#oneaday Day 595: Life Expectancy

I forgot to blog about a book I read while I was away in Germany, and that is Life Expectancy by Dean Koontz, recommended to me by one Jeff "Feenwager" Parsons. Such was the impact that said book clearly had on our Jeff, if you happen to have him on your Xbox Live friends list and then start reading this book, you'll likely have the same reaction as I did.

But anyway. Enough about Jeff and his Gamertag — what about the book?

It was a great read. It helped a great deal that the book was narrated by a likeable character who was honest about when narrating things which took place at different times didn't quite make sense — how could he possibly remember what was happening when he was born, for example? In fact, the whole cast of the book was made up of strong characters, from our protagonists to some of the more minor people who had a role to play in the story.

The structure was interesting, too — for those unfamiliar with the novel, it's centred around one Jimmy Tock, who entered the world just as his grandfather departed it. Said grandfather came out with a series of chilling predictions on his deathbed, which Jimmy's life then begins to revolve around. We join the tale after four out of the "five terrible days" have already taken place, so there's some tension as Jimmy narrates the events, but we at least know that he's going to be all right — until we reach the last one, that is.

Jimmy, it has to be said, is a bit of a joker and there are at least two occasions in the novel where he outright lies to the reader only to come back with the literary equivalent of "lol jk" at the start of the next chapter. Unreliable narrators are one thing, but having a narrator who outright lies to you is a new one on me. It elevated the prose somewhat above the usual fare you get with first-person narration — it was more like someone actually talking to you. Pretty cool.

I enjoyed the novel a great deal, in other words — and I'm consciously trying not to give away any spoilers here. It was a thrill ride that kept me interested from start to finish. I'd never read anything by Koontz before, but my good experience with this piece is enough to make me interested to try some of his other stuff.

As always, if anyone has any recommendations along those lines, do feel free to let me know.

#oneaday Day 594: Pus, Pus, Pus

Certain words beautifully sum up their own characteristics. They don't require any extra adjectives to be wonderfully descriptive and evocative, and through their use it becomes possible to manipulate the emotions of others — usually in a negative manner.

Take the word "pus" for example. Even if you're unaware of what pus actually is, simply expectorating that word sounds unpleasant — there's no real need to add adjectives such as "oozing", "bubbling", "dribbling" or the like (though they help) in order to make it absolutely clear that the word you're talking about is an unpleasant thing.

Ditto for "sputum". In fact, it can be said for most bodily fluids — urine, sperm, mucus, bile and all manner of others. Part of this can perhaps be attributed to the fact that some of these words have alternate meanings — "bile" in particular is one which is bandied around somewhat, particularly when referring to unfair criticism.

Thinking of all these disgusting words, it actually becomes somewhat difficult to think of more pleasant ones which work in quite such a powerful manner. Bodily fluids are right out the window, obviously (not literally… hopefully), since none of those are especially pleasant. "Effervescent" is quite a nice word, though not many people remember what it means, even when looking at packets of Solpadeine.

Somewhere between the positive and negative camps is the word "rich". Whenever I hear the word "rich" either in the context of food or pretentious discussion of "content", I think of chocolate cake. This is obviously a positive connotation (assuming you like chocolate cake) but is clearly somewhat inappropriate when contemplating a website with a "rich content strategy" or a "rich interface" or whatever bollocks the marketers are spouting this week. But a big sticky slice of chocolate cake is often described as having a "rich" flavour, and hopefully not being filled with pus or anything like that. There, put you right off now, didn't I?

Words are powerful, crafty little things. Obviously my experience with them lies in English. I often wonder if other languages are as rich — there's that word again — in associations and imagery. German, for example, is a very literal language (the German word for bra literally means "breast-stopper", for example) and due to its habit of capitalising all nouns, not just proper ones, often looks like it's being a lot more formal than it actually is. It'd be like writing that you were going to the Shops with some Friends to buy some Bread and Milk. All wrong — to us anyway.

