Dust to dust…

Still awake. Not quite sure how. Cricket is on.

God, I hate Australians.

Good Morning Britain

Bloody hell it gets dark here early. So it's pitch black outside, and my (lagging) body thinks it's morning.

(I note that I haven't actually updated this blog since the last time I was over here, so to the casual viewer it may appear that I have been in Britain for two months. Yikes! Maybe I should put in some retrospective posts to alleviate these concerns. Watch this space. Or rather, the space before this.)

Fuck Norfolk

Cringleford, 22nd September 2006

I have been abandoned in a Travelodge on the outskirts of Norwich. The occasion is that my grandmother's 90th birthday is in two days, and my mother needs to be here to fuss over her mother, make sure all the sausage rolls have been ordered, that sort of thing.

Norfolk is not exactly evocative of fun in my scarred childhood memory. Rather, it is a place where we always went on sufferance, where children were to be seen and not heard, where 'proper' (i.e. arbitrary and entirely inessential) manners were enforced unsmilingly, where time always seemed to move twice as slowly, a place of stilted conversation over tea and crushing, crushing tedium.

Cringleford, where my grandmother moved on her second marriage, a few months after my birth, is a dreary rural suburb with battalions of bungalows filled with floral patterned old women. For some reason, although Norwich, which is a city with actual things and young people and life in it, is only three miles away, we never got to go there. Rather, we were dragged to stately homes and garden centres (fascinating! another potted plant!) and generally bored to within an inch of our lives.

The explanation given by my mother now is that my grandmother "chose these activities with my brother and I in mind". Although I appreciate that her heart might have been in the right place (I have more doubts about my step-grandfather who never knowingly understood the idea of children, or of having fun for that matter), it depresses me still that it was never understood that we might be tearing our own eyelids off in despair at the prospect of a whole afternoon spent in another stuffy house with furniture that we couldn't touch*. No one ever asked us.

This is something that my brother and I (whose relationship has sometimes been somewhat rancorous) agree wholeheartedly upon.

It is typical, then, that instead of being accommodated in the middle of the city, where we might stand a fighting chance of having something to do in the evenings, we have been stranded in a service station in fucking Cringleford. The whole thing is so very Alan Partridge that I don't know whether to laugh, or just cry myself to sleep. There's certainly nothing else to do.

(* Imaginary conversation with stately home owner: "Oh well done, Lord Rectal-Bigamy-Smythe for owning a big house that you didn't buy. Let me pay you five English pounds for the honour of walking inside a third of its rooms. Oh! Such magnificent, um, old furniture you have! No, I wouldn't let anyone sit on it either, the state it's in." I guess this is the root of my despising the aristocracy and all their apologists.)

Arting about in London

Another new day, another day gallivanting about Lahndon. A little late off the mark this time - didn't set foot in the cemetery till 3.30, didn't get there until gone 4.30. I had to move quickly, and so raced across Hungerford bridge, zig-zagging past the blue-shirted kids handing out anti-drugs leaflets (sponsored by the Church of Scientology, so it said on their backs. Hmmm.) On Northumberland Avenue, as Rob has pointed out elsewhere, the volume of free newspapers thrust in your direction by enthusiastic young men and women was of forest-threatening proportions. Trafalgar Square was rammed as usual; I particularly liked how a gaggle of jolly-hockey-sticks public schoolgirls in ridiculous stripy uniforms and straw boaters were being openly and loudly mocked by a couple of blokes perched on top of one of the lion statues. Pigeons, seemingly unaware of Red Ken's edict against their continuing existence, were rooting about in the dust from the nearby building site. I found my way to the top of the steps and ducked into the cool, calm sanctuary of the National Gallery.

What followed was essentially a 30 minute greatest hits set of western art from 1400-1900. (I had meant to give myself a bit more time to do it all justice, but I can go back and do it properly some other time, eh?) Starting off marvelling at Titian's excellent depictions of beards, I then gazed with admiration at Leonardo's angel in the shadows, plus the Virgin Mary, etc. (nice rocks there too, mate) before heading off to find my current favourite, Botticelli's Venus and Mars.

Realising I didn't have much time, I dashed off into the 1600-1700 section, through a whole heap of moody Rembrandts. I was looking for Vermeer; he clearly is a tricky chap to find. Anyway, I eventually tracked the bugger down - in this one I particularly liked the cherub brandishing a card like an overzealous football referee. I also dallied awhile by the Rokeby Venus by Velazquez. Nice curves, I thought.

Onwards and leaping forwards in time, and I ploughed through a bunch of Canalettos, into a room of Gainsboroughs (I liked these dudes) and Constables, depicting some kind of Olde Englande rural timewarp. Last, but by no means least, was the groovy selection of Turners, with their fantastic hazy skies and smoke and moody atmosphere. Altogether, a very satisfactory half hour. I still completely failed to find the Impressionists, some of which are marvellous, so I'll have to go back, I reckon.

