I could, and perhaps will, write about Tim Hunt's absurd comments about the "problems" of women working in science labs. Since everyone seems to be writing about it, and there's a splendid selection of #distractinglysexy pictures on Twitter where other female scientists are mocking the idea, I'll leave it for now, and instead play the blogging equivalent of word-association*. One of my old supervisors at university has written an article on Huffington Post about Tim Hunt's comments and it produced a strong visceral reaction in me.
Just the act of seeing her name took me back to my second year at university, took me back to sitting in her study during a supervision on Quantum Mechanics, took me back to crying in frustration and desperation that I couldn't understand, took me back to feeling sick with fear before a supervision, took me back to sitting at my desk trying and failing to work through the problems we'd been set, took me back to being told I was inadequate and would never master physics unless I gave up all my outside interests and focused only on working. I actually sat, staring at the screen with my hands shaking and my heart in my mouth as I relived the feelings.
Before anything else I should point out that Professor Claudia Eberlein was (and presumably still is) a superb theoretical physicist. I have absolutely no doubts about her professional skills, or indeed about whether she is a delightful person. I never had the opportunity or inclination to know her socially, though I have been told she is lovely.
She is also probably a good teacher for some people. I was not one of those people. Maybe she never realised how uncertain and insecure and lacking in confidence I was? Maybe she didn't think that should matter. Maybe in the very short time, and with the high work load we had, there wasn't time to take account of my crushing lack of confidence. Whatever the reason, being reduced to tears by a supervisor on a regular basis, having "insufficient" or "inadequate" or sometimes simply "no" written on my work, being told I would never be a physicist, none of these were things that did anything other than convince me even further that I couldn't do it, couldn't understand, was too stupid, too lazy, too useless.
Start with someone who doubts themselves, and reinforce those doubts, and you have a whimpering wreck before you know it. Is that Professor Eberlein's fault? Perhaps not, except, in her article she says:
"I have on a few occasions seen staff cry, men as well as women, but it
would never have occurred to me to see this as a sign of them somehow
not being suitable scientists; I would have just been concerned to
address whatever got them into such a distressed state, and I would
question the suitability of any director or manager not having the same
priority. If there were a science department where women being reduced
to tears were not an isolated instance, then I would ask what in that
work environment has led to such extreme frustration that got them into
such distress."
And I can't help but think - where was this attitude when you were reducing me to tears? Where was the empathy and the concern then? Or is it only a problem if the reason a girl is crying is because she's been discriminated against? Straight forward unkindness and aggression is OK? Where was the "suitability of a manager" when you were spending the entire hour of our supervision discussing the finer subtleties of one of the questions with my (tediously brilliant) supervision partner, ignoring me entirely until the end when you simply told me that I need to try the problems again as I clearly hadn't understood? That wasn't teaching. It's true, I wasn't as accomplished as my supervision partner, but I couldn't help but think that perhaps that meant I needed more teaching not less.
After spending a year being told that I was failing, inadequate and lazy, I was both surprised and mystified by the uplifting pep-talk Professor Eberlein gave a small group of us at the end of the year, just before our exams. She assured us we were all capable of achieving firsts, that we were all just as good as any man could ever be, not to doubt ourselves and not to let others tell us we couldn't do anything any man could do.
I got a third that year.
I sat in my Quantum Mechanics exam crying, and chewing my finger. I actually managed to bite my finger so hard and repeatedly I severed the nerves in the back of it and it was many months before I regained feeling in it. I barely answered any questions. I can't blame Professor Eberlein for that. I'd got my exam timetable written down arse-about-face, and went into that exam expecting it to be on Thermodynamics and Solid State Physics. The shock of turning the paper over and being confronted with QM was more than I could handle.
However, the combination of being convinced I would never master QM, and then utterly, utterly ballsing up the exams meant that when given a choice between taking a three-year degree or staying on for an extended four-year degree, I opted for the three-year. Anything to escape from the exams and the feeling of being utterly useless at theoretical physics.
I got a 2(i) at the end of my third year.
I got firsts and starred firsts for my final year project work.
I won a prize for my experimental work.
I found my niche. It turns out it's not theoretical physics, it's experimental physics, and especially where that overlaps with engineering. (Does that make me Leonard instead of Sheldon? Or, please no, not Howard!**)
A few months ago, I found my old supervision work in the loft. I instantly recognised Claudia Eberlein's handwriting on it. Even after 20 years I would recognise her writing anywhere. Especially "Insuff." which is what she was reduced to when she was tired of writing "Insufficient". And I flicked through it. I was surprised to discover how many ticks there were. How many times she'd written "Very good" or "good" or even "nearly". How is it that I remembered so vividly, painfully, humiliatingly all the "inadequate"s, "insufficient"s and "try again"s, and none of the things that I'd done right?
So, perhaps I should reconsider my view of myself and Quantum Mechanics? I still don't think Professor Eberlein did me any favours - any teaching style that reduces a pupil to tears is probably not a good one, no matter how lacking in self-confidence the pupil. But despite her criticisms, I wasn't actually that bad. I was just lousy at taking note of the times I was praised, but clung like a limpet to the times I was criticised. And that's definitely my problem and not Professor Eberlein's. It's a problem I still have, and it's still not her fault.
So, Professor Eberlein, I salute you as an excellent physicist, and forgive you for your somewhat harsh teaching methods. You were not as critical as my memory is fooling me into thinking, and I wasn't as bad at Quantum Mechanics as it felt at the time, it's just that I took the criticism to heart and cried like a girl... oh... hang on... isn't that where this all started?***
* For reasons that escape me, my family's own version of a word-association game was called "Partridge Jumping". Not only did you have to be prepared to defend the logic behind your association, but every time you added a word you had to recite the entire list of words backwards from where you were adding a word. Yes, we did consider this fun as children.
** I'm hoping you'll get the reference to the Big Bang Theory, but I'm aware that sitcoms about physicists aren't everyone's cup of tea. They should be, along with Doctor Who, but there's no accounting for taste. Take Big Bear for example, despite me loving him to bits he doesn't actually like either the Big Bang Theory or Doctor Who. It's a miracle we're still married.
