write.as/jonbeckett

Well... when i say “new”, I really mean “new to me”. For the last couple of years I have been carrying around a hand-me-down laptop that used to belong to one of our children. I ended up running Linux on it, because it's not really capable of running anything more than that.

Well that's all about to change. Earlier this week one of my co-workers arrived in the office with a new toy – a second hand laptop he had bought from E-Bay. I have to admit I was hugely impressed. He had essentially bought a laptop that had cost PS1200 six years ago for about 8% of it's original price.

I've now done the same. I did my homework, compared ten or so of the same machine that had appeared on E-Bay, and chose one from a professional referbishment factory. I guess you could call it a “recycled” laptop. I've already ordered more memory, and a new solid state hard drive for it – it's going to be fast. I also checked the price of replacement batteries, and was pleasantly surprised. Sure, it's not going to run all day like modern laptops, but it will last for a good few hours away from the power supply. That's good enough.

I almost forgot – it's got a touch screen, that flips around to turn the laptop into a tablet. Now there's a party-piece I'm never going to use. Perhaps more importantly, it has a VGA socket – so I'll be able to plug it into the projectors we inherited from the school.

Anyway.

I guess it's time to dig out the Scrivener license key.

The huge project I've been tinkering with during the evenings this week is starting to take shape. What started as a disconnected jumble of bits and pieces is slowly assembling itself into a bizarre machine that Heath Robinson would probably have been quite proud of. There's a perverse reckoning when it comes to software development – the better job you do, the less people notice.

I'm trying not to think about what comes next – building the whole damn thing again in a completely different programming language. I won't get into why, because it will trigger a huge existential debate about sever side and client side web development that I really don't think anybody is that interested in.

I nearly knocked my mug of tea over just then. Obviously you didn't see it, because you're reading this – not watching me – so I don't know why I'm telling you anyway. I tend to put the mug full of whatever I'm drinking inbetween my arms while working at the computer. Usually it's fine, but then you scratch an itch, or adjust your clothes, or reach for your bag – and somehow your brain has erased the mug from existence for a moment or two. Either that, or I'm just incredibly clumsy sometimes.

Clumsy is a strange word, isn't it – an odd collection of letters that don't really go together. Again, I have no idea why this just occurred to me – let alone why I'm writing about it.

Perhaps it's time to go to bed – before I start wittering on about some other inconsequential rubbish. I reckon three quarters of my blog posts must be made up of this sort of stuff – freewheeling detritus. You might make the analogy of most writers being in control of powerful horses pulling ploughs through untilled earth – ripping the dirt into neat rows. My horse bolted some time ago – that's me you can see, being dragged through a hedge two fields away, with a crazily snaking line ripped through the dirt behind me.

The big problem with working all the time is you end up with very little to write about. Stories tend to require stepping outside the front door. For the last couple of weeks I have seen no more than the junk room at home, the office at work, and the route between the two on my bike.

Actually – that's a lie. Last Sunday we trudged across the county to watch our younger daughters play rugby in the last tournament of the season. I somehow got arm-twisted into taking photos. Here's the thing about taking photos of a rugby match your daughters are playing in – you get caught up in the game, and forget to take photos.

The experience of cycling to work varies from day-to-day. If you time your transit across town badly, you meet the army of parents driving home from school-drop off in their ridiculous “Chelsea Tractors”. If you've not heard the term before, it's a nickname bestowed on 4x4 vehicles that will never see mud in their entire life – almost exclusively owned by professional families that can afford cars that cost more than my first apartment.

I gather the idea behind a “Chelsea Tractor” comes from America, where the general rule in a car accident is that as long as your car is bigger, heavier, and stronger than the other car, then you'll be fine, and fuck whoever else was involved. This seems to count more-so when carrying a child in the back. No less than the automotive version of Tirpitz will do for some families – usually decorated with chrome wheels, and driven by a maniac trophy wife hiding behind huge shades, wearing fake workout gear from the store in town that seems to think a single pair of leggings with just the right badge is good value for $100.

This town is full of people like that.