After my little spree in the NG, I was then herded onto a tube train for the journey out east. I was due to meet Dr Smitha Nathan at the Ten Bells in Spitalfields, historically notable as the pub where Jack the Ripper selected his victims. An agreeable pub, all told, with massive leather sofas - all the better to accommodate Drs Ben Kilner and Alice Thomas (from Oxford! Thanks for coming all that way!) and Dr Andrew Sorby. Surrounded by such excellent personages, a jolly evening was inevitable, especially when you factor in a Brick Lane curry and a purchase of a dozen bagels (got a bit carried away in my beery enthusiasm). The only downside came when, having made the last train with plenty of time to spare, I fell asleep and missed my stop, and had to take a £20 cab ride home from Farnborough. Whoops.

Ruby Murray

Pirbright, 19th September 2006

After all the high culture, now for the low culture. I had arranged to meet Dave and Rich (who surprised us both by showing up with a rather cute German exchange student - good luck there, feller - whose name I never quite grasped) in O'Neill's in Woking. We were mustering for a trip to that Great British gastronomic institution, the curry house. American curries are certainly not bad (at least not in California), but they are rather insipid - I have been craving the visceral thrill of eating something properly hot for quite some time.

Preliminary beverages consumed, and now safely ensconced within 'Bombay Nights', the rituals commenced. First up, far too many poppadoms, and slopping mango chutney all over the tablecloth. Secondly, massive Kingfishers all round. Thirdly, cramming export strength lamb madras w/ onion bhajis, rice and garlic naan down my gullet until I could barely move. Feel the burn. Mmmmmm. Not much conversation at this critical stage. Fourth, feeling a trifle dry-throated now. More Kingfisher please, my good man! Finally, the essential hot towels. A cross between a facial sauna and a jolly good scrub. Even with lemon freshness, the curry scent is rather hard to shift from your fingers.

And onwards to the pub! A wagonload of my old schoolfriends were engaged in mental combat in the Sovs' pub quiz. As I supped on my first proper pint of bitter in aeons, Si, Stu, Sam and James (and their respective other halves) were carrying all before them with their expert knowledge of reality TV and sporting trivia. Prize money duly collected, conversation turned to how none of those guys had come to visit me yet (fools! and me with a spare room, too!), Sam's latest harebrained plan for ascending to superstardom (and just why would you think the BBC would want to employ you, eh?), holidays we went on seven years ago and much, much more. Two more pubs (including a supremely ill-advised pint of wifebeater, which seemingly precipitated a heated debate about the applicability of supposed national/racial character traits to individuals - Sam thought so, I thought it was utter bollocks), an encounter with an enthusiastic spaniel puppy and six hours later, I woke up in Dave's spare room with a rather unpleasant headache and growling stomach. Ah, curry...

The village and The Village

Pirbright, 18th September 2006

When stranded at home for a long stretch, one has very few real options for entertainment. Pirbright is a pretty village, but fairly short on things to do. There are only so many times, for instance, that one can walk around a duckpond. And if you eschew, as I have chosen to this time, the brainrotting option of surfing my parents' 300-odd Sky Digital channels all day for half-decent music / Australian 'aerobics experts' in sports bras / catwalk models in their pants then it is fairly clear that in order to prevent one beating oneself unconscious in bored desperation, escape is highly necessary.

Luckily, for reasons historical that I will not bore you with now, the rather large cemetery over the road from my parents' house (2nd largest in Europe!) comes equipped with its own mainline railway station. In just 35 minutes, one can be in the centre of 'The Village' (as our nation's capital is often deprecatingly referred to, at least by my friends) where there is no shortage of anything at all to do, save perhaps breathe clean air. Thus it was that a little after 11 o'clock, I found myself picking a path through a few thousand dead Canadians, Americans, RAF pilots and British Muslims, and thence onto a train to Waterloo.

One hour later, after an amusingly haphazard walk through Theatreland, where although I was largely going in the correct direction, I kept finding myself two streets away from where I wanted to be (who needs an A-to-Z anyway?), I eventually pitched up at Virgin Megastore, Tottenham Court Road. I immediately deployed into grab-and-purchase mode, selecting five DVDs of crystalised Britishness in as many minutes. Meanwhile some load crashes and thuds and geetar noises from the basement alerted me to the imminence of a free lunchtime gig by the unwieldily-named Get Cape. Wear Cape. Fly. And they were quite good - they had a trumpet, a laptop, and a sound which reminded me somewhat at first of those Noel Gallagher acoustic numbers on old Oasis B-sides (not least because of the chap's voice), but then got faster, more trumpety and more interesting.

