (and was) the only photograph in existence of a thylacine with prey. Subsequent analysis has suggested that the picture is of a mounted specimen in an enclosure, the chicken placed in its mouth:

"The most significant problem is that this photograph fabricates the idea that the thylacine was a threat to poultry and, by extension, sustains the notion that it was a threat to sheep and human endeavour in general. In his book, The Last Tasmanian Tiger, [Robert] Paddle interrogates claims of the thylacine’s predation on poultry, finds very few substantiated reports and points out that it has been referred to in publications so many times that it has been accepted in scientific literature and its significance magnified in a similar way to sheep predation. Paddle expresses no reservations about the power of representations and comments on the way the photograph has been cropped to disguise the caged environment and suggest that the thylacine is actually raiding a henhouse. The first appearance of the photo a little more than a decade after the end of the devastating government bounty on the thylacine, when few members the species survived, did nothing to support the idea that its protection and preservation was crucial."

Carol Freeman. "Is This Picture Worth a Thousand Words? An Analysis of Harry Burrell's Photograph of a Thylacine with a Chicken." Australian Zoologist 33.1 (2005): 1-16.

Above: Cropped image

Below: Original

The thylacine received full legal protection from the Tasmanian government - which had previously supported the cull of the species - on 14 July 1936. Two months later, on 7 September 1936, the very last one in history died in Beaumaris Zoo. After such a callous extermination, the species was not even allowed a dignified exit: Benjamin, as history has decided he was called*, died of neglect, left out of his enclosure overnight and exposed to the extreme cold brought in by the Southern Ocean. The thylacine died, to use the classic phrase, not with a bang, but a whimper.

Little remains of the Beaumaris Zoo site, but it is possible to picture how bleak it would have been by modern standards. The gates have been decorated with steel animals, looking forlornly through solid bars, their enclosures barely big enough for them to stand. The gates were open, so we wandered in.

In front of the gates is the largest remaining structure, a concrete pit that once housed two polar bears. Inside is a tiny platform on which the bears would stand and, presumably, wonder where it all went horribly wrong. I'm not opposed to zoos, but you have to wonder how justified the original zoos were when you see things like this. There was no room for them to walk. By modern standards it was mortifying. Rachel climbed in to the holding pen to one side but there wasn't much room for her, let alone a fully grown bear. For a creature that towers over us they had provided a concrete cell in which an adult human can barely stand.

According to the map on the gates, Mike the Leopard used to live in front of the polar bears. Giving him a name seemed to give him a personality, and I imagined a happy leopard, perhaps a showman. I like to think he would play practical jokes on the public, maybe perform a few card tricks or shape comical balloons. But if the scale of the map is to be believed this luxurious cat, suited to roam and hunt over vast areas, used to live in a cage no bigger than a car. Far from the entertainer, he was probably a very angry and bitter creature, which is simply heartbreaking.

We climbed the hill, the polar bears now below us. Beyond them lay the remains of the duck pond, but in all other directions, wild shrub. The zoo is now a wasteland, contaminated from years of naval fuel storage. Such abandonment was curiously appropriate as it left the site to silence, but it made it eerie also. Trees stood in the remains of the lion enclosure, turf concealing walls on which eagles once perched. The view over the river was appealing, but it would have been all the better if the animals had still been there. Now, instead, there was just overgrown bush, the two of us and, in front of the small corner that once somehow housed elephants, a man from the council, burning rubbish. We decided to leave, partly because it was all very upsetting, but mostly because we were probably trespassing.

Beaumaris Zoo closed in 1937. Whether this is because of the loss of the thylacine is debatable. In its time, the thylacine was hardly a star attraction. It was either perceived as a menace or not worthy of protection - it was seen as "stupid, dull and uninteresting; a curiosity from a far away land".

But if it were alive today, it would be the star attraction. Reverence for this mysterious creature has been amplified since its extinction, which occurred just long enough ago to escape memory. We like to imagine what it could have been like, how things could have worked out differently. I'd prefer not to imagine, however. I'd prefer that it were still here. Not stuffed in a museum or pickled in a jar, but living, breathing and definitely not pilfering poultry.

Which is why, for me, further attention needs to be drawn to the fauna of Tasmania. Although this time not caused by humans, there is another marsupial endemic to that beautiful island that is on the brink of extinction. The Tasmanian Devil - a real creature, I promise - desperately needs our help, for an unstoppable cancerous plague is making its way through the population. We can't let it happen again, not on our watch.

This post continues at Longhand & Scribblings

*Name and gender are unrecorded. The name Benjamin was suggested by Frank Darby, a former keeper, and this name has been adopted. However, the daughter of the zoo's curator has denied both that the name Benjamin was ever used and also that Frank Darby was ever employed by the zoo. Benjamin's real identity remains unknown.

Tasmania IV: Curringa Farm

2010-03-12T08:00:00.002Z

THIS year, on my birthday, I watched Mamma Mia!

I make no apology.

curringafarm.com.au

After our ridiculous and overlong journey to Curringa Farm, and the unprecedented hospitality bestowed on us by owners Tim and Jane, it was a pleasure to have a rest day. Philippa wasn't happy, however, her bodywork having turned from a healthy scarlet to a muddy grey on our journey along the least-used road in Tasmania, a thick layer of gravel cemented in every corner of her chassis. The sight of her might have been comical that morning had we not been so terrified of being found out by our rental company. We had very obviously driven off-road, something we were absolutely not to do. In the absence of a hose, we found a mop and bucket and mopped her down, dabbing her gently so as to not bruise her pride. She had the day to bask in the sun, and she seemed to have forgiven us by the next day.

Our accommodation, a self-catered cottage overlooking a private lake, was one of three on site, cut off from the rest of the farm. It was a quiet and secluded retreat. We were surrounded by grassland, rolling hills and trees stripped of bark by possums. We had more space than we knew what to do with: a large, fully-kitted kitchen and living room complex with two bedrooms, two bathrooms, electric blankets and even a hot tub. Miles from major settlement and beyond mobile phone reception, we even had a large screen HD television with digital reception. But I wasn't interested in the television. I wanted to explore.

We walked down to the lake, past a small makeshift enclosure at the bottom of the hill in which Tim and Jane were rehabilitating a wombat for a wildlife charity. He seemed quite content for us to watch him, so long as we stayed downwind.

In the afternoon I climbed a hill. It wasn't just any hill, but one that towered over a landscape already teeming with contour lines. The views from the top , I assumed, would be spectacular. So, leaving Rachel to catch up on some telly, during which time she unexpectedly prepared a feast, I began my adventure. Through the fields I walked, unnerving the sheep as I went, until I found myself at the base of the hill. It turned out to be a lot steeper than I had reckoned on, but I perservered, puffing and panting to the end, intent on reaching its rarely-climbed peak, a view on the world that would belong only to me. Even here, on a farm, it still felt like wilderness. For that very moment, it was all mine.

Well, mine and that of the herd of cows that were waiting for me at the top.

I stared out over my kingdom, over the river Derwent as it kinks around the base of the hill and splits to form the lake on which our cottage stood, over the green pasture that rolls for miles, remembering the mountains and lakes to the north, the forests to the west and the city to the east. It was a dragon and a hobbit short of Middle Earth, I remember thinking. The air was thin up there.

It took all afternoon to recover from my exertions, so we relaxed on the sofas, making the most of the cottage's DVD collection. On arrival we had been assured by Jane, who had checked with her son, that the DVD selection was pretty good. But her son was only little, so this pretty good selection amounted to two musicals, a collection of Looney Tunes cartoons, About a Boy (in Japanese) and Stuart Little.

3.

And I don't care admitting it. I rather enjoyed Chicago and Mamma Mia!

In the evening, summoned by a possum on our balcony, we went for a walk in the dark on a wildlife quest. Every so often, if we stayed very still and quiet, we would catch a glimpse of a wild possum staring at us in mild curiosity, pausing to say hello before hastily vanishing to safety. We could occasionally hear kookaburras, and where the sheep had been in the daytime a group of creatures departed from us with that most Australian of gaits - a bounce. They were too far away to identify, but we hoped, based on what we had been told, that they were potoroos, although they may have been wallabies. It was down by the lake, the water still and the night dark and quiet, that we made our most surprising discovery. Something - we had no idea what - pierced the silence with a bloodcurdling shriek. It truly sent shivers down our spines. It sounded like death itself calling for an ambush. What on earth could it have been? What on Middle Earth could it have been? Was it a Nazgûl, one of Sauron's most terrible servants coming to get us? We suddenly felt very isolated and very, very alone.

Turns out, we learned later, that it was only a parrot, but it was enough to make us head home immediately and bolt the door!

In a final act for my birthday, I had a bath in the hot tub. The water was brown - it came directly from the water table that is rich in tannins from all the gum trees - and it flowed slowly. The bath had pumps, jets and fancy buttons, and, being me (and getting impatient), I couldn't resist pressing them all. But I did so before the water level had passed a critical volume. Six streams of dirty water fired at varying angles - all of them up - at the walls. Three streams came from one end, three from the other, a veritable projection of water everywhere but the bath. It was at this moment that Rachel came in to say hello. In seconds, though it felt much longer, the room flooded. Frustratingly, to turn the jets off you had first to cycle through all of the other power levels, each of them progressively stronger. With the room's ambient lighting it was quite some scene.

But I don't care, because I was having fun.

Tasmania III: Funny thing, landslides

2010-02-26T13:49:00.004Z

"As one approaches the Martian tundra of Queenstown, the customary holiday fondness for cream horns, pies and other regional bakery fare recedes and the term 'undulating' emerges as pitiably inadequate. Talk about hills. Sheesh."

