Why then a Web site after such a long time of resistance? The prompt was someone who wanted to see my art. I did have a nice Chinese colleague who posted my art images ages ago and that site lapsed due to my apathy. I now have the same domain jrcrowther.com and intend to keep this one running. So my art is being displayed, but also I am tempted to throw more at it. Of course this is an admirable vehicle for unloading all I have stored and all I have yet to give in terms of poetry, and writing too. Why? I am tempted to say to give me a kind of immortality though the dilution of 'me' into the already trillions of bytes may be a futile gesture. I am content here, retired into a country life and now an artist, no longer shackled by my job description of scientist. What is useful is that the gathering of my data (I struggle against science yet) is refreshing through the action of organising things.
|Posted by jrcrowther on July 13, 2013 at 4:15 AM||comments (12)|
Sister was 61 yesterday and I thought she was 60! I made her day she says as she felt a year younger than her actual 61. Sent flowers and chocolates and a vase that were delivered on time. Also yesterday picked up new car, a Toyota Hilux. New cars smell great and I want to polish it, protect it like child. I fear the Marder (polecats) around this area that apparently can eat an engine for breakfast. Anyway I am lucky and can patrol the roads in my 4 wheel drive and now jump through some country lane and off--road. More likely I will make 50 trips to rubbish site to get rid of debris that has accumulated in garden. Today a picnic/walk. Pleasant sounding but waspsare the devils picked to ruin eating outside, and in league with the horse flies they torment any pleasure. I shall try not to moan.
|Posted by jrcrowther on June 27, 2013 at 6:05 AM||comments (0)|
It is cold. It is wet. My garden work thwarted, put back so that my back can be healed at least. Global freezing in play? Who knows and if weather is my only problem then that is good. Tomorrow to Vienna and IKEA visit, to be trapped there is frightening, directed by signs to have to walk the furniture maze. When Bessy the dog was younger I was caught there, her whining and straining to hold in her toilet and me scurrying to find a secret way out. Tnat was not to be and IKEA was one of the three strores she soiled in quick succession. Armed with black bag and antiseptic I sorted this out, what a man. Disdainful lookers-on melted slightly at cute puppy but nontheless an experience of feacal drag I could do without. The other experiences a fore-mentioned stores I shall leave out. The joys of dog ownership and thank God we only have a small one.
|Posted by jrcrowther on June 22, 2013 at 4:20 AM||comments (0)|
So I am sitting yet again, typing and pondering in that order, which is strange since some thought first should elicit the words. Thoughts first surely before the page? No, it is the same gambit. The same order to assess my order. Typing gives some sort of clinical patina to the process at least. Doodling with thoughts, transmission to the page of emotion, a jumble, bumbling approach which maybe says all about me, my identity. It can be fun of course like the manufacture of a bun through the random selection of ingredients. Seeing what comes up to be cooked, placing the mess into the oven, selecting the temperature for melding, the time for the heating up and cooling down. Then the examination of the product. The visual examination of charred corners, of black sweet bits on the surface, of the sticky ooze down the side, of the swellings and crevices. The acid test then, tasting. Sliding into the mouth, attempting to savour all it offers, deliberately rolling it around the tongue, teasing the palate, inducing the saliva, twisting and turning the bolus. And when all is said and done, we have to have some sort of conclusion, since we are human and that is what humans demand. The swallowing then of pride, admission things could be better, a hopeful ‘better next time’ statement. Maybe retching though, spitting out into the garbage can, a clear admission of failure. See what I mean about rambling? Of course we can always buy a commercial package, a processed unit, an accepted standard. Where is the fun in that, where the pioneer spirit? I do not want my life wrapped in sterile plastic.
|Posted by jrcrowther on June 5, 2013 at 9:35 AM||comments (0)|
Written some time ago as a result of changes to toilet rolls at my work place, the princliples discussed are more wide ranging I am sure. The workplace also reeked of acronyms and so you see these cheekily displayed below covering the toilet problems.
Have any others been affected by the low tensile strength of toilet rolls in our organisation? The consequences of this are many and varied resulting in mental and physical anguish. I did think about making a one hour film (silent) of my hang ups and downs and experiences with toilet rolls but was persuaded not to by a frowning and nauseated friend. Basically a new toilet roll set has appeared with a one-over-the other dispenser set up. The bottom roll when completed reveals a cardboard roll which can be extracted from the basal slot, thus allowing the upper full roll to fall nicely to be used. The system should work well and sometimes does but of late there are cracks and problems appearing. Generally the standard operating procedure for basic toilet practice (SOP BTP) should be simple. 1. Sit down and do the business 2. Pull the loose end of basal toilet roll and count off a number of pieces (a piece is defined as the length from one serration to the next). 3. Use the paper as per self-written and acceptable SOP. 4. Deposit said piece in bowl. 5. Repeat steps 2-4 until satisfactory. None of the other SOPs 3 and 4 will be discussed further. I am concerned with the toilet roll only.
So to 'Pulling loose end problems'
2a) Cannot find loose end. This is because the end is apparently super glued onto the roll. Attempts at finding the end are usually successful since there is a large ridge marking the spot. Often the operator has to use nails or teeth to break into the roll often severing many layers that when pecked produce a mass of short ends which have to be discarded. The end of the roll is then ill defined.
2b) Loose end is between two serrations and ragged due to someone else obviously attacking roll vigorously.
2c) On pulling, the paper rips after a very short time resulting in a piece of paper 2 cm long . This can vary between 2 and 8 cm (each plus/minus 10%). Net result is a useless, to most, piece of paper for effective ‘wiping’ with a low wiping index (WI). In desperation people have been known to use this or rather these, resulting in IWS (see Ineffective Wipe Syndrome).