On the outskirts of town there is a delapidated old bridge – the prototype, it turns out, for the bridge over the river Danube between Buda and Pest. Given that the bridge is really quite old now, it has a weight limit on it – 3.5 tonnes per vehicle. Sometimes the police man the bridge and stop over-weight vehicles from using it (resulting in a three or four mile round-trip). The line of Chelsea tractors pulled over by the police on those days is sometimes quite spectacular. And yes, I will admit to a certain amount of smugness as I roll past on my bike while some hapless police officer explains to an entitled Mum that no, she won't be meeting Tabatha and Aurelia for yoga this morning unless she drives back out of town in the opposite direction.

A couple of years ago a 40 tonne truck drove over the bridge – bursting it's tyres in the process, and closing the bridge for some months while it's structural integrity was checked. During the first few days the bridge was closed, local residents who obviously think they can do whatever they want could regularly be seen getting out of their cars, moving the police road-block signs, and carrying on over the bridge. Some of them even put the road-block signs back behind them. This town is FULL of people like that. People that think they are a little bit more equal than everybody else – and their children are as insufferable and entitled as you might imagine.

ANYWAY!

Enough of that. It's time to go brush my teeth, grab a book, and go to bed. Tomorrow is another day. Another day filled with programming, cursing, headbutting my desk, and wondering how long a suitcase full of marmalade sandwiches might last if I ran away.

After a self-imposed seclusion from the internet for the majority of today – while attempting to shield myself from any and all spoilers about Game of Thrones – it's finally safe to re-appear. We just finished watching it. I'm not going to write anything about it though, because the internet seems to be awash with it.

Why does everybody need to publish their opinion about something at the same time that everybody else is publishing their opinion? Surely after the first few voices speak up it all just becomes noise? Sometimes the behaviour of people on the internet reminds me of a saying I once heard – “it's better to be on the train, pissing out the window, than on the platform, trying to piss in”.

Anyway.

I've been busy building software again – working on the hidden under-pinnings of the giant project I'm working on in the evenings. I suppose in laymans terms you might say I'm building the insides of the engine of a car – which will be covered with several layers of other stuff before the user interface is plastered on top. I sometimes wonder how much people really understand about what goes on when you use a web browser.

This might be fun.

You know when you're typing into a new blog post at Wordpress? You're actually interacting with a piece of client-side software written in JavaScript that's running within the browser to “look” like a word processor. Of course browsers are not word processors – they don't even have scalable typefaces – it's all smoke and mirrors. Every keypress causes code to run that draws a curvy shape onto the screen – the characters of the font you so carefully chose for your blog design. Behind the scenes, the actual words are also being recorded as HTML – simultaneously rendered in front of your eyes with a blinking line to look like a cursor – so it looks like you're typing the characters onto the screen. You're not.

All of this happens inside the browser's artificial brain – holding the whole thing in short term memory. In Wordpress case, while you're typing yet more code runs periodically to communicate with the server – sending messages back and forth – saving what you have done so far. It does this silently for the most part.

The browser packages up each message to the server as a stream of characters – which are then sent to the networking part of the operating system with a destination address, and a reminder to let it know when each message has been successfully received.

The networking part of the operating system is really rather clever (or at least, I think so). It splits messages up into small chunks – “packets”. Each packet is sealed in a series of envelopes – each describing the place they need to go – the outer-most one addressed to the network, the next to a given computer, the next to a specific piece of software running on that computer, and so on. It's worth pointing out that I'm generalising A LOT. Some networking professional will no doubt point out that I've missed this or that – and I won't argue – I missed it on purpose.

So what happens once the pile of envelopes leaves your computer? It arrives at whichever switch your house is connected to on the internet, and a game of hot potato starts – which the internet is really good at – with each point of the network throwing millions of packets in all directions at once – each point of the network looking at each packet, checking a database of destinations, and sending them on. If an address is unknown, or a packet is lost, the system is self-healing to a certain extent – the packets can reach their destination in any order, and are re-assembled at the final destination. The “received your message OK” only goes back if the destination server knows it has all the pieces that were originally sent.