After hurtling back across town on foot, a little better directed this time, I romped breathlessly into the Tate Modern and into the exhibition on the 4th floor. Vassily Kandinsky and his 'journey into abstraction' were on the menu today; it could have been baboon arse paintings or another Barnett Newman single-stripe on canvas retrospective, and I still would have gone, mind you (I am still a Tate Member, having forgotten to stop the direct debit, and therefore I must strive to get my money's worth...) Kandinsky is famous for paintings of intricate squares, triangles and blobs and such which are supposed to represent abstract concepts, like motion or whatever. Here they had early paintings of his where he was actually painting 'things' - actual recognisable objects and landscapes. I liked those.

And then there were the ones from a few years later where he had gone semi-abstract, with squiggles and all that business amongst the identifiable people and horses and gubbins.

And then the even later ones where you should just give up trying to work out what the features are and appreciate the 'vitality' and 'movement'. These mostly give me headaches.

After I got myself a proper headache, I retired to the Members' Room on the 6th floor to join my fellow members of the Liberal Elite, sip my latte and gaze, stupified, at the magnificent view of St Paul's.

And that, excepting a nondescript train journey home, was that.

Zombiedom

Pirbright, 16th September 2006

I am feeling positively loopy. I got on a plane on Friday in broad daylight and got off a plane on Saturday in broad daylight. Sleep was almost nonexistent, given that the fellow in the seat in front was seemingly determined to mow through my knees from about 10 minutes after takeoff to the denouement 11-something hours later. (Incidentally, cheers for that 45 minute wait to get to our stand after landing, fellas. Good job.)

After the hugs, the first cup of strong coffee I could get my hands on, the first of many (I presume) maternal interrogations, and an uneventful drive through dull suburban Surrey, I finally stumbled through the front door of my parents' house a little after noon. Determined that I should acclimatise to this new time zone (a mere eight hours ahead of Pacific Standard Time) as soon as possible, I began to summon all of my strength to stay awake as long as I could. I also made a very large pot of coffee.

My mother decided sometime after lunch, that I should go into town and see my brother's (small, but perfectly formed) new flat. Hence it was that a tall pale zombielike figure could be seen haunting the Peacocks shopping centre in Woking in the late afternoon, crashing from Virgin Megastore to HMV, clutching an eclectic mix of toiletries and teabags. I actually managed to stay awake for five hours beyond that (finally conking out halfway through writing this, actually), but what I said to people past 6 pm is anyone's guess.

bicycle commuter news (update)

Our daily morning companion the rat is clearly in this for the long haul. I feared the worst when Forest St was cleared for sweeping this morning, but the rodent - still strongly adhered to the asphalt - is evidently made of very stern stuff.

Two volcanoes

And Ben and I climbed both of them.

bicycle commuter news

1) The entrails of the flattened rat gradually becoming embedded in the asphalt under Highway 24 on Forest St have turned yellow.

The rat itself, believed to have been fatally injured in a road traffic incident three weeks ago, has also apparently shifted positions since last night, since I unexpectedly ran over it myself this morning, whilst following my usual (and formerly vermin-free) racing line. It is thought that crows may have been involved, although no official statements have been made.

2) Late August is here, and with it a surfeit of ill-directed children who seem intent on recreating Brownian motion in the macroscale on the UC Berkeley campus.

Several impacts have been witnessed between undergraduates who, cell phones stapled to their right ears at all times when outdoors, are displaying remarkably low levels of spatial awareness when walking to or from class. Your reporter here is amazed that he himself has only collided with these persons once, when he was broadsided on his bike by an undergraduate cyclist, who was swerving out of the way of some equally wayward peers. However, with record enrollments, and several wireless telephone companies targeting the new intake, seasoned undergraduate watchers predict that I will be involved in least five more collisions before Christmas.

New airport security procedures

I know Ryanair are always keen to reduce their costs, and that personal effects increase the weight of the plane, and therefore the amount of fuel, but this is ridiculous. The Daily Mail would never stand for it!

Whoever said the radio was crap in northern California?

[fzzzzzt] This is KPB796, 1610 AM. This information is brought to you by Redwood National and State Parks.

Elk can be seen in several of the pastures around the Orick area. However, you are advised not to stop by the side of Highway 101; elk can be safely viewed from the designated areas on Nelson B. Drury Scenic Parkway or Davison Road.

Elk can suddenly appear on the highway at night. Or in the fog.

Elk can run at up to 35 miles per hour.

In the breeding season, elk can become unpredictable. Do not approach them on foot.

[fzzzzzt] This is KPB796, 1610 AM...

Metaphotography

Pictoral evidence that I have pictoral evidence that Ved is a treehugger.



Thanks to Mei for the photo.

John Fashanu

I had no idea it was so fundamental

Geology is not just about mines, minerals and museums.

