The table on my patio is on a sloping patio, so it slopes itself, and anything I put onto it seems to be about to slide all the time. It's enough to be noticable, and enough to be annoying. Dad and I have been laying a new patio (building some walls, turfing a new lawn - normal lightweight garden maintenance for someone in my family...), so today we were playing with a digital inclinometer. A patio should slope at roughly 3 degrees, and the table seemed so slanted that I estimated 15 degrees. The reading? 1.5 degrees; 2 degrees at the worst.
Now when you look at it on the scale of, say, 0 to 90 degrees, 1.5 degrees seems to be tiny. Piffling. Not even noticable. Lost in the noise. But in reality it's both very noticable and appears to make a difference (I can point to exactly the direction that each patio slab slopes in, and none of them are over 2 degrees sloped). So I had a look at my spirit level - something I'd never really thought to do before. It's marked at 0.5 degree per mm and there is 1mm from the bubble (if it's completely straight and still) to the marker lines on either side of it. Now I think I'm getting sloppy if the bubble is half that distance away from the line, i.e. if it's 0.5mm off true. Which means that theoretically (although not, on a too-hot day, in practice) my wall should be within 0.25 degrees off true in all directions. Now I personally think this is really quite an achievement - and not something that we ever really think about beyond "is the bubble inbetween the lines". We DIY types and shelf-putter-uppers really should congratulate ourselves for that...
...but there's an experiment here to be done. If I can spot a 2 degree slope on my table, I'm wondering just how small that slope has to be before we humans really can't tell which direction it's going in. I'm guessing somewhere around half a degree, but I think some more time with the patio and inclinometer (and possibly some friends and some beer to do some more advanced "what is the effect of alcohol on..." perception tests) is called for here.
Sunday, 31 May 2009
Tuesday, 19 May 2009
Why don't I write?
I haven't written for a while. In truth, I've been running near empty for a while, but that hasn't meant I've been out of words. Far from it. But I haven't written because I fear - I fear hurting the people closest to me, the people who know me and have found this, my release valve.
I've been ill for a while. Depressed. It doesn't show, and it does. Mostly I look normal - I doubt most people would see anything. But since depression includes withdrawl, I haven't really given anyone a chance at a good enough look. But that loss of worth, that sense of disociation, that encompassing sense of loss, they've all been creeping up, to reach the point where nothing in the world makes sense anymore, including and especially my own place within it.
I should have fixed this a while ago. My health insurance covered treatment, and I started this, started to get some of myself back with careful counselling (I may have covered some of the horrors that happened at work last year, or I may not - suffice to say that 3 otherwise strong people have all come close to the edge from these and come back both weaker and stronger from it), but then it reached the point where the insurance stopped and the NHS began. Now I've had and seen some excellent NHS treatment in the past, but this is at least worrying and shading into deeply troubling... I was referred and then forgotten about. I called - they'd lost my records; I got an appointment but went into the wrong building (the signage wasn't clear) and was rather ungently told to go away (not the NHS's fault, but not something you'd want to do with a less pacific referral case); I got to the right place at the right time, made sure they had the right contact details, and was assured that it was an admin glitch and I'd have a decision within a week - on whether I'd be allowed into a group session rather than receive individual help. And then nothing. They forgot me again. I got on with my life. And all the earlier treatment slowly faded away.
I can think of several reasons for what happened. Maybe the unit was deeply disorganised - somewhat troubling in a measure-everything culture. Maybe it was overloaded - worrying, but not necessarily unsurprising. Or maybe, myself only being a danger to myself, I just wasn't an important enough case to be treated. And that just makes me plain angry. If I had a physical life-threatening condition (and I use the word 'physical' loosely because depression is also a physical response), I'd be seen. Maybe not immediately, but there would be outcry if the NHS chose to completely ignore a relatively cheap method of keeping someone alive longer. But because it's a mental condition, perhaps even because the link between life and death includes my own will rather than a god-like decision by a doctor, the treatment isn't there. And my company insurance is prepared to pay more money to an osteopath to fix my back when its muscles go out of line than it is prepared to pay to help give me the tools to handle a potentially fatal condition (my depression) forever. I am tired of this thing nearly killing me. And I am pissed off for all the other people who are in the same place, for all those people who do not have the voice to rage at this institutional insanity, who do not have the energy to keep on asking for help, or for whom any help would now be too late.
