1764: An Outing with Owls

It’s our second (and final) full day here at Center Parcs. We both woke up extremely stiff all over after what was a pretty busy day yesterday, so we had a relaxing morning. We headed over to a cafe in the main plaza area to have some breakfast — a pretty magnificent Eggs Royale (Eggs Benedict with smoked salmon instead of ham) accompanied by spinach and some really nice if slightly salty crispy potato bits.

After that, we had a little wander around the shops in the plaza, which we hadn’t really explored a great deal. We paid particular attention to the sweet shop, which offered the typically overpriced pick and mix, a selection of American sweets (including Nerds, Runts and Gobstoppers, the latter two of which I haven’t seen for years), some nice looking ice-cream and a selection of fudge that would put Cornwall’s finest to shame. We came away with a box full of fudge of various flavours and have been enjoying that over the course of the day. Pro-tip: chocolate fudge with Oreos in it is proper delicious.

Our main activity for the day was “An Outing with Owls”, which we signed up for largely on the promise of being able to see some owls, since owls are pretty cool. I wasn’t quite sure what to expect from the session, but it turned out to be a lot of fun, with everyone getting the opportunity to get their falconry on and let owls of various sizes land on their (leather glove-protected) hands while they nommed on bits of chicken. These well-trained birds swooping from person to person is an impressive thing to witness, and not a little disconcerting when one comes flying straight for you before perching politely on your hand until it’s had something to eat.

We got to see a selection of owls, ranging from a barn owl to a Great Grey, which, true to its name, was both grey and massive. (And dubbed “Clock Owl” by Andie and I, due to the fact that when it was sat on its perch prior to the session, it had the size, shape and appearance of a rather feathery mantelpiece clock.) There was also a South American burrowing owl, which was kind of adorable, too; rather than swooping around as the larger owls did, this tiny little thing preferred to scurry around on the floor, then occasionally leap and fly up onto anywhere that took its fancy — knees, hands, shoulders and even, on one particularly memorable occasion, the top of a gentleman’s hat.

We came back to the apartment for a well-earned rest after that, and we’re shortly to have one final night-time session in the Subtropical Swimming Paradise before grabbing some dinner.

It’s been a very pleasant — if quite expensive! — couple of days away, and I predict it will be quite tough to go back to reality on Tuesday! Such is the way with holidays, though; good times have to end at some point and we all have to make our way back to the humdrum nature of our daily existences.

Still, for now, there’s still more to enjoy, so we’re going to make the most of it.

1763: Fun-Filled Day

A rather pleasant day all round, really, though my aching body will attest to the fact that we’ve done a whole lot more than we’d usually do on a Saturday. That’s probably not a terrible thing, mind you.

We kicked off the day with a substantial breakfast courtesy of the awesome “breakfast packs” sold at the on-site supermarket, the Parc Market. This contained four sausages — decent sausages, too, not cheap crap — along with six slices of bacon (six!) and two lumps of black pudding. We also supplemented it with some eggs — because what sort of breakfast doesn’t have eggs? — and some hash browns. It was tasty, if rather filling.

After letting that lead weight settle in our stomachs a bit, we headed over for our first foray into the Subtropical Swimming Paradise. The Center Parcs I’d previously been to several times was the Elveden Forest one rather than this one here in Longleat, but I was expecting the pool to be almost if not completely identical. Sure enough, the layout was a little bit different, but all the same things were there — the lazy river, the two flumes, the terrifying fast slide (which appears to have been remodeled into two separate, smaller, single-person slides rather than the wide, multi-person slide it once was and, of course, the Wild Water Rapids. There’s also a wonderful warm pool outdoors that leads into the aforementioned Rapids, and an even warmer jacuzzi just off that. The contrast between hot and cold when you get into these pools and feel the cool air on your skin while the warm water heats up your body is rather wonderful.

After a bit of exploring everything the pool had to offer, we headed to the first of two “extra” activities we’d booked for the weekend: a spot of target archery tuition. This was a fairly substantial walk away from the main plaza building and involved a little bit of getting lost amid the many identical-looking streets of villas along the way, but we eventually got there on time to shoot a bunch of arrows.