Helen Razer, The Age, Saturday 9th October 1999;
article found laminated on every table of the Regatta Point Tavern, Strahan

HOBART to Strahan is just one road, but what a road. From the minimal bustle of the tiny Tasmanian capital, you quickly span rivers and weave along valleys, crossing over flat, low-lying bridges that give the impression you must be below the water level. Then the ambling farmland, a lush green hybrid landscape that looks British (I should perhaps say Scottish) but remains somehow Australian, even though you can't put your finger on why. There are hedgerows. There shouldn't be hedgerows in Australia. You then leave civilization behind and have only a cohort of sheep between you and an enormous expanse of freedom. The road starts to climb, the fields become forest and before you know it you are roaring up and down mountainsides, gullies and gorges and around lakes and enormous reservoirs. The thought of what on Earth you would do if you broke down has little time to form in your mind before you have to negotiate yet another set of hairpin corners. Invariably, there would either be a sheer drop to one side of you or thick, unrelenting rainforest that probably housed monsters. Briefly you appear in a landscape stripped to bare, red earth, whereupon you drop, sharply and severely into Queenstown, a famous mining town, but then it is back into the thick vegetation once more. My concentrating face was almost permanently in use, even when Rachel was driving.

Our wheels through this landscape came attached to a hairdryer called Philippa. Philippa was a scarlet Hyundai Getz. She didn't have much power, but what she lacked in strength she made up for in spirit. She was the girl to take us into the Tasmanian wilderness. From Lake St Clair onwards was pristine, cold rainforest, a World Heritage site that is devoid of any development whatsoever. I'm convinced she was loving it as much as we were.

I've thought long and hard how to explain what it felt like to drive through this, and also how we felt taking a cruise into the wilderness from Strahan the following day, but there are no descriptive words to do it justice. The forest is so old it has no birds, as fruit had not yet evolved. Hundreds of square miles are left untouched, potentially unexplored. From the river, which is 35-metres deep at places, it is utterly peaceful, and this is the only way I can explain the whole wilderness experience. I was utterly at peace. We were at peace. It lasted a long time.

It even survived the landslide.

After two nights at Ormiston House we were heading to a farmstead in Hamilton. This meant, once again, driving along that magnificent mountain road. But heavy rainfall had caused a landslide above Queenstown and had closed it and, being the only road back to Hobart, we suddenly became rather anxious. We felt like we were experiencing the trials and tribulations of real explorers, thwarted by the elements on our expedition, only we had heaters and Tim Tams. We waited for an hour, parked in torrential rain, amused by cars reaching the barricade and, in their confusion, having a look, pulling back and then having a look again. After an hour somebody came to us and told us it would be a further few hours until the cliffs were safe and clear - by this time we would be arriving in Hamilton at night time, when we were not allowed to drive - and advised us to take another route.

Because, despite the A10 being the only road through the wilderness, there is another route.

So that is what we did.

We drove around the whole of Tasmania in a day. We stopped only to change drivers.We didn't stop to eat. We had to keep going to beat the sun. With no radio reception and no phone reception, and townships en route effectively non existent, we could not ring ahead to Hamilton to warn them we would be late. We couldn't contact anybody. Thrifty, the adopted parents of Philippa (who brought her up, it has to be said, very well indeed) had provided us with a map of Tasmania, marking all the Big Roads. We had two conditions of our rental agreement: not to drive on unsealed surfaces and not to drive at night. Unintentionally, we were about to break both.With hindsight, what we did was stupid, but I wouldn't have changed it for the world. It was just Rachel, Philippa and I, and 398 km of beauty that we would not otherwise have seen.

Trusting the Thrifty map, we went north, driving on roads that connect disparate, tiny habitations, and sometimes connect nothing at all, but carve through the finest scenery in Australia and the finest scenery I have ever seen. We didn't really have time to admire it, as we couldn't stop, not even for a photo. I was in my element, in part because I have had the great fortune to have been to Tasmania before - having honestly thought I would never be lucky enough to go back - and here I was, revisiting some familiar scenery (albeit briefly). So the road past Cradle Mountain I recognised, longing to see a wombat there again. I recognised Mole Creek, remembered the honey shop in Chudleigh and the turning for Marakoopa caves. As the afternoon got older, we were carving up and down mountains, confounded by the lack of easterly main roads across the state, still miles to go. But we weren't panicking. In fact, we were rather enjoying it, especially when we passed a sign saying "Paradise (Sheffield)".

The shops were close to closing as we went through Deloraine, a small town that seemed satisfyingly old-fashioned, tucked away and cut off from the rest of Australia (something you could say of the entire state). From here we joined the A5, a highway that would take us nearly all the way to Hamilton. It was a highway that would be our undoing.

The A5 connects Deloraine with Melton Mowbray, via the farming town of Bothwell. It travels up to the Central Plateau Conservation Area, the highest flat land in the state. The plateau spans from the Walls of Jerusalem National Park to the Great Western Tiers and is home to a thousand lakes, including Great Lake, the second largest in the state and 1,030 metres above sea level. It is a fisherman's dream and a popular holiday location for families in the summer. It was not the summer. It was cold, bleak and up here, empty buildings were simply eerie. I've seen too many horror films.

Worryingly for us, at the highest point of this road, when our options were to keep going or turn back for several hours in search of a single alternative (let alone a suitable alternative), despite being an A-road and on our map, the tarmac ends. I had wondered why we had not seen any traffic for hours. For 27 km we slid and skidded along wet gravel, trying to avoid enormous potholes and the greater risk of sliding into the second largest lake in Tasmania, which was only a few metres to our left. Keeping up our speed was impossible and, frankly, dangerous. The sun was lowering, providing an idyllic backdrop, but far from tranquil we were terrified, particularly when lorries hurtled by in the opposite direction.

I have since discovered that the A5 is the least used highway in Tasmania.

It then became a race against time to reach Hamilton, and a race that we failed. Despite my best efforts (Rachel and fallen asleep), it was very much dark when we rolled up at the home of Tim and Jane at Curringa Farm. They had just finished their dinner and their son was playing with their pet cockatoo.

They asked us how we were and where we had come from, and took pity on us for our journey. In the warmth of their kitchen, they proceeded to show us incredible kindness: filling up tupperware with portions of their own dinner, they not only gave us a free evening meal but also a hamper of homemade bread and jam, butter, milk, bacon and eggs from the farm. Tim and Jane are sixth generation farmers at Curringa, a large site in the Derwent Valley. They have three holiday cottages at the far side of their land, overlooking a lake, itself annexed to the river Derwent, which flows to Hobart. At the time of visiting, they had, at least, one pet cockatoo and one pet wombat.

"Do you like fishing?" asked Tim. A previous visitor had left a fishing line in our cottage, so Tim went off to fetch us bait and lure. I didn't have the heart to say I didn't have the faintest clue what to do. "Feel free to fish beside the lake or take the canoe out", he added. "Although, if you see a boat pass by, you best not get caught. You need a licence to fish."

Jane asked us of our plans for our short stay, whereupon Rachel mentioned that the following day was my birthday. At this both Jane and Tim got very excited and, entirely unprovoked, produced a bottle of champagne from their fridge.

"Sorry it's not local", apologised Jane.

After a day of hurrying, hunger and panic, landslides, unending vistas and extreme isolation, their sudden hospitality could not have been more welcome. It set up our stay there nicely.

Tasmania II: The best little pub in town

2010-02-19T12:07:00.003Z

STANDARDS of accommodation, it seems, are far lower in Tasmania than elsewhere in Australia – hostels are usually hit and miss but prior research into those in Hobart suggested that they are well below par. I had stayed before at the Hobart Hostel, which was acceptable, but, keen to try somewhere else, we weren’t having much luck. In the end, Rachel being braver than I and making the decision, we took a risk on the New Sydney Hotel, which claimed to be a hostel but was entirely absent from hostel-booking websites. Its own website hadn’t been updated for years (it has since been given a spring clean, but is still spectacularly vague). Rachel gave them a call, discovering that they did indeed provide accommodation and at a ridiculously cheap rate (less than half price of anywhere else). Reviews of everywhere else seemed so dire that we cut our losses and decided that if it was going to bad, it might as well be cheap.

As it turns out, the New Sydney Hotel, an Irish bar in central Hobart, has a fantastic atmosphere, good beer and a tempting menu. The staff were friendly, helpful and not at all worried that we had arrived late. We had a drink in the bar before heading to bed, feeling content. Unfortunately, our room was very cold (it was winter in Tasmania), but they gave us dozens of blankets. The room was bare, the television had a broken aerial, but we had the floor to ourselves and we couldn’t complain, given the price. We spent the evening looking at leaflets for Tasmanian attractions, often distracted by pictures of cute animals.

The real problem with the New Sydney was its lack of a kitchen. For many this wouldn’t be a problem, as you could go out and buy breakfast, but finding a gluten-free breakfast in Hobart isn’t so easy. A barmaid let us use the pub’s cutlery and crockery, even fetching us some milk from the bar for our Rachel-friendly cereal, but we realised that we would have to find somewhere else. So, with heavy hearts, we bade farewell to the ‘best little pub in town’ – almost without paying, simply because they forgot to ask – and began ringing around.

Hostels in Hobart are few. Montgomery’s YHA, probably the most popular hostel in the state capital, tried to charge us $110 a night for a room above a karaoke bar. So the Pickled Frog became our only other option. It had promise: it has won many awards and claims to be the best hostel in Tasmania. But this, we can reveal, doesn’t bode well for the others.

