GAP ad

I was taken in today by the idea of Christmas in winter. Wandering around Covent Garden I felt a warm glow sneaking up on me. The tree was up, green and broad in the square, with its star seated regally atop its branches. The shops were lit up with their fairly lights sparkling in the twilight. Chestnusts were a-roasting, wine was a-flowing. Cold air making my eyes water, warm air making my cheekbones ache. Wrapping my scarf around me snugly and grinning fondly, I felt like I was in a GAP ad. Love all that.

Fishism: An Ode

Today I put years of Ally McBeal watching to good use. As a defendant at an employment tribunal hearing, I took the stand, I cross-examined (and was cross-examined) and I prepared a (very) brief summation (I'm believe I'm right, I believe you're wrong). It wasn't glamourous and it wasn't witty. It helps if you are prepared, and more importantly that you are right. I was. The claimant said some hurtful things, however, we won. Bygones.

Red Red Wine

Apparently all dark alcoholic beverages contain large quantities of something called congeners. That sounds harmless doesn't it? Sounds like an instruction to place our hands on the hips of the person in front of us and start meandering around the room with gusto, swinging our own hips to the tune of whatever is playing. I suppose the two are not worlds apart: the imbibing of one undoubtedly sets off a course of events that leads the other.

If that weren't enough, enter the acetaldehydes. Toxic. Suck on a car exhaust while bathing in embalming fluid kind of toxic. The acetaldehydes mess with your brain, and also increase the risk of contracting cirrhosis of the liver, multiple forms of cancer, and alcoholism.

Well, I'm glad my wasted day has an official name. Sounds more scientific than the more socially recognisable hangover which seems far too crass after a night of drinking quality Beaujolais.

All The Queen's Men (and Women)

Every Tuesday and Thursday the Queen's Life Guard, a service provided by the Cavalry Mounted Regiment, trots down our road. At least I think that's who they are. Twenty men (and women) on horses, dragging cannons behind them, stopping traffic.

Even though it's not official - it's exercise for the horses - it's still so fabulously ceremonial, and it reminds me, every time, why I live in London.

The other great thing about the horses (I ignore the poo in the street) is that if I am still at home when I hear them clip clopping past, I know that I'd better leave for work or I'll be late.

Where else in the world can the bi-weekly exercise of the Queen's horse guard be used as an alarm clock? I love London. Eat your heart out NY, NY (though I still would).

Not saying what I mean

I have been spending some stolen time on my novel (see Novel Plan).

On the face of it, a 500 word reduction may not be viewed as progress, however I am quietly confident that those 500 words will be made up elsewhere as the story becomes more sophisticated. Yes, sophisticated.

By sophisticated, I of course mean sex. More specifically, the one and only sex scene. Only one is relevant to the story. Nothing gratuitous about this novel.

Writing this particular scene, however, is proving to be a challenge. I painstakingly review all the euphemisms I know for every part of the body, and 'the act' itself (are you beginning to see my problem?) and when I finally choose a word that is, shall we say, more descriptive than any other, I blush furiously. How does Jackie Collins do it?

Being an avid reader, I do actually know all the words that could be used, having read countless love stories in my time. Actually writing them down into a story of my creation is quite daunting. It's like I'm 15 again writing secretly in my diary, all the while terrified that someone will read it. What will people think of me?

As the whole point of writing a novel is that people will read it, I recognise that I need to overcome, or at least come to terms with, this very weird self-imposed impasse.

It's either:

Mills & Boon-style, a somewhat damp squib effect, however my composure remains intact, or

Non-euphamistic sex (with rude words), but with the whatwillpeoplethinkofme? concern intact.

I know which way this needs to go, so I'm putting my caveat in right now: whatever it is my characters say or do is their business, not mine!


(If you too suffer from a fondness for euphemisms, this book might excite you: How Not To Say What You Mean)

Yugen. Profoundly sublime.

My word of the day came from a surprising source: today's Metro.

I can't say how often someone has expressed amazement over the number of different words the Inuit have for 'snow', pick another language, please. The Metro was no different, and so by the time I got to the bit about the snow, yawn, my interest in the article was winding down, my appreciation of its originality diminishing quickly. Just as my eyes were flicking away, I was drawn back in...

Yugen. It's more than a word: it is a principle, a philosophy. In short, it is described as the beauty of suggestion. Yugen is the response to a sensibility beyond the range of words: it values the power to evoke, rather that the ability to state directly.

The word derives from the sign [yu], meaning deep, dark, clouded, barely visible and [gen], a term originally describing the deep, dark, calm colour of the universe, with reference to the taoistic conception of truth.

Dude, that's deep.

Naming Game

After my rant about linguistic coherence (see Savvy?), I did a bite-size portion of research about how new words become accepted.

I found the following question: What processes can explain how very large populations are able to converge on the use of a particular word or grammatical construction without global coordination?

Now, before I continue, know that this is excerpted and edited from a research paper (credits supplied below) so unless you are interested in words, you may find this a tad tedious.

(Hence 'cool' becomes 'book' per the fabulous Stephen Fry Qi)

The Naming Game is played by a population of agents trying to bootstrap a common vocabulary for a certain number of individual objects present in their environment, so that one agent can draw the attention of another one to an object, e.g. to obtain it or converse further about it.

Each player is characterized by his inventory, two players are picked at random and one of them plays as speaker and the other as hearer.

Their interaction obeys the following rules:
Speaker selects object -- Speaker retrieves word from inventory, or, if inventory empty, invents new word -- Speaker transmits selected word to hearer -- If hearer has the word in inventory, the interaction is successful, both players keep only the winning word, deleting all others -- If hearer does not have the word, the interaction fails and the hearer updates inventory by adding an association between new word and object.


Then there are a few assumptions, some really nifty equations, S-shaped curves and a passing celebratory reference to Zipf's law. (You've made it this far, don't give up on me now!)

Ain't linguistics book?


Credits: Baronchelli et al.
Sharp Transition towards Shared Vocabularies in Multi-Agent Systems

Savvy?

I'm talking about comprehension not Captain Jack Sparrow.

At what age is it acceptable to start ignoring the changes in language that comes with technology? Is it ever acceptable or should we just shut up and embrace it? Another language is emerging, made up almost entirely of letters and emoticons. I have the dubious honour of being listed in the MSN messenger contacts of an 11-year old (not mine). Her messaging technique is utterly infuriating. Conversations with her leave me feeling annoyed, and fucking old. I'm only 29.

(Speak of the devil, she's just popped up to say "Danny iz so sxc.")