I’ve done archery a couple of times in the past, and I’ve always enjoyed it despite not being all that good at it — my score in the competition at the end of the session was the second lowest. It’s inherently satisfying to feel that release of the bowstring and to watch your arrow arc gracefully through the air on the way to its destination, be that the bull’s eye of a target or the protective fabric at the back of the range. And that “thunk” of an arrow actually hitting the target? Wonderful stuff.

Andie did pretty well at the archery, beating my score by a considerable margin — although my pride dictates that I should mention at this point that I was shooting at the “grown-up” targets that were a fair distance away while she was shooting at the medium-range targets for beginners and/or short people. She still did great, though; evidently all that Bard training in Final Fantasy XIV is good for something.

After that, we caught the “land train” (actually a road-based train stopping at various destinations around the park) to the Village Square area, which we hadn’t explored previously. This small area, separate from the main plaza, features a few nice little restaurants and a pottery workshop. We were interested in the former aspect, specifically an intriguing little establishment called The Pancake House. It did not disappoint, providing huge and delicious Dutch-style pancakes (with the option of American-style pancake stacks instead if you prefer) topped with a variety of both sweet and savoury options. Andie went for a rather delicious apple affair that had lovely soft cooked apples along with plenty of caramel, cinnamon sugar and all manner of other goodness. I had an equally caramelly pancake, but mine featured lumps of honeycomb rather than the apples. It was damn good, but it was the second lead weight of the day to hit our stomach, which made the walk back to our accommodation rather hard work!

After a break back at the apartment, we headed out to the Subtropical Swimming Paradise for an evening swim as I’d previously enthused that it was very nice at night time. Sure enough, it didn’t disappoint; the outdoor pools in particular were lovely in the dark of the evening, with the underwater lighting highlighting the steam rising from these warm pools, providing a lovely relaxing, chilled-out environment that was blissfully largely child-free at that time in the evening.

After that, we headed back, ate steak, chilled out, played My Little Pony cards, went to bed. Then I got up and wrote this. Now I’m going back to bed.

Not a bad way to spend a Saturday, to be sure.

1762: Minibreak

It’s Andie’s 30th birthday soon, so I wanted to do something nice. Rather than taking the “present” route, however, I decided to book us some time away at a place I’ve been wanting to come back to for many years now: Center Parcs.

For the unfamiliar, Center Parcs is a chain of holiday villages scattered throughout the UK and across Europe. They have that holiday village “thing” of being largely identical to one another, regardless of which one you go to, so the fact that Andie and I have come to the much closer Longleat Forest incarnation of the chain rather than the Elveden Forest one I went to several times as a young ‘un is still filling me with a certain degree of nostalgia — plus, I won’t lie, a pleasing amount of feeling that I’m a “proper” adult for booking something like this and my parents not being involved in any way whatsoever.

Anyway. I have very fond memories of my various previous visits to Center Parcs. They’re situated in idyllic forest locations, and provide plenty of opportunities to walk and cycle around without having to worry about cars — cars are only permitted on site on Fridays and Mondays, which are also the only days you can check in or out. The accommodation is good-quality, too, taking the form of either small apartments (which we’ve gone for) or, if you’re in a larger group, villas and log cabins of various sizes. All of these are furnished very nicely, kept in good condition and set up in such a way that you can self-cater your holiday if you so desire; those feeling lazy and/or flush with cash, meanwhile, can take advantage of the various restaurants available in the main plaza building — which, this time around, we’re conveniently about a minute’s walk from, which is nice.

There’s a wide variety of different activities on offer at each Center Parcs, although on previous visits I didn’t partake in that many of them. This time around, we’re going to try some archery tomorrow and spend some time with some owls on Sunday. I predict we’ll probably be spending a fair amount of the rest of our time at the “Subtropical Swimming Paradise” — the huge pool complex that forms the centrepiece of each Center Parcs plaza, and a place that I fondly remember as one of the best water-based experiences ever.