It is easy to see how the Pickled Frog has become much loved. In the summer, the atmosphere could truly be the hostel’s strength. The entire lower floor is dedicated to lounge spaces, comfortable communal areas and a large kitchen, all resembling an old, adapted tavern. We would sit by the roaring fire, strumming the communal guitar or listening to the music pumped out by reception - good stuff, like the Cat Empire and Xavier Rudd. If there had been more people around I dare say we might have met some fascinating people.

But finding dirty bowls tucked in the furniture of our room – goodness knows how long they’d been there - certainly dampened the initial appeal. And it got worse. There were things growing in the toasters. A sign on the bathroom doors warned of a long-passed, one-morning-only water pipe switch-off, which had prompted a disproportionate overreaction: that is, nobody bothered to flush the toilets. Things were growing on the bathroom ceilings. We don't mean to be snobs: you expect hostels to be basic. But on the first morning we both felt that we had come out of the showers dirtier than we had entered, so on the second morning we didn't bother to shower at all. We were keen to escape and so after three nights in Hobart we left, smelling something awful, heading out of town in a hairdryer-on-wheels called Philippa.

Imagine our surprise and delight then, when, after a day’s driving along a road that deserves an entire book unto itself, mountains, ravines, gorges and rainforest between us and the Pickled Frog, we arrived at Ormiston House in Strahan. For less money per night than Montgomery’s YHA we checked in... to a mansion.

Post script
If you need to stay in Hobart, we really recommend you go for one of the more expensive options or, if you do want a hostel, I can’t recommend the Hobart Hostel enough over the others. With hindsight, it's more than acceptable, and the staff were top people. Overall, however, we recommend you head out of Hobart and visit Mike and Carolyn at Ormiston House. It. Is. Beautiful.

Tasmania I: Choo choo

2010-02-12T15:58:00.006Z

PureTasmania.com

THE West Coast Wilderness Railway, which spans from Queenstown to Regatta Point near Strahan in western Tasmania, is a truly remarkable piece of engineering and one of the greatest train journeys in the world today. It was built to service the copper mines of the Mount Lyell region, providing a means to get to market. Before the railway, all incoming plant and equipment was shipped to Strahan, where it would be loaded on to lighters and ferried as far as possible up the King River. Once landed, this gear would be dragged on sleds or packed on to mules for the 18 hour journey inland to the mine.

But this is the Tasmanian wilderness, with services and lifelines few and far between. It is the 1890s. Strahan, a tiny fishing village, is situated on Macquarie Harbour, an inlet accessed only by Hells Gates, which opens on to the cold, southern Indian Ocean and is named as such because it once welcomed prisoners to the infamous Sarah Island penal settlement that lay within the harbour. Hells Gates has been observed, in modern times, to have 25 metre-high swell and has claimed many victims – this after defences were constructed to tame it. The King River is unpredictable and regularly floods. The terrain, once on foot, is mountainous and coated in thick, temperate rainforest. Stray a few metres off today’s roads and you will be lost: what it must have been like to transport plant through this we can only imagine. Tracks were often boggy, and goods prone to damage. It was, to many people, impossible terrain to traverse.

The Government had recently built a railway from Strahan to Zeehan, and talks to build a railway from Strahan to Queenstown for the use of the Mount Lyell Mining Company began. Finances were tight, but the discovery of silver in 1893 added further incentive, and the decision was made to build as far as “The Bar Rock” (Teepookana) at the highest navigable point of the King River, 17km from Strahan.

The first section to be built was from Teepookana to Dubbil Barril. This required, for just 7km of track, the construction of 19 bridges, one of which became known as the Quarter Mile Bridge, spanning 244m over 18m deep water. The work force for this came from the state of Victoria, as Tasmanians had deliberately declined the job. Dubbil Barril station was situated at the foot of a 1 in 16 incline, for which the German-patented ABT railway system had to be adopted. This was the only system in the world at that time that could cope with such gradient, up to two and a half times the steepness of any other railway system. This limited the tonnage carried on the railway but was, until 1932, the only access through to Queenstown.

The 10km from Dubbil Barril to Lynchford was built in simultaneous stages, with a change of staff and management, and in November 1896, the railway was finally ready to take goods. In total, the line ran for only 22km and had 48 bridges. Bridges amounted to 1.3km, 6% of the total line length.

But still lighters had to navigate the treacherous King River, so in 1899 the line was extended to Regatta Point where it was met by an extension to the government’s Strahan to Zeehan line. This required a further 11km of line and 11 bridges, including a 43m, 110 tonne iron bridge constructed in London. Queenstown and the Mount Lyell mines were finally connected to the rest of the state. Now Burnie, Launceston and Hobart wanted to build railways to Queenstown too. Prospects were looking good.

Meanwhile, rival companies and mines were building railways. James Crotty’s North Mount Lyell Copper Company constructed its own railway from Kelly Basin, deeper within Macquarie Harbour, to Linda via Darwin and Pillinger. It was longer but a far more efficient line, built over more viable terrain with shallower gradients and greater tonnage capacity. It threatened to ruin the efforts of the ABT rail, but Crotty died in 1898 and the company merged with the Mount Lyell Mining Company. The Linda line was closed in 1929, the settlements along its route abandoned. Today, these are ghost towns that are very difficult to access. With the exception of Linda, which now contains only one burnt out building, you won’t find them on maps. The township of Crotty was permanently flooded in the 1980s because of dam construction and the creation of the artificial Lake Burbury. This slice of engineering history was reclaimed by nature.

Teepookana could not compete with the port city of Burnie. Finances and reserves dwindled and, though mining activity continued, on Saturday 29th June, 1963, the Queenstown to Regatta Point ABT railway closed. The track was ripped up and sold. By 1972, much of the Quarter Mile Bridge had been washed away by floods. Teepookana, Dubbil Barril, Rinadeena and Lynchford dwindled.

In 2000, work began to restore, as much as possible, the Mount Lyell Mining Company’s line. It was to become the West Coast Wilderness Railway, a lifeline tourist attraction to the isolated Queenstown and Strahan. It is one of the most remarkable pieces of engineering in the world and regularly voted one the greatest railway journeys on Earth.

When Rachel and I arrived in Strahan, the story of the railway mesmerised me, and we immediately drove to Regatta Point and to the terminal. We had been driving all day around and through the wilderness and I was in love with the countryside. I couldn’t wait to see more of it, and what better way than over the Quarter Mile bridge in a century-old steam train?

The West Coast Wilderness Railway costs $118 each for a one-way journey, which is a ridiculous amount of money. So we never caught the train. We got on a boat and went into the depths of the wilderness instead.

Source: The Abt Railway and Railways of the Lyell region by Lou Rae

Happy

2010-02-02T18:02:00.000Z

YOU join me in the office adjacent to the lab in which I have been working, seemingly non-stop, since the sun began to rise on Monday morning. I am taking this break, and writing this short entry, because, as I write, a result is being produced. I have been working on a technique called in situ hybridization for weeks now, and every single attempt I have made has failed. This was fine to begin with, but started to demoralize me with each failed attempt. I was particularly disheartened with each non-result because the experiment takes two days to complete. But, this very moment, there are samples developing in which something has happened. My genes are behaving at last. I have my first, real result.

Time for a cup of tea and a sit down.

Jam, Helicopters, Angola and Subbuteo players

2010-02-02T12:13:00.003Z

AT the end of 2009 I had a look at my old, old blog over at MSN spaces. Everything I wrote throughout the final year of my degree, a time when I forced myself to write weekly as means of practise, is still online. Some of it is good, some of it awful. Here is one such excerpt, which made me laugh, simply because I cannot remember writing it at all. I was writing my dissertation on monkeys at the time, which explains a lot - it sent me more than a little loopy.

Enjoy!

"Maybe it’s the intensity of work at the moment. Maybe it’s the inane nature of staring at the same set of statistics day in and day out, using an analytical method that is counter-intuitive to logic, a method that I have only just started to understand after six weeks of use. Maybe it’s the massive, career-defining project I have planned for the second my monkey project finds itself in the hands of an unsuspecting lecturer, with the phrase “handle with care*” plastered over the cover. But something has led me to the brink of insanity. The point where one’s mind wanders, one’s attention falters and where one comes across a startling thought.

That is, ‘wouldn’t it be great to be a duck?’

[...]

Granted, ducks lack a high comfort lifestyle with sanitation, medicine, education, wine, public order, irrigation, roads, the fresh water system and public health, plus other privileges not given to us by the Romans such as, say, opposable digits, but in their own little way, ducks are cool.

* Probably better than 'hugs and kisses'"

NB. I'm padding until I finish a series on Australia I'll be publishing soon.

Back to work!

2010-01-26T20:06:00.000Z

I WENT back to work today, having taken yesterday off on account of still feeling ill and being exhausted from being ill over the weekend. I was nervous about going in, as taking a day off inevitably gives me more work, but it went well. It was nice to get back into the flow of things. I think my last post was exaggerated by my exhaustion and state of health - these seemed to accentuate my stress levels. For now, at least, I feel the pressure (perhaps self-inflicted) has subsided a little, and I can get on with working to get my experiments to work. Long days ahead, but I'm ready for them.

A curious week

2010-01-24T15:58:00.000Z

IT began well - I had felt that I had been given a bit of a hurry up at work and so I went in at 10pm on Sunday to set myself up and plan, properly, for the week ahead. I needed to show that I was serious about it all. I wrote my plan and emailed it to my supervisor. Incredibly, I received a reply straight away. My supervisor was very pleased, and I felt I had been reassuringly serious in my approach.