*** This is a joke.
Friday, 12 June 2015
Wednesday, 10 June 2015
Aspirational parenting
I read an article in the Guardian yesterday by George Monbiot that made me stop and think. The first thing that I stopped and thought was the same thing that I always stop and think when I read an article by George Monbiot and that was "Oh do shut up George, you're talking utter nonsense again". Makes you wonder why I've read more than one or two of his articles doesn't it? However, on this occasion my eye-rolling despair lasted only as long as reading the headline
Once I got round to reading the actual article I was reminded afresh how much I loathe the competitive nature of so much that happens with parenting. And I was appalled, depressed and slightly sickened by some of the things he talked about. The very idea that people start coaching their children when they're toddlers, hot-housing them, force-feeding them knowledge and information and skills to try and make sure they get ahead. I was reminded of poor little Bertie in Alexander McCall Smith's 44 Scotland Street novels, a six-year old boy with a domineering and misguided mother who inflicts saxophone classes, Italian lessons, psychoanalysis and pink trousers on her son, despite his desire to join the boy scouts and hit things with sticks. Those were works of fiction, written to raise a laugh. Admittedly they're funny because we (almost) all know parents who possess some of those traits. Parents who start their little darlings on piano lessons when they're three and ballet and tennis and horse-riding and all the rest. But Bertie was an exaggeration. Wasn't he? It would appear not. It would appear that there are actual human beings in this world who pay someone to coach their child in the right skills to be admitted to the right nursery. Or pay someone simply to identify the right nursery for ensuring their child starts out on the right path to the right university. Whatever right means to the kind of people who do this.
I hate people. I hate the idea that there are small children out there who want to play and giggle and be loved and have a sense of worth that isn't related to whether they've achieved something. Who want to be secure in their parents' love and approval irrespective of whether they can correctly decline their Latin nouns aged three. I hate the idea that there are parents who already have fixed and concrete ideas about what university counts as good enough, what career is good enough, what salary, what car, what house, what material possessions are adequate before they will deem their child to have succeeded.
Which sort of, in a roundabout way, brings me back to the headline, and my initial disagreement with it, and my own aspirations for my LittleBear. Because of course I have aspirations for him. Hopes. Dreams. I'm only human, and I don't think there are many parents in the world who don't want the best for their children, who don't aspire to something "better" for their children than they have. It's what that "better" is that makes the difference though, isn't it? Just because you have an aspiration or two doesn't necessarily mean your child is condemned to some sort of joyless existence. You could aspire to joy after all, couldn't you?
When BigBear and I were expecting LittleBear, we talked about what we wanted for our unborn child, what was important to us, what we hoped for. And we both had the same basic hope. Our first hope was that our child would be born healthy. Nothing more. Not exceptional, just whole and pink and perfect. And after that, the thing that we both want, more than any other is that he feels loved and has self-confidence and a sense of self-worth.
As you may have noticed from some of what I've written here, I'm perhaps not over-endowed with confidence in myself. And, it would be fair to say, BigBear is not exactly overflowing in the self-confidence department either. And therein lies the "better" that we want for LittleBear. We want him not to suffer from the fears and anxieties that have beset us. I'm sure he'll have his own fears and anxieties, and I'm sure that it's not entirely in our hands what happens in his mind. After all, we both had loving parents and we both ended up the way we did anyway. But that doesn't mean I can't aspire to have a more psychologically robust child than I have ended up myself. It was that hope that, slightly indirectly, led me to my course of CBT...
... I sat in my doctor's surgery, crying, as seemed to be the case rather often at the time. And I looked at my beautiful boy playing with toy cars on the floor and sobbed, "I just don't want him to grow up like me. I don't want him to think he's a failure. I don't want him to hate himself." My delightful and sympathetic doctor looked at me, somewhat bewildered and asked, "How long have you felt that way about yourself." And thus I ended up getting some help to stop feeling "that way"...
So, yes, of course I'd be delighted if my boy goes to a "good" university, or is a talented musician, or a skilled sportsman, or indeed excels in any field. And yes, of course I will nurture and encourage him to make the most of his inate talents. And I'm sure I'd be proud of him if he had a "successful" career. BUT, what I really want is for him to find a path through life where he feels fulfilled, where he is rooted to his own life, connected to people who love him and who he loves, where he does something that inspires him and satisfies him, where he has a sense of his own worth, where he is confident in the validity of his own feelings and able to express his own opinions. Where he is happy, secure and loved. I hope to give him as much of that as I can, to lay a foundation on which he can one day build his own life.
Every night, as I kiss my LittleBear good night I say "Night night, sleep tight, Mummy loves you lots and I'll be right here if you need me" and my LittleBear always replies "Night night, sleep tight, LittleBear loves you lots and I'll be right in my bed if you need me". I will hold true to my promise as long as there is breath in my body. But I know that the day will come when my LittleBear won't any longer be in his bed if I need him. And I hope I have the strength to let go when that day comes and let him find his own way, his own life and his own joy. That's what I aspire to.
Aspirational parents condemn their children to a desperate, joyless life.
And given that it's a sub-editor that's usually responsible for the headline on the Graun, I think I might, on this one, rare, occasion have to not disagree with George.
Once I got round to reading the actual article I was reminded afresh how much I loathe the competitive nature of so much that happens with parenting. And I was appalled, depressed and slightly sickened by some of the things he talked about. The very idea that people start coaching their children when they're toddlers, hot-housing them, force-feeding them knowledge and information and skills to try and make sure they get ahead. I was reminded of poor little Bertie in Alexander McCall Smith's 44 Scotland Street novels, a six-year old boy with a domineering and misguided mother who inflicts saxophone classes, Italian lessons, psychoanalysis and pink trousers on her son, despite his desire to join the boy scouts and hit things with sticks. Those were works of fiction, written to raise a laugh. Admittedly they're funny because we (almost) all know parents who possess some of those traits. Parents who start their little darlings on piano lessons when they're three and ballet and tennis and horse-riding and all the rest. But Bertie was an exaggeration. Wasn't he? It would appear not. It would appear that there are actual human beings in this world who pay someone to coach their child in the right skills to be admitted to the right nursery. Or pay someone simply to identify the right nursery for ensuring their child starts out on the right path to the right university. Whatever right means to the kind of people who do this.
