write.as/jonbeckett

It's heading towards midnight, and I'm sitting in the junk room, thinking back through the day. Unfortunately sitting in front of a desk all day writing software doesn't really translate into interesting, entertaining, or insightful words of wisdom.

I looked in on LinkedIn while on a coffee break this morning, and almost convinced myself that it might be a good idea to write opinion pieces about software development, web development, computers, technology, the social internet, and so on.

Here's the thing though – I tend to look at all the people posting their stuff on LinkedIn, and think they're all frauds – that they're all pretending to be somebody, or something. Worky work people posting about worky work things to impress other worky work people. A bit like fashion and beauty magazines – written by aloof female journalists to instruct other women how to look, and make them feel bad about themselves if at all possible.

I suppose I've got to the stage in my career where I don't really have to try and impress or prove anything to anybody. I'm quite happy sitting quietly at my desk churning out elegant, efficient, fast, logical code that my co-workers can understand, and invariably gets buried in the underbelly of systems and forgotten about.

There's a strange duality when it comes to software development – the better you do your job, the less anybody notices – and I'm fine with that.

I removed all the stock photos from my blog posts earlier. I intended to write about it when I did it (at lunchtime), but one thing after another happened, and I didn't get around to writing anything about it until this evening. I'm writing this at 8:30pm. I suppose the motivation for removing the photos is to simplify. To stop “playing the game”.

In other news, Miss 18 became Miss 19 today. I bought curry from the supermarket on the way home from work, and my other half made a cheesecake last night. We all feel sick now – a good sick though. I might have overdone it on the aloo sag and bombay potatoes. I don't think there's such a think as “overdoing it on the cheesecake” – not in this house, anyway.

Oh – nearly forgot – I might have stopped using the bullet journal. I realised I could use Google Keep in almost exactly the same way – to record what I need to do each day, and what needs to be done in the coming days. I say “might” because I still like the idea of a bullet journal – it just seems a bit backwards to keep going with pen and paper when a computer has so many benefits. Even the Moleskine journal has gone untouched for months – if I ever want to empty my head, I tend to do it on the blog – not on paper.

Anyway. Enough pontificating about things that don't really matter.

I read this morning that lots of people are leaving Netflix over their cancellation of “The OA”. Apparently the “lots of people” think they are a force to be reckoned with – but in classic myopic internet fashion, don't realise that their algorithmically collated echo chamber community is in the vast minority. Yes, “The OA” was a wonderful show – just like “Halt and Catch Fire”, “Community”, and a hundred other shows that I talk about with friends and family before discovering that few have ever heard of them. The internet is a bit odd like that. I think maybe some shows are like marmite – you either love them, hate them, or have ever heard of them – and Netflix is only going to carry on paying for things that lots of people are talking about. I suppose if we follow this through to it's conclusion, we'll just end up with reality shows, and various forks of CSI.

Why do crime scene investigation TV shows always have to have such spectacular stories filled with sculduggery, lies, and deceit? Why can't they ever have somebody die because they tripped over ? I don't suppose the episode would last very long though...

I'm sitting in the dark of the junk room at home, typing this on the old computer that I've often written about – the one made up from various spare parts. It has survived about eight years – amazing really. It's days may be numbered though.

I received an email from my Dad this morning – he's upgrading his computer at home, and asked if we would be interested in his old one. I couldn't write “yes please!” fast enough.

I don't think my parents really understood how difficult our money situation had been for the last several years until various topics came up during our visit this summer, and my answer was invariably either “we can't afford to do that”, or “we really can't afford to do that”.

It occurred to me recently – I don't have a hobby. It's not just about not having the money to pursue an interest – it's about time too. By the time I get in most days, wash up, tidy up, and sit down, it's already 9pm. Weekends are filled to the gunnels with washing clothes, tidying up, fighting the jungle of a garden, or watching in despair as our house slowly disintegrates around us. A good amount of time is spent doing things with the kids too – football matches, rugby matches, grocery shopping, occasional days out, and so on.

Our kids have good shoes for school, washed clothes, mobile phones, healthy food, and get to take part in all manner of clubs and sports. This all happens at the expense of our house ever seeming “together” at all. The hallway is always full of sports bags. The back door is half-blocked by footballs, hockey sticks, and bicycle helmets. We haven't decorated for ten years. The last time the house was at all presentable was shortly before the children arrived in our lives.