Your attitude to geology affects:

- Your family
- Your quality of life
- Your self image
- Your future

See why.

Turduckens and other massive beasts

There have been innumerable televisual tributes in the past couple of weeks to Oakland legend John Madden, the man who put the BAWL in FOOTBAWL, due to his entry into the FOOTBAWL hall of fame. One of Madden's contributions to Western society that I had been unaware of (or, more accurately, unaware of the extent of) is his championing of the turducken.

A turducken, as you may recall, is a turkey stuffed with a duck, which is itself stuffed with a chicken. The inestimable Madden has one every year for his Thanksgiving dinner. One can apparently purchase the mighty beast online; a 15 lb slab of solid poultry will set you back around $80, will take up to 7 hours to cook, and will feed 15-30 people. Hugo, of course, thinks this is tremendous and is insisting that we order one and throw a Turducken Party, perhaps for Canadian Thanksgiving, since it comes a full six weeks before the American one and we really don't want to wait until November.

John Madden is 250 lbs.

Home Shopping Bacon

Wow. A TV channel that speaks to my soul.

The goose invasion redux

I had forgotten (it's been a while) quite how much bird life there is surrounding Lake Merritt, and how big it was, until I went running there this morning.

I wrote the following maybe eleven years ago, but I think it is good for an outing here:


Three perspectives on the goose invasion

I

A gloomy evening, dreary streets
Out in search of simple treats
I saw a van, I saw police
They were apprehending geese

II

The world's a dungeon, strange and wild
Home to many beasts reviled
Travellers beware! The evil goose
Is once again upon the loose

III

I couldn't see, I couldn't hear
My brain was seized with a fit of fear
I tried to resist, but they were too many
They wanted bread, but I hadn't any

Advice for visitors to California

Friday's Guardian offered some words of advice on surviving in California to one particularly high-profile British visitor. I think others of my fellow countrymen could do well to digest them, in case they were to wash up on these shores. For example, as a aid to mastering the vernacular, we have:

3. Like. Like is, like, the valley mantra. If you say the word like, like every few words, you are totally telling your listeners that you are from, like, the valley.

(There is much more where that came from, of course.)

My name is not…

"Garrett Flummings", for whom some post arrived this morning.

My name is…

Over the past five days, my name has attracted unprecedented interest from middle-aged ladies in the customer service industry. From the supervisor at U-Haul who laughed out loud at Hugo about the hilarity of my name as I was lurking between bundles of flat-pack boxes, to the pleasant lady on the phone at PG&E as I was trying to transfer service to the new house (which is awesome, by the way, and the furniture is almost reassembled), who asked me at length about its genesis.

As an attempt to stave off any more speculation, I should state as a matter of record the following points:

1) Gareth is a Welsh name.

2) I am not Welsh, but my father is. (He often wonders aloud where he 'went wrong' with me, his 'half-Welsh' son.)

3) In their Grand Slam season of 1976, the year of my birth, the outstanding player for Wales (and indeed in the world) was their scrum-half, Gareth Edwards. In fact, given the relative timing of the final game of the Five Nations rugby championship and my birthday, it is somewhat likely that the occurrence of the one, directly affected the occurrence of the other, although I have never found the appropriate moment to ask my father about this.

Des res

Well, eleven hours, two van loads, one car load, one sunburnt arm and two nosebleeds later, the pieces of dismantled furniture which were strewn all about the house in Berkeley are now strewn all about the house in Oakland. I have managed to reassemble my bed (which took up about 90% of the space in my old room, and now is utterly dwarfed by the mahoosiveness of my new one). I am now going to lie in it.

Massive thank yous to Abby for her sparkling all-round performance (lifting, loading, unloading, backing in, picking up and dropping off) and Zan (for sparing us the 40 minute walk back from U-Haul). Thank you and goodnight.

Des res

Today is the day of The Big Move. (I sincerely hope that it is not another savagely hot day; I am from pasty white Northern European stock, and have been in very real danger of melting over the last few days. Up the fog!) Over the course of the past week, Eunice St has been completely dismantled and/or packed up in boxes, which is as depressing to behold as it is tedious to undertake. Still, it is all for the best - Oakland awaits, and with it (surely) a life much more interesting...


My new abode. (One of them is, anyway.)

Lung butter

I note that even though I have spent the day sneezing and hacking and coughing like a geriatric, had to put twice as much garlic as normal in this evening's curry just to taste it (mmm), and am currently subject to the sensation of someone trying to drill out of my cranium from the inside, I am not having any trouble smelling the effects of a skunk attack outside, and it is far worse than anything else I have to deal with.