Once the Wordpress servers receive your message (for this example at least), they are interpreted by the operating system on the server, given to the appropriate software application that deals with whatever the content was (web traffic goes to the web server, for example), and then other services might be programmed to get involved too – saving your words into a database for example. The server itself is simultaneously receiving requests from other people to READ your words – so the whole thing happens again in reverse for every person reading – they send a message asking for a page – which flies across the internet, arrives at the server and is processed – then the server constructs the page, and sends it back to each requester's computer – flying back across the internet, being deconstructed by the operating system, handed to the browser to be interpreted, and turned back into a blog post within the browser window.

Think about that. Think about all the processing that goes on simultaneously all over the world – the millions of websites, millions of people looking at them, and billions of packets of information flying this way and that. And we complain when it takes more than a second or two for a page to appear in a browser.

I often laugh quietly to myself when I hear anybody say “my internet isn't working”. It's not “their internet”. It's nobody's internet. Nobody is really in control of it any more – it was designed to survive disruption. And yes, this is a huge headache for the world to deal with. People joke about the monolithic company in Terminator, and the “rise of the machines” – in many ways it happened thirty years ago – when the first true packet switching nodes on the internet connected to each other.

I just worked straight through Saturday. On the minus side, I lost a day of my weekend – on the plus side, I progressed the project I'm working on enormously and will get paid for it. And taxed for it. Boo.

I think an evening filled with pizza and movies may be just the medicine I need to get what's left of the weekend back on-track. Or at least a distraction from the all consuming software development project that's eating my life. I thought about the project when I woke up this morning, and again in the shower – that should be some sort of alarm bell, shouldn't it.

In other news, I discovered somebody I've sort of known for years has been writing a blog. It's ever-so-slightly odd when you realise somebody you know writes too – or it is for me at least. If I click the like button on a post it will leave a breadcrumb trail back to me. Other people will see the breadcrumb trail too. This is of course a stupid line of thought, reservation, or whatever else you might call it though – because I post under my own name.

I shouldn't fear being “found”, and yet I don't publicise my posts anywhere. That's a bit of an oxymoron really, isn't it – like Robinson Crusoe working his ass off to make his island look nice, but not signalling any passing ships.

(A couple of hours pass)

We just watched “Into the Spiderverse” – the new animated Spiderman movie. Great movie. It probably says something about the way my brain works – I noticed perhaps six or seven scenes throughout the movie where the 3D scene was left in – in the middle of the 2D version of the movie. It was only for a few seconds each time, but they were there. Strange.

Anyway. Enough. I need to go decompress, and do nothing for a while. Play chess, or read a book. Anything really.

I'm sitting in the dark of the study, surrounded by half-filled boxes of material, sewing, knitting, and the various bits and bobs associated with those activities. My other half is up to her ears in half-sewn costumes for an impending dance show in town. She gets arm twisted each year by the local dance teacher to make various dresses, shirts, cloaks, and whatever else for a small army of children to wear for their one night of fame. Fame in our little town, anyway.

I'm tired. Properly tired. It turns out working all day, then coming home and working all evening gets to you after a few days. As soon as I've written this I'll switch the computer off, clear the kitchen, then go to bed.

I haven't done anything this evening, other than spend half an hour on the phone with my Dad (who somehow managed to lock himself out of his own computer). Technical support is somewhat challenging when you don't trust the story you're being told, and you can't see the computer in question. After dinner I sat with our eldest and watched another episode of Game of Thrones – she's just finished Season 7 after a marathon trek over the last several weeks. It's been mightily confusing – watching previous seasons with her and then watching the new episodes as they land.

Anyway.

Enough about work, and chores, and being tired, and all the other things. It's the weekend! Time to relax, kick back, and do as little as possible. Except of course I won't be doing that. I've promised to at least try and progress some work things over the weekend – and seeing as we are out all of Sunday with the rugby club, that leaves tomorrow.

If you made it this far through this post, I'm surprised. I've had nothing really to write about all week – other than software development challenges, and the feeling that I've had enough of everything. It's funny – the whole “negative thoughts” thing – while cycling home this evening I was listening to WTF – Marc Maron's podcast. He talked about having no children, and life on his own – the strange sort of mania that being on your own can cause. I found myself wondering what life would have been like had I not met my other half – not got married – not had the children.