The plan unravelled throughout the week - first I couldn't collect enough of one specimen to start an experiment when I had planned. This was an unfortunate luck of the draw. Never mind, parts of the plan just switched round - I could still get it all done (3 major experiments plus a gene transcription necessary for one of them), just in a different order. But by the end of the week it was apparent one of them would have to be scrapped, my in situ hybridisation (which takes 2 days) had failed again, prompting my supervisor to be on high alert for anything wrong that I am doing that might be the cause - I realise she is just trying to help, but I feel uneasy being under scrutiny - and my antibody staining worked (hurrah!) but I stopped it too early, so I'll have to do it all over again. Meanwhile, I noticed a pest infestation in the lab. This is something to be wary of and it is important to protect against, but I wasn't overly popular when everybody had to check every single stock they owned (which can be very many indeed) to eradicate the problem. On Friday, my friend Baz came to stay, but the simplest of experiments in the morning had failed (knocking my confidence yet further as these really should have worked) setting me back two hours. My housemate had to entertain him while I was saving experiments (and face) in the lab until after 7pm, whereupon I emerged, having not eaten much all day and absolutely exhausted. I wasn't much of a host for the evening, as I then proceeded to be ill.

It was better the next day. My appetite struggled and my stomach felt the need to punish me psychologically but it was, in a sense, like the good old days - guitar shops and the cinema. It was fun.

I suppose that I feel like I'm on the back foot a lot at the moment. I need to seize control and get on top of the project, not be thrown if anything fails or has to be delayed. I'm just not sure how I do that.

In which a 7-year-old tries to say "An Extraordinary Coincidence" to complete a jigsaw of phrases spelling out a prophecy about Jesus

2010-01-18T21:49:00.003Z

YESTERDAY, Rachel, her sister and I went to my old church in London, Christ Church Cockfosters. I really enjoyed it. It was on Acts 8:26-40 and Isaiah 53:7-8, featuring a terrible joke about former Newcastle footballer Alan Shearer.

I had felt that when I left Christ Church, back in June, I hadn't really been as involved or integrated into the church as I could have been or wished to be. I occasionally helped with the music at two services, including leading the Fixed band on one unexpected occasion, and I attended many talks and discussions, including a house group. I even helped at the Church's Easter weekend away for the teenage youth groups, in which I was rugby tackled by 11-year-olds and got into a lot of trouble for starting a game that got a little too risque a little too quickly - the theme of which I am honour-bound to NEVER MENTION AGAIN - all while recovering from flu. I even attended several dinners with one of the more established members of the congregation who adopted me as a steward - it is to Peter that I owe the most, but sadly he has now left the church and moved away. But every weekend that I was not helping at the church, I wasn't there at all. I made several friends, but not so close or as many as I should have done, and I genuinely felt that once I had left, nobody would remember me.

So it was particluarly special that after yesterday's service, a family service including all of the local youth groups (Cubs, Brownies, Scouts etc.), many people came over to see how I was. It's strange how you don't appreciate how valued you are until you go back some time later. There was Steph and Violet, stepping up to lead the youth work in the absence of the charismatic Tom O'Toole, a much missed legend of a man; Barbara, the church's secretary who had me round for dinner more than once and whose husband, Bela, is a fascinating man with quite some history; Olive, who I didn't really know so well but who gave me a very big hug; Ashleigh and Annie, who, amazingly, now have a baby; Richard James, the vicar, who always had time for me. But in particular, it was touching that the curate, Tom Lake, came to talk to me. To Tom I owe much: I spent (now that I think about it) a surprisingly large amount of time at his house. I attended a course there and discussions, but he also had me round to catch up, to talk things through and to offer advice. I would usually arrive at an inopportune moment, with either Tom or his wife Helen sat on the floor quickly wolfing down their dinner (for some reason, I seem to remember a lot of jacket potatoes and tinned tuna), but they would always make room for me, feed me tea and biscuits (and on one occasion, Helen cooked a whole meal for Tom and I, went out and left us to it) and make me laugh. Helen in particular is plain crackers.

Rachel's first experience of Helen was at an evening service, when Helen and Annie sat behind us.

"Good to see you Helen," said Annie. "What have you done with the kids? Did you find a babysitter?"
"No no, I just tied them to the radiator," Helen replied.

So it was nice that Tom spent some time after, catching up, doing his best to understand the project that I am working on back at university and genuinely being interested in our endeavours. I don't think he knows this, but it was he who knew the engagement plan before anybody else!

The church hasn't changed much in half a year - they have ambitious redevelopment plans that I am excited to see come to fruition, but nothing has yet been started. Neither, it would appear, have certain other things changed either: Tom's dancing, during the hand-action-heavy children's songs at the start of the service, was absolutely hilarious! (I hope he doesn't mind me saying this...)

2009 (Part II)

2009-12-28T13:28:00.101Z

2009 began, for Rachel and I, in a five star mansion house in the Brecon Beacons, snow all around, the world's most exciting shower in the bathroom. It was a peaceful, relaxing start to the year, but it was really a calm sandwiched between a large amount of discontent. I was in a job I wasn't enjoying and, as a result, I wasn't enjoying living in London. This upset me greatly, as moving to London was supposed to be a big adventure, a big step up in life. It backfired and I felt stuck. Every weekend I was leaving the city because I wasn't happy there. But not spending time in the area I had adopted also upset me, as it meant I wasn't meeting and befriending people or making the most of local facilities. This obviously made things worse. It wasn't long before I was commuting on a Monday morning from Birmingham to Kings Cross. It was surprisingly easy and far preferable.

I didn't write much early this year, certainly little that was personal. Anything I did tried to be positive, but mostly I didn't write about me because I didn't feel I had anything of any interest to say. Instead, I wrote about other topics and bigger things - the Simon Singh libel case, for example. But in doing so, and because I was largely unhappy, these causes came across more as rants. I was told this, and also realised it myself, and tried to back off. Besides, other people were doing a better job than I was. These causes haven't gone away, and I still appreciate their importance, but now that I feel happier I can hopefully approach them differently. I set up a second blog to provide a platform for this. The Sense About Science campaign that began as a result of Singh's (and others') case has since expanded, combining with English PEN and Index on Censorship to form the National Petition for Libel Reform ("Free Speech Is Not For Sale"). I support it, but I shan't rant or push you to sign. If you are interested I simply refer you to www.libelreform.org, which explains what is going on, and why it is felt that action is needed.

Meanwhile, I distanced myself from the Skeptic community that introduced me to the campaign. The idea is that Skeptics think rationally, so they are wary of woo therapies and claims, and this is an important skill. But the Skeptic crowd, intentionally or not, seems, in my view, to have latched on to the 'science=atheism' fallacy, and displays more than a little arrogance about certain causes, often before looking at any evidence. The appropriateness of scepticism is also context-specific, as we have seen with Climategate. I felt uneasy with the impression given that Skeptics ought to be atheists. I am not one, and I'd rather disassociate myself from a crowd that assumes this of me. The problems with Skeptics are being discussed at several interesting websites and blogs (see here, here and here), and I direct you to those. I believe that it is important to adopt a rational viewpoint, but that it is equally acceptable to have a faith. There are different philosophies in this world, and it is wrong to use one exclusively and dismiss the others, especially if we don't understand them. Science and religion, for example, are not mutually exclusive, but the philosophy of one cannot be used to explain the other.

While all this was happening I was making big decisions about the future. It prompted some self-evaluation and made me post some surprisingly candid posts (for example, Encore une fois). The big decisions all happened at once. I had to leave London and my job. I had to go to somewhere where I was more comfortable. At the same time, I realised more than anything that I wanted to marry Rachel, my rock in those hard times. So I handed in my notice, bought a plane ticket to Australia, went on holiday for 7 weeks and, while there, got down on one knee and asked her to marry me. I've not told this story or any anecdotes around it because I'm saving it for the wedding speech, but suffice to say, she said yes.

Things since then have been a whole other realm of contentedness. We both live in Birmingham, although not together. I've started a PhD, which is obviously not an easy thing to do, but the atmosphere, topic, team and work style suits me far better than before. My boss complimented me the other day, even though I haven't got an experiment to work yet. In fact, much has gone wrong - in the first week alone I cut myself, burnt myself, grated myelf and came into unnervingly close proximity with a notorious carcinogen. But that positivity from my boss was not something I had been used to in the past year and a half, and it meant a tremendous deal.

My happiness is, I think, starting to show here, in the style in which I have been writing. So I'm sure that 2010 will see this site flourish with stupid anecdotes and whimsy, in the way that it was always intended.

I wish you a happy New Year and hope that whatever problems you are having will be resolved in the immediate future.

2009 (Part I)

2009-12-27T11:19:00.003Z

AS I do every year*, I present to you a round up of the inner workings of this blog and, because things round here are changing, that other blog I started too. The statistics of the blog provide endless amusement and fascination. Some people really do look at seriously strange stuff online.

This year things really took off, with certain posts reaching a far wider audience than I have previously encountered. At the very end of 2008, visits to a post I called Weird Science spiked so dramatically I thought something had gone wrong - visits increased overnight by 9,200%. It wasn't even a proper post. Hits subsequently crashed, but it was a sign of things to come and, curiously, Weird Science remains the most viewed piece of writing I have ever produced.

In January 2009, things began well with Baby is Born. Has Special Powers, a piece that was, at that point, an uncharacteristic style of article for me to write. It was a response to a newspaper article claiming that the world's first "cancer-free baby" had been born. One of the themes of the article was recently repeated in How to live to 100, a piece I wrote over at t'other blog.

Things spiked again in February courtesy of Gail Trimble, the super-brainy captain of the winning team (subsequently revoked) of University Challenge.