Wank week on Channel 4

I'm not sure whether the one country is more puritannical, or the other more degenerate, but I can't imagine that a US network would ever attempt what Channel 4, back home, are proposing:

The broadcaster - once led by Michael Grade, dubbed "pornographer in chief" by the Daily Mail - has commissioned a documentary about the UK's first "masturbate-a-thon" as part of a series of programmes dubbed "Wank week", MediaGuardian.co.uk can reveal.

In what must surely be one of the summer's more bizarre events, hundreds of people are expected to gather in a hall in central London on August 5 to pleasure themselves in aid of charity...

"Following on from the success of 'Penis week', we feel this is exactly the type of provocative and mischievous programming that Channel 4 should be covering in the 11pm slot. Masturbation is something many people do but not many people talk about," [a Channel 4 spokesman] told MediaGuardian.co.uk.

Clearly, any sarcastic comment I try to make is not going to do the original article justice.

Eunice St catchphrases for the weekend

"The horse should not have been on the launchpad." (http://www.theonion.com/content/node/50100?issue=4227&special=1996)

"With my new Ultimate Muscle, I can perform Muscle Millennium WITHOUT ropes!" (http://www.tv.com/ultimate-muscle-the-kinnikuman-legacy/tatami-or-not-here-i-come/episode/243809/recap.html)

"The big boys are in the butchers." (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7w6lQA96TSE)

Oaktown here I come…

The saga ends. Barring alien invasion, syphillis or acts of God, I shall not be homeless when my lease expires at the end of the month. Rather, I shall be moving next week to a rather spiffing tri-level, modern-architect-ed, super-spacious 21st Century bachelor pad in north Oakland, with a remote control gate and a funky little sun-balcony and three toilets and everything. According to the lease, there is the option to have one indoor cat, which I would consider simply so that I could swing it around airily in the upstairs closet.

il retorno (the return)

Two trains, two flights, one van, and nine time zones later, I am back in the People's Republic of Berkeley. And feeling somewhat loopy. I am not sure if the pub is necessarily the best forum for recovery from jetlag, but three attritional pints later, I am still conscious, if not particularly sentinent.

There is more to be said of Italy, when I can get enough of it together to cut and paste the words into the right boxes. (Currently, judging by the amount of time it's taken me to write this, 'it' is still somewhat dissipated.)

la mattina dopo la notte prima (the morning after the night before)

After a car horn/scooter symphony which lasted into the wee small hours, Verbania post-World Cup what-the-hell-was-Zidane-thinking-and-in-any-case-if-you're-going-to-headbutt-someone-and-get-sent-off-you-might-as-well-hurt-them-not-just-knock-them-over-victory was in something of a subdued mood. The streets were barren, as if the whole town had gone on holiday a month early, with only the occasional Italian flag draped over a balcony to suggest a more likely state of events. My worst fears of an Italy so hungover that all practical infrastructure would be sacrificed in exchange for another couple of hours in bed were not realised, however, and bus, train and metro were safely negotiated with such efficiency that I found myself back in sweaty Milan by late morning.

The building over the road from that of my collaborators' had been divested of rather a large quantity of glass overnight, most of which had seemingly been redeposited on the pavement in front. "You see the consequence of the victory of Italy," said Alfio quietly with a wry smile as I walked up the stairs into a muted office.

il Monte completo (the full Monte)

A combination of factors (6.30 am start, drinking too much wine and Ginepy - whatever the hell that was - with some geologists from Liverpool) meant that despite a second night of pleasantly cool air and comfortable sleeping conditions, this morning was a little more difficult than those previous. The god of clouds had evidently erred on the side of opacity overnight; the glorious views of the day before replaced by indistinct silhouettes against a thick white wall, the broken rocks that littered the ground now under a fading snowy blanket.

Despite all this, or maybe because of it, the temperature outside was rather temperate, and highly agreeable for mountain hiking. We set off, the field party wending its way up the trail like a malcoordinated snake, Professore Giorgio, our imported Alpine expert leading the way, pausing every couple of minutes to gesture with his hiking pole at some subtlety in the minerals of the bedrock, or some fancy folds or somesuch. Every time the party stopped, they would bunch up and block the trail, inevitably blocking some ice-axe bearing heroes in nylon trousers who were looking to yomp up Monte Rosa so they could whack some lumps off of its glaciers by lunchtime, or something like that.

The rocks were generally pretty, and occasionally gneiss. They were also rather comfortable (see below). The snow was thigh-deep in places, as we picked our way past some disused gold mines (complete with open air privy), and up towards the peak of Monte Rosa proper. In ten years, the glaciers had receded many hundreds of metres, and exposed many rock outcrops which had hitherto gone unseen - a boon for field geology, although no one was particularly enthusiastic about the reasons why it had happened. Eventually, we reached our final field stop, a blob (technical term) of eclogite (a rock that had been down to 60 kilometres' depth, and was somewhat mangled by the pressure) - conveniently near a cable car station - and were soon creaking down the mountainside back towards Alagna where the coach was parked.