I'm not complaining – just stating how it is. Explaining how significant this free computer will be to us. A modern computer that everybody can share that doesn't take ten minutes to start. A computer that doesn't burst into flames if you ask it to do anything other than run a browser, or Minecraft. A computer that “just works”.

I wonder if we should donate our old computer to a charity? I'm not sure it's entirely safe though – none of the components inside are bolted in properly – the hard drive (replaced some time ago, after the original failed) is hanging by a wire inside the case. The graphics card isn't bolted in. The processor fan rattles for half an hour if the machine is ever powered down. I can't remember the last time we switched it off.

Anyway. That's my news. A new computer – well – new to us. It might not arrive until a few weeks time, but it's still exciting.

Last night I attended my first ever “barn dance”. I think it was arranged by a group of local churches as a fund-raiser for two charities – one providing aid in Africa, and the other runs the summer camp my other half helps run in town each year.

Not having been to a barn dance before, I had no clue what to wear, but reading the event details on Facebook, it looked like faux Americana was being encouraged. I dug out my leather boots, jeans, check shirt, and the stetson that has been gathering dust in the corner of our lounge for the last twenty years. My other half and younger children dressed similarly – with plaited hair, check shirts, and jeans or leggings.

After arriving at the barn – converted from a livery stable for the event – I walked in and was greeted by a sea of similarly dressed people of all ages, some wearing stetsons. Rather than not feeling so much like an idiot, I settled into feeling like I wasn't the only idiot.

After grabbing a drink, and finding a table with friends a “caller” made her way to the stage, and explained how everything was going to work – organising us into various groups throughout the evening, explaining the steps for each dance, and then cueing the music.

Hilarity, chaos, mayhem, laughter and confision followed. For several hours. You have never seen so many people dance so badly in your entire life. Where scenes of line dances in movies look perfectly choreographed, the barn resembled something closer to a busy market in Dheli – with people stumbling all over the place, walking into each other, pulling each other's hands, and – this is key – laughing at their own antics hilariously.

We stopped after an hour or so for food and drinks – and I started wondering about the whole thing. Here we all were – dressed as pretend ranch hands from the American mid-west circa 1930 – and yet the music seemed to be comprised of mainly Scottish and Irish reels. Later in the evening the dances became even more esoteric – with the “Galloping Major”, and “Gay Gordons” being called out from the stage.

I get it – I really do – most of mid-west America was populated from european immigrants starting perhaps two hundred years ago, and of course they brought their traditional songs and dances with them – but if we were theming the night on the mid-west, where was the music of the mid-west?

And no – I'm not talking about the Ho-down from the Hannah Montana movie (although that would have been hilarious) – just some authentic numbers to tip the hat to the theme of everybody's outfits.

I danced with my younger children for most of the night – although a few of the dances saw us move partners repeatedly – usually causing all manner of nervous laughter, and dropping of inhibitions. There was a moment of realisation during one of the dances that this was how people met back when barn-dances were “the” local event. Quite how you might form a relationship with somebody while being shouted instructions, and racing around a barn among a sea of chaotic people is something of a mystery though.

I was late for work today. I took a detour through town to get my mobile phone battery replaced, and to get a haircut. My hair had reached the curious “starting to look like a yeti” stage. I'm not sure if it's an age thing, but at some point in your life, the hair starts to grow out of the sides of your head faster than the top – it's pretty funny.

The lady cutting my hair made the mistake of asking me how my week was going, so I kind of unloaded on her like Chunk from the Goonies – telling her about my daughters, my work, the barn dance we're supposed to be going to tomorrow night, the lawn that needs cutting... Ok, maybe I didn't mention the lawn.

I had an hour to wait for the mobile phone to be fixed, so wandered over to Starbucks, and sat with an orange juice and a flapjack – noodling with my old laptop, and trying to look like I was doing something tremendously important. In reality, I stalked work conversations in Microsoft Teams, and chipped in to make myself appear present.