The Subtropical Swimming Paradise is pretty great, for numerous reasons. Firstly, it’s huge, providing a large swimming pool-cum-wave machine pool for actually swimming properly in, a slow river to get caught in, several excellent water slides (a long, slow flume, a short fast flume and a large white straight-down slide) and a white water rapids to fling yourself down with enthusiasm. Secondly, it’s warm — that “subtropical” bit isn’t an exaggeration, since the whole place is deliberately made warm and humid to feel like you’re really on holiday while you’re in there; it also allows various tropical plants scattered around the area to thrive, giving the whole place a really nice look, particularly when compared to your usual municipal pool. Thirdly, it’s kind of beautiful at night-time — there are several outdoor pools lit by coloured underwater lighting, and the warmth of the water combined with the cool night air makes for a very pleasant experience. Going down the Rapids, which is largely outdoors, is also a lot of fun at night-time.

Today we’ve had a fairly relaxed day getting here, doing a bit of shopping for tonight’s dinner and tomorrow’s breakfast (though we forgot eggs and oil — back to the shop tomorrow morning!) and booking our activities for the next couple of days. Tomorrow, as previously noted, we’re going to shoot arrows at things and probably spend a fair amount of time in the pool, then the day after we’re going to hang out with some owls. Exactly what we’re going to do with the owls remains to be seen, but Andie likes owls so it seemed like a fun thing to do.

Anyway. Being away from home means being away from my Mac, Comic Life and Paintbrush so no comics for a few days, I’m afraid. I’m sure you’ll survive, though. You’ll just have to read my thrilling prose instead, huh?

1761: Sensitised

If you buy in to the popular perception that various forms of media — particularly movies, TV and video games — desensitise people to horrific and violent things, then you are an idiot.

Okay, that might be a bit strong, even if it’s what I believe. But the experience I went through this morning certainly drove home the fact that reality is reality, and fantasy is fantasy.

It was something I’d seen many times in the virtual world. Something I’d deliberately caused to happen many times in the virtual world. And yet seeing it in reality — even for just the fleeting moment that I did — was horrifying and disturbing.

I was driving to work as I normally do, along the M27, which regular readers will know is a road I despise for numerous reasons, not least of which is the fact that it gets very busy and seems to have more than its fair share of “incidents” and “accidents”, according to the overhead electronic signs. (I’m not actually sure what the difference between the two is, but I know that they both cause enormous delays on a nearly daily basis.)

It was early in the morning. The sun was just starting to rise, bathing the Eastern sky, which I was driving towards, in a pretty peachy-orange glow peeking out from behind the clouds. The day was dawning, and it was just about becoming possible to see things without the assistance of artificial lighting, though the streetlamps were still illuminated and most drivers still had their headlamps on.

The traffic wasn’t heavy — as I’ve noted recently, I’ve started leaving for work a lot earlier in the morning than I had done, as this allows me to miss the rush hour jams on the way to work, though I usually get caught in the beginnings of them on the way back when I leave. There was a steady flow of cars in both directions, though; people were on their way to work, though not yet in the numbers that would swarm onto the devil road just an hour or so later.

In other words, it was a perfectly normal morning. I was driving along, minding my own business, listening to some Emerson, Lake and Palmer and trying to make up my mind whether I was enjoying it or not, when suddenly it happened.

Over on the other side of the motorway, a small white van spun out of control then flipped over in what I can only describe as a movie-style crash. I was passing it by in the other direction as it happened, so I didn’t see the aftermath, but what I did see was enough to etch itself onto my memory for the rest of the day.

It didn’t look as if the van had actually hit anything; it looked like a loss of control. I wouldn’t have expected a simple loss of control to result in the vehicle leaping in the air and corkscrewing, however, but that’s what it did; it was a crash of the ilk you’d see in a video game like Burnout, only it was really happening. There was someone inside that van; there were people in the streams of cars that were speeding towards it, unaware that disaster had just struck a few hundred yards ahead of them. As I say, I didn’t see any of the aftermath, but I would be very surprised if there weren’t at least a couple of other cars involved after the fact — and I’d be even more surprised if anyone managed to get out of that without at least a few injuries.