The ride from Alagna back to Verbania was rapid - whereas on the way up we had tentatively tip-toed our way through the narrow streets and tiny villages, now we hurtled through them, bullying the other traffic out of the way (and inducing travel sickness in at least one member of our party). Our Italian bus driver was seemingly in something of a hurry to get back home, for some reason.

The Alpine Nappes

Thanks to Sang-Ho for the picture.

Forza Azzuri! (Come on the Blues!)

Geology writ large

What you can see: three Italian Alpine experts, the remains of a geological car crash w/ lower crustal rocks, a chunk of the ocean, and a big slice of the mantle (see diagram). What you can't see: the Matterhorn, lurking behind the big cloud, right of centre.

stanza con una vista (room with a view)

(or corridor, actually)

il refugio selvaggio (the savage hut)

In yesterday's briefing, our field trip leader Guilio described our accommodation for the next two nights, an Alpine refugio at the not-inconsiderable altitude of 2870 m, as a "savage hut". Being a stated fan of all things of a savage bent, I instantly warmed to it, furthermore believing that a little rough living might be a relief after the overfed, overwatered and overheated week I had experienced in Verbania. Having envisaged a leaky wooden shack, with no lights, heat or water, and inhabited by burly bearded Germans in lederhosen, I was somewhat surprised to be greeted upon entry by a full bar with an espresso machine and cakes in a display cabinet, tended by a well-to-do English blonde. (I must remember to ask her how the hell she ended up there; definitely a bonus, though, as a) she ain't too shabby, and b) it makes ordering drinks rather easier.) I had clearly misunderstood the form of savagery that occurs in the Italian Alps.

Dinner being a full four-pronged attack on the waistline as experienced for every meal in Verbania (suppo, primo, secondo, dulce), washed down by litres of decent Piemontese wine and mineral waters, my re-education on these matters continued apace. In fact, adding in the total lack of biting insects, the absence of obnoxious humidity, a couple of roaring fires and a panoramic view of Monte Rosa and its attendant peaks, I am gradually forming the opinion that Giulio is either a master of understatement, or a man who aspires to exceptionally high living standards; either way, he is clearly a man after my own heart.

In a manner of speaking…

Several of Earth Science's finest young minds (and in at least one case, bodies) have put it to me this week that I have an accent; I disagree. Whatever crude regionality my voice may have tried to adopt under the pernicious influence of a London lying so close by was beaten out of me by my mother and great aunt as a young 'un. In the final analysis, I speak with the moderated tones of received pronunciation, as practised by BBC announcers and the less retarded members of the Royal Family (Windsor, of course, being about six miles down the road from my hometown). This is English as it is meant to be spoken. Therefore I don't have an accent. It's everyone else that does.

Comments jotted down at a geology conference whilst waiting for a lecture to start

coming atcher live from the back row (almost)

waiting for something to happen here, guys

oh, our first speaker is missing

they've found him!

getting bored now. hook up the projector, already. (americanism)

seriously, i've been sitting here for 20 minutes

the screen showed something for a split second... it's working!

yay

--

talk title: Composition and evolution of the lithosphere - Matthias G Barth (Mainz)

--

he has a very german voice

can't get past the first slide. comical.

powerpoint is fucked. or the pc is. (viva la mac!)

guess someone should have tested this before the session started, no?

there are some pretty girls here, i am noticing. hooray for geology!

and a new computer enters the fray... seems to be working

eyes down for the full house:

--

(smattering of applause)

talk begins: "The world is like a boiled egg, or a giant onion..."

Verbania (Verbania)

The journey from Milan to Verbania is an hour and a half by train - an hour and a quarter of flat, nondescript countryside and dilapidated stations, then a bridge over a wide river, with a sand beach and people bathing, and then fifteen minutes of blockbuster views of the hills and waters of Lake Maggiore. For the latter part, I was out of my seat, standing at the window and gawping at the dramatic hillside-to-water landscape, the red tiled roofs, the often-very-swanky architecture and all the yachts and seaplanes messing about on a Sunday afternoon.

Having installed myself in a room on the fourth floor in the Hotel Castagnola (with private sun-terrace!), I decided to kill the time until dinner by exploring (= getting lost in) Verbania. Seems like an agreeable place, with its complement of narrow cobbled streets, washing hanging from the balconies, that sort of thing. On a more commercial note, there are multiple bars with outdoor seating (for to separate the sunburnt tourist from her money), and at least one accomplished gelateria. I definitely approve of tiramisu ice cream.

It appears that my luggage has not seen it fit to join me yet.



The view from my balcony. Nobbad.