There was a point somewhere in all this but I'm feeling somewhat sleepy as we've spent the weekend putting a new bed together and installing a freezer. So I will be bidding you good night now, and joining the Americans in having a pleasant day off for Labor (yes, Labor — I'm an honorary American so far as public holidays are concerned) Day tomorrow.

Try not to ooze any pus onto the sheets.

#oneaday Day 593: X Marks the Spot

I watched The X-Factor tonight and for once didn't immediately want to rip my eyeballs out and fling them at the TV. I'm not entirely sure of the precise reasons for this, as the tried and tested formula for the show — including the overuse of Carmina Burrana — is present and correct. But I think it can almost entirely be attributed to Simon Cowell.

For many people, Simon Cowell was The X-Factor. His cynical, rude, petty observations masquerading as "feedback" were the main reason many people watched the show. His boorishness and arrogance was perversely appealing; he became an anti-hero, a person people loved to hate.

But now he's no more; the panel is now made up of Louis Walsh (wishy washy as ever); Tulisa from N-Dubz (arguably the only one from that particular outfit to have any vague talent and even if she doesn't is at least semi-hot); Kelly Rowland (American); and Gary Barlow. It's a lineup made up almost entirely of recording artists rather than record execs, and that gives it a different feeling altogether. While it's easy to be cynical about the pop fluff that Tulisa, Rowland and Barlow have ejaculated from their vocal cords, they've experienced the business firsthand and are musicians — or at least performers. The feedback they'll be able to offer the prospective stars, then, will be of a different type to that from record execs who always have one eye on the bottom line. Possibly, anyway.

The audition phase — which now inexplicably takes place in front of a massive audience — also seems to have been toned down somewhat, even if its presentation is somewhat more bombastic. By that I mean there's less focus on the "wacky" failures and a little more in the way of people with actual talent. Sure, part of the appeal of the auditions phase is to see people make a tit of themselves, but that whole shtick — much like Cowell's "Mr Nasty" approach — has been getting old for some time, so this slight shift in formula makes the programme feel pleasingly fresh. If it's enough to make me stomach a whole episode without wanting to inflict bodily injuries on myself and everyone around me, they're doing something right.

I can't say for sure if the changes are enough to make me want to sit and watch the whole series — particularly the interminable series of live shows which seem to go on forever towards the end of each run — but I'm certainly a lot more willing to give this televisual candyfloss the time of day than I ever have before. I might feel differently as soon as the usual "audience booing anything they believe to be 'unfair' negative feedback even when it's perfectly correct" nonsense starts again; but for now, it's vaguely enjoyable, inoffensive fluff. And that, certainly, is a considerable degree of progress over what I've thought of the series in the past.

#oneaday Day 592: Little Miracles

I finished another book… well, ebook today. I shouldn't really make that distinction because a book's a book whatever medium it might be "printed" on — or perhaps it might be more accurate to say "a novel's a novel".

Anyway, I read a second book by Giselle Green as I rather enjoyed Pandora's Box, despite its slightly convoluted ending. Also, like Pandora's Box, it was only 99p on iBooks. I'm all for the bargain hunting, especially when I've just blown a large chunk of cash on the deposit for the house I'm writing this to you from.

Anyway. Little Miracles tells the story of Julia and Charlie, and their young son Hadyn. Julia is a stay at home mother, having given up a career, while Charlie is a plastic surgeon who does charity work, particularly with African kids whose faces have been disfigured by a disease I can't remember the name of.

A short distance into the book, Hadyn disappears. (That isn't a spoiler — it's plastered all over the novel's blurb as the central premise of the story.) The remainder of the tale explores Charlie and Julia's different attitudes towards the tragedy as they attempt to come to terms with the possible death of their son.

Structurally it's very similar to Pandora's Box, jumping back and forth between the dual perspectives of Charlie and Julia, both of whom are well-defined, interesting characters with their own backgrounds which come to light throughout the course of the story. And, like its predecessor, it's in possession of a somewhat frustrating ending, albeit for slightly different reasons.

