I will soon be moving into a new office, moving from a nasty concrete monstrosity into a lovely Georgian building that is being remodeled to house a research centre. In theory, there will be a substantial improvement as there is a dedicated area for bicycle parking, surely an improvement over my present situation: a choice between crowding my bike into my tiny office:


or locking it to the Bike-Thief Buffet outside the building (not just bike thieves, but also vandals and the low sort of saboteurs who will stoop to removing quick-release skewers from the wheels of properly locked bikes):


The new building, instead, has two old wine cellars that extend from a basement courtyard under the pavement (sidewalk), and the centre director has wisely reserved these spaces for bicycle parking. However, the proposed parking solution fell somewhat short, and in a meeting yesterday I volunteered to make suggestions for improvements that would actually suit cyclists. The arrangement looks somewhat like this:

The solid rectangle (above) depicts the courtyard area, viewed from above. A gate at street level leads down the stairs into the courtyard. The wine cellar/bicycle parking areas are about 3m deep, but only about 2m wide. They are currently empty, and are "secured" by fairly solid wire/metal doors. The only light is a fixture in the courtyard. The idea, I suppose, is that cyclists can park in the cellars and secure their bikes by keeping the door locked. This is a good start, but doesn't protect against internal theft (another person with access to the bike areas decides to have a bike upgrade), or external theft (someone breaks the combination lock and walks off with whatever they like), mainly because there is nothing to secure a bike to. There's also nothing to lean a bike on, except for the early risers who can lean their bikes against the walls.

One possibility is that I should just avoid parking in the insecure area, and just bring my filthy commuting bike into my new office. The new office with brand-new carpet and fresh paint, that is, which is four floors up by stairs (again, newly carpeted and freshly painted). On the other hand, how can I be evangelistic about cycle commuting if I practice a parking regimen that only a lunatic and/or martyr would consider? So more practical solutions are in order.

Obviously the first step is to install some kind of rack or fixture to which bikes can be locked. Any such fixture must allow the frame of the bike to be locked to it; there is a remarkable range of wheel-only bike racks which are useless from a security standpoint. Perhaps most ideal would be a row of Sheffield stands so that each bike could be secured to a stand, parked in a row facing the back of the cellar. But the building is listed and it's unclear whether any sort of drilling/mounting solution would be permitted. It's also unclear (to me) what the ideal spacing between stands would be. Another possibility would be a stand-alone bike rack such as a traditional single-face bike rack. Anyone who could carry such a rack out of the space, with bicycles attached, could probably not be stopped by any means. It seems difficult, however, to find such a rack of suitable dimensions (most seem to be 10' long or longer). In addition, it's necessary to have some lighting installed in the cellars, and to ensure that their doors are locked with quality locks. Combinations have a way of circulating, but this problem is minimized if bikes are also locked to a fixture inside.

So that's bike storage sorted (hopefully). If only the facilities for cyclists themselves were better. The building has a bathroom on the top floor. Which would be really nice as filthy cyclists arriving at work could get cleaned up first. Except that there's no shower, only a bathtub. I'm not so sure about a leisurely soak in the tub at work.

Very soon the Dunces will be eligible to apply for British citizenship. Although we both have permanent residence (technically, "indefinite leave to remain"), which confers permission to live and work without a work permit, citizenship is an important next step. There are various benefits to British citizenship for us...

British citizens can travel to Cuba without risk of being charged with federal offenses.

British citizens (at least those living in Tottenham) are able to cast votes against David Lammy next election (Mrs. Dunce's Australian citizenship already allows her to do this).

Naturalised British citizens must swear allegiance to the monarch, and no one loves royals more than I do.

If you're not a British citizen you cannot go on the dole.

Holders of "indefinite leave to remain" must pay to transfer their residence permits when renewing their passports; citizens don't need to bother with residence permits.

But the biggest benefit, and a major reason for taking this step in my eyes, is that it allows us to return to the UK at any time, regardless of where the circumstances of life may take us. Holders of "indefinite leave to remain" typically lose that right if they live outside the UK for two years or longer, and (I believe) must start the process from the beginning. And that process is bloody expensive these days (every step costs hundreds of pounds): both applicant and employer must pay for a work permit; the applicant must also pay for "limited leave to remain" (permission to stay in the country is considered separately from permission to work in the country. Both steps were free back in my day [2000]). Only after four years of continuous (work permit) employment in the UK can an individual apply for indefinite leave to remain (at a hefty cost). Employees who work on a contract basis (like my previous and current posts) need to apply (and pay) each time a contract expires and another one begins.

Eligibility for citizenship in our case is quite a straightforward matter: an individual (or couple) becomes eligible one year after being granted indefinite leave to remain. We would have been eligible in December, but for an administrative fumble by the governmental department responsible for preparing the residence permits. Mrs. Dunce's residence permit was issued in her maiden name (her married name appears as a minimally-noticeable amendment on the last page of her passport), so it had to be sent back for a correction (I am surprised they didn't charge her again). Anyway, the corrected version was granted nearly a year ago, and the date is fast approaching.

Of course, citizenship is not automatic. There are some minor hurdles that must be overcome. Some of them are quite easy, for example, verifying that neither of us has spent more than 450 days outside the UK in the past five years; stating that we've not been in any trouble with the law (true, by the way!); listing previous addresses; paying a few hundred pounds and waiting 4 months (average time to decision) for the decision to be made. The really annoying part, however, is the "Life in the UK" test. Launched in November 2005, all applicants for citizenship must pass this test (at £34 a pop). This requirement (perhaps along with the increase in fees) has apparently reduced the processing time from 13 to 4 months, but I feel rather insulted at having to pass a test with (apparently) such arbitrary content. Test questions are taken from Life in the UK, which we haven't got around to purchasing just yet. There have been plenty of news reports which give a kind of indication of the content (BBC, Guardian 1, Guardian 2, Telegraph, Independent. Yes I know I'm behind the times but this story is much more relevant to me now).