The phone is all better now. Well – mostly, I think. I charged it up to 100% earlier, and it's only lost a few percent during the day so far (and that included me dicking around to take a selfie earlier – a tradition I am informed, after you've had your hair cut).

Fifteen minutes remain of Friday, then then weekend stretches out ahead. I'm trying not to think about that barn dance – I imagine my other half is going to try and arm-twist me into wearing jeans, boots, a flanel shirt, and a hat. All I'll need is a string on my back that makes me say “there's a snake in my boot!”.

Having been back from holiday for a week and a half, I already feel like I need another holiday. It feels like I've been submerged since my return, and am losing the battle to reach the surface.

Work has been brutal since my return – fighting with enormously complex programming problems. For the last two days I worked from home (another story for another day), and am kind of glad I did, because it allowed me to focus more than I would if sitting in the office in the middle of conversations, phone calls, and endless rounds of coffee.

With a little luck the replacement battery for my mobile phone will arrive tomorrow. I'm entrusting it to a mobile phone store in town to do the actual replacement – I don't fancy my chances with a heat gun. Once the battery is replaced, the phone should be as good as new – a four year old Android handset that cost half as much as an equivalent iPhone.

What else have I been up to in the quieter moments of the last few days ?

I haven't played Minecraft. There's been no time. I re-named my Tumblr account. Oh – I re-joined TinyLetter. I guess while I've been too busy to devote any time to writing blog posts, I started wondering if an email newsletter might be a good idea after all. I experimented with it about a year ago. I'm still not sure if I'll actually use it.

It's getting late. I should probably go to bed. Ah crap – I have to put the bins out first.

I'll try and write something of consequence soon. At the moment each day seems to be running me over like a truck.

Last Wednesday morning I found myself sitting in the foyer of the Holiday Inn in Leeds, Yorkshire, killing time before a meeting. I had scraped myself out of the hotel bed at 6am, had a shower, shave, got dressed, and made it down for breakfast by 6:30am – I was quite proud of myself.

The reasoning for getting up so damn early is to get first dibs on the buffet breakfast, which usually gets massacred by the time the world and it's dog appear a little later in the morning. It cannot be over-stated how wonderful it is to grab a coffee from the machine on the breakfast counter without joining a queue filled with people balancing plates, cups, and whatever else they think they might be able to cram into their mouth for free. Of course 'free' is a misnomer – the price of breakfast is included in the room.

Just for the record – I wonder if the company that makes scrambled eggs for hotel breakfasts has ever thought about using it as a substitute for the rubber flooring in children's play-parks – I reckon it might be the same stuff.

After munching my way through a sausage, some beans, a piece of bacon, the affor-mentioned egg, downing a couple of coffees, and reading the news on my phone, I thought 'I should double check the starting time for the meeting'. I'm not sure what made me check.

And that's how I discovered the meeting wasn't starting until 10am. So there I was – sitting in the hotel restaurant at 7:30am, wondering what I might do for a couple of hours. It turns out if you let yourself fall into Twitter, Tumblr, Wordpress, Reddit, and wherever else online, there's no end to what you can't get done over the course of a couple of hours.

Towards the end of the blissful ignorance, I checked out of the hotel, and still found myself with time to spare – so dragged my bags over to the plush seats near reception, and pretended to look busy (in reality I dicked around with my paper notebook for a few minutes).

While dicking around with the notebook, I began to hear a raised voice at the hotel reception about 10 yards behind me. I wanted to turn around and find out what was going on, but thought that might draw attention, so stopped what I was doing, and just sat quietly listening.

'I FUCKING WANT SOMETHING DONE ABOUT IT!'

(some calm sounding words from the staff)

'I WANT TO SEE THE MANAGER!'

(more slightly panicked sounding words, and some crashing around)

Moments later a very smart lady in a business suit – I can only guess she was the manager of the hotel – marched past me, with a little bald angry man in hot pursuit. She walked to the far end of the foyer, and stood next to the window, inviting the man to tell her his story.

'DO YOU THINK IT'S OKAY TO BE WOKEN UP AT GOD KNOWS WHAT FUCKING TIME IN THE MORNING BY THE HOTEL STAFF SHOUTING OUTSIDE YOUR DOOR?'

No answer.