I hate people. I hate the idea that there are small children out there who want to play and giggle and be loved and have a sense of worth that isn't related to whether they've achieved something. Who want to be secure in their parents' love and approval irrespective of whether they can correctly decline their Latin nouns aged three. I hate the idea that there are parents who already have fixed and concrete ideas about what university counts as good enough, what career is good enough, what salary, what car, what house, what material possessions are adequate before they will deem their child to have succeeded.
Which sort of, in a roundabout way, brings me back to the headline, and my initial disagreement with it, and my own aspirations for my LittleBear. Because of course I have aspirations for him. Hopes. Dreams. I'm only human, and I don't think there are many parents in the world who don't want the best for their children, who don't aspire to something "better" for their children than they have. It's what that "better" is that makes the difference though, isn't it? Just because you have an aspiration or two doesn't necessarily mean your child is condemned to some sort of joyless existence. You could aspire to joy after all, couldn't you?
When BigBear and I were expecting LittleBear, we talked about what we wanted for our unborn child, what was important to us, what we hoped for. And we both had the same basic hope. Our first hope was that our child would be born healthy. Nothing more. Not exceptional, just whole and pink and perfect. And after that, the thing that we both want, more than any other is that he feels loved and has self-confidence and a sense of self-worth.
As you may have noticed from some of what I've written here, I'm perhaps not over-endowed with confidence in myself. And, it would be fair to say, BigBear is not exactly overflowing in the self-confidence department either. And therein lies the "better" that we want for LittleBear. We want him not to suffer from the fears and anxieties that have beset us. I'm sure he'll have his own fears and anxieties, and I'm sure that it's not entirely in our hands what happens in his mind. After all, we both had loving parents and we both ended up the way we did anyway. But that doesn't mean I can't aspire to have a more psychologically robust child than I have ended up myself. It was that hope that, slightly indirectly, led me to my course of CBT...
... I sat in my doctor's surgery, crying, as seemed to be the case rather often at the time. And I looked at my beautiful boy playing with toy cars on the floor and sobbed, "I just don't want him to grow up like me. I don't want him to think he's a failure. I don't want him to hate himself." My delightful and sympathetic doctor looked at me, somewhat bewildered and asked, "How long have you felt that way about yourself." And thus I ended up getting some help to stop feeling "that way"...
So, yes, of course I'd be delighted if my boy goes to a "good" university, or is a talented musician, or a skilled sportsman, or indeed excels in any field. And yes, of course I will nurture and encourage him to make the most of his inate talents. And I'm sure I'd be proud of him if he had a "successful" career. BUT, what I really want is for him to find a path through life where he feels fulfilled, where he is rooted to his own life, connected to people who love him and who he loves, where he does something that inspires him and satisfies him, where he has a sense of his own worth, where he is confident in the validity of his own feelings and able to express his own opinions. Where he is happy, secure and loved. I hope to give him as much of that as I can, to lay a foundation on which he can one day build his own life.
Every night, as I kiss my LittleBear good night I say "Night night, sleep tight, Mummy loves you lots and I'll be right here if you need me" and my LittleBear always replies "Night night, sleep tight, LittleBear loves you lots and I'll be right in my bed if you need me". I will hold true to my promise as long as there is breath in my body. But I know that the day will come when my LittleBear won't any longer be in his bed if I need him. And I hope I have the strength to let go when that day comes and let him find his own way, his own life and his own joy. That's what I aspire to.
Tuesday, 9 June 2015
Nightmare day from telephone hell
I think I may have mentioned before, I don't really like making phone calls. In fact, I dislike them so much that there are friends I haven't talked to in months because I can't overcome the telephonic repulsion field that prevents me from picking the damn phone up. What if I phone at an inconvenient time? What if the person at the other end doesn't want to talk to me? What if I make a fool of myself? What if I have to leave a message?
It can take me days, or even weeks, to muster up the emotional strength to make a phone call. Today I have a list of six phone calls to make. Six. That's about six months worth of emotional strength. And I have the perfect day lined up for telephone-avoidance. Most of the jobs I have to do today are in the lab, downstairs. My phone is on my desk in the office, upstairs. I can easily spend all day busy (and not just "busy") nowhere near a phone, and give myself a rueful shrug at the end of the day that it just wasn't my fault. So instead I'm going to CBT the hell out of this problem.
One phone call made. One failure notched up. Only five more to go.
It can take me days, or even weeks, to muster up the emotional strength to make a phone call. Today I have a list of six phone calls to make. Six. That's about six months worth of emotional strength. And I have the perfect day lined up for telephone-avoidance. Most of the jobs I have to do today are in the lab, downstairs. My phone is on my desk in the office, upstairs. I can easily spend all day busy (and not just "busy") nowhere near a phone, and give myself a rueful shrug at the end of the day that it just wasn't my fault. So instead I'm going to CBT the hell out of this problem.