This doesn't diminish the fact that it's once again a highly readable book based on in depth explorations of Charlie and Julia in particular — but through them we find out plenty about the supporting cast, too. Ironically, the only character who doesn't get fleshed out much is Hadyn, but since he's under the age of two there's only so much you can say beyond "he likes his cuddly elephant called Bap-Bap."

It's a well paced book — perhaps slightly too long if I'm honest — and eminently readable. Green's prose flows well and she has a skill for writing in markedly different voices when narrating from the perspectives of different characters. By the end of the story, Charlie and Julia are like old friends — a good way to be given the lengthy journey the reader is expected to take with them. Both have their own tragic flaws, and both come to terms with the situation in their own way. It's interesting to "watch" — though at times frustrating as you will the pair of them to communicate more.

All in all, though, it was an excellent read and one I'm glad I took the time (and the vast expense) to read. While it won't appeal to those who need a little more sex/murder/explosions in their novels, it's a compelling tale that tugs at the heartstrings without being overly melodramatic.

#oneaday Day 591: Proper Intarnetz Plz

You don't realise how much you're going to miss the "proper" Internet until you don't have it. I'm writing this using a T-Mobile 3G dongle which, to be fair, works perfectly fine for the most part (except for the data limits, which make it impractical for use for anything more than fairly light web browsing) but it's 1) not as fast as "proper" Internet and 2) rather more expensive at £2 per day.

Proper Internet for us is still about two weeks away. I've never quite understood exactly why it takes so long for Internet access (and a phone line, for that matter) to reach your house. After all, in most cases the infrastructure is already in place. Okay, sure, sometimes they have to "send an engineer out" but the last few times I've set up my own Internet access said engineer has done very little besides bring some equipment. While the personal touch is nice, I'd be happier with receiving it by post if someone can just flip a switch a bit quicker.

I know, I know, it's probably considerably more complicated than that, and with all the households in the UK, the finite stock of engineers which can be sent out at any one time only goes so far. But have a heart; how will I watch endless cat videos, play stupid Flash games and indeed download the gigabytes of updates my reinstalled (again) Mac insists are absolutely necessary?

That said, where we are now is certainly a far cry from just five to ten years ago. I recall struggling on with dial-up Internet for a few weeks when moving in to a new place, and inevitably forgetting to disconnect it at one point only to confront the next person to pick the phone up with digital squealing. And even further back than that, I recall dial-up Internet being the only Internet. Getting some time on the Internet (after 6pm, naturally) was a real treat, and downloading a file of 1MB or more was something you had to plan ahead for.

In some ways, I miss those days. It made browsing the Web seem like a "special" experience — particularly with the pain in the arse it was to get some browsers working with certain ISPs. Nowadays, we just take our Facebook, YouTube and Wikipedia for granted.

I guess it's one way of the human race showing how adaptable it is. Give the people a new tool to use and it won't be very long in the grand scheme of things before its widespread adoption worldwide. Perhaps our bodies have stopped evolving, and all future evolution will be done in the digital space?

Perhaps. It sounds like an exciting sci-fi future. But it's all very well until there's a power cut.

#oneaday Day 590: Furniture Village

At what age do you buy "proper furniture"? It's clearly not yet because most of the stuff I have is from Ikea or Argos. And while it's okay quality (the Ikea stuff, anyway — the Argos stuff is consistently shite) it's not the sort of thing that, say, your Gran has.

At some point though, presumably you say "Yes. Now is the time I'm going to spend over a hundred pounds on one piece of wooden furniture." That, I guess, is some sort of tipping point into "true adulthood". Or possibly middle age, I can't quite decide which.

Oh well. So far as I'm concerned, if it does the job for which it's been designed, it's worth having and holding on to. Who cares where it came from or if it has some famous woodsmith's initials on it somewhere? Ikea for the win. At least the stuff from there has funny names.