Some British topics I would be very happy to see on the test:
Darts
EastEnders
Real ale
Traffic regulations
History

Some British topics I would be very UNhappy to see on the test:
Cricket
Coronation Street
Buying a home in Spain
Motorways and A roads
Why immigrants should go back to where they came from, of course not counting the kind of immigrants like Americans and Aussies and the like because they aren't what's causing all the trouble innit, you know what I mean (wink), "immigrant" immigrants, the kind that's driving the country into the dumps, coming in and taking all the jobs and leaving good honest hard working people nothing, I remember when it was all fields here and all the children were down in the mines and we all lived on one pork pie a month and now the foreigners are everywhere and all the freezers are full of pies but they're made by immigrants and probably full of whatever they put in them.

Last night we decided to set out for parts unknown, in order to pay a visit to the very recently opened Pembury Tavern. Publicity for the Pembury is very limited at the moment: of the 63 main results of a Google search, only a single one (from beerintheevening) actually indicates that the Pembury is actually open for business. Even the small pubco running the show seem to be keeping it secret; their website only says "The Pembury Tavern is not yet open; we hope to open in September 2005." (some construction photos are cleverly hidden here). Nonetheless, we decided to pay it a visit on the strength of the promised "up to 16 real ales", as well as its accessibility from our home (short [free] train ride, or not-so-long bus ride, both essentially door-to-door). It's been closed for some time, and the upper floors have been converted into flats. First impressions were that it didn't look so much like a pub from the outside; frosted windows did read "Pembury Tavern", but the doors looked very un-pub-like. The side doors were also locked; perhaps making it unclear to unknowing passersby that the pub was actually open for business. Inside, it's absolutely huge, and its size was further magnified by the light-colored walls, overly-bright lights, and lack of customers (only one small group was there when we arrived, and there were never more than 10 customers at any time, including the 3 or 4 at our table). It's furnished with (giant) wood-top tables and your typical collection of chairs varying in shape and size. It was also incredibly quiet (not only because of the few customers, but also there was no music, no TV, at times no sound whatsoever). It's also non-smoking throughout, which meant a NYC-style temporary exit for certain members of our party at regular intervals.

As promised, however, the beer selection was impressive. I believe all 16 handpumps were in service, each dispensing a different real ale product. An assortment from the Milton brewery (including my favorite, Sparta), but also a goodly number from other brewers. One real cider on hand (Weston's Old Rosie, I believe, but I didn't taste it as I prefer a dry cider). Budvar is also available for those who absolutely require a lager fix, and there were an assortment of bottled products I didn't inspect at all. We stayed until the call of "last orders" (which actually wasn't much of a call, but more of a mutter as we were the only remaining customers), then hopped on the bus for home.¹. It was a very enjoyable evening even though the pub was empty, and I'm sure we'll be back in the future for more. I just hope there is a little more publicity in the very near future.

¹The bus ride home was very odd. Mainly because of the antics of the driver. Most notably, for the last few stops before our exit, he was engaged in a spirited arm-wrestling match with a very young girl (who had her arm through the cash window). He was at a disavantage because he was arm-wrestling left-handed, but also because he was trying to drive the bus at the same time. I was quite happy (and somewhat surprised) when we managed to get off the bus without incident.

Last week I wrote anout BBC's series "Balderdash and Piffle", a program about words and the stories behind them made in collaboration with the Oxford English Dictionary (that post is here). I was especially bothered by all the fluff that was included in the attempt to create some suspense, and to make the show more interesting or accessible. Well, yesterday was the second episode of the series, focusing upon the letter M. My hopes were not high, and rightly so as this episode seemed to include even more fluff. It started with an investigation of the term "management-speak" which, the show's presenter argued, is frequent enough in the language that it warrants an entry in the OED. Well, that seems straightforward enough, right? Just assemble an assortment of evidence showing consistent use over a period, submit it to the OED who will decide whether it warrants an entry. Well, that's not entertaining enough. So before the dénouement (SPOILER: the answer is "yes"), there was a lengthy and painful digression showing how ineffective Churchill's wartime speechifying would have been, had it been implemented and delivered in the application context of a management-speak framework paradigm. Ho! Ho! Ho! How silly it would have been if his speeches had been delivered in management-speak with crucial supplemental information provided by Powerpoint(TM). We'd all be speaking German today, jawohl! Und so weiter.

Another "fluff" element of Balderdash and Piffle I didn't mention before: various famous individuals telling the delighted viewers about their favorite word beginning with this week's letter. I can tell you that Germaine Greer's favorite M-word is "moan" (in the sense of "to complain"). Why this matters I cannot say, but just in case I should choose one for myself (I'll decide by the time I finish this entry).

Another sizable chunk of the show investigated the origin of the phrase "the full Monty". Various unsubstantiated theories have been put forward: "Perhaps. the most plausible is that it is from a colloquial shortening of the name of Montague Maurice Burton (1885-1952), men's tailor, and referred originally to the purchase of a complete three-piece suit. Also popular but unsubstantiated is the belief that the phrase is somehow derived from Monty, the nickname of Field Marshal Bernard Law Montgomery (1887-1976)." After substantial investigation, on-site interviews with individuals somehow connected with the two Montys, and some other digressions, various unsubstantiated theories remain unsubstantiated. However, an early piece of evidence for this term was found: a 1982 Manchester telephone directory which listed The Full Monty Chippy. Not exactly headline news, though.