Things largely went quiet again until May, when I became involved in the Simon Singh libel campaign, attending this rally in support of him. A trio of posts - In the name of nerdiness, Nerds united - the Blogosophere erupts to the tale of Simon Singh and Nerds rejoice! - proved popular, although their figures pale in comparison to things written elsewhere - and rightly so. I will explain why in my second review of 2009.

Later in the year I set up a second blog, LH&S, to accommodate less personal, more political, scientific or essay-like writing, to keep this blog about me. The catalyst for this change was the longest piece I have ever written, Is Kazakhstan the "Seat of Satan"? No. Grow Up. Despite this, that essay on Kazakhstan was the second most popular entry of the year until very recently (it brought traffic from the UK Skeptics forum and Undermind.co.uk), when my review of U2 in Sheffield overtook it. The new blog meant I was free to be more personal here, and I thoroughly enjoyed presenting The Masquerade Ball, Nightmares and Graduation to you.

I also was pleasantly surprised when, via Twitter, Rob Dougan endorsed my review of his album (in A Turquoise Chord) and subsequently promoted my travel entry Here I Go Again.

Over at t'other blog, things are all very much anew, but my dad commended me on For the benefit of humanity, which meant a lot.

This year I had visitors from the UK, the USA, Australia, Brazil, Canada, Germany, New Zealand, Netherlands, Ireland, Belgium, India, Spain, France, Norway, Portugal, Finland, Italy, South Africa, Denmark, Mexico, Poland, South Korea, Austria, Japan, Hungary, Singapore, Indonesia, Sweden, Malaysia, the UAE, Romania, Russia, Estonia, Trinidad and Tobago, the Former Yugoslavian Republic of Macedonia, Turkey, the Czech Republic, Bahrain, Venezuela, Greece, Argentina, Puerto Rico, Slovakia, Serbia, Switzerland, Thailand, Egypt, Bulgaria, Latvia, Slovenia, Uganda, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Guam (brilliant!), Ukraine, Tunisia, Iran, Vietnam, the Isle of Man, Ghana, Oman, Fiji, Peru, Chile, Pakistan, Lebanon, Cote d'Ivoire, the Philippines, Jersey, New Caledonia, Croatia and, for the first time, the Central Asian countries Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan. It's the modern equivalent of stamp collecting, and makes for a very exciting map.

I apologize for all of the threads I promised to write about and never did. Maybe next year, maybe not.

It thus remains for me to let you in on the psyche of the average Internet user. The following selection genuinely brought Internet users here. Some of them are slightly concerning.

Gail Trimble (hugely popular, usually with the word photos, sexy or cute)
hooved crocodiles
riseunplugged
Permutations involving Kazakhstan, Satan, Astana, Bayterek, Occult, Symbolism, Illuminati, Masonic (including Astana alien invasion)
The ever popular Johnstone River Crocodile Farm (the post to which this appplies is now 2 years old, and still ignites controversy)
GFP Bunny
Inepd.org
Simon Singh (and libel, chiropractic etc.)
Melbourne vs Sydney
Just like last year... sexy Sue Barker
Tajikistan
U2 secret gig
English Cheesecake Company + "trustworthy"
New Hits '96
Babies born with special powers
The Swan on cowbells
British Guardian newspaper Scythians were Turkic
Can mutations be done causing special powers?
Cloudland Nature Refuge Australia
"Darth Vader Christmas Stephen Fry"
CYFA
Dr Alice Robert's boyfriend pictures (?)
Devil's footprints, Wendover, Bucks
Find diagram to show cva patients how to shave
Genghis Khan song atomic bomb
"Gunge, gunged or gunging"
History of the poppadom
Is there anyone in the world with special powers?
In the jungle, the mighty jungle: Simon
Lyric of the song Great is the Lord and most worthy of praise
Murder of Miranda Downs on Buckhams Beach, Cairns, Australia (?)
Bruce Parry jumping over cattle
Rob Dougan wine (here's Rob's vineyard: La Pèira)
Simon Says... show me two fingers
Simon Says... nudist
Snow leopards have symbolic meaning for turkic people of Central Asia
Step by step Hangi with diagrams
U2 tour: why didn't they play Pride (in the Name of Love)?
What do you say at a climate change rally?

and, finally, the most surreal:
"What are the milestones of Australia's evolution into what is now its modern day pharmacy practice?"

See you in 2010

*Except 2007 - I blame the jetlag

Things we like about Christmas #8

2009-12-24T11:26:00.001Z

Signing things with a smiley face. It really winds Rachel up!

Things we like about Christmas #7

2009-12-22T21:41:00.000Z

Carol services and Christmas events. Unfortunately, I haven't managed to go to a carol service this year, but I have fond memories of services in the past. Last year's service at Christ Church Cockfosters had gospel, rock, traditional and operatic styles all perfectly arranged (music director David is underrated for the work he puts into the worship at the church) and Rachel and I hold a certain university carol service in the Great Hall with particular fondness, for we would consider something that happened there a pivotal moment in our relationship.

Instead, this year, I have seen two nativities. One, led by a youth group of Pavilion in Bournville, was the nativity story as interpreted by Hollywood. In it, after a message from an Angel of Charlie, Mary falls pregnant. She and Joesph go to Bethl... Beverley Hills from their home in Naza... Nashville, Tennessee, to give birth. Unfortunately, there is no room in the inn, because a portal to a parallel dimension has opened and cybermen have taken all of the rooms. Not to worry, they are offered the strange, small blue box that recently materialized outside to stay in.

"But it's so small!"
"It's bigger on the inside."

When Jesus was born, the shepherds, wise men and additional extra teenagers held him aloft to the opening music of the Lion King. Technical hitches meant this had to be chanted in person.

It was all very silly but enjoyable.

Things we like about Christmas #6

2009-12-21T19:05:00.001Z

My mum's roast potatoes. I'd forgotten how perfect they are.

Things we like about Christmas #5

2009-12-21T17:59:00.001Z

Unexpected discoveries. In the car back to Devon today with Ben and Jenny (thanks for the lift guys) we listened to Now That's What I Call Xmas. Christmas music often drives me crazy, but I've been oddly receptive to it this year. Thankfully so, for the compilation presented us with the hilarious and hitherto unheard of Never do the Tango with an Eskimo, which reached number 6 in 1955.

Kerrang! radio has also been providing much amusement with its own attempt at positive, uplifting Christmas songs, including:

Oh Christmas tree
Oh Christmas tree
I can't afford you Christmas tree
Oh Christmas tree
Oh Christmas tree
I'm in negative equity

and one that begins:

Good King Wenceslas went out
Didn't take a condom

You can guess where that one leads...

Things we like about Christmas #4

2009-12-20T23:41:00.000Z

Hat hair, from wearing a paper hat for too long.

Things we like about Christmas #3

2009-12-20T23:34:00.002Z

Rachel likes everybody sitting around the kitchen table chopping vegetables and wrapping sausages in bacon. Every year her granny tells her how to make the bacon go further. One year, her other granny scored every single brussel sprout on the bottom with a cross: enough for 13 people.

Things we like about Christmas #2

2009-12-20T23:31:00.001Z

Forgetting to open an advent calendar for a week, and then eating a whole week's worth of chocolate in one go.

Things we like about Christmas #1

2009-12-20T23:21:00.001Z

Animal prints in the snow. I like paw prints, pitter-pattering along the fluffy white pavements: Rachel likes the footprints of little birdies.

Graduation

2009-12-19T10:38:00.002Z

LAST Friday was Rachel's graduation, deferred from the summer when we were in Australia. It was a wonderful day.

The night before had been my lab's Christmas party, a truly festive game of bowling and on for a curry. It was a late night and so, try as I might, I looked a little dishevelled early the next morning. But it was rather fun, turning up at work in a suit, transferring vials of flies and sorting progeny through a microscope. I drew many strange looks.

Then I was off, via the photography studio and robing room, to the Aston Webb building and the Great Hall. The last time I was here was my very own graduation two years ago, an occasion I look back on with mixed memories - I was flustered because I was in the spotlight, needing to be here at this moment, here at another, but then I was completely unsure how to react when, on leaving the hall after the ceremony, we walked through the middle of the hall to a standing and rapturous ovation. It was a uniquely uplifting sensation. I was in equal measure laughing and, secretly, crying a little bit.

Graduands are only allowed two tickets each for the ceremony, so Rachel's parents sat in the Great Hall, whereas myself and Granny and John were to go to a screening room where the ceremony is broadcast live on to two television screens. As an overflow room it is not very big, so I went in early and reserved three seats, asking the two people flanking the aisle to protect them.

Back in the foyer Granny and John arrived and many photos were taken, particularly of Rachel in her robes and mortarboard next to a Christmas tree. It took a while for us all to be ready to go in and so, to my dismay, as we arrived the three seats I had reserved had become two. The people reserving them had left and so we were quite lucky we still had two. The rest of the room was packed so I stood at the back in the doorway. This was not a good place to stand because people would frequently approach, see that people were standing at the back, in the doorway and out into the corridor and, taking this as a sign that the room was full, proceed in anyway, just to see for themselves. Every time somebody did this we all had to shuffle around and breathe in to give them room, holding our breath for the few seconds it would take for them to come back out again, having confirmed their suspicions. Eventually room was made and I could move from the doorway into the room itself, propped against the back wall.

The ceremony began with a fanfare. It was quite the spectacle: everybody in their finery and robes, everybody geared up for occasion. But I was distracted from all of this by the third trombone player, the one on the right, because he had a magnificent beard.