'I DON'T KNOW WHAT LANGUAGE THEY WERE FUCKING SPEAKING EITHER – IT CERTAINLY WASN'T FUCKING ENGLISH!'

Ah. So he's not only an angry little man – he's also a racist.

His face was turning a bit purple, and he was pacing back and forth, clenching and unclenching his fists – a little like a toddler that has lost their temper. The angrier and louder he got, the more self belief he also seemed to grow. The manager stood quietly, watching him pace back and forth gesticulating. His face was purple and blotchy – I wondered if he might actually explode.

'I'M GOING TO TELL YOU WHAT'S GOING TO FUCKING HAPPEN! – YOU'RE GOING TO GIVE ME THE LATEST CHECKOUT YOU POSSIBLY CAN FOR FREE, BECAUSE I'M GOING TO RUIN YOUR STAFF'S LIVES – AND YOU WAIT – I'M GOING TO FUCKING GIVE THEM SOMETHING TO CLEAN UP'

With that, he started marching back through the hotel, followed by the manager. I heard her calmly reply 'there's no need for that' as she passed me.

Did I mention he was still wearing his pyjamas? At 9am?

Unbelievable.

Good entertainment though.

Every time a politician, or person of faith sends 'thoughts and prayers' following a shooting, the tide of resentment rises against them. The fact that such resentment exists at all points towards a tacit understanding that prayer doesn't actually achieve anything.

Before I start, it's worth noting that my daughters would enthusiastically volunteer that I am already a grumpy old man, and my other half would confirm it without a second thought – while giving me the “you really need to ask me this?” eyebrows.

I took Miss 18 to the cinema this afternoon to watch the second “IT” movie – based on the book by Stephen King (who plays a wonderful cameo in the movie, just so you know). The movie was good. Not great. Just good. I'm not here to write about the movie though – I'm here to write about the row of teenagers at the back of the movie theatre who chatted, and laughed throughout the first few minutes of the movie until a women sitting near them shouted at them to shut up or she would report them to the staff and have them ejected from the cinema.

Thankfully they shut up.

While I generally try to look for positives in people, those few minutes in the movie theatre today tipped the balance. They were perhaps 15 and 16 years old, wearing label clothes, and had that special kind of arrogance that comes with never having worked for anything in their lives. They laughed when challenged about their behavior until they realised the entire rest of the movie theatre was furious with them too.

I wonder where it starts? I wonder how so many children become so myopic? I wonder how they become so conceited, arrogant, and entitled? Is it down to nurture, or nature? And if it is nature, what has caused it? Perhaps the algorithmic timeline generation have been surrounded by concordant feedback from the online echo chambers for so long that they really have lost all empathy, appreciation, or consideration for anybody or anything outside of their bubble.

Or maybe I really am turning into a grumpy old man that will walk the streets waggling my walking stick at children – angrily berating the world around me for any and all perceived faults, injustices, and annoyances.

If you're wondering where I have been for the last several days – while not working, travelling, working some more, travelling some more, picking things up, filling the washing machine, or chasing my tail in the endless fashion I seem to from day-to-day, wonder no more.

I've been down an imaginary hole, chipping imaginary bits of stone out of rock faces with imaginary pickaxes, growing imaginary wheat, making imaginary bread, and feeding imaginary chickens. I've also been chased through dark forests by zombies, had arrows fired at me by who-knows-what, and had creepers creep up on me and explode in my face.

In short, I've been playing Minecraft.

The last time I played Minecraft was about four years ago – the children were young, and it was all the rage. They grew up and stopped playing it, and I forgot all about it – until this week. While noodling around with something earlier in the week our eldest daughter wandered in, and asked how to install Minecraft on her computer. A few minutes after that I installed it on my own computer. I'm not really sure why.

It was sort of a happy accident.

It turns out Minecraft is a perfect distraction from the endless stress of daily life. You can escape into the pretend world inside your computer and noodle around with things that don't really matter – and the magic of it all is that while you're busy noodling, you're not really thinking about anything else – and given the stress I have been under for the last 18 months, it's been an almost perfect escape.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have some corn to go and harvest, some bread to bake, and some searching online to figure out how to make shields, helmets, and armour – I'm going to war with the night-time zombies.