I feel a bit better for a small rant. Tomorrow I may try again to get treatment. But it really shouldn't have to be this difficult to obtain.
I've been ill for a while. Depressed. It doesn't show, and it does. Mostly I look normal - I doubt most people would see anything. But since depression includes withdrawl, I haven't really given anyone a chance at a good enough look. But that loss of worth, that sense of disociation, that encompassing sense of loss, they've all been creeping up, to reach the point where nothing in the world makes sense anymore, including and especially my own place within it.
I should have fixed this a while ago. My health insurance covered treatment, and I started this, started to get some of myself back with careful counselling (I may have covered some of the horrors that happened at work last year, or I may not - suffice to say that 3 otherwise strong people have all come close to the edge from these and come back both weaker and stronger from it), but then it reached the point where the insurance stopped and the NHS began. Now I've had and seen some excellent NHS treatment in the past, but this is at least worrying and shading into deeply troubling... I was referred and then forgotten about. I called - they'd lost my records; I got an appointment but went into the wrong building (the signage wasn't clear) and was rather ungently told to go away (not the NHS's fault, but not something you'd want to do with a less pacific referral case); I got to the right place at the right time, made sure they had the right contact details, and was assured that it was an admin glitch and I'd have a decision within a week - on whether I'd be allowed into a group session rather than receive individual help. And then nothing. They forgot me again. I got on with my life. And all the earlier treatment slowly faded away.
I can think of several reasons for what happened. Maybe the unit was deeply disorganised - somewhat troubling in a measure-everything culture. Maybe it was overloaded - worrying, but not necessarily unsurprising. Or maybe, myself only being a danger to myself, I just wasn't an important enough case to be treated. And that just makes me plain angry. If I had a physical life-threatening condition (and I use the word 'physical' loosely because depression is also a physical response), I'd be seen. Maybe not immediately, but there would be outcry if the NHS chose to completely ignore a relatively cheap method of keeping someone alive longer. But because it's a mental condition, perhaps even because the link between life and death includes my own will rather than a god-like decision by a doctor, the treatment isn't there. And my company insurance is prepared to pay more money to an osteopath to fix my back when its muscles go out of line than it is prepared to pay to help give me the tools to handle a potentially fatal condition (my depression) forever. I am tired of this thing nearly killing me. And I am pissed off for all the other people who are in the same place, for all those people who do not have the voice to rage at this institutional insanity, who do not have the energy to keep on asking for help, or for whom any help would now be too late.
I feel a bit better for a small rant. Tomorrow I may try again to get treatment. But it really shouldn't have to be this difficult to obtain.
Wednesday, 6 May 2009
Writing, and a new Horatio
I'm in a writing mood. There's a science fiction short in the pipeline (more, er, shortly), and I'm long overdue for a new Horatio. So here's a new Horatio. Unfinished. I'll be finishing and sending it sometime in the next few weeks.
Horatio goes on Holiday
Horatio knew about London: he'd read all about it in books, and loved to hear his Mum and Dad's stories about them living in London when they were younger (although as far as Horatio knew, they had always been old, and had always been just his Mum and Dad). And Horatio really really wanted to go to London, to see all the places that his Mum and Dad talked about, to listen to Big Ben strike twelve o'clock and to see Nelson and all his pigeons (which Mum told him were very much like seagulls really) in Trafalgar Square.
Horatio's family had been on holiday before: lots of holidays. They'd camped in Kingslime one Easter - it was very crowded and they were stuck in the harbour for quite a long time while they waited for the tide to come it. They'd stayed on a holiday berth in Starboard Harbour and marvelled at the huge crumbly cliffs then eaten ice-creams by the beach in Curdsmouth. And he'd even been on a school trip to Goodwater Bay. And all these holidays were really really nice. But Horatio wanted to go to London. He wasn't sure why, but it just sounded exciting. And he asked. And he asked. And he stopped asking. And then asked again. Until one sunny speckly day when the birds were singing happily, the waves had little bright diamonds in them and the breeze was just warm enough to be summer, his Dad grinned and said "pack your things Horatio, we're going to London".
Well the journey to London is another story in itself: sailing around the White Island, wriggling into the mud in Chichemeddle, playing with the pier at Sunnytown and steering around the big big ferries coming out of Guller. But that's a story for another day, so we'll start with the part where Horatio and his Mum and Dad, his little brother Hardy and Parsley the tender passed the grey navy pontoons (which hooted a low-voiced 'hello there' as they passed) in the middle of London and sailed into Katherine's Docks.