Then I started wondering how different people's outlook is – between those that have no children, and those that live in a world of family chaos. Does each group look down on the other group? Do they judge each other? I try not to judge anybody, but will admit to silently seething when single people say or do thoughtless things – but then you realise they don't know any better, because they don't spend all day putting their children's needs ahead of their own.

I've lost count of the number of times I have gone to work with a packed lunch made of questionable rubbish – the crusts from the end of loaves, the cheese that nobody else would touch, or the leftovers of some meal or other from earlier in the week. Of course I made sure the children went to school with apples, oranges, perfectly made rolls, crisps, snack bars – you name it – I didn't have it.

I've already written “anyway”. This post kind of got away from me. I used to write these introspective brain dumps all the time – now I only seem to do it while standing at some kind of tiredness induced precipice.

Don't listen to me. It's the weekend. Go have fun.

The clock just ticked past midnight. I haven't written for a couple of days, so thought it might be an idea. I've been working around the clock this week – through the day in the office, and then through the evening at home. One project in the daytime – another project at home. I don't really mind for a little while because I'm being paid for every minute – and we really need the money at the moment.

I'm learning a JavaScript framework called REACT in preparation for a huge development project that is just starting up with one of our major clients. I don't need to learn every dark corner of the system – that will come with time – I just need to figure out how it hangs together – how to work with it, rather than in spite of it. There's a part of me that's excited to be working on something different, but also another part that's thinking “I'm getting too old for this”.

The more fun part of starting new projects is putting the various pieces of the jigsaw together – the database schema, the server-side object model, the client-side object model, the user interface, and so on. After figuring out what you're going to build, and how you're going to do it, development often turns into a mammoth game of “who can hold the biggest chunk of the mountain above their head at once” – all while trying to explain to the client that “no, you can't have a little bit of the 747 to try out – it doesn't really work without the jet engines, wings, wheels, and... well... all of it really”.

Anyway – it's time I went to bed. The clock is ticking – tomorrow is already here.

After spending an hour yesterday cleaning my bike, and replacing the brake blocks (I've been cycling around with no brakes for the last few weeks – don't tell anybody), I got on it this morning and cycled to work.

Bah humbug.

There was a moment last night – after I caught up with Game of Thrones with my other half – that we turned to each other, and agreed that we should go to bed, because we had to get up for work in the morning. You would have thought the world was ending – in reality it just meant the end of the Easter holidays.

So. I'm back in the office – filling the bullet journal with “things to do”, trying to clear emails, and make way for a month of craziness. I've been approved for overtime pretty-much immediately in order to work on two projects simultaneously – one during the daytime, and another during the evenings. It won't be forever, but it will mean I'm absent from almost everything for the next few weeks – including this blog.

Maybe the blog will become a way to decompress when I down tools late on an evening. “Down tools” is a strange expression when you think about it – my tools are my brain, and my work laptop. Let's suggest that there will be a symbolic “closing of the laptop lid” late each evening.

I got up an hour ago – a little after 8am – and still find myself sitting alone downstairs. I can hear noises from the upstairs bedrooms, but nobody has appeared yet. It's Easter Sunday. I don't know where the Easter eggs have been hidden – I know that several were bought last week – before we ran out of money again. My salary should hit the bank tomorrow.

While walking to the store in town last night to get medication for our eldest daughter (who has had a stomach bug all the way through Easter weekend so far), I laughed at my own thought processes – I went from “what's the point in having a blog at all”, to “maybe I should reach out more” in the space of 200 yards. Along the way I passed a cafe that opens late – and started judging the sixty-something crowd of people sitting around a long table inside – a phone was being held up to take photographs – I wondered how long it might be until the photo appeared on Facebook to show everybody they knew where they were not.

(an hour passes)

My other half appeared downstairs. Her Mum and brother are coming for lunch – meaning that she's running from room to room, tidying up, putting things away, and so on. This means that everybody else needs to also be tidying up, putting things away, and so on – it's just the way things work around here. I imagine I'll be tasked with peeling twenty thousand potatoes later. I just finished cleaning the bathroom – which partly involved filling a plastic bag with two hundred bottles of various things that nobody ever realised they ever needed (and probably never did) – skin scrubs, repair creams, “ultra hold” hair gels, makeup removers, eye drops, and god knows what else. Nobody has used any of it for weeks – all I have left out is a tub of hand cream.