It was a strange thing to witness; I felt surreal and disconnected, but at the same time painfully aware that it had really happened just a few metres away from me. It occupied my thoughts for the remainder of my journey to work, particularly as I saw the traffic starting to build up in the opposite direction and, with admirable response time, the emergency services start to make their way down the road to deal with the situation.

I don’t know how it happened or indeed what happened next; I hope that anyone involved in what looked like a horrific accident is as all right as it’s possible to be when something like that happens.

And if you’re heading out onto the roads in these wet and windy winter months, particularly first thing in the morning? Do please be careful.

1760: The Storyteller will be Late

Those of you who have been following this blog for a while will know that for the last few Novembers, I’ve done my own private NaNoWriMo–style project: to write a novel (or, at least, something of roughly novel-length) in the space of a month. You can read previous attempts starting here, here and here.

Previous installments have varied somewhat in quality. This is at least partly due to the fact that I tend not to plan out pieces of creative writing in advance, and in all these cases made a deliberate attempt to “improvise” the plot as I went along. The philosophy of “just write” in other words; pretty much the guiding principle of this blog in general, only with rather more of a focus than usual. And that’s pretty much the guiding principle of NaNoWriMo, too; to get some creativity flowing, and to do the initial hard work of getting something out of your brain and onto the page in a structurally complete form. You’re a lucky person indeed to come out of something like that with something you’re 100% happy with, but it provides a good starting point to then go on and edit, polish and refine if you want to — or simply move on secure in the knowledge that if nothing else you’ve practiced and refined your craft a little.

Those of you who have been following this blog for a while will have likely noticed that we’re well into November and no new work of fiction is forthcoming. I’d like to apologise for that. It wasn’t entirely intentional; in fact, I was actually quite looking forward to firing up the fiction-writing engine in my brain — it’s been a while; about a year, in fact — and seeing what on Earth I could possibly come up with this time around. I’d even had a few concepts I’d been kicking around inside my head, but hadn’t decided on which one I really wanted to pursue.

So what happened? Well, largely a lack of awareness on my own part, to be honest; the first of November came during that period when Andie and I were doing a whole bunch of things — firstly, we went up to Scotland for Cat’s wedding, then came back again; then Andie had a delightful day in hospital (nothing life-threatening, I might add); then we went to London for the Final Fantasy concert Distant Worlds. At some point during that week, I completely lost track of what day it was — November 1 was the night of Distant Worlds, and much of our day was spent travelling, so starting a brand-new creative project was unfortunately top of my list of priorities.

But never fear! (At least, not about this! Sometimes fear is justified, like when you lift your toilet seat and find a man-eating spider.) I’m still going to do “this year’s” writing; it’ll just be a bit late. Quite a bit late, in fact; so late, in fact, that referring to it as “this year’s” might be a bit of a stretch: I’m intending to start it on January 1, 2015.

Why? Well, largely because I have “one of those things” in my brain — somewhat exacerbated by Andie, who is much the same — where I like dealing with nice round numbers (we both turn the volume up and down in increments of 5, and God help you if you set the temperature in your car to something ridiculous like 23.5°C) and starting things at natural starting points. Consequently, starting a month-long project on November 12 is absolutely unthinkable to me, and thus I can’t possibly start until the beginning of a new month.

So why January and not December? Well, December is that irritating month with Christmas in it, and such festivities have a habit of proving somewhat distracting to the creative process in my experience, so I figured probably safest to leave it for now and kick off the new year in style with a month-long creative writing project. New year, new beginning and all that; what better month than January to start something like this, really, when you think about it?

Anyway. That’s the situation, if you were wondering. If you weren’t wondering, well, now you know, and if you’re particularly curious about what I’ve done in the past, you may well now have three novel-length pieces of unedited prose queued up and ready to read from previous years’ projects. I hope you enjoy them as much as it is possible to enjoy something so rough around the edges.