2d) The roll does not move on pulling. There is no rotation since the roll is too large for the holder. Attempts at rotation usually involve both hands and it is impossible to get more than shreds of paper from the roll during this process.
2e) The roll does rotate but any attempt at pulling off paper is unsuccessful (see c) but a variation of gently turning the roll with one hand and gently taking pieces one at one at a time can be successful. This can result in RSI (see Repetitive Stress Injury).
2f) Associated with c and e is the resulting success after a long time when the roll does turn smoothly enough to allow free passage of paper and where more than two pieces can be taken with care. This approaches the acceptable normal state required (ANSR) for toilet roll usage. This can result in a euphoric cry of ‘yes’ which may affect neighbouring cubicles where people, are struggling to get paper.
2g) A variation is the ghost toilet roll where the bottom roll and its cardboard centre has been removed (or can remain and is removed by operator) only to find that the top roll is either 1. Non existence or 2. Cannot be encouraged to drop. This is a bad scenario since there is no access to paper.
One tip is never to do anything until the toilet roil situation has been surveyed and tested. (SOP visiting toilet, preliminary precautions -non medical). I now leave this problem in the safe hands of all you technicians out there. Tensile strength is the key and friction has something to do with it. My solution is to carry the wet-medicated type of basal wipe where a mere flick of a finger give me access to a well-lubricated, sweet smelling devise. However, I did once get my finger caught in the plastic groove when I had to fish for a piece which had decided to submerge altogether in the box…..life is never easy.
|Posted by jrcrowther on June 4, 2013 at 12:55 AM||comments (0)|
I have a thing about travelling on the underground. I lived in Vienna and travelled to work most days via the UBahn (as it is known in Austria). I wrote this as a tribute and I hope you also can look at my various poems on the pages of my Web site on the same theme.
In the twinkle of a second I have summed up the grotesque bastard opposite me in the U Bahn. A hag with a brown-green stained piece of tissue that she blows into every ten seconds. Her red nose gobbed with green slime, her eyes shot with blood, an illness so far undefined, but fatal to me- psychological-ly. She obviously has bubonic plague. She is the disease-ridden symbol of all the disease-ridden that ride here. I close my eyes to try and shut out her misery of throat seizing gulps of thickened mucus. Of course I should feel sympathy for another human creature, should empathise but, damn me, what the hell is she doing here infecting us all, transmitting her all. She should be picked up by the U Bahn sterilising police unit and burned at the next stop. What do you mean they do not exist? I can see one now coming down the train monitoring. He has the woman in his machine sights, she has no chance, burn bitch burn.
Well blow me sideways and up the nearest sewage down pipe if I am not on the U Bahn and for the hundredth time the only one sitting opposite me is an elephantine woman eating a mountain burger complete with lethal amounts of onion and relish laced with garlic. Not only that, but she has to lean forward such is her girthlyness in the tight seat. Despite leaning back as far as I can, I am no more than 10 centimetres from her foul mouth as she slobber-licks at the side face of her Eiger berger, nose quivering above brown teeth. Is she totally devoid of any sensitivity to what she does? This time I have had enough. I stand up and hopefully discretely hammer my briefcase into her face The 12,000 thousand thousand calorie object of her frenzied feeding frenzy disappears in one enormous gulp. She smiles now, contentment indeed. I am defeated, I cannot dent her. Oh for a gun or a chainsaw.
|Posted by jrcrowther on June 2, 2013 at 7:50 AM||comments (0)|
Having bought a wooden garden house, it was delivered. I opened the large pack and beheld the hundreds of pieces of wood. I closed the pack and sighed. This was not in my area of expertise and the instruction book depressed me further. I hired a local man to erect this edifice, he being recommended by another from a local building firm. Duly, the man/boy came and arranged for the erection. "A day, no more", he said. He did come on the elected day and I left him to the shedding. Now here is where his expertise and intelligence parted company. He was straight in, wooden verticals being rapidly sighted and sited, soon a shell then a roof and then hammering and screwing. I was happy to see my haven for sunsets and gin and tonics on a summer afternoon go up so quickly. I marveled at his confidence. Rain interrupted the proceedings and he came back a week later to complete his task. This time there was much cutting of wood and the later appearance of two others. My wife began to have suspicions that something was not quite right. Anyway he finished and an inspection followed. The door was not right, the bottom lock had nothing to fit into, and in fact the base of the shed seemed vacant! "There was no piece", he said and scuttled away after being paid (a sum that was considerably less than the case where a professional shed erector would have charged). In fact there were many faults spotted in the next 45 minutes. My wife consulted the almost pristine instruction book and realised with a molten expletive that the man had forgotten to 'do' step one i.e. fit the hexagonal base. We had a shed without its base. Step one then forgotten and the rest of the construction, an alteration-botch. He was telephoned to appear this weekend, he did not. There are a few lessons here. Instruction books are for reading and assimilation, no matter what the proud expertise. Competence has to be manifested and checked (I left him to it without interference). Cheap labour is a risk. Recommendations are a risk. Main conclusion 'Get step one right'. I had a personal run-in with an erection of a free-standing IKEA kitchen unit, got step one wrong and only realised this after step 79 when I tried to close the door on the finished unit! Anyway the garden house is erected warts and all and some reparations are in order. Pity to have had this experience but yet another life-lesson.
|Posted by jrcrowther on June 1, 2013 at 7:35 PM||comments (1)|
Having just mistakenly written my blog somewhere else I am amused at my relative incompetence at understanding simple instructions. It is late and bed is in order. I shall blog on the morrow and cogitate more on Instructions! OK, not worth reading but why should I be so different to the majority bloggers. Actually that is not fair since I have, as can be gleaned from this missive, never read a blog.