The occasion was an opportunity for the Vice Chancellor/Pro-Vice Chancellor (I forget which) to promote what is going on at Birmingham - and there really is a lot. I have often got the impression that the University of Birmingham is forgotten (people automatically think of Aston), but this is a hub of pioneering research and many tremendously expensive developments. It makes graduating from here quite special. I was very impressed with Birmingham's rank within the UK and on a world scale~~, although I have now forgotten both~~*.

Standing in the overflow room was funny. Whenever somebody went up to receive their degree, often their family and friends, if present, would cheer and clap. In the Great Hall this would have been perfectly normal, but here we were disconnected from the hall - the graduand couldn't hear them. It lifted the spirit in the room, and those present were united in respect for those graduating. These people deserved their applause, even though they couldn't hear it.

In front of me there were a few young children, clearly bored and unaware of what they were supposed to be watching. One of them had easy-wipe cards with puzzles on, such as mazes and spot the difference. He would scribble all over them with magic markers, rub it out and then start again. He began playing a version of noughts and crosses with his mother. This involved writing your initial in a square, taking it in turns and trying to get four in a row. The boy began:

"b"

Now it was mum's turn:

"N"

I can only assume that the N stood for the lady's real name. But the young lad was not happy with this, for he rubbed it all out and told his mum: "but that's not your name... you're 'm' for mummy!"

Soon it was time for Rachel to go up to receive her degree, the only First in the crop of Biosciences graduates. Rather than stressed, concerned about where to be and when, or flustered because of the number of photographs required or, as I was, concerned about falling up the steps on the way, Rachel was the happiest I have seen her in a while. She was beaming, radiant and beautiful and I am incredibly proud of her.

*#66 of 600 (link)

What not to say at a climate change rally

2009-12-09T20:52:00.000Z

TWO of my friends attended the Climate Change protest in London this weekend. Through a series of circumstances - probably including alcohol and fatigue as a result of walking around for hours - they ended up chanting:

"What do we want?"
"Climate change!"
"When do we want it?"
"Now!"

Oops.

Rodrigo y Gabriela

2009-11-27T11:07:00.003Z

I went to see Rodrigo y Gabriela on Tuesday. Nearly two hours of instrumental glory at the hands of two phenomenal guitar players. Here's a video:

This post has been pre-dated so that it is published to keep you entertained while I spend my Friday setting up dozens of genetic crosses and counting hundreds of flies. I expect I shall then go to the pub.

I'll write an update of my travels and things over the weekend and, at some point, I need to tell you about a sneezing elephant.

Nightmares

2009-11-08T10:57:00.000Z

I'VE been dreaming a lot recently, some might say having nightmares: about pipetting, aliquoting and giant, man-eating flies. My mind will repeat the motions of pipetting, sometimes at a selection of probe concentrations, again and again until the point of insanity, when I realise I'm now awake and actually panicking about whether or not I have set up my experiments correctly.

I think the PhD is going to my head.

When considering whether to accept this position, my potential supervisor advised me to make a cake for my girlfriend. Many experimental protocols are much like following a recipe she said, with particular ingredients, particular methods and steps. But, like a cake, to make an experiment work you need to understand the recipe, what is most important to include or do compared with other steps or ingredients, so that you can tinker and get to the result you want: the perfect cake. You have to be prepared for many cake failures but you must continue - you must continue - until it rises precisely, the icing is uniform and the texture and flavour are, in every way, supreme. No cake: no PhD. But people tried to put me off, preparing me for failure, and thus the impression I got was that things are actually much more complicated than this.

Thus:

A PhD is much like baking a cake for your girlfriend. You must follow the recipe exactly but be prepared for failure, at which point you must then play with the ingredients, timings, steps and sizes of baking trays until you achieve success. And then, just as you reach this result (or at least think you have), your girlfriend - now fiancée - is diagnosed with coeliac disease and so cannot eat the cake that you've made. You have to learn a whole new set of rules about ingredients, source more specialist types of flours, raising agents and a magical thing called xanthan gum, and start the whole procedure again.

I still haven't made Rachel a cake - I've only managed chocolate brownie, which was, in my defence, pretty darned tasty. Consequently, I suppose, I still haven't mastered the art of the PhD. Maybe this explains the dreams about fixatives, fly larvae and aliquot after aliquot after aliquot after aliquot after aliquot after ... aliquot after aliquot of staining solution and hybridisation buffer. After last year I have managed to detach myself from work as I return home for an evening or weekend, but apparently not in my subconscious.

I'm not sure, however, that this explains the dreams about my pet cat gnawing through my laptop power lead or being trapped in a zoo enclosure by a velociraptor.

Exercise

2009-11-07T17:34:00.002Z

I JUST went for a run. The last time I went for a run was 18 months ago, a four mile jog from Southgate to Hadley Wood in North London. The last time I did any exercise was back in the summer, when I was swimming to keep up with a whale shark. The whale shark won.

I ache. I am very unfit, and I'd like to say that I hereby vow to do exercise more frequently, but, then, I said that 18 months ago. Once a year isn't exactly frequently...

Modern technology: it gets the better of all of us eventually

2009-10-30T16:49:00.002Z

MY first real adventure in PhDland - after cutting, grating and burning myself - was to piece together a stapler. This took 15 minutes. Who would have thought it could be so complicated?

A change will do you good?

2009-10-06T19:36:00.006+01:00

I'VE never been one to knock progress. Change can be good, and progress and novelty aren't something to fear. But I draw the line. Knocking down the ivy-covered mansion between the Worcester and Birmingham Canal and Sainsbury's Selly Oak was bang out of order.

Now that I'm back in Birmingham it is interesting to see what has changed. The new Queen Elizabeth hospital is nearing its final stages of construction and, though I once thought it ugly, I actually quite like it. Although it looks a bit like three giant toilet seats, there are interesting elements of Jetsons-style googie architecture and I reckon the only reason that it looks odd is because it is so radically different to the surroundings. It doesn't really matter what it looks like, it's what's inside that's important - and the region's hospitals have been crying out for modernization (and space) for ages. On campus, the aesthetic failure of astounding proportions that was the Muirhead Tower has finally been tackled head-on. It hasn't been knocked down, but it has a new, shiny facade, has been revamped inside and the "temporary" emergency scaffolding around it (that had been standing for 12 years) has been removed. It almost looks OK. The Guild is being refurbished. Biosciences has an artist in residence.

Some things certainly look a lot nicer: some things never change. The Mailbox, a redevelopment project on a substantial scale, continues to look out of place surrounded by the deprived city centre edge. Work is in progress, but still desperately needed. Five Ways and Broad Street are also still well below par.

And some things have been taken away. The cardboard box factory (top), a ruin that loomed over the Grange Road entrance to the University, has gone, as has the gun factory (bottom). I always loved that next to one of the biggest universities in the country was one of the oldest established gun manufacturers in the country, until recently building and testing weapons on site (the sporadic explosions always made the walk to lectures more exciting). It was a coincidence of brilliance on a par with two other neighbours a short walk up the road: the parole office and a fireworks shop. Now the Grange Road entrance is surrounded by rubble, ready to welcome the Selly Oak bypass. The road is needed, but it would have been so much better if these treasures could have been left behind.

But it is the house of ivy, a mansion long ago hidden behind its creeping climbers that really upset me. I will always rue not having had the chance to go inside; to enjoy its understated majesty (funny how a ruin can be so appealing). Perhaps I will just have imagine what it would have been like.

wombat :)

2009-09-14T11:41:00.002+01:00

wombat :)
Originally uploaded by SBishop

For Sale

2009-09-11T16:26:00.001+01:00

I'VE been rooting out my bedroom at home. I've found some musical gems that deserve a good home. The bidding is now open for:

Dance Tip 95 - double cassette, feat. The Outhere Brothers and Scatman John

Huge Hits 1996 - double cassette, feat. DJ Dado's X-Files theme and Chantay Savage's I Will Survive

New Hits 96 - double cassette, feat. 1, 2, 3, 4, Sumpin' New by Coolio and, brilliantly, PJ & Duncan

Non Stop Hits (circa 1998) - double cassette, feat. 2 Unlimited and Been a Long Time by The Fog

Five + Queen, We Will Rock You - cassette single

Now 41 (circa 1998) - double CD, feat., aptly, If You Buy This Record Your Life Will Be Better by The Tamperer and Tell Me Ma by Shamrock

Now 44 (circa 1999) - double CD, feat. Jordan Knight and the Wamdue Project

Hits 99 - double CD, feat. Yo-Yo Boy and Matthew Marsden

Fresh Hits 99 - double CD, feat. TQ, Gouryella and the Honeyz

Smash Hits Summer 2000 - double CD, feat. Trevor & Simon and the DJ Aligator Project

Kiss Hitlist 2002

The Offspring, Pretty Fly (For A White Guy)

The All Time Greates Movie Songs - double CD, feat. Celine Dion, of course

and, er, Bob the Builder, Can We Fix It?

The collection is a little dusty.

Ideas Above My Station

2009-09-08T14:01:00.002+01:00

BACK in May, I wrote a blog post called Encore une fois, in which I raised my concerns about the direction of this blog. "I don't know any longer what I should be posting" I wrote. Much of my readership wants to know what I am up to, being family and friends, but I don't feel that I get up to much that is worthy of note. So instead I write about what I learn, find out or feel I should share or communicate, in any small way. It has led me to produce a blog that has too many different personalities, where momentum in any direction is always interrupted as I try and cover all bases and become more and more selective. The rather large post on conspiracy theories in Kazakhstan took things too far - I obviously felt it was important to write, but I knew then that this blog was the wrong platform for it. The fact that I published it here has troubled me for the last few weeks.