1759: Mingler

Are you planning some sort of event that will bring together a number of disparate groups from your life? (Say, friendship groups from different eras of your existence, departmental colleagues from different parts of your business or family members from various far-flung corners of your family tree.)

Are you planning said event to involve a certain degree of social interaction?

Then do me a favour: stop subscribing to the popular wisdom that “mixing people up” is “a good way for people to get to know each other”. Because it’s not.

The theory is sound: make people step out of their comfort zone and meet new people and there’s the chance of developing new relationships, be they personal, professional or even intimate.

But here’s the thing: jumbling people up randomly (or even semi-randomly) is not a good way to go about this, for a number of reasons.

First is that in many cases, people will just bugger your plans and seek out their original groups anyway after a while, making the exercise largely pointless in most cases.

Secondly, and more seriously, by doing this you put anyone who has even the slightest degree of social anxiety in an extremely awkward position, where they’re caught between the terrifying prospect of having to engage unfamiliar strangers in conversation without the support of their peers, and them coming across as that sullen loner who doesn’t talk to anyone.

I haven’t found a good way of dealing with this yet, and sometimes it’s unavoidable. Invite someone to, say, a wedding as the only representative of a a particular group (as happened with my friend Cat’s wedding a while back, where I was the sole representative of her Southampton years, albeit not quite alone as I had Andie with me) and I can forgive the situation as there is literally no alternative.

But if you deliberately and wilfully split up friendship groups — groups that have often formed on the basis of mutual trust — then I’m less understanding and, more to the point, less understanding. And considerably more prone to bouts of crippling anxiety.

I may well be in the minority on feeling this way. Social anxiety is a disorder, after all; a deviance from the norms of society. But I don’t think it really hurts to at least provide the option for people who feel this way to remain with the people they know, like and trust.

Or, you know, just stop doing this altogether. I get the intention and it’s somewhat admirable in theory. But it just doesn’t really work, and in the meantime, there’s a reasonable chance it will be putting at least a few people in the room in a situation of considerable discomfort. So just stop it, please.

Thank you.

1758: Those Winter Nights

I’m beginning to think that there’s not really any part of the year that is what I’d call “ideal” conditions in this country. The summer months are far too hot, and the winter months we’re moving into now are far too cold, wet, windy and just generally irritating.

There’s a special kind of unpleasantness about winter, though. As I sit here typing this, the weather outside can probably be best described as sounding “hostile”. The wind is blowing, picking up and howling through the streets and alleyways; the rain is falling, drenching everything and turning anything that isn’t concreted over into a swampy mire of brown gunge; there’s a draught coming in from somewhere around the window that I haven’t managed to identify as yet.

Not only that, but we’re at that time of year where, assuming you go out to work, you’re probably leaving your house when it’s dark and not getting back until it’s dark either. All in all, it’s a fairly bleak time of the year, and it’s unsurprising that it puts some people in dark moods.

I’m not sure what changed my outlook. When I was young, I used to quite like winter. I used to enjoy the early darkness and the necessity to carry a torch around — I must confess I still do have an odd liking for wielding a torch, even if it’s only an improvised one using my phone’s flash — and I used to like wrapping up in layers to be immune to the waves of cold in the air. I used to enjoy the run-up to the Christmas period, complete with village carol singing and the inevitability of being invited in for brandy and mince pies at least once or twice during our nightly tours of the mean streets of Great Gransden. I never used to really notice the bleakness.

So what changed? I wonder. Perhaps it’s just the fact that my life is very different to how it was when I was younger; the fact that now, rather than living the carefree life of a child, I have my own responsibilities and anxieties to worry about, including the necessity of getting up and going out — often in horrible weather — to get to work on time, then getting home in often equally horrible weather only to slump down, pretty tired out and not really desirous of doing anything other than something that doesn’t require a huge amount of mental activity.