The Problem
Cattery
We're going on holiday. We need to put the cat in the cattery for the week we're away. It's the same cattery we always use. I know the owner, she's lovely, she recognises my voice when I phone and remembers the idiot cat's name. When she's fully booked and hasn't got room for the idiot cat, she's recommended other places nearby. She won't think I'm an idiot... She won't think I'm an idiot... She won't think I'm an idiot... She won't think I'm an idiot. CBT to the rescue! Even if she does think I'm an idiot, it doesn't matter. I'm not an idiot, and the opinion of somebody who runs a cattery will not change that.Vet
We can't actually send the cat to the cattery unless he's up to date on his vaccinations. His vaccination reminder came through the post this week. I must phone the vet. He must have his vaccinations. What can go wrong? Nothing. Seriously, nothing can go wrong. They might not have an appointment this week. That's OK. I can ask for one next week, or the week after. As long as I phone soon then there's time to be flexible. The worst thing I can do is leave it to the last minute. There is no negative outcome to phoning the vet. They have asked me to phone.Garage
I really ought to deal with the engine warning light on my car. It's no longer intermittent, it's now permanent. I'm fairly certain it's still just a corroded cable falsely reporting an error. After all, that's what it was when it was intermittent and the car was serviced. And the garage did say to bring it back in once it was more permanent and they'd sort it out. So all I need to do is phone them and say the light's back and can they sort it. They're virtually expecting me to call. But... but... but... garages spring questions on you sometimes, you know, like "is that the model with the double overhead flugle-carb-dunker? Or is it the one with the single cam fangle-winder?" And then you end up turning all pathetic-woman and saying "Erm, it's blue. Does that help?" Even though you're perfectly competent and intelligent and do know how an internal combustion engine works, but before you know it you get chalked up as a complete idiot who doesn't know the difference between a glow plug and a spark plug. And breathe... back to the CBT... it's not that bad... even if they think I'm an idiot, does it really matter? No. Has anyone ever asked me a question I couldn't answer when booking my car in for a repair? No. Pick up the phone.My aunt and uncle
How can this one be difficult? Seriously, this is my much-loved aunt and uncle, and I need to ask them a favour. A favour they offered to undertake already, completely unbidden. I need them to take receipt of some new furniture at the family cottage in a couple of weeks time. I've already deferred delivery every month for the last three months, and I think the sofa company are getting a bit hacked off with trying to deliver and being told there won't be anyone there. But it's an imposition, and I don't have any flexibility about dates with the sofa people, who appear to send a lorry out to the north-west once a month, and that's the only option. All my aunt and uncle can say is "yes of course" or "sorry, we're busy". They won't mind me asking. They wouldn't have offered if they minded. They're not just being polite.The sofa people
I either have to phone them and say "yes, that date's fine" or "no that date's not fine" after I speak to aunt and uncle. Why am I so worried that they'll shout at me like I'm a little girl who's done something naughty? It's not my fault they only offer delivery one day in every month. It's not my fault this is a holiday cottage that there's rarely anybody at. They've already taken the money for the furniture. I'm the customer. They have no right or reason to be cross. If they are rude to me it's because they are providing poor customer service. I'm the customer.Some sort of cat grooming person
This one's hard as I don't even know who to call. I just know my idiot cat's fur is getting out of control. He's getting too many furballs, he's being sick, he's getting unspeakable poo stuck in his fur, and generally his life (and ours) is getting stinky and horrid. A proper grooming, and some trimming of his ridiculous pantaloons would improve the world no end. First I have to find someone, then I have to call them, and then I have to discover that what I'm asking is utterly, outrageously, ridiculously stupid, because nobody in their right mind clips the long haired tangled pantaloons of a middle-aged moggy and then I can feel embarrassed and stupid and hang up. So that phone calls not going to happen is it? No, let's get back on the CBT track, I've been losing the plot a little bit. Cat groomers offer a service, for which a customer pays. If I would like that service and I am either mocked or denied, then I can take my custom elsewhere. I have nothing to be embarrassed about in trying to make my cat's life more comfortable. I can do this.The outcome
So I started at the beginning, and phoned the cattery. They're full. So are my back-up cattery. My hands are shaking, I feel physically sick and I'm fighting back tears. I don't know what to do. I don't know where to start. If I can't make some arrangement for the cat to be looked after while we're away, then we can't go. I've ruined our holiday and it hasn't even started yet. I've failed, again. I should have phoned weeks ago. Screw you CBT, all you did was help me pick the phone up, I'm still stuck, wallowing in my own recrimination and worthlessness and I can't make it stop, I can't get things right, I can't do it, I can't, I can't, I can't.One phone call made. One failure notched up. Only five more to go.
Friday, 5 June 2015
Decorating dilemmas and indecision
We have already chosen the new wallpaper and paint for the room. The wallpaper is a Greek Key design from Graham and Brown.
And it's then going to be painted with Crown "English Muffin". From the sample pot we used on some sample wallpaper, I don't think it's going to look anywhere near as pink as shown in this picture, but paint and pictures of it are always a bit tricky.
The woodwork is all white, including built in wardrobe doors, window frame, door and skirting. All sounding quite simple and promising so far isn't it?
Then there are two, large, relatively dark, non-negotiable wooden dressers. And two single beds with patchwork bedspreads (small boy not included).
And all I now have to do is choose curtain fabric (oh, and either get the curtains made or make them myself, but at the moment that feels like a walk in the park compared to finding the right material). I know what colours would work, I know what patterns I definitely want to avoid, I just can't find the perfect material. Every time I think I know that I definitely want something pinkish I then realise a neutral would be better. And every time I think neutral would be perfect I remember that actually a green would look rather good. Every time I decide a nice subtle, delicate pattern is what's in order, I look at the bedspreads and realise I have no hope of finding a pattern that doesn't fight with the existing ones. And every time I think I should choose something plain, I remember how dull and dingy I find the current, thin, life-sappingly beige ones.
The carpet is still undecided too, so I guess that comes into the list of Things I Still Have To Do, but I'm ignoring it, since I'm going to have to wait till I'm at the cottage, go to a local carpet shop and arrange measuring, fitting etc once actually there. But curtains I feel I ought to be able to get sorted here. And by ignoring the carpet, I don't have to worry about whether the curtains work with the carpet. A problem deferred is almost as good as a problem solved.
So, BigBear's cousin has offered to help out, and I figure, there must be some other interior-design minded people out there, so what the hell, I've now presented you with (almost) all the information I have and I'll see what you come up with. I say almost, because I can't show you what the furniture looks like as I don't have pictures and at least 90% of you have never seen the room in question. And of the 10% who have seen the room, I'd put even money on a good half of them not remembering it.
I now have ten fabric swatches from John Lewis scattered around the place, none of which are quite what I'm after. I have these four coming from Sanderson soon (and they're rather pushing the limit on how much I'm prepared to spend on curtain fabric!)
I have absolutely no idea what any of these will look like in the flesh, and am reaching the point where I no longer know what I think as I've stared at so many fabric websites over the past few weeks I'm starting to see the warp and weft in my dreams. I am once again suffering from my complete and total inability to just let it go. There are times and days when being obsessive and focusing intently on a problem until I've gnawed it into submission and it lies on its back whimpering for mercy are a good thing. Like at work, when trying to make the impossible possible. But curtains? Get a grip woman!
So now, I place my sanity, sleep and the approval of my family in your hands. Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to suggest an actual definite fabric that would look nice as fully-lined floor-length curtains in an 1840s slate-built quarryman's cottage with walls and bedspreads as shown. If you so much as think about saying "a nice light green with a slight self-pattern in it" I will find a hitman to hunt you down and strangle you with a Laura Ashley tie-back. I want specifics or nothing. (And I don't want £60/m either...)
Thursday, 4 June 2015
If wine is the answer, what's the question?
LittleBear: Mummy! You haven't got anything to drink with your dinner!
PhysicsBear: So I don't. I'll go and get something. Thank you LittleBear.
I head into the kitchen and put the kettle on
LB: Mummy? Are you ever going to not have tea to drink with lunch and dinner?
PB: Erm... I quite often don't have tea actually. In fact, you're right, I don't want tea. I'll have something else.
I turn kettle off
LB: Are you going to have wine?
It's 5:45. Yes, it was a vexing, frustrating, rage-inducing day at work, but I'm not going to hit the bottle. Yet.
PB: No, I think I'll just have juice, thank you.
LB: But you like wine don't you Mummy?
PB: Ah, well, yes I suppose I do. Why do you think I like wine?
Beginning to get perturbed now. I mean, I think the last time LittleBear saw me drink any wine was at Christmas, and that was one glass. Where has this idea come from?
LB: Because Daddy likes wine
Even more bemused now. I can't remember when BigBear last drank a glass of wine. Flummoxed by this conversation I decide on a change of course.
PB: I'm having juice. Would you like to try some?
LB: Juice is yucky to me.
PB: Have you ever tried it?
LB: No. It's yucky.
PB: How do you know it's yucky?
LB: Because I've never tried it.
And there is the heart of the logic that appears to prevent LittleBear eating or drinking anything new. Meanwhile I am left with a lingering concern about what LittleBear might be saying about my drinking at nursery...
PhysicsBear: So I don't. I'll go and get something. Thank you LittleBear.
I head into the kitchen and put the kettle on
LB: Mummy? Are you ever going to not have tea to drink with lunch and dinner?
PB: Erm... I quite often don't have tea actually. In fact, you're right, I don't want tea. I'll have something else.
I turn kettle off
LB: Are you going to have wine?
It's 5:45. Yes, it was a vexing, frustrating, rage-inducing day at work, but I'm not going to hit the bottle. Yet.
PB: No, I think I'll just have juice, thank you.
LB: But you like wine don't you Mummy?
PB: Ah, well, yes I suppose I do. Why do you think I like wine?
Beginning to get perturbed now. I mean, I think the last time LittleBear saw me drink any wine was at Christmas, and that was one glass. Where has this idea come from?
LB: Because Daddy likes wine
Even more bemused now. I can't remember when BigBear last drank a glass of wine. Flummoxed by this conversation I decide on a change of course.
PB: I'm having juice. Would you like to try some?
LB: Juice is yucky to me.
PB: Have you ever tried it?
LB: No. It's yucky.
PB: How do you know it's yucky?
LB: Because I've never tried it.
And there is the heart of the logic that appears to prevent LittleBear eating or drinking anything new. Meanwhile I am left with a lingering concern about what LittleBear might be saying about my drinking at nursery...
Wednesday, 3 June 2015
Rage Against the Machine
In an ideal world, technology would make life easier wouldn't it? In fact, in an ideal world, technology would mesh so seamlessly into your life you wouldn't even notice it making your life easier. Only a few short months ago, that's how it was in the Bear House. And now we have descended into a swirling maelstrom of rage, frustration, recrimination and angst. Oh for those long-lost halcyon days....
We had a PVR. A lovely, modest little Humax. We watched television, we recorded television, we watched recordings, we listened to the radio, we downloaded recorded radio programs to MP3 players to listen to on the bus. It just worked. Press a button and what you wanted happened. You don't really appreciate the glory of a well-designed user interface until you lose it. A user interface that's so unassuming, so mild, so perfect that you can just use it without having to think about it, or fight, or hunt around desperately for the right button or obscure menu option. I feel almost misty-eyed at the memory. Sniff.
And then, slowly, inexorably, our dear little Humax started not to be quite so happy. Instead of switching on and working we'd get the dreaded "green screen". Something was going horribly wrong with the HDMI handshaking between the Humax and our television. We tried everything. New cable, different input, different settings, switching on to an HD channel only, switching on to an SD channel only, switching the TV on first, then the Humax, switching on the Humax then the TV, standing on one leg and only using the remote control left-handed. Nothing worked. Every day it took longer and longer to get to the point where anything worked. With a heavy heart, I researched finding the perfect replacement. I consulted Which? for recommended buys. I read reviews, scoured websites, studied specifications. We (I) decided, in retrospect rashly, not to trust the HDMI interface between Humax and Sony again. I found absolutely nobody online complaining about the connections between Panasonic and Sony units, so chose the best reviewed Panasonic PVR I could find, the DMR-HWT130EB:
"This PVR is one of the best we've tested and a worthy Best Buy"
"all the features you could possibly need in a recorder"
" the Panasonic DMR-HWT130EB is an excellent smart recorder to consider"
How wrong I was. Well, I was right about the HDMI interface. That works fine. Completely glitch free. But the user interface? Oh dear... how is it possible to get it so badly wrong? We've had this stupid machine for months now, and yet BigBear and I still both manage to accidentally press a wrong button at least once every single day. We're not idiots. We're technologically literate. BigBear was even part of the team writing a PVR for Sony a few years ago, so he really does know what he's doing. As far as I can tell, the user interface was designed by rejects from Microsoft who probably thought the Office Paperclip didn't pop up and ask you questions often enough.
Try something simple... try and find a program you want to watch... bring up the electronic program guide. So far, so good. Where are we in the schedule? Nope, not going to show you. You have to pay a license fee on the patent to show you where in the schedule you are, and apparently Panasonic were too tight-fisted to do so. So instead you have to stare forlornly at the screen until you see the tiny writing that tells you the current time, then try and work out where on the schedule that falls. Once you've done that, you have some chance of knowing which programs are currently showing.
Nothing on the current screen appeals... try and page down to the next screenful... oops, no, the page up and page down buttons are handily located at the opposite end of the remote to all the other navigation buttons, and just out of reach of your thumb. You squirm your hand round to hit page down, and accidentally change the TV input setting, because the buttons are too close together, and have the same labels on them. That's right, they've labelled both the PVR page up and page down, and the TV channel up and down with "CH" and some arrows. And put them next to each other. Awesome design skills there.
Now you're back to where you want to be and have found a program you'd like to watch... OK, let's watch it. Nope, you can't just select it, you're going to have to answer a subsidiary question about whether you really mean you want to watch it. And then, if it's also available in HD, you'll be asked if you wouldn't rather watch a different channel instead. Three button presses just to choose a channel? The default action on selecting a program should surely be to watch the damn thing, shouldn't it? If I want information about it, or to record it, place the burden on me to choose a different button, rather than mess around with the simplest function of a PVR. And the HD alternative could be offered in a little pop-up window later, you know in that discrete, simple way my lovely little Humax used to. And yet, when I'm navigating seventeen layers deep in a set of menus and I accidentally press the "guide" button, which is where I'd expect the "up" button to be, I bomb straight out of the menu system and back to the guide I didn't want to see. No double-checking this time, oh no, my mistake, my problem. We're only going to ask you questions when it will slow you down and irritate you.
How about if you've missed a program and are wondering if it's repeated at a peculiar time of day? Or someone at work has mentioned a really great program you should watch, but they can't remember when it's on? What you need is a search facility. Nothing sophisticated, no need to worry about categories or genres, just a simple keyword search. Oh, no, you can't do that. If you want to search for a program you'll need to turn your computer on, search on the internet for the time, date and channel, and then go and scroll through the EPG till you find it. Which is convenient.
And don't think about trying to start watching something while you're recording it. Apparently if you start watching it, that means you're no longer interested in recording it. None of this high falutin idea of wanting to chase a recording through because you're only ready to start watching twenty minutes after the program started. Oh yes, you can start watching it fine. Everything will appear to be fine. But the bastard box will have stopped recording the moment you pressed "play". Obviously it doesn't claim this is what happens in the manual, but in practice, this is exactly what keeps happening. User error perhaps, but when it's one that occurs with no warning and when used by two moderately competent people, you can't help suspecting a flaw in the UI somewhere.
As for trying to play things that you've got recorded? Don't expect to be able to do that in a hurry. First of all, to bring up your list of recordings you need to use a button helpfully named "Direct Navigator" and disguised as a left cursor. Once you've got used to that though, you'll need to get used to... waiting... and waiting... and waiting... and waiting a bit more, while this useless excuse for a PVR thinks about whether it can be bothered to populate the list of recordings. And it doesn't show any clue that it's thinking, it just shows you an empty page, nonchalantly pretending to have deleted all your recordings. Once you have got a list of recordings, you will find them marked with small, obscure hieroglyphs to hint at further information. Perhaps on a 92" television these etchings would be decipherable. To the normal human eye, on a normal human telelevision, they're just a colourful heap of gibberish.
If you haven't, by this stage, thrown the remote control and/or PVR itself out of the window, you may consider watching a recording. Be careful not to leave one program selected for too long or it will just start playing it. Not full-screen mind you, just as a thumbnail within the library. Just enough to start annoying you or to spoil the start of a film. Three button presses before you're allowed to watch a live program, and yet the bloody thing starts playing a recording without you pressing anything at all.
How anyone was able to actually use this machine and conclude that it was a really good device is beyond me. Sure, the picture's good, and erm, yes, it does let you watch television, after its own fashion. But it's not really useable. Anything that makes you trip and stumble and swear every time you try using it has failed at a fundamental level in its design.
I'm seriously considering giving up on it and buying a new Humax.
We had a PVR. A lovely, modest little Humax. We watched television, we recorded television, we watched recordings, we listened to the radio, we downloaded recorded radio programs to MP3 players to listen to on the bus. It just worked. Press a button and what you wanted happened. You don't really appreciate the glory of a well-designed user interface until you lose it. A user interface that's so unassuming, so mild, so perfect that you can just use it without having to think about it, or fight, or hunt around desperately for the right button or obscure menu option. I feel almost misty-eyed at the memory. Sniff.
And then, slowly, inexorably, our dear little Humax started not to be quite so happy. Instead of switching on and working we'd get the dreaded "green screen". Something was going horribly wrong with the HDMI handshaking between the Humax and our television. We tried everything. New cable, different input, different settings, switching on to an HD channel only, switching on to an SD channel only, switching the TV on first, then the Humax, switching on the Humax then the TV, standing on one leg and only using the remote control left-handed. Nothing worked. Every day it took longer and longer to get to the point where anything worked. With a heavy heart, I researched finding the perfect replacement. I consulted Which? for recommended buys. I read reviews, scoured websites, studied specifications. We (I) decided, in retrospect rashly, not to trust the HDMI interface between Humax and Sony again. I found absolutely nobody online complaining about the connections between Panasonic and Sony units, so chose the best reviewed Panasonic PVR I could find, the DMR-HWT130EB:
"This PVR is one of the best we've tested and a worthy Best Buy"
"all the features you could possibly need in a recorder"
" the Panasonic DMR-HWT130EB is an excellent smart recorder to consider"
How wrong I was. Well, I was right about the HDMI interface. That works fine. Completely glitch free. But the user interface? Oh dear... how is it possible to get it so badly wrong? We've had this stupid machine for months now, and yet BigBear and I still both manage to accidentally press a wrong button at least once every single day. We're not idiots. We're technologically literate. BigBear was even part of the team writing a PVR for Sony a few years ago, so he really does know what he's doing. As far as I can tell, the user interface was designed by rejects from Microsoft who probably thought the Office Paperclip didn't pop up and ask you questions often enough.
Try something simple... try and find a program you want to watch... bring up the electronic program guide. So far, so good. Where are we in the schedule? Nope, not going to show you. You have to pay a license fee on the patent to show you where in the schedule you are, and apparently Panasonic were too tight-fisted to do so. So instead you have to stare forlornly at the screen until you see the tiny writing that tells you the current time, then try and work out where on the schedule that falls. Once you've done that, you have some chance of knowing which programs are currently showing.
