This week I'll be mostly getting a good night's sleep

Night all.

I get paid to think about work between the hours of nine and five on Monday to Friday, so why would I want to think about it while I'm asleep? My head has decided - all on it's own - that night time is the best time to get some thinking done. I have decided - all on my own - that my head has got it wrong. There really is no point in thinking about stuff while you sleep. Particularly not work.

This is not strictly true. I've done some of my best bits of work while I've been asleep. Like Mary Shelley, I once stitched together a right monster of an application in my sleep. I even got to the point where I would get half hour's kip on the 17:35 Harlow to Liverpool Street, and wake up at Brimsdown with an RPG source debugger window cobbled together in my head.

But we digress. Nowadays I'd rather not think about work if I can help it. So it's been getting on my wick a bit to find I'm waking up at 3am composing an email, then again at 4 reconfiguring the change control system.

So I've taken to taking a herbal remedy to get some sleep. It's working. And I'm not working. Not tonight anyway.

This week I'll be mostly the executioner

Game, set and match.

"Athletic with a fatal twist" is not what it says on the box, but it ought to.

When we moved into our current home, it had been empty for a while, so the spiders had already moved in. We spent a few weeks trapping them under cups, hoovering them up and whacking them with slippers. During the August nights we also had mosquitos to deal with, and now we're into September the crane-flies have started turning up.

So when I got sent The Executioner for my birthday, it turned out to be a revolutionary addition to the household anti-insect armoury. It's basically an electrified tennis racquet for swatting bugs with. So yes, it is "athletic with a fatal twist". You just press the button, do your best backhand smash at your pesky crane fly, there's a satisfying crackle, a final twitch of wings, and your bedroom is insect free again.

It's game, set and match for those insects.

This week I'll be mostly mentioning the war

Don't mention the war.

We've had quite a few Germans round our place recently, along with some Spanish and Swiss. We prefer the Germans, which is not to say that we don't like the Spanish and Swiss, we just ... prefer the Germans.

However, there has been a sense of nervousness at times. Like when we were watching a Miss Marple with references to a character killed at Dunkirk. Or explaining Jersey Liberation Day. Or Abbie asking what Hitler's first name was. Or finding a World War 2 Tanks homework laying on the table. Ridiculous things to be nervous about, I know.

Yesterday Abbie mentioned the war, "and I think she got away with it". In fact, we had quite an interesting and enlightening conversation around the dinner table, which I will not be making any observations about, witty, or otherwise.

Today our German house guest told us that this morning she had seen a very English 1970s sit-com where a hotel manager is incredibly rude to the German guests. Ah yes, we know it well, we told her. After a number of weeks of nervousness, it was most liberating to launch into my best Basil Fawlty impression: "Don't mention the war, I mentioned it once and I think I got away with it."

I did stop short of doing the other classic line though. Altogether now: "You started it... You invaded Poland!"

This week I'll be mostly not seeing the wood for the trees

Mizaru

[Warning: boring alert. I appear to have written 600 words. Sorry about that.]

I've been sitting out on the terrace (I think we've decided to call it the terrace), trying to work out where I actually am. There aren't a lot of landmarks. I've got trees to the left of me, and trees to the right ("and here I am, stuck in the middle with you"). The only giveaway to where I might be is the smattering of building tops to the southeast, the field on a steep rise southward with a line of trees either side, and those 4 tower blocks over the hill. Past that there's the sea, possibly the Minquiers on a good day, then the coast of France. It's difficult to tell exactly though.

Now here's what I know. Obviously, those four tower blocks are the ones at Le Marais. They are slightly to my right, so working out my line-of-sight from them, it is more obvious that I'm not quite looking due south, but more likely south-south-east.

And what about those trees to the left of me and the trees to the right? The trees to the left run in a straight line up the hill and down the other side to Longueville Manor. The trees to the right run in a straight-ish line up the hill parallel with Les Varines for a bit, then and down the other side to the back of the Derek Warwick Honda garage. Those two lines of trees frame my view of the sea. On the horizon is the French coast.

If you sit here at 8:45 on a Saturday morning, the St Malo ferry heads out across the channel from right to left before it disappears out of sight behind the Longueville trees, then it appears five minutes later heading left to right. So St Malo is over there somewhere.

I'm going to take this opportunity to have a look on Google Earth.

Now here's the science bit:  I'm sitting outside at 49°11′17.56"N 2°04′56.58"W. The brow of hill is 250 metres away. The width between the trees at the brow of the hill is 100 metres. So the viewing angle between the trees is: tan-1((100/2)/250) x 2 = 23°. The French coast is 35 miles away. So the length of coast I can see between the trees is: tan(23°/2) x 35 x 2 = 14 miles. The right-most trees are almost exactly due south. The left-most trees, then, are almost exactly south-south-east.