Perhaps I’m just not quite in the rhythm of the full-time job set just yet. I’ve been doing pretty well, though; I’ve managed to maintain my routine of getting up earlier than I was, leaving earlier than I was and usually missing the bulk of the traffic of a morning and sometimes in the evening too. This puts me in a somewhat more positive frame of mind, even if the weather is as hostile as it sounds like it is as I type this. There’s still that ever-present feeling of tiredness, of slogging on towards some as-yet unknown destination. But that’s just how life works for the vast majority of the population; I should probably get used to it.

I have an away-day for work tomorrow. Not really relishing the prospect of having to stay overnight, but at least the accommodation is paid for (albeit in boardings described by one reviewer on TripAdvisor as “like a prison camp, only dirtier”) and we’re getting fed. And then at the end of this week Andie and I are taking a short break at Center Parcs over in Longleat for her birthday treat. I’m looking forward to that, so I guess there’s the objective for this week, if nothing else.

On that note, then, it’s time to wrap up warm, snuggle down under the duvet and get some sleep for a horrendously even-earlier-than-the-new-usual start tomorrow morning. Expect a grumpy post from my phone tomorrow evening, and the comics will be back the day after assuming I don’t just collapse from exhaustion the moment I get back in.

1755: Dad Rock

I have a playlist on my phone called “Dad Rock”. The title will be fairly self-explanatory to most of you, I’m sure, but for those wondering why I would call it that when I’m not a father (and have no intention of being one, either), the explanation is actually relatively simple. It’s a playlist full of stuff that I secretly quite enjoyed listening to when I was young and impressionable, but which during my teenage years I steered well clear of owing to the fact that it’s not at all cool to be into records from your Dad’s collection. Not that I was cool at all during my teenage years anyway, but that’s beside the point.

Anyway, the point is, my Dad Rock playlist contains a selection of stuff from artists like Pink Floyd; Yes; Emerson, Lake and Palmer; and the Electric Light Orchestra. It’s a playlist I intend to build on over time as I recall things from the past that I actually quite enjoyed, and ultimately will become a pleasing collection of somewhat retro music (largely erring on the prog rock side of things) that I can listen to at my leisure.

One of the first albums that I added to the mix was Time by ELO. I’m not entirely sure why this album has stuck in my mind all these years, but downloading a copy and listening to it on the way to and from work recently has confirmed to me that yes, it really is a cracking album and one that I’m very happy to have rediscovered.

Time, if you’re unfamiliar, is a concept album based around the theme of a man from 1981 (the year of the album’s original release, and the year of my birth) who somehow finds himself in 2095. The theme is rather flimsy, to be honest, but it’s a good excuse for a selection of vaguely sci-fi-themed tracks about The Future — or at least The Future as imagined in 1981.

What I love about Time is how unabashedly earnest and unironic it is about everything. It features lyrics that would be used in a cynical, sarcastic or parody manner today, but it takes them seriously. Take this wonderful little bit from Yours Truly, 2095, referring to an apparently emotionless robotic woman that reminds the narrator of someone he left behind back in 1981:

She is the latest in technology,
Almost mythology, but she has a heart of stone
She has an IQ of 1,001,
She has a jumpsuit on,
And she’s also a telephone.

Wonderful stuff. And it doesn’t stop there, but I won’t bore you with too many quotes.

What’s interesting about Time is how its vision of the future actually isn’t too far off the mark in a few situations. The above example from Yours Truly, 2095 is extreme, of course, but the prospect of the latest technology having “being a telephone” thrown in almost as an afterthought is already a reality thanks to smartphone technology and software like Skype. Similarly, these lines from Here is the News accurately predicted the launch of round-the-clock rolling news coverage and the subsequent banality that comes with it when there’s not all that much going on.

Here is the news,
Coming to you every hour on the hour,
Here is the news,
The weather’s fine but there may be a meteor shower.
Here is the news,
A cure’s been found for good old rocket lag,
Here is the news,
Someone left their life behind in a plastic bag.