I'm also acutely aware that I might have ideas above my station, and that sometimes I sound like I am ranting. Maybe I am, but there are some stories or perspectives that I feel are important to share. If you believe that something is wrong, in my opinion you should not sit on your laurels - you should, in a sensible fashion, do something about it. At present, the only tactic I have at my disposal is to help spread the story to others, so that is what I want to do. I'm not grumpy, I just care, and I don't like people being misled.

So, I've made a decision. This blog, Simon Says, will continue, but for its original purpose - silly stories, travel tales and everyday experiences. In short, what I am up to. I have set up a separate blog, longhand & scribblings (or Simon Says A Little Bit More), for the purpose of publishing my thoughts, my essays, stories, causes and miscellaneous interesting stuff. The two blogs will undoubtedly crossover, and I will link between the two, but in doing this I hope to resolve the identity problem that I have created by trying to say too much. I also hope this will help to me detach from the beast that I have created.

I hope you continue to visit both blogs and find everything interesting, but this way you have the option to filter out the content you dislike the most.

Thanks for reading.

The Masquerade Ball

2009-09-06T13:35:00.001+01:00

IT is one of the greatest mysteries of life. How do you tie a bow tie?

On Saturday, Rachel and I attended a masquerade ball. I spent the entire day, in between paid work, preparing myself: I imagined myself, arms linked with my fiancée, amongst important people in their most magnificent finery; jaw-dropping ball gowns, dapper gentlemen and the mysterious air of hidden identity.

All day I became paranoid about my appearance. I’m well aware that I am a bit of a scruff at times. All afternoon I would disappear into the bathroom to shave off facial hair that had so far evaded my attention that day; and all afternoon I studied guides on how to tie a bow tie.

At first I found a step-by-step diagram, designed such that it could be printed, stuck on a mirror and followed precisely. But as helpful as it was, the final stages of perfecting the deed were difficult to fathom, and even harder to imagine. This called for desperate measures. I turned to YouTube.

The first video I found was utterly charming. Everybody was friendly, their ambition to teach the viewer the key to this mystery clearly defined. And it was lovely... up until the difficult bit, when the camera panned out, such that you could no longer see what the instructor was doing. I screamed in anguish, then found another video, memorized it and hoped for the best.

Rachel’s dad presented me with a range of bow tie options, including a blue velvet clip-on with accompanying cummerbund, but realistically I had the choice of a big black one or a small black one. In the interests of modesty I chose the small one, but this proved to be my undoing: it was so small and fiddly that I had no margin for error, nor any margin to see or feel what I was doing. For half an hour I battled on, fiddling and straightening and then, suddenly, realising success, I was a real man.

Then I looked properly in the mirror. My hair, uncut since before the summer, was a mess. It was long, windswept and unaccustomed to combing. Desperate measures were called for. With nobody looking, I took a pair of scissors to my hair and tried to sort it out myself. I’ve spent years watching hairdressers; I knew the score. You filter the hair between two fingers, leaving the hair that is to be discarded sticking out, and then slice along the finger line. Easy. A chunk off here, some tidying there. The results came instantly. And, if I was honest with myself, I was rather pleased with what I had achieved: a presentable head of luxurious hair.

Then Rachel came in.

“What have you done?” she cried out.

No amount of protesting on my part could convince her of my achievement. She insisted on taking the scissors herself and further cutting my hair. And, I’ll admit, the results were promising. She, too, was rather proud of herself.

Then the penny dropped. Having tidied only the front and not dared to touch the back, I had given myself a mullet.

Then I looked at my shirt: it was covered in cut hair.

I had no mask.

Then we looked at the invitation, on which no dress code was specified. Were all of my efforts in vain?

We arrived at the ball, held in support of a UCCF mission to Bulgaria. It was a curious event. Held in a church hall, there was a disco, playing a mixture of chart music and party favourites from throughout the decades, and a Wii competition. There was a tombola. Everything was fifty pence.

The majority of the visitors were students. All the girls (and there were mostly girls) had made an effort, all very stylish, but most of the boys were just wearing shirts: few had tuxedos, only one other had a bow tie. Everybody knew each other, and it was almost like a get-together of friends with party games thrown in. We stood to one side, slightly bemused and unsure of how to talk to anybody but each other or Rosie or Helen, who we had come with. It was a strange night, not at all what we were prepared for, but for a good cause and everybody had fun.

The following morning, having tossed and turned through the nocturnal restlessness that comes with drinking red wine, my hair had been rather unkindly flattened. I looked in the mirror. The mullet was back.

U2 360° Tour, Don Valley Stadium, Sheffield

2009-08-23T12:40:00.008+01:00

U2's LATEST album, No Line On The Horizon, is an enigma. My first impressions were extremely positive: here was an album that tried something a bit different - gone were the arena anthems in place of a bit more thought and consistency. Their previous album suffered from a severe lack of such consistency - any momentum was killed instantly by the next song, and generally the quality of the material was too variable. What was good was very good, the rest was mediocre at best. NLOTH doesn't have instant hits, but musically and stylistically it is a little more experimental (without the radical departures in sound that U2 have tried before), and as an album it is more conceptual and consistent. Just as you feel the pace is getting too slow, the double whammy of Get on Your Boots and Stand Up Comedy reignite the fire at the heart of the album. In short, it wasn't just 'another' U2 album: it was a very good album, as opposed to set of good songs. But then I grew tired of it, started to find flaws. It doesn't hold its ground like 2001's All That You Can't Leave Behind. It doesn't pack the punch Vertigo did, nor does it have the revisit value. In a sense, it is not an album for the general public.

And that is a problem for a band like U2. They're very keen to be in the public eye, to leave an impression. They rely on mass appeal, but they somehow made an album that couldn't generate it.

I have been a very big U2 fan since ATYCLB (the album where U2 came back from obscurity after the Pop era, featuring Beautiful Day, Stuck In A Moment You Can't Get Out Of, Elevation and Walk On). Its accompanying tour, Elevation, was a back-to-basics showcase that showed the band without the elaborate stage and screens. It was a tour for the band to prove themselves as the best band in the world. It worked. To my eternal regret, I never managed to go to that tour. I did manage to make it to the Vertigo tour in 2005, but by this point their stock had risen and the big stages, screens and setpieces had returned. U2 were back in familiar territory: not playing concerts but theatrical shows.

In many ways I didn't enjoy that show in Cardiff, 2005. I had built it up too much, and made a schoolboy error. U2 play rigid setlists, and I had read them all. Not only did I know exactly what they were going to play, but because their Twickenham show had been broadcast live on BBC Radio 2 a few days before, I had heard exactly what they were going to play too. It took the fun out of it. They were very good, mind, and the giant screen was rather exciting, but it wasn't Elevation, and I couldn't forget it.

Because I went to Australia this summer, I didn't buy tickets for their latest tour, U2 360°. But Baz, my old housemate, did, so on Thursday I was in the Don Valley Stadium in Sheffield, the smallest venue on the tour, looking at The Claw, a very large and elaborate stage, towering over four Irish blokes who like making a lot of noise.

I have to say that the show started badly. The sound quality wasn't brilliant to start with (Edge was too quiet) and the two opening songs, Breathe and No Line On The Horizon, just don't pull their weight. But then they played Get On Your Boots and, love it or hate it, it finally got the crowd going. And then it was full-on, full-power U2 at their best all night. I had only looked at a few setlists, so the songs that appeared came largely as a surprise, which made it much more enjoyable (I have since had a closer look and the setlist appears to be quite rigid so far, although more flexible than previous tours). The acoustic Stuck in a Moment was divine, and finally I got to hear I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For (the crowd sang the whole first verse and the band stopped playing, just to listen) and the full version of Walk On.

The giant stage is a marvel, but it isn't quite ideal. The idea is that it is placed in the middle of the stadium (it's circular) so that everybody gets a better view, but in Sheffield it was to one side - as a result, the band tended to stand on one side to face the majority of the crowd. I can only assume that those behind the stage felt a little short-changed.

image from u2.com

Nonetheless, the power that that stage generates is remarkable, from the insectivorous screen that comes down to swallow the band, to the searchlights that extend up into the sky during City of Blinding Lights, it's a very exciting show. The remix of Crazy Tonight was curious and furious; the presence of The Unforgettable Fire was a pure delight; Mysterious Ways, albeit the less-triumphant short version, was triumphant nonetheless; and the encore - well, blimey it's good. The band return in the dark, a blue hue to the stage, and Ultraviolet begins with Bono swinging around the stage from his microphone (yep, really) covered in lasers.

Lasers!

Then suddenly, the strange pointy thing on the top of the stage that made it look like the Mosque of U2, calling its disciples to prayer, is switched on. It's a glitter ball, one powerful enough to illuminate an entire stadium. Not for epileptics, this giant disco is truly a sight to behold.

It was a fantastic show, much better than Vertigo in Cardiff, 2005, but if I were to have one criticism it is this: U2 strive to be relevant, and continue to write great, albeit enigmatic music. But the biggest cheers of the night were reserved for Pride (In the Name of Love) and Where The Streets Have No Name, which are 25 and 22 years old, respectively. No matter what they do or write, it will always be these that get the crowd going. Less from the new album, please, and more classics in their place.

Is Kazakhstan the "Seat of Satan"? No. Grow Up.

2009-08-18T12:32:00.002+01:00

AT 2,724,900 square kilometres, Kazakhstan is the ninth biggest country in the world. Just digest that for a moment: the ninth biggest. Given such enormity, I challenge you to give more than two facts about the place. You might know that it has oil and gas, and that it is one of the 'stans and therefore somewhere in the middle of Asia. But can you name its capital? Its president?