Cleaning toilets is one of those jobs that I imagine teenagers fully believe fairies accomplish for them.

Our middle girl ate an Easter egg for breakfast. This was entirely predictable. She last had a wash several days ago, and will wonder why her face has erupted in spots just in time to go back to school. Both of our younger daughters seem to have become allergic to water at the moment. I'm not sure if it's just chronic laziness, or “being a teenager” – we generally have to threaten them to make them set foot in the shower, brush their teeth, brush their hair, or anything else that transforms them into a vaguely presentable person.

Anyway. I need to help. First job – extending the dining table to make room for seven people to sit around it. My parents gave us the dining table not long after we moved in – there's no way we could ever have afforded anything like it – I imagine it will be handed down through the family for generations.

We went out to a local cinema last night for a “night out” (read: couple of hours out). My other half saw an advert online for a 40th anniversary showing of “Monty Python's The Life of Brian”, and despite our perilous financial situation at the moment, she took a chance. I'm glad she did.

The cinema is in Henley on Thames – a few miles along the river from us. I suppose you might describe it as an “Art House” cinema – showing independent and less well known movies. I didn't even know it existed until we walked from a supermarket car-park, turned a corner into a side-alleyway, and suddenly there was the entrance – light escaping the doors and casting long shadows across the pavement.

After climbing a sweeping staircase to the main foyer, we bought some snacks to eat and a drink each, then joined a slowly gathering crowd of cinema goers milling around. After years visiting multiplex cinemas, it was a pleasant change – more intimate and personal.

After only a few minutes we were ushered into one of the screens, and I found myself grinning at the sudden transformation of so many into panicked cattle. We all had assigned seats, but that didn't stop perhaps half the audience from wanting to get to their assigned seats first. I hung back with my other half and let them have their imaginary fight before wandering up to the usher with a smile. Of course everybody that rushed into the cinema now found themselves getting up to let other people past – repeatedly. The seating was fairly shallow – which caused me to hunker down into my chair a fair bit – I'm aware how tall I am, and have horrible memories of visiting the cinema when I was young, and not being able to see a thing because some giant ass-hat would invariably sit in front of me. Thankfully the seats were more like armchairs, with lots of legroom – enabling my disappearing act.

So. The Life of Brian. Has it really been 40 years? I suppose it has – I remember children talking about it in the playground when I was at junior school. Quite how they knew about it is anybody's guess, given that the cinema would not have let them in, and video recorders were not commonplace.

It goes without saying that I loved the movie. In some ways it felt like meeting an old friend, and listening to stories I had not heard since I was young. While grinning endlessly at the antics of the Pythons, I noticed something interesting. The belly laughs from the audience came at the most basic, demeaning jokes – such as Ceaser's speech impediment – not from the more subtle but far more damning scenes where everybody and anybody with any religious faith at all is poked with a very large stick (if you're familiar with the movie – the scenes where the crowd begin following Brian, and twist logic endlessly to suit their own ends). When I was young I didn't notice just how cutting those scenes were, and wondered how many people realised they were being directly attacked.

I remember watching an interview with the Pythons years ago – from around the time the movie was released. They were invited onto a talk show with some senior figures from the church who thoroughly embarassed themselves with a bravura display of pious, aloof, ignorant, and prejudiced opinions about what other people should think and believe.

Anyway. Before we knew it, two hours had whistled by, the lights came up, and we found ourselves swept up in a repeat of the panicked cattle drive to get back out of the cinema. I noticed several older people kick beer bottles over that they had propped on the floor between their feet, and pretend they knew nothing about what they had just done. I was quietly furious with them.

On the car journey home we talked endlessly about our favourite moments, lines, and bits we had forgotten over the years. There's something about irreverent humor that pokes at the establishment, people's beliefs, and the ridiculousness of organised religion. We need more of it.