More than anything else, though, Time is an evocative work that uses a variety of different musical styles, some well-crafted (if occasionally cheesy when viewed through a 21st-century lens) lyrics and some genuinely catchy themes. Despite the fact that the “narrative” of the album is somewhat shaky and unclear, it certainly does manage to evoke an uncommonly vivid image of the future — not quite dystopian in nature, but certainly a rather alien existence to that which we know even now in 2014.

Early in the morning,
The sun was up and the sky was very blue,
Without a warning,
As I looked out, my thoughts returned to you,
A noise in the city made the children run,
And hide themselves away,
And thunder boomed and lightning filled the sky.

Since I’ve always known Time as a complete experience — and there’s very much a feeling of a “journey” throughout the tracks, even if the narrative itself is a little muddy — it’s one of those albums that I absolutely can’t listen to on random play, even though I like most of the tracks individually. It’s a work designed to be experienced as a whole, and it’s one that still — for me, anyway — holds up remarkably well today. So I have a feeling there’s going to be at least a few more journeys to and from work with it blasting from my speakers, yet.

1754: Yet Another Exhortation for Websites to Stop Bugging Me

As the years have passed, the Internet has undergone continuous improvement for the most part. It’s now one of the most — if not the most — democratic media in the world, for better or worse, allowing pretty much anyone around the world to speak their brains on pretty much any subject they’d care to share with anyone who wants to listen. (This blog is, of course, a prime example of this in action; I’m still frankly bewildered anyone reads this at all.)

But not every improvement in the Internet has been a positive one. In fact, one thing specifically appears to be on the rise, and it’s not at all a positive thing, despite usually being implemented with good intentions.

I am referring to websites that, within moment of you arriving, pop up a Google Hangouts-style chatbox in the corner of the screen, often featuring a photograph of some overly-chipper looking person, and invite you to “chat” if you need help.

Now, in principle this isn’t a terrible idea. Those who are less familiar with the Internet will probably appreciate having guidance on hand — immediately, and without having to seek it out — should they run into difficulties. (That said, assuming that “those less familiar with the Internet” are too dim to determine that clicking on a link that says “Help” — as most (vaguely useful) websites offer — will actually provide them with assistance is, to be honest, rather insulting towards those who are “less familiar with the Internet”. And yes, I’m primarily talking about old people.) Having a live person on hand is, theoretically, a great thing, as it means you can ask questions without having to work out what the specific search terms to describe the problem you’re having are — and then discover the only vaguely useful search result is an unanswered forum post from three years ago of someone having the exact same problem and never resolving it, of course.

The implementation, however, leaves something to be desired. Take WordPress here, for example. I started composing this post and not five seconds after the post editor had appeared, up popped a little blue box in the corner of the screen cheerfully enquiring “Hello! How can we help?” It’s distracting, it’s annoying, it’s patronising and it is, in this case, unnecessary: I have been using WordPress for… (checks) quite a long time now, and thus it’s probably reasonable to assume I know my way around most of it — and that anything I don’t know how to do I’m perfectly comfortable with looking up in help files and forums.

That doesn’t stop this silly little box from popping up every few times I start creating a post, however — yes, it’s not even every time I start writing a post. No, apparently WordPress believes that maybe two or three times a week I’ll reach some sort of existential blogging crisis and rather than, as most bloggers would do, pontificate about it for a thousand words in a self-indulgent stream-of-consciousness post, I would like to “chat” with someone about it. I do not want to “chat” with anyone from WordPress. I would like them to be on hand if I have a specific question, but I’m more than happy to use the already established channels for that — I don’t need live support.

And it’s not as if this “live” support is particularly live, anyway. Owing to the fact that most chat support people are juggling a number of different conversations at the same time — each of which is with someone who has a markedly different thinking and typing speed from everyone else they’re interacting with — it can often take minutes at a time to get a response. Not exactly “instant” messaging. And, okay, it’s still quicker than waiting a day or two for an email response — or more, if you ever have the misfortune to deal with any sort of government agency via email — but the benefit of instant messaging is supposed to be that you can get an immediate response, and if that one benefit isn’t even present in these ever-present “How can we help?” boxes, then there’s no fucking point them being there in the first place.