#oneaday Day 588: House Guests

We have two cats. They're not ours, they belong to our neighbours. But they look like becoming regular visitors.

When I was unpacking things a few days ago, our neighbour visited and warned me that there might be an "inquisitive cat" coming to visit.

"Yes, I know," I said. "We've met."

Right on cue, Chester (for that was his name) came darting out of my front door, fresh from his expedition into our living room full of cardboard boxes. He'd been exploring and had obviously enjoyed himself.

Later, we also met Artie, the other cat from next door. Artie, while initially nervous, is now much more keen to come in whenever possible. "Whenever possible" meaning "whenever the door is open." We've had to kick the little bugger out several times already as he's already decided this place is his second home, it seems.

It transpires that the people who used to live here took care of the aforementioned cats whenever the neighbours were away, so it seems the cats associate this house with pleasant times. Fine by me. Cats are awesome.

(In other news, we get Proper Internet here in two weeks. At that time, the quality and length of entries will likely show a marked upswing as I can stop writing them on my phone and start doing them on the computer with its word count facility once more.)

#oneaday Day 587: Progress

Unpacking is going surprisingly well. We woke up super early without realising and managed to get a ton of stuff done in the living room in particular. Most of the furniture is in the right place now, there's just a bunch of stuff still on the floor. There's a working telly in place now, too, though I have determined that the speaker cables for my surround setup aren't long enough to tack around the doorframe and prevent trailing cable syndrome. Frustrating, but not impossible to fix.

No Internet or other utilities sorted as yet, but everything is working as it should at the moment. Once things are unpacked and we have phone, Internet and whatnot we can get sorted on those. And being in an Internet-free situation as I am right now (save the poor mobile Internet signal I'm writing this on) I realise how stupid it is that BT invite you to check out their introductory offers by going online. WELL DUH.

That aside, all's good. There are at least four cats in the neighbourhood, two of whom have already invited themselves in for a look around; the supermarket is within walking distance; there don't appear to be any chavs; and it's cheaper than most places I've lived before. Also I get to live with Andie, who doesn't mind me playing Xenoblade Chronicles in bed.

Sounds like a win all round to me.

#oneaday Day 586: The 4AM Club

There's a marked difference between those who drive late at night and those in the early morning. The night is filled with Mercedes drivers and chavs who believe they are the only ones with the right to be on the road, and that anyone driving slower than them is scum; conversely, those out driving at some ungodly hour in the morning are somehow brought together by a sense of camaraderie — we're all doing this because we HAVE to, not because we want to.

Such as it was this morning when I had to rise from my slumber in the darkness of 4AM and drive my empty van 150 miles back to return it, only to later load up my car with the last few bits of crap and drive back that same 150 miles for hopefully the last time for a little while.

It's not all bad driving at stupid o'clock though. Driving through the sunrise is pretty cool. And the fact that the 4AM Club is a fairly exclusive club means that roads are quiet and traffic is minimal.

Despite all that, though, I'm looking forward to the mother of all lie ins tomorrow.

#oneaday Day 585: Moving Day, Part 2

Getting there. Have driven 150 miles in a van today — not as terrifying as I was expecting, as the van was a lot easier to handle than the last one I drove.

The day opened with lots of packing of stuff into said van. This is a procedure by turns exhausting, frustrating, infuriating and stressful. And occasionally — for brief snatches of time when that box fits in just right like that long Tetris piece that comes along at just the right moment — satisfying. But that doesn't happen much.

I didn't get everything in the van, not because it didn't fit but because I got to that stage where you're so tired you want to throw things. I also determined that if I didn't set off then I probably wouldn't, making hiring a van somewhat unnecessary.

Still, it's done now — the van is unloaded and I'm lying in bed, prepared to get up super early to drive 150 miles back to return the van, then drive all the way back again with hopefully the final load of stuff.

Then I get to unpack. Yay. That's the fun bit though — you get to put stuff where it lives, and you end up with a finished house.

Nearly there.