So it turns out that the right-most bit of French coast I can see is St Malo, or thereabouts. The left most bit of coast is probably around about Cancale. If that's the case, then I can't see Les Minquiers out at sea - those pesky Derek Warwick trees are in the way.

Over the top of the trees to the left, those buildings are at Grouville. Judging by the lie of the land, those buildings might be on La Rue de Grouville. But there are cars going past quite frequently, so it might actually be La Rue a Don. We drove down there recently trying to recognise the buildings from the road, but couldn't work it out. Can't quite work it out from Google Earth either. Will have to look into that further.

Of course, as you're not sitting here with me, taking in the view and feeling the warmth of the September morning sun, you've got nothing out of this other than having been bored senseless. Sorry about that. I've enjoyed it though.

This week I'll be mostly not hearing traffic

Kikazaru

We've never lived in a house that you could consider to be on a main road. Not until the one we just moved out of. But on Jersey, beggars can't be choosers, and when you are looking for a non-qually 4 bedroom house, you take what you can get. Yes, it might have been convenient for the schools, and a half hour walk to work. And yes, there might have been the illusion of trees and fields and open space opposite. But in reality, we lived in a house on a main road. Traffic jammed up outside from 7am till 9am, Monday to Friday. Pub goers staggered past shouting at each other from 11pm to 3am Friday to Saturday. Nice house. Nice location. Shame about the actual, erm, location.

That house, with its main road and its poorly fitted typical Jersey 'spoil the ship for a hapence of tar' rubbish double glazing, was somewhere you would hear traffic all the time. We got used to it. And then we moved.

This house we are now in is just a couple of minutes down the road. (2 minute drive, 3 minute run, 4 minute brisk walk - we've timed all the combinations.) But it's a couple of minutes in an altogether more rural direction. Where there used to be the illusion of trees and fields and open space opposite, here we are now, slap bang in amongst the trees and fields. As I sit here writing this I can hear ... wait a moment while I listen ... some wood pigeons, some geese, some other birds that uncle Roger would - I'm sure - instantly recognise, the turning of pages of Sarah's book, and a very quiet, very low hum, which might possibly be the St Malo ferry a couple of miles out.

I've already got used to being woken up by the geese at 5am, or the peacock at 5.30. It is possibly almost as therapeutic as the church bells every quarter of an hour at the Rectory in Hatherleigh. Almost.

This week I'll be mostly not saying anything

Iwazaru

Erm, hello. Again.

There was some research done last year that concluded that blogging is good for your health. The most well adjusted people - so the research said - are the ones with blogs. I considered writing a witty piece of commentary about how blogging is bad for your health; how the stress of coming up with something to say, week in week out, might cause one to become acutely unhinged.

Instead, I said nothing.

A few weeks later my head was full up with stuff to say but I wasn't getting round to writing any of it down. I considered writing a witty piece of commentary about how not blogging is bad for your health; how the stress of saying nothing, week in week out, might cause a more chronic unhingedness than the acute unhingedness of having to come up with stuff all the time.

Instead, I said nothing.

As the weeks went by, I continued to fail to come up with anything to say. Anything I did say got half-written, but remained unfinished. I considered writing a witty piece of commentary about how not actually blogging is bad for your health; how the stress of coming up with stuff to say, but not actually coherently saying it anywhere or to anyone, might cause a combination of acute and chronic unhingedness that is worse for your health than either coming up with a weekly trickle of drivel, or just keeping it all bottled up.

Instead, I said nothing.

Half a year went by. I resolved instead to write about a particularly interesting display of topiary I had seen at the local garden centre. I wrote one sentence on that. You just read it. Three sentences ago. I had some thoughts about being carbon neutral. I didn't even write them down. (Writing them down wasn't carbon neutral, so would've defeated the point.)

Instead, I said nothing.

I was, it turned out, becoming quite unhinged. Rather than passively saying nothing, I decided the only remedy to my unhingedness was to actively say nothing. I deactivated my Facebook account, popped back into HooToo just to get my coat, and deliberately mislaid the passwords to Blogger and Flickr and YouTube. I stopped taking photos, and videos. I stopped kidding myself that there was any merit in writing, researching, reporting, photographing, videoing, editing, composing, (social) networking, etc, etc.

In short, I stopped saying anything to anyone about anything at all.


I'd like to think there was some kind of conclusion to all of this. Some kind of real reason why I've reactivated my Facebook account, and am considering a return to some of those other online places.

There isn't a conclusion. I'm just going to give it another go. Try it out and see what happens. "We're starting again, Timmy."