I might write a letter. That’s always seemed like the most satisfying — albeit least time-efficient — means of expressing your dissatisfaction. Although sadly, it’s also one of the easiest to ignore in this digital age. But the recipient actually receiving and reading it isn’t necessarily the point in many cases; often putting pen to paper is a cathartic experience that makes the frustrated party get a few things off their chest and calm down a bit. It may not resolve anything in the long run, but, speaking from personal experience, by golly does it sometimes make you feel better.

So that’s how you can help me, WordPress. You can bugger off with your patronising little chat box, otherwise you might just find yourself on the receiving end of a sternly-worded letter written on actual paper.

Or not. I might just stop getting worked up over stupid little things like this and go and do something fun instead. Hah! That’ll be the day, eh?

1753: Shifter

It’s quite surprising what a relatively minor shift in your routine can do for you.

I said yesterday that I was going to try doing my commute a bit earlier than usual and see if that made a difference to my daily journey. Specifically, I woke up at 5:30am, snoozed the alarm for half an hour and got up at 6. Previously, I’ve been waking up at 6:30am, snoozing the alarm for as close to half an hour as I think I can get away with, getting dressed, having a quick breakfast and shooting out of the door as close to 7am as I can manage. Today, I managed to be out of the house well before 6:30am, which meant that it was still dark and cold — although at this time of year it’s still dark and cold at 7am, too — and well on my way to work considerably ahead of my normal schedule.

Surprisingly, I felt pretty alert. Sure, the espresso I had necked before leaving the house probably helped, but I often have one of those on “normal” days, too; this felt somewhat different, like I had somehow hit on the correct biorhythm and synced up my body with what the universe felt I should be doing and when.

I grit my teeth and clenched my buttocks as I approached the accursed M27 and prepared for the worst — and longest — part of my daily journey. I merged onto the main carriageway, accelerated, accelerated, accelerated… and before long, I was cruising at what I’d consider to be a normal motorway speed without being dragged to a grinding halt by overhead flashing lights declaring the recommended speed to be “40” and a sea of tail-lights indicating that no, I’m not going anywhere for a good while yet.

In other words, my journey was smooth, quick, uneventful and, most importantly, completely stress-free. I arrived at my destination in ample time to find a convenient parking space that didn’t involve a mile-long walk to the office; I walked the route to work still feeling fairly chipper and positive, and it put me in a good frame of mind for most of the day: compared to a lot of other days I’ve been working at that place, today was extremely busy and could well have been quite stressful had I arrived in a negative frame of mind. However, due to that good start to the day — all because I went through my morning routine an hour earlier than usual — it didn’t; rather than stressful, it was productive, and I managed to get a whole lot done on a big project that I’ve been working on, which was good.

Shame I had to go and ruin all that with my journey home, then; I noticed rather too late — i.e. once I was on the motorway and approaching a buildup of traffic — that I was low on fuel, and sure enough, a moment later the warning light came on. I pulled off the motorway to go in search of a petrol station, but made the mistake of driving into the black hole of despair that is Fareham, traffic capital of the South Coast, and ended up turning what should have been a 45-minute journey into one that took two hours. In stark contrast to how the smooth run this morning put me in a positive frame of mind, this appalling journey home was stressful, unpleasant and put me in a bad mood — albeit a fleeting one which has dissipated after some food and funny TV.

Just goes to show how little changes can make a big impact on the way your day goes and how you feel. I’m going to see if I can continue the routine of getting up at that earlier time and enjoying a smooth run in to the office of a morning; starting the day right is very important, and I experienced firsthand today what a big difference ensuring that start was a positive one made. So hopefully I will be able to keep it up.

I give it a week before I’m back to rolling out of bed five minutes before I absolutely, positively have to leave the house otherwise I’ll be late. But it’s nice to be (vaguely) ambitious.