Perhaps the best part of this week's program relates to the term "Mackem" (someone who comes from Sunderland, or a supporter of the Premiership's worst football club at this moment [won 1, drew 3, lost 16]). This term didn't appear in the OED (until now!), but is widely used (at least regionally). The piece may have been more interesting because it did not involve an annoying presenter, but instead focused upon a local publicity effort to find the origin of the term, and also because it really focused upon the word: the regional extent of its use, the semantic breadth of reference, and also trying to find printed documentation of its use (also raising the issue of difficulty in finding such evidence for terms that are much more common in speech than in writing). The segment also featured some brief interviews with young Newcastle football supporters (Newcastle and Sunderland are fierce local rivals) who provided helpful and amusing definitions of Mackem ("It's a _______ ________", "*******", "%£%@$%", and so on).

But I reserve my greatest vitriol for (what felt like) the longest segment in the program: exploring the term "man" (to me it's mainly interesting because of the amount of detail in the OED's etymology). It featured my favorite presenter who seems to relish the idea of providing filler fluff for the program, and went on and on about how shocking it is that "Man" once meant "Person", not just "Adult Male Person". This segment reached its low (and a low I doubt can be exceeded in future episodes) when the presenter made her way to the Cerne Abbas Giant (another link, National Trust link) (if you don't know about the Giant, follow one of the links or the following won't make much sense). While an overhead (helicopter) shot showed the presenter standing on the Giant's phallus (removed by the Victorians but returned to him later), she reminded us that a phallus does not make a man; she then made her way to the Giant's head! Aha! That is what makes a man! A brain! Not what's down below! This segment irritated me so much I intentionally soiled myself. I can't wait till next week's episode.

Anyway, now it's time for my favorite word beginning with "M". There are just so many to choose from. "Myth" has been a word of some discussion in the Dunce household (Mrs. Dunce wonders whether its origin is related to the cult of Mithras. Answer unknown so far), but I can't really call it a favorite. For now, I think I'll go with "maim": OED: "Originally: to disable, wound, cause bodily hurt or disfigurement to. Subsequently: to deprive of (the use of) a limb, etc.; to mutilate; to cripple." Documented uses of "maim" in the OED range from centuries old (Chaucer, c1395) to quite new (Maya Angelou, 1981). And there is some debate about the ultimate origin of the term, which comes to us from Anglo-Norman (mahaigner, maheimer, mahemer, mahimer, maigner, mehainer), and Old/Middle French (mahaignier, mehaignier, meshaignier). I was having a lot of trouble deciding between "maim" and "mayhem". Turns out I shouldn't have bothered; "mayhem" originated as a variant of "maim".

Last night Mrs. Dunce and I made yet another visit to our Local, one of the things I seem to blog about most often (Local-themed posts 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6). It was fairly early on a Sunday evening, but the place was deserted even for that time of day. Only a handful of regulars were gathered around the bar watching one of the FA Cup David v. Goliath matches (Burton Albion 0, Manchester United 0). It's always distressing to see a favorite business establishment so empty, but mitigating factors may have played a role (for example, the detox regimen adopted by so many people for the first week or two after the new year).

One such factor may be the very recent opening of the Pembury Tavern in Hackney, formerly one of the many examples of dead pubs in London. After a lengthy refurbishment, it seems to have re-opened this past weekend with practically no publicity; the only mentions I've seen so far are a very recent entry on beerintheevening.com ("[a] completely non-smoking environment in which to enjoy up to sixteen real ales"), and a couple of recent blog updates from Steve ("timeplease") who (it seems) has been putting in loads of work to getting it ready). But this minimal publicity is quite enough for me; we will definitely be making a visit in the very near future.

Usually my cycle journey between home and work is peaceful and relatively pleasant, with only rare instances of minor irritation (for example, cold, heavy rain or people attacking cyclists). Recently, however, I faced one of the greatest obstacles faced by the cycle commuter: the self-righteous bicyclist. Cyclistus officius, often spotted on Web forums and transportation discussion groups, has very strong opinions on the way cyclists should ride their bicycles, and more importantly, feels obligated to harangue anyone who disagrees. Such individuals can often be identified in the UK by their frequent references to the Highway Code and pedantic attention to violations of such. Now I too share their frustration when it comes to certain types of reckless cycling, especially where it endangers pedestrians (riding on pavements [UK for "sidewalks"], failing to yield at a zebra crossing, failing to stop at red lights when pedestrians have the right of way, failing to use lights at night) and/or other cyclists (riding erratically, dangerous overtaking, failing to stop at red lights when other cyclists have the right of way, failing to use lights at night again). But I don't mind a wide assortment of minor infractions such as disregarding a red light when it is safe to do so, stopping ahead of the "designated stopping area" (often occupied by a motor vehicle, itself in blatant disregard of the law), or riding outside of a marked bike lane (especially when parked cars are too close). Or the particular infraction I was committing the other evening on my ride home.