Rigore (penalties)

I am done with valiant defeats, I really am. The story of the (England-Portugal) match is almost as uninteresting and gruelling to relate as was trying to find somewhere to watch it (big screen, you let me down today). Supporting England is almost like a curse: disappointment is inevitable; if there is a close game to be lost, we will endeavour to lose it; someone on our team will certainly lose it; there will be some kind of injustice that will lodge in the collective memory and be quoted in mitigation, but will not change the result one jot.

The Italian word for 'penalties' is very apt, I think.

As in the afternoon, so in the evening - I arrived home in a state of exhaustion. Poleaxed by the heat and the sudden loss of so much invested emotional capital, I lay down on the floor, and promptly fell asleep.

i saldi (the sales)

As luck would have it, my visit to Milan coincides with the start of the summer sales - time, perchance, for some judicious refinforcement of my wardrobe? With vague aspirations towards buying 'interesting' jeans, 'Italian' shirts and 'cool' T-shirts, I set off on the metro at 9.30ish with a wallet full of Euros, and let nature take its course.

First up: Il Salvagente (it means 'the safety belt', heaven knows why), located in a rather distant neighbourhood way out east. Around the back of a nondescript hairdresser's on a nondescript street, you find an Aladdin's Cave of bankrupt stock from the city's ever-expiring boutiques. Deploy elbows and start rummaging. Prices are way cheap anyway (one third off the original, or thereabouts), but today, because of the sales, there was a further 40% off everything, putting the prices in the realm of the ohmigodthisisinsane. Half of Milan showed up - the checkout queue was so lengthy, and the wait so long, that we probably could have formed our own government in there.

Impressively hefty carrier bag in hand, I then headed north to Porta Venezia, hopping from shadow to shadow like a sunburnt ninja apprentice. On Corso Buenos Aires the pavement seemed to be melting underfoot; with temperatures in the mid-thirties, I had my sympathies. The money flowed freely, just like the tarmac - the rest of my spending allowance duly found its way into the coffers of Sisley and Zara. Having ticked off my shopping list several times over, I bought a very large bottle of cold water and slumped onto a metro train the hell out of there. In the circumstances, stripping off in front of the air conditioner in the apartment seemed like a very sweet idea.

Italia 3, Ucraina 0 (Italy 3, Ukraine 0)

I had arrived on Monday in time to watch Italy dive their way to victory over Australia on the projector in the meeting room. No such opportunity today, however, so I decided to go and mix it with the locals downtown. The scene on entering Piazza del Duomo this sweaty Friday evening was something akin to a nationalist rally - Italian flags absolutely everywhere, facepaint and bare torsos. Stalls set up throughout the crowd were doing a roaring trade in air horns, which were being let off indiscriminately at anything and everything that appeared on the screen (e.g. the appearance of the Ukraine mascots). Pug faced, leather-skinned vendors were ploughing carts laden with water, coke and beer through the throng, who, judging by the fervour of the chanting, jumping and honking were fairly well oiled (although not by British standards). A lone Ukraine flag was being waved tentatively towards the back of the crowd; I felt quite sorry for it.

5 minutes: GOAL! Well that's ruined it - the Italians, being Italians, will defend and waste time for the rest of the game now. Strong driving run from Zambrotta on the right wing, cuts inside the defender and wellies the ball into the bottom corner from 20 yards. Rather a lot of horn, as you might imagine. I discreetly cram my fingers in my ears.

11 minutes: The battery of horns behind me, having been sounded non-stop for the last 20 minutes, are beginning to squeal and die. Hah! (Of course, such satisfaction is short lived - next time I look over my shoulder, I see that the main horn bearers have at least three of the things each.)

13 minutes: First Italian time wasting - Gattuso falls on his back and it is a whole minute before he decides he isn't hurt after all, and gets back up again.

19 minutes: A second Ukrainian flag appears next to the first one.

c. 22 minutes: After a series of shoddy fouls puts him in the spotlight, I realise that the Ukraine no. 15 is a dead ringer for Bobby Gillespie. I hope for his team's sake that he's not been at the disco biscuits.

25 minutes: Gattuso wastes another minute by falling over clutching his wrist. He returns to the pitch with an improbably large bandage on his forearm. Wuss.

c. 35 minutes: Totti is everywhere this evening. From where I'm standing, at least.

Half time: Whistle blows; horns are sounded.

46 minutes: Cannavaro gets one in the knackers and crumples to the turf. More horns.

57 minutes: GOAL! A set piece move that Toni nuts in from six yards. Following the obligatory horn symphony, my section of the crowd start singing a wordless tune that sounds very like the baseline to 'Seven Nation Army' by the White Stripes. Poor old Ukraine, they were just beginning to look threatening, too.

72 minutes: The TV picture disappears, an error message flashes up. A howl rips through the crowd. There may be a riot.