[Horatio is on an exchange visit with one of the tuktuks. He goes on trips up the river with his parents, sees Big Ben and Parliament and the naval colleges, goes to look up at the buildings in Canary Wharf and chats to the tin-voiced Navigator, but what's really really exciting is when he's loaded onto a trailer and goes slowly round London with his new friend Tuk and Tuk's parents the taxis (he goes really quite slowly because he gets a little queasy when he can't move naturally). He sails in the water in Trafalgar Square, upsetting the pigeons til they calm down and settle back on the top of Nelson's head. He goes to the park and plays with the pedaloes on the Serpentine, but is a bit sad that Tuk can't join him, then has an idea and races Tuk up and down the length of the lake until they're quite tired and the park-keeper chases them away. Then he has tea with Tuk's parents, and Tuk's grandfather the red bus, before going back to the docks tired but happy. The next day, he has an adventure on the part of the canal that Tuk's allowed along and sees the strange red and yellow boats with lots and lots of roofs. And he holidays a bit more with his family before finally going home. Which isn't really the end, because a month or two later, Tuk's family come to the White Island for a holiday too, and all go on a sightseeing tour with Bryan the Ferry before Tuk is loaded onto Horatio's Dad's shoulders and gets to go on the water himself.]
Horatio goes on Holiday
Horatio knew about London: he'd read all about it in books, and loved to hear his Mum and Dad's stories about them living in London when they were younger (although as far as Horatio knew, they had always been old, and had always been just his Mum and Dad). And Horatio really really wanted to go to London, to see all the places that his Mum and Dad talked about, to listen to Big Ben strike twelve o'clock and to see Nelson and all his pigeons (which Mum told him were very much like seagulls really) in Trafalgar Square.
Horatio's family had been on holiday before: lots of holidays. They'd camped in Kingslime one Easter - it was very crowded and they were stuck in the harbour for quite a long time while they waited for the tide to come it. They'd stayed on a holiday berth in Starboard Harbour and marvelled at the huge crumbly cliffs then eaten ice-creams by the beach in Curdsmouth. And he'd even been on a school trip to Goodwater Bay. And all these holidays were really really nice. But Horatio wanted to go to London. He wasn't sure why, but it just sounded exciting. And he asked. And he asked. And he stopped asking. And then asked again. Until one sunny speckly day when the birds were singing happily, the waves had little bright diamonds in them and the breeze was just warm enough to be summer, his Dad grinned and said "pack your things Horatio, we're going to London".
Well the journey to London is another story in itself: sailing around the White Island, wriggling into the mud in Chichemeddle, playing with the pier at Sunnytown and steering around the big big ferries coming out of Guller. But that's a story for another day, so we'll start with the part where Horatio and his Mum and Dad, his little brother Hardy and Parsley the tender passed the grey navy pontoons (which hooted a low-voiced 'hello there' as they passed) in the middle of London and sailed into Katherine's Docks.
[Horatio is on an exchange visit with one of the tuktuks. He goes on trips up the river with his parents, sees Big Ben and Parliament and the naval colleges, goes to look up at the buildings in Canary Wharf and chats to the tin-voiced Navigator, but what's really really exciting is when he's loaded onto a trailer and goes slowly round London with his new friend Tuk and Tuk's parents the taxis (he goes really quite slowly because he gets a little queasy when he can't move naturally). He sails in the water in Trafalgar Square, upsetting the pigeons til they calm down and settle back on the top of Nelson's head. He goes to the park and plays with the pedaloes on the Serpentine, but is a bit sad that Tuk can't join him, then has an idea and races Tuk up and down the length of the lake until they're quite tired and the park-keeper chases them away. Then he has tea with Tuk's parents, and Tuk's grandfather the red bus, before going back to the docks tired but happy. The next day, he has an adventure on the part of the canal that Tuk's allowed along and sees the strange red and yellow boats with lots and lots of roofs. And he holidays a bit more with his family before finally going home. Which isn't really the end, because a month or two later, Tuk's family come to the White Island for a holiday too, and all go on a sightseeing tour with Bryan the Ferry before Tuk is loaded onto Horatio's Dad's shoulders and gets to go on the water himself.]
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