This time of year it's completely dark when I leave work, so my bike is equipped with some lights. A bright white light on the front, a red light on the rear, and two additional red lights on my shoulder bag (all of which are usually on a "flash" setting, which I believe is not technically legal in the UK). Unfortunately, the front light began to run out of juice, suddenly dimming until it was light no more. I pulled over right away and affixed one of my red lights to the front of the bike, so that I would remain visible from the front. A few blocks later, however, I heard a shout at my shoulder. I thought it was a friend of mine who has been known to cycle and shout (he may or may not believe that commuters who ride without mudguards on rainy days should die painful deaths), but when I turned to look, it was a stranger. A stranger, but clearly an excellent specimen of Cyclistus officius. He had sped up to get my attention, in order to harangue me for my illegal and dangerous riding. It seems that I was using a red light on the front of my bicycle, instead of the legally-required white light. Such offenses (he continued) should be punished by points on the offender's driving license. I am afraid my composure slipped slightly, as I called him a stupid idiot, and pointed out that I do not hold a "driving license". (Well, perhaps I do hold a "driver's license" from the fine state of Florida, but I do not believe the Florida DMV has a reciprocal agreement with some anal-retentive London cyclist). He started to say something else (from my own experience with other Cyclistus officius, I suspect it would have been from a manifesto requiring that all individuals be required to obtain some sort of cycling license before being permitted on public thoroughfares), but my mature response "blah blah blah" was enough to make him shake his head in sorrow at me, yet another cyclist who is making all cyclists look bad. And with that he dropped his speed back to whatever his normal pace might be, and drifted off behind me as I headed the rest of the way home.

It was such a surprise to me that someone would make such an effort to scold me (he definitely had to ride faster than his normal pace to catch up to me), when clearly I was doing what I could to make myself visible on the road. I hadn't violated any other rules of the road, and in fact there was a "legal" lighting unit mounted on my handlebars (although I had not pointed it out to him, choosing instead to say "blah blah blah"). By the time I got home, I wished someone had knocked him off his bike with a big stick.

Yesterday I went with Mrs. Dunce to the British Museum to see a special exhibition "Forgotten Empire: The world of Ancient Persia" (link to virtual exhibition). It's only been on for a few months, but even on this not-really-a-holiday was absolutely packed. We tried to go once before (on a Saturday not long after the exhibition opened) but all the tickets were sold out; yesterday it was still incredibly popular but we managed to get tickets for the end of the day (4:30pm entry). An impressive collection, not only from the British Museum's substantial holdings, but also plenty of objects from the National Museum of Iran and the Persepolis Museum (don't let them catch you following those .ir links!!!). And all sorts of reference to the Big Three (Xerxes, Cyrus, Darius). I was perhaps most interested in the various multilingual documents -- especially the various lesser-known-than-the-Rosetta-Stone¹ items which similarly could be used for translation thanks to their nicely parallel nature. I would have liked to look at them for quite a bit longer, but all the shoving got to me and forced me to move along too (Most people didn't seem to be very interested at all in these items, but still felt compelled to shove forward and look at them for a second or so, before shiny, shiny gold caught their attention). For all my griping, I really enjoyed this exhibit. I'm surprised it's moving along so quickly; it's still incredibly popular.

¹The Rosetta Stone is just around the corner from the Forgotten Empire exhibition, so if you're underwhelmed by the smaller parallel-text objects in the temporary exhibition, you can wander into the Rosetta Stone crowds and see it quite easily. Or buy a Rosetta Stone necktie or umbrella...

Yesterday was the first episode of BBC's series "Balderdash and Piffle", a television program about words and the stories behind them (made in collaboration with the Oxford English Dictionary). I'm extremely interested in this topic (see references to BBC's Word Hunt from my "nerd post" in July) but was rather skeptical about how the topic would translate to television. Sadly, I have to report that the answer is "not very well". The episode was brought to you by the letter "P" (all the words under investigation [except one] started with "P"). I suppose this is as good a theme as any, given the lack of similarity of any other kind among the words and phrases in question.

The main aim of the investigation was to find conclusive evidence of a particular usage (for example, "gay" [the one non-P word] used to mean "homosexual". Earliest such documented use 1935) predating the earliest instance in the OED's current records. And this, on its own, makes for very dull television: either a particular piece of evidence is definitive or not. In order to liven things up, an annoying presenter wandered around, visiting various members of the public who had found potential pieces of evidence (or even, visiting the National Archives looking for early evidence herself), then presenting this evidence to an OED panel. When the panel found the evidence insufficient (quite reasonably, I thought) she tried to wheedle (wheedle: Origin obscure. Possibly a survival in a specialized application of OE. "waedlian" to beg, orig. to be poor, from "waedl" poverty. - OED) and beg for the evidence to be accepted anyway (in a most unseemly fashion). She did have one instance of success: the term "ploughman's lunch" to refer to (essentially) a cheese & pickle sandwich, but this took a convoluted path laden with television-friendly fodder. First she visited a number of pubs (where ploughmen's lunches are served), then without success, went to visit some ploughmen (and did some plowing herself, you know, because she was talking to ploughmen). Still no success so then she visited someone associated with the British cheese industry, who directed her to someone who was responsible for cheese-related publicity in the 1950s and 60s, and indeed this person had some early advertising materials (unfortunately, undated) which predated the earliest documented usage. But then, finally, we followed her to the National Archives where she (eventually) breathlessly waved a few dated records of ploughmen's lunch publicity. And hooray, this evidence was good enough for the suits at the OED. But only a tiny smidgen of this segment had anything to do with words or phrases.

Other p-words were included, I guess, to fill out the program. "Pig", for example, is one of the few English words that actually seems to be of Anglo-Saxon origin. This was enough to launch a piece on pigs (and piglets, for of course the term "pig" originally referred only to the young of the species; once the term expanded to include swine in general, the term "piglet" was adopted to fill the gap). Similarly, there was a long (and quite entertaining) diversion into "polari" (an argot/cant used by various underworldly sorts, taken up by gay communities on sea and in London [EDIT: As Chig commented below, use of Polari was certainly not restricted to London]), mainly consisting of older Polarists reminiscing about some of their favorite terms. In passing there was another visit to the OED panel with supposed evidence for the homosexual sense of "gay", all rejected as ambiguous, thanks to coreference with the Gay 90s and very frequent use of "gay" in other senses. This is one of those cases where, most likely, the only acceptable evidence would be an overt definition or explanation in context (for example, one of OED's examples, from 1955, goes like this "Most of the officers at the station had been ‘gay’..an American euphemism for homosexual."). By setting a goal of providing definitive, conclusive proof, the OED has made this a difficult (but reasonable) task, but one ill-suited to television.