74 minutes: Picture is back, and almost straight away... GOAL! Totti leads the Ukraine defence a merry dance, Toni taps in from two yards. There may be a riot.

80 minutes: Three nutters clear a space in the crowd in front of me, and let off green, white and red flares. Two more dissipated individuals grab a massive Italian flag and run around in a circle carrying it and each other.

87 minutes: The crowd have noticed the Ukranian flags (now numbering four) and have turned around and started chanting and pointing en masse. Bullies.

90 minutes: Andriy Shevchenko has a legitimate appeal for a penalty turned down. The Italian crowd stop venting at the Ukraine fans and instead start singing 'Shevchenko bastardo!' to the tune of the baseline to 'Seven Nation Army'.

90 2 minutes: There are so many flags being waved, I can no longer see the screen.

Full time: Horns. Time to get out of here.

12.30 am. I can still hear car and scooter horns screaming in the distance, even from my secluded apartment.

la trama si ispessisce… (the plot thickens…)

I have determined that my suitcase has made its way to Malpensa airport. Since that was my original destination (I was diverted to Linate, via Rome), it could well be that my luggage caught the connection that I only just missed. (This was not my fault - it seems that Continental Airlines have a relaxed attitude towards timekeeping.) The stage is set for an emotional reunion with my socks and what have you in Verbania on Sunday, although doubtless something else will go wrong before then.

procrastinazione pratico (practical procrastination)

Whilst waiting for my data to be processed by my Milanese colleagues, I have very little to do. The power adaptor for my laptop is just one of the many useful items in my suitcase (from whom I am still estranged), which, along with the strict firewall here preventing me from logging in to the computers at Berkeley, rules out trying to do any proper work. Instead, I have proofread everything that has been put in front of me (which took no time at all), and to fill the rest of my very blank schedule have read every last bit of World Cup news, written all the e-mails I could think of, and surfed MySpace to death looking for people I know.

And having exhausted all those proper procrastinatory options, I am now busy with practical matters - paying the gas bill, applying for a credit card, house-hunting... at this rate there is a real danger that my whole life will be organised by the time I get home, rather than the vague shambles that it often resembles.

Non parlo italiano, uso ‘Google Traduco’ (I don’t speak Italian, I use ‘Google Translate’)

In case you were wondering.

La situazione attuale (the current situation)

An e-mail informs me that my suitcase has been found, but it doesn't say where. And I still don't have any work to do, which means I find myself composing increasingly long blog entries just to pass the time...

Francia 3, Spagna 1 (France 3, Spain 1)

The city of Milan, acting benevolently for the vast foreign legion of visitors who do not have televisions, are screening all of the World Cup matches on a big screen in the Piazza del Duomo. Being, as I was, a man with only a single pair of socks, no more books to read and also somewhat at a loose end after dinner, I found myself heading down to the Duomo area (also the main shopping drag in the city) yesterday evening, in order to kill several birds with one stone.

Come 9 pm, with socks and books in store, and despite being slightly delirious with residual jet-lag, I found myself a section of fence to perch on to watch the evening's action. A match between France and Spain sounded too good to miss. Throughout the first half, I swapped pidgin Anglo-Italian opinions with the elderly gent next to me - Thierry Henry was an idiot for spoiling every single one of France's early attacks by sprinting yards offside; Spain's penalty was extremely soft (insert your own 'he went down like a ...' comment here). We shook hands at the magnificence of the French equaliser (realisation dawned at that point that I was indeed rooting for France).

The numbers of Spaniards in the piazza were bolstering as the match went on, and as the second half progressed, they made a decent fist of getting behind their team, 'Ole!'ing away even as the efforts of their charges waned on the pitch. Needless to say, following Henry's sole contribution to the match (falling over, clutching his face to win a free-kick), and Patrick Viera's subsequent header was deflected in, the tide turned in the square, with the outnumbered French, who had clustered in the centre of the crowd, making all of the noise, bouncing around and waving their flags with glee.

Zidane killed the game off a few minutes later, with a neat dribble and finish, and the crowd started to disperse off into the darkness. I can imagine that the French may have been rather late to bed that night; I, on the other hand, was beginning to feel seriously strange from the heat and the tiredness, and staggered off to catch the Metro home.

Visti e bagaglio (visas and luggage)

After an epic three-flight journey that proved indeed that all roads lead to Rome even when you bought tickets to Milan (long story), I now have:

1) Use of an apartment in Milan for a week
2) A fridgeful of food and cold water
3) A new visa for the US (they will let me back in in a couple of weeks), and
4) No luggage

Obviously, this is a concern, but it can wait till after lunch.

Vado in Italia (I’m going to Italy)

I am going to Italy for work for two weeks. Officially, my mission is not to investigate whether it is possible to make corn meal appetising; however, I have to do something in the evenings besides watch football: