Vacate

Off on hols tomorrow!  We fly to Jerez in sunny Andalusia at lunchtime tomorrow.  It's a short but sweet visit - Saturday to Wednesday - but this is by choice rather than necessity.  The missus and have discovered over the years that four days is the optimal holiday duration.  It's long enough to find your feet and unwind, but not so long that you start running out of seemly things to do during the long ante-yardarm hours.  And you return home feeling like you've been away forever.  Finally, you can squeeze many more trips into the year than is otherwise possible.  It breaks my heart when a colleague dolefully admits to me he's shot bolt annual leave bolt by mid-February.  That to me smacks of poor time-management.

It isn't cheap, this constant gadding, but that's what money's for as far as I'm concerned.  I don't drag my skinny white ass into the office everyday to attract women, believe me.  It's for the cash.  We live a frugal life for the most part, chez-nous, but we refuse to scrimp when it comes to travel.  That's not to say we live it up when abroad; we don't.  It's mostly picnics and long days on the beach etc., but we do make sure the airline ticket slush fund if always well-upholstered.

Right, I'm away to pack the budgie-smugglers and flippers.

Adiós.

Back again, friends...

I didn't get a chance to post anything yesterday; I was simply too busy again.  All was going according to scripture for the first part of the day.  I'd thundered through my in-box like a flaming mallet through a vegelate anvil.  But my editor-in-chief hoyed a curve ball at me out of nowhere.

It was one of those seemingly harmless, nebulous requests for a some vague analysis for a presentation he's giving next week.  Unfortunately, I couldn't divine what answer he wanted from me.  That's how analysis works in the modern office environment, by-the-way.  It isn't a detached, logical safari for the truth.  It's quasi-scientific self-justification dressed up as fact.  And as all professional analysts know, fact is a movable feast.

So I hacked away at some non-committal charts and tables for a few hours and hoped for the best.  That took me most of the evening, so there wasn't time to post.  So I didn't.  Sorry.

Ahoy there

Goodness me - I'm back.  I missed a few post of late.  No justifiable reason for this really - just the usual old indolence.  And there's been plenty to set down in during the interregnum.  I had one of those busy weekends the normal people claim to enjoy.  And do you know what?  It was great.

Firstly, I went to Ireland's Rugby World Cup curtain-raiser versus Canada in Cardiff on Saturday.  The Millennium Stadium, the game, the crowd, even the weather, Wales in September ferchrissakes, was perfect.  The trains, on the other hand, were a fucking shambles.  Like a fool, I shelled-out for a first class ticket, thinking that at least might guarantee me a seat on what was certain to be a busy train.  And in fairness to South West Trains, I can't be sure it didn't, because I didn't get near my designated train of departure.  I was too busy queueing up outside the station with thirty-thousand other disgruntled souls.

I joined the throng at ten past six.  And we all stood there (man, woman, young, old, fat, thin) in stony-faced silence until 8.15 in the pm.  At that point I was among the chosen few who was given the opportuntiy to fight his way onto a train and home to his loved ones.  And I did actually get into a first-class carriage - the luggage rack of one to be specific.  Two hours and forty minutes later, we trundled into the capital.  The relief was palpable, especially to my back, which didn't much care for the cramped conditions.

I received a spam email South West Trains the following morning, trumpeting its new corporate rebrand, which they, with scant regard for the laws of irony, dubbed "a return to the golden age of rail".  Piss is golden, isn't it?  Perhaps that's what they're alluding to.

Wankers.

Wife runts...

Thanks to the good offices of an old mate of mine, I've managed to bag a ticket for Ireland's first Rugby World Cup game this weekend, in Cardiff.  The old country are taking on Canada, who while adept at chopping down trees, shouldn't present much of an obstacle to the Irish when it come to 80 minutes of grievous bodily egg-chucking.

So, it promises to be a jolly boys' weekend then.  A gang of first-generation English-born bog-trotters, an almost guaranteed Irish victory and a well-stocked bar.  The only problem is that I mustn't get too catastrophically pissed-up.  I don't manage hangovers well - and never have done.  I get extremely maudlin when I'm feeling crapulent.  I can't tolerate it.  Added to this is fact that I'm attending a Richard Thompson gig in London on Sunday evening, so I can't be too under the legless weather.  If I keep telling myself this, I'm sure it'll be fine.

Left to myself of course, there would be no problem.  I like being moderately drunk - tipsy, jolly - call it what you will.  But I hate being full-on drunk.  It's scary.  And I have a very well attenuated monitor in these matters.  The bit of my brain that organising waking me up before I soil the bed at night knows when we've had enough, and brings the shutters down before irreparable damage is sustained to the chassis.  Unfortunately, the chaps I'm going with appear to observe no such distinction.  To them, tipsy is a picturesque and fleeting stop en route to paralytic, much like the Cardiff train thundering through Didcot Parkway.

"Please step back from the platform edge.  This lot aren't stopping."

Abblah Eenglaze

I'm learning Spanish!  Yes, again.  I've happened across a very interesting method recently.  It was developed by an engineer-turned-opera-singer (no, really).  He had to learn to pronounce several European languages to sing the full repertoire expected of your jobbing classical tenor.  To do this, opera singers don't bother learning the language, just the pronunciation.  He realised this was the inverse of the way he was taught languages at school.  He also discovered that if he thoroughly mastered the sounds of the language and its spelling conventions before starting to learn vocab, his ability to recall learned vocab was greatly enhanced.  It also meant he was much better at hearing and understanding the spoken language.

He also carefully chose the vocab to learn.  He looked at the 625 most frequently occurring words in the language, using a frequency dictionary, and learned only those words first.  This allowed him to communicate pretty well when combined with some grammar rules.  The innovation didn't stop there.  He used a spaced-repetition-system to maximise his recall of words learned.  This is basically an index card system.  You check your understanding against a flash card.  If you remember a word, it goes further back in the box.  If you don't, it stays near the front, and therefore appears again at short intervals until it is remembered.

The final difference is that he used no translation.  He wanted the target word not to trigger a translation into English, but to have meaning in and of itself for him.  This, he realised, was the key to fluency.  So, his flash cards used images and words written in the target language.  He might also use English words other than the target word to reinforce meaning.  For example, the name of his actual niece was used to help him learn the word 'niece' in his target language.  Finally, he also used mnemonics to remember abstract grammar, such as noun genders.  I'm a great fan of mnemonics; I used them at college to help me in exams, and have relied on them ever since.

As anyone who uses mnemonics regularly will know, the key to recall is to make the mnemonic bizarre and personal in some way.  And this he does by analysing the four levels of memory processing.  They are:

1. Structure

2. Sound

3. Concept

4. Personal connection

Usually in language learning, one is taught vocab using only the first level - that's to say, word lists.  And that's why the method doesn't work.

An example.  The French noun papillon.  A quick Google images search would render results like this:

It's pretty clear what that is.  A dictionary confirms the noun's gender as male - le papillon.  We use a mnemonic to remember this.  Male nouns explode, so we picture an exploding papillon as vividly as we can - the bits flying into our faces, the noise, the smell of cordite, you name it.  Then we set down the sound of the word in French using the International Phonetic Alphabet, which we've learned.

We now have the first 3 levels at work.  The 4th is accessed by personalising the image.  One might recall a visit to London Zoo's butterfly house as a child, or a picnic in the countyside with a girlfriend for example.
All that info goes on the flash card, and it's used until the word is successfully committed to memory.

It's technical, and it requires a lot of set up time, but it's a fascinating new take on language acquisition that seems to me to be based on very sound principles and empirical evidence.

Chapeaux!

Izzy Whizzy Let's Get Busy

Good grief, I've got a lot on at the moment.  All of it self-instigated, I should say.  That's right, I've not had pressure shovelled onto me from above; I've shovelled it over my own head.  Only a fool would do this of course were the work tiresome.  But in my case it's not.

Firstly I've decided to (re)start transcribing my diaries.  I began this Herculean task last year, but I was doing it on a laptop at home, and in MS Word.  This made it a torturous and slow process.  It also meant I could only work on it when indoors.  Predictably, then, the work ceased pretty quickly.  So I've decided to change tack.  This time I've created a Google docs spreadsheet.  I've use formulae to render all the dates and the days of the week.  I simply transcribe the words associated with each, pre-existing, date.  I even do it all lowercase, so as to minimise the effort required from yours truly.  Also, as it's web-based, I can work from home, the office, anywhere.  I'm flying.

In addition to this, I've signed up for a spinning class at the Olympic Velopark.  The first one is this evening.  I've also started going to non-league football - specifically Clapton FC.  Oh, and I'm learning to become a bike mechanic.  And learn Spanish.  All in all then, a busy schedule is pretty much guaranteed until they hand me the gold-plated carriage clock and retire my squad number.  I'm enjoying every minute.

Sick, but not in a hip-hop way

I had a day off yesterday.  Unfortunately, I'm feeling extremely aimless and glum at the moment, so it's probably not the best time for me to spent protracted periods of time at home alone.  I decided I wouldn't go to the office and then was lost in a miasma of indecision.  Should I do good works around the hoose?  Or should I go out.  The weather looked nice, so after an hour's procrastinating, I jumped on my bike and headed out.

I didn't initially know where I was going.  I thought the road might lead me, zen-like, to the promised land.  I'm not sure it did that.  I ended-up in Primrose Hill.  We lived here some years ago, and it's an area I have very fond memories of.  That should have set the alarm bells ringing for me.  When I get nostalgic, particularly for places I associate with the halcyon past, it's a sure sign I'm depressed.  And so it proved to be.  I mooched around the place, feeling dislocated from it and my own past.  That time has gone forever.  I couldn't help but notice the difference the place has undergone since I lived there.  This compounded the misery.  I felt alone.

Onwards downwards then.