There is one real benefit to this series, however (in addition to gaining additional linguistic evidence which will be incorporated into the OED). In conjunction with it, the OED is making (some of) its online content available to members of the public (ordinarily there is a substantial subscription charge. Fortunately my institution subscribes). Words beginning with "P" are now available for browsing by the public (go here to play), and the full content of the OED can be browsed for 48 hours after transmission of the program (so you have 28 hours from the time I post this message). Judging from the list, I guess we should also expect B and M to follow. Possibly N too ("naff" was mentioned in the discussion of "polari", but no indication was made that its origin was also being investigated. In fact, its etymology was presented as an acronym N.A.F.F., but the current OED entry suggests that this is a "later rationalization" rather than an origin). I'm sure I will eagerly watch the additional episodes, but will be similarly disappointed. The world is just not ready for a proper etymological television series without the fluff.

This blog is a year-in-review-free zone because I've grown so bored of year-in-review articles and programs everywhere I look. I suppose they serve a purpose if you've forgotten who had the biggest hit in January, whether Tom Cruise did anything interesting this year, how that wacky German election turned out once all was said and done, or if the official first baby born in 2005 has suffered as a result of all the publicity. All quite useful if you spend your New Year's Eve making a highly-detailed timeline of the year just finished.

As usual, the Dunces had fairly limited plans for New Year's Eve (not including highly-detailed timelines, so we are not eligible for any timeline prizes [should any such prizes be on offer]). Previous New Year celebrations in the Dunce household have included a small gathering with another couple (who were unfortunately going through some relationship stresses; tears preceded the arrival of the new year by at least an hour. Perhaps the tears signified western Europe's new year), and two years ago it was just the two of us hanging around the lounge (plus a load of home-made Cajun food). Last year we joined a gathering of Folks in the early evening for some food, drink and socializing, before heading off to a (rather dire) north London pub featuring music by the Redlands Palomino Co (sadly they were not the headlining act). But we left fairly early, thanks to my nasty cough which, as it turns out has chased me on and off all year (that's NOT a year-in-review comment, just a whinge).

This year we decided to join the Folks again in the early evening hours. Most of the Folks had obtained tickets to the sold-out Tapestry club (hosts of the acclaimed Tapestry Goes West festival) at the St. Aloyisius Social Club in north London, but not us. Perhaps it was lack of planning (tickets were not sold at the most convenient locations, although we could have asked any of a number of people to get them for us), perhaps it was a total lack of enthusiasm for the musical act (early-70s style hard rock, all of their songs sounded like Black Sabbath songs that weren't quite good enough to make it onto their albums). Instead we were somewhat planning to visit a work colleague's New Year gathering, or perhaps wander into our Local, or the most likely but unspoken plan: when the rest of the Folks headed down to Tapestry in the 9-10pm hour, we would sneak back home and see in the new year there with the cat and the couch. But instead, we were drawn along into the Tapestry excitement as the evening progressed. Nearly everyone there was planning to go, and a spare ticket miraculously appeared at a crucial moment. So we joined the gang on the bus, headed south by southwest (ok, more like west by southwest but I couldn't resist), destination: St. Aloyisius Social Club. As the two of us only had one ticket between us, I considered various possibilities for getting in (sneaking in through the chimney, hiding under Mrs. Dunce's coat like a pantomime horse, barging in by overpowering the door staff, bribery, fast talking, etc.), or whether I would be sent home with my tail between my legs (in which case, most likely celebrating the turn of the new year from the top deck of the 253 bus, probably in the shadow of Holloway Prison).

But as we gathered at the door, another ticket materialized (I believe belonging to one of the advance party who had entered by other means [whether fair or foul I do not know]) and entry was assured. The advance party had colonized one of the tables near the bar, which is where we spent most of the next few hours. Crucially, the band (and DJ) were in the adjacent room, so we were able to socialize without shouting our throats raw. The party raged on, but eventually the Dunces (and the Autocrat) began to flag, and made our way to a nearby bus stop (not the nearest, mind you, as I decided to hurry up the street instead of down it, mistaking a "children crossing" sign in the distance for a bus stop [time to get my eyes checked, perhaps]). A couple of hours after midnight on New Year is not the most pleasant time to be riding a bus. Throngs of revelers trying to crowd onto it, including plenty of drunk, aggressive groups trying to stir up trouble with other similarly drunk and aggressive groups; confused travelers trying to get to distant parts of London on whatever buses were available; and those simply trying to keep their eyes open until their stop. As usual we were traveling by the upper deck, so we were blissfully unaware of the massive crush downstairs (no one is supposed to stand on the upper deck, so it's usually the least-crowded part of a double-decker bus). I was a bit worried about fighting my way out (one of my greatest dislikes is working my way through a crowd of people) but figured we had a little longer to wait. As it turned out, a lot longer. Just across Holloway Road (i.e., just a few minutes out of the shadow of Holloway Prison), as we passed a crowded bus stop without stopping (this sometimes happens when a bus is full, much to the dismay of anyone waiting) the driver honked the horn and slammed on the brakes, and a number of passengers on the lower deck did a bit of screaming. What a delight, our bus had apparently hit someone. We were seated on the wrong side of the bus to see anything, so we just waited as the bus mostly emptied and people milled around. Others crowded around the windows of the upper deck to see what was going on. It was apparently difficult to figure out what was going on, thanks to all the additional staggeringly drunk people around the scene (sample exchange: "Oh no!! He just got up and then fell down again". "No, that's someone else. The person who got hit is over there."). Surprisingly, after a few minutes the bus resumed its journey (apparently before any police or ambulances arrived [I guess they were all dealing with stabbings and drunken violence]). By the time it reached our stop, indeed it was so full that we had to fight our way to the exit (I pity the drivers who had to deal with this sort of fun all night). Fortunately Mrs. Dunce led the way, and I followed in her wake (she is quite good at this, and seems somehow to inspire a minimum of aggressive responses when she fights through a crowd of people). It was just a short walk around the corner and home (where the cat had had her own New Year's celebration, pulling lights and baubles off the Christmas tree and batting them around the house). And then it was off to bed, for the first fitful sleep of the new year.