Nothing on the current screen appeals... try and page down to the next screenful... oops, no, the page up and page down buttons are handily located at the opposite end of the remote to all the other navigation buttons, and just out of reach of your thumb. You squirm your hand round to hit page down, and accidentally change the TV input setting, because the buttons are too close together, and have the same labels on them. That's right, they've labelled both the PVR page up and page down, and the TV channel up and down with "CH" and some arrows. And put them next to each other. Awesome design skills there.
Now you're back to where you want to be and have found a program you'd like to watch... OK, let's watch it. Nope, you can't just select it, you're going to have to answer a subsidiary question about whether you really mean you want to watch it. And then, if it's also available in HD, you'll be asked if you wouldn't rather watch a different channel instead. Three button presses just to choose a channel? The default action on selecting a program should surely be to watch the damn thing, shouldn't it? If I want information about it, or to record it, place the burden on me to choose a different button, rather than mess around with the simplest function of a PVR. And the HD alternative could be offered in a little pop-up window later, you know in that discrete, simple way my lovely little Humax used to. And yet, when I'm navigating seventeen layers deep in a set of menus and I accidentally press the "guide" button, which is where I'd expect the "up" button to be, I bomb straight out of the menu system and back to the guide I didn't want to see. No double-checking this time, oh no, my mistake, my problem. We're only going to ask you questions when it will slow you down and irritate you.
How about if you've missed a program and are wondering if it's repeated at a peculiar time of day? Or someone at work has mentioned a really great program you should watch, but they can't remember when it's on? What you need is a search facility. Nothing sophisticated, no need to worry about categories or genres, just a simple keyword search. Oh, no, you can't do that. If you want to search for a program you'll need to turn your computer on, search on the internet for the time, date and channel, and then go and scroll through the EPG till you find it. Which is convenient.
And don't think about trying to start watching something while you're recording it. Apparently if you start watching it, that means you're no longer interested in recording it. None of this high falutin idea of wanting to chase a recording through because you're only ready to start watching twenty minutes after the program started. Oh yes, you can start watching it fine. Everything will appear to be fine. But the bastard box will have stopped recording the moment you pressed "play". Obviously it doesn't claim this is what happens in the manual, but in practice, this is exactly what keeps happening. User error perhaps, but when it's one that occurs with no warning and when used by two moderately competent people, you can't help suspecting a flaw in the UI somewhere.
As for trying to play things that you've got recorded? Don't expect to be able to do that in a hurry. First of all, to bring up your list of recordings you need to use a button helpfully named "Direct Navigator" and disguised as a left cursor. Once you've got used to that though, you'll need to get used to... waiting... and waiting... and waiting... and waiting a bit more, while this useless excuse for a PVR thinks about whether it can be bothered to populate the list of recordings. And it doesn't show any clue that it's thinking, it just shows you an empty page, nonchalantly pretending to have deleted all your recordings. Once you have got a list of recordings, you will find them marked with small, obscure hieroglyphs to hint at further information. Perhaps on a 92" television these etchings would be decipherable. To the normal human eye, on a normal human telelevision, they're just a colourful heap of gibberish.
If you haven't, by this stage, thrown the remote control and/or PVR itself out of the window, you may consider watching a recording. Be careful not to leave one program selected for too long or it will just start playing it. Not full-screen mind you, just as a thumbnail within the library. Just enough to start annoying you or to spoil the start of a film. Three button presses before you're allowed to watch a live program, and yet the bloody thing starts playing a recording without you pressing anything at all.
How anyone was able to actually use this machine and conclude that it was a really good device is beyond me. Sure, the picture's good, and erm, yes, it does let you watch television, after its own fashion. But it's not really useable. Anything that makes you trip and stumble and swear every time you try using it has failed at a fundamental level in its design.
I'm seriously considering giving up on it and buying a new Humax.
Monday, 1 June 2015
Any old iron
I have been feeling vaguely triumphant about LittleBear's eating recently. Which is always a bad idea. Never be tempted to feel proud, or complacent, or even remotely nonchalant about anything child-related - you're just setting yourself up for a bigger fall later.
The reason for my happiness was that he'd actually conceded to eating some meat. He'd helped make frtikadeller, and eaten three tiny ones that he'd rolled himself. He'd also tried roast chicken, only on the understanding that he could then pull the wishbone, but still, bribery or not, he actually tried it and admitted it wasn't yucky. It felt like light at the end of the tunnel.
Then my brother and his family came to see us.
My sister-in-law looked askance at me and said "does he drink milk with every meal? You do know milk hinders iron absorption don't you? You might want to keep an eye on that..." I'm mostly certain she meant that kindly. Actually, I am certain she meant it kindly, and since I know she hasn't (so far...) read this blog, and I'm a lot more circumspect about talking about my insanity than writing about it, I also know she doesn't have a clue what my anxious mind has done with this information.
Obviously, the first step was to double-check on iron absorption issues. LittleBear would need to be drinking three quarters of a litre a day to have a significant impact on his iron absorption. He drinks more like a third of that amount. Which is actually about the recommended amount for his age. Phew. Not doing anything wrong.
You'd think that would be that wouldn't you?
You'd think I could stop worrying wouldn't you?
You haven't been paying attention have you?
I've got something new to worry about. Iron. Is LittleBear getting enough iron? There's so much I don't know, so much to research, so much to check, double-check, count, monitor, read... it's exhausting. BigBear says "he's fine, don't worry". BigBear is right, as well as sensible, this time. But telling me not to worry is a bit like telling someone with depression to cheer up. It just doesn't work like that.
So... now I know the difference between haem-iron and non-haem-iron. Now I'm moderately well-read on the bio-availability of elemental iron, and the impact on absorption of grain size of the additive. Now I've read The Bread and Flour Regulations 1998. (Now I know that the fortification process of wheat flour in the UK allows for the addition of powdered iron, in its elemental form, which is something of a surprise.) What I don't know is how much iron is added to any given flour, in what format, and how much LittleBear will absorb of what he eats. I'm a PhysicsBear, not a BiologyBear or MedicineBear. Now I'm getting really cross that it's next to impossible to find out the iron content of flour, bread and other wheat-based products, because it doesn't seem to be a legal requirement to list the trace quantities in food. I'm having to rely on other people's random websites to tell me the iron content of most foods. And that vexes me.