Years ago I discovered that Kazakhstan was the ninth biggest country in the world and considered the above. For such an enormous place, where was it in world events? Why does the West never hear about it? Something must happen there, surely? And so began a fascination about it. I will admit that I am not very well read on the country, and have never visited it, but I wish to share a little of what I know, because in an unexpected way, the country is under attack.

Read more »

Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrgh!

2009-08-14T22:06:00.004+01:00

Just... arrrgh. I can't even fathom what to say about this. I am shocked and horrified in equal measure. There are many decent and lovely Americans in the world and so, to them, I apologize. But to the rest...

...bloody Americans.

A fertility network

2009-06-17T13:27:00.002+01:00

Cell signalling: A fertility network
Nature Reviews Molecular Cell Biology, advance online publication 17 Jun 2009; doi:10.1038/nrm2721

Mammalian fertility depends on luteinizing hormone (LH)-induced changes in ovarian follicular growth. A new study now reveals some of the signalling components that effect these changes.

As oocytes mature and follicles grow, the somatic granulosa cells (GCs) in the ovarian follicle terminally differentiate into luteal cells, constituting the corpus luteum that forms after ovulation. LH induces the expression of epidermal growth factor (EGF)-like proteins, but the roles of the EGF network in LH-induced follicular changes remain undefined.

To investigate, Fan et al. created a mouse model in which the network components extracellular signal-regulated kinase 1 (ERK1) and ERK2 were depleted in GCs. These Erk1/2^gc–/– mice were infertile because ovulation and the differentiation of GCs failed, although expression of positive cell cycle regulators and proliferation of GCs continued. Furthermore, whereas serum oestradiol levels rose in these mice, progesterone levels did not, because corpora lutea could not form. Therefore, GC fate decisions depend on the activation of ERK1 and ERK2 by LH and the EGF-like factors.

Of the 563 LH target genes identified in GCs of ovulating follicles, the effects of 77% were impaired in Erk1/2^gc–/– cells, including those that regulate oestradiol biosynthesis. Mice with GCs that lack C/EBPβ have an ovarian phenotype similar to Erk1/2^gc–/– mice, and point mutations show that C/EBPβ is a substrate of ERK1 and ERK2. These components therefore form a key signalling network in GCs, in which LH-induced signalling through EGF-like proteins activates ERK1 and ERK2 and their substrates, leading to reprogramming and terminal differentiation.

ORIGINAL RESEARCH PAPER Fan, H.-Y. et al. MAPK3/1 (ERK1/2) in ovarian granulosa cells are essential for fermale fertility. Science 324, 938–941 (2009)
Article

Here I Go Again...

2009-06-13T16:59:00.002+01:00

...but not on my own.

RIGHT, I'm off on another adventure, albeit shorter and more rigorously budgeted than the last one. Rachel and I are heading to New South Wales and Western Australia for the next little while. I plan to blog from faraway fields and tell tales of experiences and local history, as you have come to expect from my gibberings.

While I fly across the globe and assemble my thoughts, I have dredged up below an assortment of blogs, comments and pictures from my previous expedition. Please do take a look if you've never seen this content before, as I cannot guarantee the quality of what is to follow!

Simon Says...: Bumpy on the Bay of Bengal
Flying to Singapore; expectations; Today's Best Mix
Simon Says...: A Lizard Watched Me In The Shower!
The remarkable story of Thomas Stamford Bingley Raffles; exploring Singapore; Fire Toast
Simon Says...: Welcome to Paradise
Pulau Ubin and Chek Jawa
Simon Says...: The War The World Forgot
Changi Prison and Museum; reflections on war
Simon Says...: A Day In International Territory
How not to spend ten hours in Changi airport
Simon Says...: I'm a Natural Blue
To the Great Barrier Reef; big fish, little fish and 'Rotund' fish, apparently
Simon Says...: Never Smile At A Crocodile (ya flamin' galah!)
Conservation Volunteers Australia (CVA); Claude the Cassowary
Simon Says...: Imposter! / Interlude
Rachel fills in for me as I have lots of fun in the rainforest; notes on the Stinging Tree (the Gympie Gympie)
Simon Says...: In The Jungle, The Mighty Jungle
Cloudland Nature Refuge with CVA; teaching Koreans words like 'onomatopoeia'
Simon Says...: Steve
A man called Steve: friend of the Aborigines, discoverer of dinosaurs and guru of megafauna; safety advice for Englishmen
Simon Says...: Senoritas y Margaritas
Cape Tribulation; the discovery of Australia; Captain Cook
Simon Says...: In Memory of Kirsty
Week 2 at CVA: tree planting at Mission Beach; bush bashing with machetes; the man who liked shrimp
Simon Says...: Johnstone River Crocodile Farm
OzExperience begins; Davo the galah; a severe rant about a crocodile farm
Simon Says...: A Pinker Shade of Tanned
All at sea; sailing around the Whitsunday Islands; swimming with turtles
Simon Says...: A Fringe Of Leaves
Aborigines and Europeans; Eliza Fraser and her island
Simon Says...: What A Beauty!
Visiting Australia Zoo (Steve Irwin's zoo); wombats on leads and marvellous monotremes
Simon Says...: It's A Small World (After All)
Arriving in Sydney; run-ins with the police; coincidental meetings with school friends; a statue of a pig; chocolate by the bald man; Julia
Simon Says...: Kookaburra Sits In The Old Gum Tree
The Blue Mountains; Blaxland, Lawson and Wentworth; the story of the Three Sisters; a terrifying little train
Simon Says...: Australian Capital Territory
Arriving in Batmania (or, as we know it now, Melbourne) via the nation's capital, Canberra
Simon Says...: The Great Divide
Wandering around Melbourne; Melbourne vs. Sydney
Simon Says...: Go! Go! Go!
The Australian Grand Prix (minus racing cars, grandstands, television crews and people)
Simon Says...: Another Multicoloured Blog
Rachel fills in for me while I have a Very Nice Time
Simon Says...: Not With A Bang But A Whimper
The plight of the Tasmanian Devil
Simon Says...: Sunrise to Sunset
Reflections on the beautiful continent of Australia; onwards to New Zealand
Simon Says...: In Treebeard's Domain
Six days in New Zealand, and already I'm exhausted
Simon Says...: And In The Darkness...
Horse riding, like the riders of Rohan; Queenstown/Lothlórien
Simon Says...: Paikea
Kaikoura to Rotorua; Whale Rider
Simon Says...: Waewae takahia kia kino*
A Maori Marae and hangi feast
Simon Says...: Where Poets Speak Their Hearts
Climbing One Tree Hill with Catherine Holley; on to Fiji
Simon Says...: If You Pick A Raw Paw
The Hurricane
Simon Says...: Fifty Nifty United States
On landing three hours after taking off (eighteen hours ago); Washington DC
Simon Says...: A Is For Parrot, Which We Can Plainly See
New York in two days
Simon Says...: Perfect to Stay
The Boston Tea Party, live from Boston; coming home

A few follow-up posts and further stories I wanted to tell at the time:

Simon Says...: A is for Parrot (Again)
John Lennon's poem
Simon Says...: Dear Anonymous
In defence of my views on the Johnstone River Crocodile Farm
Simon Says...: Re: Not With A Bang But A Whimper
Hope for the Tasmanian Devil
Simon Says...: Sai yau levu na lotu keina lomavinaka...
A lost story from Fiji: island life on Waya Lailai; my friend Sau; "Jesus is strong in Fiji"

All images taken by me, published here.

Ah, unemployment

2009-06-12T09:02:00.003+01:00

SO that's it. Yesterday was my last day. I am now unemployed, and will be for the next four years.

Things are now very hectic. I move out of my house today, I am going to a wedding tomorrow, and then I get on a plane to Sydney on Sunday. That means many threads I've started here will have to be put on hold. I had intended to make reference to the Jared Diamond libel case, and I had some interesting stories to share about Nikolai Vavilov and the Kazakh Beatles. It will all have to wait.

I won't be abandoning it all, however: thanks to my colleagues I have in my posession Trick or Treatment?: Alternative Medicine on Trial, a book by Edzard Ernst and, you guessed it, Simon Singh, which I will be taking on the plane.

See you on the other side.

Icons

2009-06-10T23:22:00.002+01:00

TO mark its centenary, the Science Museum in London has launched a campaign to decide the greatest icon of science within its collection. The shortlist of inventions, innovations and discoveries is:

The steam engine
Stephenson's Rocket
The electric telegraph
The X-ray machine
The Model T Ford
The discovery of penicillin
The V2 rocket engine
The Pilot ACE computer
The discovery of the structure of DNA
and the Apollo 10 capsule

There are many inventions that cannot be displayed, such as the Internet, and are therefore not part of the vote. It's an interesting list to chew over, and hints at massive changes in lifestyle over the past few hundred years. The steam engine (1712) revolutionized mining and industry. Penicillin (1928) and the discovery of antibiotics transformed medicine and saved the lives of countless people. The V2 rocket (1944) threatened to change the face of history as, in the hands of the Nazis, it was pointed at us with the fuse smouldering; but it also took us into space, and without satellites many of our computer systems and communication networks would become obsolete. If so, we'd have to go back to using the electric telegraph (1837), which began to make the world a smaller place, as people no longer needed to wait months to receive messages from hundreds of miles away.

As a biologist I greatly respect the discovery of the structure of DNA (1953) by Watson, Crick, Franklin and Wilkins (albeit in a world where Franklin did all the work and received very little of the credit). It has certainly changed the landscape of modern molecular biology - it is the foundation of it all. But can elucidating the logic of a structure compare to the genius required to engineer and build Stephenson's Rocket (1829) or the first computer capable of processing more than one thing (1950)?

I simply cannot decide. Any thoughts?