Today's headlines shout "Coldest day in 19 years" as temperatures as low as -10C were reported in parts of the UK, and travelers are again suggested to avoid all unnecessary travel as the winter storms are due to continue today. So of course I decided to put on my layers and ride my bike to the lab to get some work done. After all, it was above freezing (1 C), and the rain was only heavy at times (and I couldn't tell that there was a 25-30mph wind until I was out in it). And the rain only got harder as I rode. Not being entirely equipped with rain gear (only my jacket and shoulder bag are waterproof), I got drenched pretty much instantly (even though I have installed fenders on my bike as a good cycle-commuting citizen). Fortunately I had enough layers that I stayed warm (thanks mainly to the Remington ninja costume I was wearing under my layers), and a small bit of foresight meant that I had some dry clothing waiting for me in the office. To conserve energy over the holiday period (the university is technically shut until January 2) all heating has been turned off; fortunately I was able to scavenge a space heater from a colleague's office, which (the heater, not the office) is now surrounded by damp clothing, giving a lovely steam-bath air to the office. By the time I head for home, my clothes will be dry enough that I can put them on, until I soak them again within minutes of going out the door.

Other than me, there are no signs of life in the building (most university staff seem to be taking full advantage of the official closure), so it's been a good opportunity to get a lot of work done without interruption or disruption. The nasty weather also meant that I was able to sneak into a very public space¹ (Be warned, the footnote may contain geocaching spoilers) to find another geocache. I've known about this one for quite some time (and have even seen it!), but there always seem to be lots of people in its immediate vicinity so I have been unable to complete my visit by signing the logbook. Today was different: the driving rain and cold temperatures meant that even the most hardened bench-sitters had gone somewhere else, so I was able to finish finding the cache and mark the logbook. Now I'm back in the lab with a hot cup of coffee and just a few more things to finish (and just a few more items of clothing to dry) before the journey home. At least the wind will be (mostly) at my back (if the local weather station is to be trusted).

^<1>The location deserves its own entry, not just a footnote to my new interest in geocaching. But for now, this will have to do. It's Tavistock Square, site of the bus explosion this past July (here are a couple of entries I wrote at the time: the day; the next day). Here's a very nice panoramic photo of the square, taken on a much nicer day than today. The main feature of the square is a statue of Mahatma Ghandi (photo, another photo); it also contains a memorial to conscientious objectors, an Hiroshima tree and Holocaust memorial (for these reasons, and its proximity to Friends House, it's the first stop on the "London Peace Trail"). All that right under my nose, across the street from my office.

The Bank Holiday Tuesday news was full of the terrible winter storm. We were not spared as nearly an inch fell in the morning hours. With my midwestern background I felt the total snowfall was downright feeble, and the media frenzy perhaps a bit excessive. On the other hand, in general this area is not equipped for snowfall in any amount -- there is nowhere near enough equipment to clear the roads, and most drivers are (presumably) not instantly prepared to turn in the direction of the skid (it is an automatic act for me thanks to a certain Bill Cosby routine which was played repeatedly in our house during my formative [pre-driving] years). So perhaps the warnings to stay indoors and eat your Christmas leftovers were reasonable.

We, instead, decided to take advantage of the holiday to take a ramble in the freezing cold (hovering right around 0 C, 32 F). Perhaps at my insistence, thanks to Opal Dunce's generous Christmas gift (GPS, European version). We loaded a few nearby geocaching waypoints and headed toward the Lea Valley, one of my frequent cycling haunts. There were a few people out and about, but nowhere near as many as there are in the summertime. That meant we were able to search for (and find) the caches with little fear of discovery. We were able to find three of the four caches: two micro-caches (small magnetic containers, each holding some paper on which finders could log their visits), and one "traditional" cache (a tupperware container with a log book and some assorted small items [finders are meant to take an item and leave another]). But the fourth (another micro) was a little too difficult (too many possible locations [a magnetic micro-cache, and zillions of metal surfaces], and a few too many passersby) -- even though we made a second visit to that particular location on our way home, we still couldn't find the cache. Even using the hint. But for a first geocaching outing, I think 3/4 is a good find rate (I should note that I've seen one traditional cache near my workplace, but it's in a very heavily trafficked area and I haven't gotten up the courage to sneak up to it). Oddly enough, all four sites appear in my cycling photographs from the end of September. When I took the pictures I had no idea there were geocaches in those particular areas; it's an excellent example of "right under my nose". All in all, our ramble took us just a smidgen over five miles (thanks to a slight diversion on the way home: we were magically led to Sharon's Bakery where we collected some freshly-prepared falafel for a much-needed lunch).

The weather storms are supposed to continue today; in fact last night's weather (and this morning's) warned that any sensible person should not make any non-essential travel. So I decided it was time for a bike ride to work. Somehow I made it here successfully through the lashing light breeze and treacherous bright sunlight, where I will labor diligently for another couple of hours before loading up the huskies for the dangerous journey home.

The Dunces had a nice Christmas at home this year, featuring lots of cooking considering there were just two of us (not counting the cat who did not partake of any of our holiday cookery).

We started with a sweet breakfast of sticky rolls. These were cinnamon rolls, made from a slightly sweet dough, then loaded with a maple syrup and pecan sauce, and baked until a lot of the sugary sauce escaped from the springform pan (whoops!) and filled the house with the smell of burning sugar (and loads of smoke for a short time). Fortunately the rolls didn't suffer, and the self-cleaning oven did its job on the charred mess.

We coasted through the day on additional sticky rolls and assorted snacks before the main Christmas dinner, which contained exactly zero items I would have even considered tasting at a younger age (but which turned out to be fantastic):

Strudel thingys: For this dish we boiled and mashed a couple of sweet potatoes (choosing carefully to get orange sweet potatoes instead of various incredibly-starchy white-fleshed root vegetables that are also called "sweet potatoes" around here). To this we added some sliced leeks (cooked in butter), roasted red peppers (from a jar; we did not roast them. This time) and chopped feta cheese and pecans (one of two ingredients in the whole meal a younger Dunce would have considered eating). After mixing these, we rolled them up in sheets of filo dough (they looked a lot like burritos at this stage), topped them with poppy seeds, then popped them in the freezer to solidify. After a couple hours of freezing we baked them. Mmmmmmmmm.

We also had some roasted vegetables: parsnips and butternut squash, cut into longish strips. A little bit of oil, some sea salt, and a bunch of thyme, and a long while in the oven made them roastily delicious.

And then it was the brussels sprouts. I'd eaten these guys only once or twice before, and I think I had a perfect record of retching to date (each instance of brussels sprout eating also included at least one instance of retching). So I may have been a little bit hesitant, but Opal Dunce was somewhat insistent upon this British Christmas standard. Imagine my surprise when they were really wonderful (pan-browned in butter with slices of garlic and pine nuts).

And for dessert, we had a HOME-MADE cheesecake (topped with raspberries, the other ingredient a younger me would have eaten). This was Opal's first home-made cheesecake (although I helped with the mixing, Opal should be given full credit for this one), and perhaps brought us some stress as the process was not entirely smooth. It was meant to be baked at 180 (C), and we are sure that the oven was set to 180 at least at the beginning of the first baking phase. But somehow (perhaps by an accidental brushing against the temperature dial, perhaps by a ghost, perhaps kitty-sabotage) the cooking commenced at 130 instead. So it really didn't solidify until we rectified the error (after two baking cycles had been completed). As it turns out, cooking a cheesecake at 130 for the designated time, followed by 180 for (nearly) the designated time, was a reasonable success. So after a shortened cooling period (supposed to be 8 hours, but we didn't want to stay up until 4am waiting for dessert), we tucked in. Yum, yum.

Today, Boxing Day, will safely be a day of leftovers. But tasty, tasty leftovers. And of course the servants can have their holiday as well now.

In reading today's news I came across a sentence that seemed so horribly ungrammatical that I decided I had to rant about it. I found it in an article in the Guardian with the headline Defiant Bush defends wiretapping powers. The headline itself is an interesting example of a "garden path" sentence. "Defiant Bush defends wiretapping" would be a perfectly good sentence, and it seems to me that "wiretapping" occurs much more often as a noun than as an adjective (I don't have any firm data; "wiretap" is not such a common word). In the above headline, however, it's used as an adjective, modifying the noun "powers". When I first read it, I was briefly "garden pathed": the word "powers" seemed anomalous and I had to think a moment in order to correctly comprehend the sentence. That's not ungrammatical, though, just potentially difficult.

The ungrammaticality comes in the first subheading (or whatever it's called in the online news biz): "Democrats scent blood after reining in privileges". I thought that surely it should be "smell blood"; isn't "scent" a noun? But before charging in with a rant on the theme of "SCENT IS A NOUN AND ONLY A NOUN, AND ANYONE WHO USES IT AS A VERB SHOULD BE DRAWN AND QUARTERED", I thought I'd sniff around the various uses of "scent". Of course "scent" can be used as a verb in a transitive sense, meaning to infuse something with a different smell (for example, Google search for "scented the * with" finds assorted sentences of the form "X scented the Y with Z") but in this instance the Democrats do not seem to be infusing blood with any particular aroma. As it turns out, however, "scent" has centuries of history as a verb, particularly in the context of hunting ("scent blood" as essentially synonymous to my preferred "smell blood"); the Oxford English Dictionary gives an example (c.1400): "Whan hares be ygete with the kynde of a conynge..the houndes lust nor sentith hem nought so wele." So I definitely shouldn't rant about what seems like an entirely correct use of the verb "scent". I am somewhat vindicated by the observation that "scent blood" is far less common than "smell blood" (1040 Google hits for the former, 89,900 for the latter), and that "scent" is far more commonly used as a noun than a verb (even in British English; the British National Corpus of 100 million words includes 851 instances of scent used as a noun, vs. only 27 as a verb). So it's not ungrammatical, just unusual. Some might say, however, that a sufficiently unusual form of expression may as well be considered ungrammatical. It depends on how you define "ungrammatical", which is perhaps a question for another day (if you are the keeper of the "rules of grammar" [part of the OED definition of "ungrammatical"] please step forward as I have a few questions for you).