[Though, for anyone who wants to join me in worrying about such things, there's a really handy resource from the Royal Surrey Hospital. It actually tells you how much iron is in some fairly normal foods, and how much you need.]
Now I know that LittleBear should be eating about 6.1mg of iron per day. And now I'm also gazing at all the things he eats and mentally checking off whether they have iron in or not, and whether I should be doing something differently. I was fine a week ago. A week ago it hadn't even occurred to me to be worried, and now I'm verging on obsessed about it. I lay awake last night until gone 1am rumminating and pondering and massively, massively overthinking what LittleBear eats. Again. (OK, so some of that was because I think the cafe we went to in the afternoon gave me caffeinated instead of decaffeinated coffee when I ordered, because I was wired yesterday after that outing...)
I have become so fixated on this issue, I've actually added up what he's eaten today:
Cheerios 3.0mg
Toast 0.8mg
Potato 0.8mg
Broccoli 0.2mg
Peas 0.5mg
Dark chocolate 0.2mg
Rice 0.2mg
Cake 0.3mg
Milk 0.2mg
6.2mg! Woohoo! We made it! And today didn't include any of LittleBears "better" foods for iron, like sausages, baked beans, pinto beans or even dried apricots. Maybe he's not going to be anaemic after all! (Yes, yes, yes, the fact that he has absolutely no signs of being anaemic is utterly irrelevant. What do you want me to do? Be sensible and look at things rationally? No! I shall count random numbers instead. That's clearly a much more effective life-management technique.)
Oh, and that list of foods? Those are only the things that had any noticeable iron content in, not the sum total of the things that LittleBear ate today. Honest. There were strawberries, watermelon, cucumber, carrots, sweetcorn, cheese, shortbread and rich tea biscuits. And for all I know, there's iron in those too. In fact, I know there is in the biscuits as they're made with flour, and therefore have iron in by law. So there.
Now the real question? Is this going to be enough to stop me fretting? Hmmm.....
The reason for my happiness was that he'd actually conceded to eating some meat. He'd helped make frtikadeller, and eaten three tiny ones that he'd rolled himself. He'd also tried roast chicken, only on the understanding that he could then pull the wishbone, but still, bribery or not, he actually tried it and admitted it wasn't yucky. It felt like light at the end of the tunnel.
Then my brother and his family came to see us.
My sister-in-law looked askance at me and said "does he drink milk with every meal? You do know milk hinders iron absorption don't you? You might want to keep an eye on that..." I'm mostly certain she meant that kindly. Actually, I am certain she meant it kindly, and since I know she hasn't (so far...) read this blog, and I'm a lot more circumspect about talking about my insanity than writing about it, I also know she doesn't have a clue what my anxious mind has done with this information.
Obviously, the first step was to double-check on iron absorption issues. LittleBear would need to be drinking three quarters of a litre a day to have a significant impact on his iron absorption. He drinks more like a third of that amount. Which is actually about the recommended amount for his age. Phew. Not doing anything wrong.
You'd think that would be that wouldn't you?
You'd think I could stop worrying wouldn't you?
You haven't been paying attention have you?
I've got something new to worry about. Iron. Is LittleBear getting enough iron? There's so much I don't know, so much to research, so much to check, double-check, count, monitor, read... it's exhausting. BigBear says "he's fine, don't worry". BigBear is right, as well as sensible, this time. But telling me not to worry is a bit like telling someone with depression to cheer up. It just doesn't work like that.
So... now I know the difference between haem-iron and non-haem-iron. Now I'm moderately well-read on the bio-availability of elemental iron, and the impact on absorption of grain size of the additive. Now I've read The Bread and Flour Regulations 1998. (Now I know that the fortification process of wheat flour in the UK allows for the addition of powdered iron, in its elemental form, which is something of a surprise.) What I don't know is how much iron is added to any given flour, in what format, and how much LittleBear will absorb of what he eats. I'm a PhysicsBear, not a BiologyBear or MedicineBear. Now I'm getting really cross that it's next to impossible to find out the iron content of flour, bread and other wheat-based products, because it doesn't seem to be a legal requirement to list the trace quantities in food. I'm having to rely on other people's random websites to tell me the iron content of most foods. And that vexes me.
[Though, for anyone who wants to join me in worrying about such things, there's a really handy resource from the Royal Surrey Hospital. It actually tells you how much iron is in some fairly normal foods, and how much you need.]
Now I know that LittleBear should be eating about 6.1mg of iron per day. And now I'm also gazing at all the things he eats and mentally checking off whether they have iron in or not, and whether I should be doing something differently. I was fine a week ago. A week ago it hadn't even occurred to me to be worried, and now I'm verging on obsessed about it. I lay awake last night until gone 1am rumminating and pondering and massively, massively overthinking what LittleBear eats. Again. (OK, so some of that was because I think the cafe we went to in the afternoon gave me caffeinated instead of decaffeinated coffee when I ordered, because I was wired yesterday after that outing...)
I have become so fixated on this issue, I've actually added up what he's eaten today:
Cheerios 3.0mg
Toast 0.8mg
Potato 0.8mg
Broccoli 0.2mg
Peas 0.5mg
Dark chocolate 0.2mg
Rice 0.2mg
Cake 0.3mg
Milk 0.2mg
6.2mg! Woohoo! We made it! And today didn't include any of LittleBears "better" foods for iron, like sausages, baked beans, pinto beans or even dried apricots. Maybe he's not going to be anaemic after all! (Yes, yes, yes, the fact that he has absolutely no signs of being anaemic is utterly irrelevant. What do you want me to do? Be sensible and look at things rationally? No! I shall count random numbers instead. That's clearly a much more effective life-management technique.)
Oh, and that list of foods? Those are only the things that had any noticeable iron content in, not the sum total of the things that LittleBear ate today. Honest. There were strawberries, watermelon, cucumber, carrots, sweetcorn, cheese, shortbread and rich tea biscuits. And for all I know, there's iron in those too. In fact, I know there is in the biscuits as they're made with flour, and therefore have iron in by law. So there.
Now the real question? Is this going to be enough to stop me fretting? Hmmm.....
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