I guess the BLT pizza. while not showing many signs of actually being the "#1 pizza in USA", is still reasonably well-known at least in certain parts of the USA. For some reason my attention has repeatedly returned to various different and unusual pizzas and pizza toppings. For example, it struck me as very unusual that sweetcorn (just "corn" to US readers) is such a popular pizza topping here in the UK. I was also very confused by one vendor's "Indiana" pizza (primary ingredient: tandoori chicken); as a Hoosier born and raised in Indiana, I couldn't figure out what tandoori chicken has to do with Indiana. As it turns out, my Indiana bias led me to ignore the general properties of pizza name formation in the Italian tradition: "Indian + a" (I leave it to the reader to speculate on a pizza topping that accurately reflects Indiana [sweetcorn, perhaps?]). And some of our recent family holiday conversation turned around my brother's German experience of Pizza mit Polyp. Sounds disgusting indeed until you realize that "Polyp" is simply Tintenfisch aka octopus (Well, I suppose some people may find an octopus pizza just as disgusting as a polyp pizza).

With my perhaps excessive interest in pizzas, my attention naturally turns to northeast England, in particular Stockton-on-Tees, town where the friction match was invented, and home of the least prototypical pizzas that I have personally experienced (i.e., "been in the same room with"; not necessarily "eaten"). I will start with the Tropicana which starts with an ordinary pizza (mozzarella, tomato sauce, mushrooms, ham, and perhaps slices of onion if I recall correctly), and then takes the Hawaiian experience that much further by including not only pineapple but also tender slices of banana. It's sort of like dinner and dessert all in one, and why not -- it's all heading to the same place. I didn't try any, although I guess I could have picked off the ham (and maybe the bananas too).

Next on the menu is the Doner Pizza, of which I also claim personal experience despite not consuming any of it,¹ as several pieces were threateningly brandished in my direction. The doner pizza is essentially an attempt to project the three-dimensional doner kebab onto a two-dimensional surface. The typical ingredients of a doner kebab are not all represented in doner pizza. Included are lamb sliced from a massive meat cylinder which one hopes has been kept at a suitably high temperature; spicy chili (or "chilli") sauce, and some variant of tzatziki sauce both of which are poured generously onto the giant heap of meat (by the way, the "heap" ruins the mathematical purity of the doner pizza as a 2-d projection). Which in turn rests on an ordinary pizza crust (taking the place of the traditional pita). Not included on the doner pizza are any members of the vegetable family. The doner pizza is a great improvement upon the ordinary doner kebab as, erm, well, hmmmmm. Let me get back to you on that one.

But next up is the true wonder of the pizza world. The London Pizza is an amazing step toward making the ordinary pizza into a complete meal on its own. How often have you ordered a pizza and a portion of chips (a.k.a. "french fries" or "deep fried potatoes") and wished you could eat them at the same time? Well, the London Pizza allows you to do just that. It starts with an ordinary cheese pizza (mozzarella, tomato sauce) upon which is heaped a giant portion of chips fresh out of the fryer. On top of the chips, if you're lucky, some sauce (either chili/chilli sauce [as above] or creamy garlic sauce). If you're unlucky, just try and choke them down "dry" (not really dry, as they will have retained some portion of the frying oil that has not soaked into the crust, and then into the box, and then into whatever the box is sitting on). I've experienced the London Pizza twice (the first time, doubly-sauced [the pizza, not me]; the second, dry as a bone), and I can say that if you ever face the decision of "sauce or no sauce" on your own London Pizza, please choose whatever sauce is at hand. Oddly, I have not yet been able to find a "London Pizza" in London proper, but I guess they'd just call it "pizza" here.


¹Feel free to attempt a less awkward and more grammatically correct syntactic rendering of this ugly modifying clause with its nasty dual co-referential "of"s and their unpleasant pronominal partners "which" and "it".

We get a lot of flyers for fast food delivery through our mail slot. Sadly, most of them are incredibly underwhelming and, if anything, make me dream of the nutrient capsules we will be eating instead of food in the future. But once in a while there will be a gem. Maybe not a gem of the "good food" sort, but a gem nonetheless.

Today's gem is a piece of information concerning American pizza preferences, brought to you by "Top Pizza" of Stamford Hill ("Top Pizza Special": beef, pepperoni, onion, mushroom, green peppers, ham & sweetcorn). What do you think is the "No. 1 in USA" pizza? Before seeing the definitive information provided by the authorities at Top Pizza, my guesses would have been something like this:

1. Pepperoni
2. Sausage
3. Cheese

And misinformation provided by pizzaware.com seems to confirm my guesses to some extent: "Pepperoni is by far America's favorite topping, (36% of all pizza orders). Approximately 251,770,000 pounds of pepperoni are consumed on pizzas annually. Other popular pizza toppings are mushrooms, extra cheese, sausage, green pepper and onions.". Fortunately this kind of misguided thinking has been debunked by Top Pizza who clearly describe one particular pizza as "No. 1 in USA"). That pizza is (drum roll please.....)











Of course it is .... the BLT. Bacon, lettuce & fresh tomatoes. Nothing we Americans like better than the BLT pizza. A Google search reveals only 737 hits for "BLT Pizza", but I assume most of the vendors have given it a zingier name for advertising purposes (or to integrate it more completely into their line of less popular pizza products). I am not sure whether the crust is made of lettuce (you know, to catch all those Atkins stragglers who haven't heard yet), or whether it contains mayonnaise (an additional requirement of the BLT despite its uncredited appearance). And I'm not sure how well the BLT translates into Britain where bacon is of a decidedly different nature (thick and soft rather than thin and crispy). Nonetheless, BLT enthusiasts rejoice; your pizza is No. 1 in USA!!!